MONA LISA.

Nothing to them the sculptor’s art,The funeral columns, wreaths or urns;

Nothing to them the sculptor’s art,

The funeral columns, wreaths or urns;

as Halleck so well says respecting Robert Burns, in one of the finest of his lyrics.

MONA LISA.

———

BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.

———

Leonardo de Vinci is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of Mona Lisa, a fair Florentine, without being able, after all, to come up to the idea of her beauty.

Artist! lay the brush aside,Twilight gathers chill and gray;Turn the picture to the wall—Thou hast wrought in vain to-day.Thrice twelve months have hastened bySince thy canvas first grew brightWith that brow’s bewitching beauty,And that dark eye’s melting light.Yet the early sunbeam shinethOn thy tireless labors yet,And the portrait stands before thee,Till the evening sun has set.Faultless is the robe that fallethRound that form of matchless grace;Faultless is the softened outlineOf the fair and oval face.Thou hast caught the wondrous beautyOf the round cheek’s roseate hue;And the full red lips are smiling,As this morn they smiled on you.To that lady thou hast givenImmortality below,Wherefore, then, with moody glancesDost thou from thy labor go?From the living face of beautyBeams the soul’s expressive ray,And, with all thy god-like genius,Thisthounevercanst portray!Of the countless throng around me,Each hath labors like to thine;Each, methinks, some Mona LisaIn his spirit’s inmost shrine.Visions haunt us from our childhoodOf a love so pure, so true,Seraphs unawares might envyAs their white wings fan the Blue;Visions that elude forever,As the silent years depart,Some unhappy ones and weary—Mona Lisas of the heart!Dreams of a divine completenessThat we struggle to attain,’Mid the doubts and toils harassingOf our earthly life in vain;Poet fancies we endeavorTo imprint upon the scroll,Yet for worded utterance failing—Mona Lisas of the soul!

Artist! lay the brush aside,Twilight gathers chill and gray;Turn the picture to the wall—Thou hast wrought in vain to-day.

Artist! lay the brush aside,

Twilight gathers chill and gray;

Turn the picture to the wall—

Thou hast wrought in vain to-day.

Thrice twelve months have hastened bySince thy canvas first grew brightWith that brow’s bewitching beauty,And that dark eye’s melting light.

Thrice twelve months have hastened by

Since thy canvas first grew bright

With that brow’s bewitching beauty,

And that dark eye’s melting light.

Yet the early sunbeam shinethOn thy tireless labors yet,And the portrait stands before thee,Till the evening sun has set.

Yet the early sunbeam shineth

On thy tireless labors yet,

And the portrait stands before thee,

Till the evening sun has set.

Faultless is the robe that fallethRound that form of matchless grace;Faultless is the softened outlineOf the fair and oval face.

Faultless is the robe that falleth

Round that form of matchless grace;

Faultless is the softened outline

Of the fair and oval face.

Thou hast caught the wondrous beautyOf the round cheek’s roseate hue;And the full red lips are smiling,As this morn they smiled on you.

Thou hast caught the wondrous beauty

Of the round cheek’s roseate hue;

And the full red lips are smiling,

As this morn they smiled on you.

To that lady thou hast givenImmortality below,Wherefore, then, with moody glancesDost thou from thy labor go?

To that lady thou hast given

Immortality below,

Wherefore, then, with moody glances

Dost thou from thy labor go?

From the living face of beautyBeams the soul’s expressive ray,And, with all thy god-like genius,Thisthounevercanst portray!

From the living face of beauty

Beams the soul’s expressive ray,

And, with all thy god-like genius,

Thisthounevercanst portray!

Of the countless throng around me,Each hath labors like to thine;Each, methinks, some Mona LisaIn his spirit’s inmost shrine.

Of the countless throng around me,

Each hath labors like to thine;

Each, methinks, some Mona Lisa

In his spirit’s inmost shrine.

Visions haunt us from our childhoodOf a love so pure, so true,Seraphs unawares might envyAs their white wings fan the Blue;

Visions haunt us from our childhood

Of a love so pure, so true,

Seraphs unawares might envy

As their white wings fan the Blue;

Visions that elude forever,As the silent years depart,Some unhappy ones and weary—Mona Lisas of the heart!

Visions that elude forever,

As the silent years depart,

Some unhappy ones and weary—

Mona Lisas of the heart!

Dreams of a divine completenessThat we struggle to attain,’Mid the doubts and toils harassingOf our earthly life in vain;

Dreams of a divine completeness

That we struggle to attain,

’Mid the doubts and toils harassing

Of our earthly life in vain;

Poet fancies we endeavorTo imprint upon the scroll,Yet for worded utterance failing—Mona Lisas of the soul!

Poet fancies we endeavor

To imprint upon the scroll,

Yet for worded utterance failing—

Mona Lisas of the soul!

TO A CANARY BIRD.

———

BY WILLIAM GIBSON, U. S. NAVY.

———

Sweet little faery bird,Gentle Canary bird,Beats not thy tiny breast with one regret?Is it enough for theeEver, as now, to beCaged as a prisoner, kissed as a pet?Gay is thy golden wing,Careless thy caroling,Thou art as happy as happy can be;Singing so merrily,Hast thou no memoryOf thy lost native isle o’er the sea?Not the Hesperides,Floating on fabled seas,Nothing in Nature, and nothing in song,Match with the magic smile,Which, from thine own sweet isle,Hushes the heaving wave all the year long.Summer and youthful Spring,Blooming and blossoming,Hand-in-hand, sister-like, stray thro’ the clime;There thou wert born, amidFruits colored like thee, hidIn the green groves of the orange and lime.Then was the silver luteOf the young maiden mute,When, from the shade of her own cottage-eaves,Rang first thy joyous trill,While, with a gentle thrill,Tho’ the breeze stirred them not, shivered the leaves.Thou, like a spirit, comeFrom thy far island-home,Seemest of spring-time and sunshine the voice.Light-hearted is thy lay,As, on the lemon spray,Love, little singing bird, made thee rejoice.For, from thy lady’s lip,Oft is it thine to sipSweetness which dwells not in fruit or in flower;And when her shaded eyeRests on thee pensively,Moonlight was ne’er so soft silv’ring thy bower.Likest to thee is Love,Never it cares to rove,When its wild winglets feel Beauty’s control.Would, little bird, that IMight to thine island fly,All, all alone with the girl of my soul!There should’st thou sing to us,Tender and tremulous,Our hearts happy with love unexpressed.Sweet little faery bird,Gentle Canary bird,How would’st thou be by that dear girl caressed.

Sweet little faery bird,Gentle Canary bird,Beats not thy tiny breast with one regret?Is it enough for theeEver, as now, to beCaged as a prisoner, kissed as a pet?

Sweet little faery bird,

Gentle Canary bird,

Beats not thy tiny breast with one regret?

Is it enough for thee

Ever, as now, to be

Caged as a prisoner, kissed as a pet?

Gay is thy golden wing,Careless thy caroling,Thou art as happy as happy can be;Singing so merrily,Hast thou no memoryOf thy lost native isle o’er the sea?

Gay is thy golden wing,

Careless thy caroling,

Thou art as happy as happy can be;

Singing so merrily,

Hast thou no memory

Of thy lost native isle o’er the sea?

Not the Hesperides,Floating on fabled seas,Nothing in Nature, and nothing in song,Match with the magic smile,Which, from thine own sweet isle,Hushes the heaving wave all the year long.

Not the Hesperides,

Floating on fabled seas,

Nothing in Nature, and nothing in song,

Match with the magic smile,

Which, from thine own sweet isle,

Hushes the heaving wave all the year long.

Summer and youthful Spring,Blooming and blossoming,Hand-in-hand, sister-like, stray thro’ the clime;There thou wert born, amidFruits colored like thee, hidIn the green groves of the orange and lime.

Summer and youthful Spring,

Blooming and blossoming,

Hand-in-hand, sister-like, stray thro’ the clime;

There thou wert born, amid

Fruits colored like thee, hid

In the green groves of the orange and lime.

Then was the silver luteOf the young maiden mute,When, from the shade of her own cottage-eaves,Rang first thy joyous trill,While, with a gentle thrill,Tho’ the breeze stirred them not, shivered the leaves.

Then was the silver lute

Of the young maiden mute,

When, from the shade of her own cottage-eaves,

Rang first thy joyous trill,

While, with a gentle thrill,

Tho’ the breeze stirred them not, shivered the leaves.

Thou, like a spirit, comeFrom thy far island-home,Seemest of spring-time and sunshine the voice.Light-hearted is thy lay,As, on the lemon spray,Love, little singing bird, made thee rejoice.

Thou, like a spirit, come

From thy far island-home,

Seemest of spring-time and sunshine the voice.

Light-hearted is thy lay,

As, on the lemon spray,

Love, little singing bird, made thee rejoice.

For, from thy lady’s lip,Oft is it thine to sipSweetness which dwells not in fruit or in flower;And when her shaded eyeRests on thee pensively,Moonlight was ne’er so soft silv’ring thy bower.

For, from thy lady’s lip,

Oft is it thine to sip

Sweetness which dwells not in fruit or in flower;

And when her shaded eye

Rests on thee pensively,

Moonlight was ne’er so soft silv’ring thy bower.

Likest to thee is Love,Never it cares to rove,When its wild winglets feel Beauty’s control.Would, little bird, that IMight to thine island fly,All, all alone with the girl of my soul!

Likest to thee is Love,

Never it cares to rove,

When its wild winglets feel Beauty’s control.

Would, little bird, that I

Might to thine island fly,

All, all alone with the girl of my soul!

There should’st thou sing to us,Tender and tremulous,Our hearts happy with love unexpressed.Sweet little faery bird,Gentle Canary bird,How would’st thou be by that dear girl caressed.

There should’st thou sing to us,

Tender and tremulous,

Our hearts happy with love unexpressed.

Sweet little faery bird,

Gentle Canary bird,

How would’st thou be by that dear girl caressed.

A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES.

———

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

———

[Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, byGeorge Payne Rainsford James, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the District of Massachusetts.]

(Continued from page 279.)

A period of wandering and of danger, of flitting from place to place, and land to land, of difficulties and distresses, of almost daily peril, of constant uncertainty as to the future, would seem to furnish matter enough for memory; but yet the period immediately succeeding my separation from Father Bonneville, is very dim and obscure to remembrance. I staid so short a time in any place, one event trod so fast upon the heels of another, that neither scene nor event had time to fix itself firmly in memory, before, like the grass upon a public pathway, it was trodden down by passing feet.

At this time, I could speak three languages with almost equal facility: English, French, and German; but English perhaps, I understood most thoroughly—at all events, I know, I generally thought in that language. This facility was of very great advantage to me, and I notice it on that account, as I could pass wherever those tongues were spoken for a native of the country. It is true, I had not soon occasion to see France again; but I wandered through many parts of Switzerland, where French was in common use.

The terrible dissensions and frightful bloodshed that were going on in that once fair and peaceful land, soon drove me forth, however, though I anxiously continued my inquiries for Father Bonneville, as long as there seemed a chance of success. My steps were then turned toward the North of Germany, without object; and more directed by accidental circumstances, than by any predetermination of my own, I walked on foot the whole way; for the hundred louis afforded but small means, and I had learned the necessity, and the mode of economy. Fifty of those hundred louis I put by with the resolution never to touch them except in the last extremity; and no one can tell the amount of distress and privation I submitted to, rather than violate that resolution. Every thing I could part with, I disposed of before I set out: my beloved rifle amongst the rest. I had a good many little trinkets, which I had purchased in the foolish vanity of youth, but I got rid of them all, and only retained my watch, with a seal bearing a coat of arms attached to it, (which seal I had possessed as long as I could remember any thing) and the ring and little gold chain which had been given to me by Madame de Salins. My clothes were all compressed into a knapsack, and in my hunter’s garb, with thick, coarse shoes upon my feet, I plodded on my weary way, over mountain and moor, through field and forest, in the town and in the country, seeking wherever opportunity seemed to present itself, for some employment, but finding none. All I could offer to do was to teach, and the whole of Europe was so overloaded with persons in the same situation, who had been driven forth from France by the Revolution, that it was hardly possible to find any profitable occupation of that kind.

Often, often at peasant’s hut, or farmer’s house, I have begged a morsel of black bread, and a draught of water. Perhaps this was not very right, when I had actually money in my pocket, but yet it is a common custom in that country, and almost every artisan, before he becomes a master in his trade, spends some years in what is calledfechtingor in other words, begging his way from place to place. The assistance was almost always readily given, and sometimes the charity of woman would add a drink of milk, or a few kreutzers.

I was within sight of the town of Hamburgh before any chance of occupation presented itself, and then it came about in rather a singular manner. I was walking on at a quick pace, at about three miles from the city, on the same side of the Elbe, when I saw from a little garden gate, close by a small summer-house, an elderly gentleman come forth, of somewhat peculiar appearance. He was exceedingly thin, brisk and active-looking, with powdered hair and a thick queue, an enormous white cravat, a vast frill, and a bluish-gray cloak, somewhat threadbare. There was a keen, sharp look about his eyes and mouth, which was not very promising, and I walked on without taking much notion of him. His pace, however, was as fast as my own, and we kept nearly side by side for about half-a-mile, without speaking, till we came upon a long wooden bridge, which every one who has been in Hamburgh must recollect. He had eyed me, I perceived, with great attention, and at length he burst forth.

“Well, young man,” he said, “I think you might have given me good time of day, at least.”

“I do not know you,” I answered, “and do not like to take liberties with strangers.”

“Mighty modest,” rejoined he. “What’s your trade?”

I explained to him, that I was seeking employment as a teacher, having been driven out of my own country by Revolution. That seemed to touch him; for he had a great abhorrence of Revolutions, and he asked me what I could teach.

I told him that I was competent to give instruction in Latin, Greek, Mathematics, French, English and German.

“Hundert tausand!” he exclaimed, “the lad is an Encyclopædia. Let us see what you can do;” and immediately he poured forth a passage of Euripides, with which I was quite familiar. I rendered it at once into German, and he then made me give it him in French, which I did as well as I could, in that meagre tongue. He rubbed his hands all the time, saying—“Ha—ha.” He spoke to me in English, too, such as it was, and though his pronunciation would have made a dry salmon laugh, yet I found that he had a very thorough acquaintance with all the works of the best authors of England. The conversation soon became interesting to us both, and we went on chatting and discussing till we reached the gates of the town. There he suddenly paused, and looking at me from head to foot, exclaimed—

“So you want employment—you are poor, I dare say—very poor?”

I replied, that it was hardly possible to be poorer.

“Well, then, you must not lodge in dear inns,” he said.

I told him I did not know where to lodge, as I was a stranger in the town.

“I’ll tell you,” he answered, “I’ll tell you. You must lodge in the lower town—in the Hardt-Gasse—number five—with Widow Steinberger.” He repeated the direction over three times, and then added—“She should board you for two dollars a week—don’t give her more. Everybody asks too much, in expectation of being beaten down—a bad system, but universal.”

All this time he had been continually turning himself round upon his right leg, between each two or three words, as if intending to go away, and I perceived no inclination upon his part to help me to employment; but when he came to the end of his directions, he drew out a little note-book, wrote something in it with his usual rapidity, tore out the leaf, and gave it to me saying—

“Come to see me—come to see me. I’ll think of what can be done. We’ll find you employment, Polyglot,” and away he turned and left me. I then, with better hope than I had hitherto had, inquired my way to the street which he had indicated, without having curiosity enough to look at any thing but his name, which I found to be “Herman Haas.” I was a long time in finding the Hardt-Gasse, and before I did so, I plunged into many a dark and gloomy street of tall, old houses, and warehouses. At length, the end of a little lane was pointed out to me, the appearance of which was more in harmony with the state of my finances, than my desires. But I found, on walking up it, that the houses must, at one time, have been of some importance, judging by the size of the doors, and the ornaments which clustered round them. At number five, I stopped; and finding neither knocker or bell, opened the door and went in.

“Who’s there?” screamed a voice from the right, and entering a large, dim, old-fashioned room, I found myself in the presence of a stately dame, engaged in the dignified occupation of cooking, who instantly demanded what I wanted. I found that this was no other than Madame Steinberger, herself, but before she would enter into any negociations in regard to boarding and lodging me, she insisted upon knowing who had sent me there. When I showed her the paper, however, she exclaimed—“Professor Haas! Oh! that is another matter;” and our arrangements were soon effected. As the professor had anticipated, she asked more at first than she was inclined to take, but his dictum was all powerful with her, and I was soon installed in a comfortable little room, with the advantage of a large sitting-room besides, when I chose to use it, for which accommodation, with three meals in the day, I was to pay two dollars a week.

On the following morning, at the hour which my landlady told me would be most convenient, I went to call upon the professor, whom I found in his study; though how he contrived to study at all, I cannot make out; for he was in a state of continual movement—the most excitable German I ever saw. During the greater part of the time he was talking to me, he was taking down one book and putting up another, turning over papers upon the table, dipping a pen in the ink and wiping it again, with other operations to carry off his superfluous activity. He must have been quiet at some time; for he certainly was a very learned man; but I never could discover when it was. At length, after having asked a great number of questions, he said—“I have got one pupil for you, to make a beginning—Come, I’ll show her to you;” and leading me into another room, on the same floor, he presented me to a young lady, who sat there embroidering, as his daughter. “There,” he said, “teach her English, and any thing else you can. I have no time—she is a good girl, but slow.”

The young lady looked up in his face with a calm, placid smile, saying, “If there were two such quick people as you in the house, my father, they would always be running against each other.”

“True,” replied the old man, “true, and philosophical. Nature loves contrasts as well as harmonies. Opposing forces counteract each other. You, my Louise, are myvis inertiæ. Without you I should get on too fast. But come, young gentleman—what is your name?”

“Louis de Lacy,” I replied.

“I like that, I like that,” answered the old man “TheDe, speaks blood and good political principles—but come—we will settle the terms in my own room, and will try to get you something more to do by and bye.”

I found the good professor had as accurate a knowledge of making a bargain, as he had of Greek or Latin. He calculated the worth of my services to a pfennig, and, as I found afterward, if I had made the slightest opposition, would have beaten me down still lower; for he had a pleasure in such sort of triumphs. I let him arrange it all his own way, however, and left to his own generosity, he probably added a little to the sum which he had intended to give. It was agreed that I was to teach his daughter two hours during the day, and as soon as all this was settled, he pushed me by the shoulders toward the door, saying, “There, go, begin at once. You have three hours before dinner. I must go to my recitations.”

I found the way back to the room where Louise Haas was seated, and where I passed two hours of every day, for nearly nine months, and generally the greater part of every Sunday. She was a pretty creature, with small, well-shaped features, a very graceful form, though plump and rounded, and a bright, clear complexion, which varied a good deal under different emotions. Her mother had died, I found, some four or five years before, of that pest of northern countries, consumption. There was nobody in the house but herself, her father, and two women servants: hardly any society was admitted within the doors, but grave old professors, with long hair, not very well combed; and thus tutor and pupil, like Abelard and Heloise, were left alone together for many an hour—I having her father’s commands to teach her English, and any thing else I could. Father Bonneville’s good lessons, however, some knowledge of the world, and many hard experiences, together with other feelings, which I cannot well describe, prevented me from even thinking of taking any unfair advantage of my situation. It was natural, however, that in such circumstances, young acquaintance should speedily ripen into intimacy, and intimacy into friendship. Nay, it was not unnatural that little marks of kindness and tenderness should pass between us; for though very calm and gentle, she was of a loving and caressing disposition. I found her far from dull—a very apt scholar; but sometimes there were things she could not comprehend, and then she would look smiling in my face, and ask if she was not very stupid, and let her hand drop into mine and rest there, as a messenger sent to beseech forbearance.

We were both very young; she not more than eighteen, and I about twenty, and strange new feelings began to come over my heart toward her. I will not even now say that it was love; and then, I would not inquire what it was, at all. It was a tenderness—a feeling of gentle, quiet affection—a fondness for her society—a pleasure in seeing those soft eyes, look into mine, and a gratitude for the kindness she ever showed, and took every opportunity of showing. What she felt, I learned afterward; but let me turn once more to the course of my life in Hamburgh.

By the kind offices of the good old professor, I obtained several other pupils, and I had the great happiness of finding my income exceed my expenditure. I threw off my traveling garb; I brought out from my knapsack the clothing which I had so carefully saved: I gained admittance into some of the society of the town, and though I do not think I was ever very vain, whatever vanity I had, received some encouragement. But my favorite resort was still the professor’s house. He and his daughter were my first friends in the city, and I became more and more intimate with him every day. He was pleased with the progress his daughter made, and he was also pleased with the little assistance which I gave him, from time to time, in different works he was compiling. While I wrote for him, or looked out passages for him, he could fidget about the room at his case, and get into every corner of it in five minutes. At the end of a month, I had a general invitation to spend my evenings there whenever I pleased—and I did please very often. Then, after a while, I was sent with Louise to church; for she went regularly, although I can’t say that the professor ever wore out the steps of any religious edifice, and I took care not to allow my Roman Catholic education to prevent my joining a Protestant congregation, with my pretty little pupil. Indeed I was hanging at this time very slightly by the skirts of the garments of Rome. I had been reading the Bible a great deal lately. I read some Romanist books also, but I found that the two did not agree, and I liked the Bible best. Besides all this, as spring succeeded to winter, and days lengthened, and suns grew warm, there was every now and then a moment of very sweet, spring-like happiness, when after attending the church, Louise and I took a farther walk, till the hour of the good professor’s dinner. Sometimes we had another walk, too, in the evening, and sometimes he accompanied us to his little garden with the summer-house, near the gate of which I had first met him. It was all very delightful; and my ambition, which had once been strong and wide, had by this time shrunk to very small proportions. I could have been contented to linger on there, with every thing just as it was, for an indefinite period of time. But it must be remembered, that not one word, regarding love, ever passed between Louise and myself, except when it occurred in passages of books. I am afraid, however, that those passages, about this time, occurred very often. Louise was fond of them, and I turned them up easily for her.

Thus it went on—for I must not dwell upon details—for about eight months, when it so miserably happened that an aunt of the professor’s, somewhat younger than himself in years, but screwed up by ancient maidenhood to the sharpest and very highest tone of the human instrument, arrived. She was all eyes, ears and understanding. God knows, she might have heard every word that passed between Louise and myself, and seen all that we did too—if looks were excepted. But it so happened that at this time the influence which France exerted over Prussia was so great, that the Protectorate of the latter power over the northern circles became a mere tyranny exercised for the purposes of the French Republic, principally for the persecution of emigrants. The position of such persons as myself became very dangerous; and the necessity of my removal from Hamburgh was more than once talked of at the professor’s table, where I now dined frequently. It was even suggested that I should engage a passage in a vessel which was about to sail in a couple of months for the United States of America.

I could not help remarking that Louise turned very pale when these things formed the subject of conversation, and during six weeks of fluctuating anxiety, I saw with sincere apprehension that she lost health and spirits. I dared not, I could not venture to take the idea to my heart that that dear, amiable little creature suffered on my account; but still I did my best to cheer and comfort her, and perhaps became a little more tender in manner and fond in words, than I had ever dared to be before. It was now always, “dear Louis” and “dear Louise;” but I do not think we went any further than that. Often, often would she ask me questions regarding my past history, and as much was told her as I knew myself. She seemed to take a deep interest in it; but as it was a subject of deep interest to me, that I looked upon as natural. However, things had gone on in this way for some time, my pretty Louise still failing in health, not losing, but rather increasing her beauty by the daily walks which she now forced herself to take.

One day, at length, the explosion came. I met the old professor at the top of the stairs, and instead of turning me over at once to Louise, he beckoned me into his own study, and then in a very excited state flew from corner to corner of the room, glancing at me angrily, but saying nothing. This conduct, became so painful, that I at length broke silence, saying, “You wish to speak with me, Herr Haas.”

“Ay, sir, ay!” he replied with vivacious sharpness, “Have I not cause to speak?—have I not cause to feel anger? Here, I took you in as a beggar, and trusted you as a friend, and you have betrayed my trust by winning my daughter’s affections under the pretence of giving her instructions. Answer it how you may, sir, it is a bad case.”

“As to winning your daughter’s affections, my dear sir,” I replied, “I think you must be mistaken; for I can boldly appeal to her to say, whether I have once spoken on the subject of love toward her, or on any other to justify the imputation you cast upon me. I have always respected your hospitality, and owing you so much as I do, I should have conceived myself base indeed to seek her affection without your consent. We have been thrown much together and—”

But nothing would satisfy the old man. He interrupted me hastily, catching at my words, and saying, “that the only way of proving my sincerity was to quit Hamburgh at once; that his aunt, who inhabited a country-mansion, not many miles distant, had pointed out to him—in the course of a morning lecture which she gave him, before her departure that day—all that was going on between Louise and myself; that a ship would soon sail for America, and that if I really entertained the honorable sentiments I expressed, I would take my passage in her, and leave his household to recover its peace.” He asked me, in a taunting tone, if I knew that his daughter was his heiress, and ended by forbidding me the house.

I retired gloomy and desponding, and although he had said nothing to lead me to such a conclusion, I felt almost certain that he had spoken to Louise, before his conversation with myself. There was a sort of gloomy consolation in this conviction, and I hesitated as to whether I should quit Hamburgh, or remain in the hope of some change of feeling upon his part. There is such a thing as half-love, and I knew—I felt—that I could make the dear girl happy, and could be very happy with her myself. The remembrance, however, that I had nothing on earth—that I was an outcast—a beggar, in reality, and that she was probably rich, decided me. I went down to the wharf. I took my passage. I paid a part of my passage-money, but I learned—with a strange mixture of feelings—that the sailing of the packet was put off for a whole month, which made nearly seven weeks from that day. The master took pains to inform me, that this delay was occasioned by apprehension on the part of his owners, of the English cruisers, which, at that time, were behaving as ill to neutral vessels, as they were behaving well in combats with the enemy. I cared little for the reasons, however, but went away, not knowing whether to be pleased or sorry for this respite.

I could not quit Hamburgh without feelings of regret—I could not leave Louise without a bitter pang—I had done what was right—my conscience approved; and if accident kept me in the town, and fortune favored me with any change of circumstances, Hope might plume her wings without any self-reproach.

I little knew with how much anguish that period of delay was to be filled.

Good Madame Steinberger had evidently heard something of what had occurred at the professor’s house. She had been very kind to me, and was kind still; but her reverence for Professor Haas somewhat jostled with her regard for her young lodger. I would sit for hours in the evening, dreaming of the past, thinking of Louise, dwelling upon happy hours that were never to return. And then Madame Steinberger would come and attempt to comfort me, saying, that it was mere boy and girl’s love, and would soon pass away: that I and the young lady would both soon forget, and that she doubted not to see us both happy parents.

If she had taken up a red-hot skewer, and thrust it into my heart, she would not have produced more wretchedness than she did by her mode of consolation.

No consolation—no thought—no philosophy was of any avail. It was a period of intense bitterness, filled with many varied emotions, but all of them most painful. Had my love been more ardent, more vehement than it was, my condition would probably have been less sad. I should have striven—I should have resisted—but a dark and gloomy feeling took possession of my mind, that all who loved me, all who felt an interest in me were destined to be lost to me, almost as soon as I felt the blessing of their sympathy and kindness. I was more miserable than I can describe: there was nothing to stimulate: to spur on endeavor: to rouse up dormant energy. It was all dull, blank, monotonous, melancholy inactivity.

Three weeks had passed in this manner, when one evening, as I was sitting in the larger room, where good Frau Steinberger had kindled a fire, with my feet upon the andirons, my head leaning on my hand, and a book which I had vainly endeavored to read, fallen on the floor by my side, there was a step in the passage and the door opened. I took no notice: I cared for nothing: I was without hope or expectation: I was once more cast upon the world—the fragment of a wreck upon the wide ocean.

Suddenly a voice sounded near me, which I knew right well. “Louis,” it said. “Louis, can you forgive me? Louis, will you save me—will you save my child?”

I started up, and gazed upon the figure before me. I could hardly believe it was my old friend the professor, so pale, so worn, so sorrow-stricken was his look.

I instantly clasped his extended hand in mine. “My dear, good friend,” I said, “what have I to forgive? I never sought to bring sorrow or discomfort to your door—I would rather have died. That is all I have to say. Tell me what I have to do—tell me what you would wish, and I am ready to do it.”

“Come to Louise,” he said, wringing my hand hard. “Come to Louise—I have been a fool—a madman—a mercenary wretch. You only can save her—Come to her—come to her at once!”

I trembled violently, but I snatched up my hat, exclaiming, “let us go,” and rushed out of the house before him.

We flew along the streets, running against every body—seeing nobody—heeding nobody. I asked no questions. I knew there was something terrible; but I was going to Louise, and felt that I should soon know all. All houses stood upon the latch in Hamburgh in those days. I opened the door—I went in—I rushed up the stairs—I heard him cry “stop, stop”—but the trumpet of an angel would not have called me back. I entered her sitting-room. She was not there. I heeded not. I knew her bed-room lay beyond. I passed on and opened the door.

She was seated in a chair, with all the bright color gone from her cheek, except at one point. A physician stood beside her, with a glass in his hand. One old maid-servant was kneeling at her feet, wrapping them in flannel. A handkerchief, dyed with blood, was at her lips. Could I pause? No, had it killed both her and myself. In an instant I was across the room, at her feet, and my arms around her.

“Louise, my own Louise,” I cried.

She looked at me with surprise—then gazed beyond me to her father, who followed close—then cast her arms round my neck, and leaned her head upon my shoulder, saying in a faint voice, “Louis, dear Louis, you have saved me—I feel—I am sure, I shall live to be your wife.”

“Hush, hush,” said the physician. “You must not speak at all.”

“You shall be his wife; you shall be his wife!” cried her father eagerly.

“I am very happy,” said Louise.

“I must have perfect silence,” said the physician, “all will go well now; but every one must quit the room.”

“No one shall tend her but myself,” I said; “but I will be as still as night. She is mine—mine by the deepest and the holiest ties, and I will not leave her till this is staid.”

Nor did I; but through the live-long night, with the physician and the fond old servant, I remained silently watching, aiding, comforting, supporting her. From time to time the spitting of blood returned; but, at length, ice was thought of and procured. That checked it effectually. Two hours passed without the slightest return of that direful symptom, and lifting her in my arms, as a father might a child, I placed her in her bed. Then seating myself on a little footstool at the side, I laid my head upon the same pillow. I thought she would sleep more happily so. Her heavy eyes closed quietly; her breathing became calm and gentle; she slept; and ere many minutes had passed, I slept beside her.

——

The hemorrhage returned no more. Louise and I awoke at nearly the same moment, just as the morning light was streaming in through the windows, and she smiled sweetly to see me there, with my head upon her pillow, and the good old servant sitting fast asleep at the foot of her bed.

Poor girl, she fancied that all danger was passed; that she would soon be well, and that we should be very, very happy. But, alas! grief and disappointment too frequently shoot with poisoned arrows, and the venom remains in the wound, after the shaft has been extracted. She was not suffered to rise that day, and was forbidden to speak more than a monosyllable at a time. The good physician quoted the Bible to her, saying—“Let your communication be yea, yea, nay, nay, for of more cometh evil.” On the following day, however, she rose, and gradually was permitted to talk more and more, without any evil effect being produced. Then for a short time we were very happy. The good, old professor did all that he could to make up for his previous harshness, consented to any thing that we wished. Spontaneously promised two thousand dollars to set Louise and myself off in life, although we were to make our abode with him, and talked of obtaining a professorship for me in the university. Luckily his avocations kept him from home a good deal each day, otherwise his daughter’s health would have suffered more, from his continually running in and out of the room. She made some progress during the first week after I returned, regained strength in a certain degree, and I was full of hope for her, although she had an unpleasant cough, very frequent, though not violent. We talked of the coming days, and of our marriage, as soon as she was quite well, and I measured her finger for the ring, and kissed the little hand on which it was to be placed. Oh, they were very, very pleasant dreams, those; and I felt that I could be exceedingly happy with that dear, gentle girl—nay, I fancied that our happiness was quite assured; for when I looked into her eyes, they were so full of light and life, that one could hardly fancy they would ever be extinguished in death and darkness. Her bright color did not come back into the cheek indeed, except at night, and then it was not so generally diffused. Nevertheless, she felt herself so well—we all thought she was so well—that our wedding-day was fixed for about three weeks afterward. As the time approached, however, she was not quite so well again. The weather changed, and two or three days of cold, damp wind succeeded, which seemed to affect her very much. It was judged expedient that our marriage should be delayed for a fortnight; for she felt the least breath of air. Nevertheless, we kept up our spirits well for a little while, and she talked confidently of regaining health, and being just as well as ever. But as the days went on, I perceived with anxiety and alarm, that she grew weaker. I used to take her out whenever the air was soft, and the sun shone warmly, for a little walk, in the hope that it would restore her strength, and I soon found that she could not go so far, without fatigue, as at first; that to climb even the little slopes which exist in Hamburgh, rendered her breathing short, and increased her cough. Our walks became less and less, till, at length, she went out no more. A change, hardly perceptible in its progress, was gradually wrought in her. I saw little difference between one day and that which preceded; but when I looked back to a week or a fortnight before, and compared the present with the past, I could not close my eyes to the conviction that she was worse—much worse.

After a while, she took her breakfast in bed; but made an effort to rise as early as she could, in order to come and join me in the sitting-room. She ever spoke cheerfully, too, and seemed to have no thought of danger. But her father was in a terrible state; for he couldn’t close his eyes to her situation, and I do believe, that if the sacrifice of his life by the most painful kind of death would have purchased his child’s recovery, he would have made it without a hesitation. I deceived myself more than he did. I had heard of the effect of change of air, and I had talked to Louise so often about her recovering strength, and going with me for a short time, to some milder climate, that I had almost persuaded myself, against conviction, that it would be so. I fancied, too, that I could make her so happy, she must needs recover; for I knew what a blessed balm happiness is, and thought it must be all-effectual.

As she could no longer go to church, the good minister of the parish came several times to see her, and as he had a friendship for me, he would often talk with me afterward—not that I liked his conversation now as much as formerly; for it was very gloomy, and he strove evidently to fill my mind with the dark anticipations which occupied his own. The rays of religious hope, he endeavored to pour in too; but it was earthly hopes I then clung to, and I did not like to have them taken away.

One morning, after he had been with Louise, I found some tears upon her cheek, when I went in to see her; for by this time she did not rise till very late in the day, and all painful restraint being removed, I used to go and sit by her bedside, and read to her for some hours each morning. I was half angry with the old man for depressing her spirits; but she soon recovered her cheerfulness, and it was not till two days afterward, that I learned he had told her she must die.

I was sitting beside her, with my arm fondly cast round her, as she sat propped up by pillows, and I was indulging in those dreamy hopes of the future, which I still entertained, and thought she entertained likewise. I talked of our proposed journey to the South, and of escaping the cold, winter weather of Hamburgh, and of myself and her father—for he was to go with us in this dream—nursing her like a tender plant, till the bright summer came back again to restore her to perfect health.

She turned her sweet eyes upon me, with a gentle but melancholy smile.

“Do you know, dear Louis,” she said, “I begin to think that time will never be?”

I looked aghast, and laying her hand tenderly in mine, she added—

“Nay, more, love, I fear I shall never be your wife, unless—unless you can make up your mind to take me as I am now, and part with me very soon.”

“O, Louise, Louise!” I cried, pressing her to my heart, with the dreadful conviction first fully forced upon me, by words such as she had never used before. “Do not, do not entertain such sad fears. Be mine at once, dear girl, and let me take you away from this bleak place—by slow, easy journeys—by sea—any how.”

A single large tear rose in her eyes, and leaning her head upon my shoulder, she said in a low, hesitating voice—

“I will own, it would be very sweet to be your wife, were it but for a day—yet what right have I,” she added, “to ask you to make me so, in such a state as this—to leave you so soon, so young a widower?”

“Let not such thoughts stop you for a moment, Louise,” I answered. “It will be a blessing and a comfort to me. I can then be with you always—never leave you—nurse you by night and day, and if the fondest cure can save you, still keep my little jewel for my life’s happiness.”

She pressed her lips fondly upon my cheek, and asked—“Do you really feel so, Louis?”

“From my heart,” I answered. “There is no blessing—no comfort I desire so much. Let it be this very day—may I speak to your father?”

“If you will,” she answered with a bright smile, and I know not that I ever in life felt such satisfaction as in seeing the happiness and relief I had bestowed upon that dear girl.

The old professor was ready to grant every thing we could desire. He was now the complete slave of her will; but the marriage could not take place that day, for some few formalities had to be gone through and arrangements to be made. It was appointed for the next evening, however, and when Louise awoke upon her wedding-day, she sent the maid to tell me that she felt much better.

She knew what happiness that news would give me, and I was soon by her side to confirm the assurance with my own eyes.

She was better. She looked better. She had rested well, and she was able to rise an hour earlier than she had done before. The incorrigible liar, Hope, whispered her false promises in the ears of both, I believe, and the hours passed more brightly during that afternoon, than they had done for many a day before.

At eight o’clock the Protestant minister came, and with him a notary. The physician was the only other person present, except Louise, her father, and myself. The irrevocable words were soon spoken, the contract signed, and the ring upon her finger; but as I put it on, a cold, sad feeling came upon my heart. It had been somewhat tight when I first bought it, and now it was very loose. We were even obliged to wind some silk round it the next day, to prevent it from falling off.

For three days, happiness seemed to have all the effect that I had ever attributed to it in my brightest fancies. Louise was certainly better, and she looked so happy, so cheerful, walked up and down the passage hanging on my arm, with a step so much lightened, that even the old professor caught the infection of our hopes, and began to talk of future days.

The medicine soon lost its power over the invincible enemy. We had been married just six days, and during the three last, Louise had been feebler again, and very restless at night. The sixth day was a warm, sunny one. The light shone cheerfully into our room, and she talked to me of the sweet aspect of the summer, and made me open the window to let in the gentle air.

One room of the old professor’s house looked out upon the ramparts, planted with trees. It was a large room, seldom used; but Louise asked me to go in there, and open the windows before she rose, saying, that she should like to sit and look at the green leaves.

Her father came in before she was dressed, and when she was ready, we took her out of her room, with a hand resting on the arm of each, and led her into that saloon. I had placed an arm-chair for her near the window, and she approached feebly and seated herself in it. The air was very balmy: a clear, sparkling sunshine brightened the foliage: the sky beyond, was as deep and blue as her own eyes, and she gazed for an instant, with a look of intense thought upon the scene before her. Then looking up in my face as I stood beside her, she placed her hand in mine, and said—“Very beautiful!”

They were her last words. The next instant, a strange, vacant expression came into those deep thoughtful eyes, a slight shudder passed over her: she leaned more and more toward me; and I had just time to kneel by her side, and catch her head upon my shoulder. I felt one faint breath fan my cheek—and Louise was gone.

(End of part first.)

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