CHAPTER IX.

“Wo the British soldiery, That little dread us near; On them shall light at midnight, A strange and sudden fear. · · · · · A moment in the British camp— A moment and away,— Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day.” —BRYANT.

It was evening. In a large and spacious apartment, elegantly wainscoted, and filled with rich furniture, an innumerable number of lights were blazing, as if the room was shortly to witness a festival. Disposed about, on little exquisitely lacquered Chinese stands, were vases filled with flowers, most of them white. A rich Prayer-book lay open on a table at the head of the room. At the side a place had been fitted up for an orchestra. These were the preparations for the bridal of our heroine—strange mockery!

At length the company began to gather. Among numerous officers and other guests came Col. Campbell, the commander of the post, little dreaming of the tragedy in which unwittingly he was playing so very prominent a part. He was followed by Mr. Mowbray, accompanied by the groom. Major Lindsay was dressed in uniform, but he wore a white favor on his breast, and his sword-knot was of snowy ribbon. He walked with a firm, proud step, and looked around smiling. He knew that there was scarcely a brother officer that did not envy him the possession of his bride, and the consciousness of this increased the exuberance of his spirits. The prize he had so long struggled for was now about to be won; and all regret at his conduct had long since vanished. Gratified triumph was written on every feature of his face.

Mr. Mowbray was attired with becoming elegance, though the guests remarked that his dress was almost too sad for a wedding. It might, indeed, with almost equal propriety have been worn at a funeral. The dress, in fact, was no bad type of Mr. Mowbray’s feelings, and, perhaps, had been chosen on that account. The truth was, that in secret he could not reconcile himself to this union. Though Kate herself, weeping on his bosom, had declared she was ready to marry Major Lindsay, and though Mrs. Blakeley, herself deceived, had assured him that Kate’s agitation arose only from the usual coyness of a maid, he could not expel from his heart an uneasy fear lest Kate had consented to this marriage only to save his life. Why else was she so pale? Why were her spirits so high in company, while she bore traces, as he thought, of tears in secret? Only that morning he had caught her weeping; and when he pressed to know the cause, she declared she was merely nervous—an assertion which Mrs. Blakeley corroborated. To purchase life with her unhappiness, was what he could not consent to; and but for her, the aged patriot, perhaps, would have scorned to purchase it on any terms.

As we have said, therefore, a secret presentiment filled Mr. Mowbray’s heart with sadness. Something seemed to whisper to him that it was not yet too late to draw back. He seemed, indeed, like one going to a scaffold, rather than like the parent of a bride.

Directly the bride entered, attended by her aunt, and the daughter of one of the officers. Kate was dressed in simple white, without a single ornament, and every vestige of color had fled from her face, which looked almost like snowy wax. Still, she was wondrously beautiful. Even her deathly pallor, so like that of a corpse, that some of the females present actually shuddered and drew back as she approached, could not entirely destroy the effect of her surpassing figure, and the grace of every movement. Yet she looked rather like a nun about to take the veil than like a bride. Her smiles were no longer at her command—for the near approach of her doom had completely prostrated her. She seemed now what she was—a victim wreathed for the sacrifice.

She had sat in her room all that afternoon, in a sort of stupor, her fingers convulsively clasping and unclasping each other, and her eyes bent on the floor listlessly. The going out and coming in of her attendants attracted no attention. But she had not shed a tear. The fountains of her eyes seemed scorched up. When the time came to attire her for the ceremony, they had to rouse her; and the vacant gaze of inquiry she turned on the servant, made the slave, for a moment, think her insane. But when her aunt came in to superintend her toilet, she seemed to revive, and with an effort rose from her chair, and welcomed her with a smile—but one like a sunbeam on a wintry day, cold, and shuddering to look upon. From this moment, however, she was more like herself, though at times the muscles of her mouth would twitch convulsively. At other times she would turn away her head, and an expression of heart-breaking wo would then shoot across her countenance; but, on meeting her aunt’s eye once more, she would essay again to smile.

A few moments before the ceremony was to begin, they left her alone for a moment. She was standing before the mirror, and her eyes fell on the reflection of her form.

“The sacrifice will soon be complete,” she said bitterly. “God forgive me—yet surely I am doing right. Oh! that I could weep, but there is a load here,” and she pressed both hands on her breast, “that keeps back the tears. It is like burning fire.”

Who would have believed that this ghastly face was the once radiant one of Kate Mowbray?

Her father stood near the door as she entered. He was struck with the dry, stony expression of her face, and started forward to her side. He spoke in a whisper, but with startling earnestness.

“I adjure you, my daughter,” he said, “tell me—are you willing to go on with this matter? Say but a word, and it shall be broken off.”

Kate lifted her eyes to his with a sudden movement, and the glance they gave was full of unutterable love. It was such, if we may say so without presumption, as a martyred spirit might have turned to heaven from the stake. It thrilled every nerve in that father’s frame. That same sad, sweet smile, too, was on her face, as she placed her hand in his, and said,

“Let it go on, dear father. I am only faint and nervous. I shall soon be better.” Ay! better in the grave.

His doubts were only half resolved, but he could say no more, and together they advanced to the temporary altar, where the bridegroom and priest stood awaiting them.

Kate felt a choking in the throat, as her eyes first fell on Major Lindsay, and it seemed to her, for an instant, as if her knees were failing her. But she remembered that her father’s eyes were bent anxiously on her, and from that moment there was no longer any faltering on her part.

The buzz which attended her entrance had now subsided, and a deep hush fell on the room. Every ear was strained to catch the first sound of the minister’s voice. A watch might have been heard to tick.

“Dearly beloved,” began the minister, in the time-hallowed form of the Episcopal church, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God—”

He had proceeded thus far, when such a sudden and startling burst of tumult arose from the distant street, that he raised his eyes, with a look of alarm, from his book. It was like the confused ringing of bells, half-drowned in the shouts of people. All at once the town-bell itself, close at hand, took up the uproar, and its iron tongue was heard clanging hurriedly and fiercely on the night.

The male part of the company sprang to their feet.

“Hark!” said Col. Campbell, “can it be the town on fire?”

“There it goes, louder and louder,” exclaimed a second; “it must be an insurrection.”

The women now lent their shrieks to the tumult. The officers, with their hands on their swords, rushed toward the door. The divine had dropped his Prayer-book, and his looks were full of inquiry and astonishment. Kate, with a quick look of alarm, shrank back to her father’s side. All was wonder, terror, and dismay.

The uproar without increased. Louder and fiercer the alarm-bell rang; steps were heard hurrying to and fro; and at length distant shouts, mingled with the report of fire-arms, came to the ear. Then drums were heard beating hastily to arms, and at this signal every military man present rushed out into the air.

“Be not alarmed,” said the bridegroom, turning to Kate, “it is only a false alarm, or a drunken mutiny. I will soon be back!” and with these words he sprang after his companions.

The females were now left alone, excepting the minister and Mr. Mowbray. But the tumult was obviously no trifling one. The shouts seemed to approach, and grew louder; a rushing sound, as of an advancing crowd, was heard; the rattle of fire-arms was almost continual, and seemed closer at hand each moment; and still louder, and more hurriedly, the call to arms was beaten, while fiercer and fiercer the alarm-bell, in its neighboring cupola, clamored over the din. A broad light now gleamed across the windows from the darkness outside, and cries of terror were heard increasing every moment.

Mr. Mowbray handed Kate to her aunt, and hurrying to the casement flung it up. At this the confused sounds without assumed more distinctness, and grew louder. He looked out.

“It is Marion and his men,” he cried exultingly. “Hark! here they come.”

With a wild cry at these words of promised deliverance, Kate sprung to her father’s side and looked out. At the lower end of the village one or two houses were in flames, and their bright glare lit up the otherwise black prospect. Close at hand, and retreating toward her in disorder, was a company of the royal soldiers, among whom she saw the largest portion of the officers lately assembled in that apartment. She could distinguish Colonel Campbell and Major Lindsay among others, sword in hand, endeavoring to rally the men.

But further down the street was a spectacle that filled her bosom with the wildest and most tumultuous joy. Here the way was blocked up, from side to side, by a press of assailants, who wore the uniform of Marion’s brigade, and who were advancing with loud shouts, charging continually on the retreating foe, whom they drove before them as wolves drive frightened sheep. As the battle drew nearer, she could distinguish the several war cries.

“Huzza for Marion—Remember his oath—Drive on the dogs!”

These were the shouts of the assailants, to which the royal officers replied,

“Stand fast for old England. Down with the rebels. Stand fast!”

For a moment the retreating fugitives rallied, and made a stand. This was almost opposite the window where Kate remained with her father, in spite of the danger, chained, as if by fascination, to the spot. A reinforcement of soldiers, at the same instant, came running down the street, and their companions parting right and left to make way for them, they gained the front and threw in a withering volley on the foe. These, not expecting such a sudden check, fell into some disorder.

“Now charge on the rascals,” cried a voice, and Col. Campbell sprung to the van, waving his sword. “Give them the bayonet, lads, and the field is ours.”

The issue of the combat hung trembling in the balance. The assailants showed signs of falling back, and Kate’s tumultuous hopes died within her, when suddenly the tramp of horses’ feet was heard, and a body of cavalry came thundering up the street. At their head, on a powerful charger, rode a form that Kate instantly recognized, as the lurid light of the distant fire played redly on it. Need we say it was that of Preston? His uplifted sabre flashed in the wild glare like a blood-red meteor.

“The oath of Marion,” he shouted, in a voice of thunder. “Strike home for revenge.”

This sudden apparition, and more than all that stirring shout, seemed to infuse a strange and wild frenzy into the assailants, so lately about to turn.

“The oath of Marion!” exclaimed a stalwart figure at Preston’s side, as he smote a royal grenadier to the earth with a single stroke.

The cry was caught up by the crowd. “The oath of Marion—the oath of Marion!” rung from a hundred voices: and the assailants, with that cry, rushed on the royal troops like an avalanche rushes from the sky. But foremost of all rode Preston and his serjeant, while their terror-struck enemies around them went down, with every sweep of their good swords, like grain on a harvest-field.

The royal troops broke in every direction. The officers, seeing resistance was vain before so headlong a charge, turned also to seek safety in flight. Col. Campbell, however, seemed disposed to stand his ground, but Macdonald riding his powerful steed against him bore him down, and the next instant the commandant, to save his life, yielded himself a prisoner. It was at this moment that Major Lindsay saw, for the first time, the face of Preston. With an oath, hissed between his teeth, he snatched a fire-lock from a dead soldier beside him, and pointed it at our hero, who, not perceiving him, would infallibly have fallen, but that his name uttered in a shriek by Kate arrested his ear, and turning he beheld his enemy, who was almost in a line with the window whence the warning had been heard. The lightning that rives the oak is not quicker than was the blow from Preston’s sabre. Down, right on the head of his adversary, descended the heavy steel, crashing through the skull as if it had been only so much paper: and with that blow, the soul of the villain and assassin went to his long account.

Kate saw no more. She scarcely indeed saw that. She only knew that her lover had been warned in time, and had escaped; for her father now drew her forcibly in, and shut the perilous casement, around which the pistol balls were rattling like hail. Then she swooned away.

The rest of that night is matter of history. The town was, for a while, wholly in the hands of the assailants, and the victory would have been complete but for some misapprehension in the hour at which the different detachments were to attack, which enabled a part of the enemy to gain their garrison, where they were too strongly entrenched to be taken without artillery. The assailants accordingly retired after having captured the town and made Col. Campbell prisoner.

Preston had heard Kate’s voice, and, leaving his lieutenant to pursue the fugitives, sought her out immediately. His were the eyes she first looked on when she recovered from her swoon. Her glad surprise, or his own joy to find her still his own when he had feared their arrival was too late, we must leave to the imagination of the reader. It was one of those scenes human language is too feeble to portray.

When, toward daybreak, Marion gave orders for the town to be evacuated, Kate, so late fainting and heart-broken, took her place on horse-back between her father and Preston, almost as rosy-looking and happy as ever. A spectator could scarcely have recognized in her the pale and drooping lily of the evening before.

Mr. Mowbray, on hearing the sacrifice which his daughter would have made for his life, betrayed the deepest emotion. He pressed her to his bosom, but could not speak. There was a gentle reproach in his eyes, however, which Kate answered by a glance of unalterable love.

Though Preston learned that old Jacob had claimed his assistance without the authority of Kate, he was consoled by her assurance that she loved him as well as if she had herself despatched the messenger. In a few weeks she became the wife of our hero. She would have pleaded for delay, but her father said he was uncertain how long his life might be continued, and that he wished to see her have a protector before he died, so Kate yielded to his wishes.

Macdonald did not, like his master, live to see the war concluded. He fell shortly after the attack on Georgetown, leaving behind him the reputation of one of the most gallant soldiers of the time.

As for old Jacob, he survived to dandle the children of Kate and Preston on his knee. He had not only taken part in the fight at Georgetown, but quite distinguished himself, having slain an English soldier in single combat. On this feat he was accustomed to dilate with much self-complacency. He always wound up the story with these words.

“He tried now to run me through with his bayonet, but it was no use, you see. De sarjeant had larned me his back-handed stroke, and I brought it around jist so,” suiting the action to the word. “Wid dat he fell dead and suspendered his breath.”

NOTE.

The leading incidents of this tale are historical, though slight anachronisms have been purposely committed in order to condense it in point of time.

* * * * *

HEART STRUGGLES.

BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.

It was a foolish thought, beloved, ’Gainst which I vainly strove— That after years of joy might see Another win thy love.

It well nigh broke my saddened heart To think the time might be, When thou wouldst give another bride The vows once given to me.

But I have calmer grown since then, And though ’tis fearful still, To think a stranger may be here My place at home to fill—

To think that on her lip and brow Thy kiss will be imprest, Her cherished form be warmly clasped When I am cold at rest—

’Tis fearful—yet ’twere selfish, love, To bid thee live alone, And let none other share thy heart When I from thee am gone.

I know thou never wilt forget My simple morning flower, Nor how I nestled to thy side At twilight’s holy hour.

I know a thousand memories Within thy soul will rise, _Our_ happy past be with thee still, Though bound by other ties.

I know it would be selfish, love, To bid thee live alone, And let none other share thy heart When I from thee am gone.

And yet, to know that heart a shrine By one dear image filled, With all the holy warmth of love, Of _early_ love unchilled—

To know no other head but mine Should on thy breast be laid, None other hear the tender words Which thou to me hast said—

No other name be on thy lips When life’s last hour drew nigh, No wish but for _our_ meeting, love, How blesséd thus to die!

* * * * *

LIFE IN NEW YORK.

A SKETCH OF A LITERARY SOIREE.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

My own blue-belle! My pretty blue-belle! Don’t fear that your secrets I’m going to tell; My wings you view, Of your own bright hue, And oh! never doubt that my heart’s “true blue!” THE BUTTERFLY’S SONG.

Somebody once said of our fair hostess, that she reminded him of a cathedral with a simple, unpretending portal, which gives you no idea of the rare revelations within, and through which you pass to wonders that you did not dream of before. Once within, you are overwhelmed with the grandeur, the beauty, the mystery, the majesty around you—the lofty and magnificent arches, the dim, far-reaching aisles, the clustered columns, the vaulted roof, lost to the eye from its wondrous height—the glorious pictures by the master-hand—the iris-colored light from the painted windows poured softly over all—the silence, the religious calm pervading the place—all combine to awe and elevate the stranger, who has perhaps rashly and unthinkingly entered that sanctuary of the soul.

He was an enthusiast, a noble one, who said this, and I cannot tell if it be true. I only know that she exerts over my individual self a magnetic attraction and influence, which I do not care to analyze or to resist, because it soothes and satisfies me whenever I am with her, however restless and unhappy I may have been the moment before.

A pleasant party were assembled in her drawing-room. There was the statuesque Georgine—

——“with stately mien And glance of calm hauteur, Who moves—a grace—and looks a queen, All passionless and pure.”

A creature of faultless harmony and grace; but whose perfect repose of manner, attitude, look and language, exquisite as it is, almost frightens you away from her at first. So still, so fair, so pure—like a snow-cloud moving serenely through the silent air. There she sits; with her graceful Greek head bent slightly forward, its luxuriant, light brown hair wound carelessly and wavily around it; her chiseled features serenely beautiful, and her hands, white as Pentelican marble, resting half-clasped upon her knee.

If I mistake not, beneath that snowy crest, there are flowers of fancy and fountains of feeling—all the lovelier and purer for being so guarded, by the vestal, from the world.

Her cheek is almost always pale And marble cold it seems; But a soft color trembles there, At times, in rosy gleams!

Some sudden throb of love, or grief, Or pity, or delight, And lo! a flush of beauty—brief, But passionately bright!

She ’minds me of a rose I found, In a far, Southern land— A robe of ice its blushes bound, By winter breezes fanned.

But softly through the crystal veil, That gleamed about its form, There came a fitful glow to tell The flower beneath was warm!

Oh! that all women could thus proudly wear the veil! It is a protection we need so much—that mantle of snow! But there are those (and they most want it) in whose hearts the waves of feeling never rest long enough for the winter crust to form—who never stop to think, to look back, lo reflect, to prepare; but dash on to the ocean “over bank, brake and scaur,” giving back only half-formed or broken images of the beautiful visions that beam above their way—the bird—the cloud—the flower—the star—now humming a careless carol to the breeze, now murmuring a plaintive chant, now thundering in torrent tones, as they madly leap adown the rocks that would oppose them, and now dancing out of sight into the dim, untrodden forest-depths, where none will dare to follow.

We have seen the statuesque—there were not wanting the “grotesque and arabesque,” as well to our literary _soirée_.

There was one unique, whom I hardly dare attempt to describe. In speaking he deals principally in antithesis, and he himself is an antithesis personified. The wildest conceits—the sharpest satire—the bitterest, maddest vituperation—the most exquisite taste—the most subtil appreciation of the delicate and beautiful in his subject—the most radiant wit—the most dainty and Ariel-like fancy—with a manner and a mien the most quaint, abrupt and uncouth imaginable—it is like nothing in nature, or rather it is so exceedingly natural that it seems almost supernatural. His discourse is all thunder and lightning—every play of his impish eye-brows is an epigram, every smile a jeu d’esprit. At one time affectionate, confiding, careless, buoyant, almost boyish in his mood; at another, irritable, ferocious, seemingly ready for a tiger-spring upon any foe, and again calm, cold, haughty, and uncomeatable as an Indian of the olden time. Here is a stranger original than any his favorite author ever drew. He is the ideal Yankee of the nineteenth century.

There, too, nestled demurely in a corner of the sofa was that little “will-o’-the-wisp,” V—, whom nobody knows what to make of—wild, wayward, capricious as an April day—changeable as the light spring-cloud, and restless as the wave—the spoiled child of Fancy,

“Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love!”

To those who care for her, all trust and truth, and poetry and sportive fondness, and deep impassioned feeling—to all the rest of the world proud, still, reserved, dull, apathetic, reckless of opinion and of consequences: a tame Canary-bird to kindness, a lioness to injustice and oppression. Nature, with her sympathetic ink, has drawn pictures in her soul, which seem to the cold and careless only pale, frost-work, wintry views; but which, in the warmth of affection, change to glowing summer scenes, with flowers and foliage, and gleaming springs, shifting clouds, and singing birds and butterflies, all of which were always there, and needed only the summer of sympathy and love to draw them out.

By her side sat the man of exhaustless and most whimsical wit, whom _she_ calls the “laughing philosopher,” and whom _I_ strongly suspect of having found, and selfishly concealed the “philosopher’s stone.” He is the most refreshing, contented, and sunshiny-looking mortal that ever smiled in this cold world of ours. Ever ready and brilliant, he whispers his irresistable bon-mots and his charming jeux d’esprit, as if he were ashamed of them, and calls it a breach of confidence if they are repeated aloud.

Next to him sat the stately, intellectual, and warm-hearted Mrs. ——, who, according to her witty neighbour, always looks “up to an epic.” I suppose he will call _this_ a betrayal of confidence; but when these pages meet his eyes, I shall fortunately be far beyond the reach of his cutlass-irony; so spare yourself, till I come back, “most potent, grave, and reverend seignor,” and don’t “waste your _satire_ on the desert air.”

In earnest conversation with the lovely and loveable Mrs. S——, was young ——. His rare and pure intellect; his “Doric delicacy” of taste; his gentle and winning manners; his sensitive, generous, and trustful nature, are best appreciated by those who know him best.

Well—first we played the game of “What is my thought like.” Smile not, sagacious reader—Canning did the same. Several good answers were elicited in the course of the game, among which were the following:—

“Why is a dew-drop like Miss R’s sash?”

“Because it trembles on a flower.”

“Why is fame like a clasp?”

“Because it is all a catch.”

“Why is Mrs. —— like an omnibus?”

“Because we are all carried away by her.”

“Why is my heart like a mirror?”

“Because you can see _yourself_ in it.”

When the game was over, one of the gentlemen took from his pocket a volume of poems, by that Proteus author, “Anon,” of which he happened to have the only copy in the country, and read aloud the following verses, in a voice tremulous with the weight of its own melody and feeling:—

TO ——.

You would make hearts your stepping stones to power. And trample on them in your triumph-hour; But mine was formed for nobler fate than this, It knows the treachery of your Judas-kiss.

You talk of “lofty feelings pure and high, Too pure, alas!” and then you gently sigh; You mourn the trials, which a soul like yours, So true—amid the meaner herd endures.

You say ’tis sad, but yet you would not part, For worlds, with that proud dignity of heart! Now never breathed in woman’s breast, I ween. So poor a spirit, ’neath so bold a mien.

I’ve learned you well—too well—your serpent-smile Is fond and fair; but cannot “me beguile.” I’ve seen it called, and on your soft lip worn, To win a heart those lips had laughed to scorn.

I’ve heard that voice—’tis very sweet, I own, Almost _too much_ of softness in its tone; I’ve heard its tender modulations tried, On one you’d just been slandering—aside.

I’ve seen you welcome, with that fond embrace, A friend who trusted in your frank, bright face; And while her parting steps the threshold pressed, Her love, her looks, her manners turned to jest.

You triumph in the noble trick you’ve found, Of winning love and trust from all around; While cold and reckless, with a sneer at heart, You plead, manœuvre, bind with Circe art.

But day by day, the flimsy veil grows thin, And clearer shows the worthless waste within; And one by one, th’ idolators resign The wavering flame of their Parhelion’s shrine.

The mysterious book was then handed to Georgine, who took it tranquilly, and read in a most musically modulated voice, while a faint rose-color warmed her usually hueless cheek.

TO ——.

Ah! do not let us worse than waste, In idle dalliance, hours so dear; At best, the light-winged moments haste Too quickly by with hope and fear.

Be ours to wreath, (as swift in flight They pass—those ‘children of the sun,’) With Fancy’s flowers, each wing of light, And gems from Reason’s casket won.

The Passion-flower has no perfume,— No soul to linger when it dies; For lighter hearts such buds may bloom, But, oh! be ours more proudly wise.

And wouldst thou bind my soul to thine, Bid Truth and Wisdom forge the chain; Nor o’er its links, as bright they twine, Let Folly breathe one burning stain.

Thy mind—so rich in classic lore,— Thy heart, from worldly taint so free; Ah! let me not the hours _deplore_, Which might be all _embalmed_ by thee.

At last the “will-o’-the-wisp” was called upon for a recitation, and after laughing, and blushing, and scolding, and making as “much ado about nothing” as the Lady Heron did about singing “Young Lochinvar,” she gave, in her own peculiar way, the following song:—

They call me a careless coquette; That often, too often, I _change_; they chide Because every being on earth I’ve met, Of the glorious mark in my hope falls wide.

It is only a yearning of soul, For the lovely—the noble—the true and pure; A fond aspiration beyond my control, That was born with my being, and must endure.

But I know that shadow and shine Must over this world, float side by side; That Reason and Folly still entwine Their flowers of light and bells of pride.

And I, in whose heart so wild, Too often Love’s music in Discord dies; Oh! should I not—idle and dreaming child— Shrink back from a being all pure and wise?

I will hush in my heart that trust, I will hide from the world that daring dream, And seek in the sand for the golden dust, Since ever they mingle in Life’s deep stream.

The gay party separated about 12 o’clock, apparently highly satished with each other and themselves. It is to be hoped, they will meet again as “beautifully blue” as ever. And in the meantime, forgive me for having converted “_pro bono publico_,” their classic saloon, into a modern “Ear of Dyonisius.”

* * * * *

FANNY.

BY MRS. MARY SUMNER.

A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. WORDSWORTH.

I revel in my right divine— I glory in Caprice. MRS. OSGOOD.

Have you seen the summer clouds Troop along in rapid crowds, Throwing shadows soft and warm, Flitting ere you mark their form, O’er some landscape still and sweet, Where the wild and lovely meet, Ravishing by turns the eye With beauty and with mystery? Dusky wood and rolling meadow Bask in light or sleep in shadow, And the river’s rippling wave, Flashing smiles or chill and grave, Fascinates the dazzled sight— In the flitting shade and light All, howe’er familiar, seems Magical as fairy dreams.

So do swift emotions chase Over Fanny’s radiant face; Such a fascination lies In each change that o’er it flies, Light and shadow, varying still, Set at nought the painter’s skill, And so beautiful their play, That you would not bid to stay E’en the grace that charms you most, Lest a sweeter should be lost. Vain to question what may be The secret of her witchery; Still her speaking face enchants us, And her dancing figure haunts us, And those dark Italian eyes Like a thralling vision rise, And we could not if we would Break the spell her sunny mood Flings upon the heart and brain; With a triple-woven chain Bindeth she our hearts to hers, Turning friends to worshipers. Her high soul, her feelings warm, Even her gay caprices charm, Startling you with fresh surprises, As each impulse that arises From her being’s depth displays Yet another brilliant phase; Crystal-like at every turn, Rainbow glories flash and burn, Till you see revealed her whole Beautiful and gifted soul— Mirrored forth without disguise From her large, impassioned eyes, Full of warm and lustrous light, That would witch an anchorite.

That mood passes, and no trace Lingers on her chiseled face, Only from that scaled book Speaks the lofty lady’s look; Dignity and quiet grace Sit enthroned in form and face, And a grave, commanding air Bids the thoughtless one beware How he scorn the high decree Of her maiden sovereignty. Then there comes a sudden thought, With some merry meaning fraught, Like a flash of meteor light, As quick-glancing and as bright, And her laugh, as sweet and free As a child’s unthoughtful glee, From her buoyant heart upswells, Like clear-ringing fairy bells; And the awe in which you stood Of her stately womanhood, Flies before that silvery laughter, As if banished ever after.

Have you angered her quick spirit? Touched her haughty sense of merit? All on you will rest the shame, All on you the heavy blame. Nothing daunted, wait in hope The turn of the kaleidoscope. Like the bright blue after rain, Comes her gladness back again; Kindling eye and lip and cheek All the same sweet language speak— Welcome as the sunshine warm Following a summer storm, Welcome as the song of birds, Her clear voice and friendly words!

Firm of purpose, proud and high, With a flashing, dauntless eye, Yet impulsive, gay and wild, Now a queen and now a child, Now a woman, mild and wise, Strong to counsel and advise, Full of nobleness and truth, Of the generous zeal of youth, So enchanting, so divine, That of all who please and shine, None can match her own sweet self; Now a sportive, wilful elf, Whose least word and will and way, Strongest reasons oversway— Who can count on each vagary Of the charming, changeful fairy? Who can tell, when brightest beams Her warm love upon your dreams, At what moment words unmeant May disturb the gracious bent Of her fickle fantasy, And chill shadows flitting by All its splendor overcloud? At what moment a quick crowd Of unbidden, fitful feelings May seal up the high revealings That her soul’s deep voice had been, And your spirit reveled in?

Yet you cannot choose but love her. With a love that passes over Whatsoe’er it cannot praise, For the sake of her sweet ways. Vow that you will never more Such inconstant charms adore, Never more your joy and peace Rest upon her light caprice, All your wise resolves are vain, She will lure you back again; With a single winning smile, Trusting word and childlike wile, Make you feel that love cannot For such trifles be forgot— Looks so bright and tones so sweet, Mortal could not coldly meet; Wild as ever your love burns, And your heart as fondly turns To the wayward, witching creature, As if every changing feature Her impulsive being owned, Howsoe’er it vex and wound, In her gracious mood became One to praise instead of blame.

* * * * *

LINES.

BY L. J. CIST.

They may talk as they will of “omnipotent love,” And of lone disappointment’s sad lot— That the image once shrined we can never remove, That the once loved may ne’er be forgot: ’Tis the talk of the silly, the childish, the weak, For a man (though a lover) may still The idol he worships, if faithless, forsake, And the false one forget—_if he will_!

They say that the heart which once truly shall love, With love must continue to burn, Though the idol unworthy devotion shall prove, And away from the altar we turn; But ’tis false!—for in man there’s a spirit of hate, When he wills it that spirit to move, And ’twere then all as easy to hate and forget As it were to remember and love!

What! think you forever to fetter the mind In the meshes of love’s silken snare, When the strong man awakes from his slumber, to find His enchantments all vanish in air! Ah no! he may mourn that his slumber is o’er, He may weep that the dream was but vain, But he starts up, resolved he will yield him no more To that vision deceitful again.

There are monarch’s despotic, throned tyrants, by Fate, And serfs there are millions, by birth; But the slave of the cold and the heartless _coquette_ Is the veriest slave upon earth: And for me, I were sooner the Autocrat’s thrall, Or the lowliest slave in our land, Than the tool of the flirt, at her feet still to fall, And abjectly sue for her hand!

* * * * *

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but Travelers must be content. AS YOU LIKE IT.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,” “MILES WALLINGFORD,” &c.

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

(_Continued from page 132._)