Chapter II: Part 2

Down in a deep recess of the loveliest valley upon the face of the earth there was a tiny grotto cut in the solid crystal. The few rays of light that penetrated through its deep shade, fixed in its vaulted roof an unfading rainbow. Its floor was inlaid with many colored pebbles of the smallest size, which Fairy hands had brought from the neighboring stream. Its sides were hung with tapestry wrought by the same delicate fingers, and in colors more vivid than ever dyed a painter's brush, representing the benevolent deeds of the fairest and kindest of their race. Here might be seen one of those beneficent little creatures replacing, for the weary bee, the load of wax he had lost in his flight; and another busied in scattering again, on the wing of the restless butterfly, the golden dust which the gay flutterer had brushed off by a too close contact with his own favorite flower; and yet a third, unallured by beauty, but urged by kindness, exerting all the energies of her delicate frame to assist the industrious ant home with her heavy burthen. Within the grotto was a couch formed by the bright feathers of the hummingbird; and, above it, hung a canopy of film spun by Fairy hands before the first beams of the morning sun could dissolve their work, and while yet every thread was strung with pearls. But what was the beauty of the spot compared with the excelling loveliness of her that dwelt within? She belonged to the most fragile of all the race, one of those who are fabled to have sunk beneath the weight of a single grain of wheat. The pencil of no mortal artist would be delicate enough to trace her features, and human language is too imperfect to describe the surpassing loveliness of this ethereal being. The gossamer strung with tiny pearls, and floating on the herbage of an autumnal morning, surpassed not in lightness the ringlets on her shoulder; and her footstep could only be traced by its displacing the golden dust from the flower, as she tripped from petal to petal, giving them their colors with a brush steeped in the dyes of Fairy-land. For her ministry was amidst the brightest part of creation, and her happiness to do offices of love--to raise the drooping head of the thirsty flower-cup, and bring it the freshest dew-drop of the morning. To be prepared for her ministry she had been placed by Titania upon this lower earth--but she was first bathed in the fountain of Oblivion, and thus separated from her former existence. Yet there still remained in her soul some faint recollections of the land of her home, falling upon her spirit sweet as the dying strains of music sometimes wafted to the wanderer from his native shore when he is leaving it forever. Still there was a void left in the soul of this Fairy inhabitant of earth. The yearnings of her heart told her she was an exile, though she knew not the land whence she came. Her Queen, in pity to her loneliness, formed for her a being suited to her love. On awakening one morning she beheld at the door of her grotto the loveliest object upon which her eyes had ever rested. It was that brightest of flowers, the _Lily of the Valley_--but such a one as never before sprung from the dark bosom of the earth. The dazzling purity of its blossoms seemed to mingle like moonbeams with the twilight of the morning, and its delicate green stem bent gently towards her as if seeking her affection. When the rising rays of the sun pierced even the depths of this shadowy valley, the soft green leaves of the Lily shaded the grotto from their influence.

It would be impossible to describe the love that filled the heart of our little Fairy for the beautiful flower--for we have not yet known what it is to be alone in a strange world without a kindred tie, or any thing to which the heart can cling, and which it may claim for its own. Now this was the Fairy's flower. She had not gone to seek it, but it had sprung up on her own threshold. All the day long was now bright to her. Her first thoughts, when she awoke, were to see if her Lily still stood in its loveliness before her, and then she moistened her lips with the dew that hung ever freshly from its silvery bells. The days rolled on, and our little Fairy heeded not their course. She knew not that they were bearing with them the brightness of Spring--for her existence had known no Winter. But heeded or unheeded, the days rolled on. Spring and Summer were gone, and Autumn was fading into Winter. The dazzling brightness of the Lily deepened into an unearthly hue, and its head was bowed with more than pensive grace. It was a bright morning, towards the last of Autumn, when our Fairy, awakening, looked towards her lovely favorite. But it was gone. She arose in haste, and beheld only a little heap of dust where her flower once grew. Alas! words cannot describe the anguish of her heart. There was a darkness--a mystery--in the fate of her beloved, which she could not unravel, and it fell so coldly upon her spirit, that she believed Winter was enclosing her heart also in its frost-work, and she wept for another home, where winter should come no more. But at length the destroyer passed away, and the bright things of the earth shot up again to meet the joyous Springtime. The voice of gladness was heard once more from the lofty mountain to the humble valley. Our little Fairy felt its influence--she felt the frost-work melt from her heart, and she wondered if she could love any flower again as she had loved her departed Lily.

And again, almost in the same spot, there sprung up a _Heart's Ease_, so bright and glowing that it seemed the very offspring of Joy. At first our Fairy would not trust herself to love it. She remembered that Winter would come again, and she thought, too, the new flower wanted the loveliness of her Lily. But invariably her heart smiled beneath its influence, and there was Springtime once more in her soul. The recollection of Winter passed from her mind, as the ice before the sun. But again Summer ripened into Autumn, and that, in its turn, was changed into Winter, and again the little Fairy was left alone. She beheld one morning her bright little gem of a flower set in the brilliants of frost, and sparkling as gaily as if the light still came from within. She hastened to dissolve with her breath the diamond fetters of her favorite, but alas! their weight had been too heavy for the little creature, and it fell with them to rise no more.

The Fairy wept--but not so bitterly as erewhile. She knew the Spring would come again with fresh flowers; and when it _did_ come she beheld a sweet _Mignonette_ spring up on her threshold, but so different in beauty from her former favorites that she turned from it in disappointment. Yet when the humble flower filled her grotto with fragrance, and insensibly its {78} sweetness stole into her heart, and possessed it with a delightful tranquillity she had never experienced before, her soul fainted within her when she remembered that Winter would snatch away from her _this_ loved one as it had done her _other_ loved ones before. And in truth, but a few brief months, and the blast had swept over this fragile flower, leaving no trace of its existence but the perfume it exhaled with its last breath, on the gale that bore it into eternity.

Now it was that our poor little Fairy felt a dreariness, not to be shaken off, fall heavily upon her spirits. She wished no longer for Spring. She wished never again to fix her heart upon the perishing flowers of Earth. The shadow of mortality seemed to have fallen even upon her bright little grotto, and she sighed for another home.

And now the time of her sojourn was over. Lying down upon her downy couch she slept. After a while, opening her eyes, she found herself in Fairy-land, and her heart told her that this was indeed her home. Those dim recollections of a former existence that had formerly floated in her mind, now revived with all the vividness of reality; and what she had believed to be but ideal forms of beauty, she now found to be the images of things familiar in a previous state of being. Even her beloved Lily, so fair yet so fleeting, was but the type of one that grew in Fairy-land in glorious and imperishable beauty. She saw here, too, thousands of her own race busied in gathering up the evanescent sweets of earthly flowers to embody them in forms of divine loveliness, unchangeable by the frosts of Winter, and springing up forever in sempiternal beauty. And now our Fairy was, for the first time, a happy Fairy. The longings of her heart were satisfied. She was an exile no more. She had found a home utterly free from the chilling shadows of mortality.

THE WAGONER.

I've often thought if I were asked
Whose lot I envied most--
What one, I thought most lightly tasked
Of man's unnumber'd host--
I'd say, I'd be a mountain boy,
And drive a noble team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry,
And lightly fly
Into my saddle seat;
My rein I'd slack--
My whip I'd crack--
What music is so sweet?

Six blacks I'd drive, of ample chest,
All carrying high the head;
All harness'd tight, and gaily drest
In winkers tipp'd with red--
Oh yes, I'd be a mountain boy
And such a team I'd drive, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry,
The lint should fly--
Wo, hoy! you Dobbin! Ball!
Their feet should ring
And I would sing,
I'd sing my fal de rol.

My bells would tingle, tingle ling,
Beneath each bear-skin cap;
And as I saw them swing and swing,
I'd be the merriest chap--
Yes, then I'd be a mountain boy
And drive a jingling team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry--
My words should fly,
Each horse would prick his ear;
With tighten'd chain
My lumbering wain
Would move in its career.

The golden sparks, you'd see them spring
Beneath my horse's tread;
Each tail, I'd braid it up with string
Of blue, or flaunting red;
So does, you know, the mountain boy
Who drives a dashing team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry
Each horse's eye
With fire would seem to burn;
With lifted head
And nostril spread
They'd seem the earth to spurn.

They'd champ the bit, and fling the foam,
As on they dragged my load;
And I would think of distant home,
And whistle upon the road--
Oh would I were a mountain boy--
I'd drive a six-horse team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry--
Now by yon sky,
I'd sooner drive those steeds
Than win renown,
Or wear a crown
Won by victorious deeds!

For crowns oft press the languid head,
And health the wearer shuns,
And Victory, trampling on the dead,
May do for Goths and Huns--
Seek them who will, they have no joys
For mountain lads, and Wagon-boys.

SACRED MELODY.

By the rivers of Babel we flung
Ourselves on the earth in despair--
Our harps on the willow-trees hung,
And wept for thee, Zion, afar.

For those who had made us their prey,
And bore us as captives along,
Then proudly demanded a lay--
To sing them, oh! Zion, thy song!

But the spoiler shall ask it in vain:
We will not this triumph accord--
He never shall list to the strain
That wafted the praise of the Lord.

For perish the hand that would string
The harp, unremembering thy woe,
And cursed be the tongue that would sing,
Oh! Zion, thy songs for the foe.

{79}

SENSIBILITY.

"Still in tears!" said Margarette Claremont, as she entered the parlor after a walk. "Which is it now, my dear Alice, Werther or Madam de Stael's Corinna?"

"Neither," answered Alice. Margarette looked over her shoulder, and saw that the book her cousin held was a volume of Kotzebue's plays, and that "Self-Immolation" was the one that engrossed her attention.

"How prodigal you are of your tears, dear cousin!" said Margarette,--"and how you _waste_ your sensibilities on these high-wrought, and ultra-sentimental fictions! Will not your health be impaired, and your mind enervated by such excess of indulgence?"

"I fear no such results," said Alice,--"and should blush at the obduracy of my heart, should it fail of being moved when reading works in which such deep feeling is portrayed."

"Weep as much for legitimate sorrow as you will, Alice--even when portrayed in fictitious narrative, but do not expend your sympathies on scenes such as never did, and never will occur in the world." Alice made no reply, as Margarette turned and ran up stairs, but the thought of her heart was--"I am thankful I am not a stoic! thankful that my feelings are not congealed."

Alice Lansdale and Margarette Claremont were both orphan nieces of the wealthy bachelor Mr. Claremont, with whom they resided. The former was the daughter of his only sister. Her parents died when she was quite young, and consigned her, destitute of property, to the care of her uncle, with whom she had now resided several years. Margarette was the daughter of his only brother. She had been an orphan but few months, during which period she had been domesticated in the family of Mr. Claremont, to whom had been committed the guardianship of herself, and her ample fortune.

"Have you nearly got through with your play, Alice?" said Margarette, as she re-entered the parlor. Alice made no answer, as she sat with her head leaning on one hand, her book spread on the table before her,--while the other hand held a handkerchief that was ever and anon applied to her eyes. Margarette advanced, and leaned on the back of her chair.

"How much longer are you going to read, Alice?" asked Margarette.

"Why can't you be quiet, and leave me undisturbed?" said Alice.

"Because I have something to tell you," answered Margarette.

"About goody Mason's lame finger, I suppose," said Alice.

"No--about two elegant looking young men I saw in the street an hour since,"--said Margarette.

"Who were they?" enquired Alice, without raising her eyes from her book.

"I do not know,--but from your description, I conjectured them to be your cousin Hubert and the _Black Prince_, as you call him."

"Why did not you tell me this before?" said Alice, springing on her feet. "They will be here immediately; cousin Hubert at least,--and here I am, looking like a fright, with eyes as red as a toper's! Why could you not have told me when you first came in?"

"I had been talking with Susan Hall, and forgot it," said Margarette. "And after all, perhaps it is not them."

"O, I know it is!--they were expected very soon. But tell me how the one you took to be the Black Prince looked, and I shall know at once if it was him."

"Tall--yet hardly as tall as his companion--with black hair, black eyes, and an acre of black whiskers; and--pardon me--a dash of impudence in his expression--at least I thought so, as I passed him."

"O, it must be him," said Alice, "though if it be, the latter part of your description is only your own imagination. But why do I linger here, when I must try to make myself look decent to see them? for cousin Hubert, at least, will come,"--and she left the room with a sigh.

Scarcely half an hour had passed ere Alice was summoned, according to her expectations, to meet her cousin, and Mr. Gordon, the _Black Prince_.

The young men made a long call,--for Alice had much to ask them of what they had seen and learned, during their absence; and they had much that was interesting to communicate. They had scarcely closed the door behind them, after taking leave, ere Alice exclaimed--

"Is he not a divine creature, cousin Margarette?"

"Which of them?" asked Margarette.

"Which! you stupid creature!--as if you knew not which I meant!--But which of them do you like best?"

"I was most pleased with your cousin's conversation," Margarette replied.

"Why?" asked Alice. "I am sure Gordon converses elegantly."

"He has words enough at command," said Margarette,--"but a scarcity of ideas; and those he has are not weighty. While listening to him I could not help thinking it was like dressing a little four-penny doll, in a large robe of silver tissue. Mr. Montague's conversation was really entertaining and instructive."

"I expected you to be severe, _of course_," said Alice, "yet I think you can find no fault with his manners."

"He is quite at his ease, and appears a gentleman, certainly," said Margarette, "yet his manners did not please me. There was too much show--he was _too_ easy--has too much manner; and, if I may judge from one interview, he is not at all wanting in self-complacency."

"Cousin Hubert's quiet way suited your singular taste better, I dare say," said Alice.

"It certainly did--for he did not appear to be thinking of himself. His manners to-day were truly polished and refined; and if they arise from his heart, as I hope they did, I should judge very favorably of the man."

"I suppose you think him best looking, too!" said Alice--"best dressed and all!"

"In person they are both elegant young men," said Margarette, "but Mr. Montague's dress certainly suited me best,--as I doubt whether to be comfortable is not his first object in the choice of his apparel. As for Mr. Gordon, he must make dress a study. You see, Alice, as I had nothing to do but look and listen, I could learn a good deal of them in the hour and a half that they were here."

"Well, as you _studied_ them, do let me know what you think of their faces."

{80} "I have told you enough for once," said Margarette, "wait for the remainder till I see them again--perhaps I may change my opinion."

"No, no," said Alice,--"let me have it now--When you change your opinion, you can let me know it.--What of their faces?"

"Mr. Gordon, then," said Margarette, "knows that he is handsome,--and he has studied the exterior of his head so much, that I should fear he has somewhat neglected the interior."

"And what of cousin Hubert's?"

"I think his head very fine--very classical. His face is decidedly intellectual--his eyes uncommonly good."

"And what of his mouth and teeth?" said Alice.

"Peculiarly handsome," said Margarette. "And now, as you can possibly have no more questions to ask, pray let me know your opinion."

"You must have known that a long time. Cousin Hubert is--I can't say what he is--but just what I approve; and as for Gordon, he is the divinest creature alive!"

While this conversation was going on in Mr. Claremont's parlor, one not dissimilar was carried on in the street betwixt the gentlemen, Montague and Gordon.

"Who is this new cousin of yours, Montague?" asked Gordon.

"I cannot claim her as a relation," said Montague. "She is cousin to my cousin only, and a perfect stranger to me."

"_N'importe_," said Gordon. "But what do you think of her?"

"I have not had time to form an opinion," said Montague.

"You received some kind of impression, necessarily," said Gordon. "No one can be almost alone with a stranger for an hour or more, and not form some idea of what the character may be."

"She is certainly very silent and reserved," said Montague. "Her countenance denotes intellect,--but she appears cold, and has a loftiness that is repelling.--I fear she may prove wanting in that sensibility, of which cousin Alice has so abundant a share."

"O, she is a block of marble--a bank of snow--a statue of ice," said Gordon. "There would be infinite amusement in trying whether the marble would yield! the snow melt! the ice thaw!--She is a new variety of the species. I have seen nothing like her!"

"You admire her," said Montague. "I do exceedingly," said Gordon.

"Your taste has much changed," observed Montague. "It is but a short time since you were in raptures about my cousin, and they appear to be exceedingly unlike."

"True,--and Miss Claremont therefore excites the deeper interest. She will require some labor, some ingenuity to make her dissolve. Alice, pardon me, is always _melted_."

"Alice has strong sensibilities," said Montague, "and is as unsophisticated as a child. She hides none of her feelings."

"Did you notice Miss Claremont's smile," asked Gordon.

"I did, and confess it was very beautiful. Her whole face smiled, and seemed to beam with delight. But it was so evanescent, I scarcely caught it, ere it was gone."

"A slight shade of sadness was the prevailing cast of her countenance," said Gordon.

"She has recently lost a most excellent father," said Montague. "You noticed she was in mourning."

"Could an unfeeling heart lodge beneath that smile?" asked Gordon.

"The source of the smile might be the head--not the heart," answered Montague.

"I will never believe it--at least not till I try whether she has a heart or not," said Gordon.

"Very well," said Montague. "I told you in the beginning, I had not had time to form an opinion."

Between the two young men who held this conversation, there was as strong a contrast as could be between a noble-minded, well-educated, well-principled young man, and an _exquisite_ of the first water. Gordon was quite free from all gross irregularities, but he had no principle of action; no motive beyond present gratification. The Bible was Montague's counsellor and guide; and he was endeavoring so to live on earth, as to live forever in Heaven. The young men had been much together in boyhood, and afterwards at the university; and though the difference in their characters grew broader, and more strongly marked every day, yet their intimacy in some degree continued. Montague was interested in the welfare of his early associate; and Gordon, though often angry at the warnings, exhortations, and reproofs of his friend, could not endure the idea of relinquishing his friendship. He really had a kind of affection for Montague; and he felt that it gave him additional consequence to be permitted to call such a man _friend_. Some months previous to the period now spoken of, Montague had been called on business to a distant part of the country; and Gordon, having nothing to do, offered to accompany him, and they had now just returned, after an absence of half a year. Montague had his fortune to make; Gordon inherited one from his father.

One morning about a week after his return, Montague called at Mr. Claremont's, where he was a frequent visiter. He was not quite as cheerful and conversable as usual, and after trying a long time to draw him out, Alice said--

"You are depressed this morning, Hubert. What is the matter?"

"I have just witnessed a scene of distress, that I cannot get out of my mind," said Montague.

"What was that?" asked Alice.

"It was an Irish family that occupy a hovel about half a mile from hence. The family consists of the father, Patrick Delanty, his wife and six children, the eldest a daughter, not more than thirteen years of age. They have been but few weeks in town, and are wretchedly poor. The wife is ill of a raging fever, and the two youngest children of measles, from which the others are but just recovered. Delanty is obliged to be out at day-labor, to keep his family from starvation; so that all the care and labor of nursing the sick, and looking after the other children, devolve on the eldest daughter, and a boy, two or three years younger.-- Such poverty--such squalid and complicated misery, I have never before witnessed."

"Poor creatures!" said Alice. "But why will they {81} leave their native land, and come here among strangers, where no one cares for them, to endure such misery?"

"To get rid of greater misery at home, cousin Alice!" said Montague.

"O, they are much to be pitied, poor creatures!"--said Alice; "but there are such hordes of them, that it is impossible to afford them effectual relief."

Montague said no more, as he found that the sympathetic cord in his cousin's heart was not touched. He just cast his eyes on Margarette, who was sitting, busily at work, in a recess at the opposite end of the room, to see if her compassion was awakened: but she was diligently plying her needle,--and but for the motion of her hand, he thought she looked exceedingly as if she were made of stone! "Heartless! unfeeling!" he thought, and almost murmured, as he arose and precipitately took leave.

The day next but one, Montague was again at Mr. Claremont's. Neither of the young ladies mentioned the Delantys; for Alice was wholly engrossed in a new novel,--and Montague concluded that Margarette had not even heard that there were any such people. But his own heart was too full of them, not to speak of their situation.

"Cousin Alice," said he, "you are so compassionate that I wonder you do not ask after the welfare of the poor Irish family."

"O, poor creatures! how are they? I have thought of them several times since you were here, and wished they had stayed in their own country, among their own friends, that they might be properly looked after. Have you seen them since you were here last, cousin Hubert?"

"Yes--yesterday, and again this morning."

"And how are they?"

"The children are somewhat better, but the mother still very ill. The family, however, together, are more comfortable than when I first saw them. Some young lady has kindly visited them, and not only in some measure relieved their pressing necessities, but given judicious and salutary advice to the daughter about the management of their affairs. When they described her to me, I felt a hope that it was you, cousin Alice."

"O no, Hubert, I could not go--such a scene of suffering would have shaken me all to pieces. Really I do not think I could bear it! But how did they describe the young lady?"

"As neither tall nor short, with a beautiful face, and a '_raal Irish heart_'--kind as an angel!" said Hubert,--and he glanced his eyes toward Margarette, to ascertain if there were any look of consciousness in the expression of her face; but she was looking over the morning paper, and at that moment exclaimed--

"Dunlap and Miss Reed are married, Alice."

"How could I, even for a moment, suspect it might be her?" thought Montague. "She cares no more for them than if they were reptiles!"

"Who could it be, cousin Hubert?" asked Alice. "Did you not ask them if they knew her name?"

"I did--but they knew nothing of her but her kindness, of which they could not say enough. She even made the bed, with her own hands, and put fresh linen upon it, which she brought with her for the purpose, for the sick mother, who told me of it with tears of gratitude in her eyes."

"Well indeed she might!" cried Alice. "Think of what an office for a young lady!--such a combination of disease and filthiness! If I hear of any young lady in town, sick of a fever, I shall at once know who was Mrs. Delanty's nurse."

"May Heaven preserve her health," said Montague with fervor. "Persons of less active kindness could much better be spared; and the community would suffer little loss, were they laid on a bed of sickness."

"Very true," said Alice. "Yet there are very few, who can with propriety be called young _ladies_, who are capable of rendering such services. One might be ready to relieve suffering if it existed under less disgusting circumstances; but for a delicate female to encounter such dirt, and disease, and poverty at once, is too much!"

"Firm principle, a truly feeling heart, and a self-denying spirit, could alone enable a delicate woman to do it," said Montague,--"and these could!" He looked around to ascertain whether Margarette had really left the room, and then added--"And pardon me, my dearest cousin, if I suggest to you, that would you strive to conquer that extreme sensibility, which makes you shrink from scenes of suffering, and constrain yourself to witness and relieve distress, in your own person, you would render yourself, at once, far more happy and useful, if not more interesting. _Active benevolence_ is one great secret of happiness." At this moment Mr. Claremont entered the room; the conversation turned to other subjects, and Montague soon took leave.

Mr. Gordon had not kept himself aloof from Mr. Claremont's, during this period; on the contrary, he had called frequently--as frequently as he dared, and reconnoitred to the best of his ability to ascertain the vulnerable part of Margarette's character, while he had brought all his small arms into successive requisition. His first and most natural effort was by flattery,--by which it is said all women may be subdued; and perhaps they may, _and all men too_, provided it be of the right kind, and administered in the right manner. But here Mr. Gordon completely failed. He was too gross; his colors were too glaring; there was no soft shading away,--nothing to touch the heart, through the medium of a refined taste; and Gordon found, though he knew not why, that he excited disgust instead of pleasure. He wondered that what he had ever found so efficacious with other young ladies--what would have caused the cheek of Alice to glow, and her eye to sparkle, was so powerless here. "I said she was a new variety of the species," thought he, "and I must try again." And he did try again--first by doing her silent homage,--breathing near her ear the deep-drawn sigh, and casting upon her the look of warm admiration and deep interest. But he soon closed his pantomime, as Margarette _heeded_ not, even if she _heard_ his sighs; and his impassioned glances were completely thrown away, as they rarely met her eye,--and when they did, seemed not to be understood. The next attempt was to aid in gratifying her in her favorite recreations, and in the indulgence of her taste. "Was Miss Claremont fond of prints?" "Particularly so." "He was very happy! He had a choice collection--and would fetch over his portfolio for her examination." "Was there any book in his library that Miss Claremont would like to read? He had the most approved editions of all modern authors, and it {82} would afford him great pleasure if Miss Claremont would make a selection from among them, of any thing new to her." "He was very obliging--but her uncle's library was large, and well selected, affording sufficient intellectual nourishment for years--beside that he purchased every new work of merit." "Miss Claremont was an equestrian. He had a palfrey that would rival Margaret of Cranstoun's, which was entirely at her service." "He was exceedingly kind--but Mr. Claremont had one that was at once so spirited and gentle, that on his back she felt entirely at ease." Poor Gordon knew not what next to do. He had racked his invention to render himself agreeable and necessary--not only in the ways above enumerated--but by being always observing, and ready to perform any little personal service that might be requisite, such as handing a glass of lemonade, fetching a fan, picking up a stray glove, or placing a chair in a more desirable situation. He had actually labored hard, and had not advanced one step; and the only gratification that attended his exertions, was the obvious uneasiness of Alice, who pined under the loss of his attentions. A half suppressed sigh often struck on his ear; and a tear, as he thought, filled her eye, as she witnessed his marked devotion to Margarette. But for this sweet incense to his vanity, and his own boasting to Montague, that he was resolved not to be defeated, he would have relinquished so hopeless a pursuit. But pride and vanity impelled him onward; and although he could devise no new mode of attack, he determined to watch opportunities, and avail himself of any circumstance that might occur in favor of his design. As the _heart_ of Mr. Gordon was a thing entirely out of the question, except as it occasionally fluttered with gratified vanity, or was momentarily depressed with mortification at want of success, his _head_ was entirely free to devise plans in the best manner his abilities would allow, and watch opportunities with the most perfect coolness.

Mr. Montague had by degrees become interested in watching the result of Gordon's various modes of attack; and notwithstanding he had been rather displeased with the apparent coldness of Margarette's character, he felt gratified that she did not yield to the arts of Gordon. Not that he was in the least jealous of his friend's general success with women; nor that he had any personal wishes relative to Margarette; but he did wish to see one woman who was not to be won by mere external graces and accomplishments, and the little arts and blandishments that are usually so successful. His interest in Gordon's progress, led him to notice Margarette more particularly than he would, perhaps, otherwise have done. Gradually, and unconsciously, he was taking her up as a study; and the more he observed her, the more interesting did the study become. "She is a perfect enigma!" thought he. "I can never decide whether the variations in her countenance have their origin in the head or the heart. Her smile is the brightest--the most joyous--the most beautiful I ever beheld! and yet there is something in it that leads me to fear that it is like the brilliancy of the diamond--cold, while it dazzles! She seems not easily moved; and yet, while silently engaged in her work, I have seen her color fluctuate, while others have been discussing an interesting subject. She knows, at least, how to appreciate true greatness, for I have seen her eyes speak volumes when a magnanimous action has been mentioned before her. And, at any rate, I admire the firmness with which she repels that small artillery that is so generally successful, when levelled against her sex!"

* * * * *

One evening quite a circle of friends collected at Mr. Claremont's, among whom were both Montague and Gordon. Gordon secured a seat between Alice and Margarette, while Montague stood apart from them, listening to the general conversation, but now and then casting a glance at the trio, in which he took so much interest. The conversation at length fell on reading. Some expressed a preference for one class of reading, some for another; but a large majority of the company decided that biography was the most instructive, interesting, and entertaining. This resulted in a discussion of whose biography was most valuable, when a gentleman remarked, "that the life of Lord Nelson was the most interesting work he had ever read."

"Is it the book or the man, you so much admire?" asked one of the company.

"O, both--but the man particularly. His heroism charmed me."

"O do not name him," said Mr. Claremont. "I sicken with disgust when I read the fulsome panegyrics bestowed on him; and the numberless monuments raised to his memory in Great Britain."

"He was a most noble creature!" said Gordon, in a rather low tone to Margarette. She cast on him a look of the most withering coldness, not unmingled with contempt, but made no reply, as she listened to learn what further her uncle would say.

"No wonder they are proud of him, and raise monuments to his memory," said the gentleman who had first spoken of Nelson. "He secured more honor to the British navy than any hero from the reign of Elizabeth to the present time."

"Talk not of his heroism, or the glory he acquired for Britain," said Mr. Claremont. "Devoured by ambition, did he fight for the good of his country? or to attain individual honor? Was he not continually whining and complaining that his services were not sufficiently requited? Depend on it, he would not have thought the crown of England an unreasonable reward! And in his character as a hero, lies all the honor he can claim. As a private man, he was despicable. Though he could conquer the enemies of his country, he resigned himself without resistance to the dominion of the basest passions, and was guilty of that, which in _unrefined_ New England, would have caused him to be hooted from society. Perfidious! hypocritical! base!--his character was stained with vices of the deepest dye,--and my astonishment can only be exceeded by my indignation, when in English publications I see him spoken of, and that by pious persons--Madam More, for one--as the "_immortal Nelson!_"--a being to be looked up to with admiration!"

"You are warm, Mr. Claremont," observed one of his friends.

"Perhaps I am, sir; and on this subject I wish others were as warm as myself. To eulogize such men as Lord Nelson, and hold them up to youth as fit objects for admiration and imitation, is laying the axe at the root of all morality. It is not, indeed, going softly to work, like a Rousseau, or Voltaire, to undermine the {83} foundation of their virtue, but demolishes the whole fabric at once, by telling them, that if capable of performing a few brilliant actions, such a halo will shine around them, as will entirely conceal from the eyes of every beholder their want of sincerity, truth, fidelity, or moral honor. Wo to my country, when the public sentiment shall be so far corrupted, as to think that heroism, and what is known by the name of _glory_, can compensate for the want of true, consistent, undying virtue!"

Montague chanced to be looking at Margarette when Mr. Claremont began to speak, and the look she gave Mr. Gordon fixed his attention upon her, though he heard not the remark that called it forth. He watched her countenance with deep interest, as it gradually lighted up to a glow of admiring approbation, strangely intermingled with a shade of sadness. "I will have her opinion on this subject from her own lips," thought he; and placing himself near her, he said--

"What is your opinion of Lord Nelson, Miss Claremont?"

"O, exactly the same as my uncle's," said Margarette. "And how could it be otherwise? when I have so often heard my dear father express sentiments exactly similar. He very carefully taught me, never to let any external glory, any meretricious glare, blind me to real defects, or to the want of intrinsic and solid excellence." Her eye, as she finished speaking, sparkled through a tear, which was not unobserved by either Montague or Gordon.

"There is, then, a fountain of feeling within," thought Montague, as he still looked upon her--"A fountain of deep, pure, noble feeling!"

"By Jupiter, there is a tear!" thought Gordon--"and Montague has had the good fortune to call it forth. Who would have thought, that to talk of Lord Nelson, was the way to touch her heart? I would have given a thousand dollars, rather than he should have had this triumph!"

* * * * *

One morning Montague called at Mr. Claremont's, but found that both the young ladies were out. Mr. Claremont, however, was in the parlor, and he and Montague had passed a very pleasant half hour, ere Alice and Margarette came in. Margarette bade Montague 'good morning'--but Alice just nodded at him, and hastened to her uncle, and seating herself on his knee, exclaimed--

"Dear uncle, I am so glad you are in! I want to ask a great favor of you."

"What is that, my dear?" said Mr. Claremont.

"I am half afraid to tell," said Alice, "you will think me so extravagant. But, dear uncle, Margarette and I have seen the two most beautiful pearl necklaces at Wendall's, you ever beheld!"

"And you want them?"

"O, I do, most sadly," said Alice.

"And do you, Margarette?"

"I think not, sir," said Margarette--while Alice at the same moment cried--

"O, Margarette can have whatever she wants, she is so rich!--not a poor beggar like your own Alice, dependent on the bounty of another for every thing"--and bursting into tears, she hid her face on her uncle's shoulder.

"Sweet sensibility, O, la!
I heard a little lamb cry, bah!"

said Mr. Claremont. "Come, Alice, don't cry about it, but tell me the price of the necklaces."

"How can I," said the sobbing Alice, "when you make such cruel sport of my feelings? Indeed, uncle, it is cruel!"

"I never make sport of your feelings, my dear, when there is any thing that ought to awaken them," said Mr. Claremont. "But come, tell me the price of the pearl necklaces."

"They are fifty dollars apiece."

"Whew!" said Mr. Claremont. "And so I must spend a hundred dollars to adorn the necks of my nieces?"

"O, Margarette can buy her own, you know uncle, and so you will have to give away but fifty."

"I hold Miss Claremont's purse-strings, you know," said Mr. Claremont, "and I shall serve you both alike. Margarette's, as well as yours, must be the gift of her uncle."

"I do not wish for one, my dear sir," said Margarette, but Mr. Claremont heeded her not, and opening his pocket book, gave them fifty dollars each. Alice loaded her uncle with kisses and thanks, while it was with evident reluctance that Margarette took hers in her hand. But as some ladies at that instant entered the room, without saying more, she put it in her purse. As soon as the visiters had withdrawn Alice went to her chamber, and Margarette seized the opportunity of being alone with Mr. Claremont, to restore to him the fifty dollars.

"My dear sir," said she, "I cannot accept this money, and should have declined it at the moment, only I could not explain before strangers. You will relieve me greatly by taking it again."

"By no means, my dear--I should be much pleased that you and Alice should have necklaces alike."

"But I do not want a necklace, sir, and should feel very badly to spend fifty dollars on a useless ornament."

"Then purchase something else with it, Margarette."

"I am in want of nothing, sir, and had much rather restore it to you."

"Can you find no use for it, my dear?" asked Mr. Claremont.

"O yes, sir--I could find enough to do with this, and ten times more. But perhaps you would think it injudiciously expended."

"What should you do with it, Margarette?" asked Mr. Claremont.

"Give every cent of it away, sir," Margarette replied.

"Very well," said Mr. Claremont. "It is yours, my dear, to throw at the birds, if you please. I can depend on your judgment and principles, that it will not go to indulge idleness or vice."

"O, I thank you most sincerely, my dear uncle," said Margarette with warmth--"in behalf of those who are suffering from want. It will give me great delight to be your almoner."

* * * * *

There was a very narrow lane ran past the foot of Mr. Claremont's garden, in which stood a little hut, occupied by a poor, but pious old man, who earned a scanty livelihood by gardening. He was known all ever the town by the title of _Commodore_, merely because {84} in his youth he had commanded a fishing-smack. Montague had one evening walked some way out of town; and on his return, intending to pass an hour at Mr. Claremont's, he passed through this lane as the shortest way to his house. In passing the Commodore's domicil, which stood on the lower side of the lane, he cast his eyes in at the window, which had neither shutter nor curtain, and by a glimmering fire-light saw the old man sitting in his arm chair by the fire, while a female sat on a low stool beside him, who seemed to be doing something to his foot, which lay across her lap. Montague halted an instant, for there was something about the female figure, although enveloped in a large shawl and hood, that reminded him of Margarette. But her back was toward him, and the fire-light was so dim, that he remained in doubt whether or not it was she. "If it is her," thought he, as he walked on--"If it is her, performing such an office for the poor old Commodore, it may, after all, be her who visits the Delantys." As he came out of the lane, he met an acquaintance, with whom he conversed a minute or two, and then proceeded to Mr. Claremont's.

On entering the parlor, he found the little domestic circle complete. Mr. Claremont was engaged in a volume of Brewster's Encyclopedia; Alice with Malvina, over which she was shedding a torrent of tears,--and Margarette with her knitting work. "It was not her, after all," thought Montague; "but who could it be? she had not the air of a rustic!" After receiving Mr. Claremont's cordial welcome, he advanced toward his cousin, and closing her book with gentle violence, said--

"If you sustain no other injury, my dear Alice, you will inevitably ruin your eyes by reading while you weep so profusely. I wish you would relinquish novels as I fear they do you little good. Their general tendency is to enervate rather than strengthen the character." "I wish you could persuade her to relinquish them, Mr. Montague," said Mr. Claremont. "I am satisfied that that class of reading, only increases in Alice that sensitiveness which is already too strong. It will degenerate into weakness, and I know of few things more to be dreaded than a _sickly sensibility_."

"Why should you suppose that the reading of novels would produce that effect, more than the scenes of real life?" said Alice, "when it is universally conceded, that no genius can ever reach the truth."

"I can tell you why, Alice," said Montague. "In reading works of the imagination, persons of feeling unconsciously identify themselves with the favorite character; and then in a day or two, and sometimes in a few hours, their feelings are taxed with those scenes of sorrow and excitement, which in real life are scattered through months, or perhaps years. The greater part of life is made up of comparative trifles, which make little demand on the feelings, and scenes of sorrow and excitement are 'few and far between,' like the convulsions of the elements--which, though often distressing, and sometimes disastrous, are, on the whole, highly beneficial. But were the elements always at war, nature would soon sink to dissolution; and so if the mind and the heart were constantly raised to a state of high excitement, their energies would soon be exhausted, and the corporeal part would soon sink in the conflict. Do you read novels, Miss Claremont?" inquired Montague.

"Sometimes, but not often," Margarette replied.

"And do they affect you as they do cousin Alice?"

"Affect her?" cried Alice--"no, indeed! I never saw her moved to tears, by reading, but once in my life."

"And pray what was she then reading?" asked Montague, with a smile.

"A little penny tract, called 'Old Sarah, the Indian Woman'"--said Alice. "Over that she actually wept!"

"Did you read the tract, cousin Alice?"

"Yes--from mere curiosity, after witnessing the wonderful effect it produced."

"And did it call forth your tears?"

"No, certainly not!--Sarah was a good old creature, to be sure, but there was nothing in the tract to touch one's sensibility; and I could never conceive what there was in it, that so moved Margarette."

"Pho, pho, Alice," said Mr. Claremont, "Margarette is not the Stoic you represent her. I caught her no longer ago than this very morning, with a tear in her eye, while reading."

"My dear uncle," said Margarette, in a supplicating tone, while the pure blood in her cheeks rushed to her temples.

"What _was_ she reading, uncle?" cried Alice.

"None of your lackadaisical nonsense, you may be certain, Alice," said Mr. Claremont. "She was reading a newspaper."

Alice laughed outright.

"Not so laughable an affair, neither, my dear," said Mr. Claremont, "as she was reading of the bravery and sufferings of the poor unfortunate"----

"Dear uncle!" again ejaculated Margarette.

"Poles," added Mr. Claremont, without noticing the interruption.

"The Poles? O yes," said Alice. "There was 'Thaddeus of Warsaw'--he was a divine creature! Well might one weep at the recital of his sufferings!"

"Doubtless, my dear--but Margarette's sympathies were moved by sufferings of a more recent date than his--by the narrative of bravery and suffering in all their nakedness--unadorned with the romance and poetry that Miss Porter has thrown around her hero. And to tell you the plain truth, Alice--I _do_ like that sensibility better, that sympathizes with the actual miseries of our fellow creatures, even though there be nothing elegant, or poetic about them, than that which has tears only for some high-wrought tale of fictitious woe--the afflictions of some fallen prince, or the sorrows of some love-stricken swain, or lovelorn damsel."

"That, dear uncle, is as much as to say," said Alice, while her voice was choked with rising emotion--"that I can feel for sorrows of no other kind, and that you like Margarette's sensibility better than you do mine! I suppose you love her, too, more than you do your own poor, lone Alice! I feel that she is stealing every one's affection from me, though I love with so much more ardor than she does!" and she burst into tears.

All present felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and Margarette, who was really distressed, resolved to give a new turn to the conversation. Alice had seated herself on Mr. Claremont's knee, and thrown both her arms around his neck--so leaving him to soothe her wounded feelings in his own way, Margarette asked Montague some question, as foreign as possible to their recent conversation. The effort succeeded--the tears of Alice {85} were soon dried, and the remainder of the evening passed very pleasantly.

* * * * *

One evening Montague and Gordon met the Claremont family, with a small select party, at the house of a friend. Gordon, as usual, secured a seat next Margarette, who was also attended by Alice, who had learned that to be near her, was the surest way to be near the idol of her imagination, _the Black Prince_. Montague likewise stood near them; for he was beginning to find, that there was something extremely attractive, even in Margarette's apparent coldness; or rather, that it was peculiarly interesting to observe marks of deep feeling, under so calm, so placid an exterior. Gordon recollected the conversation concerning Lord Nelson, and the effect produced on Margarette; and resolving in his turn to find a passage to her sensibilities, led the conversation to heroes and great men. He made some very eloquent remarks, as he apprehended, on heroism and greatness, which had previously been arranged with great care.

"Whom do you consider truly great men, Mr. Gordon?" asked Alice.

"Alexander--Louis the Fourteenth--Napoleon--Voltaire and Lord Byron," said Gordon. "Each in his turn, and in his own way, has dazzled the whole world!"

"Dazzled, but not enlightened!" said Montague.

Margarette looked up with one of her brightest smiles, and Montague felt, at the bottom of his heart, that it was _warm_, as well as brilliant.

"By Vesta," thought Gordon, "she has rewarded him for those two words, with that smile, which I have made such useless efforts to obtain! and _he_ has made no effort at all!--I abandon her!"

"Whom do you esteem great men, Mr. Montague?" inquired Margarette.

"O, there have been hosts of them in the world," answered Montague; "but perhaps it would be better to tell you what I call true greatness, than to name those whom I esteem great. True greatness, I apprehend, consists in conquering or in duly restraining the ruling passion; in forgiving an injury, when we have fair opportunity for avenging ourselves; in sacrificing our own feelings and interests for the good of others; in that benevolence that leads to a forgetfulness of _self_, in efforts to promote the happiness and welfare of mankind."

"The world will hardly subscribe to your explanation of _greatness_," said Gordon, with something like a sneer, "and few are _great!_"

"Few are--but many might be," said Montague. "Every one who foregoes his own personal good, for the good of others; who forgets his own happiness, in efforts to promote the happiness of those around him, and who will not be turned aside from his purpose by the obstacles, or the unkindness, or the ridicule with which he meets, is _great_."

"Who sees such greatness?" asked Gordon.