CHAPTER IV.

The morning agreed upon by Julie and Mrs. Colman for the beginning of the former’s labors arrived, but the young girl did not appear. Knowing well her eagerness to enter upon her new duties—the eagerness of a noble spirit to throw off the yoke of dependence—Alice Colman might well feel anxious at Julie’s non-fulfillment of her promise. For the first time a thought crossed her mind that the suspicions of her husband concerning his brother’s continued ill-feeling toward him, might be just, and that Walter Malcolm had resolved to oppose his daughter’s constant association with them. But not long would she allow herself to imagine thus. Perhaps Julie was ill again—or some unforeseen circumstances had prevented her coming. So Mrs. Colman determined to wait till the following day, when if the object of her solicitude was still absent, and she received no message from her, she felt that she would then be more capable of judging the matter.

It was not until near the close of the afternoon that she was relieved of uncertainty upon the subject by the reception of a note from Julie. The latter stated that her father was very ill of a dangerous fever, brought on, as the physician averred, by distress of mind—and that it was doubtful whether in his enfeebled condition he could live a week longer. She added that only a few hours previously he had informed her that their benefactress was the wife of his brother, and also of the unfeeling treatment which that brother had received from him. And Julie said that from the hour when he had learned the circumstance of their relationship, remorse and the knowledge of his unworthiness to accept assistance from the one whom he had injured, preyed upon her father’s spirits, and at last caused the fever that threatened soon to terminate his existence. His last earthly wish now was to see his brother and ask forgiveness of the past—and Julie concluded by begging Mrs. Colman to use all her influence in order to bring her uncle to her parent’s couch, if it were possible, that very evening.

And that evening Mr. Colman, accompanied his wife to the abode of Walter Malcolm. The meeting between the brothers was a painful one. There was mingled shame and penitential sorrow on the part of the elder, while the countenance of the younger was expressive of the deepest agitation as he stood by the bedside of him who had cast so dark a cloud upon his youth. Harry Colman had yielded to the entreaties of Alice for this interview, while he felt that it would have been wrong to have denied it—but it was not until he looked upon Walter’s pallid face, and heard that once stern and familiar voice supplicating forgiveness, even with the humble avowal that it was undeserved, that the lingering spark of resentment was entirely extinguished within his breast—and when he breathed the much-desired word of pardon they were truly heart-felt.

And by returning good for evil he had indeed “heaped coals of fire” upon the head of his brother.

“From your birth, Harry, you were the object of my bitterest envy and hatred,” was the confession of Walter Malcolm, “for upon you was freely lavished the love of that mother whose affection I had never possessed. She had been forced by her family into a union with my father while her heart was another’s—and when her husband died and she was free to wed again, she married the one who had first gained her regard. This was the key to your superior claim upon our mother’s love. I will not now blame her for the wrong of partiality, though it was the basis of my demeanor toward yourself. I should have had sufficient strength of mind to have resisted its influence—but in this I was sadly deficient. To the last hour of her life my mother’s chief thought was of you. Yes, even in her dying moments her principal anxiety was for _your_ future happiness, while there was but little reference to the welfare of her eldest child. When she was no more, and you came to dwell beneath my roof, I scrupled not openly to show the sentiments which during our parent’s life-time I was obliged to conceal. And I had now an additional cause of dislike. I secretly accused you of robbing me of the affection of my little girl, who, as you will perhaps remember, always manifested a decided preference for your society. I did not reflect that my manner toward her was often cold and distant, and widely different from your own; and with such feelings of jealousy concerning you in my heart, it was scarcely to be wondered that I seized the first opportunity of ridding myself of your presence. Though I knew you to be guiltless of the fault for which I blamed you, I drove you from my dwelling, refusing from that moment to own you as a brother. Nor did I then experience the least remorse for the act—and during the years that followed I strove to forget that you had ever existed.

“It was only within the past twelvemonth, when surrounded by poverty, and the victim of an incurable malady, that as I lay restlessly upon my bed, the memory of my cruel conduct toward my innocent brother has pressed heavily upon my mind. Often have I busied my brain with vain conjectures respecting your fate—whether you still lived—and if you had escaped the whirlpool of crime and sin within which the young and unadvised are but too frequently engulfed. When I thought, as I sometimes did, that you might have fallen—my sensations were those of the most acute anguish, for I felt that the sin would all be mine, and that at the judgment day I should be called to the throne of God to hear him pronounce the fearful penalty for the murder of a brother’s soul.

“At length, through the illness of my daughter, who was very unexpectedly thrown upon the benevolence of your wife, I obtained from your servant some information concerning the family to whom I owed so much, and discovered in the hand stretched forth to aid my child, the wife of my discarded brother. It would be vain to attempt a description of my emotions as I learned this fact. Joy that you were not forever lost, predominated—and then was added shame, and a consciousness of my own unworthiness to receive the benefits which henceforth you daily conferred upon me, as I felt that you must have recognized me—for I had given to your wife an account of my previous life. Each successive service lavished upon my family by your own, sunk like a weight of lead upon my heart, while as I saw how generously you repaid me for the evil I had committed against you, I longed to cast myself at your feet and supplicate forgiveness. But one thought deterred me. It was the fear that you might deem me actuated by interested motives—by the desire to leave my daughter at my death under the care of her now wealthy uncle. And so, for a time, I set aside the yearning for a reconciliation. But it returned with double force when this, which I know will be my last illness, came upon me, and I felt that I could not die happily without hearing from your lips a pardon for my misdeed.”

The weeping Julie had stood by the bedside listening attentively as her father spoke, one hand resting affectionately in her uncle’s, while the other was clasped in that of his wife. Though scarcely six years old when Harry Colman was dismissed from his brother’s house, she had ever retained a vivid recollection of the event. She remembered how passionately she had wept when told by her nurse that she would probably never again behold her favorite, and how indignant she had felt when they said that it was owing to his own naughty conduct he had been sent away—while her ignorance of the fact that her uncle’s name was not the same as her father’s prevented a recognition of him when they again met.

* * * * *

Walter Malcolm survived a week after the scene just described. Having made his peace with earthly objects, his last hours were devoted to solemn preparations for a future state, looking trustfully for the mercy of Him who listens kindly to the prayer of the penitent. His brother was constantly with him till his eyes were forever closed in the death-slumber; and from the day when the remains of her father were borne to their last resting-place, the orphan Julie found a home with her uncle, to whose pleasant hearth she was lovingly welcomed, while by every kind and sympathizing attention her relatives strove to alleviate the sorrow for a parent’s loss, which at first seemed almost insupportable.

* * * * *

THE UNSEPULCHRED RELICS.

BY MRS. L. S. GOODWIN.

“Far out of the usual course of vessels crossing that ocean, they discovered an unknown island, covered with majestic trees. The captain, with a portion of the crew, went on shore, and after traversing its entire circumference without seeing a solitary representative of the animal kingdom, were about to return to their ship, when the skeleton of a man was found upon the beach, and beside it lay a partially constructed boat.”

Bleaching upon the sands that pave An unknown islet strand, Where surges bear from mermaid cave The music of her band, A clayey temple’s ruin lies— Of that grand pile a part Whereon the Architect Divine Displayed His wondrous art; Its tenant long since hath obeyed The summons to depart.

Mysterious, as dire, the doom That cast a death-scene where Deep solitude converts to gloom What else were brightly fair: Perchance wild waves that made a wreck Of some ill-fated bark, Giving his valiant comrades all To feast the rav’nous shark, Swept hither this lone mariner, For misery a mark.

Yon half-completed boat his lot In mournful tones doth tell; With what assiduous zeal he wrought Upon that tiny cell, Which promised o’er the billows broad The worn one to convey Within compassion’s genial realm, Where woes find sweet allay; ’Twere better e’en the sea should whelm Than thus with want hold fray.

Believe you not that in his pain, His agony of soul, Flew o’er the dark engirding main The thoughts which spurn control? Abiding with the cherished ones Who blest a far-off home; O how his sinking spirit yearned To view once more that dome; To hear young voices gayly shout For joy that he had come.

He mused how love with pining frame Her grief-fount would exhaust, As on time’s laggard wing there came No tidings of the lost. Ah! who may speak the bitter pangs That exile’s bosom knew. As, day by day, and hour by hour, Faint, and yet fainter, grew The hope that erst had nerved him on His labor to pursue.

To ply their wonted task, at length, Refused his weary hands; His form was stretched, bereft of strength. Upon the burning sands. Haply his latest wish besought ’Mong kindred dead to lie; But fate denied the boon, and death Seized him ’neath stranger sky; While mercy drew a mystic veil ’Twixt him and friendship’s eye.

* * * * *

REMINISCENCES OF A READER.

BY THE LATE WALTER HERRIES, ESQ.

Oh! the times will never be again As they were when we were young, When Scott was writing “Waverlies,” And Moore and Byron sung; When “Harolds,” “Giaours” and “Corsairs” came To charm us every year, And “Loves” of “Angels” kissed Tom’s cup, While Wordsworth sipped small beer.

When Campbell drank of Helicon, And didn’t _mix_ his _liquor_; When Wilson’s strong and steady light Had not begun to flicker; When Southey, climbing piles of books, Mouthed “Curses of Kehama;” And Coleridge, in his opium dreams, Strange oracles would stammer;

When Rodgers sent his “Memory,” Thus hoping to delight all, Before he learned his mission was To give “feeds” and invite all; When James Montgomery’s “weak tea” strains Enchanted pious people, Who didn’t mind poetic _haze_, If through it loomed a _steeple_.

When first reviewers teamed to show Their judgment without mercy; When Blackwood was as young and lithe As now he’s old and pursy; When Gifford, Jeffrey, and their clan, Could fix an author’s doom, And Keats was taught how well they knew To kill _à coup de plume_.

Few womenfolk were rushing then To the Parnassian mount, And seldom was a teacup dipped In the Castalian fount; Apollo kept no _pursuivant_, To cry out “_Place aux Dames_:” In life’s round game they held GOOD _hands_, And didn’t strive for _palms_.

Oh! the world will never be again What it was when we were young, And shattered are the idols now To which our boyhood clung; Gone are the _giants_ of those days, For whom our wreaths we twined, And _pigmies_ now _kick up a dust_ To show the _march of mind_.

* * * * *

THE GIPSY QUEEN.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Power, consequence, importance, greatness, are relative terms; they denote position or attainment, comparable with some other. And hence a queen is a queen at the head of a band of gipsies as much as if she sat upon a throne, at the head of a nation whose morning drum beats an eternal _reveille_. It was therefore, and for another cause yet to be told, that I lifted my hat with particular deference when I opened suddenly upon the head woman of a gipsy tribe, as I was passing through a small piece of woodland. Though, truth to say, I had been looking at her for some time, an hour previous, as she was giving some directions to one or two of her ragged and dirty train. Now I had known that woman in other circumstances. I had seen her in the family, had heard her commended by the men for her graceful movements, and berated by the women for exhibiting those movements to the men, and being as free with her tongue in presence of her female superiors as she had been with her feet before her male admirers. But neither the admiration of the men nor the rebuke of the women produced any effect. All that this woman received from a long sojourn with the people of the village, was a little loss of the darkness of the skin, and a pretty good understanding of the wants and weaknesses of society. Everybody knew that she had been left in exchange for a healthful child—and some years before it had been discovered that the healthful child would be worth nothing to the gipsies, and the gipsy girl would, at the first opportunity, return to her “brethren and kindred according to the flesh.” And such was the skill which she manifested on her return, such her ability to direct, such her knowledge of the wants of the villagers, and her power to take advantage of these wants, that she became the head of the tribe with which she was associated, and might have directed numerous tribes, could they have been collected for her guidance.

I could not learn that there was much of a story connected with the life of the queen, much indeed that would interest the general reader. But she was a woman—and her heart, a mystery to the uninitiated, would, if exposed, have been worth a world’s perusal. A woman’s heart—alas! how few are admitted to loose the seals and open that secret volume! How very few could understand the revelation if it were made. I could not, I confess; and it is only when a peculiar light is thrown upon here and there a pace, that I can acquire even a partial knowledge of what is manifested. The Queen of the Gipsies, though elevated by right, and sustained by knowledge, was no less a woman than a queen. She could and did command male and female, old and young. She was treated with all that marked distinction which, even among her rude people, continues to be paid to preeminence. And while she sought to do the best for all, she received all this homage with that ease, and that apparent absence of wonder, which denote the right to distinction—this was a part of her queenly character admirably sustained, natural, easy, dignified. But the queen was a _woman_. I had heard her give orders, which sent certain of the most active of the young, male and female, to the other side of the village, and then she gave employment to the old and the young in the moving hamlet, and seeing the first depart, and the last busy, she left the camp, and took her way through the wood. I followed her and traced her rapid steps to the burying-ground of the town, which stood a distance from any dwelling.

Seating myself out of view, I saw the queen walk directly to a recently sodded grave, upon which she looked down for a moment, and then clasping her hands wildly above her head she threw herself with a subdued cry upon the grave. I was too far from her to distinguish all the words of her lament, but they were wild and agonizing.

After a short time the woman arose, and said with a distinct, clear voice, “With thee and for thee I could have endured the mockery of their boasted civilization, and suffered the ceremonies of their tame creed. With thee and for thee I would have foregone my native tribe and my hereditary rights. So persuasive was thy affection that I could have forgotten—or at least would not have boasted—that I was of the glorious race that knows no manacles of body or of mind, but what it chooses to impose. But thou art gone, and with thee all my attraction to the idle, wearisome life of thy race. I have returned to my people, and I may lead them, and power and activity may for a time weaken my agony. I need no longer sacrifice my love for my race—but yet one sacrifice I will make, and thy grave shall be the altar. With thee my heart is buried. To thee do I here swear an eternal fidelity—and year by year will I lead my tribe hither, that I may pour out my anguish upon the sod that rises above thee. And I may hope that such devotion may lead the spirit that made our race for future happiness as for present freedom, to give thee back to me when I enter on my world of changeless love and glorious recompense.”

Kneeling again, the Gipsy Queen kissed the grave, and gathered a few blades of grass and one or two flowers, shook away the tears which she had let fall upon them, and placing them in her bosom turned and left the burying-place, and proceeded toward the camp. I left my position by the other route, and passing through the wood I met her. Her face was cleared from every cloud, no trace of a tear was evident; she had prepared herself to meet her party in a way to excite no inquiry.

The little that I knew of the Gipsy Queen previous to that day, and what was told me by one who had lived in the village very long, I have set down. I never saw her after I passed her in the woods. But she made an impression on my mind that will not be easily removed. And she bore in her heart motives for action which few but herself and me will ever know.

* * * * *

THE BROTHER’S LAMENT.

BY MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY.

One moment more, beneath the old elm, Mary, Where last we parted in the flowing dell— One moment more through twilight tints that vary, To gaze upon thy grave, and then, farewell! Ere from this spot, and these loved scenes I sever, Where still thy lovely spirit seems to stray— One look—to fix them on my soul forever— And then away!

Mary, I know my steps should now be shrinking From this sad spot—but on my mournful gaze A scene floats up that sets my soul to thinking On all the dear delights of other days! I’m gazing on the little foot-bridge yonder Thrown o’er the stream whose waters purl below, Where I so oft have seen thee pause and ponder, Leaning thy white brow on thy hand of snow. I’m standing on the spot where last we parted, Where, as I left thee in the fragrant dell, I saw thee turn so oft—half broken-hearted— Waving thy hand in token of farewell. I start to meet thy footstep light and airy— But—the cold grass waves o’er thy sweet young head; Would that the shroud that wraps thy fair form, Mary, Wrapped mine instead!

In vain my heart its bitter thoughts would parry, An adder’s grasp about its chords seem curled, For you were all I ever thought of, Mary— Were all I doted on in this wide world! And yet, I’d sigh not while thy fate I ponder, Did memory only bring thee to my eyes Pale as thou sleepest in the church-yard yonder— Or as an angel dazzling from the skies! I then at least could treasure each sweet token Of thy pure love—and in life’s mad’ning whirl Steel my crushed heart—had not thine own been broken, Poor hapless girl!

But, Mary—Mary, when I think upon thee, As when I last beheld thee in thy pride— And on the fate—oh God!—to which he won thee— I curse the hour that sent me from your side! Oh why wert thou so richly, strangely gifted With mortal loveliness beyond compare? The look of love beneath thy lashes lifted— Its fatal sweetness was to thee a snare! Yet sleep, my sister—I will not upbraid thee— Thou wert too sweet—too innocently dear; But he—the exulting demon who betrayed thee— He lives, he lives, and I am loitering here! Even now some happier fair one’s chains may bind him In dalliance sweet—but I’ll avenge thee well! Avenge thee?—Yes! a brother’s curse will find him, Though he should dive into the deeps of hell! I swear it, sister—as thou art forgiven— By all our wrongs—by all our severed ties, And by the blessedness of yon blue heaven, That gives its world of azure to mine eyes! By all my love—by every sacred duty A brother owes—and by yon heaving sod, Thine early grave—and by thy blighted beauty, Thou sweetest angel in the realms of God! I swear it, by the bursting groans I smother, And call on Heaven and thee to nerve me now. Mary, look down!—behold thy wretched brother, And bless the vow!

Sister, my soul its last farewell is taking, And I for this had thought it nerved to-night, But every chord about my heart seems breaking, And blinding tears shut out the glimmering sight. One look—one last long look to hill and meadow— To the old foot-bridge and the murmuring mill, And to the church-yard sleeping in the shadow— Cease tears—and let these fond eyes look their fill! One look—and now farewell ye scenes that vary Beneath the twilight shades that round me flow! The charm that bound my wild heart here, was Mary— And she lies low!

* * * * *

SONNET TO MACHIAVELLI.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MAMIANI.

Thou mighty one, whose winged words of yore Have spread on history’s page Italia’s wars, The sad mischances of intestine jars, Like beacons blazing where the breakers roar. Still canst thou glance out civil discords o’er? Some solace for us canst thou not divine? Canst thou not oil on troubled waters pour, And soothe each petty tyrants ruthless mind? Why else unveil the falsehood of our land, Which sees not why its tale thou deign’st to tell? Why else didst thou with an unsparing hand Make bare the wounds whose angry scars will tell The lasting shame of ignomy’s brand, All petrified at history’s command?

* * * * *

THE DARSIES.

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

_Don Pedro._ I pray you, hold me not responsible for all these travelers’ tales. I am but the mouthpiece of others: therefore, if I question the infallibility of the Pope, summon me not before the Inquisition; if I speak treason against the king, clap me not up in the Tower; and if I utter heresy against the ladies, let me not be flayed alive by the nails of enraged damsels. OLD PLAY.

“There is no use in wasting words, Cousin Charles; you never can persuade me that men love more devotedly than women.”

“How can you be so unreasonable, Anne? I only want to convince you that affection being an essential part of woman’s nature, she cannot help loving something or somebody all her life. The most she does, even in her most intense devotion, is to _individualize_ the general sentiment which pervades her character; but when men love, they actually take up a new nature, and concentrate upon it all their strength of mind and force of character.”

“You have certainly a droll method of reasoning, cousin; because women are _loving_ creatures, therefore they cannot love as well as the rougher sex.”

“You are willful, Anne, and are determined not to understand me. I mean that love is usually a habitude with women, while with men, if it exists at all, it is a positive, determinate thing—a graft, as it were, upon their sturdy natures, and partaking therefore of the strength of the stock which nourishes it.”

“How can you say so when men are always in love, from the time they quit the nursery until they are gray-headed, or _married_?”

“Such attachments are mere fancies.”

“Pray, how is one to distinguish between a fancy and a fact in so delicate a matter?”

“It is difficult to decide at first, because in their inceptive state they are much alike; but time is the true test. A fancy, a mere intoxication of the senses, is scarce worth talking about; but in a genuine manly love there is a depth, a fervor, a disinterestedness, a devotion, such as woman can never feel—nay, which they can rarely appreciate.”

“Heresy—rank heresy—Cousin Charles. I appeal to Uncle Lorimer, who has heard our whole discussion, if you do not deserve excommunication with ‘bell, book and candle,’ for holding such opinions.”

The cousins were sitting together in the twilight, and, as the shadows of evening deepened around them, the light of the soft-coal fire in the polished grate gave a beautifully cheerful look of home comfort to the pleasant apartment. An old gentleman, whose silver hair glittered in the fire-light, had been sitting in the chimney-nook, and, thus appealed to by his merry niece, he smiled good-humoredly as he replied—

“If you submit the dispute to me, I must decide against both.”

“Why so?”

“Because you are both too generalizing in your remarks. In this work-a-day world of ours there is a daily and hourly need of the tender, watchful, kindly ministry of sympathy and affection; now the peculiar attributes of woman’s nature are such as fit her for this ministry; and whether it be a mere habitude or not, it is the quality most needed by men and most generally possessed by women.”

Anne clapped her hands, and looked triumphantly at her cousin; but Uncle Lorimer continued—

“I must agree with Charles, however, that when men give out their whole strength to a genuine affection, it is a more unselfish, magnanimous and higher emotion than ever could dwell in the bosom of woman. The same qualities which make her the gentler half of man mingle their leaven in her affections. For instance, a woman will make any sacrifice for one whom she loves, she will bear all kinds of privation and suffering for his sake, but earth holds not the creature more pitilessly exacting of affection than she is, or more jealously awake to every whisper of distrust. Another weakness in her character is vanity; and I must confess I never yet found a woman so much in love with her lover, that she would not curl her hair and dress in her best to meet the eyes of other men.”

“Oh! uncle. You are worse than Charles.”

“But perhaps you will like to hear my whole opinion, Anne. I have said that women possess most of the quality which is required in daily life; as I am not one of those who pretend to despise _good habits_ because they are not _heroic virtues_, I think you ought to be satisfied with my decision.”

“But you attribute so much nobler a quality to men.”

“That is true, but let me comfort you by just whispering in your ear, that not one man in a thousand is capable of such an affection. True sentiment is the rarest thing upon earth. To use the language of your favorite poet—

Accident, blind contact, and the strong necessity of loving,

often bring together hearts which habit afterward keeps united. Few, very few, create an ideal in their youth and see it substantialize into a reality as life goes on. Still fewer of those men who are capable of real love ever bestow its treasures upon one who can appreciate them. I think I have never known a single instance of such an attachment being reciprocated and rewarded.”

“Did you ever know more than one man who possessed this faculty of loving, uncle?”

“In the course of my long life I have known _three_; and if you choose I will tell you the history of one of these, to prove my theory.

“Among my earliest school friends and playmates were Edgar and Herbert Darsie. They were twin-brothers, the only children of a widow, whom I remember as a tall, pale lady in close mourning, which she never laid aside till the day of her death. There was little of that resemblance between the twins which generally makes the pleasant puzzle of mothers and nurses in similar cases; for, though alike in feature and height, and even in their peculiarity of gait and manner, yet Edgar had the fair complexion, blue eyes, and light silken hair of his mother; while Herbert’s olive complexion, dark eyes, and curling black locks betrayed the French blood which he derived from his father. They were cheerful, happy-tempered boys, and possessed a certain natural sweetness of manner, which made them universal favorites with old and young. Their mother lived in the retired but handsome style which, in those days, was considered the proper mode of showing respect for the memory of a husband. She kept up the establishment exactly as it had been during Mr. Darsie’s life, and seemed to find her only pleasure in doing precisely as he would have wished. She was apparently in the enjoyment of a handsome income, kept her carriage, and had a number of servants, while the house and grounds exhibited taste as well as no stint of expense.

“The boys were about twelve years of age, when an accident happened to Herbert, which, though apparently slight at first, finally led to the most disastrous consequences. While skating, he fell and received some injury, which, after months of suffering, finally developed itself in an incurable disease of the spine, entailing upon him a life-time of pain, and branding him with frightful deformity. The tall, lithe, graceful boy, whose step had been as light and free as the leap of the greyhound, was now a dwarfed and distorted cripple. As soon as he was able to leave his sick-room, Mrs. Darsie placed Edgar at boarding-school, and sailed for Europe, with the intention of giving Herbert the benefit of all the modern discoveries in medicine. She designed to be absent a year, but, led on by fallacious hopes, she traveled farther, and remained much longer than she had anticipated. Three years elapsed before her return, and to all appearance Herbert had derived little benefit from the various experiments to which he had been subjected. He was still dependent on his crutch, and his gnarled and stunted figure presented a pitiable contrast to the tall and well-knit form of his brother. But his health was somewhat improved; his paroxysms of pain were less frequent, and he could now enjoy weeks of comparative ease and comfort.

“The brothers had early been remarkable for their affection for each other, and their unbroken concord, but their long separation had not been without its effect upon them. Edgar was gay, active, volatile, and not destitute of a leaven of selfishness; while Herbert had become grave, quiet, gentle in manner, and most thoughtful and considerate for others. To him suffering had been a teacher of all good things, and the misfortune of being cut off from fellowship with the world had taught him to find resources within himself. He could not and did not expect Edgar to sympathize in all his tastes, for he was conscious that their paths must henceforth be divided ones. He schooled himself to overcome the pang which this reflection gave to his sensitive spirit, and tried to find in his brother’s enjoyments of outer life, a pleasure which he could only receive from the reflection of another’s joy.

“Soon after their return from Europe, Mrs. Darsie received into her family the orphan child of a poor clergyman, partly from charity, partly with a view to furnish a companion and attendant for Herbert. Jessie Graham was a pale, delicate-looking child, about twelve years old, when she took up her abode with her benefactress. Her thin and almost transparent cheek, her bloodless lips, and large gray, timid-looking eyes, spoke of fragile health, and of a certain shyness of character which might be the result of early anxieties, or perhaps denoted feebleness of mind and indecision. But she was a sweet-tempered, gentle little girl, and her compassion for Herbert’s melancholy condition soon dissipated her shyness toward him, though to every one else, even to Mrs. Darsie, she was as timid as a startled fawn.

“To divert his lonely hours Herbert undertook her instruction. He was but a boy of fifteen, but sorrow had given him the stability of manhood; and never did a more discreet, tender, and watchful Mentor attempt the training of a female mind. Jessie was docile and intelligent, quickly acquiring every thing which called forth the perceptive faculties, but utterly incapable of abstract reasoning or profound reflection. Her mind possessed a certain activity, and a kind of feminine patience that enabled her to do full credit to her teacher, without ever attaining to his high reach of thought. To cultivate her mental powers, to impart to her a portion of his accomplishments, and to train her moral sense, now became Herbert’s chief occupation. That such employment of heart and mind saved him from bitterness and misanthropy there can be no doubt; but whether he did not pay dearly for his exemption we shall see in the sequel.

“Time passed on without making any great change in the affairs of the Darsies. Edgar went through college rather because it was necessary to a gentlemanly education than from any love for study, and, immediately after graduating, he set off on the tour of Europe. In the meantime Herbert continued to lead his usual quiet life, driving out in his low pony-carriage every day, teaching Jessie all she would learn, and surrounding himself with pictures of his own painting in the intervals of his severer studies.

“It was on the anniversary of their birth—the day they attained their twenty-first year—that the brothers again met upon their own hearth-stone. Mrs. Darsie’s health had begun to fail, and Edgar, at Herbert’s suggestion, had unwillingly torn himself from the enjoyments of Parisian life to return to his quiet home. He found his mother sadly changed, and evidently suffering from the insidious disease which so slowly saps the foundations of health and life. Herbert, like all deformed persons, had early lost the freshness of youth, and he was not surprised, therefore, to find him looking at least ten years older than himself, but he was astonished at the intellectual beauty which seemed to radiate from his noble countenance. To the shapeless form of a stunted tree he united the head of a demi-god. The beauty of his classical features, the splendor of his deep, dark eyes, and rich glossy hair curling in heavy masses round his temples, gave him the appearance of a magnificently sculptured head joined on to some distorted torso.

“But if Edgar was startled at the change in his mother and brother, how was he amazed and bewildered when he saw Jesse Graham! The pale, puny, frightened-looking little girl had expanded into one of the very loveliest of women. At eighteen Jessie had all that delicate yet fresh beauty which a painter would select as his model for a youthful Hebe. “A rose crushed upon ivory” was not too extravagant a simile for her cheek; her lips were like the berry of the mountain-ash; and her eyes so soft, so tender, with just enough of their former shyness to make them always seem appealing in their expression, were like nothing else on earth.”

“You are extravagant, Uncle Lorimer; pray how did you avoid falling in love with such a creature?” asked Anne, saucily.

“By the best of all preventives—_pre-occupation_. But my story has to do with others, not with me. Soon after Edgar’s return, his mother took an opportunity to inform him of her plans with regard to Jessie. She had watched the progress of Herbert’s attachment to his young pupil, and she believed it to be fully reciprocated by the docile girl. She had, therefore, as she thought, fully provided for Herbert’s future happiness; and, lest Edgar should be attracted by Jessie’s loveliness, she hastened to tell him that in the beautiful orphan he beheld his brother’s future wife. Mrs. Darsie was a weak woman, though kind-hearted and affectionate. She proceeded to inform Edgar how the idea first came into her head—how she had told Herbert of it—how she had been at first shocked at the thought of sacrificing Jessie’s youthful loveliness to such a union—how she discovered his secret love even from his heroic self-denial—how she had finally succeeded in persuading him that Jessie really loved him better than any one in the world—and how he had at last consented to entertain the hope and belief that Jessie might become his wife without repugnance. To Edgar’s very natural question, whether Jessie was really willing to marry Herbert, his mother replied that as yet Jessie knew nothing of their plans, Herbert having forbidden her to use her influence in the matter, being determined that if he won Jessie, it should be through her own free and unbiased will.

“Whether it arose from that perverseness in human nature, which teaches men to value a thing just in proportion to its difficulty of attainment, or whether Jessie’s loveliness was irresistible to a man of Edgar’s temperament, I cannot determine; but certain it is, that from that time he looked upon her with far different eyes than he had at first regarded her. Edgar was precisely the kind of man who is always successful with women. His talents and accomplishments were all of the most superficial kind, but he danced well, sung beautifully, played the guitar gracefully, and withal was exceedingly handsome. His voice was perfect music, and when he bent down in a half-caressing manner over a lady’s chair, flinging back his bright, silken hair, and gazing in her face with eyes full of dangerous softness, while his rich voice took the sweetest tone of deference and heart-felt emotion, it was next to impossible for any woman to resist his fascinations.”

“Was his character a perfectly natural one, uncle, or was this exquisite manner the result of consummate art?”

“It was natural to him to wish to please, and he aided his natural attractions by a certain devotedness of manner, which made each individual to whom he addressed himself _appropriate_ his tenderness as her own right. Jessie had lived in such close seclusion that she knew nothing of the world or its ways. It is probable that had Herbert asked her to become his wife before the return of Edgar, she would have easily consented, for she certainly loved him very dearly, and long habit of associating with him had accustomed her to his deformity. To her he was not the shapeless dwarf, whose crippled limbs scarce bore the weight of his crooked body. He had been her ideal of excellence—the friend, the Mentor who had made her orphaned life a blessing, and she could imagine no stronger, deeper affection than that which he had long since inspired.

“But after Edgar had been at home a few months, she was conscious of a great change in her feelings. She loved Herbert as well as ever, but she had learned the existence of another kind of affection. Edgar’s sweet words and honied flatteries were unlike any thing she had ever heard before, and unconscious of any disloyalty to Herbert, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of this new sensation of happiness.

“Herbert was tried almost beyond his strength, for it was when his mother lay on what was soon to be her death-bed that he first suspected the fatal truth respecting his brother and Jessie. A lingering illness, protracted through many weeks (during which time Herbert was his mother’s constant companion, while Edgar enjoyed the opportunity of unrestrained companionship with Jessie,) finally terminated in Mrs. Darsie’s death; and, as Herbert closed her eyes, he could not but feel that sinking of the heart which told him that he was now alone upon earth. Immediately after his mother’s funeral he was taken alarmingly ill, and for several days his life was considered in imminent danger. It was not until his recovery that he again saw Jessie Graham, who, in compliance with the world’s notions of decorum, had left the home of her childhood on the decease of her benefactress. She had found her temporary abode in the family of a friend in the neighborhood, and Herbert’s sick-bed had known no other attendance than that of the housekeeper and servants. In his first interview with Jessie after his convalescence, he drew from her a confession, or rather an admission of her love for Edgar. The manner in which she confided this to him—the frank, sisterly feeling which seemed to animate her, stung him to the heart. But he possessed great self-command, and Jessie never suspected the actual state of _his_ feelings while she confided to him her own.

“As soon as practicable after Herbert’s recovery, his mother’s will was opened, and then arose a new subject of wonder and dissatisfaction. No one but Mrs. Darsie and her lawyer had known that she had been merely in the enjoyment of a life interest in her fortune; but it was now ascertained that her husband’s estate had been very trifling, and that her large income was the product of a handsome fortune bequeathed to Herbert by an old uncle, in consideration of his physical misfortunes. The yearly product was given to Mrs. Darsie during her life, but at her death the whole reverted to Herbert. His father’s property, amounting only to a few thousand dollars, was bequeathed solely to Edgar, and a legacy of five hundred dollars, (to purchase her wedding-dress, as the will stated,) marked the testator’s wishes regarding her protégé, Jesse Graham. Every body was surprised at this development, but no one more so than the brothers. Why their mother had left them in such close ignorance of their affairs, it is impossible to say, but they certainly had no suspicion of the facts until they were thus legally made known.

“One of the first wishes of Herbert’s heart was to see Jessie placed in her proper position, and he therefore nerved himself to speak to Edgar on the subject. What was his surprise, therefore, when his brother treated the whole thing as a boyish affair, and avowed his determination to spend his pittance (as he termed it) abroad, and then to repair his fortunes by a wealthy marriage! If ever the gentle spirit of Herbert entertained a feeling of abhorrence for any living creature, it was at that moment. His own hopes had been ruthlessly blighted, and Jessie’s heart estranged from him, merely to gratify a _boyish fancy_!

“What he suffered, and what he felt, however, it is not for me to attempt describing. He had garnered up all his treasures of affection in Jessie and his brother. Now Jessie was lost to him, and Edgar was a villain. How he, with his delicate sensibility, his high sense of honor, and his stern principles of duty, must have suffered, I leave you to imagine. But his love for Jessie conquered all other feelings. He knew that her happiness depended on her union with Edgar, for she was precisely that kind of character, which, though infirm of purpose in the outset, yet have a certain tenacity of feeling when once a decision has been made for them. He revolved many schemes in his mind before he could form a practicable one, and at last he suffered his frank and candid nature to lead him with its usual directness to his object. He asked Edgar to be more explicit in his confidences, and when Edgar declared that had he been the heir of wealth he would gladly make Jessie his wife, but that nothing would ever induce him to tie himself down to a life of privation and poverty, Herbert’s decision was at once made. He proposed dividing his income with Edgar, on condition that his brother should marry Jessie, and reside in the home of their childhood, while he himself should travel into distant lands. But Edgar, with the quick-sightedness of selfishness, saw how deeply Herbert’s soul was interested in the matter. Pretending a jealousy of his brother’s influence over Jessie—a jealousy of which he declared himself ashamed, yet which he could not subdue—he said that if he had the means he would marry Jessie, and take her far from all her early associations, but that he would never let her live in Herbert’s house, or in a place where she might at any time be subject to his visits.

“Pained as he was by this appearance of distrust, Herbert’s conscience accused him of cherishing a wicked love for one who was about to become his brother’s wife, and he therefore submitted meekly to this new trial. What terms were finally decided upon could only be known at that time to the two brothers.

“Six months after Mrs. Darsie’s death Edgar was united to Jessie Graham, in the little village church, and immediately after the ceremony, the wedding-party left for New York, from whence they sailed a few days afterward for Havre.

“Herbert dismissed the greater part of the servants, shut up all except one wing of the large house, sold off the carriage and horses, (reserving only the little pony-carriage, without which he would have been deprived of all means of locomotion,) and restricted his expenses within such narrow limits, that people began to consider him mean and miserly. He withdrew entirely from society, and lived more utterly alone than ever. His books, his pictures, his music, were now his only companions. Yet he did not forget that earth held those to whom even he might minister. The door of the poorest cottages often opened to admit the distorted form of the benefactor and friend, but the sunlight on the rich man’s threshold was never darkened by his shapeless shadow.

“Edgar Darsie went to Paris with his beautiful wife, and there he lived in luxury and splendor, surrounded by every thing that could minister to his love of pleasure. Only himself and one other, the lawyer who had drawn up the papers, knew whence his wealth was derived. Even Jessie never suspected that Herbert was living with the closest economy in order that the poor should not suffer from the lavish generosity which had induced him to secure to his brother more than three-fourths of his whole income as a bribe to insure her happiness.

“Ten years passed away, dragging their weary length with the lonely and suffering Herbert, winging their way on golden pinions to Edgar, weaving their mingled web of dark and bright to the womanly heart of Jessie. She had witnessed the changes of a fickle nature in her husband—she had learned to endure indifference, and to meet with fitful affection from him—she had borne children, and laid them sorrowing in the bosom of mother earth—she had drunk of the cup of pleasure and found bitterness in its dregs; and now she stood a weeping mourner beside the dying bed of that faithless but still beloved husband. Edgar Darsie had inherited his mother’s disease, together with her beauty. His excesses had hastened the period of its development, and ten years after his marriage he was withering like grass before the hunter’s fire, beneath the touch of consumption. Day after day he faded—his stately form became bowed, his bright face changed, his silken locks fell away from his hollow temples. Health was gone, and beauty soon departed.

“With the approach of death came old memories thronging about his heart, and filling his sick chamber with fantasies and spectres of long by-gone days. “Take me home! take me home!” was the bitter cry. But his “_home-wo_” came too late. Never again would he leave his bed until he was carried to the house appointed for all living. At the first tidings of his illness Herbert had sailed for Havre, and traveled with all speed to Paris; but when he arrived there his heart failed him. He remembered Edgar’s avowed jealousy of him, and the wild, fierce joy which thrilled his heart when he found himself once more near to Jessie, taught him that he was not entirely guiltless toward his brother. He accordingly took lodgings in the same hotel, that he might be near Edgar, in case he should wish to see him, well knowing that the mode of life in Paris secured him the most perfect privacy. He made known his present abode to a certain business-agent, through whose hands letters had usually been sent to him from Paris, and thus he received from Jessie’s hand constant tidings of his brother’s condition.

“But this state of things could not last long. His impatience to be with Edgar led him to seize upon the first faint intimation of a wish to see him, and he soon found himself welcomed with tears of joy by Jessie while Edgar thanked him with his eyes—those tender eyes—for his thoughtful kindness in coming without waiting for a summons. During three months Herbert shared with Jessie her care and watchfulness over the invalid. All the lovable qualities of Edgar’s nature were brought out by his sickness, and Herbert could not help feeling the full force of those fascinations which had won for him the love of every one. Weakened in mind as well as in body by his disease, he was like a lovely and gentle child, so docile, so affectionate, so helpless, so tender, and so altogether lovely did he appear, as the dark wing of death flung its shadow broader and deeper above his couch.

“He died with penitence for past misdeeds deep-rooted in his heart, and prayer for pardon lingering on his lips. He died clasping his brother’s hand in his, and the last act of his life was a vain attempt to unite Jessie’s hand in the same grasp. There was no time for the indulgence of selfish feeling at such a moment. The presence of death had hushed the whispers of earthly passion, and the grief of both the brother and the widow was the genuine tribute of affection to the departed.

“As soon as Edgar’s affairs could be arranged, the widow, with her only surviving child, returned to America under the protection of Herbert. Ignorant as a child about pecuniary affairs, Jessie left every thing to Herbert, and consequently never knew at what sacrifice he rescued Edgar’s good name from obloquy, and paid his enormous debts. Nor did she ever know that the money which had supported their extravagant expenditure in Paris, was the free gift of Herbert. But daily and hourly did she experience Herbert’s considerate kindness. Fearing to awaken her suspicions relative to his agency in her marriage, he determined to continue to her an allowance similar to that which he had bestowed upon his brother. But to do this required new retrenchments, and the sacrifice of a fine landed property; for Edgar’s lavish prodigality had cost him so large a portion of his fortune that it now needed the most careful and judicious management.

“If Herbert hoped to marry his brother’s widow, he at least determined to leave her free to choose for herself. Jessie found herself pleasantly domiciled in a new home, with a handsome provision for herself and child, and surrounded by all the appliances of American comfort before she had yet recovered from the dull torpor of her grief. For fifteen years Herbert had lived but for her. During the five years preceding her marriage his whole soul had been devoted to her; and when afterward he tried to banish her image, he found though he might dethrone the idol, the sentiment of loyal love, like a subtile perfume, had diffused itself through his whole being. Was it strange, then, if he should once more dream that his love and faith might do more than remove mountains—that his devotion might veil the unsightliness of his person—that he might yet be beloved and rewarded?

“Now tell me, Annie, how do you think my story is going to end?”

“In the marriage of Jessie to the devoted Herbert,” replied Annie. “It is not in the nature of woman to be insensible to such devotion.”

“Remember that Jessie knew nothing of his pecuniary sacrifices, had no suspicion of his agency in bringing about her marriage; did not dream of his self-denying, self-forgetting love.”

“But no woman could doubt the true meaning of all his devotedness.”

“He had never flattered her with gentle words; never wooed her in courtly phrase; never played the lover in the most approved fashion. He had been the adviser, the Mentor, the steady friend; love had been the pervading and animating soul of all he thought and all he did, but his very magnanimity had been as a cloak to conceal his affections. Do you think a woman like Jessie—an ordinary woman, lovely and gentle, but withal having no perception of that inner life which so few can penetrate—do you think she could see through this magnanimous reserve, and detect the hidden love?”

“Surely, surely!”

“Recollect that she had early learned to pity him for his personal defects, and though ‘pity’ may be ‘akin to love’ in our sex, yet no woman ever loves a man she must look down upon with compassion.”

“But his nobler qualities must have commanded her respect.”

“Suppose they were so far above her perceptions as to inspire her with _awe_ instead of respect? A woman never loves the man she _pities_, nor will she love the man whose superiority she _fears_. Jessie compassionated Herbert’s bodily weaknesses, and she had a vague terror of his stern, uncompromising ideas of right and wrong.”

“Nevertheless, I am sure she married Herbert, uncle.”

“You are mistaken, Annie. Herbert continued his devotion for years; he learned to love her child as if it were his own, and gave proofs of disinterestedness and tenderness such as no woman could misinterpret; but he never offered her his hand.”

“Why not?”

“Because he _knew_ it would be rejected, and he preferred being a life-long friend, to occupying the position of an unsuccessful suitor.”

“Then I suppose she never married again.”

“You are wrong again, Annie. At forty years of age, when her beauty was faded, and her character had deteriorated amid the follies of society, she married a man some ten years her junior, who, tempted by the income which _Herbert_ had bestowed upon her, flattered her into the belief that she had inspired him with the most passionate love.”

“And her child?”

“Was adopted by Herbert Darsie, and at his death inherited his estate.”

“Poor, poor Herbert!”

“He suffered the penalty which all must pay who give to earth the high and holy sentiment which is only meant to make us companion with the angels in heaven. Not one in a thousand can love thus, and that one always finds that in the world’s vast desert, he has expended his strength in vain—‘hewn out broken cisterns which can hold no water.’”

* * * * *

THE UNMASKED.

BY S. ANNA LEWIS.

The struggle is over—my pulses once more Leap free as the waves on the surf-beaten shore; And my spirit looks up to that world of all bliss, And heaves not a sigh for the faithless in this.

’Twas in Sorrow’s bleak night, when the sky was all dark, And the tempest shrieked loud round my storm-beaten bark, That arose, ’mid the darkness, thy radiant form, Like the rainbow illuming the brow of the storm.

An angel thou seemedst, that had come to the earth, To guide me—to nourish my heart in its dearth; And blindly, as Paynim kneels down to his god, I have loved thee—have worshiped the earth thou hast trod.

But this waste of affection—this prodigal part— Is over—the mask has been torn from thy heart— And back with affright and amazement I shrink— At a fount so unholy my soul cannot drink.

* * * * *

* * * * *

MORMON TEMPLE, NAUVOO.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

By permission of Mr. J. R. Smith, we have caused a view of the Mormon Temple at Nauvoo to be engraved from his splendid Panorama of the Mississippi, and we give the engraving in this number. As the building has been recently destroyed by fire, our engraving, the first ever published, acquires additional value. We copy from Mr. Smith’s description of the Panorama, the following account of Nauvoo and the Temple:

“_Nauvoo._—A Mormon city and settlement, now deserted. It is one of the finest locations for a town upon the river, it being situated at the second and last rapids below the Falls of St. Anthony, which extend from this place to Keokuk, a distance of 12 miles. The great Mormon Temple stands out conspicuous. It is the finest building in the west, and if paid for would have cost over half a million of dollars. It is built of a white stone, resembling marble, 80 feet front by 150 deep; 200 feet to the top of the spire. The caps of the pilasters represent the sun; the base of them, the half moon with Joe Smith’s profile. The windows between the pilasters represent stars. A large female figure with a Bible in one hand is the vane. An inscription on the front, in large gilt letters, reads as follows:

“The House of the Lord, built by the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. Commenced April 6, 1841. Holiness to the Lord.”

There is in the basement of the temple a large stone-basin, supported by twelve oxen of colossal size, about fifteen feet high altogether, all of white stone and respectably carved. A staircase leads up to the top of the basin. It is the font where all the Mormons were baptized. It is seen in the Panorama standing aside the Temple, _but in the basement is its real situation_.

* * * * *

ROSE WINTERS.

A TALE OF FIRST LOVE.

BY ESTELLE.

“I shall never have another hour’s happiness as long as I live!” exclaimed Rose Winters, weeping passionately. “You wouldn’t let me marry him, father, and now he’s gone to sea, and said he should never come back.”

“Don’t believe it, Rose,” said Mr. Winters. “He’ll be glad enough to come back, I’ll warrant you—and the longer he stays away the better, I’m thinking, it will be for you.”

“It’s not like you, father, to be so unfeeling,” said Rose, sobbing almost hysterically.

“Nonsense, child—unfeeling, indeed! ay, ay, it may be so in your judgment, I dare say, but I must judge with the head, and not with the heart.”

“I think I ought to be allowed to judge for myself, now I’m of _age_,” answered Rose, with sudden spirit. “I was eighteen my last birthday.”

“True, Rose, you have had great experience of mankind, no doubt. But come, now, just tell me what you could have done if you had married Bob Selwyn, with no fortune yourself, and he nothing to depend on but his hands?”

“We could have done as other people do,” said Rose—“we could have worked. Have I not always worked at home, father?”

“To be sure you have. You have been a good, industrious girl, Rosy, that I sha’n’t deny; but your work at home was not like pulling continually at the rowing oar, which would have been your portion all your life, I’m afraid, with Robert. I can’t see, for my part, what you wanted to marry him for.”

“Because I loved him, and he loved me. Didn’t you and mother marry for love, father?”

Mr. Winters could not forbear laughing at this question, notwithstanding Rose’s grief—and his natural droll humor struggled with his former seriousness as he replied, “Well, I must try to remember. It is nearly twenty years ago, now—so long that you have come of _age_ in the meanwhile, and fancy you are wiser than your father. But I can tell you one thing, Rose, if we did marry for love, we had something to begin the world with, which is quite as necessary. You know the old proverb, ‘When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window.’”

“I don’t believe any such thing, father. Whoever wrote that proverb never knew what love was. It was a mean thing in any man to say so; and what would never have come from a woman, I’ll be bound.”

“Well, well, Rosy, you may dry your eyes. I wish I was as sure of a fortune for you, as I am that Robert will be back with the ship, if his life is spared; but if that shouldn’t be the case, you will be young enough then, and pretty enough, too, to get another beau.”

“I wont have any other!” exclaimed Rose. “I am determined to wait for him, if he stays twenty years!”—and with this resolution she hastily turned away and ran to her own room, where, secure from observation, she might give free vent to her full heart in a long fit of weeping.

We are at a loss to imagine what sort of an impression our rustic heroine, Rose Winters, has made on the minds of our readers, from her unceremonious introduction to them through the foregoing dialogue: but at all events, she is deserving of a more detailed description. She was the daughter of a respectable farmer on Long Island, who resided in a country village, situated on the Atlantic ocean, and near a large seaport town. Mr. Winters was a shrewd, practical man, of strong natural powers of mind, and excellent plain common sense. Rose was his eldest and favorite child, and inherited his independent spirit and natural gifts of understanding, which had been improved in her by a useful and solid education at a first-rate country school. She was not, perhaps, strictly beautiful, but her cheeks were bright with the hue of health, and her dark-blue eyes sparkled with animation, and the joyousness of a young heart, over which a lasting shadow had never passed, until her lover left her to try his fortunes on the sea. Her figure was small, but of exquisite proportions, and her steps sprang elastic with the unchecked spirits of happy childhood. She was always agreeable and entertaining without effort, for her words flowed in the easiest manner possible, from a mouth which nature had made perfect; and then there was nothing on earth more inspiring than her merry laugh, which seemed like the very chorus of joy, and insensibly imparted a portion of her own gayety to all around her. Rose had but little of imagination in her heart or feelings. She was a young, gay creature, full of spirits and activity, and only actuated by the every-day scenes of life, from which she extracted mirth and enjoyment to diffuse unsparingly among all who came within her influence. There was also a truthfulness and integrity in her nature, which could not fail to give beauty, strength, and elevation to her thoughts and character. The visions of romance which so often pervert the minds of the young, and throw a false coloring over the world, were all unknown to Rose. She had been nurtured amid scenes where there was but little to excite or enrich the imagination, but much to awaken bold and lofty sentiments. Born and brought up within sight and sound of the grand and magnificent ocean, she delighted to gaze on its rolling and breaking billows, and listen to its ceaseless sounding roar, which had often been the solemn lullaby to her nightly slumbers. The wide and level fields outspread before her native home, and the few bare hills which skirted here and there the distant outline, were but little calculated to inspire those enchanting, but unreal dreams, which seem insensibly to arise amid the mountain scenery so wildly beautiful and picturesque in many parts of our western world.

Rose had never been twenty miles from her father’s dwelling. All that she knew of the world had been learned in her own village, which was an occasional resort for a small number of strangers during the heat of summer; but its situation was too remote to be very generally visited before there were either railroads or steamboats to facilitate and add comfort and convenience to traveling. Communication with New York, which was the nearest city, was at that time tedious and fatiguing, as the road lay for many miles through sandy woods, or over a bleak and rough country. By water, the journey was performed in sloops, taking from three days to a week to accomplish the voyage. In consequence of these disadvantages, the transient sojourners in the village consisted chiefly of sportsmen, who sought its solitary retreat for the purpose of enjoying the game which was formerly found there in great abundance. The birds were seldom frightened away from the lanes and meadows, excepting by the gun of the stranger, who, having once found his way to that lonely yet delightful part of the country, returned again and again, not only to scare the plover from their haunts, but to enjoy the refreshing and invigorating breezes from the ocean, and revel in the luxury of freedom from fashion and restraint. There was a primitive simplicity in the manners of the inhabitants of the village which was peculiarly pleasing; and in which school Rose had received her first model. She was easy and unaffected, because seeking to appear no higher nor better than she really was. Among her associates, she was a universal favorite. Her presence was sure to be in requisition at all the balls or merry-makings in the neighborhood, for nothing of the kind could go off well, unless Rose Winters, with her quick wit, irresistible good humor, and gay spirits, made one of the party. Her father, though a man of severe morals and true piety, was far from being puritanical in his views or feelings. He loved to see Rose happy, and enjoyed the sunny atmosphere which her never-failing cheerfulness and vivacity spread around the household dwelling. The bright sallies which flashed from her lips, instead of being checked by the farmer, frequently occasioned a repartee of wit from him, which gave Rose a habit of sharpening her own against her father’s weapons. Thus it was that she learned to respect her parent without fearing him. She knew him to be possessed of the most inflexible principles of truth and rectitude; and that his jocose and lively temperament could never induce him to swerve for a moment from the straight-forward course of honesty and honor. In his judgment she placed the most unbounded confidence; and it was only in the one instance in which her heart rebelled against it, that she yielded to its mandate with bitter and unsatisfied feelings. Her mother, whom we have not yet mentioned, had been dead several years; and three sisters, considerably younger than herself, partook more of her care than her confidence. It thus happened that her father had been her companion, more than is usually the case in such relationships. She had been accustomed to consult him in all affairs of consequence; and self-dependent as she was by nature, she durst not incur the responsibility of acting in direct opposition to his counsels. In this slight sketch we have endeavored to give a faint outline of the character of our heroine, unlike, we are sensible, to the usual heroines of romance; but the portrait is drawn from real life, with its beauties unflattered, and its blemishes unconcealed; and we leave it as it is to make what impression it may on the opinions of others.

Robert Selwyn was a native of the same village. He was a few years older than Rose, but had been accustomed to mingle in all the country pleasures and amusements of which she had been for a time the principal attraction. His handsome form, his manly and pleasing countenance, and his gay and careless manners, were his only passports to favor. He had no fortune to assist him in winning his way, but he had energy and ambition, which were yet to be aroused into action. There was a distant connection between the families of Winters and Selwyn, which served as a plea for frequent and familiar intercourse. Rose called him Cousin Robert, and under that name he was received as a sort of privileged guest at her father’s house. The farmer always welcomed him; and Rose chatted and laughed and flirted with him, until at last the flirtation ended in a serious attachment. Mr. Winters, with all his habitual foresight, had not looked for this result. To part with Rose, was an event for which he had made no calculation, and he could not persuade himself to believe that her affections were irrevocably engaged. The application of her lover, therefore, for his consent to their marriage, was met by a decided refusal.

“Pooh, pooh, Robert,” said he, in answer to his solicitation, “I wonder what you would do with a wife. Tell me first, how you expect to make a living for yourself, let alone Rose?”

“Why, if I can do nothing else, sir,” said Selwyn, “I can follow the sea, and at least get a living out of the whales. You know others here have got rich that way.”

“Yes, yes, Robert, but it’s a hard life, and not much to your taste, I reckon.”

“It might not be my choice, Mr. Winters; but I’m not afraid of hardships any more than other men—and I should think nothing hard with Rose.”

“Oh, that’s the way all young men talk when they’re in love; but have you no other plan than that?”

“Yes, sir—I thought of either setting up a store, or trying to get the school, as the old master is going away. I believe I know about as much as he does.”

Mr. Winters laughed as he replied, “Very likely you may, Robert, and be no Solomon either; but it wont answer. Set up a store on credit, and break next year; and as for school-keeping—no, no, I must see some surer prospect of your being able to support a wife, before you can have Rose with my consent.”

“But, Mr. Winters, none of our girls here expect to marry rich. I wonder where they’d find husbands, if they looked for money! not in this town, I am sure.”

“There must be something to look to, though, either money or business. Take my word for it, young man, you would find love but light stuff to live upon without something more substantial along with it.”

Selwyn was silent for a few moments, and then said in a tone of severe disappointment, “Well, I must say, sir, that I did not look for this refusal. You never objected to my visits to Rose.”

“No, but I wish I had, since neither of you have as much sense as I thought for. I have been to blame, and am sorry for it; but there has been enough said now, Robert—all the talking in the world will not alter my mind at present.”

It was after this conversation that Selwyn, finding the farmer inflexible, and Rose determined to sacrifice her love rather than disobey her father, formed the resolution to go out in a whaling ship, just about to leave the port. Rose sought in vain to dissuade him. He told her his mind was made up. “If you wont have me, Rose,” said he, “I may as well be on the ocean as the land, for I shall never marry any one else; but I shall not hold you bound—for most likely I shall never return.”

“I didn’t expect to hear you say such a thing as that, Cousin Robert,” answered Rose, with her eyes full of tears; “but you may hold me bound or not, just as you please, I shall wait for you. If you should forget me, I could never believe in the love of any man afterward.”

The ship sailed unexpectedly, and Selwyn, much to his disappointment, was obliged to depart without again seeing Rose; and the sudden news that he had gone, occasioned the burst of feeling in her, with which our story opened.

We must now pass over a few anxious and tedious years. Rose waited and dreamed of her lover’s return, until her spirits flagged, and her young heart grew sick with “hope deferred.” Mr. Winters was puzzled and confounded. He had mistaken his daughter’s disposition, and was not prepared for the depth of feeling and affection which she had garnered in her bosom. That his bright and merry Rose should suddenly become the reflective and thinking being, and perform her household duties with methodical and earnest care, instead of flying like a bird from room to room, and singing or laughing off a thousand grotesque mistakes, which before were continually occurring under her management, was to him a matter of serious consideration. In truth he did not much like the change; for what was gained in order and regularity in his house, was lost in that inexhaustible fund of animating gayety which had been wont to beguile him at sight of the fatigue of daily labor, and cast an unfailing charm over his retired dwelling. Not that Rose had altogether sunk into the sober and serious mood—that it was not in her nature to do—but an indescribable change had passed over her former manner, which had somewhat of a depressing influence on her family. She could not help laughing and being lively, any more than she could help the beating of her pulse, or the breath that came without her will or agency; but there was something missing in the inward spring from which her spirits flowed. It was the heart’s happiness—and the spring, in consequence, sometimes yielded bitter waters.

Three years had fulfilled their annual revolutions, before the ship returned in which Selwyn had embarked, and then, alas! it returned without him. The voyage had been a most disastrous one. They had been nearly shipwrecked, after being but a few months out, and had been obliged to put in at one of the islands in the Pacific to repair and refit. This operation necessarily detained them a long time; and the second year of the voyage, Selwyn got sick and discouraged, and left them at a port where they had stopped to winter, and went to London. It was hinted that he was wild and reckless, and would never do any thing for want of stability and perseverance. Rose was indignant at these innuendos. Her sense of justice and generosity spurned the meanness of traducing the absent, and her woman’s love shielded him in her own mind from every attack on his reputation. She received a letter from him shortly afterward, the first he had written since his departure. The general tone of it was sad and desponding, but it breathed the most unabated affection toward herself, while at the same time it set her perfectly free from her engagement to him.

“I cannot ask you, dear Rose,” he wrote, “to wait for me, when it is so uncertain if I ever can return to claim your promise. I have made nothing by this voyage, and am determined never to see your father again until I can give him a satisfactory answer to his question of ‘how I am to support a wife.’”

Rose wept over the letter, and then consigned it to her most secret hiding-place, and returned with unshaken resolution to her usual train of duties. She had lost none of her beauty, for the healthful exercise of necessary and constant employment, preserved the bloom on her cheek, and kept her from giving way to useless repining. Among the beaux of the village, she continued to have her full share of admirers; and there was one of the number, Edward Burton, an enterprising and promising young man, who sought earnestly to gain her hand. It was all in vain. Rose was deaf to his entreaties, and laughed at his remonstrances, until he was obliged to give up his suit.

In the meanwhile Robert Selwyn was seeking encouragement and advancement from a foreign people. He continued to follow the sea, but without returning to his native place. He went out from London, and had risen by the usual gradation of ship-officers, lastly to captain. At the expiration of three more years, Rose received another letter from him; but the time of meeting seemed still further and further in the future. He knew not when he should return. His employers kept him constantly engaged, and he hoped in the end to realize an independence; but it might be long yet before it was accomplished.

Such was the burden of the letter, and Rose decided promptly on a new course of action for herself. She had long had it in her mind to leave home. Her eldest sister was fully competent to take her place in the management of the house, and the other two were old enough to be companions and assistants; but Rose felt that she should have to encounter the opposition of her father. She therefore determined on making all her arrangements to go before apprising him of her intention. Much, indeed, then, was the farmer astonished when Rose took her seat by his side, after he had finished his evening meal, and addressed him as follows:

“Father, I am going to New York to live.”

“Going to New York to live!” repeated he, slowly, as if unable or unwilling to comprehend her words, “Why what has put that notion in your head, Rose?”

“I’ve been thinking of it for a year, father, but put off telling you till the time came. Last summer, when Mrs. Sandford was here, she often advised me to go to New York; and a few days ago I had a letter from her. She says she can get me a situation as teacher in a school, where I shall have many advantages, and I have made up my mind to accept it.”

“You ought to have consulted me about it first, Rose; I’m doubtful if it will be for the best.”

“Well, I shall do it for the best,” answered Rose, “and if it shouldn’t turn out so, I can’t help it. You know I’m too much like you, father, to give up any thing I judge to be right; and I hope you wont blame me for leaving home now, since Betsey is quite as good a housekeeper as I am.”

Mr. Winters bent his eyes downward, and was silent. It was not his habit to betray any outward emotion, but there was grief in his heart. His fortitude was sorely tried. The departure of Rose would cause a sad break in his home enjoyments, and the philosophy of the man was destroyed for the moment, by the feelings of the father. Inwardly he struggled, till unable to control himself longer, he rose quickly, and snatching his hat, went out from the house.

After some time, he returned calm and composed, and simply remarked to his daughter, “You say you’ve decided to go, Rose, so there’s no use in arguing—but you’ll find a great change in a city life. If you shouldn’t like it, come back to your old home—that’s all. Now call the girls in to prayers—it’s nigh bed-time.”

Rose did as she was bid—and that night the farmer prayed earnestly and fervently for the child who was about to quit his protection, and committed her to the watchful care of Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps. The prayer over, he retired immediately to his pillow, which was wet before morning with an old man’s unwonted tears.

In the course of the following month, Rose was duly installed in the authority of her new station. Her active and energetic mind, on which the useful branches of education had been thoroughly grounded, soon comprehended all the mysteries of her office, while her sprightliness and good humor, joined to her unusual decision of character, fitted her admirably for her occupation. The first term of her initiation, however, passed wearily away. Her spirit pined in the confinement to which she had voluntarily subjected herself—and with a feeling of _home-sickness_ gnawing at her heart, she repaired to her patroness, Mrs. Sandford, to tell her that she could remain no longer. “I get thinking of my father,” said she, “when I ought to be attending to the lessons—and sometimes my mind gets so confused, that I almost imagine myself mad, and the school a bedlam. Indeed, Mrs. Sandford, I cannot engage for another quarter. I find I was not made for a city life, after all. The confusion distracts me, and the high houses and narrow streets, make me gloomy and low-spirited. I feel as if I couldn’t breathe in the smoke and dust here. Oh, if you only knew how I long for the pure air of the country, and the sight, once more, of the wild, free ocean.”

“But, my dear child,” said the lady, “you cannot think of returning now, in the depth of winter. The communication by water is closed, and you know it is a three days’ journey by land in the best of traveling. At present, they say the roads are nearly impassable. Come, take my advice and content yourself till spring. Believe me, you will not find every thing as you expect when you return to the country. A short absence from home, often produces a great change in our own minds, and we are led to view the same objects in a different light. New impressions of life and manners frequently destroy the power of old associations to bring back past happiness; and we are left to experience a painful disappointment, without being at first sensible that the change is in ourselves. We can never be again what we were before.”

Rose listened attentively, and though far from being fully convinced by the reasoning of Mrs. Sandford, she bent her will to a seeming necessity, and consented to remain. Naturally buoyant, she rallied her spirits, and overcame her transient depression. Interested continually in receiving as well as imparting knowledge, she said no more about returning home until the summer vacation left her at liberty to revisit her native town. Then it was that she understood the change which the more experienced woman of the world had sought to picture to her imagination. She was once more in the bosom of her family; on the very spot where life had opened to her with such bright anticipations of happiness. The same scenes were around her. The extended range of level country, and “The sea, the open sea,” with its mountainous and heaving billows, presented itself, as in former days, to her unobstructed view. What then was lost? It was the simple taste, the unsophisticated mind, the feelings untainted with the world, and, most of all, the heart at peace! She was no longer contented. The quietude and sameness of the country left her too much time for thought; and her restless spirit wandered again to the thronged and bustling city, and the ceaseless routine of her labors in the school as a sort of necessary means of relief. The sight of the ocean grew painful to her, from its reminding her too forcibly of her absent lover. Selwyn wrote not, came not. Some said he was married in London, and there came not a word from himself to contradict the report.

Edward Burton took advantage of it to renew the offer of his hand to Rose.

“No,” answered she, decidedly, “if Cousin Robert is really married, as people say, my faith in man’s love is destroyed forever. I hope you will never ask me again, Edward, for my answer will always be the same.”

So Burton gave her up, and consoled himself by marrying another; and Rose returned to New York, and again devoted herself to the arduous task of teaching, which often filled her heart with weariness; yet no one would have imagined her to be a disappointed girl. _Love-sick_ she was not; she had too much strength of mind—but she was true-hearted and constant. Nine years had elapsed since she had heard a word of Selwyn, and she knew not whether he were living or dead. They had been parted _fifteen years_; and who will wonder that time had robbed her of some of her early bloom; but there was an added expression of intellect in her countenance, and a certain refinement of manner imperceptibly acquired, which she had never possessed in her father’s house: so that altogether she was more attractive, more to be admired at thirty-three years of age, than when she first appeared at eighteen as a country belle.

And where was Robert Selwyn, while by slow gradations from year to year this change had been silently wrought in his heart’s first idol. His migrations in the meantime had been many, and his fortunes varied. Profits and loss were for some years nearly balanced in his accounts, but at length the brighter side predominated. Misfortunes and mishaps were cleared away from his horizon, and his sails swept onward through a tide of unexpected success. It was then that he began to weary of his long, self-imposed exile, and turn his thoughts and wishes to home and “native land.” Energetic in purpose, and prompt in action, he no sooner formed the resolution of returning than it was put in execution. The voyage, quickly accomplished, he once more found himself among his old friends and townsmen, who shook him heartily by the hand, and welcomed him back with right good will. Some author remarks, that “one of the greatest pleasures in life, is to be born in a small town, where one is acquainted with all the inhabitants, and a remembrance clings to every house.” He no doubt felt this on his first arrival, and his satisfaction was unalloyed; for, like Rose, he had yet to know himself as he now was. Most of his youthful companions were married, and settled down into steady, sober-minded, every-day sort of people—having made but little improvement either in mind or manners; but they were not slow to perceive that the Selwyn who had just returned, was quite a different man from the Selwyn they had formerly known. There was certainly a change in him, but in what it consisted, they found it impossible to decide. He lacked nothing in cordiality—he assumed no airs of superiority—he was neither _elegant_ nor _fashionable_—but he was not what he used to be. Perhaps it was that he had acquired more manliness of character; and there was the least bit more of dignity in his manners; he was the smallest possible degree more guarded in his expressions; and his frank and easy address was entirely free from the most distant approach to awkwardness. It is true, he was still the gay and jovial sailor, noble-spirited and generous to a fault—but he was more the gentleman, more the man of the world than before he went to foreign parts; and upon the whole, the conclusion was that he was greatly improved, and would most likely turn out to be quite a credit to the town. He had certainly grown handsomer, as he had grown older. His face wore no traces of any inward discontent or disappointment, and it is probable that he had worn his love either lightly or hopefully in his heart. His first inquiry, after his return, however, was for Rose; and hearing she was in New York, he hastened thither to meet her. It was at the close of a summer afternoon when he found himself at the door of the house where he was told she boarded. He inquired for her, walked in, and sat down in the parlor in the dim light of the fading day, which was rendered more obscure in the shadow of the curtained windows.

Rose had gone to her room fatigued and somewhat dispirited. The name of her visiter was unannounced, and as she descended with a languid step to the parlor, she was little prepared for the surprise that awaited her.

Selwyn rose at her entrance with a confused and doubtful air. “I beg your pardon, madam,” said he, “I called to see Miss Winters—Rose Winters—I understood she was here.”

“And so she is, Cousin Robert!” exclaimed Rose. “She is before you, and yet you do not know her. Am I altered so very much, then?”

The question was accompanied with a painful blush, from the consciousness that the bloom of youth in which he had left her, had passed away forever.

Selwyn sprang toward her and caught her hand.

“Rose, my own dear Rose,” said he, with real feeling, “forgive me. No, you are not altered; but if you were, I should know your voice among a thousand.”

“Ah, I know I have grown old, cousin,” said Rose, struggling to recover herself, “how could it be otherwise, when so many years have passed since we met.”

“Well, Rosy, look at me! Has my age stood still, do you think? Look at the crow’s feet and the gray hair, and tell me if you love me the less for them. You would be the same to me, if you were twice as old as you are; for you see I have come back for no earthly reason but to marry you, unless your own consent is as hard to obtain now as your father’s was before.”

“Why, your friends said you were married in London.”

“No, not my _friends_, Rose. It must have been my _enemies_ who said that; but _you_ knew better. Didn’t I tell you I would never marry any one but you?”

“Yes, fifteen years ago, Cousin Robert—but the promise might be outlawed by this time, for all I knew. You do not pretend to say that you thought my faith in your word would hold out, without even receiving a line from you the last nine years.”

“Why not pretend to say it, coz, when I know it has. Deny it now if you can.”

“But why didn’t you write to me, Robert?”

“Because I’m no writer, and meant to come myself. You said you’d wait for me—and I knew you never broke your word. So now, my sweet little flower, I’ve come to claim you, like a blunt sailor, as I am, with few words, but a heart full of love, and what is better, something to live on beside.”

“You are in a great hurry now,” said Rose, laughing and blushing. “Suppose you wait a little, seeing you learnt the art so well in your absence. Why I have not had a chance yet to ask you what kept you away so long.”

“Never mind that, coz. There ’ill be plenty of time hereafter. Answer my question first, whether you mean to have me or not, and let me know which way to shape my course. If you’ve changed your mind, and lost your affection for me, just say so at once, and I’m off to sea in the first ship. You’ll never be troubled with me again.”

“What an unreasonable man you are,” said Rose, “just as impatient and headstrong as before you went away.”

“You knew all my faults, dearest, long, long ago,” said Selwyn. “They did not hinder you from loving me once. Love me still, Rose, as you once