Chapter III (1)

How completely scattered to the winds was Ellison’s long, fond dream of Italy! How obscured was the beautiful ideal of his art, toward which his mind had aspired with such an intense devotion! The cold present, with its imperious demands and uncovered facts was before him, and turn this way or that, he could not shut out the vision.

As calmly as he could, he conferred with his wife about her property in the West. Placing in his hands the various papers relating thereto, Clara asked him to make the business his own, as it now really was, and do whatever in his judgment seemed best. All this was easily said, but how was the young man to act without means? His own income, uncertain as it was in its nature, did not yet exceed three hundred dollars a year, and his expense for boarding alone would double that sum. Embarrassment, privation, and deep mortification must soon come, and so oppressed did Ellison feel in view of this, that he could no longer conceal, even from the eyes of his wife, his unhappiness, although the cause lay hidden in his heart.

“Are you not well?” Clara frequently asked, as she looked at him with earnest tenderness.

“Oh yes! I’m very well,” Ellison would reply quickly, forcing a smile, and then endeavoring to appear cheerful and unconcerned; but his real feelings would flow into the tell-tale muscles of his face and betray the uneasiness of mind from which he was suffering.

“Something troubles you, Alfred,” said Clara, a few days after she had informed him of the attempt to deprive her of her property in the West. “What is it? I will not be content to share only your happy feelings. Life, I know, is not all sunshine. Disappointments must come in the nature of things. You will have them and so will I. Let us, from the beginning, divide our griefs and fears as well as our joys and hopes.”

And Alfred did not only look troubled; he felt also deeply depressed and anxious. Not a single new sitter had come to his rooms since his marriage; nor had he been able to get any thing to do that would yield even a small return, although he had offered to paint, at mere nominal prices, portraits from daguerreotypes—work that he had previously declined doing in a way to leave the impression that he looked upon the proposition as little less than a professional insult. On that very day he had paid out the last of his borrowed two hundred dollars. Where was the next supply to come from? How was he to obtain the sum he had expended, when the friend from whom he had received it should ask to have it returned?

The first impulse of Ellison after this tender appeal from his wife, was to throw open to her the whole truth in regard to his circumstances. But an instant’s reflection caused him to shrink back from the exposure. Pride drew around him a mantle of concealment, while his heart became faint with the bare imagination of Clara’s discovering that he had, too evidently, been won more by her supposed wealth than her virtues.

“It’s a little matter, not worth troubling you about,” was his evasive reply.

“If it trouble you, let it trouble me. To share the pressure will make it lighter for both. Come, Alfred! Let us have no concealments. Do not fear my ability to stand by your side under any circumstances. When I gave you my heart, it was with no selfish feeling. I loved you purely and tenderly, and was prepared to go with you through the world amid good or evil report, joy or sorrow, health or sickness, prosperity or adversity. I promised not only with my lips but in my inmost spirit, that I would be to you all that a wife could or should be. Meet me then freely and fully. Let us begin without a concealment, and go through life as if we possessed but one mind and heart.”

While Clara was speaking thus, Ellison partly shaded his face and tried to think to some right conclusion. But the more he thought, the more embarrassed did he feel, and the more entire became the confusion of his ideas. At length, finding it impossible to avoid uttering at least a portion of the truth, and perceiving that the truth must soon become known, he concluded to make at least some allusion to the embarrassment under which he was laboring. Suffering from a most oppressive sense of humiliation, he said—

“Clara, there is one thing that troubles me, and as you urge me to speak of what is in my mind, I don’t see that I can with justice conceal it any longer. I find myself not only disappointed in my expectations, but seriously embarrassed in consequence.”

The young man paused, while an expression of pain went over his face, which was reflected in that of his wife. He saw this, and read it as the effect a glimpse of the real truth had produced on her mind.

“Go on. Speak plainly, Alfred. Am I not your wife?” said Clara, tenderly and encouragingly.

“In a word, then, Clara, I have not, since our marriage, obtained a single new sitter, nor received an order for a picture of any kind.”

“And is that all!” exclaimed the young wife, while a light went over her face.

“Little as it may seem to you,” said Ellison in reply to this, “it is a matter of great trouble to me. In my ability as a painter lies my only claim upon the world. I have no fortune but in my talents and skill, and if these find not employment, I am poor and helpless indeed.”

The young artist spoke with emotion, and as the last word was uttered, he hid his face with his hands to conceal its troubled expression. Ah! the terrible humiliation of that moment! Never through life was it forgotten, and never through life could memory go back to the time when a confession of his poverty was made, without a shrinking and shuddering of the heart. Some moments elapsed before Clara made any answer; and these were, to Ellison, moments of heart-aching suspense. The truth having been wrung from him by mental torture, a breathless pause followed.

“And so you fear,” said Clara, with something like rebuke in her voice, “that I do not love you well enough to share your fortune, be it what it may? Alfred, when I gave you my hand it was with no external or worldly views in my mind. You said you loved me, and my own heart responded fully to the sentiment. In giving you my hand, I gave you myself entirely; for you were virtuous and I could _confide_ in as well as love you. To share with you any condition in life, no matter how many privations it may involve, will always be my highest pleasure—

‘E’en grief, divided with thy heart,
Were better far than joy apart.’

“And is this all that troubles you?” she added, in a cheerful voice.

“Heaven knows that it is enough, Clara! But what adds to the pain of my embarrassment, is the fact, that for me to marry you with such slender prospects was little more than a deception. It was unjust to you.”

“Love is blind, you know, dear!” Clara replied to this, with a lightness of tone that surprised Ellison; “and one who is loved will find it no hard matter to excuse a little wandering sometimes from the path of prudence. Fortunately, in our case, the error you so grieve over will be of no account, for it happens that I have a few thousand dollars independent of the property in dispute, which is now as much yours as mine. I ought to have said this to you before, but deemed it of little consequence.”

The response of Ellison to this announcement was not so cordial as his wife had expected. His sense of humiliation was too strong to admit a free pulsation of his heart after the external pressure was removed.

“For your sake, Clara,” said he, “I rejoice to hear this. But I feel none the less conscious of having acted wrong.”

“Come, come, Alfred! This is a weakness. Am I not your wife? and do I not love you tenderly and truly?”

“I do not doubt it, Clara. But it looks so as if I had been governed by mercenary views in offering you marriage when I ought to have known, and did know in fact, that I was not able to make your external condition as comfortable as it should be.”

“Alfred! don’t speak in this way. Do I not know you to be incapable of such baseness? I could not wrong, by an unjust suspicion, one whom I love as my own life.”

And Clara drew her arm about her husband’s neck affectionately, and pressed her lips upon his forehead.

“Forgive this weakness,” said the young man. “It is wrong, I know.”

“Yes, it is wrong, very wrong. So now, let the shadow pass from your brow, and the light come back again.”

But the weight was not removed from Ellison’s feelings. And though he swept the shadow from his brow at the word of Clara, it did not pass from his heart. It was a great relief for the moment to know that he possessed the means of support for himself and wife until he could win his way to professional eminence; but this fact did not heal the wound his natural independence and sense of honor had received. Even in the language Clara had used as a means of encouragement, he saw rebuke, though he knew that it was given unconsciously.

The amount of Clara’s property, independent of her western land, was about five thousand dollars in good stocks, that were paying an annual dividend of six per cent. On the interest of this she had been living for some years. But an addition of three hundred dollars was not sufficient to meet the deficiency in Ellison’s income. Had the value of the stock been only two or three thousand dollars, the necessity for selling it would have been so apparent to Clara’s mind, as to cause her to suggest its disposal. But Ellison was not wrong in his supposition that his wife would think the mere additional income arising from the stocks all that he needed in his present embarrassment. But the sum of three hundred dollars was not enough for him at present, for he had no certain income of his own. He might succeed in earning, by means of his pencil, two, three or four hundred dollars a year for the next four or five years; but at their present rate of expense this would leave a serious deficiency. He could not say to his wife that even her three hundred dollars would not make his income sufficient, for that would be a too broad declaration of the fact, that, while actually unable to support himself he had assumed the additional expense of a wife. And a step so unreasonable could not be explained satisfactorily, except by bringing in the additional fact that this wife was reputed to be worth some twenty thousand dollars.

To the mind of the unhappy young man was presented only a choice of evils. He must lay open fully to his wife the whole truth in regard to his circumstances, or attempt to struggle on with debt and discouragement, working and hoping for a brighter day in the future when he could feel free and independent. He preferred the latter.

It was impossible for a scene such as took place between Ellison and his wife to transpire without leaving an impression behind. Clara’s thoughts, after she was alone, naturally recurred to what had passed, and she became aware of a pressure upon her feelings. She did not suspect her husband of improper motives in seeking her hand, yet the fact that he had proposed a marriage while his income was insufficient to support a wife, was indicative of a weakness in his mind, or a want of sound judgment and discretion, that it was not pleasant to think about. This conclusion was based on the supposition that he had made no calculations in regard to her property—an impression which, in the late interview, he had evidently designed to make; and she gave him the full benefit of this conclusion, for, in her eyes, he was incapable of any thing mean, selfish, or false.

On going to his studio, after the occurrence we have mentioned, Ellison was far from being happy. It did not take him long to resolve to struggle on, and thus seek to maintain his independence. That he would fall into debt and become seriously embarrassed, he knew; but that was something in every way to be preferred to further and deeper humiliation on the subject of his wife’s property. The little already suffered on this score was so exceedingly painful and mortifying, that he had no wish to encounter any thing more of a like nature. Earnestly he searched about in his mind for suggestions. Many things presented themselves. As a teacher of drawing he might do something to increase his income; but his professional pride came quickly to oppose this idea—moreover, in advertising or sending around cards, Clara must necessarily become aware of the fact, and she would doubtless think it strange, after the increase in his income, that he should be compelled to resort to such a course. To propose to a number of his friends to paint them at a temptingly low price, was next pondered over. But they would naturally ask, “Why this necessity? Had he not married a little fortune?”

While in this state of doubt and anxiety, the friend who had furnished him with a couple of hundred dollars came in. Ellison, the moment he saw him, had an instinctive impression that he had come to ask a return of the money, as the loan had been only a temporary one. And he was not wrong. After sitting and chatting for some five minutes, during all of which time the young artist felt his presence exceedingly embarrassing, he said—

“Well, Alfred. How are you off for money?”

The color rose in the face of Ellison at this question, and he answered with evident distress and confusion.

“Not very well, I’m sorry to say. I have been thinking of you for the last hour.”

“I thought you would have been flush enough by this time,” said the friend.

“So did I. But it is otherwise.”

“Then you have not bettered your condition so much as you anticipated,” was remarked, with a familiarity and coarseness that stung the young artist like an insult.

“How do you mean?” asked Ellison, his brow falling as he spoke.

The other looked surprised at the change his words had produced.

“What should I mean, except in a money point of view?”

Ellison was under obligation to the young man for money loaned. Moreover, at the time of borrowing the money, he had given out the idea that, after his marriage, he would no longer be troubled with the disease of empty pockets. All this was remembered at the moment, and, while it occasioned a feeling of extreme mortification, was in the way of his resenting the rude familiarity.

“You shall have your money to-morrow,” said the artist, lifting his eyes from the floor where they had fallen, and looking steadily at his young friend.

“If it’s any inconvenience,” remarked the latter, who felt the rebuke of Ellison’s manner, “it’s of no consequence just now. I am not pressed for money.”

“It will be none at all. I will bring it round to you in the morning.”

“I hope you’re not offended. I didn’t mean to wound your feelings,” said the friend, looking concerned. He felt that he had been indelicate in his allusions, and saw that Ellison was hurt.

“Oh no. Not in the least,” replied the latter.

“I hope you won’t put yourself to any inconvenience about the matter.”

“No; it will be perfectly convenient.”

Then followed a silence that was oppressive to both. A forced and distantly polite conversation followed, after which the visiter went away. As he closed the door of Ellison’s studio, the young artist clasped his hands together, while a distressed expression came into his face.

“Oh! what an error I have committed!” came almost hissing through his teeth, at the same time that his arms were flung about his head with a gesture of impatience and despair. “I have sold myself—I have parted with my manliness—my independence—my right to breathe the air as a freeman. And what have I gained?”

“A true-hearted, loving woman.” A gentle voice seemed to whisper these words in his ears as his mind grew calmer.

“I have paid too high a price,” fell almost audibly from his lips. “And even she, when she knows the whole truth, will despise and turn from me. What madness!”

For half an hour the young man remained in a state of great excitement. After that he grew calmer, and sitting down before his easel, took up his pallet and brushes and tried to work on a picture that he was painting. But his thoughts were too much disturbed.

“I have promised to return the two hundred dollars to-morrow morning, and I must keep my word to _him_ if I steal the amount! When that obligation is removed we are no longer friends.”

As Ellison said this he threw down his pallet and brushes, and springing from his chair, resumed his hurried walk about the door of his room.

While thus occupied, a gentleman, accompanied by a lady, entered and asked to see some of his pictures.

“What is your price for a portrait of this size?” was asked after a number of paintings had been examined.

For a moment Ellison hesitated, and then replied—

“Fifty dollars.”

The gentleman and lady talked together, in a low tone, for a little while. Then the former said—

“We have two children, and think about having them taken. Including our own portraits we would want four. If we give you the order, what would you charge for the whole?”

“How old are the children?”

“Young. The eldest is but five.”

“You would want the children full length, I presume.”

“Why, yes. We would prefer that, if it didn’t cost too much. What is your price for a full length of a child?”

“Seventy-five dollars.”

“That would make the four pictures cost two hundred and fifty dollars.”

The lady shook her head.

“Could you not take the four for two hundred dollars?”

“Perhaps so. Four pictures would be a liberal order, and I might feel inclined to make a discount if it would be any object. My prices, however, are moderate.”

“Money is always an object, you know.”

“Very true.”

“You say two hundred dollars, then.”

“Oh yes. I will take the four portraits for that sum.”

“Very well. To-morrow we will decide about having them taken. How many sittings will you require?”

“About half-a-dozen for each picture.”

The lady and gentleman retired, saying that they would call in the morning.

Here was a promise of good fortune for which the heart of Ellison was profoundly thankful. But while he looked at it, he trembled for the uncertainty that still hung over him. The lady and gentleman might never return. Still, his heart was lighter and more hopeful.

Soon after these visiters had retired, the young man went out and called upon a gentleman with whom he had some acquaintance. His object was to borrow a sum of money sufficiently large to enable him to cancel the obligation. This person did not, so he thought, receive him very cordially. The coldness of his manner would scarcely have been apparent, however, but for the fact that Ellison had a favor to ask. It seemed to him as if he had a perception of what was in his mind, and denied his request as intelligibly as possible, even before it was made. So strong was this impression, that the young artist acted upon it, and was about retiring without having made known his wishes, when the man said—

“Can I do any thing for you to-day, Alfred?”

So plain an invitation to make known his wishes could hardly be disregarded. The young man hesitated a little, and then replied as if half jesting—

“Yes—give me an order for two hundred dollars worth of pictures, and pay me in advance for them.”

“Are you in earnest?” inquired the man, looking curious.

“Certainly. Painting is my profession.”

“I know. But do you really want a couple of hundred dollars?”

“Yes; I really want that sum. A young artist, you know, is never overstocked with cash.”

“I will lend you the amount with pleasure, Alfred. But I am in no want of pictures. For how long a time do you wish to have it?”

“For a couple of months, if you wont give me an order.”

The man drew a check and gave it to Ellison.

“You can return it at your convenience,” said he, “and in the meantime, if I can throw any thing in your way, I will do it with pleasure.”

Ellison received the check with a feeling of relief. He now had it in his power to wipe out the obligation he was under to a man who had approached him with what he felt to be little less than an insult. But, as he went back to his studio, the pressure on his feelings was not removed. There had only been a shifting of the obligation; a painful sense of its existence yet remained. Moreover, as an artist, he had done violence to his professional self-respect by asking an order for painting—and this added to his disquietude of mind.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

LINES.

I’ve loved thee, as the breeze to kiss the sweetest flowers;
I’ve loved thee as the thirsty earth eve’s refreshing showers;
I’ve loved thee, as the bird to sing its softly thrilling lay;
I’ve loved thee, as the heated rock the ocean’s dashing spray;
I’ve loved thee, as the fevered cheek to feel the cooling air;
I’ve loved thee, as a mother loves her child of tender care;
I’ve loved thee, as the murky morn to hail the sunny beam;
I’ve loved thee, as the moonlit loves to dance upon the stream—
As all these, did I love thee, and with yet a wilder spell;
’Till thy coldness caused my spirit to sound love’s parting knell;
And though in fearful stillness my life glides gently on,
There is one note of harmony I feel forever gone.
Other hands might sweep the strings, and even thine may try,
But never shall an echoing sound to the sweet tune reply.
ANNIE GREY.

* * * * *

ARIADNE.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

O, thrice as swiftly as yon argent gull
On snowy pinions cleaves the azure sky,
Thy galley cuts the purple wave, and flies my eager, straining eye.

O, Thésëus, beloved and beautiful,
My lovely warrior, white-limbed, like a god,
Why hast thou left me on this desert isle, save by ourselves, untrod?

Immortal Jove, divine Progenitor,
Exert thy power; reverse his sails:—O, King
Of Gods and Men, why does the cup of love conceal the scorpion’s
sting?

Like ghastly ghosts, with veiled and weeping orbs,
My hopes depart; cadaverous Despair
Sits glaring at me with his wolfy eyes: bid the foul thing forbear!

On yester-eve, at this forgotten isle—
Forgotten almost of gods—our storm-beat bark
Let fall its ponderous flakes; night, like a falcon, swooped, and all
was dark.

Here, where this lonely palm expands its leaves,
Our couch was spread; yes, here, on Theseus’ breast
I laid my head, and, like a love-sick dove, sunk meaningly to rest.

My sleep was restless: from the Realm of Dreams
Came changing shadows: I beheld my home—
Our hills, like wrinkle-faced, white-headed men—our cataract’s snowy
foam.

I saw myself a merry, mad-cap girl,
Dancing along our glades, with laughing eyes;
Light-footed as our deer—free as the birds that filled our happy
skies.

And then a woman, still most happy, though
A shadow rested on my sunny brow,
Such as a wintry cloud, when all is light, throws faintly over snow.

My step, too, had less lightness, and my breast
Throbbed quickly, while my heart beat, and my brain
Ran round and round, delirious with delight, so deep, it seemed like
pain.

I left the song, the dance, my maiden mates—
An endless yearning filled my craving soul,
Which sadly walked apart from them toward some unknown and glorious
goal.

One day, when thus depressed, I stood, in thought,
Beside a babbling brook, whose tinkling fall
Among the mossy rocks, from stone to stone, made silence musical.

Contemplating the beauty of the scene,
Imagining me the Naiad of the stream,
I grew the spirit of the place, and stood the deity of a sylvan dream.

Just then, a being, much more god than man,
Fell at my feet: I had no power to fly,
No wish, no thought; the serpent’s fabulous spell spoke in his
eloquent eye.

He prayed; I listened, for his words were song,
Drowning my heart; like surf along a strand
Their melody rose and rolled, wave following wave, covering the
helpless land.

Even then he vanished; but his image filled
The void that, hitherto, my spirit felt;
I stood erect—a loving woman, Jove—there, where, before, I knelt.

And all things passed; a dull and opiate blank
Fell, like Nepenthé, blackly on my brain:
I was a living corpse, insensible to pleasure, dead to pain.

I dreamed again: a glorious city rose,
Like Aphrodite, on a summer strand;
Palaces, pyramids and temples stretched away on either hand.

Its harbor, guarded by two massy towers,
Was filled with ships, whose plethoric pinions bore
The treasures of an hundred sister lands to her heroic shore.

Even while I gazed, slowly along the quay,
Moving in melancholy march, to strains
Of heavy harmony, whose solemn sounds made pity in my veins,

A long procession, like a funeral,
Approached the shore. There, moored, a galley lay,
Black as the wings of night, like an eclipse blighting the light of
day.

The crowd closed round: some stood, with lifted hands,
Adjuring heaven; some turned aside to hide
Their streaming tears, while others dumbly gazed on the receding tide.

With downcast eyes, seven youths, seven maidens passed
On board the galley, when my Cretan eyes
Saw Niobe-like Athens mourn her sons, passing to sacrifice.

The raven bark unfurled its ebon wings
And like a bird, flew lightly from the strand;
While, far behind, in distance growing dim, declined the cloud-like
land.

Away, away, across the billowy sea,
The galley flew: night came and went again,
When, with the rising sun, Crete’s porphyry walls rose from the
crimson main.

—I sat beside my sire: around us stood
The wise, the brave, the lovely of our land,
When, led by Thésëus, Athens’ offspring came, a self-devoted band.

I sat entranced: the lover of my dreams.
He, to whom nightly I had poured my sighs,
The ideal of my soul, stood visibly before my waking eyes.

Calmly the Self-Devoted stood and smiled,—
Thésëus, king-born, with his radiant face
Flushed with the glory of a fame which pierced the ultimate star of
space.

My heart waxed sick, for I was woman, Jove:
I saw the grim and ghastly Minotaur
Move through the Cretan labyrinth—his deadly, ponderous jaws ajar.

I saw my brother fall by felon hands;
I saw my father’s galleys sweep the seas,
And humbled Athens, cowering like a slave, ask mercy from her knees.

Minos pronounced his doom: the morrow morn
Beheld the sacrifice. I would have wept,
But could not: in their heated cells the sought for tears in silence
slept.

I pitied him; I could not see him die;
I loved—was woman; though my brother’s blood
Cried out for vengeance, still I pitied him: pity was passion’s food.

My soul sat in his shadow: like a babe
Beneath an oak it sat, and smiled, and crowed,
And lifted up and clapped its happy hands, and wildly laughed aloud.

That night I sought his cell: O, happy night,
O, night of light and life: the magic clew
That Dædälos wrought was in his hands; I drank his red lip’s nectarous
dew,

For he, too, loved! O, Jove, my long-caged heart
In that mad moment felt its shackles riven,
And soared and soared and soared, till, like a star, it coursed the
heights of heaven.

Next day I prayed—O, how I prayed: the gods
Were merciful: that night—O, night of nights,
For in its hours the Past became entombed—O, realm of dead delights,

We fled from Crete, and, steering out to sea,
I dreaming always on his manly breast,
At last made land—a desolate wave-worn strand, the sea-gull’s sandy
nest.

I seemed to wake, and found the traitor gone:
I stood in anguish, desolate and lone,
Wasting my wailings on the flinty rocks whose hearts (like his) were
stone.

But still I dreamed, and once more Athens rose
Before my eyes. Upon a beetling rock
That overhung the sea—a cliff, whose crags throbbed in the ocean’s
shock—

Ægéus stood and gazed athwart the wave.
Then I remembered me how Thésëus swore
(Such was his tale to me,) that, ere he sailed from Athens’ sorrowing
shore,

Hopefully trusting in the awful gods,
If he returned, his canvas, changed to white,
Should mark his triumph, but did raven sails meet Athens’ weeping
sight,

Then he had fallen. How the old man gazed,
With moistened eyes, toward the horizon’s verge,
While, far beneath, the chanting surf sent up its melancholy dirge.

I also gazed—when, where the sea and sky
Blended in mist, a speck—a spot—a nail—
Came with the wind: Ægéus stood erect, convulsed and deathly pale.

Closer and closer, where the shadow lay
Across the distance, like a misty cloud,
The galley came: the mute, expecting king tottered and sobbed aloud.

Stretching his thin hands toward the shadowy bark,
So distant still it seemed to float in air,
The aged monarch, with his marble eyes, personified despair.

It passed the gloom, and glided into light,
When, like a raven drifting down the skies,
The black, unaltered galley, ebon-sailed, met my astonished eyes!

A piercing shriek appalled my ears: I turned
And saw the aged king spring toward the steep—
And leap—and fall: no human sound arose from the tumultuous deep.

Anon came other dreams—Arcadian vales,
With Pan, oblivious Satyrs, and a throng
Of Fauns and Nymphs who made the burthened air reel with its weight of
song.

Bacchus rode next: how like a god he looked,
The vine-leaves adding whiteness to a brow
Already snow; his large eyes small with mirth; his dimpled cheeks
aglow.

Silenus, with two Nymphs on either hand
Supporting him, uncertainly pursued—
To amorous passion for the purple grape yielding, though not subdued.

And after came a laughing, dancing rout,
Making the air insane with bacchanal cries;
Some bearing grapes which others stole and ate, with ruddy, twinkling
eyes.

The eye of Bacchus drew me toward his car,
And stooping, he embraced, then lifted me
Beside him, with a kiss: the route rolled on capricious as the sea.

I was his bride: his love, always a god’s,
Saw not my state, nor asked from whence I came;
With him the passion was a living thing and not a naked name.

I was again a wife: my days were spent
In waking dreams of uncontrolled delight;
The light expired in feast and song and dance, unheeded in its flight.

And Night, with Venus sparkling on her brow,
Sat on the mountain top; the nightingale
Breathed an undying hymn to deathless love from every silent vale.

Anon the feast was spread: from leafy nooks
The blushing Dryad came; the amorous Faun
Stole from the laureled hill, returning not until the crimson dawn.

O, I was happy, very happy, Jove,
When, like thy lightning, day broke on mine eyes!
Beneath me was the sand; before, the sea; above, the threatening
skies!

There, like a vulture frightened from his prey,
Flew Thésëus, while, Cassandra-like, I stood
With streaming hair and flashing eyes, and hurled prophetic curses on
the flood.

Are dreams the messengers of gods to men
Foretelling facts? If so, then I await,
Not trembling, but proudly, the decrees of an unerring fate.

Let him depart: I scorn the traitor, Jove—
The parracide: still blacker grow his sails;
Favor his bark, Poseidon; Eölus, bestow him flavoring gales:

So swifter comes my vengeance. For the tears
He made me shed, make him rain tears of fire,
As from this desolate isle I point him to the cold corpse of his sire.

And if the links of love’s decaying chain
Remain united in his hollow heart,
That chain be as a serpent, dragging flame to its secrétest part;

So, when he sees me lie on Bacchus’ breast,
Lip glued to lip, eye flashing into eye,
He may lift up his hands and curse the Gods, and cursing, waste and
die.

NOTE.

Ariadne was the daughter of Minos, king of Crete, one of the sons of Jupiter by Europa. Her desertion by Thésëus, whose life she had saved, and with whom she had flown from Crete, has long been a thesis of more than ordinary poetical importance. Thésëus, the son of Ægéus, king of Athens, by Æthra, daughter of Pittheus, monarch of Trœzen, on the discovery of his parentage, visited Athens, and made himself known to his father, who acknowledged him. Sometime before, Androgeos, a brother of Ariadne, set sail for Athens for the purpose of participating in the Athenian games. He was the victor in every conflict. Ægéus, becoming jealous of his popularity, caused him to be assassinated. Minos at once declared war against Athens, conquered the Athenians, and imposed upon them the annual penalty of sending fourteen of their most beautiful male and female children as an offering to the Minotaur, a ghastly monster who inhabited the celebrated Cretan labyrinth, the latest invention of Dædalos, the Athenian sculptor. Thésëus, on the day of the embarcation of the victims, offered himself as one of the number, with the hope of destroying the Minotaur, and thus preserving Athens from any further payment of the terrible tribute. The ship departed, as usual, under black sails, which Thésëus promised to exchange for white, in case he should return victorious. On his arrival in Crete he saw Ariadne, who became enamored of him. She gave him the clew which made him master of the mazes of the subterranean labyrinth. After a desperate conflict he succeeded in destroying the monster, and the same night, fled to Athens, bearing Ariadne with him. On his arrival _en route_ at the island of Naxos, compelled by the gods, he deserted his mistress and returned home. By some accident he neglected to exchange his sails, and his father, Ægéus, filled with grief at the supposed death of his son, precipitated himself from a lofty rock, on which he had taken a position to watch the return of the galley, into the sea, and was drowned. Ariadne afterward became the wife of Bacchus.

* * * * *

THE MOTHERLESS.

BY MISS LOUISA OLIVIA HUNTER.

“Henceforth thou wilt be all alone—
What shalt thou do, poor weeper?
Oh human love! oh human wo!
Is there a pang yet deeper?”
MARY HOWITT.

Her eyes are closed—she sleeps at last!
We catch with joy that quiet breathing,
Her first dark day of wo hath passed,
A happier dream her soul is wreathing.

Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,
Perchance with love there glides another!
We cannot hear that spirit-tread—
Yet in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”

But four bright summers o’er her head
Have softly, sweetly breathed their blessing,
And yet she mourneth for the dead
With anguish to our souls distressing.

All day by every wile we’ve sought
From sorrow’s stern control to lure her,
Her mind to win from painful thought,
Scarce meet for mind and heart maturer.

With feeling far beyond her years,
We tried in vain her grief to smother,
For still burst forth those burning tears,
With this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!”

And last, as ’neath affliction’s blight,
She coldly turned from game and story,
We told her of the spirit’s flight
To realms of endless light and glory.

That vision of a clime so rare,
Brought out this thought anew to grieve her,
E’en for a home so wondrous fair,
Could one who _loved her well_ thus leave her?

We strove in vain to lull her fears;
We sought in vain such doubts to smother,
More wildly came those bitter tears,
And this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!”

It ceased at length—those weary eyes
We marked with languor faintly closing,
And now on yonder couch she lies,
In slumber deep and sweet reposing.

Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,
Perchance with love there glides another!
We cannot hear that spirit-tread—
But in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”

* * * * *

ALICE LISLE.

A SKETCH FROM ENGLISH HISTORY.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

There is perhaps no data in the annals of English History marked with a more bloody significance of the fearful extent to which the evil passions of mankind will reach, when not held in check by religious or civil discipline, than that characterized as the “Bloody Assizes,” in the reign of James the Second—1685—which, even from out the lapse of two centuries, still stands forth in loathsome and horrible distinctness. When the savage and bloody-minded Jeffreys, empowered by a vindictive and arbitrary monarch, stalked like a demon through the land, tracing his passage with blood and tears, while the music of his infernal march, was the groans and death-shrieks of his victims. And as he strode onward—behind him he left horrible, eye-blasting, soul-harrowing proofs of his cruelty—corpses swinging in the wind at the corners of the cross-roads—gibbets stuck up in every market-place—and blackening heads and limbs impaled, even before the windows of the holy house of God!

Such was the more than brutal ferocity with which this fiend in human shape, George Jeffreys, Chief Justice of the Court of King’s Bench, prosecuted his commission.

Through all those districts where the inhabitants had either taken up arms in the Monmouth Rebellion against the king, or who had been known five years before to have received the unfortunate duke with favor and homage, when assuming the rank of a rightful prince he passed with almost regal triumph through the land, did Jeffreys and his well-picked myrmidons pursue their murderous track, sparing neither sex nor age—the death-blow descending alike upon the silver head of tottering age, or lisping, helpless infancy “And,” says Macaulay, “his spirits rose higher and higher as the work went on. He laughed, shouted, joked, and swore in such a way that many thought him drunk from morning to night, but in him it was not easy to distinguish the madness produced by evil passions, from the madness produced by brandy.”

In such a frame of mind he entered Southampton and proceeded toward Winchester, which, although not the scene of any warlike encounter with rebel and royalist, had nevertheless been resorted to by many of the former as a place of safety, among whom was their unhappy leader, the infatuated Monmouth himself. It was here, near the borders of the New Forest that the unfortunate man was taken prisoner. Worn out by fatigue—crushed by disappointment—his high hopes blasted by defeat, the ill-fated son of Charles was discovered concealed in a ditch, where all through a long, long day, and a weary night, without food or drink, the unhappy fugitive had vainly hoped to evade the search of his pursuers.

Hither, then, came Jeffreys, tainting the air as with a pestilence, and causing great terror and dismay, particularly among the peasantry, no one knowing who next might prove the victim of the tyrant’s insatiate thirst for blood.

He was now, however, in hot pursuit of two men—one a Nonconformist divine, named Hicks; the other a lawyer, Richard Nelthorp, an outlaw, who had made himself obnoxious by being concerned in the Rye House plot. These men, it is needless to say, Jeffreys was resolved to pursue to the death.

In a fine old mansion, encompassed by a closely wooded park of a century’s growth, dwelt the Lady Alice Lisle. She was the widow of John Lisle, who had held a commission under Cromwell, and had also sat in the Long Parliament. He had been created a Lord by Cromwell, and the title of Lady was still courteously assigned to his widow, for she was one greatly beloved by all persons and parties, both Whig and Tory, for her many excellent qualities, and was also nearly allied to many noble families.

It was near the close of a beautiful autumnal day, that the Lady Alice, clad in deep mourning weeds, might be seen passing slowly beneath the dark foliage of those venerable trees, stretching in such primeval grandeur far on either side her domain. The chastened radiance of the setting sun here and there burnished the almost motionless leaves with gold, or stealing athwart the mossy trunks, and over the deep green sward, mildly illumined the forest aisles, seeming thereby as paths angels might love to tread. The only companion of the lady was a child—a beautiful boy of perhaps six years old—an orphan, whom the kind Lady Alice had taken under her protection, and who now, far from partaking in the seriousness of his benefactress, skipped and gamboled before her in wild and happy recklessness—now springing like a fawn into the path before her from behind some leafy screen, where for a moment he had lain concealed, or striving to attract attention by his childish prattle as he bounded playfully at her side.

As heedless to the deepening twilight as she seemed to all else around her, the Lady Alice had proceeded further into the depths of the wood than was her usual custom, when she was suddenly aroused to the lateness of the hour by a scream from little Edwin, who, burying his face in the folds of her mantle, cried,

“O run, dear lady, run—bad men—ah, they will kill us!”

“What are you talking of, Edwin?” she answered, taking his hand—“who will kill us? We shall soon be at the Hall; fie, boy, are you afraid because the sun has set, and the old woods grown dark! Ah, is this my little hero!”

“But, lady, I see men—bad, wicked men; there, lady, there,” pointing, as he spoke, to a clump of low oaks.

“Foolish boy, it is only an owl!” said the lady, now turning to retrace her steps.

At that moment two men sprung from out the thicket and stood in her path. Well might that lady tremble, alone and unprotected in the deep, dark wood, yet in tones well belieing her fears, she unfalteringly bade them stand aside, and give passage to herself and the pale, timid child she led by the hand.

“We mean not to harm or frighten you, madam,” said one of the men, lifting his goatskin cap, and stepping aside, “we seek at your hands shelter and food. For three days we have lain concealed within these woods, not daring to venture forth even to satisfy the cravings of hunger. We are neither thieves nor murderers—slight offences may be in these signal times of despotism and injustice—but men hunted down like wild beasts in the cause of civil and religious freedom. It is for our lives we implore your aid.”

“Yea, for our lives—that we may be spared to trample the sons of Belial under our feet, and smite, and slay and destroy the arch tools of oppression!” interrupted the other, with violent gesticulations; “and thou, woman, art the chosen vessel of the Lord to shield his servants from the man of blood against that dreadful day of retribution!”

“I ask not to know why you are thus thrown within peril of your lives,” answered the Lady Alice, “it is enough for me that you are fellow beings in distress, and as such must claim my sympathy, and the shelter of my roof. God forbid the doors of Alice Lisle should be closed against misfortune. Follow me, then, friends, and such food as my house affords, and such security as its walls can give, may the Lord bless unto you.”

Confident in the attachment and fidelity of her domestics, the Lady Alice, in a few words, made known to them that the lives of these unfortunate men were in jeopardy, and that they sought from her kindness safety and concealment, and sharing in the benevolence of their mistress, each one of that well-tried household regarded the fugitives with generous sympathy.

An excellent supper, such as their famishing natures required, and a bottle of old wine, was soon placed before the weary men. They were then conducted by the Lady Alice herself to a room on the ground floor.

“Observe,” she said, “this oaken panel—press your finger thus; a door opens, leading into a secret passage, connected with the vaults of the old chapel, where, in case of emergency, you will be perfectly secure from search. Sleep, then, my friends, in peace, one of my most faithful servants will this night keep watch, and upon the least alarm, you will be notified in time to avail yourselves of the way of escape I have pointed out.”

As she bade them good-night, one of the men, seizing the hem of her mantle, carried it to his lips with a grace not unfitting the presence of a queen, while in the canting oratory of the day, his companion devoutly prayed the Most High to bless the woman, through whose assistance vengeance was yet to be heaped on the head of the scorner, and those who now sat in high places to be brought low.

And thus fortified and encouraged by the assurances of their noble benefactress, the fugitives took heart, and throwing themselves upon the bed, were soon soundly sleeping.

Not so the Lady Alice. True, these men had not revealed their names, neither had she sought to discover who they were, or for what crime they were driven to their present strait—yet that they fled the wrath of the cruel-minded Jeffreys she felt persuaded, and fearful that with his myrmidons he might be close on the track of these unhappy men, she, too, sat watching all the night, or pacing with light footfall the long galleries, ever and anon stepping out upon the balcony and listening to every sound, her fears magnifying the whispers of the wind stealing through the branches of the old trees, into the suppressed murmurs of an armed force. All, however, remained quiet. Just as the day began to dawn, she threw herself upon her couch—not meaning to sleep. But, overcome with the fatigue of her lonely night-watch, and lulled perhaps by the security which almost always comes to the watcher with the dawn of day, she soon unconsciously sunk into a deep sleep, from which, alas! she was but too rudely aroused; for even in that brief half hour when tired nature claimed its own, the wily Jeffreys had surrounded the house with his no less brutal soldiers.

“Come, come, madam, bestir yourself—you are wanted,” cried the leader, seizing the Lady Alice by the shoulder, and rudely shaking her; “methinks you sleep well this morning—long watching makes sound slumbers, _eh_! Come, up with you, woman, and tell us in what corner of this rebel’s nest you have stowed away the Presbyterian knave and his worthy friend?”

In a moment the lady was fully awake, and comprehended at once her perilous situation. But her self-possession did not forsake her, and breathing an inward prayer for the safety of the two unhappy men so closely pursued, she said, as she drew herself proudly up,

“What means this unmannerly intrusion? Off, sir! unhand me, or your audacity shall be punished as it deserves!”

“Ho-ho, my brave wench, words are cheap! you will find proofs not so easy! Know, mistress, yourself and your servants are my prisoners,” replied Jeffreys.

“_Your_ prisoners!” cried the lady, with cutting contempt; “and who are _you_, and by whose authority do you dare to lay hands on me or any beneath my roof!”

“Who am I? That you shall soon know to your cost,” said Jeffreys, with a horrible oath. “George Jeffreys has a peculiar way of making himself known, my mistress. Now deliver up these two arch rebels—the canting, whining priest, and the traitor Nelthorpe, into our hands, and mayhap I’ll not press my further acquaintance upon your ladyship, except to taste the quality of your wine, for I’ll warrant you, my men, (turning to his followers) these old cellars are not dry.”

“I know no such persons as those you seek,” replied the Lady Alice, firmly; “and what reason have you to suppose they are within my house?”

“We know it, and that is enough,” replied Jeffreys. “They are known to have lain hid within your neighborhood; and we know they have been secreted by _you_; and now, by G—d, madam, unless you lead us to their kennel, your body shall writhe in flames, or be hacked in pieces by my soldiers!”

“Infamous, cowardly wretch,” replied Alice Lisle, undaunted, “think you your threats would induce me to betray, more especially into your blood-thirsty hands, any unhappy individual who had sought my protection! Know Alice Lisle better.”

“Ho-ho, are we so brave! here, my men, take this boasting mistress, and give her a dance upon hot coals!” cried the ferocious Jeffreys.

At that instant little Edwin, still in his night-dress, opened the door of his little bed-room, and ran terrified toward the Lady Alice; but he was not permitted to reach her; a soldier rudely seized the poor boy by the shoulder, and notwithstanding his shrieks, held him with such a grip as left the print of his fingers upon the tender flesh.

“Ruffian, unhand the child!” exclaimed the lady, attempting to rise, but held back by the iron hand of Jeffreys.

“_Ha!_ a pretty hostage, truly!” he said. “Here, Ratcliffe, draw your dagger across his pretty white throat, unless this stubborn woman yields up our prey—do you hear that?” turning to the Lady Alice.

“O save me—save me! don’t let them kill me!” screeched the poor little fellow, striving to break away; then turning his beautiful eyes upon the hard, stern features of the man who held him, he clung piteously around his knees, repeating his cry for mercy, his face uplifted, and his soft, golden curls falling over his white shoulders, from which the loose night-dress had slipped away.

Tears, which neither her own danger, or the insults heaped upon her could draw forth, now streamed down the pallid cheek of the Lady Alice.

“Are you men?” she cried, turning to the rude soldiers, “are you men, and can you stand by and see that innocent, helpless lamb inhumanly murdered before your eyes!”

“Ah!” cried Jeffreys, with a hideous leer, “we are used to butchering lambs, madam; bless you, we do it so easy the poor things don’t have time to bleat! Strike, Ratcliffe!”

A scream—a wild scream of agony burst from the heart of Alice Lisle; then dashing off the arm of Jeffreys, in the strength of her despair, as but a feather’s weight, she sprung to the boy, and threw her arms around him.

There was heard at the moment a loud shout from the court-yard, coupled with oaths and imprecations, and one of the troop burst in, waving his cap.

“Hurra, your honor! they’re caught, your worship; we’ve got the rascals—hurra! hurra!”

“Now God help them!” murmured Alice.

“Your life shall answer for this, vile traitress!” muttered Jeffreys, in a voice hoarse with rage, and shaking his fist at the unshrinking heroine. “But where found you the knaves?” he added, turning to the bearer of such fiendish joy.

“Ha, ha, your worship—but I can’t help laughing; we found his reverence, chin-deep, in a malt-tub—ha, ha, ha! and the other rogue we hauled from the kitchen chimney, as black as his master, the Devil!”

“And to his master he shall soon be sent with a crack in his windpipe,” said Jeffreys.

“Wounds, your honor, you loves a joke!” said one, who might be called the Trois Eschelles of the company, edging up to Jeffreys with a horrid grin; “shall we string the rascals up below there—yonder is a good strong beam; or shall we leave their heads in the market-place, as a kind of warning to all traitors!”

“Peace, knave!” replied Jeffreys, with a frown which made the villain turn pale; “attend to your duty, and see that the prisoners are well secured; these fellows are slippery rascals—and now, madam,” (turning to Alice Lisle,) “up with you, and prepare to follow either to the scaffold or the stake, as suits my pleasure.” Then, with a brutal blow with the back of his sword, he rudely pushed his victim on before him.

Her weeping and terrified domestics would have approached their beloved mistress, but were thrust back by the drawn swords of the soldiers, and when the unfortunate lady crossed her threshold, it was over the dead body of her aged butler, brutally struck down before her.