Chapter IV (2)

The information which this note conveyed struck Amelia with painful surprise; if Capt. Wilkinson was, indeed, the man to whom her mother had been married—and there seemed to be no reason to doubt it—how could he be _her_ father? The poor girl sat wrapt in doubt and perplexity. If he was her father, she knew the duty which she owed to him—and she blessed God that at any risk she had been allowed to minister to his physical comforts, and, as she had reason to believe, to his spiritual aid; and she would renew her devotion to him. But what could she say of her mother’s conduct—her pure-hearted, her saintly mother? Is there shame on her name, too? Amelia arose up with firmness, and as she passed to the sick-chamber of her father, she said to herself, “I never knew her to say or do aught unbecoming a Christian lady; should not nearly twenty years experience teach me to trust to her purity and truth, rather than yield to doubt, which unexplained circumstances suggest. I will have faith in _her_ who has never deceived nor has ever distrusted me. _Misfortunes_ are around us—but may God shield us from _shame_!”

Captain Wilkinson soon passed through the worst stages of the loathsome disease, but he was still held to his bed by the broken limbs. One morning he missed his nurse, and on inquiry, learned that she was confined to her chamber with evident symptoms of the small-pox. This was most painful to him, as he felt that she had taken the disease by her attendance on him. “Am I destined,” said he, “to bring distress into every family I visit, and repay the hospitality of a stranger with misery, and perhaps death? If she should ever recover it is likely that the ravages of the disease will destroy the beauty of a face that made the loveliness of the mind so captivating. Could I roll back twenty years of my life, could I forget, or could heaven forgive the follies which have caused so much misery, surely this young woman would, however disease may mar her beauty, be to me all that I had desired in the charms of one I ruined and in the mental excellence of her I shamefully imposed upon. How like the two Amelias is she—the gentle manners of the first, the mental excellence of the second. How can I compensate her for the distress which my advent here has wrought? If my life and hers are spared that must be my study. Heaven helping me, I here dedicate the remainder of my existence and my wealth to compensate, as far as both will go, those who have suffered by me, and when the injured individuals cannot be found, may my efforts for the good of others be accepted instead of the direct compensation.”

“That is a Christian resolution,” said the physician, who had entered the room unnoticed by his patient. “And as I have heard your remarks by mere accident, will you allow me to express my congratulation at what I regard a much greater change in your mental than in your physical condition, though the latter is truly hopeful?”

“Where two such physicians as yourself and my late gentle, meek nurse are employed, we may hope for every thing of which the patient is capable; but let me add in truth, doctor, that skillful as you have shown yourself with my broken and bruised limbs, and my painful disease, I think Amelia has shown no less skill in dealing with an unbalanced mind and an untoward will.”

“But, captain, neither of us hope for much success without a blessing.”

“Ah! such an attendant as Amelia was in itself a blessing—she treated the wounds of my mind like those of my body, with perfect gentleness, but with the same direct application. But what will her aged mother say to the terrible consequences of her daughter’s kindness to me?”

“She will answer for herself, captain, as she is with us.”

The doctor then mentioned Mrs. Bertrand’s name, and Captain W. apologized for his inability to recognize her; his lameness prevented him from moving, and the room was darkened with reference to the weakness of the eyesight consequent upon the small-pox.

Mrs. B. seated herself by the bed-side, and the physician withdrew.

“Your daughter, madam, is I am afraid, paying a terrible price for charity to me.”

“My daughter, sir, has been taught to consider it proper to discharge a duty and leave the consequences to Heaven. But are you aware, captain, that my daughter felt it a duty to acquaint me with an interesting account which you gave her of your own life?”

“I gave her full permission to do so.”

“I have come, having had the small-pox, to assist in the care of my daughter, and as far as possible, to supply her place by your bedside.”

“I have not deserved this from Heaven or of men. Help me only to understand and do my duty, and you will complete the work which Amelia began.”

In some conversation which Mrs. Bertrand had with Captain W. the next day, she alluded to his resolution to make reparation as far as possible for any injury he had inflicted on others. “Do you,” said she, “continue of that resolution?”

“Increasingly so. And if now I could find where I might begin the work, I would divest myself at once, if necessary, of every dollar I possess to alleviate the suffering I have caused.”

“Such a sacrifice can scarcely be required, it is certainly not necessary so far as I understand your situation.”

“What then can I do—when shall I begin the _work_ of repentance?”

“It is undoubtedly begun already in the resolve of restitution. I take that to be the essence of repentance, or rather the evidence of it.”

“Am I then to recover, as the doctor assures me I shall? Am I to sit down in the enjoyment of my ample means, and in no way minister to the comfort of those whom my follies made miserable? My wife and child dead—and she, who should have been my wife, lost to me—dead perhaps likewise! I have by various means sought to find Amelia. I even put into a New York and a Boston paper an advertisement, which if it met her eye, would have assured her of my repentance; but, alas! I might repent, I might seek now to marry her, with the same selfish views which I had at first. I might even for _her_ sake now do what would be called justice by some, but what act of mine, however just, could compensate for the horrible outrage which I had committed, the gross insult, public, palpable, unpardonable, which I had offered to her? Yet I loved her, love her now, have ever loved her, and though I have sought refuge for my conscience in the clouds of infidelity, I have never ceased to love _her_ image in my heart, and that has saved me from the follies and vices to which my state of mind and my profession exposed me.”

The spring with its chill winds had passed, and summer was warming the earth. It was then, as it is now, delightful to sit and watch the waving of the long grass on yonder meadows, as the breeze passed over it, or to see the shadow of the cloud flit over the waters that are rippled with the west wind. You who have lived in other states, have undoubtedly found much that you think far more beautiful than this scene, but for me who have spent childhood and age on the banks of this river and the shores of the bay, I know of nothing in nature more lovely. It was just such a morning as this when the invalids were brought from the house, to taste the fresh air from the bay and to look abroad upon land and water, and thank God that they had been spared.

The captain walked with a crutch—his fine manly form would have attracted attention any where.

Poor Amelia sat in her chair, wrapped about with customary garments for the sick, and her face, then sadly marked with the remains of the small-pox, was covered with a green veil.

“I hope you enjoy this scene, captain,” said Amelia.

“All of physical enjoyment which a healthful breeze can impart I certainly have, but I am incapable of mental ease.”

“Is that a fruit of repentance?”

“If repentance is the recognition of errors, surely that repentance, even which seems the pardon of heaven, must keep alive the grief for the offence, though it may rather seem joy for the pardon.

“I may say to you, Amelia, that I have hinted to your mother, that while I shall retain enough of my wealth to sustain myself and do justice to others, I desire to make you remuneration for the benefits you have conferred on me, and the terrible suffering you have endured for me, and for this I shall not wait my own death, but I desire to place you at once in possession.”

“I am compensated—but here comes my mother.”

Mrs. Bertrand advanced, her face covered with her veil.

“Captain Wilkinson,” she said, “your partial restoration renders unnecessary any further attendance on my part. You will probably leave to-morrow, and as I shall remove Amelia immediately to my own house, I have thought this a good opportunity to take my leave of you. I know you feel thankful to Amelia—I believe you are grateful to Heaven. I carry with me the happy reflection, that you will soon be restored to entire health, and that your moral condition is by the mercy of God infinitely improved.”

“Am I not to be allowed to pay my respects to you—not again to say farewell to my beloved nurse, Amelia?”

“We part now—part forever, sir—part with my prayers for your good—with my—”

Mrs. Bertrand fainted from excessive agitation, the unbroken arm of Captain Wilkinson prevented her from falling, and Amelia rose with pain from the chair to remove the veil from the face of her mother, and admit the fresh wind from the bay to her face. When she recovered she looked up into the face of the captain; for a moment he seemed to stagger under the weight that rested upon him.

“Amelia, what is this—what does this mean? Whom do I hold on my arm?”

“It is your Amelia,” said the girl—“Amelia Benton.”

Mrs. Bertrand was placed in the chair which the captain had occupied, while he kneeling at her side, and Amelia rested her hand upon her mother’s knees.

“It is Amelia Benton!” cried the captain—“but who are you?”

“I am her daughter.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Bertrand, “not my daughter—not _my_ daughter; your daughter, sir—the child of Amelia Woodstock!”

I saw this scene. I heard the wild burst of grief, of joy, of passion, of shame from the captain, and the anguished cry of the young Amelia, but I cannot describe them. She prevailed, nevertheless; and two months after that, Amelia Benton was again married to William Wilkinson; but not until she was satisfied that his “repentance was unto life, not to be repented of.”

They left us, returning only for an occasional visit. Yet one of their children, and his daughter, Amelia, are buried in this village. She lived to do good, and to enjoy the blessings she had assisted to promote. She died with no wish ungratified, and was buried here; strange as it may seem to you, buried where the sunny hours of childhood had been spent, and where she had in that childhood selected a spot in which she desired to await the call at which her mortality should put on immortality.

* * * * *

A SPANISH ROMANCE.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

BRIGHT fell thy smiling ray,
Rosy Aurora!
Where Alvarado lay,
Dreaming of Mora!

To the tent stole a youth
Lovely as morning,
Yet was his mien in sooth
Full of proud scorning.

Bright, wavy locks fell o’er
Eyes wildly beaming,
Deep the plumed cap he wore
Shadowed their gleaming.

To his pale cheek there came
Hues like the sunset,
For his light, fragile frame
Thrilled for the onset.

Fiercely his sword he drew,
Bold was his bearing,
While to the knight he threw
Words of wild daring.

Crying—“Thou craven false!”
Dark the knight lowered—
“He who in battle halts
Proves him a coward.”

Long had he calmly heard—
Brave Alvarado—
Deeming each daring word
Boyish bravado;

But as that bitter name
Left the lip curling,
Flashed his swift sword—a flame
Through the air whirling.

Proud as his princely foe,
Dauntless in danger,
Springing to meet the blow
Sprang the bright stranger.

Home struck the steel—and ah!
At his feet lying,
Pale as a waning star—
_Who_ is it dying?

Back fall the cap and plume,
Back the bright tresses—
No more her rosy bloom
Meets his caresses.

Lightly her lovely hair
Floats o’er his shoulder,
To his heart’s mad despair
Soft his arms fold her.

“Wo worth the day,” he cried,
“Sweetest Lenora!
When I left thee, my bride
For the false Mora.”

Then in her wistful eyes,
Blue as yon heaven,
He saw her soul arise,
Sighing “Forgiven!”

But her pale, parted lips
Silently quiver,
And in Death’s dark eclipse
Falls she forever!

Sad fell thy sunny ray,
Rosy Aurora,
Where Alvarado lay
By his Lenora.

* * * * *

TO A. R.

HOW many nights, old friend, in earlier times,
When we were boys, we sat together nights,
Poring on books, with ever-new delights,
Fresh, dewy prose, and sweet and flowery rhymes;
I looked for you, as sure as evening came—
I knew your footstep on the stair, I knew
Your sudden rap, and said it must be you—
For step and rap were evermore the same.
We talked of every thing a little while,
And then I took to writing simple themes,
And you to reading—and I could but smile
(Hunting for rhymes, perplexed and lost in dreams,)
To see you knit your thought-contracted brow,
And when you caught my eye, I wrote again—as now!
R. H. S.

* * * * *

FANNY DAY’S PRESENTIMENT.

BY MARIE ROSEAU.

(MY dear Rose, you ask me to write something which Mr. Graham will print, for your sake; because it is the best Magazine extant, and because you subscribe for it. I will try.)

Do you believe in presentiments?

Two summers ago Fanny Day and myself visited Caroline Alden in her country home, about one hundred miles from Philadelphia.

The morning previous to that fixed upon for our departure, after vainly using all the ingenuity and strength of which I was capable, to stow away in the top of my trunk three dresses, one large shawl, nine bound books, a portfolio, and the four last numbers of “Graham,” I was forced to the conclusion that one-half the articles named must be left behind. Then came the serious business of deciding which of them should be rejected.

“Couldn’t I leave one of the dresses?”

No, that was out of the question. If I meant to ramble over rocks and hills the five (two were already deposited in the lower part of the trunk,) would be barely sufficient to last me through the visit.

“Suppose you leave some of the books—those two large ones, for instance?” suggested one of my sisters, called upon to aid me in the dilemma.

“Oh no, indeed! I could not think of taking fewer books. Those two volumes of Waldie in particular must go, for Caroline was so anxious to read ‘Modern Societies’ and ‘Home.’”

“But the others?”

I picked them up one at a time. There were “The Cricket on the Hearth, &c.;” “Sketches of Married Life;” Mrs. Stowe’s “May Flower,” Willis and Longfellow, and three of the Abbott series, for Sunday reading. Each pleaded so eloquently to be taken, that I thought that to leave either would be an insult to the author, and so, after a little hesitation, I felt that _all_ of them must go.

“Couldn’t you do without the portfolio and magazines?” was then asked.

“That would be _impossible_!” I exclaimed.

“Then you must take that small portmantua, too.”

“But I hate to take so much baggage with me,” I said.

“Then I can’t think of any other mode of freeing you from the difficulty.”

In the midst of this dilemma Fanny Day was announced.

“Tell her to come up here,” I said.

“What, in this disordered room?”

I hastily glanced at the books and dresses strewn around me, and then replied:

“The room don’t look _very_ well, I know; but I can’t leave my packing just now: besides Fanny may be able to assist me in this difficulty.”

I had expected to find Fanny full of joy and enthusiasm in the near prospect of our visit, for so she had always been when we talked about it previously; but she looked sad and dispirited, and it was not until I had made many repeated and eloquent exclamations upon the subject, that she would take any interest in my packing. Then she said quietly—

“Never mind, Marie, there is plenty of room in my trunk for more than half those things.”

I thanked her with delight; yet could not but be surprised that she should be satisfied with fewer “_positively necessary_” articles than myself.

“Now, that you have this matter satisfactorily arranged, will you go out with me?” she asked.

“Where?” I inquired with slight hesitation, for I had already planned engagements of some sort for every hour in the day.

“Down Chestnut street,” she replied.

“Will you keep me long?” I asked.

“I will tell you all about it when we get into the street,” she answered.

I hesitated.

“Come, Marie, do go with me; that’s a dear, good girl,” Fanny continued, looking coaxingly in my face all the time.

I had not the heart to resist her pleading, and very soon we were on our way to Chestnut street.

“I am going to Mr. Root’s to have my daguerreotype taken,” Fanny said, when we were about a square from home.

“But you had three taken last week,” I said.

“Yes, but my mother did not like those very well. They were not taken by Root, and now I am determined to have a good one for her.”

“Had you not better wait till we return?” I asked.

“No; I cannot,” she replied, in a serious tone.

I looked at her inquiringly.

“I know you will laugh at me, Marie, and think me very foolish,” she said, “but I have a presentiment that I shall never live to return.”

“I have had a dozen such in my life-time,” I answered, “yet they all proved untrue; and so may yours, Fanny dear.”

“I fear not,” she replied in a sad tone.

Knowing that all reasoning would be ineffectual in my friend’s present mood, I simply tried to relieve her sadness by talking upon other subjects on the way.

The likeness was a perfect one. It might have presented a gloomy countenance, but fortunately, I whispered to her, as she seated herself—

“Now, Fanny, do let your mother have a pleasant smile, or she will not like the picture.”

I wish you could see the likeness; the position was so natural and the work so beautifully executed! But you cannot—Fanny gave it into my hands to be faithfully delivered to her mother at some future time; and now—but my story must develop its present hiding-place.

Shall I tell you of our long rail-road journey, and of the dark tunnels through which we passed, reminding one of the “valley of death,” where, as I carelessly alluded to this resemblance, Fanny’s hand grasped, mine with a touch so cold as to send a sympathetic chill of horror through my veins? Or shall I tell you of the shorter stage-ride, and the close companionship of its occupants? No, I will not weary you with either of these in detail; for there was nothing to vary the usual monotony of such journeys we being allowed the customary number of crying babies, and troublesome older children, and the same amount of agreeable and disagreeable strangers.

We found Caroline delighted to see us, (as who would not be,) and I was pleased to notice that much of Fanny’s sadness had disappeared during the first evening. The next morning, however, it was again observable in a listless demeanor, or deep sigh in the midst of a witty remark, or gay laugh.

“What is the matter with you, Fanny?” Caroline asked, after some very marked signs of abstractedness on the part of the former.

“Oh, nothing at all!” Fanny answered quickly, and for a while she endeavored to take more interest in our conversation, but this soon subsided.

“Fanny, if you can give no better explanation of your conduct this morning, I must be under the necessity of attributing it to the usual cause of sighs and absent-mindedness, and believe you to be in love,” Caroline said.

Fanny colored, and exclaimed—

“Oh, no indeed, I am not!”

“Then don’t look so confused and mortified, my dear; for even if you were, you need not be ashamed of it,” Caroline answered composedly.

Fanny left the room soon after this, and I produced the daguerreotype from a corner in my work-box, and showed it to Caroline. She pronounced it the very best likeness she had ever seen, and laid it on the sofa-table. Just then a visiter was announced, proving to be Mr. Harry Lambert, who had spent the previous winter in Philadelphia.

After a mutual recognition, and a few of the common-place inquiries usually made upon such occasions, had passed, he carelessly opened the case containing Fanny’s likeness. As the face met his eye, I thought he changed color, but this may have been mere fancy; for he said, in a perfectly calm and indifferent tone,

“This face looks familiar to me. I must certainly have met the original before.”

“Of course you have, it is Fanny Day. You were quite well acquainted with her in Philadelphia, and I trust you cannot so soon have forgotten an old friend,” I said; and scarcely was the remark made, when the object of it entered the room. This time there was no mistaking the glow upon the gentleman’s face; but Fanny’s cheek was quite colorless as she returned his greeting.

Unfortunately for me, on this very evening, a young gentleman of prepossessing appearance, and a stranger to me, called. Unfortunately in the _dénouement_, I mean. I was very much pleased with him, and thought him quite like Harry Lambert; although I wondered in what this likeness consisted, for there were no general points of resemblance either in person or manners between them. Very soon, however, I found it to consist in the fact that _they were both lovers_.

It _is_ unpleasant to find one’s self completely thrown upon the back-ground. I _know_ that I am not naturally envious; but I could not help feeling akin to chagrin and disappointment upon perceiving the state of things; yet it was not _envy_. I am sure I did not care one bit that Fanny and Caroline should each have some one so completely absorbed in their interests, as to be indifferent to every thing else, for it made them happy; and I like to see people enjoy themselves. But I _did_ think it looked stupid, or narrow-minded, or something of the sort, of any persons to be so intent upon _themselves_, as to take no notice of others, and so I told the ladies after their visiters were gone, I said—

“Caroline, are the people here in the habit of giving invitations to tea?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied; “you will be overwhelmed with them, Marie, in a little time: but why do you ask?”

“Because I shall be very glad, in the words of the song,

‘——if any one invites me out to tea,
For ’tis very dull to stay at home with no one courting me,’”

I replied, poutingly.

Caroline looked at Fanny, and both laughed.

“Poor Mae,” the former said, in a coaxing tone, putting her arm around me, “it was _too_ bad of us; but never mind, the next time we will behave better.”

“I do hope you will,” I answered, “for it is extremely annoying when you are playing your best pieces, and think you have succeeded in charming the company, upon taking a sly peep to observe the effect, to find them coupled off, and each enjoying a quiet _tête-à-tête_; evidently regarding the music only as a happy means of getting rid of one who would otherwise be very much in the way.”

“You are not jealous, of course,” said Caroline, with a comic laugh.

“Certainly I am not,” I replied. “I think beaux extremely disagreeable.”

“Messieurs Russell and Lambert particularly so, I presume,” Caroline remarked.

“Perhaps they may be,” I replied; “but I cannot answer to a certainty, for my means of ascertaining their endowments were very limited: they did not either of them direct a half-dozen words to me.”

From this time there was a marked change visible in Fanny. There was no unusual gayety in her manner, but a habitual look of quiet happiness. She talked no more of her presentiment, and, though strongly tempted to do so, I could not bear to annoy her by reminding her of it.

Harry Lambert was our constant visiter. No, not our, for his visits were evidently only meant for Fanny’s benefit. They walked, and rode, and played, and sang together; always preferring a duet to a trio, or quartette.

His appearance in Mr. Alden’s neighborhood was entirely unexpected to both of us. We did not know where he had settled. During his visit to Philadelphia he had been very attentive to Fanny; yet we all regarded this as a mere flirtation, or rather as the attentive kindness of a friend, who had had no thought of becoming a lover, as he left the city without having made any profession of attachment to her. This, I ascertained since, was owing to his having been led to believe, just before the termination of his visit, that she loved another. Afterward he learned that these suspicions were unfounded, and deeply regretted that they had ever existed.

Howard Russell performed the same part toward Caroline that Harry Lambert did to Fanny, during the remainder of our stay: but after the few first days had passed, I was not left companionless; for I formed some pleasant acquaintances there, the thoughts of which will be always dear to my memory.

Before Fanny returned to Philadelphia, with the full consent of her parents, she had entered into an engagement with Harry Lambert, and the daguerreotype was left as her parting gift to him.

Thus ended Fanny Day’s presentiment.

* * * * *

THE PALE THINKER.

BY “ORAN.”

I SAW him, at the dawn of day, come forth to greet the sun,
With salutation not unlike Electra’s orison;
And, as with sad, though manly voice, he breathed his morning prayer,
I knew that, like Electra’s self, he felt the weight of care.
“An idle student,” many said, “who talks to trees and flowers,
And loiters by the running brook, and wastes away his hours.”
I saw him in the maple wood, beside that murmuring stream,
Stoop, gazing downward thoughtfully, as in a pleasant dream;
And as he gazed thus often spoke—“O stream, away, away,
To some far-off and unknown sea thou hastenest every day!
And trees and flowers and stars and clouds are mirrored on thy breast,
They cheer thee on with greetings kind thou smilest, but dost not
rest.
So to its far eternity the longing spirit goes—
This stream of life—away—away—O God, how fast it flows!”

I saw him, like a cloistered monk, at night, among his books,
He read and mused and wrote, with troubled, earnest looks;
Then late and weary sought his couch—I could not turn away,
For still with earnest, troubled looks the restless sleeper lay.
Then Fancy, by some magic art, the sleeper’s brain laid bare,
O Heaven, it seemed a universe had been concentred there!
The semblance of all outer things in miniature was there,
And, working each a wondrous art, all spirits, foul and fair.
Uncertain forms traversed a plain, far-reaching as the sight,
Whereon, what seemed a “mount of pain,” uprose in misty light.

“The flaming forge of life” glowed red, as burning fire could be,
And restless workmen toiled to forge an immortality.
Like beating surf on rocky shore, the sea of passion roared,
Like meteor on a dusky sky Ambition flashed and soared.
Far out imagination flew, on restless wings of light,
And myriad strangest forms of thought glimmered in reason’s sight.
Religion and her goddess train their golden offerings poor,
The spirit of the wondrous past unfolds her wondrous store.
And fast and fierce the work goes on, furnace and forge and fire,
And busy hands, which ply the loom and weave the golden wire.
In glee the shadowy workmen toil, and this the song they sing—
“In deepest shade of destiny lies hid what man would know,
And useful thought comes but by pain, drawn up from down below.
He surely is a child of heaven who brings new truth to man,
To whom ’tis given, with vision clear, the inner world to scan,
’Tis ours to work behind the veil, thanks to this earnest soul,
Soon from these varied gems of thought shall rise a beauteous whole,
Adown the aisles of distant time our thinker’s voice shall sound,
Inspiring hope and life and joy to souls in darkness bound.
To write a book inspired of heaven, O, ’tis a glorious task!
Pale thinker, though thy brain run wild, what higher boon couldst
ask?”

And, Genius, by such toil as this thy fairest gifts are bought!
And he’s a child of pain, though blest, whose life is earnest thought.
Ye who, with careless eye, peruse the page ye’ve bought for gold,
Ye little know the cost of that to you so cheaply sold.

* * * * *

GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES.

NO. II.—THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

THE simple, yet exquisitely touching air to which Moore wrote the words of this song, is now one of the most familiar that we hear. Yet, familiar as it is, it never falls upon the sense without awakening in the heart the most tender, and even sad emotions. The song itself is in fine keeping with the melody.

’Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone:
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So, soon may _I_ follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away;
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

Although in private fashionable circles, like the “Meeting of the Waters,” this song is rarely heard yet now and then the air, or the words and the air united, break unexpectedly upon us in public, and the effect is almost electric. Well do we remember, on the first appearance of Herz, the effect produced on a crowded assembly, combining nearly all the musical taste and talent of our city, when, after a rapturous _encore_, he let his fingers fall with the exquisite grace that marked his playing on the keys of the piano, and “The Last Rose of Summer” trembled upon the hushed air. Literally, a pin might have been heard falling upon the floor. There was not a heart there that did not respond to the melody as an outburst of true emotion. The same effect was produced, not long since, when this air came thrilling over a large audience in the Musical Fund Hall, from the violincello of Knoop, and, soon after, from the warbling throat of Madame Bishop. Not to the players nor singer was this effect wholly to be ascribed. The power lay in the melody itself, to which they gave a full expression.

So long as there is an ear that can appreciate nature’s own music, and a heart to be touched by genuine emotion, “The Last Rose of Summer” will continue to be a favorite.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE EVIL EYE.

BY MARY L. LAWSON.

PAST from my heart the place and hour
When first I met and owned thy power—
To shadow life with vain regret,
And clouds that darkened when we met—
But still through changing years I see
The lengthened gaze then fixed on me,
As, thrilling with a strange surprise,
I trembled ’neath those earnest eyes.

I know not whence their lustre came—
They quiver with a living flame;
Their liquid light, like diamonds beam,
Through ebon lashes darkly gleam,
Or softly melt with passion’s ray,
That chase their baleful shades away,
Or with a hidden power control
The strongest impulse of the soul.

Those eyes have bent their glance on mine,
Each hidden feeling to divine
’Mid love’s first dream—and love’s decay—
Though from their gaze I turned away;
Read every hope and timid fear,
And smiled away the doubting tear;
Knew all I strove not to impart—
The weakness of my woman’s heart.

In parting once they met mine own,
And cold in stern reproach they shone,
And lost the anguish of the hour
Beneath their dark and withering power—
The blighting sting no words can tell—
That lurked beneath that calm farewell,
The silent glance that left behind
The fevered pulse and wasted mind.

Since then, through thoughts of joy and pain.
Those haunting eyes their spell retain,
And silently they’ve watched me weep
O’er lonely graves where dear ones sleep;
But in my deepest wo’s increase
Their beams have never whispered peace,
Though kindly words were breathed again,
I sought those speaking eyes in vain.

When steeped in wo, or wild with mirth,
The fickle, fleeting joy of earth,
Bound to the world with reckless thrall,
Those fated eyes have marked it all,
And taught the lip with mocking art
To act the tempter’s wily part,
The soul with dreams of bliss to fill
And gently veil the lurking ill.

Alone!—by life’s rough storms distressed,
Unprized, uncared for and oppressed,
Still wert thou near with tender tone,
That spoke of days forever gone,
Till softened memory made thee dear,
And half dispelled each chilling fear—
But starting from my heart’s warm sighs
I marked the gleaming of those eyes.

Some demon power thy soul must bear,
Though angel guise thy features wear,
Arrayed in love alluring mien
To stand my better thoughts between,
Sin imaged form to tempt away—
The holier hopes for which I pray—
A watch above my heart to keep
Till it has sunk to dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

THE REVEALINGS OF A HEART.

BY D. T. KILBOURN.

(_Concluded from page 75._)

AS Arthur approached the city, the sun was sinking behind the snowy clouds, wreathing its trail of gorgeous light around their fleecy summits, then stretching along the blue horizon, until its brilliant folds, resting upon the leafless trees, swept o’er the barren earth, bathing field, mountain, air, sky and water, in one flood of golden light. A fitting robe to herald forth the natal dawn of man’s Redeemer.

As Arthur gazed upon the beauteous scene, enhanced by the music of the merry sleigh-bells as they glided past, and the hurrying to and fro of gladsome faces, his heart leapt for joy, and he bounded along, forgetting his fatigue as the sweet face of the little Amy rose before him, radiant with smiles, at his return. He felt her little arms fondly clinging about his neck, and her warm caress upon his cheek; and oh, how distant seemed that pile before him, as his yearning heart leapt to her embrace.

And then came the time when he would come to take her away. And the past year, too, rose before him—his struggles mid scorn and reproach, to be a man, that he might take her to his own home, and be always near her. What cared he if they did laugh, and call him a poor _alms-house_ boy, if one day he might always have his loved sister near him? That sister who looked so much like their dear, dead mother. He wondered if she had grown—and how she looked; and thus his happy heart glowed with fond anticipations of the future.

Entering the gate, and passing rapidly round the main building, with a beating heart, he rapped at the door of that part occupied by the children.

A stranger ushered him in, but in a few moments Mrs. Williams stood before him. In his joy he sprung to meet her.

“Why, Arthur, is this you? How you’ve grown! and so altered, I scarcely know you! But who would have thought of you?”

Without noticing the last part of her speech, he cried, “Where is sister Amy—can’t I see her?”

“Amy!—why Amy has been dead this long time!”

“Dead! dead!” cried he, grasping her hands, while from his eyes gleamed a look of intense, imploring agony. “Oh, dear Mrs. Williams, don’t, don’t say that Amy is dead! She’s not dead! I know she would not die and leave me alone!”

Trying to release her hands from his tightening grasp, she cried, “Boy, you don’t know what you’re saying! She is dead, and no fault of mine; for, after you went away, she grieved so after you, poor thing! I tried to do every thing I could for her, and told her you would come back. But nothing would do—she would not eat, and looked so pitiful, that we were all glad when she died. And you ought to be glad too, for she is much better off. She was such a poor little delicate creature, she wasn’t fit to be in this cold world without a mother.”

Arthur slowly relaxed his grasp, as a consciousness of his utter loneliness came over him. Not a cry escaped his lips—not a sigh. There he stood—his wild, tearless eyes fixed on vacancy.

“Arthur, don’t take on so, child!” said Mrs. Williams, forcing back her tears. “She’s better off; come and see the boys”—taking his hand to lead him away.

Again turning his fearful eyes upon her, he said, “Wont you tell me where they have put her?”

“Oh, the snow has covered all the graves—you can’t tell hers from any other.”

“Oh do! Mrs Williams; do, only show me where they have laid her. Lead me to the spot, and I will never trouble you again!”

Now really affected, Mrs. Williams, after wiping her eyes, took Arthur’s hand, and led him to the humble resting-place of the poor. Not a stone marked the spot of their repose.

Long did Arthur gaze with that same look of wild, unutterable agony, upon the spot which contained all to which his young heart had clung with such fond adoration; all for which he had borne mockery and insult; all that to him was fair, or beautiful, or loved on earth.

Turning to Mrs. Williams, in a hollow voice, he asked, “Why has God taken my sister from me?”

“Because she would be better off, Arthur.”

“Why did he not take me, too? _I_ would be better off in the still grave.”

“It is wicked to say such things, Arthur.”

“Why wicked?” asked he, with an inquiring look.

“Because, God will be angry with you.”

“He is angry with me already,” murmured he, turning from the spot.

* * * * *

The heavy clock told the hour of midnight; silence hung heavily over the slumbering earth. In a small room sat Arthur. The look of agony had settled down into one of calm, hopeless misery. And as he gazed upon the stars, his guardian angel hovered near—no smile played round its radiant face, but tear-drops sparkled in its eyes. Around his brow glowed the beings of intellect; some, in their flight, mounted toward those shining orbs, while others floated near to earth, as if in search of something, they knew not what. Love, too, was there, followed by the bright beings of adoration. To and fro they moved, apparently without an aim; while the ministers of flesh poured incense on unhallowed altars, to obscure their vision and lure them to earth.

A hand was laid upon his shoulder—he started.

“Come, Arthur, come to bed. I cannot sleep while you sit here,” was said by a boy, apparently several years his senior, who had arisen from a bed in the room. But finding Arthur still immovable, he continued, “Don’t mind them, Arthur—I would not mind what they say. The whole crew have about as much sense as their _Poodle_, on which the entire stock of their susceptibilities seems expended. And to hear the rascally old fellow threaten to flog you, after making such a fuss to get you back. But that’s the old woman’s fault, because the poor old gentleman, in his perturbation at your disappearance, sat down on her ‘sweet Adonis’s paw!’ Why, Arthur, you would have died laughing, (for I did nearly,) if you could have heard the fuss that was raised over that miserable little dog. But we were all glad that you had spunk enough to go to see your sister.”

“I was not thinking of them,” interrupted Arthur—“I don’t care what they say or do to me now.”

“Then, Arthur, wont you come and lie down?” laying his arm coaxingly upon his shoulder.

Arthur suffered himself passively to be led to bed, after which, Dick continued. “I suppose, when the old woman broke her word with you, after you had saved the life of her child, she thought _she_ had a particular license to lie! And the old man, too, when he tells me to say that I am selling things ‘under cost,’ while he is getting a good profit on them. So I thought, as _they_ are good _church-going_ people, there could be no possible harm, in a poor _dog_ like myself, following their example. And when they asked me where you were gone, I would not say what you had told me to, for I thought it better you should get the start of them; so I told them I did not know,” and with this Dick fell asleep, leaving Arthur to his own melancholy reflections.

* * * * *

Spring again appeared in all her loveliness. The full-orbed moon rode above on her chariot of clouds, now smiling upon the tranquil earth, now veiling her face in their misty folds. And as her smiles beamed forth, they shone through a window upon a bunch of drooping violets.

The little flower-spirit awakened, beheld before it the child of yore; but oh, how changed! That brow, though still so beautifully fair, had lost the halo of its purity. The brilliant beings of the mind, pluming their pinions to the distant spheres, were dragged to earth. Love, too, with the bright beings that adore, was bound, but a rosy light played round its fetters, while ministers of flesh were tracing, with barbed arrows, dark, fearful characters upon the throbbing heart. The angel’s face was veiled, but sorrowful supplications still went up to heaven.

The boy started from his feverish slumbers, and looked fearfully around. Awakening his companion, he cried, “Dick! Dick! do wake up! Oh, I have had such horrible dreams I cannot sleep! Oh, this weight upon my heart will kill me! I cannot deceive Mr. Buckler any longer—I must go tell him all, or my heart will break.”

“Go, and be kicked away as a _poor alms-house boy_ for your pains.”

“I cannot help it, Dick. I’d rather be called any thing, bear any thing, than feel this weight upon my heart. Before this I could feel that my mother and sister were near me; but now that I am guilty of wrong, they are gone, and every thing is so awful!”

“Oh, Arthur, you have had the _nightmare_, and are frightened.”

“There was a time, Dick, that I knew not fear. I was a very small boy, then. But if there were nothing else, Dick, to meet Mr. Buckler and _feel_ that I have deceived him, when he has reposed so much confidence in me!”

“Arthur, if you _peach_, you know that I shall be sent away in disgrace, and it would break my poor father’s heart—that father who was so kind to you; who took you home and saved you from perishing of cold. ’Twas but little, ’tis true, that he did, but that little was much to you.”

Arthur groaned. After a few moments, he continued, “Dick, do you never feel unhappy when you have done wrong?”

“Yes, I used to be as chicken-hearted as you when I first came here; but now that I see that every one’s for himself, and that a man is respected for his _cloth_, not his worth, I try to shake off such feelings. But I cannot always banish them when I think of my father and mother.”

“Let us go to Mr. Buckler, Dick, and tell him all—I know that he will forgive us.”

“The old flint! I know him too well for that. But, Arthur, if you want to _peach_, you may.”

“On no, Dick, you know I would not do that; but, if you will only consent.”

“But what have I done, after all, only taken a little of my own!”

“Your own, Dick—how so?”

“Why, don’t we do as much as the old man; and if right’s right, is it not as much ours as his?”

“Oh no, Dick—not as long as we gain it for him and not for ourselves.”

“But what have you done, Arthur? Why you only saw me go to the money-drawer, and said you knew nothing about it. That’s no deception, Arthur.”

“But it is, Dick.”

“Well, if that will satisfy you, I will promise not to be guilty of the like again.”

“But will you likewise promise not to go into that company again? I went with you, because I was so unhappy at home. And you were the son of one who had been kind to me, and I loved you for it; and after Amy died, I no longer felt a motive for wishing to become a great or a good man; but I feel to-night as if I should have been happier if I had never gone with you.”

Dick was asleep. He knew that Arthur would not expose him. His parent’s kindness sunk so deeply into his grateful heart, that it seemed to give their son a talismanic power over the unhappy boy, to govern him at will.

Again ’twas evening, and the little flower-spirit, cradled in the pearly folds of a pure snow-drop, looked from its lovely bed. There sat Arthur. Beside him glimmered the midnight lamp; his dark, full eyes were fixed intently upon the pages of a book, on which, spread by the ministers of earth, shone a glittering banquet. The _name_ of Love was there—aye, and the counterfeit of its bright plumage, too, which threw a hue of beauty o’er the scene. This, the master of the feast, (to fix its spell on the unwary reader,) had deified as the radiant vision sent from high Heaven. And the bright beings of his soul caught greedily the tempting viands, as the food for which they sighed. But, as the poison mingled through their veins, their pinions flagged—the Passions threw their hateful coils around, binding them closer, tighter still to earth. And yet, upon that _title-page_ there shone the name of one called _great_ on earth.

And the little flower-spirit asked the weeping guardian, why he was called great! since the sole object for which he had labored, was to subject the bright beings of the soul to the groveling ones of flesh.

“He is great and god-like in his _powers_,” replied the angel. “This, men see—and as he garnishes his viands with the counterfeit of love, their dazzled vision penetrates not the indignity he offers. And, oh, when a being thus armed with the panoply of the archangel, sent forth with powers to unseal the book of knowledge to the starving spirits of the mind, that they, gazing upon its effulgent pages, may drink in the glory, light and love of Deity! When such a being not only immolates this power-divine upon earth’s altars, but, seizing thence unhallowed incense, wafts it forth, a _poison_ to the young, confiding soul—a cry of agony mounts up to heaven, that echoes through the mazes of eternity.”

The door opened, and Dick entered. “What, Arthur, you up still! Why do you shut yourself up in this confined room, poring over books, while there is so much fun in life! You don’t know how much you’ve lost. There was a splendid party at Mrs. M.’s this evening, and the ladies were really quite displeased with me for not bringing you along. Why, Arthur, you are getting to be quite a _Lion_! To tell the truth, I am jealous of you; and yet I shall not, after this, dare to show my face any where, unaccompanied by your beautiful self, for fear of getting no reception at all. I’m half sorry that I persuaded you to go to Mrs. Bailey’s ball, since you seem destined to eclipse me every where. Still, I could not bear to see you sit here moping, night after night, and month after month, all alone. But, ah, ha! Mr. Arthur! I see your time’s not all spent in dreaming, either! May I ask, of what fair damsel that is a memento?” pointing to the snow-drop.

Arthur had raised his eyes from his book, and was listening with pleased attention to the rattle of his friend; but at the mention of the snow-drop, the smile fled from his parted lips. Taking the little flower and gazing upon it, in melancholy accents, he said, “’Twas Amy’s favorite—and it is so like her sweet self, that I love to have it near me. The violet, too, I never meet one but I pluck it; to me it is as if her own blue eyes were mirrored in its little petals.”

“Oh, Arthur, you must not think of her—it always makes you melancholy; and she has been dead now so long.”

“The thoughts of my mother and sister, Dick, are the only things that really give me any pleasure; and could I once believe that their sweet spirits could die, I would, without hesitation, subscribe to the opinions of Voltaire.”

“Well, Arthur, I don’t trouble myself about any thing of the kind, as you well know—and you must not. Live and enjoy life while you can, is my motto. I have promised to take you to Mrs. G.’s, and you must go—so come, let’s to bed.”

* * * * *

Time sped. The sun had sunk to its ocean-bed; the dark clouds, one by one, rode forth, until their threatening hosts o’erspread the vault of heaven. And the sullen murmur of the ebon deep, as it heaved to and fro its struggling waters, all bespoke the coming strife of elements.

Upon the bosom of that troubled deep, there rode a frail, lone vessel, with white sails furled, like the wild bird of storm. And as the heavy thunder boomed o’er the mighty sea, and lurid lightnings, darting from cloud to cloud, lit up the awful scene, there stood upon that vessel’s deck, a human form. His arms were folded on his breast—his head bared to the blast that whistled through his massy locks—his dark eyes fixed, without dismay, upon the forms of wrath, as they contended in their mortal hate. And as the winds swept by, making the light vessel leap and plunge upon its foamy bed, while the bursting din and scathing glare, made the heart of the rude sailor quake with fear; and as the ghastly hue spread o’er his pallid face, he murmured, “On, on, ye raging elements! ye ne’er can equal the war within this heart. I love your horrid music, ’tis soothing to my reeling brain! Once I feared you. Then, oh then, this heart was like the summer-lake—but that is long, long past. Oh, visions of happiness, why will ye rise before me, in mockery of my wo! Then, there was a heart to love me—to counsel me when I was wrong! but now, a wretch, a lone outcast, and stained with vile ingratitude—a forger! Accursed beauty! fatal friendship! How have the powers of Hell been leagued against me since that fatal night, when she, my mother, died of cold and want! Tell me of a God—there is no God! Yet why this bitter, burning, deep remorse! If there’s a God—then I’m an outcast, and have been from my infancy. But oh, what were the pains I suffered then, of separation, loneliness, contempt, to those which now devour my heart! And if there is a hell—its pains were bliss to these!”