THE LAST LEAP OF UNCAS.

“nessum maggior doloreChe ricordarsi del tiempo feliceNella miseria.”

“nessum maggior dolore

Che ricordarsi del tiempo felice

Nella miseria.”

The bright wine sparkled in the goblet, but brighter flashed the azure eyes of Marian, for her whole face was radiant with her wild starry beauty. Was it the thrilling rapture of the gallop that sent her blood boiling with strange excitement “through every petty artery of her body,” was it the spirit stirring chase alone, or did the rich blood of the Gallic grape, sparingly tasted though it was, lend something of unnatural fervor? hark to the silvery tones of that sweet, ringing laugh—and now how deep a blush mantles her brow, her neck, her bosom, when, in receiving her glass from the hand of Ernest, their fingers mingled for a moment. But Ernest is unmoved and calm, and seemingly unconscious—and Annabel, fond Annabel, rejoices to mark her sister’s spirits so happily, so fully, as it seems, recovered from that overmastering sorrow. She saw not the hot blush, she noted not its cause—and yet, can it be—can it be that casual pressure was the cause—can it be love—love for a sister’s bridegroom, that kindles so the eye—that flushes so the cheek—that thrills so the life blood of lovely Marian? Away! away with contemplation. Ernest reflects not, for his brow is smooth and all unruffled by a thought, his lips are smiling, his pulse calm and temperate—and Marian pauses not—and Annabel suspects—Hush! they are singing. Lo! how the sweet and flute-like tones of the fair girls are blended with the rich and deep contralto of De Vaux. Lo! they are singing—singing the wood notes wild of the great master of the soul⁠—

“Heigho! sing heigho! under the green holly!Most friendship is feigningMost loving mere folly!”

“Heigho! sing heigho! under the green holly!

Most friendship is feigning

Most loving mere folly!”

Alas! for trusting Annabel!—soon shall she wake from her fond dream, soon wake to wo, to anguish. Again they mount their steeds, again they sweep the meadows down to the very brink of the broad deep transparent Wharfe—and now the heronshaw is sprung—he flaps his dark gray vans, the hermit bird of the waters, and slowly soars away, till the falconer’s shrill whoop and the sharp whistling flutter of the fleet pinions in his rear arouse him to his danger—up! up! he soars—up! up! scaling to the very sky in small but swift gyrations, while side by side the well matched falcons wheel circling around him still, and still outtopping till all the three are lost in the gray fleecy clouds—the clouds!—no one has seen—no one has even dreamed, engrossed in the wild fervor of the sport, that all the sky was overclouded, and the thick blackness of the thunder-storm driving up wind, and settling down in terrible proximity to the earth. Away! away! what heed they the dark storm-clouds—the increasing blast?—these equestrians. Heavens! what a flash—how keen! how close! how livid! the whole horizon showed for a moment’s space the broad blue glare of fearful living light—and simultaneously the thunder bursts above them—a crash as of ten thousand pieces of earth’s heaviest ordnance shot off in one wild clatter. The horses of the party were all careering at their speed, their maddest speed, across a broad green pasture, bordered on the right hand by the broad channel of the Wharfe, and on the left by an impracticable fence of tall old thorn, with a deep ditch on either side, and a stout timber railing. The two fair sisters were in front, leading the joyous cavalcade, with their eyes in the clouds, their hearts full of the fire of the chase, when that broad dazzling glare burst full into their faces. Terrified by the livid glare, and the appalling crash of the reverberated thunder, the horses of the sisters bolted diverse, Annabel’s toward the broad and rapid Wharfe, between which and the meadow through which they had been so joyously careering there was no fence or barrier at that spot—Marian’s toward the dangerous ox-fence which has been mentioned. The charger of De Vaux, who rode the next behind them, started indeed and whirled about, but was almost immediately controlled by the strong arm and skilful horsemanship of his bold rider, but of the grooms, who followed, several were instantly dismounted, and there were only three or four who, mastering their terrified and fractious beasts, galloped off to the aid of their young mistresses—they were both good equestrians and ordinarily fearless, but in such peril what woman could preserve her wonted intrepidity unshaken—the sky as black as night, with ever and anon a sharp clear stream of the electric fluid dividing the dark storm clouds, and the continuous thunders rolling and crashing overhead—their horses mad with terror, and gifted by that very madness with tenfold speed and strength—Annabel, whose clear head and calm though resolute temper gave her no small advantage over her volatile, impetuous sister, sat, it is true, as firmly in her saddle as though she had been practising her manège in the riding school, and held her fiery jennet with a firm, steady hand; but naturally her strength was insufficient to control its fierce and headlong speed, so that she saw upon the instant that she must be carried into the whirling waters of the swift river—for a moment she thought of casting herself to the ground, but it scarcely required one moment of reflection to show her that such course could lead but to destruction—soon she drove erect and steady in her seat, guiding her horse well and keeping its head straight to the river bank, and hoping every instant to hear the tramp of De Vaux’s charger overtaking her, and bringing succor—alas! for Annabel!—the first sound that distinctly reached her ears was a wild piercing shriek—“Ernest—great God!—myErnest—help me!—save me!—” It was the voice of Marian, the voice of her own cherished sister calling on her betrothed—and he?—Even in that dread peril, when life was on a cast, her woman heart prevailed above her woman fears—she turned and saw the steed of Marian rushing, the bit between his teeth, toward the dangerous fence, which lay, however, far more distant than the river to which her own horse was in terrible proximity, and he, her promised husband, the lord of her very soul, he, for whomshewould have perished—oh how willingly!—perished with but the one regret of that separation, he had overlooked entirely, or heeded not at leastherperil to whom his faith was sworn, and even before that wild appealing cry, had started in pursuit, and was, as she looked round, in the act of whirling Marian from her saddle with one hand, while with the other he controlled his own strong war-horse. When she first heard that cry her spirit sank within her, but when she saw herself deserted, when the drear consciousness that she was not beloved broke on her, it seemed as if an ice-bolt had pierced her heart of hearts, her eyes grew dim, there was a sound of rushing waters in her ear—not the sound of the rushing river, although her horse was straining now up the last slight ascent that banked it—her pulse stood still—had Annabel then died, the bitterness of death was over—before, however, she had so much as wavered in her saddle, much less lost rein or stirrup, a wild plunge, and the shock which ran through every nerve, as her horse leaped into the brimful river, awoke her for the moment to her present situation—unconsciously she had retained her seat—her horse was swimming boldly—a loud plunge sounded from behind!—another, and another! and the next instant her steed’s head was seized by the stalwart arm of a young falconer toward the shore she had just quitted, her brain reeled round and she again was senseless—thus was she borne to land without the aid or intervention of him who should have been the first to venture all, to lose all, for her safety.

[To be continued.

THE LAST LEAP OF UNCAS.

———

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

———

In the vicinity of the picturesque town of N——, in New England, there is a wild chasm through which tumbles a cascade, now not so formidable as when the stream above it was not dammed up for manufactories. About this cascade an Indian legend is told—and the verses I have here written are an attempt to embody it in such a manner as to give the reader an idea of the scope it would afford to a more imaginative poet.

On a high precipice of rock,’Tis said, an Indian hunter stood;Behind him was the following foe,Before the opposing flood.Chased, like the dun deer, to his death,He turned, and paused, and gasped for breath:Big on his brow, like drops of rain,The sweat rolled from each swollen vein⁠—Yet sank he not, but bold and sternHe stood, as if with strength to spurnA hundred foes. But soon there cameA shudder o’er his mighty frame;For one dry branch that near him hung,And to a stunted pine-tree clung,Cracked like the sound of frost and fellDown in the cataract’s boiling well,He watched it as the foam and sprayDash’d up and bore it far away.Though lithe and agile as the hound,He cannot leap that chasm’s bound,And though his feet are shod with speed,’Twere vain to try the daring deed.He will not—no! the Indian knowsThat he must die by flood or foes⁠—For now on his quick ear there fallsThe echo of approaching calls.His belt, his hatchet, bow and gun,All that encumbered him in flight,The bloody trophies he had wonIn many a field of fight,He casts where on the rocks belowThe waves break up in showers of snow⁠—He is resolved to stand at bay,And meet his foemen, face to face⁠—For there red Uncas lived that dayThe last of all his race!Hark! from the covert now they spring,They see him as he towers aloneAnd many arrows round him ring,Yet still he seems like stone!Unstirred, with folded arms he viewsEach warrior that his life pursues,Unscathed beneath the sudden wrathOf all that shouted on his pathAnd tracked him to the cataract’s lair,He hurls defiance on the air.What purpose moves him? Will he try,Thus met on every side, to fly?Wonder has struck his foemen dumb;For, toward their ranks, behold him come!’Tis but a single step, for swiftAs lightning leaps from cloudy riftHe backward bounds. Great God! ’tis o’er,His death-shriek sinks amid the roarOf waves that bear his mangled formBeyond the battle storm.So plunged he in the dashing tide⁠—So fronting his fierce foes he died⁠—And now, though peaceful years have past,And change has marred the rude, wild place,Not unremembered is the lastAnd bravest of his race.

On a high precipice of rock,

’Tis said, an Indian hunter stood;

Behind him was the following foe,

Before the opposing flood.

Chased, like the dun deer, to his death,

He turned, and paused, and gasped for breath:

Big on his brow, like drops of rain,

The sweat rolled from each swollen vein⁠—

Yet sank he not, but bold and stern

He stood, as if with strength to spurn

A hundred foes. But soon there came

A shudder o’er his mighty frame;

For one dry branch that near him hung,

And to a stunted pine-tree clung,

Cracked like the sound of frost and fell

Down in the cataract’s boiling well,

He watched it as the foam and spray

Dash’d up and bore it far away.

Though lithe and agile as the hound,He cannot leap that chasm’s bound,And though his feet are shod with speed,’Twere vain to try the daring deed.He will not—no! the Indian knowsThat he must die by flood or foes⁠—For now on his quick ear there fallsThe echo of approaching calls.His belt, his hatchet, bow and gun,All that encumbered him in flight,The bloody trophies he had wonIn many a field of fight,He casts where on the rocks belowThe waves break up in showers of snow⁠—He is resolved to stand at bay,And meet his foemen, face to face⁠—For there red Uncas lived that dayThe last of all his race!

Though lithe and agile as the hound,

He cannot leap that chasm’s bound,

And though his feet are shod with speed,

’Twere vain to try the daring deed.

He will not—no! the Indian knows

That he must die by flood or foes⁠—

For now on his quick ear there falls

The echo of approaching calls.

His belt, his hatchet, bow and gun,

All that encumbered him in flight,

The bloody trophies he had won

In many a field of fight,

He casts where on the rocks below

The waves break up in showers of snow⁠—

He is resolved to stand at bay,

And meet his foemen, face to face⁠—

For there red Uncas lived that day

The last of all his race!

Hark! from the covert now they spring,They see him as he towers aloneAnd many arrows round him ring,Yet still he seems like stone!Unstirred, with folded arms he viewsEach warrior that his life pursues,Unscathed beneath the sudden wrathOf all that shouted on his pathAnd tracked him to the cataract’s lair,He hurls defiance on the air.

Hark! from the covert now they spring,

They see him as he towers alone

And many arrows round him ring,

Yet still he seems like stone!

Unstirred, with folded arms he views

Each warrior that his life pursues,

Unscathed beneath the sudden wrath

Of all that shouted on his path

And tracked him to the cataract’s lair,

He hurls defiance on the air.

What purpose moves him? Will he try,Thus met on every side, to fly?Wonder has struck his foemen dumb;For, toward their ranks, behold him come!’Tis but a single step, for swiftAs lightning leaps from cloudy riftHe backward bounds. Great God! ’tis o’er,His death-shriek sinks amid the roarOf waves that bear his mangled formBeyond the battle storm.

What purpose moves him? Will he try,

Thus met on every side, to fly?

Wonder has struck his foemen dumb;

For, toward their ranks, behold him come!

’Tis but a single step, for swift

As lightning leaps from cloudy rift

He backward bounds. Great God! ’tis o’er,

His death-shriek sinks amid the roar

Of waves that bear his mangled form

Beyond the battle storm.

So plunged he in the dashing tide⁠—So fronting his fierce foes he died⁠—And now, though peaceful years have past,And change has marred the rude, wild place,Not unremembered is the lastAnd bravest of his race.

So plunged he in the dashing tide⁠—

So fronting his fierce foes he died⁠—

And now, though peaceful years have past,

And change has marred the rude, wild place,

Not unremembered is the last

And bravest of his race.

SONNET.

———

BY W. W. STORY.

———

The human voice!—oh, instrument divine,That with a subtle and mysterious artRangest the diapason of the heart⁠—The mighty scale of passion all is thine⁠—Thine air-spun net around the soul doth twine,Whether the heart of thousands lifts, as one,The wild, deep anthem of its monotone,Or the soft voice of Love its silver lineThreads through the spirit’s innermost recess.Thou mouldest the blank air, that round thee liesTo a rare tissue of fine mysteries;Thou canst lift up the soul and canst depress⁠—And upon Music’s balanced wings canst flyStraight through the gates of Hope and Memory.

The human voice!—oh, instrument divine,

That with a subtle and mysterious art

Rangest the diapason of the heart⁠—

The mighty scale of passion all is thine⁠—

Thine air-spun net around the soul doth twine,

Whether the heart of thousands lifts, as one,

The wild, deep anthem of its monotone,

Or the soft voice of Love its silver line

Threads through the spirit’s innermost recess.

Thou mouldest the blank air, that round thee lies

To a rare tissue of fine mysteries;

Thou canst lift up the soul and canst depress⁠—

And upon Music’s balanced wings canst fly

Straight through the gates of Hope and Memory.

SHAKSPEARE.

———

BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.

———

Macbeth is a great moral and religious lesson. Its application is as wide as Christendom, and I think may be justly regarded as an exposition of Christianity. It is applicable to all men, and is not by any means limited to kings or usurpers. Nearly every one has some strong desire, or passion, or plan. The “golden round” for which men, nowadays, file their minds, put rancors in the vessels of their peace, and give their eternal jewel to the common enemy of man, is not a crown, but it is not wanting. On a large or a small scale, the principle is the same. Whoever undertakes, by immoral, unlawful means, to effect a favorite object—whoever lives without habits of frequently appealing to God—whoever listens for an instant to the delusive promises of passion—is liable to be drawn on, like him, far beyond their intention, and involved at length in sin and ruin. The Scottish usurper—the individual, is dead. But the class, to which he belonged, survives. Macbeths are to be met with every day in the world—men who listen to the promises of the fiends, who build up a hope of safety and impunity upon as hollow a foundation as the charm of not being born of a woman—or of not being destroyed till the advancing against them of a forest. Many a man—many a woman—many a young girl becomes thus entangled from forgetting their Maker and clinging to the “weird sisters” of the world, till shame, vice and despair overwhelm them.

Read aright, this tragedy is a mighty lesson to the young. They are starting in life inexperienced, thoughtless, and ready to believe the brilliant promises of every wandering and dangerous hope. They are ready also to “jump the life to come,” if they can secure impunity in their present career. Let them read Macbeth with care, and get from its wondrous page a terrific glimpse of the world. Let them look on poor, weak, deluded human nature when trusting initself. Let them see the highest earthly rank, when unblessed by Heaven—the haughtiest, loftiest, steadiest mind, when turned from God to follow, with its own rash steps, the mazes of life. Let them, while they are pure and innocent, remain so. Let them keep the quiet conscience of the gentlewoman, even if, to do so, they are obliged to remain in her lowly position. Let them never, for “the dignity of the body,” poison the quiet of the soul. Let them tread the darkest, weariest paths of common life, rather than file their minds with any delusive and hollow hope of worldly advantage. Put no rancors in the vessel of your peace, whatever be the temptation. Cling to him whose promises alone are fulfilled. Commit no act, great or small, which can prey on your imagination and poison the good which may be in store for you. Put no “damned spot” upon your hand. Once there, it is ineffacable by all the washing of the ocean—by all the perfumes of Arabia; and however great may appear the temptation, keep the eternal jewel, Innocence, from “the common enemy of man.”

I have said, in a former paragraph, that Macbeth had been guilty before, indeedsas well asthoughts. Let any one read the scene between him and the two murderers and he will feel at once the conviction that Macbeth himself has been guilty of those oppressive cruelties which he there lays upon Banquo.

“knowThat it washe, in the times past,which held youSo under fortune; which you thought had beenOur innocent self: this I made good to youIn our last conference, past in probation with you;Howyou were borne in hand; how crost,”etc.

“know

That it washe, in the times past,which held you

So under fortune; which you thought had been

Our innocent self: this I made good to you

In our last conference, past in probation with you;

Howyou were borne in hand; how crost,”etc.

And again,

“are you so gospell’dTo pray for this good man, and for his issue,Whoseheavy hand hath bowed you to the grave,Andbeggared yours forever?”

“are you so gospell’d

To pray for this good man, and for his issue,

Whoseheavy hand hath bowed you to the grave,

Andbeggared yours forever?”

What dark tale of oppression is connected with these vague disclosures we cannot tell; but the character of Banquo acquits him of having been the tyrant. These men have been, in some way or other, so trampled on that they are both rendered desperate, and Macbeth, whoknows it so well, and whom, it seems, they had always considered the cause of their misfortunes, is most likely so in reality.

As to what I have said at the commencement of these papers respecting the want of a just appreciation of the poet on the part of his commentators—take Dr. Johnson, for example, on Macbeth. He begins witha defenceof the introduction of supernatural machinery into the tragedy. This provesdistrustof Shakspeare, as the transcendent genius he is now annually becoming in the estimation of every one. Hear the learned essayist descanting upon the dramatist as if he knew more of the art than the master. It is like the old Hungarian officer’s celebrated critique on Napoleon’s manœuvres.

“In order,” says Johnson, “to make a true estimate of the abilities and merit of a writer, it is always necessary to examine the genius of his age and the opinions of his cotemporaries. A poet who should now make the whole action of his tragedy depend upon enchantment and produce the chief events by the assistance of supernatural agents, would be censured as transgressing the bounds of probability, bebanished from the theatre to the nursery, and condemned to writefairy talesinstead of tragedies.”

In other words, had Shakspeare written Macbeth in the time of Dr. Johnson, that play would be considered unworthy to be performed, except before an audience of children, and the critic would advise the mistaken young author to adopt a profession in which he might hope for more success, than in literature. I can fancy some wiseacre in a London weekly, with the smartness and knack at severity which daily practice confers, taking to pieces “the tragedy of Macbeth, by a Mr. William Shakspeare, said to be a subordinate at Astley’s”—and serving the ambitious young gentleman up such a dressing for his witches, ghosts and murders, as would be enough to extinguish a better educated and more promising litterateur; showing how impossible it must be for witches to mingle in human affairs, in this enlightened age of hebdomadals, and banishing to the nursery a blunderer unworthy to cater for such sensible critics.

The denunciation, however, would embrace other literary works besides the puerile attempt of Mr. Shakspeare. Manfred, Cain, the Faust, and other trifles of the same description, in which the poet has made the action of his tragedy depend upon enchantment. Virgil or Homer might be equally censured. It is quite true that the witches may not be considered probable characters, but how can any one overlook their fearful and magnificent meaningallegorically?

Johnson goes on, however, in his defence.

“But a survey of the notions that prevailed at the time when this play was written, will prove that Shakspeare was in no danger of such censures, sincehe onlyturned the system that was then universally admitted to his advantage, and wasfar from overburthening the credulityof his audience.”

The doctor then goes on to a learned and interesting dissertation on thegross darkness of ignorance—on the credulity of the common people—on the diabolical opposition supposed to have been offered to the Christians in the crusades—quotes Olympidorus, St. Chrysostom, and a law of King James I. against conjurors, and shows much sagacious wisdom and learning, which have about as much to do with the real living beauty of Macbeth as they have with the Temple of Jerusalem.

“Upon this general infatuation,” continues the doctor, “Shakspearemight be easily allowed to found a play, especially as he has followed, with great exactness, such histories as were then thought to be true: nor can it be doubted that the scenes of enchantment,however they may now be ridiculed, were both byhimself and his audiencethought awful and affecting.”

No one can doubt the moral greatness of Dr. Johnson, but it was not of a kind which enabled him to enter fully into the living principle of beauty which inspires the Shakspeare plays.

He speaks of Macbeth with a sort of indifference which betrays his blindness to its highest merits. He praises the propriety of its fiction, and the solemnity, grandeur and variety of its actions. He adds, “butit has no nice discrimination of character. The events are too great to admit the influence of particular dispositions, etc. The danger of ambitionis well described; and I know not whether it may not be saidin defenceof some parts which now seemimprobable, that, in Shakspeare’s time, it was necessary to warn credulity against vain and illusive predictions.”

And in ourown time, what leads every criminal astray, but some “vain and illusive prediction,” not uttered by three weird sisters, by an armed head, or the “apparition of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand,” but by the temptations of the world and the treacherous passions of the human heart? What was it which told Napoleon⁠—

“Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care,Who chafes, who frets, and where conspirers are?”

“Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care,

Who chafes, who frets, and where conspirers are?”

Who told Robespierre—

“Be bloody, bold and resolute, laugh to scorn,The power of man,” etc.?

“Be bloody, bold and resolute, laugh to scorn,

The power of man,” etc.?

It was not the spectres, in the witches’ case—nor the express conditions added.

“Macbeth shall never vanquished be, untilGreat Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hillShall come against him.”

“Macbeth shall never vanquished be, until

Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill

Shall come against him.”

Or,

“None of woman born shall harm Macbeth.”

But who can doubt that the principle of evil, had held forth, before both their minds, some illusive hope which led them to ruin?

As another instance of the careless errors committed by the commentators, and Johnson among the rest, take the following. The note occurs in Cawthorn’s (successor to Bell) edition, London, 1801, and although without Johnson’s name, is found between two notes of his, (p. 41,) and is, I believe, from his pen.

The passage referred to is in the second act of the Tempest, where the King of Naples, after the shipwreck, is wandering about the island with some of his suite. The reader will remember that the storm raised by Prospero overtakes them as the King Alonso is coming to Naples from Tunis, where he had been to marry his daughter Claribel. Great regret has been expressed that this marriage should have ever been thought of, since it is the cause of their present misfortune. The king himself is sorry and the rest are some of them angry and satirical.

Sebastian says,

“ ’Twas asweet marriage, and weprosper wellin ourreturn.”

“ ’Twas asweet marriage, and weprosper wellin our

return.”

The match is thought absurd by most of them, and when, in answer to Antonio’s question, “Who’s the next heir to Naples?” Sebastian replies, “Claribel,” Antonio rejoins the following passage;

“She that is Queen of Tunis; she that dwellsTen leagues beyond man’s life; she that from NaplesCan have no note, unless the sun were post,(The man in the moon’s too slow) till new born urchinsBe rough and razorable,”

“She that is Queen of Tunis; she that dwells

Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples

Can have no note, unless the sun were post,

(The man in the moon’s too slow) till new born urchins

Be rough and razorable,”

On this there is the following note:

“Shakspeare’sgreat ignoranceof geography is not more conspicuous in any instance than in this, where he supposes Tunis and Naples to have been at such an immeasurable distance from each other.”

It does not seem to me that the passage warrants the supposition of such an opinion on the part of Shakspeare. It is obviously a mere hyperbole in jest. It is not credible that such a writer could be so ignorant, and where other evidences of it appear in the course of his works, it is more rational (when they cannot be explained away as in the present instance) to ascribe them to typographical confusion, or the liberties of ignorant copyists, &c.

To the passage complained of, Sebastian himself answers,

“What stuff is this? How say you?’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s Queen of Tunis;So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regionsThere is some space.”

“What stuff is this? How say you?

’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s Queen of Tunis;

So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions

There is some space.”

“HATH NOT THY ROSE A CANKER.”

———

BY MRS. LOIS B. ADAMS.

———

Pressed with the weight of morning dews,Its slender stalk the rose was bending,And red and white in changing huesUpon its cheek were sweetly blending:But underneath the leaflets bright,By blushing beauty hid from sight,Enamored with its fragrance rare,The canker worm was feasting there.O! thou who in thy youthful daysAmbition’s wreaths art proudly twining,And fondly hoping worldly praiseWill cheer thine after years declining,Beware, lest every tempting roseThat in Ambition’s pathway grows,Conceal beneath its semblance fairThe lurking canker of despair.And thou who in thine early mornFor sin the paths of truth art leaving,Remember, though no pointed thornMay pierce the garland thou art weaving,Yet every bud whence flowrets bloomShall its own living sweets entomb;For deep the canker worm of careIs feasting on its vitals there.Thou too, the beautiful and bright,At Pleasure’s shrine devoutly kneeling,Dost thou not see the fatal blightAcross thy roseate chaplet stealing?Time hath not touched with fingers coldThose glossy leaves of beauty’s mould,And yet each bud and blossom gayIs marked for slow but sure decay.O! ye who sigh for flowers that bloomIn one eternal spring of gladness,Where beauty finds no darkened tomb,And joy hath never dreamed of sadness;Elysian fields are yours to roamWhere groves of fadeless pleasures bloomO! linger not where sorrow’s tearsMay blight the cherished hopes of years.

Pressed with the weight of morning dews,

Its slender stalk the rose was bending,

And red and white in changing hues

Upon its cheek were sweetly blending:

But underneath the leaflets bright,

By blushing beauty hid from sight,

Enamored with its fragrance rare,

The canker worm was feasting there.

O! thou who in thy youthful daysAmbition’s wreaths art proudly twining,And fondly hoping worldly praiseWill cheer thine after years declining,Beware, lest every tempting roseThat in Ambition’s pathway grows,Conceal beneath its semblance fairThe lurking canker of despair.

O! thou who in thy youthful days

Ambition’s wreaths art proudly twining,

And fondly hoping worldly praise

Will cheer thine after years declining,

Beware, lest every tempting rose

That in Ambition’s pathway grows,

Conceal beneath its semblance fair

The lurking canker of despair.

And thou who in thine early mornFor sin the paths of truth art leaving,Remember, though no pointed thornMay pierce the garland thou art weaving,Yet every bud whence flowrets bloomShall its own living sweets entomb;For deep the canker worm of careIs feasting on its vitals there.

And thou who in thine early morn

For sin the paths of truth art leaving,

Remember, though no pointed thorn

May pierce the garland thou art weaving,

Yet every bud whence flowrets bloom

Shall its own living sweets entomb;

For deep the canker worm of care

Is feasting on its vitals there.

Thou too, the beautiful and bright,At Pleasure’s shrine devoutly kneeling,Dost thou not see the fatal blightAcross thy roseate chaplet stealing?Time hath not touched with fingers coldThose glossy leaves of beauty’s mould,And yet each bud and blossom gayIs marked for slow but sure decay.

Thou too, the beautiful and bright,

At Pleasure’s shrine devoutly kneeling,

Dost thou not see the fatal blight

Across thy roseate chaplet stealing?

Time hath not touched with fingers cold

Those glossy leaves of beauty’s mould,

And yet each bud and blossom gay

Is marked for slow but sure decay.

O! ye who sigh for flowers that bloomIn one eternal spring of gladness,Where beauty finds no darkened tomb,And joy hath never dreamed of sadness;Elysian fields are yours to roamWhere groves of fadeless pleasures bloomO! linger not where sorrow’s tearsMay blight the cherished hopes of years.

O! ye who sigh for flowers that bloom

In one eternal spring of gladness,

Where beauty finds no darkened tomb,

And joy hath never dreamed of sadness;

Elysian fields are yours to roam

Where groves of fadeless pleasures bloom

O! linger not where sorrow’s tears

May blight the cherished hopes of years.

TO A SWALLOW

THAT DROPPED ON DECK DURING A STORM AT SEA.

———

BY WILLIAM FALCONER.

———

Spent are thy wings, poor wanderer on the deep,Minion of spring, frail wrestler with the breeze,Led by young hope o’er ever-spreading seasWhere the wing’d storms their prowling vigils keep,Mayhap ’twas thou that built thy clayey nestLast springtide at my lattice arched with flowers⁠—Thy tiny wing that beat the morning hoursAnd woke my fair girl from her dewy rest.But no! for ’mid a thousand, were I blind,Methinks I’d know that bird, by instinct rare;Yet fear not, heaven’s dark brow looks now more kind.Repose—then flutter through the brightening air,But when thou meet’st the sharers of my heartThy benefactor’s grief by mystic spell impart!

Spent are thy wings, poor wanderer on the deep,

Minion of spring, frail wrestler with the breeze,

Led by young hope o’er ever-spreading seas

Where the wing’d storms their prowling vigils keep,

Mayhap ’twas thou that built thy clayey nest

Last springtide at my lattice arched with flowers⁠—

Thy tiny wing that beat the morning hours

And woke my fair girl from her dewy rest.

But no! for ’mid a thousand, were I blind,

Methinks I’d know that bird, by instinct rare;

Yet fear not, heaven’s dark brow looks now more kind.

Repose—then flutter through the brightening air,

But when thou meet’st the sharers of my heart

Thy benefactor’s grief by mystic spell impart!

ERROR.

———

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, AUTHOR OF “CONSTANCE LATIMER,” ETC.

———

“Pause, heedless mortal, and reflect—this day,This very hour—nay, yesterday, mayhap,Thou mayst have done what cannot be recalled,And steeped thy future years in darkest night.Some trivial act or word, now quite forgot,May have impelled the iron wheels of fate,Which onward roll to crush thee in their course.”

“Pause, heedless mortal, and reflect—this day,

This very hour—nay, yesterday, mayhap,

Thou mayst have done what cannot be recalled,

And steeped thy future years in darkest night.

Some trivial act or word, now quite forgot,

May have impelled the iron wheels of fate,

Which onward roll to crush thee in their course.”

One of the most beautiful of the many lovely villages which lie within the foldings of the Connecticut river is Elmsdale. Occupying a small peninsula, round which the stream winds so closely that at the first view it seems entirely separated from the main land, and lying aside from the highroad which traverses the valley of the Connecticut, Elmsdale is one of the most quiet and sequestered spots to be found in New England. Like most places which offer no inducement to the spirit of speculation, the village is inhabited chiefly by the descendants of those who had first settled there. The old men have been companions in boyhood, and have sported in the same fields which now echo to the merry shouts of their grandchildren. The most of them still cultivate the farms which belonged to their forefathers, and even the adventurous few, who have been tempted to go out into the world beyond, usually return to finish their days on their native soil.

The arrival of a stranger in a retired village is always a subject of curiosity and interest, but in a place like Elmsdale, where every body knew his neighbor, such an unusual event excited special attention. When, therefore, it was known throughout the hamlet that a strange lady had come to pass the summer with old farmer Moody, all the gossips were on the alert to find out who she could be. But they derived little satisfaction from their skilful questioning of the farmer; all he knew was soon told. The lady was travelling for health, and having been pleased with the situation of his comfortable abode, had applied to be received as a boarder during the summer months, offering to pay liberally in advance. Her evident ill-health, her gentle manners, and the temptation of her ready gold prevailed on the thrifty farmer to assent, and the stranger took possession of a neat chamber in his pleasant cottage.

Close to the bank of the river, on a little eminence commanding a view of the country around Elmsdale, stood a singularly constructed stone building which had long been unoccupied and deserted. Its original owner and projector was a man of singular habits, whose eccentricity had been universally regarded as a species of harmless insanity. Rich and childless, he had erected this mansion according to his own ideas of gothic architecture, and nothing could be more grotesque than its whole appearance. It soon obtained the appellation of Hopeton’s Folly, and though he whose name it bore had long since occupied a narrower house in the silent land, and the property had passed into other hands, the deserted mansion was still known by the same title. Great was the surprise of the villagers when it was known that the strange lady had become the purchaser of Hopeton’s Folly, and that in future she would reside permanently in Elmsdale. Curiosity was newly awakened, and every body was desirous to know something about one who seemed so unprotected and solitary. But there was a quiet dignity in her manners which rebuked and disconcerted impertinent inquiry, while all efforts to draw some information from her single attendant—an elderly sedate woman, who seemed to hold a middle rank between companion and servant—were equally unsuccessful.

“Has Mrs. Norwood been long a widow?” asked a pertinacious newsmonger, who kept the only thread and needle shop in the place, and therefore had a fine opportunity of gratifying her gossipping propensities.

“It is now nearly two years since she lost her husband,” was the reply of the discreet servant, who was busily employed in selecting some tape and pins.

“Only two years, and she has already laid aside her mourning!” exclaimed the shopkeeper; “but I suppose that is an English fashion.”

The woman made no reply, and, consequently, the next day, all the village was given to understand that Mrs. Norwood’shelphad told Miss Debby Tattle that Mrs. Norwood was a very rich widow who had just arrived from England. This was all that Miss Debby’s ingenuity could make out of the scanty materials which she had been able to obtain, and with this meagre account people were obliged to be satisfied.

Mrs. Norwood was one of those quiet, gentle beings who, though little calculated to excite a sudden prepossession, always awakened a deep and lasting interest. Her age might have been about eight and twenty, but the ravages of illness, and, perhaps, the touch of a still more cruel destroyer, had given a melancholy expression to her countenance, and a degree of gravity to her manners which made her seem much older. Her features, still classically beautiful, were attenuated and sharpened, her complexion was pale almost to ghastliness, and her thin, flexible lips were perfectly colorless. But she possessed one charm which neither time nor disease could spoil. Her eyes—those dark, soft, lustrous eyes, with their veined and fringed lids, beautiful alike when the full orbs were veiled beneath their shadowy lashes, or when their beaming light turned full upon an object of regard—were the most distinguishing trait in Mrs. Norwood’s countenance. No one dreamed of calling her beautiful, but all noticed the grace of her tall and slightly bending figure, her courteous and ladylike manners, her low, sweet voice, and the touching air of melancholy which seemed to characterize her every movement.

Under the direction of its new mistress, Hopeton’s Folly was now fitted up with a degree of neatness and comfort which it had seemed scarcely capable of assuming. Furniture, plain but costly, was brought from a distant town, the grounds were laid out with a view to elegance rather than mere usefulness, and, in short, money and good taste soon converted the desolate spot into a little paradise of beauty. The neighbors, who, with the kindness which generally prevails in every place where fashion has not destroyed social feeling, had been ready to afford Mrs. Norwood every assistance in the completion of her plans, became now equally ready to share her hospitality, and, for a time, the newly arranged mansion was always full of well-disposed but ill-judging visiters. But Mrs. Norwood’s health was soon made the plea for discountenancing all such attentions on the part of the village gossips. Always courteous and hospitable, she yet declined all visitations to the frequent “hot water conventions” or “tea drinkings” which constituted the chief amusement of the place, while she managed to keep alive the good feelings of her new associates by many acts of unostentatious charity. Simple in her daily habits, benevolent in her impulses, yet retiring and reserved in her manners, Mrs. Norwood made her faithful old servant the almoner of her bounties, while the poor, the sick and the sorrowful were never refused admission to her presence. Her regular attendance on the public duties of religion, in the only church which Elmsdale could then boast, had tended to establish her character for respectability in a community so eminently moral and pious; and when it was known that the pastor, whose rigid ideas of propriety were no secret, had become a frequent visiter at Hopeton’s Folly, no doubt remained as to Mrs. Norwood’s virtues and claims upon general sympathy.

Mr. Allston, who for some ten years had presided over the single church in a place which had fortunately escaped the curse of sectarianism, was a man as remarkable in character as he was peculiar in habit. A close and unwearied student, ascetic in his daily life, and an enthusiast in his profession, he was almost idolized by his people, who regarded him as a being of the most saint-like character. Indeed, if self-denial could afford a title to canonization, he was fully competent to sustain the claim; but such is the inconsistency of human judgment, that Mr. Allston owed his high reputation to a belief in his stoical indifference to earthly temptations, and much of his influence would have been diminished if it had been suspected that resistance to evil ever cost him a single effort. The truth was that nature had made Allston a voluptuary, but religion had transformed him into an ascetic. He had set out in life with an eager thirst after all its pleasures, but he had been stayed in the very outset of his career by the reproaches of an awakened conscience. Violent in all his impulses, and ever in extremes, he had devoted himself to the gospel ministry because the keen goadings of repentance urged him to offer the greatest sacrifice in his power as atonement for past sins. But he had experienced all the trials which await those who, when gathering the manna from heaven, still remember the savory fleshpots of Egypt. His life was a perpetual conflict between passion and principle, and though his earthly nature rarely obtained the mastery, yet the necessity for such unwearied watchfulness had given a peculiar tone of severity to his manners. Like many persons of similar zeal, Allston had committed the error of confounding theaffectionswith thepassionsof human nature, and believing all earthly ties to be but fetters on the wings of the soul, he carefully avoided all temptation to assume such bonds. His religion was one of fear rather than of love, and forgetting that He who placed man in a world of beauty and delight has said, “I will have mercy and not sacrifice,” he made existence only a protracted scene of self-devotion and privation. A superstitious dread of yielding even to the most innocent impulses had induced him to suppress every feeling of his ardent and excitable nature. He had turned from the face of beauty and the voice of love with the same dread as would have induced him to eschew the temptation of the gaming-table and the wine-cup, and his thirtieth summer found him still a solitary student by the fireside of his widowed mother. His fine talents as a preacher, his powers of persuasion, his thrilling eloquence, aided by the example of his own habits of life, had produced a great effect in the community where he had been called to minister in holy things. The church was in a most flourishing condition; numbers had been united to it, and the influence of the pastor over the minds of all, but especially those of the young, was almost unbounded. Is it strange, therefore, that spiritual pride should have grown up in the heart of the isolated student, and twined its parasitic foliage around many a hardy plant of grace and goodness? Is it to be wondered at if Charles Allston at length indulged the fancy that he had been set apart as one chosen for a high and holy work—that he was destined to be one of the “vessels of honor,” of whom St. Paul has spoken—and that nothing now could sully the spotless garments in which his self-denial had clothed him.

Mrs. Allston had been among the first to welcome the sick stranger to Elmsdale, and, pleased with the gentle grace which characterized her manners, had lavished upon her every kindness. Mrs. Norwood was grateful for her attentions, and seemed happy to find a friend whose mature age and experience could afford her counsel and sympathy. This feeling of childlike dependence, on the one hand, and matronly affection on the other, was growing up between them, and served to establish a closer intimacy than at first might have appeared natural to persons so entirely unlike in character. Mrs. Allston was a woman of unpretending good sense, and plain education, whose rustic habits and utter indifference to etiquette made her appear very different from the languid invalid whose elegant manners and refined language marked her cultivation rather than her strength of mind. But “accident,” and “the strong necessity of loving,” may often account for friendships as well as loves, and this world would be a sad desert of lonely hearts if we could only attach ourselves to our own counterparts. No one could know Mrs. Norwood intimately, without being irresistibly attracted towards a character of such singular sensitiveness and amiability. She seemed like one in whom the elements of strength had been slowly and gradually evolved by circumstances, for, though her disposition was by nature yielding and dependent, yet her habits of thought and action were full of decision and firmness. Gentle and feminine in her feelings, reserved and quiet in her demeanor, she appeared to a careless observer merely as the dignified and discreet, because unprotected woman. But one who looked beneath the calm surface, might have found a deep strong under-current of feeling. Heart-sickness, rather than bodily disease, had been at work with her, and the blight which had passed over her young beauty, was but a type of that which had checked the growth of her warm affections.

Whatever might have been Mrs. Norwood’s feelings when she first took possession of her new abode, she certainly seemed both healthier and happier after a year’s sojourn in Elmsdale. A faint color returned to her thin cheek, a smile, bright and transient as an April sunbeam, often lit up her fine face, her features lost much of their sharpness of outline, and gradually, almost imperceptibly, the feeble, drooping invalid was transformed by the renovating touch of health into the lovely and elegant woman. Yet the same pensiveness characterized her usual manner—the same reluctance to mingle in society was evident in her daily intercourse with her neighbors, and to a stranger she might still seem to be mourning over the memory of a buried affection. But Mrs. Allston and her son alone knew better. They alone knew that affection had been crushed in its very bud by unkindness and neglect—they alone believed that the widow had found death one of the best of friends, when he relieved her from the intolerable bondage of domestic tyranny. Not that Mrs. Norwood had ever confided to them her former history; for the slightest question which had reference to the past always seemed to give her exquisite pain, but a casual remark, a trifling hint, a passing allusion, uttered in the confidence of friendship, had led them to form such conclusions.

Allston had at first regarded the stranger merely as another member added to his flock—another soul for which he must hereafter be responsible. But a closer acquaintance with her awakened a much stronger interest in his mind. He fancied that her character bore a wonderful resemblance to his own. He thought he beheld in her the same secret control over strong emotions, the same silent devotion to deep-felt duties, the same earnest enthusiasm in religion, the same abstraction from worldly pleasures, as had long been the leading traits in his character. He believed that the difference of sex and her early sorrow might account for the diversities which existed between them, and actuated by the belief that he was an instrument in the hands of a higher Power, who had destined him for some great and glorious work, he persuaded himself that Providence had placed her in his path and pointed her out to him, by a mysterious sympathy, as his companion and fellow-laborer in his future duties. Had he not been blinded by the self-reliance which had taken the place of his wonted watchfulness, the very strength of his feelings would have led him to distrust their propriety. But habit had rendered all his ordinary practice of self-denial so easy to him that he fancied himself quite superior to mere earthly temptation, and therefore he was disposed to regard his present excitement, rather as a manifestation of the will of Heaven than as an impulse of natural affection. It cost him much thought and many severe conflicts with his doubts and his zeal ere he could decide upon the course he should pursue. Determined not to listen to the voice of passion but to be governed entirely by a sense of duty, he condemned himself to a rigorous fast of three days in the firm belief that he should receive some expression of the Divine Will. In the deep sleep of exhaustion which fell upon him during the third night, Mrs. Norwood appeared before him in a dream, wearing shining garments and smiling with an expression of perfect beatitude. This was enough for the wild enthusiast. From that moment he placed no restraint upon the promptings of his heart, but considering her as one peculiarly marked out for the same high destiny as himself, he poured out all the fulness of his long hoarded affections at her feet.

Lonely, desolate and sorrowful, Mrs. Norwood was almost bewildered by the sudden light which seemed to break in upon her when she thus found herself the object of true tenderness. She had long admired the genius of Mr. Allston, and her romantic temperament peculiarly fitted her to appreciate the peculiarities of his enthusiastic zeal. She had looked up to him as one as far above her in his unworldly sanctity, as in his gifted intellect, and thus to find herself the chosen of a heart which had heretofore rejected earth’s sweetest gifts of tenderness, was most unlooked-for happiness. She soon learned to love him with a depth and fervor which surprised even herself, yet she had suffered so much in early life that the presence of hope was now welcomed with tearful distrust. She dreaded rather than anticipated the future, and while listening to the wrapt eloquence of her lover, who seemed to spiritualize the impassioned language of affection, she could not but tremble to think what a blank life would be if this new-found bliss were suddenly extinguished. The peculiar tone of Allston’s mind was never more distinctly displayed than in his courtship. Of love he never spoke, but he dwelt on the high and mystical dreams which had charmed his solitude, he pictured passion under the garb of pure devotion, and attired human affections in the robes of immaculate purity until he had completely bewildered himself in the mazes of his own labyrinth of fancies. At length the decisive moment came, and, in a manner equally characteristic and unusual, Allston asked Mrs. Norwood to become his wife. He was scarcely prepared for her excessive agitation, and still less for her indefinite reply.

“It shall be for you to decide, Mr. Allston,” said the gentle widow, as she struggled with her tears, “I will not pretend to have misunderstood your feelings towards me, nor will I attempt to conceal the fact that to your proffered affection I owe the first gleam of happiness which has visited my weary heart since the days of childhood. But I have deceived you, and I cannot accept your hand while you remain ignorant of the events of my early life. Some months since, I wrote what I cannot bring my lips to utter, and you will find in this manuscript all you ought to know. Judge not too hardly of my concealment—my only error has been silence on a subject with which the world had naught to do, and this I trust your heart will not visit with too severe a punishment.”

Allston took the papers, and silent and dismayed hurried to the seclusion of his study. Dreading some evil, though he knew not what shape it might assume, he broke the seal and read as follows:

“Left an orphan at a very early age, my first recollections are those of school life. My parents, who were residents though not natives of the island of Jamaica, sent me to England for my education, and, dying soon after my departure, I became the ward of my mother’s cousin, a gay and dissipated bachelor, whose house offered not a proper home to a young girl. I was the heiress to great wealth, but was, at the same time, a homeless and desolate child, who might well have envied the privileges of domestic affection which are enjoyed by the offspring of poverty. My wealth procured me respect and consideration among my teachers and a few interested school-fellows, while it purchased for me exemption from much of the discipline of the school, as well as from many of the studies which I wished to avoid. I was, therefore, little likely to profit by the advantages of my position in life, while its disadvantages were in my case greatly multiplied. I was a wayward, wilful, warm-hearted child, full of impulsive affections, but irritable in temper, and, though perfectly docile to the law of kindness, utterly beyond the subjugation of severity. Frank and confiding in my disposition, I was easily led to place confidence in those who treated me with a semblance of affection, and the sense of loneliness which oppressed my heart, even in childhood, led me rather to seek for the friendship of those by whom I was surrounded, while the romance, which shows itself in a greater or less degree in the developing character of every school girl, assumed in me the form of a morbid desire to inspire affection in those whom Providence had placed around me, to fill the places of parents, and brothers and sisters to my desolate life.

“I was in my fifteenth year, full of exaggerated sensibility, and just beginning to model my dreams of future happiness after the standard afforded by my favorite novels, when a circumstance, apparently of trivial moment, occurred to shadow my whole life with sorrow. The only accomplishment in which I made any decided progress was that of drawing, and in this I had early exhibited both taste and skill. Our drawing-master, an old and wily Italian, requested permission to introduce his nephew, who could materially aid him in instructing us to sketch from nature; and, as it involved our school-mistress in no additional expense, she readily assented. Our new teacher was accordingly introduced to us under the name of Signior Baldini, but it needed scarcely one look to make us doubt his relationship to the old man, for his florid complexion, blond hair, and blue eyes bore little resemblance to the dark countenance and classical features of the fine Italian face. Those of us who were novel readers immediately fancied that we could detect beneath this humble disguise some noble heir or enamored youth who sought to obtain access to a ladye-love immured within the walls of our school. Our young and glowing hearts, full of passions which had been prematurely developed by the mischievous tenor of our stolen reading, and ready to welcome any thing which might give occupation to their restlessness, were quickly excited in favor of the new comer. Our sketching from nature required us to take many walks in the vicinity, and, though we were never unaccompanied by one of the female teachers, yet a thousand opportunities for forming an imprudent intimacy occurred during these excursions. I soon found, however, that the attentions of Signior Baldini were especially directed to me, and the vanity of my sex, as well as my own excited fancy, led me to encourage rather than repulse his proffered advances. I cannot recall all the details of the vile conspiracy to which I fell a victim. Imagine a child of fifteen summers subjected to the arts of a man more than twice her age—a man who had studied human nature in its worst forms, and therefore well knew how to take advantage of its slightest tendency to errors—a man whose talents enabled him to conceal the heart of a demon beneath the features of a demigod. Imagine the effect of these arts upon a sensitive and romantic girl, a lonely and orphaned creature who was yearning for the voice of affection, and weaving many a beautiful fancy of future happiness, to be found only in reciprocal affection, and you will anticipate the result.

“A well invented story of high birth, unmerited misfortunes, and a long cherished passion for me, awakened my sympathy, and I soon imagined that nothing could repay my lover’s tenderness but the bestowal of my hand and fortune. I fancied myself deeply and devotedly attached to one who had submitted to the degradation of disguise for my sake, and, on the day when I attained my sixteenth year, I eloped with my lover, who now dropped his assumed title and adopted his true name of Wallingford. As my guardian was at that time in Paris, we met with no molestation, and were privately married in London, where we had decided to take up our abode. I afterwards learned that those of my teachers who had been parties to the plot were well paid for their services, while the only real sufferer was the principal of the establishment, who had been kept in total ignorance of the scheme, and whose dignified sense of propriety was shocked at having such a stigma affixed to her school. When my guardian returned he read me a lecture on my imprudence, and tried to satisfy his conscience for past neglect, by refusing to allow me more than a mere maintenance until I should attain my majority. To this, however, I refused submission, and the matter was finally compromised in a manner quite satisfactory to both parties. Mr. Wallingford immediately engaged elegant lodgings, and we commenced living in a style better suited to my future fortune than to my actual income.

“My heart sickens when I look back to the weary years which succeeded my imprudent marriage. As time matured my judgment I was pained by the discovery of many weaknesses and faults in my husband, to which I would willingly have remained blind. Yet the discovery of these did not impair the simple, child-like affection with which I regarded the only being on earth to whom I was bound by any ties. I clung to him as the only one in the wide world whom I was permitted to love, and it required but little effort on his part to have strengthened my girlish fondness into the lasting fervor of womanly tenderness. While yet I remained in my minority Mr. Wallingford treated me with some show of consideration. Fitful gleams of kindness, transient visitings of former fondness, glimpses of the better nature which had been so perverted by evil habits, and endearments still bestowed in moments of persuasion, linked my heart to the ideal which I had enshrined in his image. But no sooner was I put in possession of my fortune than he threw off the mask entirely. I was too much in his power to render any further concealment necessary, and he now appeared before me in all the true deformity of his character. Dissipated in his habits, coarse in his feelings, low in his pursuits and pleasures, he had only sought me for the wealth which could minister to his depravity.

“I will not pain you by a detail of the petty tyranny to which I was now subjected. My impetuous temper was at first aroused, but, alas! it was soon subdued by frightful severity. Indifference, neglect, intemperance, infidelity, nay, even personal ill treatment, which left the discolored badge of slavery upon my flesh for days and weeks, were now my only portion. Broken in health and in spirit, I prayed for death to release me from my sufferings, and I verily believe my husband sought to aid my wishes by his cruel conduct. But the crushed worm was at length compelled to turn upon the foot which trampled it. I was driven from my home—a home which my wealth had furnished with all the appliances of taste and elegance—and placed in a farm-house at some distance from London, while a vile woman, whose name was but another word for pollution, ruled over my house. To increase the horrors of my situation, I learned that Wallingford was taking measures to prove me insane, and thus rid himself of my presence while he secured the guardianship of my person and property. This last injury aroused all the latent strength of my nature. Hitherto I had been like a child brought up in servitude and crouching beneath the master’s blow, but I was now suddenly transformed into the indignant and energetic woman.

“Alone and unaided I determined to appeal to the laws of the land for redress, and prudence directed me to men as wise as they were virtuous, who readily undertook my cause. Wallingford was startled at my sudden rebellion, but he was never unprepared for deeds of evil. My servants were suborned, papers were forged, falsehoods were blazoned abroad, all the idle gossip which had floated for its passing moment on the breath of scandal like the winged seed of some noxious plant on the summer breeze, was carefully treasured, and every thing that power could effect was tried to make me appear degraded in character and imbecile in mind. The circumstances attending my marriage—my first fatal error, committed at the suggestion and under the influence of him who now adduced it as proof of my weakness—was one of the evidences of my unworthiness, while the utterings of a goaded spirit and the wild anguish of a breaking heart were repeated as the language of insanity. But for once justice and equity triumphed over the quibbles of the law. The decree of the highest court in the realm released me from my heavy bondage. A conditional divorce which allowed me full power to marry again, but restrained my husband from such a privilege, in consequence of his well-attested cruelty and ill treatment, was the result of our protracted and painful lawsuit. My fortune, sadly wasted and diminished, was placed in the hands of trustees for my sole benefit, and I immediately settled upon Wallingford a sum sufficient to place him far above want, upon the sole condition that he never intruded himself into my presence.

“After these arrangements were completed I determined to put the ocean between me and my persecutor. On my twenty-sixth birthday—just ten years from the day which saw me a bride—I landed in America. Alas! how changed were all my prospects, how altered all my feelings! I was still in the prime of life, but hope and joy and all the sweet influences of affection were lost to me forever, and after wandering from place to place I finally took up my abode in Elmsdale, rather from a sense of utter weariness than from any anticipation of peace. I little knew that Providence had prepared for me so sweet a rest after all my sufferings. I little knew that peace and hope, aye, and even happiness, were yet in store for me. Resigning a name to which I had no longer any claim, I resumed my family name of Norwood, and sought to appear in society as the widowed rather than as the divorced wife. I have thus avoided painful remarks and impertinent questionings, while I was enabled to secure for myself a quiet retreat from the turmoil of the world. Perhaps to you, Charles Allston, I ought to have been more frank, but surely you cannot blame me for shrinking from the disclosure of such bitter and degrading memories. You have now learned all my early history—you have seen my error and you have traced its punishment—let me now unfold the page which can reveal the present.

“A fancy, light as the gossamer which the wind drives on its wing, first led to my marriage. I was a child in heart and mind and person, when I became the victim of arts which might have misled a wiser head and a less susceptible heart. Left to myself I should probably have forgotten my first love fancy even as one of the thousand dreams which haunt the brain of youth. But if, after my marriage, I had experienced kindness and tenderness from my husband, the feeling would have deepened into earnest and life-long affection, instead of curdling into hatred and contempt within my bosom. The love of my girlhood was blighted even as a flower which blossoms out of time, and loneliness has hitherto been my lot through life. Will you deem me too bold, my friend, if I tell you that from you I have learned my first lesson in womanly duty? Till I knew you I dreamed not of the power of a fervent and true passion—till I beheld you I believed my heart was cold and dead to all such gentle impulses. You have taught me that happiness may yet be found even for me. In loving you I am but doing homage to virtue and wisdom and piety—in bowing down before your image I am but worshipping the noblest attributes of human nature enshrined within your heart. I dared not pour out the fullness of my joy until I had told you my sad tale, but now that you know all—now that no shadow of distrust can fall upon the sunshine of the future, come to me, and assure me with your own dear voice that my troubled dream is now forever past, and that the dawn of happiness is breaking upon my weary heart!”

To comprehend the full effect of this letter on Charles Allston, the peculiarity of his character—his strict ideas of duty—his devotion to his holy calling—his shrinking dread of any thing which could, by any possibility, tend to diminish his influence over the consciences of his flock—and his long cherished dread of self-indulgence—must ever be borne in mind. He had loved Eleanor Norwood with a fervor startling even to himself, and according to his usual distrustful habits of thought, he had feared lest the very intensity of his feelings was a proof of their sinfulness. Accustomed to consider every thing as wrong which was peculiarly gratifying to himself—measuring by the amount of every enjoyment the extent of its wickedness—restraining the most innocent impulses because he conceived heaven could only be won by continual sacrifices—he had shrunk in fear and trembling at his own temerity when his overmastering passion led him to pour forth his feelings to the object of his love. He had retired to his apartment in a state of pitiable agitation, and while he awaited Mrs. Norwood’s reply with hope, he yet half repented of his proffered suit, lest there should have been too much of the leaven of mere earthly tenderness in the bosom which had vowed to forsake all its idols. This letter therefore produced a terrible revulsion in his feelings. His rigid sense of duty, and his adherence to divine rather than human laws, compelled him to behold in Eleanor Norwood only the wife of another. Vile and unworthy as Wallingford might be, he was to Allston’s view still the husband, and though the tie might be loosened by the hand of man it could only be entirely severed by the will of God. All the sternness of that long practised asceticism, which had given Allston such a twofold character, was called forth by the thought of the sin he had so nearly committed. The wild enthusiasm of his nature led him to regard Mrs. Norwood as a temptress sent to try the strength of his self-denying piety. He remembered the tale of the hermit, who for forty years abode in the wilderness, sinless in thought and in deed, while he kept his eye ever fixed upon the cross; but the moment of wavering came—the holy eremite turned his gaze for one single instant from the symbol, and Satan, who had long watched in vain, obtained the mastery over him whose life-long piety had not availed against a moment’s weakness. Allston shuddered as his busy fancy suggested the parallel between the monkish legend and his own present feelings. The thought of the disgrace which would attend him who, while reproving sin in others, could be accused of cherishing it in his own household—of the judgment which would fall upon him who should dare to minister to the people in holy things, while he bore the marks of a deadly leprosy within his own bosom—until at length the spiritual pride, which was in truth his besetting sin, subdued all lighter emotions.

That evening Mrs. Norwood sat in her quiet room, with the light of a shaded lamp falling upon the gentle beauty of a face now lighted up with hope, and which, but for the restless and hurried glance which was occasionally turned upon the quaintly fashioned clock, might have seemed the picture of placid happiness. A soft glow flushed her cheek, her eyes were full of radiance, and, as she raised her head in the attitude of a listener, a smile of almost childlike joyousness parted her flexible lips. A step resounded on the gravel walk without. Her first impulse led her to spring forward to welcome the expected visitant, but womanly pride checked her in mid career, and she yet stood in half uncertainty when the door opened to admit a servant who handed her a small parcel. Her cheek grew ashy pale as she broke the seal. A paper dropped from the envelop—it was her own letter to Allston; and she sank into a chair as she unfolded the note which accompanied it. Written in Allston’s hand, yet so blotted, and traced in such irregular characters, that the agitation of the writer might well be divined, were these words:

“I will not express the agony of mind with which I have perused the enclosed papers. I have been tried almost beyond my strength, but I have been mercifully spared the commission of a crime at which my soul shudders. I will not upbraid you, madam, for your cruel concealment; your own conscience will be your accuser, and it will not fail to remind you that your deception has nearly hurled me from an eminence which it has been the labor of my life to reach. But you have been only an instrument in the hands of a higher power. I fancied myself superior to temptation, and God has sent you to teach me the necessity of closer watchfulness over my still frail nature. Eleanor Norwood, I have loved you as I never loved earthly creature before, but sooner would I suffer the keenest pangs of that chronic heartbreak, to which the martyrdom of the pile and fagot is but pastime, than take to my arms the wife of a living husband. You have made me wretched but you cannot make me criminal. Henceforth we meet no more on earth, for I have vowed to tear your image from my heart, though, even now, every fibre bleeds at the rude sundering of such close knit ties. Receive my forgiveness and my farewell.”

When Mrs. Norwood’s faithful old servant entered the room, about an hour after the receipt of this letter, she found her mistress lying senseless on the floor. Suspecting something like the truth, the woman prudently gathered up the papers from view, and then summoned assistance. Mrs. Norwood was carried to her apartment and medical aid was immediately procured. The physician pronounced her to be suffering from strong nervous excitement, and, after giving her a sleeping draught, prescribed perfect quiet for the next few days. But ere morning she was in a state of delirium, and fears were entertained for her intellect if not for her life. Several days passed in great uncertainty, but at length hope revived and Mrs. Norwood once more awoke to consciousness. Feeble as an infant, however, she required great care to raise her from the brink of the grave, and the springs of life, so sadly shattered by long continued sorrow, were now in danger of being broken by a single stroke. Disease seemed undetermined in its final attack, and at length assumed the form under which it most frequently assists the insidious labors of secret sorrow. A hectic cough now racked her feeble frame, and it was evident that consumption would soon claim another victim. Just at this time a letter, sealed with black, was forwarded to Mrs. Norwood’s address, and after being withheld from her several weeks, by advice of her physician, was finally given to her because all hope of prolonging her life was at an end. The perusal of this letter seemed rather to soothe than to excite the sinking invalid. “It comes too late,” was her only exclamation as she deposited it in a little cabinet which stood beside her bed, and from that moment she made no allusion to its contents.

It was remarked in the village that Mr. Allston had become excessively severe in his denunciations of error, while his habits had become more rigid and reserved than ever. His former persuasive eloquence had given place to violent and bitter revilings of sin, while those who applied to him for religious consolation were terrified rather than attracted by the threatenings of the fiery zealot. Once only did he seem moved by gentler feelings. An aged clergyman, who occasionally visited him from a distant town, was summoned to the bedside of Mrs. Norwood, and when he returned to Mr. Allston’s study he feelingly described the bodily pangs and angelic patience of the gentle sufferer. The frame of the stern man shook as he listened, and tears—such tears as sear rather than relieve the heart—fell from his eyes. It was one of the last struggles of human feeling in the breast of one who vainly fancied himself marked out for a higher than human destiny—one more was yet to come, and then earth held no claim upon his heart.

It was not long delayed, for the time soon arrived when the bell tolled for her whose sorrowful life and early death had been the penalty of a single error. Allston stood beside the coffin and saw within its deep shadow the pale and stony features of the being whom he had loved; and even while his heart smote him as the shortener of her brief and melancholy span of life, he yet nerved himself with the high, stern resolve of one who suffers in the cause of duty. With that cold brow beneath his gaze, he poured forth, from the depths of an agonized heart, a prayer whose solemn eloquence thrilled every listener like a voice from the grave. No sound escaped his lips as the clods of the valley fell rattling on the coffin-lid which shrouded the heart so sorely tried in life, but, in the deep midnight, groans and bitter cries, which rived his stern bosom, were heard issuing from the pastor’s lonely closet.

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