Chapter V (1)

The following morning, as Mrs. Tower and Jessie were sitting in the library, with Emilie Jones and her brother, a servant brought in an awkwardly folded and hastily written note, and presenting it to Jessie, informed her that the bearer waited in the hall for a reply. Jessie opened the unsealed paper and read:

“Miss Lincoln,—The buttons on my traveling dress, which you
made, do not give me any satisfaction. This is for you to come
to Mrs. Varley’s this afternoon, directly after dinner, and
alter them, and I shall expect you to make no extra charge for
it.

“ELIZABETH TYLER.

“P. S. Mrs. Varley’s family would be willing to employ you on my
recommendation.”

The color went and came in Jessie’s cheek, as she read the deliberate insult the writer evidently intended.

“What is it, Jessie?” said Emilie, whose electrical sympathy was instantly roused, “any thing more from those abominable Tylers? Pray let me see?” Mrs. Tower looked over Emilie’s shoulder as she read. “What insolence! Jessie Lincoln, if I were only a _man_, I am sure I should avenge your insult in single combat! Why, brother, are _you_ a man, and will you see a lady treated like that?” she continued with thrilling emphasis, throwing the note disdainfully out of her hands.

“Yes, sister, I hope I am a man,” replied the young naval officer, “but not quite so hot-headed and reckless a man as _you_ would have made. If you were on board our vessel, I fear we might have our hands full to keep you out of ‘affairs of honor!’ Miss Lincoln, I presume,” he continued, laying down the note, while a flush slowly crept to his forehead, “has wisdom enough to manage with the contempt it deserves, so very contemptible an assault!”

“I will reply to it, Jessie,” said Mrs. Tower, as she sat down before her writing-table and wrote:—

“Mrs. Tower takes the liberty to decline for Miss Lincoln, the
proposition Miss Tyler has seen fit to make, as the change in
Miss Lincoln’s circumstances and prospects renders any further
intercourse with Miss Tyler unbefitting entirely. That
intercourse is therefore at an end.”

Jessie begged that any thing so like retaliation, might not be sent, as Miss Tyler was unquestionably instigated by the Varleys, who were too cowardly to assail her only through a tool.

“It becomes me, Jessie, to vindicate the honor of my family, and I feel justified in checking such effrontery, and foiling it with its own weapons,” insisted Mrs. Tower.

“Yes, yes indeed!” said Emilie. “I’m glad of it, Mrs. Tower, and I only wish _I_ had the inditing of the reply. It would scorch like a flame, I’m sure it would, every word of it. Do, please charge me with the delivery of the missive, Mrs. Tower! my fingers ache for the commission, and I’ll add an oral appendix on my _own_ hook!”

“O, no, Emilie,” replied Mrs. Tower, smiling; “I appreciate your generous intention, but I fear your enthusiasm and indignation might spoil your embassy.”

Meantime the whole Varley family were indulging in boisterous exultation over Elizabeth’s “capital trick, to show a mantuamaker girl that she was out of her reckoning when she sailed into _their_ latitude—she did not belong with _them_, no how you could fix it;” for it must be humiliating, indeed, to be ordered to such paltry service after deceiving such wealthy and important people into showing her some distinguished civilities. Charlotte said she “guessed it would convince Mr. Style that there was something to choose between an heiress and a servant!” Mrs. Tyler simpered from behind her porcelain, that “it would learn people to know their places—and one _might_ lose some _custom_ by such a fraud on society—the matter would not stop in a corner!” Annette declared it was “too good.” Mrs. Varley echoed, as usual, the respective opinions, as they came from the mint, and Adelaide gleefully suggested that it “might taste a little bitter to Mrs. Tower’s palate, as she made such a prodigious favorite of the girl. For _her_ part, she expected Mrs. Tower would import a colony of chimney-sweeps, to give brilliancy to society there, she was so much the patron of the ‘lower classes!’”

But the reply came far sooner than it was looked for, and exultation speedily changed hands with consternation. What could it mean? “Change in her circumstances and prospects!” What possible interpretation could be applied to that? Charlotte fell into hysterics, and screamed she “knew it could mean nothing less than that Jessie Lincoln was engaged to Mr. Style!” and to complete the excitement, she actually fainted away.

“Good gracious me!” stormed Miss Tyler, almost choking with passion, “I should like to know what ‘change of circumstances and prospects,’ can license an impertinent, presuming, poverty-pinched hussy of a dress-maker to withdraw her acquaintance from a lady of _my_ position in the fashionable world! Mother, did we tear ourselves from the importunities of our city friends, and patronize these Varleys, for such insulting treatment as this? Mrs. Varley, we did not know you lived among Hottentots, or we should have refused to come here, in the face of all your urgency, every soul of you!”

Mrs. Varley and her four conscious daughters, vituperated, apologized, and appeased, as well as their own choler would permit, the excited and wrathful visiters, who declared “they would leave the house and the town immediately, and spread the story as far as the newspapers would carry it, and that was everywhere!” But it was finally suggested by the daring Adelaide, that her mother should go to Mrs. Tower, clothed with all the terror of their united resentment, and demand a satisfactory explanation. Especially was she commissioned to discover if possible what sudden “change in circumstances and prospects,” had set Jessie Lincoln upon such a pinnacle over the heads of everybody.

“I declare, girls,” said Mrs. Varley to her daughters, in secret session, before she started on her errand, “I do feel like pizon about this affair! I am half skart out of my wits at such a breeze between us and Mrs. Tower! I wish to the mercy we had never seen these mischief-making Tylers! As if them that touches porcupines mustn’t expect the quills! Or them that insults, to be insulted back again. I don’t believe they are half so _rich_ and _uppercrust_ as they pretend—and then they make such a sight of trouble! Besides, you know what I told you I surmised about Mrs. Tower. If it _is_ so, she will be sure to let me and other people know it, if she hasn’t already!”

The girls all looked doubtfully at each other.

“I wish in my heart these Tylers would go,” said Annette, “for of all the conceited trumpery old sights that ever I saw, Mrs. Tyler is the foremost.”

“I cannot express my detestation of Liz,” interrupted Adelaide. “She is as false and cunning as the very old snake himself, and bad as _I_ am, I do think _she_ is worse!”

Charlotte had come to life enough by this time to mention Miss Tyler’s flirtation with Mr. Style, when she was checked by Adelaide with,

“Hush! she is coming—it’s said _somebody_ is always at hand when you are talking about him!”

“O, do go quick, Mrs. Varley! Havn’t you got ready _yet_? I’m terribly impatient for that woman’s apology;” said Miss Tyler, as she unceremoniously opened the door and thrust in her face. “But what are you talking about with closed doors? _Us_, I presume! You look caught, every one of you,” and Miss Tyler turned up her disdainful nose, as if there would be no further amity till she heard a disclaimer of that offence.

“O, no, no, Lizzie, my dear!” supplicated Mrs. Varley, in her blandest and most conciliatory tone. “Pray come right in, love, and cheer up these poor disconsolate creatures while I am gone. Bring my hat and parasol, Adelaide. Shameful, isn’t it, to drag a body out in this briling sunshine, on such business?”

“We were saying,” remarked Adelaide, as she handed the bonnet and parasol to her mother, “how much we do despise these deceitful kind of upstarts, who pretend to be so much more than they really are!”

“It is the tendency of our American institootions,” replied Elizabeth, in a tone more pacific, but very affectedly sage, as she settled herself indolently into a rocking-chair. “They encourage upstarts! You don’t see nothing of this kind in England. For my part, I think it devolves on the higher classes to—to—hem—” she found herself unexpectedly wading beyond her depth, and unfortunately afloat in the high flown piece of wisdom she had started to express. Charlotte hastened to the rescue, in a very luminous climax to Miss Tyler’s halting proposition.

“To let them know,” she interposed.

“Yes, to let them know!” replied Elizabeth, with clinching emphasis.

Meanwhile Mrs. Varley was sailing majestically along the street toward Mrs. Tower’s residence. Her face was very brazen, but there was a trembling and apprehension in her heart, which communicated itself to her body, and her hand shook nervously as she twitched the door-bell.

“Is Mrs. Tower in?” she said to the servant who opened the door, in a very sharp and insolent voice—and before he had time to reply, she added, “go and tell her that Mrs. Varley wishes to speak with her alone.”

In a few minutes Mrs. Tower entered the drawing-room, her countenance and carriage as placid as if never a breath had disturbed her. A cold and haughty bow was the response she received to her polite and polished greeting. Mrs. Varley seemed entirely at a loss for her next measure—she was confused—exceedingly confused, but the sternness of her coarse features softened not a shadow. Mrs. Tower inquired for the health of her family.

“Yes, ma’am! it becomes you to ask, I should think,” retorted Mrs. Varley, very bitterly. “Did you write this note, ma’am?” and she advanced toward Mrs. Tower with the offending document.

“I did, indeed, Mrs. Varley,” replied Mrs. Tower, as she just glanced at the note, and gave it back to Mrs. Varley.

“Ah, you did! and you seem very cool and indifferent about it, too, as if it was a small matter to insult a genteel family like mine, just because we wont have any thing to do with the lower clashes, nor uphold _you_ in it,” said Mrs. Varley, losing all control of herself, and swelling her tones as she grew angrier and angrier, to the keen and wiry pitch peculiar to the voice of an excited woman. “I’ll thank you to tell me what it means?”

“Precisely what it says,” replied Mrs. Tower, in a low, calm voice; “but what do _you_ mean by the ‘lower classes?’”

“I mean all _mantymakers_, and servants, and tradespeople, and everybody that _works_ for a livin’,” quickly responded Mrs. Varley—she was fortified on that point. “I’d have you to know that my family is too rich and high up in the world to have any thing at all to do with them sort of folks, whatever _yours_ may be, Mrs. Tower! But I know one’s bringing up has a great deal to do with one’s genteelety—it don’t set easy on everybody!”

“A very pertinent remark, Mrs. Varley,” replied Mrs. Tower, with an effort to repress a smile. “I conclude you do not embrace your visiters in your catalogue of the ‘lower classes?’”

“No, indeed! that’s what I don’t! they are very wealthy, and fashionable, and high-bred people, and know all the richest and fashionablest people in the city of New York; and what’s more, they know how to resent an affront as well as some other folks—I guess you will find out.”

“I must take the liberty to correct one of your statements, madam,” replied Mrs. Tower. “Mr. Tyler, the husband and father of your visiters, rents his hardware store in New York of the business agent of my adopted daughter and heiress, Miss Jessie Lincoln, to whom I have given my estates in that city. And, moreover, he is so deeply indebted for borrowed capital, to support the extravagance of his wife and daughter, that every farthing he possesses would not liquidate his debt. So much for the wealth and independence of the _tradesman’s_ family. As to the fashionable part of the story, without any arrogance I may assert that my acquaintance for years has included the first and wealthiest families in New York, and I venture to affirm that in those circles Mrs. Tyler and her designing daughter were never so much as heard of!”

Mrs. Varley began to look crestfallen.

“Well,” she rejoined, “I don’t know but it _may_ be so, but I have no reason to think it is. At any rate, they don’t hug up mantymakers, and take ’em out visiting with them!”

“Mrs. Varley,” replied Mrs. Tower, rising from her chair and assuming a moral majesty before which her narrow-souled assailant quailed, “I acknowledge it is exasperation which prompts to the disclosure of another truth, which may sound rather painfully to your pride. I deplore the occasion, but you have really driven me to it, in order to vindicate the dignity of my family, which you have willfully wounded. Mrs. Varley, _you_ were a servant in my father’s house—you contracted a vicious and disgraceful marriage with a servant in a large gambling establishment in the city of Baltimore, where we then resided, and when you ran away with your husband—my _casket_ of _jewels_ went with you! I _saw_ you take it, but I forebore to expose you to my father, because I pitied your sin and folly, and I knew the severity of his sense of justice and injury would pursue you without mercy, so he died in ignorance of your crime. You lived in degradation and poverty for years and years, and I have seen those fastidious daughters of yours, now so sensitive lest they should be contaminated by contact with what you are pleased to call the “lower classes,” ragged and hungry in the streets of C., while I lived in that city with my departed husband. And more than once have I carried food and clothing to the miserable abode you called your home. Do you remember your own almost mortal illness when the cholera scourged that city? Some fortunate stakes at the gaming-table subsequently put Mr. Varley in possession of considerable sums of money, and the diligent pursuit of the same vicious business for many successful years, has put you and your family in possession of an independent fortune. For these facts I can refer you to authorities if you will. Now, have I read this chapter of your private history correctly?”

Mrs. Varley turned every imaginable color as the relation proceeded—pale, red, speckled and spotted. She was utterly confounded for a moment, and then she exclaimed, as she seized Mrs. Tower’s passive hand in both her own.

“Josepha Gordon! I have sometimes thought it must be the same!”

“Josepha Gordon was my maiden name,” replied Mrs. Tower, calmly yet sorrowfully watching the whirlwind in poor Mrs. Varley’s soul. “Twenty years, and bitter sorrows, have wrought more changes in me than fortune has in _you_, Cynthia Varley. But have I spoken truly?”

Mrs. Varley could scarcely reply; she sunk down upon the sofa completely overcome. Mortification and deep humiliation seemed to paralyze her faculties. Tears, and sobs, and groans, right pitiful to witness followed. One moment a storm of furious passion rose in her bosom, and the next a torrent of tears poured over her cheeks.

“It is all true,” she stammered at length; “but O don’t, for mercy’s sake, don’t expose us! It would be our ruin, our utter ruin, and I am sure I have suffered enough already. I will restore your jewels fourfold,” and she began nervously working at a magnificent diamond that sparkled on her bosom.

“Keep the jewels, Mrs. Varley. I do not need them, neither will I accept what you have so long called your own,” said Mrs. Tower mildly. “I know not what remorseful visitings have struggled in your heart, but if they had wrought a moral renovation there, I would have left this painful story in oblivion, and spared you so much humiliation. Believe me, Mrs. Varley, _money_ is not the true criterion in estimating respectability or character, as you seem to judge. That man is poor indeed who only possesses heaps of shining gold, though so great he cannot count their value—but the wealth garnered in the heart, the gems of virtue set around the immortal soul, are the only imperishable riches, which are the legitimate and justifiable ambition of an imperishable nature. I will keep your secret sacredly, as I have kept it these many years that we have been neighbors and acquaintances. I will only exhort you to remember, madam, that there is nothing dishonorable in honest, laborious, physical industry—the working with one’s hands. The fact that my beloved Jessie toiled to provide for the comfort of her sick and indigent parents, and discharged with her own noble efforts all their pecuniary obligations, only renders her more admirable in my estimation, and worthier to receive the inheritance I feel honored to bestow upon her. Hereafter she will be recognized as my own daughter.”

Mrs. Varley was perfectly subdued. The character of the lady she had come armed to annihilate, stood out sublimely before her, in contrast with her own conscious duplicity and assumption—humbled and silenced she rose to go, with very much the feeling of an arrogant general vanquished and routed, and forced into a disgraceful and disordered retreat.

My pen is unequal to the description of the scene at Mrs. Varley’s own house, when she at length reached home, and detailed to her daughters the whole story, and relieved the suspense of her guests, by so much of it as related to themselves. Mrs. Tyler and Elizabeth decided to leave in the first train the next morning, bearing with them any thing but the cordiality and good wishes of their hostess and her five daughters, who gave the “metropolitan friends” definitely to understand that they regarded themselves most scandalously imposed upon, by the shabbiest of pretenders, and that any further acquaintance would be unthought of, which complimentary farewells the guests fiercely retorted.

Mrs. Varley very shortly concluded that the health of her family, which, in truth, had suffered somewhat by their unexpected defeats, required journeying; and in a few days the house was closed, the servants discharged, and the household had departed, rumor said to spend the winter in Cuba. And not long after the citizens of N. were very much astonished by an advertisement in the papers, stating that “the entire establishment lately occupied by Mrs. Cynthia Varley, deceased, would be sold at public auction on such a day—house, grounds, furniture, plate, horses and carriages, etc., and that the sale must be positive, for cash.” Subsequently the melancholy report was confirmed, that Mrs. Varley and her fair and beautiful Charlotte were taken with violent fever on their journey southward, and had both died. The fate of the survivors remained in mystery, as the administrator of the estate had no liberty to communicate their place of residence, or their future intentions. No doubt they chose some fashionable resort, and I fear became the prey of fortune-hunters.

Mrs. Tyler, on her return to New York, found not only that her husband was bankrupt, and his affairs in a state of irretrievable ruin, but his mind also was a perfect wreck, fluctuating between idiocy and insanity, but its coloring always that of the most hopeless depression. Jessie Lincoln’s bounty long supported him at a lunatic asylum, while his wife and Elizabeth managed to support themselves by the proceeds of a small millinery shop.

The revolution of a few years brought some interesting changes over the society of N. Jessie Lincoln, the faithful and dutiful daughter, became the beloved and lovely wife of—“The Rev. Mr. Style of course!” cries my hasty reader. “Who ever read a story where the hero and heroine were not finally married? it is an event to be fully anticipated.” Then, indeed, is my tale a novel one. Be not too confident in coming to conclusions, because precedents happen to be in their favor.

Jessie Lincoln became the beloved and lovely wife of Lieutenant George Jones! I do not know but she would have married Mr. Style, if, like too many others, he had not lingered in the vestibule of the temple of Hymen till another hand lighted the torch, and proudly stood beside her at the altar. The heart of Jessie Lincoln was irrevocably given, with all its wealth of love to the young naval officer, and the minister was left to regret his too confident and presumptuous delay when regrets were unavailing. But Jessie was a “mourning bride”—for only a few weeks after her marriage, her noble and beloved patroness sickened and died, leaving Jessie and her husband the proprietors of her tasteful and elegant mansion, and the principal heirs to her estate.

“But did Mr. Style—such a fine young man, and so royally gifted, consign himself to a gloomy celibacy, and live and die a bachelor—‘which being interpreted,’ is _half a man_?”

Nay, reader, I’ll hasten to tell you that Emilie Jones, that wild, hair-brained, passionate, but truly generous and high-minded Emilie, learned lessons of gentleness and piety, and married—because they mutually and earnestly loved—the young clergyman of the church of N.; and by bequest of Mrs. Tower, the beautiful residence of the Varleys became the village manse, and their lovely home!

* * * * *

TO INEZ.—AT FLORENCE.

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

I wonder how thou look’st,
In thy home far, far away,
Where thy voice, like Summer’s streamlet,
Is singing all the day.
Is thine eye as bright as ever?
Have thy footsteps lost their bound,
That they had when last we listened
To the moonlit ocean’s sound?

Has thy young heart quit its dreaming,
’Neath thy own pure sunny skies,
In those nights when stars are vieing
With the lustre of thine eyes?
When the dreams of youth were flinging
Their roses round thy way,
’Mid the perfumed airs of spring-time—
That herald in life’s May.

Say, does the Arno run as clear,
Beside thy palace walls,
As when upon its waves we looked
From out thy father’s halls?
Music was there when last I pressed
My lips upon thy brow.
And left thee—eye, and voice, and form,
Are all but _memory_ now.

But memory, such as o’er the heart
Its rainbow arch still throws,
As bright as when on ocean’s breast
Its sunlit beauty glows—
Is with me now; the forest shade,
The brook, the flower, the tree,
The tones of music ’mid the night,
Are peopled all with thee.

Then, Inez, in that distant clime,
If still thou think’st of me,
At evening when thou goest out
Upon the tranquil sea,
Our souls shall meet—for kindred ones,
That bow at memory’s shrine,
Oft meet in dreams, and thus my heart
Shall often join with thine.

* * * * *

COMMUNION OF THE SEA AND SKY.

BY ELVIRA JONES.

It was a night whose starry ray
E’en matched the brilliant hue of day,
A night replete with gifts of June—
A flowery earth and silver moon.
Sleep softly waved her opiate rod,
And stilled all things on earth’s green sod.
The ocean slept, so gently breathing,
Scarce I marked its bosom’s heaving.

In em’rald couch the flow’rs reposed,
The violet’s azure eye was closed;
The balmy, odor-laden air
Scarce stirred beneath its burden rare,
Though oft a slumbering breeze would wake,
And on its harp sweet music make;
The list’ning waves would catch the lay,
With silver lutes so sweet they’d play
That e’en the peerless nightingale,
Warbling within some quiet vale,
Would cease his matchless melody,
To list, and dare no rivalry.

At last a swifter breeze did come
Down from its far off heavenly home;
Bright dew-drops on its wings it bore,
The fairest gems of midnight’s store;
O’er all the earth like stars they lie,
As if to imitate the sky;
Brighter than monarch’s sparkling gem
Was the lowly flow’ret’s diadem.

Methought indeed ’twas _love’s_ own hour—
He could not choose a fairer bower—
A scene so still, so void of strife,
So stirless, yet replete with life.

A lily by a rose-bud stood,
Partaking of its honey food,
With tender and confiding grace
They waved to each a fond embrace.

A star in the far azure sky
Heard a murm’ring streamlet’s sigh,
His image in her bosom still
He saw, and blessed the gentle rill.

A zephyr sought the rose’s bower,
To serenade the lovely flower,
Yet all unlike the constant star,
He sees the streamlet from afar.
For her forsakes his tender rose,
To her his love would fain disclose;
She trembled at his light caress,
_Yet kept the image in her breast_.

Sudden a voice that came along,
As softly as a fairy’s song,
Or like the wind-harp’s faintest sigh,
That scarcely lives ere it doth die,
Folded the pinions of my thought,
And deep and mute attention brought—
’Twas the voice of the far off sky
Whisp’ring its scarce heard melody
To its kindred sea, whose list’ning waves
Scarce stirred within their azure caves.

“Ocean, sleepest thou thy nightly rest?
Or with thy weight of stars so prest,
Thou canst not hear my lay of love,
My wooing whispers from above?
Thy brilliant burden I will lift,
Awhile withdraw my nightly gift;
My graceful clouds shall intervene,
No more thy brilliant load is seen.
Now listen to my nightly song,
My voice unheard to mortal throng.

“How strange none mark our sympathy,
And yet how like I am to thee.
My voice to thee a passage finds
In music of the tuneful winds,
While soft thy murm’ring waves reply
With a sound more faint than joy’s sigh.

“I gaze at thee with eyes of light,
With loving look, from orbs as bright,
Thou answer’st me. My beams I send,
As messengers to thee. They lend
A golden chariot to thy waves,
In which they leave their dark blue caves
And joyously to me they come;
Though grieved to leave their native home,
In purple mansions here they dwell,
But mark thy bosom’s sorrowing swell,
And weary of their absence long,
Again they seek their home of song.

“Within thy bosom hidden lie,
Fair pearls unseen to mortal eye—
I, too, have jewels e’n more bright—
My dew-drop gems, which deck the night.

“In their blue home thy gold-fish rove—
I, too, have children whom to love,
My fairy birds who sport along,
Here in their happy world of song.”

The voice was still. The ocean sighed,
In harp-like tones its waves replied—
“Our converse, unperceived by men,
Still lasts, though sound is hushed, e’en then,
Though winds are still, nor waves rejoice,
I speak to thee in silence’s voice.
What gives to us our hue of love,
This azure tint, below, above?
It is our _depth_, unseen, profound,
_In shallow-hearted man ne’er found_.”

The voice of the sea was hushed.
A fairy cloud the heavens brushed,
And tears of joy the sky was weeping,
Aroused the wavelets lightly sleeping,
They sprang to meet so playfully,
A union ’twas of sea and sky.

* * * * *

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by F. Humphrys from an original
drawing]

* * * * *

COLORED BIRDS.—THE BULLFINCH.

FROM BECHSTEIN.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

This is one of the indigenous tame birds which is a favorite with the rich and noble. Its body is thick and short. Its whole length is six inches and three-quarters, of which the tail measures two and three-quarters; the beak is only six lines in length, short, thick, and black; the iris is chestnut-colored; the shanks eight lines high, and black; the top of the head, the circle of the beak, the chin, and beginning of the throat, are of a beautiful velvet black; the upper part of the neck, the back and shoulders, deep gray; the rump white; the under part of the neck, the wide breast, and to the centre of the belly, are of a fine vermilion, less bright, however, in the young than old; the blackish pen-feathers become darker toward the body; the secondaries have the outer edge of an iron blue, which in the hinder ones is reddish. The tail is rather forked, and of a brilliant black, tinged with iron-blue.

The female is easily distinguished from the male, for what is red on him is reddish-gray on her, while her back is of a brownish-gray, and her feet are not so black; she is also smaller.

This species has some singular varieties; the principal are:—

1. The _White Bullfinch_, which is of an ashy-white, or wholly white, with dark spots on the back.

2. The _Black Bullfinch_. These are most generally females, which become black, either with age, when they are only fed on hemp seed, or with having been kept when young in a totally dark place. Some resume at their moulting their natural colors, others remain black; but this black is not the same in all; some are of a brilliant raven black, others dull, and not so dark on the belly; in some the head only is of a raven black, the rest of the body being duller; in others the black is mixed with red spots on the belly, or the latter is entirely red. I have seen one in which the head and breast, as well as the upper and under parts of the body, were of a raven black, every other part of a dull black, with the wings and tail white; it was a very handsome bird, rather larger than a redbreast.

3. The _Speckled Bullfinch_. It is thus called, for, besides its natural colors, it is spotted with black and white, or white and ash color.

4. The _Mongrel Bullfinch_. It is the offspring of a female reared in the house from the nest, and of a male canary. Its shape and color partake of those of the parent birds; its note is very agreeable, and softer than that of the canary; but it is very scarce. This union rarely succeeds; but when tried, a very ardent and spirited canary should be chosen.[5]

5. The other varieties are: the _Large Bullfinch_, about the size of a thrush, and the _Middling_, or _Common_. As to dwarf birds, which are not as large as a chaffinch, it is a bird-catcher’s story, for this difference in size is observed in all kinds of birds. I can affirm it with the more certainty, having had opportunities every year of seeing hundreds of these birds, both wild and tame. I have even in the same nest found some as small as redbreasts, and others as large as a crossbill.

HABITATION.—When wild, bullfinches are found over Europe and Russia. They are particularly common in the mountainous forests of Germany. The male and female never separate during the whole year. In winter they wander about everywhere in search of buds.

FOOD.—When wild the bullfinch does not often suffer from the failure of its food; for it eats pine and fir seeds, the fruit of the ash and maple, corn, all kinds of berries, the buds of the oak, beech, and pear trees, and even linseed, millet, rape, and nettle seed.

In the house those which run about may be fed on the universal paste, and, for a change, rape seed may be added; those which are taught must be fed only on poppy seed, with a little hemp seed, and now and then a little biscuit without spice. It has been remarked that those which are fed entirely on rape seed soaked in water live much longer, and are more healthy. The hemp seed is too heating, sooner or later blinds them, and always brings on a decline. A little green food, such as lettuce, endive, chickweed, water-cresses, a little apple, particularly the kernels, the berries of the service tree, and the like, is agreeable and salutary to them.

BREEDING.—These tenderly affectionate birds can hardly live when separated from one another. They incessantly repeat their call with a languishing note, and continually caress. They can sometimes be made to breed in the house, like the canary, but their eggs are rarely fruitful. In the wild state they breed twice every year, each time laying from three to six eggs, of a bluish white, spotted with violet and brown at the large end. Their nest, which they build in the most retired part of a wood, or in a solitary quickset hedge, is constructed with little skill, of twigs which are covered with moss. The young ones are hatched in fifteen days. Those which are to be taught must be taken from the nest when the feathers of the tail begin to grow; and must be fed only on rape seed soaked in water and mixed with white bread; eggs would kill them or make them blind. Their plumage is then of a dark ash-color, with the wings and tail blackish-brown; the males may be known at first by their reddish breast; so that when these only are wished to be reared they may be chosen in the nest, for the females are not so beautiful, nor so easily taught.

Although they do not warble before they can feed themselves, one need not wait for this to begin their instruction,[6] for it will succeed better, if one may say so, when infused with their food; since experience proves that they learn those airs more quickly, and remember them better, which they have been taught just after eating. It has been observed several times, that these birds, like the parrots, are never more attentive than during digestion. Nine months of regular and continued instruction are necessary before the bird acquires what amateurs call firmness, for if one ceases before this time, they spoil the air, by suppressing or displacing the different parts, and they often forget it entirely at their first moulting. In general it is a good thing to separate them from the other birds, even after they are perfect; because, owing to their great quickness in learning, they would spoil the air entirely by introducing wrong passages; they must be helped to continue the song when they stop, and the lesson must always be repeated whilst they are moulting, otherwise they will become mere chatterers, which would be doubly vexatious after having had much trouble in teaching them.

DISEASES.—Those bullfinches which are caught in a snare or net are rarely ill, and may be preserved for eight years or more; but those reared from the nest are subject to many diseases, caused by their not having their natural food, or by those injurious delicacies which are always lavished on favorite birds; they rarely live more than six years. The surest means of preserving them healthy for a long time, is to give them neither sweets nor tit-bits of any kind, scrupulously to confine their food to rape seed, adding now and then a very little hemp seed to please them, and a good deal of the green food before mentioned. The bottom of their cages should be covered with river sand, as the bird there finds some stones which aid the functions of the stomach. Their most frequent diseases are moulting, costiveness, diarrhœa, epilepsy, grief, and melancholy, in which case they are quite silent, and remain immovable, unless the cause can be discovered. They must not be given any delicacy, and must be fed entirely on soaked rape seed. A clove in their water, proper food, and particularly a good deal of refreshing green food, enables them to pass the moulting time in good health.

-----

[5] However difficult this pairing may be, it sometimes succeeds very well. A bullfinch and female canary once produced five young ones, which died on a journey which they could not bear. Their large beak, and the blackish down with which they were covered, showed that they were more like their father than mother.—_Translator._

[6] I do not recommend the employment of bird organs for instructing birds, because they are rarely accurate, and their notes are harsh and discordant; for bullfinches repeat the sounds exactly as they hear them, whether harsh or false, according to the instrument used. The good and pure whistling of a man of taste is far preferable; the bird repeats it in a soft, flute-like tone. When one cannot whistle well it is better to use a flageolet.—_Translator._

* * * * *

TIME AND CHANGE.

BY ISAAC GRAY BLANCHARD.

Time’s flood sweeps on with ceaseless flow,
And o’er all things that are below
Change hath his empire: every day
Some object testifies his sway,
The falling leaf, the fading flower
Show Change and Death are Nature’s dower;
And every day that passes o’er us
Takes something time shall not restore us;

Some dear delight, some hope in blossom,
Some cherished memory from our bosom,
Some holy impulse which Heaven lent us
When first on life’s fair voyage it sent us,
Some sunny hue of childhood bright,
That blest us with its lingering light,
Some pleasant friend, some earthly stay,
We fondly hoped to keep for aye,

These hearts of ours, though once so bright,
Have less and less of love’s young light;
The world has lost the charm it had,
Even Nature seems less green and glad,
And from our bosoms, shut and lone,
Faith, like a beauteous bird, has flown.
O, Time and Change! how strong ye be!
How unlike what we were are we!

* * * * *

WOMAN’S HEART:—A SONNET.

FOR JULIA.

BY REV. RUFUS HENRY BACON.

Like to a calm and placid inland bay,
Hemmed in by leafy solitudes and hills
That ward the ruder winds, and kindly stay
The tempest—where the forest song-bird fills
Its peaceful shores with music through the day,
And moonlit silence claims the evening hours—
On whose sweet borders bloom the choicest flowers—
A woman’s heart should be. In which alway
The cloudless heavens may smile, and gentlest ray
Of stars glide down, to emblem forth the sway
Of purity and truth, and happiness
Made up of innocence and loveliness
Of soul—so rarely found in this sad world of ours,
Where evil mars the good, and wastes divinest powers.

* * * * *

A TRAVELER’S STORY.

BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON.

We had been out since early morning, rambling amid the rough romance of the Scottish Highlands, in the vicinity of the far-famed Loch Katrine. With Sir Walter’s picture of that “burnished sheet of living gold,” with its surrounding hills broken by trossach, dell and valley, in my mind’s eye, I own that I felt disappointed, as I stood upon an isolated rock at the foot of “huge Ben-Venue,” and looked up to the feathered crests of the eternal _mountains_, (by courtesy,) and then gazed where Katrine

“In all her length far winding lay,
With promontory, creek and bay,
And islands that empurpled bright
Flouted amid the livelier light.”

The scene _was_ grand, and very beautiful, and no soul can be more susceptible than mine to the beauties of Nature in her solitudes of mountain, lake and woodland; but I had expected too much. It needed the love light of Sir Walter’s Scottish heart to give the scenery, in my eyes, the loveliness it wore for him. To me the rough hill, with its shingly bosom, its tufts of heather, and ravines fringed with yellow broom, and feathery fern—the precipitous rocks and wooded slopes—the pebbly beach and abrupt headland—the cloud-checkered heaven above—and the deep, clear lake that mirrored all these in its trembling bosom, were but as the multitudes of hills and lakes, which every where diversify the surface of our earth. I was disappointed, and of course inclined to underrate the real beauty and sublimity of the grand theatre by which we were surrounded. The enthusiastic admiration which burst in ejaculatory phrases from my companions became distasteful to me; and partly to relieve my own peevishness, and partly to escape from the distasteful demonstrations of the company, I struck into a narrow path that wound spirally along up the precipitous rocky tower at the base of which I had been standing. Higher and higher I ascended, botanizing amongst the plants and lichens, until a stone on which I placed my foot gave way beneath the effort I made to spring higher, and alas for my _excelsior_—after a rapid but very rough descent, I found myself prostrate on the pebbly beach—half buried in rubbish, and the faithless stone that betrayed my unwary foot lying very uncomfortably upon what should have been my lower limbs, though at that time they were elevated considerably above my head, fixed, as in a vice, between a hillock of pebbles and the fallen mass of rock. Great was my fright, greater my pain, and greatest the consternation and alarm of my companions, who soon extricated the fallen greatness from its perilous position, and discovered that one of my legs was badly fractured, and both severely crushed, while several serious bruises, in other parts of my person, rendered me quite helpless, and apparently in great danger. What now was to be done? There was a real tempest of sighs, groans, and lamentations, and no small shower of tears; a goodly number of which fell from the dark eyes of dear little Charlotte M’Lane, a perfect highland fairy, who had been the joy beam of the party, through the day; ever moving, and never weary, glad herself, and gladdening all around her. Now she sat amid the cloaks which were spread for my accommodation, on a heap of gathered fern, and supported my head in her lap, soothing, condoling, and weeping by turns—or all together. And I, notwithstanding my sorry plight, felt a queer kind of pleasure in being the object of such care and solicitude, to one so young, so lovely, and so joyous-hearted. But what was to be done? Night was gathering her shadows in the dells—and though the day had been fine, we began to feel that

“Not the summer solstice there
Tempers the midnight mountain air.”

There seemed no means of conveying my poor mangled carcass along the rugged paths of that broken district, and despair seemed gathering with the gloom of the evening.

Just at this juncture, a young man who stood above me on a crag burst out with a tremendous hallo-o!! and continued to shout boisterously, and wave his square yard of perfumed linen, with a grotesque earnestness. It was soon apparent that he was signaling a boat, which appeared to be crossing the lake, half a mile above us, and which was rendered visible by

“The western wave of ebbing day.”

She returns my signal, cried Harry, jumping from his eminence, and immediately roaring out that he had sprained his ankle most unmercifully. Our comrades drew off his boot, and using it in place of a pitcher, commenced pouring water on the injured limb. Meantime the boat approached us, a commodious yacht built craft, carrying two oarsmen and a young highlander, who realized my idea of Sir William Wallace, for he was at once the most beautiful, noble and unconscious creature that my eyes ever rested on. Addressing us with a lofty and yet gentle courtesy, he inquired in what way he could be of service to us. Our forlorn condition was soon explained to him, and it was speedily settled that he should convey Harry, myself, and fairy Charlotte, to his mountain home, while one of his boatmen should pilot the residue of the party to the main road, where we had left our carriages. The young Scotsman, whose name was Malcomb Douglas, assured us that we should receive both medical and surgical attendance at his father’s house, where we should be welcome until we were recovered of our injuries, or until we were pleased to leave. My couch was speedily transferred to the bow of the boat, and dear, lovely Charlotte was soon again burdened with my languid head, for by this time I was both dispirited and faint. I took no note of the voyage, except that our benefactor took the place at the oar of him whom he had sent as guide to our party; and long before we landed the night was dark, for the young moon, which shed a trembling radiance on the opposite mountain shore, left our side of the deep, dark water in a blacker shadow.

At length we landed, and I had become so stiff and sore, from my undrest injuries, that I lost my consciousness as they lifted me from the boat, and on the ninth day after, awoke to find myself in a magnificently furnished room, lying in a bed which might have beseemed a monarch, while near my pillow, in an antique velvet-cushioned easy-chair, reclined my fairy Charlotte, in a deep but apparently troubled sleep. I soon recollected all that had befallen me, except the lapse of time since the memorable night, and thinking that we had recently arrived, did not wonder that Charlotte had sunk under her fatigue. So I composed myself to sleep and kept her company in the land of dreams.

I awoke again. It was still night, at least it seemed so in that darkened apartment, but I could distinguish the rich and heavy ornaments of the walls and ceiling, and the sumptuous embroidery of the heavy tapestries, which swept from the lofty cornice to the floor; the antique chair also stood by the bedside, but its late occupant was not there. I moved, and raised my head somewhat from the pillow, when from the concealment of my bed-curtain came forward a stately lady, apparently fifty years of age, wearing a rich dress of black satin, and holding a small golden night-lamp in her hand. She looked earnestly into my eyes a moment, and then with a gentle grace, which betrayed no surprise or other emotion, she inquired how I had rested, and if I found myself better of my wounds. I replied that I felt quite well, when she shook her head, bade me be quiet, and took her seat in the vacant chair. Presently Charlotte stole softly into the room from a curtained recess, and meeting my smile of recognition, uttered a cry of joy, laughed, danced, wrung her hands, and finally wept like an infant, despite all the efforts of the dark-robed lady to quiet her transports. I now discovered that I had been a week delirious, and considered in a very precarious condition; that Harry was nearly well, and that he and Charlotte had been my constant attendants, aided by the lady present, and other members of her household. Soon after a silvery haired old man, came to my bedside, and being introduced as my physician, congratulated me with courteous politeness on the favorable change in my condition, adding that with proper care my recovery would be certain and speedy.

Did you ever enjoy the luxury of an easy convalescence, surrounded by every comfort, and attended by a smiling beauty, and jovial young companion? What Elysium-like dreams employ the languid fancy—and what a world of impossibilities gather around us, like tangible and familiar things. I dreamed of a life of love and joy with fairy Charlotte. I would win her, and bear her like a rich trophy to my transatlantic home. Oh! we would be so happy. How would her buoyancy of spirit enhance all my joys; and her ready sympathy, how it would soothe my sorrows; and then what a nurse she would be, whenever I was ill. She liked me, that was certain; of course I could win her love, and then my happiness was secure. And I indulged in all the passionate vagaries of love dreaming, until I felt that unconnected with Charlotte there was for me no futurity. Thus passed one week more, and then I was permitted to occupy the cushioned chair, and sit by the open window. It was singular that I had felt so little curiosity respecting my host, and the singularity of surrounding objects, but my love fancies had fully occupied my mind.

Now, as I sat at the casement, which extended from floor to ceiling, and had no other protection for the crystal crown-glass than the clinging vines without, and the embroidered tapestries within, and looked out upon the wild scenery, apparently uninvaded by the hand of cultivation, which substitutes the useful for the beautiful, the production of Art for the sublimity of Nature, I felt the awakening of a thousand wonders, as to where I was, and with whom, and how the wealth of that chamber found its way to that singularly hidden spot; and who was the stately lady who occasionally came to my bedside; and how such a man as Malcomb Douglas came to be an inhabitant of those mountain wilds? I had seen him but seldom, since I regained my consciousness, but his manners were perfect, and his conversation displayed unconsciously the treasures of a rare and richly cultivated intellect. He seemed a being altogether above the level of mankind. It would have seemed absurd to fancy him talking nonsense, discussing fashions, or inquiring what he would get for dinner. Yet he was not ignorant or unmindful of the courtesies, and little conventionalities of life—but he seemed to hold them of no moment, and give no thought to such trifles—which came to him intuitively, and as belonging to daily intercourse.

As I thus mused, gazing down upon the lake, and away to the opposite hills, I observed, shooting out from behind an abrupt headland, a beautiful little sail-boat, in which stood Malcomb Douglas, and which, coming round the point, ran into a white pebbled bay, just in front of and beneath my window; and then from a clump of hazels emerged my idol, Charlotte, supported by no other than Harry Heath, who, it then occurred to me, had mentioned in the morning that he should take my gentle nurse out for a little exercise, as she was suffering from her close attendance upon me. She was beautiful in the distance, but as she clung to Harry’s arm, and looked up familiarly into his face, I felt a pang of jealousy, the first that had ever wrung my bosom. They stepped into the boat, and sat down together, and the little craft, as if proud of her freight, put off gallantly along the shining water. And Charlotte would be by Harry’s side—how long?

“I fear you are in great pain,” came in anxious, inquiring tone upon my ear.

I started—my jealous feelings were living on my face. “Just a little twinge,” I said, “occasioned by shifting my position indiscreetly.”

“You should be very careful,” returned the good man who had been my surgeon and doctor from the first, and who now advanced, examined the position of my fractured limb, and took a seat beside me at the window. “How gallantly yon little boat holds her way, with her living freight of beauty, love and happiness,” he murmured, as if communing with himself; “and yet a single blast of the mountain storm may whelm her, with all her warm young hopeful heart, deep down in the cold weltering waves.” He finished with a deep sigh, and a cold shudder ran through my frame, in response to his fearful words. “Do not let me make you melancholy,” he said, after a pause; “but I am an old man, and have endured many sorrows, and have grown distrustful of the promises of happiness. Reverses come so unexpectedly.”

“I think,” said I, timidly, “that the owners of this mansion must have known some strange reverse of fortune. It seems so singular to find the manners of a court, and the luxury of a palace, in a rough stone mountain dwelling.”

The old gentleman looked earnestly in my face a moment. “I have never spoken of these things to any one,” he said, “but if you feel interested, I will tell you a tale, to beguile the time until the return of your companions. Fifty years ago—for I am now seventy-eight—the lady whom you have seen in this chamber was the loveliest creature that ever existed out of heaven.”

“Fifty years!” I exclaimed, “why she is not more than fifty years old.”