Chapter IX (1)

Night wanes—the vapours round the mountain curled
Melt into morn, and light awakes the world.
Man has another day to swell the past,
And lead him near to little but his last.
BYRON’S LARA.

The double night of ages, and of her,
Night’s daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wraps
All round us; we but feel our way to err!
CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE.

The adventure of young Stanley, recorded in the last chapter, made a strong impression on his mind. The more he reflected on what he had beheld, the more he became convinced that it was no mere conjuration of his fancy. Nothing in his feelings at the moment, absorbed as they were with thoughts of the little truant he had been seeking, could have suggested to his imagination the image which arose before him. That it was an embodiment of some kind he became therefore convinced, though he could not believe either that it was human, when he remembered the sudden and mysterious manner of its disappearance.

Frank Stanley was by nature neither timorous nor credulous, and a course of reading, more extensive than usual for boys at his age, had in some degree fortified his mind against the attacks of superstition; but he would have been an actual prodigy, if, living in New England in the end of the seventeenth century, he had possessed a philosophy which did not exist there until much later. Those, therefore, who will recall to mind the superstitious feelings at that time prevalent among the early settlers, will not be surprised that our youthful hero should have closed his reflections with the conviction that he had beheld a supernatural visitant. That its mission, however, was not an unholy one he might have believed, when he recollected that he had seen it keeping watch over the lost child of his boyish love, and that its voice had been the means of directing him to the spot where she lay. But he had so strongly imbibed the common idea that all supernatural indications were demonstrations of the Evil One, that his cogitations the rather resolved themselves into fears that she who had been so guarded by one of His emissaries, though in the form of the being of light that he had beheld, was marked out as a victim of future destruction.

This idea became agony to the sensitive mind of the boy, whose heart had outstripped, in a great measure, his years, and was fixed with sentiments of strong attachment upon the little girl. He determined, therefore, to keep constant watch upon the child’s movements, and should he behold her again in the hands of the tempter, by timely warning to her sister to enlist her in attempts to destroy the power of the enemy by fasting and prayer.

Thoughts of the kind described had disturbed Stanley’s mind during the whole night succeeding his adventure, and caused him the first sleepless pillow he had ever known. He rose earlier than usual the next day. Feeling languid from want of his customary rest, he walked out to recover his freshness in the morning air. Even to those who, like Stanley, have spent a sleepless and anxious night, the breeze of the dawn brings strength and quickening both of mind and body. He bent his steps involuntarily toward the place of the previous day’s innocent revel.

The day was delightful. There was just enough motion in the air to disturb the little fleecy clouds which were scattered on the horizon, and by floating them occasionally over the sun, to checker the landscape with that variety of light and shade which often gives to a bare and unenclosed scene, a species of charm approaching to the varieties of a cultivated and planted country.

When Stanley had reached the borders of the grove in which the party had dined, he cast his eyes upward on the hills where he had climbed in search of Jessy Ellet. Curiosity suggested to him to ascend again to the spot where he had beheld the strange apparition. Fear for himself knew no place in his brave young soul. He felt that his virtuous and strong heart was even proof against the power of Satan and his agents. He proceeded, therefore, to remount the hills, in hopes that he might again behold the shadowy spirit, and perchance have time to question it of its errand to earth, ere it a second time disappeared. When he arrived beneath the well-remembered rock, he raised his eyes, more however in the expectation of being disappointed in the object of his quest, than with any actual idea of meeting a return of his former vision.

It was consequently with the astonishment of one utterly unprepared, that he beheld, standing upon the rocky elevation, the same figure of the mist which had filled his waking dreams throughout the night. The sudden sight took from him, for the instant, both speech and motion. It seemed as if his imagination had raised up a phantom presenting to his outward senses the object that engrossed his mind. She seemed clad in white, and her hair of threaded gold, while her complexion looked radiant and pure through the rising beams that reflected upon it. In the morning vapor she appeared even more transparent than in the sunset dew; so much so, that the broken corner of the rock which she had chosen for her pedestal, would have seemed unsafe for any more substantial figure than her own. Yet she rested upon it as securely and lightly as a bird upon the stem of a bush. The sun, which was rising exactly opposite, shed his early rays upon her shadowy form and increased its aereal effect. Internal and indefinable feelings restrained the youth from accosting her as he had thought to have done. These are easily explained on the supposition that his mortal frame shrunk at the last moment from an encounter with a being of a different nature.

As the boy gazed, spell-bound, he observed that this being of the vapor was not alone. Ere long, however, he became aware that near her, in the middle of the rock, where the footing was more secure, stood another form. Fixing his bewildered gaze steadily upon this second object, in order to scan it as carefully as he had done the other, he became convinced that it was a familiar figure. For a moment his memory failed him, and he could not place that round and coquetish form, with its garb of rich pink, nor that face, with its sparkling eyes of jet, and its raven braids. His doubt, however, lasted but for an instant. It was Lucy Ellet whom he beheld. She perceived his proximity before her companion, for, turning to the phantom-form, she pointed to him just as he himself was about to speak. Ere his words were uttered, the misty figure had vanished from her side, and she remained upon the rock alone.

Awe-struck, the youth turned to depart. “Both the sisters, then,” thought he, “are in league with this spirit-messenger of darkness. Alas! each so fair in their different styles, so idolized in the village, one of whom, too, I have treasured up her childish image in my heart, and mixed it with all my young dreams of the future!” He perceived, moreover, that such an association as he had witnessed with the emissaries of evil, might not only be a soil upon the virtue of Lucy and Jessy Ellet, but a lasting disgrace to their names, should the knowledge of it come to the ears of the pious community. Congratulating himself that he alone was privy to the unhappy circumstance, he was wending his way down the declivity when his meditations were interrupted by the gay voice of Lucy Ellet behind him.

“Out on your vaunted politeness, Master Frank, to trudge down hill in front of a lady, and never turn to offer her your arm.”

“Excuse me, Miss Lucy,” replied Stanley, stopping and much embarrassed, “methought you would not desire to be troubled with my company.”

“I honour your delicacy, Frank,” resumed Lucy, taking his arm, as they walked on. “You saw me but now in circumstances which you rightly judge I intended to be secret, and would not mortify me by forcing me to meet you just at the moment of my detection.”

After an instant’s pause, she continued. “I will let you into the secret, Frank, for there may one day be need to employ your services; and I am sure I may rely on your judgment and discretion not to divulge what I shall unfold. Your occasional assistance is the only return I demand for my confidence. Yon stranger lady is——”

“Hold, Miss Ellet, I cannot consent to obtain any knowledge of your secret under the condition that I am to become a party in the sinful affair. I not will unite in league with any daughter of the clouds or spirit of darkness.”

“Then you deem her whom you saw beside me on the rock one of those visionary beings you mention?” asked Lucy, looking at him steadily, to learn if he were in earnest, and an arch smile curling on her mouth, and sparkling in her eyes, when she perceived that he had spoken seriously.

“What else can I think of one who hath scarce the weight of a feather, is transparent as a cloud, and dissolveth in a moment into air?”

Lucy Ellet here laughed outright. But instantly checking herself and looking grave, she replied in a mysterious tone, “I have, indeed, a strange associate in yonder lady of the mist. And you positively decline an introduction to her?”

“I did not think thou would’st thus seek to destroy others as well as thyself, Miss Ellet. Is it through thine influence that thy sister has been made acquainted with the evil spirit?”

“Oh, thou fearest for her, dost thou?” said Lacy, mischievously seizing the opportunity of turning the conversation. “Thou wouldst have her kept stainless from sin in order that she may be thine when thou art a man, eh, Frank? Nay, you need not blush, though you see I read your heart.”

Stanley’s thoughts were now completely diverted from the first topic of conversation, and talking on indifferent subjects, Lucy Ellet and himself entered the village.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

URIEL.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

A HAUGHTY, high-born maiden was the Lady Uriel,
With stately step, majestic mien and royal falcon eyes,
Whose glory scintillated like auroras in the skies.

She sat her steed, and held her hawk, and ruled her father’s board,
Among her maidens, like a queen; and all her noble guests
Swore fealty to her beauty, and obeyed her least behests.

From East to West, from North to South, the wonder of her charms
Had been the theme of troubadours, who sang, with many sighs,
The splendor of her beauty and the grandeur of her eyes.

From East and West, from North and South, came many a gay gallánt,
Like pilgrims to Jerusalem, to worship at her shrine;
And each one swore that song did wrong to beauty so divine.

All day in panoply of steel these young chivalrous knights
Strove gracefully and gallantly in deeds of bold emprise,
Seeking to call down sunny smiles from her imperial eyes.

All night, beneath the icy orbs of the unheeding moon,
The invisible breath of music filled the castle’s gray arcades;
But Uriel’s heart replied not to her lovers’ serenades.

Some sought her father—paladins, whose names for centuries
Had sparkled, like a necklace, on the snowy bust of fame,
With hosts of anxious aspirants who struggled for a name.

And haughty merchant-princes, who, in countless argosies,
Possessed the wealth of Orient Ind, sued humbly at her feet;
And monarchs put aside command and followed in her _suite_.

But all in vain, for Uriel loved none, nor cared to love;
She only prized her sire and home; she sought no other ties;
So not a single suitor saw his image in her eyes.

More beautiful with every moon became the maiden’s face,
More queenly still her stately step, more luminous her eyes,
Until her lovers thought her charms translations from the skies.

One day, perchance attracted by the maiden’s marvelous fame,
An unknown knight, in humble guise, rode slowly to her gate.
No page, no man-at-arms had he; he came in simple state.

His armor was as dark as night, his tossing plumes were black,
As was his gaunt gigantic steed;—no arms were on his shield—
Only a deadly night-shade shone upon its ebon field.

Next day the tournament gave birth to doughty deeds of arms,
For down before the Nameless Knight the lady’s suitors went;
And, strange to say, that Uriel’s eyes now sparkled with content.

Next night a mournful melody swept from the plain below,
And from her oriel, bright as stars, peered Uriel’s luminous eyes:
Her heart made echoes to the strain, and answered it with sighs.

Hunting, or hawking, in the dance when jewels made the hall
Shine like the heavens on starry evens, the tall and shadowy knight
Followed her form from place to place, as darkness follows light.

And Uriel’s cheek grew crimson, and Uriel’s glorious eyes
Shone brighter when his step was heard in palace, or on plain,
Though her other guests shrunk from him with expressions of disdain.

For all her father’s titled friends—the lords who sought her hand—
Hated the bold adventurer; but no one spoke a word—
They only looked their anger;—they knew he wore a sword.

And sadly as he came he went, and Uriel’s anxious eyes
Followed him, step by step, until the distance closed their view;
And when her guests came once more round, they saw them moist with
dew.

And Uriel’s cheek grew pallid, and Uriel’s eyes grew dim,
And Uriel’s form grew slender, and her beauty, day by day,
Seemed stricken like the morning moon, and sinking to decay.

Her father called her to him, and he kissed her icy brow,
And gave her gentle names; for he saw her mother’s eyes
Looking pleadingly upon him from her daïs in the skies.

A warm and rosy brightness, like the bloom upon a peach,
Blossomed on Uriel’s marble cheek, and the light in Uriel’s eyes
Came back at once, like light to stars, when clouds have left the
skies.

For Uriel’s sire, forgetting his long ancestral line,
Consented that his gentle child should wed the nameless knight:
What wonder, then, that Uriel’s eyes resumed their olden light!

—The chapel bells were ringing; the priest was in his place,
And the incense clomb in clouds from the censers by his side,
While the organ’s billowy melodies breathed a welcome to the bride.

The princely train came slowly in, for Uriel’s satin feet
Fell fainter on the pavement than the snow-flake on the stream,
As she walked, in silence, by her groom, like a vision in a dream.

But when she reached the altar, grandly, and like a sun,
Shone out the marvelous brightness of her supernatural eyes
So vividly, the aged priest stepped back in mute surprise!

But the groom—his eyes shone brighter still, like lightning in the
night.
As he motioned to the monk to expedite the rite;
But Uriel’s cheek grew pale again, and her eyes became less bright.

Slowly the priest proceeded, while the organ’s swan-like song
Swept toward the gilded dome and died, and lived and died again,
As the monk in mellow monotones chanted his deep refrain.

The priest was silent: with a sigh the bride sunk on the breast
Of him she loved so wildly, as a bird sinks on its nest,
As her sire, her bridemaids and her friends around the couple prest.

Suddenly, like an expiring lamp, her large, unusual eyes
Flashed, and went out, as forward, with a simple rustling sound,
The noble Lady Uriel fell lifeless to the ground!

The maidens shrieked in terror when she sunk, as through a mist,
For where the bridegroom stood was space—his form was gone in air;
And the lonely sire embraced his child in agonies of despair!

From his place behind the railing came the shorn and shaven priest,
And quoth he, while the expectant crowd stood mute and held their
breath—
“Take up the dead: _its_ Nameless Groom was the _Invisible_ DEATH.”

* * * * *

OUT OF DOORS.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

’TIS good to be abroad in the sun,
His gifts abide when day is done;
Each thing in nature from his cup
Gathers a several virtue up;
The grace within its being’s reach
Becomes the nutriment of each,
And the same life imbibed by all
Makes each most individual:
Here the twig-bending peaches seek
The glow that mantles in their cheek—
Hence comes the Indian-summer bloom
That hazes round the basking plum,
And, from the same impartial light,
The grass sucks green, the lily white.

Like these the soul, for sunshine made,
Grows wan and gracile in the shade,
Her faculties, which God decreed
Various as Summer’s dædal breed,
With one sad color are imbued,
Shut from the sun that tints their blood;
The shadow of the poet’s roof
Deadens the dyes of warp and woof;
Whate’er of ancient song remains
Has fresh air flowing in its veins,
For Greece and eldest Ind knew well
That out of doors, with world-wide swell
Arches the student’s lawful cell.

Away, unfruitful lore of books,
For whose vain idiom we reject
The spirit’s mother-dialect,
Aliens among the birds and brooks,
Dull to interpret or believe
What gospels lost the woods retrieve,
Or what the eaves-dropping violet
Reports from God, who walketh yet
His garden in the hush of eve!
Away, ye pedants city-bred,
Unwise of heart, too wise of head,
Who handcuff Art with _thus and so_,
And in each other’s foot-prints tread,
Like those who walk through drifted snow;
Who, from deep study of brick walls
Conjecture of the water-falls,
By six feet square of smoke-stained sky
Compute those deeps that overlie
The still tarn’s heaven-anointed eye,
And, in your earthen crucible,
With chemic tests essay to spell
How nature works in field and dell!
Seek we where Shakspeare buried gold?
Such hands no charmed witch-hazel hold;
To beach and rock repeats the sea
The mystic _Open Sesame_;
Old Greylock’s voices not in vain
Comment on Milton’s mountain strain,
And cunningly the various wind
Spenser’s locked music can unbind.

* * * * *

FANNY.

A NARRATIVE TAKEN FROM THE LIPS OF A MANIAC.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.
KING LEAR.

THEY tell me I am mad—_mad_! No, I am not mad! In this den of horror I at least am sane. Reason bursting from the heavy shackles which would press her down to death, now asserts her right—yes—I am sane—though they tell me I am mad—_mad—ha! ha!_

Around me I hear the incoherent ravings of insanity—the wild screech and terrific yells of demoniac rage as the unhappy wretch dashes against the iron bars and tears his very flesh in torture. Bursts of laughter echo around my prison walls, and eye-balls red and wild glare at me through yonder grating—but _I_ am not mad!

Fanny! Fanny! where are you, my life, my love!

Ah-h! now the past comes up before me. Distinct as the clouds mirrored in some placid lake do the events of my life float by.

Stay—stay—fleeting images of pleasure and of wo—let me trace distinctly as your wavelets sweep over my soul the causes which have brought me here!

A boyhood spurning parental control. A youth of wild, ungoverned passions. These—these—first point the path I trod. And whither—ah whither have they led me!

My God—to a mad-house! _But I am not mad!_

At twenty, giddy with the possession of uncontrolled riches, which, as an only son, fell to me at the death of my parents, I plunged wildly within the Maelstrom of dissipation. On—on in its soul-destroying vortex I was whirled for months—nay, years—madly, blindly, sweeping to my destruction. In a fortunate hour my reason, even as now, was restored to me—for remember I am not mad!

I suddenly became disgusted with that which had before seemed to me the _all_ that life was designed for. I forsook my gay companions. I filled my library with the choicest books—my walls with the rarest paintings—my halls with master-pieces of sculpture.

I traveled—not to see life in the haunts of folly—but the world—poised in the Creator’s hand—to learn from her majestic mountains, heaped up to the skies—from her mighty rivers—her foaming torrents—from the wild cataract and the flaming volcano, the power of God—and the insignificance of man!

It was in Italy, pure land of song, that I first met Fanny—the bright, the beautiful star of my destiny.

Ah, pause memory—pause on this blest vision! Pass not too soon from my tortured brain—but for a moment stay, and soothe me into forgetfulness of all save Fanny and love!

A wasting malady had brought the father of Fanny from the bleak climate of Canada to the pure skies and genial airs of Italy, in the flattering hope that health would once more invigorate his feeble frame—and she, ministering angel, came with him.

The lily is not purer than was the soul of Fanny—nor the rose more beautiful than her cheek. She had been nurtured in the lap of indulgence—heaven’s breath scarce allowed to fan her brow—her delicate foot to touch the earth.

And I—I won this peerless one to be my bride!

Has Heaven aught in store for the blessed can rival that rapturous moment when I called Fanny mine! Fanny! Fanny! where are you now, my beautiful, my injured wife? And I—where am I—the tenant of a mad-house—the companion of maniacs—but I am not mad—no, not mad!

We laid her father, in the sleep of death, among the vine-clad hills, and then to my native shores I brought my lovely bride.

She was my idol, and at her feet I worshiped.

But a day of reverses came. The riches which I had foolishly deemed inexhaustible I found were melting like the morning dew. Too late I saw the ruinous tendency of the life I had led. To retrieve if possible my sinking fortunes, I plunged deeply into speculations—seizing eagerly the wild, visionary schemes of artful or misguided men—and so lost all!

I had studiously concealed the truth from poor Fanny, hoping even yet to seize some golden opportunity to re-create a mine of wealth. But now the fatal fact must be told—poor, poor Fanny!

Like an angel she listened to me. She soothed my grief, and hushed my self-reproach by her embraces. Never had I loved her so well—never had she appeared to me in a light so beautiful.

Thus the sharpest wound was healed—and the loss of wealth for a time scarce heeded.

The necessity of doing something for our support pressed upon me, and my angel wife encouraged my efforts. I sought employment from those against whom wealth had barred my doors, and whom in my exaltation I scarce deigned to acknowledge—but now my pride was gone, and for Fanny’s sake I sought from them to earn my daily bread. I obtained a lucrative business, and for a time was happy, for I was still enabled to place my dearest Fanny above want—even to surround her with some few of the luxuries with which her young life had been crowned.

But soon a new fear begat itself. I found my health rapidly declining. The life of pleasure I had led, and the shock lately sustained by my reverse of fortune, had materially injured a constitution naturally nervous and weak. What was to become of my poor Fanny in the event of my death! Upon this one thought I brooded despondingly. My exertions even for our present support were paralyzed—my health suffered more and more—my form wasted, and my countenance became so changed that even my best friends scarce recognized me.

Shall I go on! Shall I call up the monster-fiend that awoke me from my misery, only to plunge me by degrees into horrors deeper than the pit of hell!

Ay, gibe and grin at me, fiend! I defy you now—you have accomplished your worst—there is not a deed more damnable left for me to do! ha! ha! you would drive me mad—you say I _am_—but, fiend, I am not mad!

One morning a friend came into my office. With my elbows resting on my desk, and my hands supporting my aching temples, I sat brooding over the one dark thought, which, like an incubus, pressed upon my brain.

Townsend was an old acquaintance—one whom I loved and trusted—but I am now convinced he was no other than the Devil, who had come to tempt me here—_here_ amid the rattling of chains and shrieks of wo!

“Cheer up, Denton—cheer up, my man—what ails you?” he cried, gaily slapping me on the back.

“Townsend, I am miserable,” I replied. “My wife—my poor wife—my angel Fanny, what is to become of her? Were she less kind—less sympathizingly affectionate, I might perhaps be less sensitive for the future. Poor girl! I feel I shall not live long, and then—ah, Townsend, must her delicate frame bear fatigue—her tender hands be forced to labor!”

“Tut—tut, man—all nonsense, I tell you,” answered my _friend_. “If you have a mind to die, so be it—but I have come in on purpose to suggest to you a means by which you can secure to Mrs. Denton not only a competence but comparative wealth.”

“How! how!” I exclaimed, eagerly interrupting him and starting to my feet—“only tell me, and I will forever bless you!”

“Why, my dear fellow, the simplest thing in the world—you have only to get your life insured!” cried the tempter.

“How—my life insured!” I echoed.

“To be sure—come go with me to some responsible office, and insure your life for three, five, or ten thousand dollars, as you please. You will only have to pay a small premium—a mere trifle in comparison, and then, my dear fellow, you may welcome death as you would a _douche_ in August, sure that her you love will be benefited by your demise.”

“My dear friend,” said I, warmly embracing him, “how can I sufficiently thank you for your suggestion—come—why my heart already feels lightened of half its load—don’t let us lose a moment’s time—let me secure to my dear Fanny an independence, and then I may die in peace!”

“I am ready,” replied Townsend with a gay laugh.

_Such a laugh!_ It yet rings in my ear—it pierces my brain—it echoes from corner to corner of this dismal cell—it rattles like a serpent through the straw on which my worn body rests—but—it cannot drive me mad!

In less than an hour the business was accomplished, and the policy in my hands, by which, in the event of my death before the expiration of the year, I secured to my dear wife the sum of ten thousand dollars—and feeling happier than I had done for months, I sought my home.

My charming Fanny met me with a sweet kiss, and her watchful eyes soon read in mine that joy I was eager to speak.

“Ah, my dearest Henry,” she said, caressing me, “I see you have good news for me—what is it has brought back the long banished smiles to your dear face?”

“Wait until we are alone, my dearest,” I answered, for our _one_ servant was then placing dinner on the table, “and I will tell you why it is that I am so happy.”

No sooner therefore was our meal ended and the servant retired than drawing Fanny on my knee, and tenderly embracing her, I related the events of the morning.

But instead of sharing my happiness, as I imagined she would, she grew paler and paler as I proceeded, and finally throwing her arms around my neck she burst into a passionate flood of tears.

“Harry, how cruel to talk to me of riches which can only be mine through your death! Henry—Henry, do you think so meanly of me—would not every dollar speak to my soul as from the grave of all I hold dear. I will die with you, my husband—but I beseech of you—I pray you by all our love to give up that hateful policy—no good will result from it!”

Was her angel voice prophetic!

Would to God I had obeyed her—then these chains would not confine me—but I am not mad—no—not mad!

I could not but admit her reasoning to be perfectly natural—just such as one might expect from a young, loving heart—for it is a bitter thought that by the death of our souls’ idols worldly comforts are to be granted us! And does not this tend to harden the feelings of the survivor—to crush the sensibilities, and render them insensible to those holy influences which come to the sincere mourner—turning sorrow into joy—mourning into gladness! nay, does it not produce selfishness and unrighteous wishes, even _before_ death!

_Life Insurance!_ Ay, write it, fiend, in letters of flame, and seal it with the blood of sacrifice! ha—ha! you would scorch my brain—but you cannot—it is _seared—seared!_

[The reader must recollect this is the speech of a madman—for certainly no sane person can deny or doubt the immense benefits daily arising from the noble institution of Life Insurance. In the case of this poor wretch, it would seem that the sudden loss of wealth acting upon a mind unhealthy from youthful excesses, and shattered by illness, had produced a morbidness upon which any chimera long dwelt upon, no matter in what shape it appeared, might at length impel to insanity—indeed, the very fancy brooded over, that Fanny in the event of his death would become a beggar, had already driven him, as we have seen, to the verge of madness when his friend advised the life insurance, and it is easy to conceive how the re-action from despondency to joy might, in the sickly state of his mind, have produced the lamentable result. Whatever, therefore, the unhappy Denton utters in his delirium against that institution for whose blessings the widow and the fatherless daily offer up prayers of thankfulness, must be considered only as the ravings of insanity.]

I labored in every way to do away the prejudices of my darling Fanny. I pictured to her in the strongest language what would be her wretched situation, left friendless and penniless by my death, and little by little she yielded to my arguments, and conversed calmly, though with an air of touching sadness, upon the subject.

My heart thus relieved of the burthen so long oppressing it, I became cheerful. My sighs and melancholy no longer grieved the tender sympathies of Fanny, and as in my happiness her own was found, what wonder her gayety soon outmeasured mine. Indeed one would have thought we were possessed of all the treasures of the earth, we were so happy. And what are the treasures earth can boast to equal love and contentment! I know it—ah, I know it—for these treasures were once mine—but they are gone—_gone_ I say—ha! do you mock me, fiend—do you laugh at my agony!

This state of bliss soon ended.

The demon came—whispering words which turned my heart to ice, and set my brain on fire!

I began to look jealously upon poor Fanny’s uniform cheerfulness—well may she laugh—well may she sing, urged the demon—what care has she for the future—_she_ is provided for—true, you are near death—what of that—wont it shower down gold upon _her_—ha—ha—ha! She will turn from your grave with a smile, and revel in the proceeds of—A Life Insurance!

From that hour I grew suspicious of every thing my poor wife said or did—her every action was scanned, every word translated to meet my own bitter jealousy. I became moody, rude, fretful—nay, harsh to my angel Fanny, and if, when I saw her tears, and her cheek turn pale at my cruelty, my heart moved with pity, the demon with a hideous laugh would cry “_cockatrice_—she only weeps and wishes you were dead.”

One day I came home with a violent headache and threw myself upon the sofa. Fanny stole to my side with a step so noiseless and gentle I heard her not, and kneeling down she parted the hair from my fevered brow, and kissed my closed eye-lids.

“Dear Henry, can I do any thing for you?” she softly murmured. “You are sick—your hands are hot, and your cheek feverish—tell me what I can do for you, dearest?”

I made her no answer—but I glared upon her with _such_ a look that she trembled and turned pale—then once more stooping over me until her golden ringlets touched my cheek, she said again—

“Henry, let me send for a physician—indeed you must.”

“Ha, wretch! traitress!” I cried, suddenly starting up and pushing her from me with violence—“you would have the work finished soon—eh! You would soon put me under ground if you could, woman!”

“Henry! Henry!” cried Fanny, with a look which is fastened on my brain—and with a convulsive groan she sank fainting upon the floor.

In a moment all my affection returned. I hung over her insensible form—I kissed her pale lips—I besought her to forgive me. I bathed her temples—I called her by every endearing name. At last she opened her eyes, and catching her to my breast I wept my contrition. I added falsehood to my infamy—attributing the words I had uttered to the effects of opium taken to relieve a raging tooth-ache.

The dear girl believed me, and with a sweet angelic smile forgave, and blamed herself for being so easily disturbed.

We passed the evening happily, and for several days my jealousy slumbered.

But again the demon got possession of me, and again my infernal suspicions goaded me almost to madness. Why did I not go mad! See how the fiends mock me, and with their fleshless fingers point at me, crying—“You are mad _now_”—but no—no—I am not mad!

It was a lovely day in October. I had walked out far from city haunts. The pure breath of heaven cooled my fevered brain—my pulse beat less wildly, until by degrees a sweet serenity crept over me. I thought of Fanny—of her love—of the patience and forbearance with which she had met my cruel treatment of her. My heart bled for her, and tears of pity bedewed my cheek.

Once more I sought my home. It was long since I had offered my injured Fanny any of those kind attentions it should be a husband’s pride and pleasure, as well as his duty, to bestow—but in this softened, subdued moment I resolved to take her to ride—the day was so lovely, the air so bland, it would do her good.

I entered the house—_and the demon stole in by my side_—though I felt him not. I ran up stairs—Fanny was not in her room, so again I went below, and was about to enter the parlor, when the words “life insurance” met my ear. It was the voice of Fanny. “Ha!” cried the demon, grasping my heart in his sharp talons, and wringing it until my life’s blood seemed bursting out—“ha! do you hear!”

Unperceived we stole into the room—the demon and I. Fanny was in earnest conversation with a female friend, whose husband I knew to be wasting away in a consumption. Tears stood in the beautiful eyes of Fanny—while her friend held her handkerchief to her face as if in deep grief. Their conversation was low—the only words I could catch were those I have named. My wife grew more earnest as she proceeded—her companion removed her handkerchief and appeared to listen intently—she even smiled—and so did Fanny—and again the words “life insurance” hissed through my brain!

This was proof enough. My artful wife was no doubt setting forth to her friend the pleasures she would reap from my death, and that when I was placed in the tomb—then, and only then, should she begin to enjoy life! And not only was she thus wickedly anticipating my death, but she was also encouraging this _worthy_ friend of hers to take advantage of this same institution, instigated and supported by the Evil One, to secure to herself a good round sum of money, and a round sum of enjoyment.

Perhaps they were even then devising means to murder us! So said the demon.

I could bear no more. I rushed upon them _like_ a maniac.

“Vile, unfeeling wretches!” I exclaimed, “is it thus you plot and plan for the death of your husbands! Is it thus you form schemes for reveling in the ill-deserved wealth which may then be yours! With suppressed laughter you would close the coffin-lid, and dance over our scarce cold remains, shouting, Ho-ho-ho! for the merry Life Insurance!”

Before I had done speaking, poor Fanny was stretched senseless upon the floor, while frightened and amazed her companion fled the room.

And so did I. Leaving my wife in a state of insensibility, I flew to my chamber. I raved and tore like a madman—but remember, I was not mad! No, it was not madness—for madness utters it knows not what, and memory takes no heed; but _I_—I knew all—no, I was not mad—I _am_ not mad!

From that day I saw poor Fanny’s heart was broken. She breathed no complaint—she uttered no reproach, not even from those languid eyes which ever beamed on me with so much tenderness—wretch, infamous wretch that I was; but I saw the fatal blow was given. And I also saw, with a fiendish joy, that she was afraid of me—yes, _afraid_—ha! ha! She thought me mad—_me_! How I reveled in this idea; what gambols I held with my demon, in my joy that I could affright her timid soul—how I gloried in it! Her monomany was such a farce, to believe _me_ mad! I knew she would die sooner than complain of my treatment—and the demon shouted, “Take your revenge now for the happiness she expects from your death; give ten thousand deathly stabs to her heart by your unkindness, for the _ten thousand dollars_ she will finger! Leave her no peace—waste her to a skeleton, and then—_let her enjoy the Life Insurance—ha! ha!_”

Sometimes I resolved I would live until the day the policy expired, and then die—_cheat her at last_.

There were seasons, however, when I threw off the mask of the madman—for, remember, I was not mad—when I would take my Fanny to my arms with love and kindness, when I would entreat her to forgive me, while with her true woman’s heart she would bless me and pardon my guilt toward her.

On the first of February the policy on my life would expire. For some weeks I had been uniformly kind to my poor wife. The demon had departed for a season, but you may be sure he was not far off. As the first of the month drew near she became more cheerful—her step was lighter, and a smile, as of old, played around her sweet mouth.

It was the afternoon of the 31st of January that I drew Fanny to my bosom as I reclined upon the sofa, and carelessly playing with her beautiful ringlets as I spoke, said,

“Do you know, dearest Fanny, the policy on my life expires to-morrow, and yet you see here I am hale and hearty—what a pity!”

“Thank God, my dear Henry, that you are so!” she replied, tenderly embracing me, “thank God!” and tears glistened on her long curling lashes.

“Shall I renew it, Fanny?” I asked smiling in her face.

“Oh no, Henry, not for worlds—if you love me, don’t renew it!” she cried, slipping from my arms upon her knees, and pressing my head to her bosom. “Oh, my dear Henry, you know not the agony I have suffered from that simple act of yours, done in all love and kindness to me—no, Henry, don’t renew it!” she added, while a shudder passed over her.

“Ah,” whispered the demon, tugging at my heart-strings till they snapped, “is not she a good actress—how well she feigns; she weeps, don’t she—but it is because you are not in the church-yard!”

For the first time I paid no heed to the demon, but kissing my darling Fanny, and promising I would comply with her wishes, I withdrew to my office.

That evening—little did I think it was to be my last with my beloved—my angel wife—my _last—last—last_!

Ay, howl, ye mocking fiends! gibe and chatter, and clap your hands with hellish joy! shriek to my burning brain, “_It was the last!_” What care I—you cannot drive me mad!

That evening we were so happy—we talked of the future, we reared temples of happiness wherein our days were to be spent—but the demon set his foot upon them, and lo, they were dashed to pieces, and in an instant I was transformed from the tender, loving husband to the maniac—but I was not mad.

I turned upon my wife with the demon’s eyes. She grew suddenly pale. She went to the side-board and poured out a glass of wine; she brought it to me and said timidly, “Will you drink this, Henry?”

I dashed it from her hand—I struck her a blow! Heavens! why was not my arm paralyzed! and cried in a voice of fury,

“Wretch! murderess!—would you poison me!”

Fanny stood for a moment transfixed with wo unutterable—it was too deep for tears; then taking the lamp, she slowly, slowly left the room, casting back upon me a look so full of grief—of pity.

In a few moments I softly followed her up stairs—I gently pushed open the door of our sleeping chamber. She did not hear my approach. She was kneeling by the bedside, her white hands uplifted in prayer. Yes, she was praying—praying God for _me_—praying Him to restore my _reason_, to remove the darkness from my mind! _My reason!_—ha—ha—how I chuckled as I listened.

I threw myself on the bed without speaking, and was soon asleep, or feigning to be so—narrowly watching, meanwhile, every motion of Fanny, for the demon whispered, _she meant to kill me to save the Life Insurance!_

She did not undress, but sat for a while in a large easy chair. Sometimes she wept, sometimes she seemed engaged in prayer.

“_Kill—kill—kill!_” I muttered, as if in sleep.

She started—her eye-balls dilated with terror. She rose quickly from her seat, as if to fly; but the next moment she softly approached the bed, her countenance changing from terror to pity.

“My poor, poor Henry—God help thee!” she murmured.

She then cautiously stepped across the room and carefully examined the windows, to see if they were fastened. She then took down my pistols. I knew they were not loaded; she, too, appeared to recollect it, and gently replaced them. With a timid step she next approached the bureau and opened my dressing-case, glancing uneasily at the bed as she did so. Good heavens! what was she about to do!

Ah, I knew—though I cunningly closed my eyes and lay still—still—she could not make me believe she was only anxious to put all dangerous weapons from the power of a _madman_—no—no, I knew better!

_She drew forth a razor_—and then softly, softly, softly, she turned from the bureau and—

But I waited for no more. With a horrible cry I sprung from the bed, and with one bound stood before her. I snatched the razor from her hand—I waved its shining blade in triumph.

“Wretch—murderess!” I cried.

I attempted to seize her—she eluded my grasp, and ran shrieking from the room. I rushed wildly after her, shouting madly down the stairs—through the hall. I saw her white garments as she sprang through the street-door. “On—on—after her—after her!” cried the demon.

But strong men seized me; they bound me with cords—they called me _mad_—they brought me here—they shut me up with maniacs; but I am not mad—no, no, no—not mad!

The demon, with a fiendish joy, whispers, “Fanny was an angel—Fanny was innocent—that I have killed her!”

Fanny! Fanny! Fanny—where are you? Come to me, my love! No, she will not come! the fiends are keeping her from me! Ah, I see them as they wind themselves around her delicate form—break from them, my angel—my wife, come to me! _See!_ she too laughs and mocks my groans! Now—now I am, indeed, growing mad—mad!

* * * * *

MISS DIX, THE PHILANTHROPIST.

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

FROM the deep heart of Wo went up a groan
That, piercing the cerulean vault of heaven,
Found access to the great Eternal’s throne,
Amid the prayers of such as are forgiven:—

When, from that throne—where none but seraphs gaze,
And only they as reverent worshipers—
Like lightning through th’empyrean did blaze
A mandate writ in shining characters!

And then a spirit meek, yet pure as snow,
The mission craved, and swiftly winged to earth,
Where, in the modest form of woman, lo!
That angel took a new, terrestrial birth!

The form was woman’s—but the voice that spoke
To love’s key-note attuned—the dauntless heart—
The smile, that on Wo’s night like morning broke,
Were still the angel’s—still of Heaven a part.

And when the man of crime that eye beheld,
And felt the power of that transforming smile,
Beneath sin’s iron breastwork beat and swelled
The heart that seemed in contrast doubly vile.

Next to that glance of calm divinity,
Through which the Saviour’s eye could guilt disarm,
Was her mild look, from human passion free,
Subduing evil by its silent charm.

And as Christ’s voice made frantic demons flee,
Or lulled the raging elements at will;
So her soft tone made discord harmony,
And frenzied minds obeyed its “peace, be still!”

She through the dungeon’s gloom did fearless grope—
Herself a light that on the sufferer gleamed—
As if the day-star of celestial Hope
Serenely through his grated window beamed.

The eye, whose intellectual ray obscured,
Had fixed on vacancy its soulless stare,
Grew lucid from a spirit reassured
In faith and trust, through Mercy’s brooding care.

The ear, that only jarring sounds had heard,
Now, listening to Love’s heavenly dialect,
Was moved, as when an exile’s heart is stirred
By native tones, ’mid strangeness and neglect.

And Madness soothed, coherently replied—
The arm resistant raised, submissive fell,
And sunken eyes, by burning anguish dried,
Grew moist again from feeling’s latent well.

Chaotic Intellect took Beauty’s shape
At the omnipotence of gentle speech,
And hands unbound, exulting in escape,
Wrought works that taste to saner minds might teach.[2]

Oh, wondrous power of holy, heaven-born Love!
Whose spirit, in that woman’s humble form,
Doth noiseless yet ’mid human suffering move,
Unchecked by frenzy’s strife, or passion’s storm.

And when her mission to this earth shall end—
When love’s pure essence seeks its native heaven,
Her glory there the angels’ shall transcend,
And loftier place than theirs to her be given.

-----

[2] Some of the most ungovernable subjects of insanity have been so changed in a _few days_, by the soothing kindness of Miss Dix, as to execute various articles of fancy-work, under her teaching, with remarkable neatness and taste.

* * * * *

GODS AND MORTALS.

BY A. K. GARDNER, M. D., AUTHOR OF “OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES.”

MONDAY 19th of March, 1849, was one of those beautiful days which make Spring so delightful. The smiles of nature never appear more charming than when they expel the frowns of winter. At the time above-mentioned, the world had just thrown off its fleecy mantle, preparatory to making a new toilet for the coming season. One would have imagined that the wardrobe of mother earth was very scantily provided, for the day previous her soiled coat of snow was sent to the washerwoman, who had employed the whole twenty-four hours in soaking the poor garment, scouring it with sand, and drenching it with continual showers of rain-water, so that when finally in a state to hang up to dry, scarcely a patch could be found, and those not apparently much benefited by its severe laundress. Mother Earth was surely in a most unfortunate state! Her old clothes not come home from the wash, and the new ones not ready to put on. She determined at first to lie a-bed till one or the other were ready for use. But Dame Luna was then mistress, and absolutely refused to harbor such an impoverished individual. “Credit, indeed!” she echoed. “To trust you I shall truly be a Luna-tic.” You should have seen this individual, as she stood with arms akimbo, in the fullness of her pride. Her face pale with anger, and her eyes losing their usual mildness, glared forth upon our unfortunate mother. None could account for this unwonted spirit. Some of the fixed stars, however, very different from our M. P.’s, who sometimes sleep on their posts, had noticed Mistress Luna walking in the Milky Way; and it was charitably supposed that she had been taking a little too much of the celebrated punch of that locality. These celestial M. P.’s had winked at the matter, and hence all the trouble.

Hinc illæ lachrymæ.

The irate Luna was inflexible. In spite of all that could be said, she persisted in turning our mother out of the house.

Think of the mortification of our common parent, standing on the threshold of night, without a rag to cover her nakedness. Just then came Aurora on her morning’s work to put out the gas. Her beautiful face and neck were covered with crimson blushes, as she discovered the situation of our poor mother Earth.

“Hide yourself quickly,” she cried, “for Phœbus is coming, riding in the chariot of day.”

Now our mother had for some time carried on a little flirtation with him. She called him Apollo in those happy days; but for some time there had been a coldness between them. He was of a warm and impetuous disposition, and fond of having every thing bright about him. He objected to her white dress, which he considered to reflect upon his taste. It is true that this colorless robe, with only a few green pine sprigs upon it, did give mother rather a frigid and puritanical air. If he should be so offended at this dress, she thought, though a gay youth, I fear me much he will be greatly scandalized at seeing me with none.

Aurora’s lantern, by good fortune, showed to my mother a little strip of Crocuses, with which she hastily covered her bosom. It was truly a scanty scarf—merely a pattern of the spring fashions, which the manufacturer had sent on in advance of the season for a specimen—nevertheless it was some protection. Her benumbed form she wrapped in a rosy mist, which was found overhanging the horizon, and by the time that Mr. Apollo, Hyperion Phœbus, came up, she was in a most delightful _demi-jour_ ready to receive him. Mr. Phœbus was entranced; and, to tell the truth, our mother was warmed up at his presence.

From that time an ardent attachment commenced. Throwing aside the mists of formality, and the fogs of prejudice, they appeared imbued with a mutual spirit, created for one another, and shortly after parson Summer united them together in the happiest of states.

I have described to you the proceedings of celestials; but we mortals have a commonplace way of doing up these little matters, far more interesting to us to my fancy. A ferry crossed—a short trip in the cars, and we are landed in the centre of a charming neighboring city. A bright sky and balmy air give vivacity, and life, and joy to all. Still a step further, where the tall spire casts its lengthened shadow across the way.

We enter the church, and many colored lights from diamond panes shed a mellowed hue around. Its oaken benches are filled with the smiling faces of friends and neighbors. There are few greetings for us, and the solemnity of the place, and the occasion, have an opportunity to exert that influence which the most thoughtless cannot entirely escape in a similar situation.

A moment longer and the organ’s roll announces the entrance of the surpliced priest. The pure lawn bespeaks respect for the unspotted character of the man of God. And now a general rustle of dresses and smothered whispers say that the bridal party approach. The gentle bride whose color rivals the hue of the camellias that adorn her jetty hair, leans on the arm of one who henceforth is to be her all in all—for whom she leaves parents, family, friends, home and country. Is it strange that the cheek is blanched and the eye moist? His is a firm step and a manly form, and a gentle eye. Affection looks out at every glance, while pride and good-fortune rejoice together. “Happy is the bride that the sun shines upon,” runs the adage. But the sun is not more ominous for good, than the mutual affection which gilds all around with its beams. Next comes the sister, whose sympathies, from nearness of age and common interests are strongest, her warm heart evincing itself by a hurried breath and a nervous step. Behind follow the dear friends of her youth, whose path so long the same, now separates, and the only brother, on whom falls the hope of the family, its perpetuated name, future reputation, and influence.