A RACE FOR A SWEETHEART.

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BY MR. SEBA SMITH.

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Hardly any event creates a stronger sensation in a thinly settled New England village, especially among the young folks, than the arrival of a fresh and blooming miss, who comes to make her abode in the neighborhood. When, therefore, Squire Johnson, the only lawyer in the place, and a very respectable man of course, told Farmer Jones one afternoon that his wife’s sister, a smart girl of eighteen, was coming in a few days to reside in his family, the news flew like wildfire through Pond village, and was the principal topic of conversation for a week. Pond village is situated upon the margin of one of those numerous and beautiful sheets of water that gem the whole surface of New England, like the bright stars in an evening sky, and received its appellation to distinguish it from two or three other villages in the same town, which could not boast of a similar location. When Farmer Jones came in to his supper about sunset that afternoon, and took his seat at the table, the eyes of the whole family were upon him, for there was a peculiar working about his mouth and a knowing glance of his eye, that always told them when he had something of interest to communicate. But Farmer Jones’ secretiveness was large, and his temperament not the most active, and he would probably have rolled the important secret as a sweet morsel under his tongue for a long time, had not Mrs. Jones, who was of rather an impatient and prying turn of mind, contrived to draw it from him.

“Now, Mr. Jones,” said she, as she handed him his cup of tea, “what is it you are going to say? Do out with it; for you’ve been chawing something or other over in your mind ever since you came into the house.”

“It’s my tobacher, I s’pose,” said Mr. Jones, with another knowing glance of his eye.

“Now, father, what is the use?” said Susan; “we all know you’ve got something or other you want to say, and why can’t you tell us what ’tis?”

“La, who cares what ’tis?” said Mrs. Jones; “if it was any thing worth telling, we shouldn’t have to wait for it, I dare say.”

Hereupon Mrs. Jones assumed an air of the most perfect indifference, as the surest way of conquering what she was pleased to call Mr. Jones’ obstinacy, which by the way was a very improper term to apply in the case; for it was purely the working of secretiveness without the least particle of obstinacy attached to it.

There was a pause for two or three minutes in the conversation, till Mr. Jones passed his cup to be filled a second time, when with a couple of preparatory hems he began to let out the secret.

“We are to have a new neighbor here in a few days,” said Mr. Jones, stopping short when he had uttered thus much, and sipping his tea and filling his mouth with food.

Mrs. Jones, who was perfect in her tactics, said not a word, but attended to the affairs of the table, as though she had not noticed what was said. The farmer’s secretiveness had at last worked itself out, and he began again.

“Squire Johnson’s wife’s sister is coming here in a few days, and is going to live with ’em.”

The news being thus fairly divulged, it left free scope for conversation.

“Well, I wonder if she is a proud, stuck up piece,” said Mrs. Jones.

“I shouldn’t think she would be,” said Susan, “for there aint a more sociabler woman in the neighborhood than Miss Johnson. So if she’s at all like her sister I think we shall like her.”

“I wonder how old she is,” said Stephen, who was just verging toward the close of his twenty-first year.

“The squire called her eighteen,” said Mr. Jones, giving a wink to his wife, as much as to say, that’s about the right age for Stephen.

“I wonder if she is handsome,” said Susan, who was somewhat vain of her own looks, and having been a sort of reigning belle in Pond village for some time, felt a little alarm at the idea of a rival.

“I dare be bound she’s handsome,” said Mrs. Jones, “if she’s sister to Miss Johnson; for where’ll you find a handsomer woman than Miss Johnson, go the town through?”

After supper, Stephen went down to Mr. Robinson’s store, and told the news to young Charles Robinson and all the young fellows who were gathered there for a game at quoits and a ring at wrestling. And Susan went directly over to Mr. Bean’s and told Patty, and Patty went round to the Widow Davis’ and told Sally, and before nine o’clock the matter was pretty well understood in about every house in the village.

At the close of the fourth day, a little before sunset, a chaise was seen to drive up to Squire Johnson’s door. Of course the eyes of the whole village were turned in that direction. Sally Davis, who was just coming in from milking, set her pail down on the grass by the side of the road as soon as the chaise came in sight, and watched it till it reached the squire’s door, and the gentleman and lady had got out and gone into the house. Patty Bean was doing up the ironing that afternoon, and she had just taken a hot iron from the fire as the chaise passed the door, and she ran with it in her hand and stood on the door steps till the whole ceremony of alighting, greeting, and entering the house, was over. Old Mrs. Bean stood with her head out of the window, her iron-bowed spectacles resting upon the top of her forehead, her shriveled hand placed across her eyebrows to defend her red eyes from the rays of the setting sun, and her skinny chin protruding about three inches in advance of a couple of stubs of teeth, which her open mouth exposed fairly to view.

“Seems to me they are dreadful loving,” said old Mrs. Bean, as she saw Mrs. Johnson descend the steps and welcome her sister with a kiss.

“La me, if there isn’t the squire kissing of her tu,” said Patty; “well, I declare, I would a waited till I got into the house, I’ll die if I wouldn’t. It looks so vulgar to be kissing afore folks, and out doors tu; I should think Squire Johnson would be ashamed of himself.”

“Well, I shouldn’t,” said young John Bean, who came up at that moment, and who had passed the chaise just as the young lady alighted from it. “I shouldn’t be ashamed to kiss sich a pretty gal as that any how; I’d kiss her wherever I could ketch her, if it was in the meetin-house.”

“Why, is she handsome, Jack?” said Patty.

“Yes, she’s got the prettiest little puckery kind of a mouth I’ve seen this six months. Her cheeks are red, and her eyes shine like new buttons.”

“Well,” replied Patty, “if she’ll only take the shine off of Susan Jones when she goes to meetin, Sunday, I sha’n’t care.”

While these observations were going on at old Mr. Bean’s, Charles Robinson and a group of young fellows with him were standing in front of Robinson’s store, a little farther down the road, and watching the scene that was passing at Squire Johnson’s. They witnessed the whole with becoming decorum, now and then making a remark about the fine horse and the handsome chaise, till they saw the tall squire bend his head down and give the young lady a kiss, when they all burst out into a loud laugh. In a moment, being conscious that their laugh must be heard and noticed at the squire’s, they, in order to do away the impression it must necessarily make, at once turned their heads the other way, and Charles Robinson, who was quick at an expedient, knocked off the hat of the lad who was standing next to him, and then they all laughed louder than before.

“Here comes Jack Bean,” said Charles, “now we shall hear something about her, for Jack was coming by the squire’s when she got out of the chaise. How does she look, Jack?”

“Handsome as a picter,” said Jack. “I haint seen a prettier gal since last Thanksgiving Day, when Jane Ford was here to visit Susan Jones.”

“Black eyes or blue?” said Charles.

“Blue,” said Jack, “but all-fired bright.”

“Tall or short?” said Stephen Jones, who was rather short himself, and therefore felt a particular interest on that point.

“Rather short,” said Jack, “but straight and round as our young colt.”

“Do you know what her name is?” said Charles.

“They called her Lucy when she got out of the chaise,” said Jack, “and as Miss Johnson’s name was Brown before she was married, I s’pose her name must be Lucy Brown.”

“Just such a name as I like,” said Charles Robinson; “Lucy Brown sounds well. Now suppose, in order to get acquainted with her, we all hands take a sail to-morrow night, about this time, on the pond, and invite her to go with us.”

“Agreed,” said Stephen Jones. “Agreed,” said Jack Bean. “Agreed,” said all hands.

The question then arose, who should carry the invitation to her; and the young men being rather bashful on that score, it was finally settled that Susan Jones should bear the invitation, and accompany her to the boat, where they should all be in waiting to receive her. The next day was a very long day, at least to most of the young men of Pond village; and promptly, an hour before sunset, most of them were assembled, with half a score of their sisters and female cousins, by a little stone wharf on the margin of the pond, for the proposed sail. All the girls in the village, of a suitable age, were there, except Patty Bean. She had undergone a good deal of fidgeting and fussing during the day, to prepare for the sail, but had been disappointed. Her new bonnet was not done; and as for wearing her old flap-sided bonnet, she declared she would not, if she never went. Presently Susan Jones and Miss Lucy Brown were seen coming down the road. In a moment all were quiet, the laugh and the joke were hushed, and each one put on his best looks. When they arrived, Susan went through the ceremony of introducing Miss Brown to each of the ladies and gentlemen present.

“But how in the world are you going to sail?” said Miss Brown, “for there isn’t a breath of wind; and I don’t see any sail-boat, neither.”

“Oh, the less wind we have, the better, when we sail here,” said Charles Robinson; “and there is our sail-boat,” pointing to a flat-bottomed scow-boat, some twenty feet long by ten wide.

“We don’t use no sails,” said Jack Bean; “sometimes, when the wind is fair, we put up a bush to help pull along a little, and when ’tisn’t, we row.”

The party were soon embarked on board the scow, and a couple of oars were set in motion, and they glided slowly and pleasantly over as lovely a sheet of water as ever glowed in the sunsetting ray. In one hour’s time, the whole party felt perfectly acquainted with Miss Lucy Brown. She had talked in the most lively and fascinating manner; she had told stories and sung songs. Among others, she had given Moore’s boat song, with the sweetest possible effect; and by the time they returned to the landing, it would hardly be too much to say that half the young men in the party were decidedly in love with her.

A stern regard to truth requires a remark to be made here, not altogether favorable to Susan Jones, which is the more to be regretted, as she was in the main an excellent hearted girl, and highly esteemed by the whole village. It was observed that as the company grew more and more pleased with Miss Lucy Brown, Susan Jones was less and less animated, till at last she became quite reserved, and apparently sad. She, however, on landing, treated Miss Brown with respectful attention, accompanied her home to Squire Johnson’s door, and cordially bade her good night.

The casual glimpses which the young men of Pond village had of Miss Brown during the remainder of the week, as she occasionally stood at the door, or looked out at the window, or once or twice when she walked out with Susan Jones, and the fair view they all had of her at meeting on the Sabbath, served but to increase their admiration, and to render her more and more an object of attraction. She was regarded by all as a prize, and several of them were already planning what steps it was best to take in order to win her. The two most prominent candidates, however, for Miss Brown’s favor, were Charles Robinson and Stephen Jones. Their position and standing among the young men of the village seemed to put all others in the back ground. Charles, whose father was wealthy, had every advantage which money could procure. But Stephen, though poor, had decidedly the advantage over Charles in personal recommendations. He had more talent, was more sprightly and intelligent, and more pleasing in his address. From the evening of the sail on the pond, they had both watched every movement of Miss Brown with the most intense interest; and, as nothing can deceive a lover, each had, with an interest no less intense, watched every movement of the other. They had ceased to speak to each other about her, and if her name was mentioned in their presence, both were always observed to color.

The second week after her arrival, through the influence of Squire Johnson, the district school was offered to Miss Brown on the other side of the pond, which offer was accepted, and she went immediately to take charge of it. This announcement at first threw something of a damper upon the spirits of the young people of Pond village. But when it was understood the school would continue but a few weeks, and being but a mile and a half distant, Miss Brown would come home every Saturday afternoon, and spend the Sabbath, it was not very difficult to be reconciled to the temporary arrangement. The week wore away heavily, especially to Charles Robinson and Stephen Jones. They counted the days impatiently till Saturday, and on Saturday they counted the long and lagging hours till noon. They had both made up their minds that it would be dangerous to wait longer, and they had both resolved not to let another Sabbath pass without making direct proposals to Miss Brown.

Stephen Jones was too early a riser for Charles Robinson, and, in any enterprise where both were concerned, was pretty sure to take the lead, except where money could carry the palm, and then, of course, it was always borne away by Charles. As Miss Lucy had been absent most of the week, and was to be at home that afternoon, Charles Robinson had made an arrangement with his mother and sisters to have a little tea party in the evening, for the purpose of inviting Miss Brown; and then, of course, he should walk home with her in the evening; and then, of course, would be a good opportunity to break the ice, and make known to her his feelings and wishes. Stephen Jones, however, was more prompt in his movements. He had got wind of the proposed tea party, although himself and sister, for obvious reasons, had not been invited, and he resolved not to risk the arrival of Miss Brown and her visit to Mr. Robinson’s, before he should see her. She would dismiss her school at noon, and come the distance of a mile and a half round the pond home. His mind was at once made up. He would go round and meet her at the school-house, and accompany her on her walk. There, in that winding road around those delightful waters, with the tall and shady trees over head, and the wild grape-vines twining round their trunks, and climbing to the branches, while the wild birds were singing through the woods, and the wild ducks playing in the coves along the shore, surely there, if any where in the world, could a man bring his mind up to the point of speaking of love.

Accordingly, a little before noon, Stephen washed and brushed himself up, and put on his Sunday clothes, and started on his expedition. In order to avoid observation, he took a back route across the field, intending to come into the road by the pond, a little out of the village. As ill luck would have it, Charles Robinson had been out in the same direction, and was returning with an armful of green boughs and wild flowers, to ornament the parlor for the evening. He saw Stephen, and noticed his dress, and the direction he was going, and he at once smoked the whole business. His first impulse was to rush upon him and collar him, and demand that he should return back. But then he recollected that in the last scratch he had with Stephen, two or three years before, he had a little the worst of it, and he instinctively stood still while Stephen passed on without seeing him. It flashed upon his mind at once that the question must now be reduced to a game of speed. If he could by any means gain the school-house first, and engage Miss Lucy to walk home with him, he should consider himself safe. But if Stephen should reach the school-house first, he should feel a good deal of uneasiness for the consequences. Stephen was walking very leisurely, and unconscious that he was in any danger of a competitor on the course, and it was important that his suspicions should not be awakened. Charles, therefore, remained perfectly quiet till Stephen had got a little out of hearing, and then he threw down his bushes and flowers, and ran to the wharf below the store with his utmost speed. He had one advantage over Stephen. He was ready at a moment’s warning to start on an expedition of this kind, for Sunday clothes were an every-day affair with him. There was a light canoe, belonging to his father, lying at the wharf, and a couple of stout boys were there fishing. Charles hailed them, and told them if they would row him across the pond as quick as they possibly could, he would give them a quarter of a dollar a piece. This, in their view, was a splendid offer for their services, and they jumped on board with alacrity and manned the oars. Charles took a paddle, and stood in the stern to steer the boat, and help propel her ahead. The distance by water was a little less than by land, and although Stephen had considerably the start of him, he believed he should be able to reach the school-house first, especially if Stephen should not see him and quicken his pace. In one minute after he arrived at the wharf, the boat was under full way. The boys laid down to the oars with right good will, and Charles put out all his strength upon the paddle. They were shooting over the water twice as fast as a man could walk, and Charles already felt sure of the victory. But when they had gone about half a mile, they came in the range of a little opening in the trees on the shore, where the road was exposed to view, and there, at that critical moment, was Stephen pursuing his easy walk. Charles’ heart was in his mouth. Still it was possible Stephen might not see them, for he had not yet looked round. Lest the sound of the oars might attract his attention, Charles had instantly, on coming in sight, ordered the boys to stop rowing, and he grasped his paddle with breathless anxiety, and waited for Stephen again to disappear. But just as he was upon the point of passing behind some trees, where the boat would be out of his sight, Stephen turned his head and looked round. He stopped short, turned square round, and stood for the space of a minute looking steadily at the boat. Then lifting his hand, and shaking his fist resolutely at Charles, as much as to say I understand you, he started into a quick run.

“Now, boys,” said Charles, “buckle to your oars for your lives, and if you get to the shore so I can reach the school-house before Stephen does, I’ll give you half a dollar a piece.”

This of course added new life to the boys and increased speed to the boat. Their little canoe flew over the water almost like a bird, carrying a white bone in her mouth, and leaving a long ripple on the glassy wave behind her. Charles’ hands trembled, but still he did good execution with his paddle. Although Stephen upon the run was a very different thing from Stephen at a slow walk, Charles still had strong hopes of winning the race and gaining his point. He several times caught glimpses of Stephen through the trees, and, as well as he could judge, the boat had a little the best of it. But when they came out into the last opening, where for a little way they had a fair view of each other, Charles thought Stephen ran faster than ever; and although he was now considerably nearer the school-house than Stephen was, he still trembled for the result. They were now within fifty rods of the shore, and Charles appealed again to the boys’ love of money.

“Now,” said he, “we have not a minute to spare. If we gain the point, I’ll give you a dollar apiece.”

The boys strained every nerve, and Charles’ paddle made the water fly like the tail of a wounded shark. When within half a dozen rods of the shore, Charles urged them again to spring with all their might, and one of the boys making a desperate plunge upon his oar, snapped it in two. The first pull of the other oar headed the boat from land. Charles saw at once that the delay must be fatal, if he depended on the boat to carry him ashore. The water was but three feet deep, and the bottom was sandy. He sprung from the boat, and rushed toward the shore as fast as he was able to press through the water. He flew up the bank, and along the road, till he reached the school-house. The door was open, but he could see no one within. Several children were at play round the door, who, having seen Charles approach with such haste, stood with mouths and eyes wide open, looking at him.

“Where’s the schoolma’m?” said Charles, hastily, to one of the largest boys.

“Why?” said the boy, opening his eyes still wider, “is any of the folks dead?”

“You little rascal, I say, where’s the schoolma’m?”

“She jest went down that road,” said the boy, “two or three minutes ago.”

“Was she alone?” said Charles.

“She started alone,” said the boy, “and a man met her out there a little ways, and turned about and went with her.”

Charles felt that his cake was all dough again, and that he might as well give it up for a bad job, and go home. Stephen Jones and Lucy Brown walked very leisurely home through the woods, and Charles and the boys went very leisurely in the boat across the pond. They even stopped by the way, and caught a mess of fish, since the boys had thrown their lines into the boat when they started. And when they reached the wharf, Charles, in order to show that he had been a fishing, took a large string of the fish in his hand, and carried them up to the house. Miss Lucy Brown, on her way home through the woods, had undoubtedly been informed of the proposed tea-party for the evening, to which she was to be invited, and to which Stephen Jones and Susan Jones were not invited; and when Miss Lucy’s invitation came, she sent word back, that she wasengaged.

THE FAREWELL.

Farewell, farewell—O! ne’er from meTill now that word hath hopeless passed;But, sweet one, faltered forth to thee,It seems this once as ’twere the last⁠—The last that thou wilt ever hearFrom him who knows thy worth too well;I’ll stifle one relenting tear,That mingles in this last farewell.

Farewell, farewell—O! ne’er from me

Till now that word hath hopeless passed;

But, sweet one, faltered forth to thee,

It seems this once as ’twere the last⁠—

The last that thou wilt ever hear

From him who knows thy worth too well;

I’ll stifle one relenting tear,

That mingles in this last farewell.

HARRY CAVENDISH.

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BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.

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I was now alone in the world; I had neither ship, nor home; and she I had loved was wedded to another. It is strange how misanthropical a man becomes, after disappointment has soured his disposition, and destroyed, one after another, the beautiful dreams of his youth. When I sat down and thought of the hopes of my earlier years, now gone forever; when I speculated upon my future prospects; when I recalled to mind how few of the friends I had begun life with remained, an indescribable sadness came over me, and, had it not been for my manhood, I would have found a relief in tears. My zest for society was gone. I cared little for the ordinary business of life. I only longed for a fitting opportunity to re-enter the service, and distinguish myself by some gallant deed, which I did not care to survive, for even fame had become hateful to me, since it reminded me how insufficient it was to win or retain the love of woman. In a word, I had become a misanthrope, and was fast losing all the energy of my character in sickly regrets over the past.

Of the St. Clairs I had not inquired since my return, and their names, from motives of delicacy perhaps, were never mentioned in my presence. Yet they occupied a large portion of my thoughts, and often would I start, and my heart flutter, when, in the streets, I fancied, for a moment, that I recognized the form of Annette. But a nearer approach made evident my mistake, and dissipated my embarrassment. Much, however, as I thought of her, I had never inquired to whom she had been married; yet my curiosity on this point continually gained strength; and when I had been a fortnight in Newport without hearing any allusion to her, I began to wish that some one would break the ominous silence which seemed to hang around her and her family. Still I dared not trust myself to broach the subject. I continued, therefore, ignorant of their present situation, and of all that concerned them.

There is, not far from the town, and situated in one of the most beautiful portions of the island, a favorite resort which has long been known by the familiar and characteristic name of “The Glen.” The spot is one where the deity of romance might sit enshrined. Here, on a still summer night, we might, without much stretch of fancy, look for fairies to come forth and gambol, or listen to the light music of airy spirits hovering above us. The whole place reminds you of an enchanted bower, and dull must be his heart who does not feel the stirrings of the divinity within him as he gazes on the lovely scenery around. He who can listen here unmoved to the low gurgle of the brook, or the light rustle of the leaves in the summer wind, must be formed of the coarsest clods of clay, nor boast one spark of our immortal nature.

The glen was my favorite resort, and thither would I go and spend whole afternoons, listening to the laughing prattle of the little river, or striving to catch, in pauses of the breeze, the murmur of the neighboring sea. A rude bench had been constructed under some trees, in a partially open glade, at the lower extremity of the ravine, and here I usually sat, indulging in those dreamy, half-sick reveries which are characteristic of youth. The stream, which brawled down the ravine, in a succession of rapids and cascades, here glided smoothly along on a level bottom, its banks fringed with long grass interspersed with wild roses, and its bed strewed with pebbles, round and silvery, that glistened in the sunbeams, which, here and there, struggled through the trees, and shimmered on the stream. Faint and low came to the ear the sound of the mill, situated at the upper end of the ravine; while occasionally a bird whistled on the stillness, or a leaf floated lazily down into the river, and went on its way, a tiny bark. The seclusion of my favorite retreat was often enlivened by the appearance of strangers, but as they generally remained only a few minutes, I had the spot, for most of the time, to myself. Here I dreamed away the long summer afternoons, often lingering until the moon had risen, to make the scene seem even more beautiful, under her silvery light. I had no pleasure in any other spot. Perhaps it was because I had once been here with Annette, when we were both younger, and I, at least, happier; and I could remember plucking a flower for her from a time-worn bush that still grew on the margin of the stream. God knows how we love to haunt the spot made dear to us by old and tender recollections!

I was sitting, one afternoon, on the rude bench I have spoken of, listlessly casting pebbles into the river, when I heard the sound of approaching voices, but I was so accustomed to the visits of strangers, that I did not pause to look up. Directly the voices came nearer, and suddenly a word was spoken that thrilled through every nerve of my system. It was only a single word, but that voice!—surely it could be none other than Annette’s. My sensations, at that moment, I will not pretend to analyze. I longed to look up, and yet I dared not. My heart fluttered wildly, and I could feel the blood rushing in torrents to my face; but, if I had been called on at that instant to speak, I could not have complied for worlds. Luckily the tree, under whose shadow I sat, concealed me from the approaching visitors, and I had thus time to rally my spirits ere the strangers came up. As they drew near I recognized the voice of Mr. St. Clair, and then that of Annette’s cousin Isabel, while there were one or two other speakers who were strangers to me. Doubtless one of them was Annette’s husband, and, as this thought flashed across me, I looked up, impelled by an irresistible impulse. The party were now within almost twenty yards, coming gaily down the glen. Foremost in the group walked Isabel, leaning on the arm of a tall, gentlemanly looking individual, and turning ever and anon around to Annette, who followed immediately behind, at the side of her father. Another lady, attended by a gentleman, made up the rest of the company. Where could Annette’s husband be? was the question that occurred to me—and who was the distinguished looking gentleman on whose arm Isabel was so familiarly leaning? But my thoughts were cut short by a conversation which now began, and of which, during a minute, I was an unknown auditor—for my position still concealed me from the party, and my surprise at first, and afterwards delicacy, prevented me from appearing.

“Ah! Annette,” said Isabel, archly, turning around to her cousin, “do you know this spot, but especially that rose-bush yonder?—here, right beyond that old tree—you seem wonderfully ignorant all at once! I wonder where the donor of that aforesaid rose-bud is now. I would lay a guinea that it is yet in your possession, preserved in some favorite book, pressed out between the leaves. Come, answer frankly, is it not so, my sweet coz?”

I could hear no reply, if one was made, and immediately another voice spoke. It was that of Isabel’s companion, coming to the aid of Annette.

“You are too much given to believe that Annette follows your example, Isabel—now do you turn penitent, and let me be father confessor—how many rose-buds, ay! and for that matter, even leaves, have you in your collection, presented to you by your humble servant, before we had pity on each other, and were married? I found a flower, last week, in a copy of Spenser, and, if I remember aright, I was the donor of the trifle.”

“Oh! you betray yourself,” gaily retorted Isabel, “but men are foolish—and of all foolish men I ever met with, a certain Albert Marston was, before his marriage, the most foolish. I take credit to myself,” she continued, in the same playful strain, “for having worked such a reformation in him since that event. But this is not what we were talking of—you wish to divert me from my purpose by this light Cossack warfare—but it won’t do,” she continued, and I fancied she stamped her foot prettily, as she was wont to do at Clairville Hall, when she was disposed to have her way; “no—no—Annette must be the one to turn penitent, and I will play father confessor. Say, now, fair coz, was it not a certain fancy to see this same rose-bush, that induced you to insist on coming here?”

During this conversation the parties had remained nearly stationary at some distance from me. Strange suspicions began to flash through my mind, as soon as Isabel commenced her banter; and these suspicions had now been changed into a certainty. Annette was still unmarried, and it was Isabel’s wedding at which I had come so near being present, at Clairville Hall. Nor was this all. I was still loved. Oh! the wild, the rapturous feelings of that moment. I could with difficulty restrain myself from rising and rushing toward them; but motives of delicacy forbade me thus to reveal that the conversation had been overheard. And yet should I remain in my present position, and play the listener still further? I knew not what to do. All these considerations flashed through my mind in the space of less than a minute, during which the party had been silent, apparently enjoying Annette’s confusion.

“Come, not ready to answer yet?” began Isabel; “well, if you will not, you shan’t have the rose from that bush, for which you’ve come. Let us go back,” she said, playfully.

The whole party seemed to enter into the jest, and laughingly retraced their steps. This afforded me the opportunity for which I longed. Hastily rising from my seat, I glided unnoticed from tree to tree, until I reached a copse on the left of the glen, and advancing up the ravine, under cover of this screen, I re-entered the path at a bend some distance above the St. Clairs. Here I listened for a moment, and caught the sound of their approaching voices. Determining no longer to be a listener to their conversation, I proceeded down the glen, and, as I turned the corner, a few paces in advance, I came full in sight of the approaching group. In an instant the gay laughing of the party ceased, and I saw Annette shrink blushing behind her father. Isabel was the first to speak. Darting forward, with that frankness and gaiety which always characterized her, she grasped my hand, and said⁠—

“You don’t know how happy we all are to see you. Where could you have come from?—and how could you have made such a mistake as to congratulate Annette, instead of me, on being married? But come, I must surrender you to the others—I see they are dying to speak to you. Uncle, Annette—how lucky it was that we came here to-day!”

“My dear boy,” said Mr. St. Clair, warmly pressing my hand, “I cannot tell how rejoiced I am to see you. We heard a rumor that you were lost, and we all wept—Isabel for the first time for years. It was but a few days since that we heard you were at Newport, and, as we were coming hither, I hastened my journey, determined to search you out. We are on our way there now, and only stopped here a few minutes to relieve ourselves after a long ride. This day shall be marked with a white stone. But here I have been keeping you from speaking to Annette—we old men, you know, are apt to be garrulous.”

My eyes, indeed, had been seeking Annette, who, still covered with blushes, and unable to control her embarrassment, sought to conceal them by keeping in the back ground. As for me, I had become wonderfully self-possessed. I now advanced and took her hand. It trembled in my own, and when I spoke, though she replied faintly, she did not dare to look into my face, except for a moment, after which her eyes again sought the ground in beautiful embarrassment. My unexpected appearance, combined with her cousin’s late raillery, covered her face with blushes, and, for some time, she could not rally herself sufficient to participate in the conversation.

What more have I to tell? I was now happy, and for my misanthropy, it died with the cause that produced it. Mr. St. Clair said that the wedding need not be delayed, and in less than a month I led Annette to the altar. Years have flown since then, but I still enjoy unalloyed felicity, and Annette seems to my eyes more beautiful than ever. It only remains for me to bid my readersFAREWELL!

THE HOLYNIGHTS.

———

BY HENRY MORFORD.

———

Some say that ’gainst the time that season comesWherein our Savior’s birth is celebratedThe bird of dawning singeth all night long,And then they say no sprite dares stir abroad,The nights are wholesome then, no planets strike,No fairy takes or witch hath power to charm,So hallowed and so gracious is the time.Hamlet.

Some say that ’gainst the time that season comes

Wherein our Savior’s birth is celebrated

The bird of dawning singeth all night long,

And then they say no sprite dares stir abroad,

The nights are wholesome then, no planets strike,

No fairy takes or witch hath power to charm,

So hallowed and so gracious is the time.

Hamlet.

Hushed be the voice of mirthfulness,And stilled be the plaintive tones of care,That from too many a heart recessGo forth to float on the midnight air;It is no time for the wild excess,No time for the loose unbridled reignThat passion gives to her votariesWhen they sever away the golden chain.Stilled on the ears of the seraph choirLet the lingering hymns of the season go,As they sweep their hands o’er the golden wireTo the anthem of love and peace below;And let us keep in a holy moodThe coming hours of that sacred timeWhen the word went forth for the hush of bloodAnd the passing knell for the soul of crime!When the hosts of the upper region stirredThat another star came forth to shine,And the rush of an angel’s wing was heardO’er the moonlit plains of Palestine,And a softer light o’er the earth was flungAnd the pale stars waxed no longer dim,And forth on a thousand harps outrungThe rising notes of the angels’ hymn.The same bright stars that then looked downWith a guardian watch o’er hill and plain,Unfading gems in the starry crownGlittering on in the blue remain,And the solemn awe that crept them roundAs they watched their flocks that holy time,An echo with us to-night has foundIn the new-born light of another clime.It has been felt this many a year,The sacred spell of the season’s death,And the brighter glow of the starry sphereAs it came that time with the angels’ breath,For brighter yet the stars gleam outAs the noisome vapor shrinks awayFrom the open glade that it hung aboutDarkened and damp this many a day.List how the spirit-breathings comeUpon our ears from the voice sublimeOf him who ruled in the spirits’ home,Who wrote and sang for the end of time!Hark how he tells when the time is near,The bird of the dawn sings all night longAnd the fairy legions disappearWhen he comes abroad with his matin song.No spirits forth, nor the rank compoundThat glows with the witches’ midnight toil,No deeps of the forest-close resoundWith the wizard shriek and the caldron boil.No planets chill the warm heart’s bloodWith the mockery of a demon fire,No vapors veil with a sickly shroudThe moss-grown top of the old church spire,⁠—For he who stood in that dreadful watchOn the gray rampart of ElsinoreTold how they ceased from their revel catchAnd their reign at the Christmas time was o’er;We feel it now, as he felt it then,That the air is full of holiness,And we need not forms from the earth againOf the starry hosts to guard and bless.Then stilled on the ears of the seraph choirLet the lingering hymns of the season go,As they sweep their hands o’er the golden wireTo the anthem of love and peace below;And let us keep in a holy moodThe passing hours of that sacred timeWhen the word went forth for the hush of bloodAnd the passing knell for the soul of crime!

Hushed be the voice of mirthfulness,

And stilled be the plaintive tones of care,

That from too many a heart recess

Go forth to float on the midnight air;

It is no time for the wild excess,

No time for the loose unbridled reign

That passion gives to her votaries

When they sever away the golden chain.

Stilled on the ears of the seraph choirLet the lingering hymns of the season go,As they sweep their hands o’er the golden wireTo the anthem of love and peace below;And let us keep in a holy moodThe coming hours of that sacred timeWhen the word went forth for the hush of bloodAnd the passing knell for the soul of crime!

Stilled on the ears of the seraph choir

Let the lingering hymns of the season go,

As they sweep their hands o’er the golden wire

To the anthem of love and peace below;

And let us keep in a holy mood

The coming hours of that sacred time

When the word went forth for the hush of blood

And the passing knell for the soul of crime!

When the hosts of the upper region stirredThat another star came forth to shine,And the rush of an angel’s wing was heardO’er the moonlit plains of Palestine,And a softer light o’er the earth was flungAnd the pale stars waxed no longer dim,And forth on a thousand harps outrungThe rising notes of the angels’ hymn.

When the hosts of the upper region stirred

That another star came forth to shine,

And the rush of an angel’s wing was heard

O’er the moonlit plains of Palestine,

And a softer light o’er the earth was flung

And the pale stars waxed no longer dim,

And forth on a thousand harps outrung

The rising notes of the angels’ hymn.

The same bright stars that then looked downWith a guardian watch o’er hill and plain,Unfading gems in the starry crownGlittering on in the blue remain,And the solemn awe that crept them roundAs they watched their flocks that holy time,An echo with us to-night has foundIn the new-born light of another clime.

The same bright stars that then looked down

With a guardian watch o’er hill and plain,

Unfading gems in the starry crown

Glittering on in the blue remain,

And the solemn awe that crept them round

As they watched their flocks that holy time,

An echo with us to-night has found

In the new-born light of another clime.

It has been felt this many a year,The sacred spell of the season’s death,And the brighter glow of the starry sphereAs it came that time with the angels’ breath,For brighter yet the stars gleam outAs the noisome vapor shrinks awayFrom the open glade that it hung aboutDarkened and damp this many a day.

It has been felt this many a year,

The sacred spell of the season’s death,

And the brighter glow of the starry sphere

As it came that time with the angels’ breath,

For brighter yet the stars gleam out

As the noisome vapor shrinks away

From the open glade that it hung about

Darkened and damp this many a day.

List how the spirit-breathings comeUpon our ears from the voice sublimeOf him who ruled in the spirits’ home,Who wrote and sang for the end of time!Hark how he tells when the time is near,The bird of the dawn sings all night longAnd the fairy legions disappearWhen he comes abroad with his matin song.

List how the spirit-breathings come

Upon our ears from the voice sublime

Of him who ruled in the spirits’ home,

Who wrote and sang for the end of time!

Hark how he tells when the time is near,

The bird of the dawn sings all night long

And the fairy legions disappear

When he comes abroad with his matin song.

No spirits forth, nor the rank compoundThat glows with the witches’ midnight toil,No deeps of the forest-close resoundWith the wizard shriek and the caldron boil.No planets chill the warm heart’s bloodWith the mockery of a demon fire,No vapors veil with a sickly shroudThe moss-grown top of the old church spire,⁠—

No spirits forth, nor the rank compound

That glows with the witches’ midnight toil,

No deeps of the forest-close resound

With the wizard shriek and the caldron boil.

No planets chill the warm heart’s blood

With the mockery of a demon fire,

No vapors veil with a sickly shroud

The moss-grown top of the old church spire,⁠—

For he who stood in that dreadful watchOn the gray rampart of ElsinoreTold how they ceased from their revel catchAnd their reign at the Christmas time was o’er;We feel it now, as he felt it then,That the air is full of holiness,And we need not forms from the earth againOf the starry hosts to guard and bless.

For he who stood in that dreadful watch

On the gray rampart of Elsinore

Told how they ceased from their revel catch

And their reign at the Christmas time was o’er;

We feel it now, as he felt it then,

That the air is full of holiness,

And we need not forms from the earth again

Of the starry hosts to guard and bless.

Then stilled on the ears of the seraph choirLet the lingering hymns of the season go,As they sweep their hands o’er the golden wireTo the anthem of love and peace below;And let us keep in a holy moodThe passing hours of that sacred timeWhen the word went forth for the hush of bloodAnd the passing knell for the soul of crime!

Then stilled on the ears of the seraph choir

Let the lingering hymns of the season go,

As they sweep their hands o’er the golden wire

To the anthem of love and peace below;

And let us keep in a holy mood

The passing hours of that sacred time

When the word went forth for the hush of blood

And the passing knell for the soul of crime!

THE LADIES’ LIBRARY.

———

BY W. A. JONES.

———

That admirable manual of “les petites morales,” and even of higher matters occasionally, the Spectator, contains a paper which we hesitate not to accept as a just specimen of cotemporary satire on female education; we refer to the catalogue of a Ladies’ Library. This heterogeneous collection embraces heroical romances and romancing histories, the ranting tragedies of the day, with the libertine comedies of the same period. In a word, it leads us to infer pretty plainly the insignificant pretensions the gentle women of Queen Anne’s day could lay to any thing like refinement of education, or even a correct propriety in dress and demeanor. Tell me your company, and I will disclose your own character; speak that I may know you, are trite maxims; but give me a list of your favorite authors is by no means so common, though at least as true, a test. The literary and indirectly the moral depravity of taste exhibited by the women of that age, is easily accounted for, when we once learn the fashionable authors and the indifferent countenance given to any authors but those of the most frivolous description. The queen herself was an illiterate woman, and we are told never once had the curiosity to look into the classic productions of Pope. King William, the preceding sovereign, was so ignorant of books and the literary character, as to offer Swift, with whom he had been agreeably prepossessed, the place of captain of a regiment of horse.

Indulging ourselves in a rapid transition, we pass from this era to the epoch of Johnson and Burke, and Goldsmith and Sheridan, we come to the reign of George III. Here we find the scene altered. From the gay saloon we are dropped, as if by magic, into the library or conversation room. We read not of balls, but of literary dinners and æsthetic teas, and we meet for company, not thoughtless, dressy dames of fashion and minions of the goddess of pleasure, but grave, precise professors in petticoats, women who had exchanged a world of anxiety for the turn of a head-dress, or the shape of a flounce for an equally wise anxiety about the philosophy of education, the success of their sonnets and tragedies, and moral tales for the young. The pedantry of authorship and dogmatic conversation superseded the more harmless pedantry of dress. Then we read of the stupidest company in the world, which arrogated to itself the claim of being the best. A race of learned ladies arose;bas bleus, the Montagues, the Mores, the Sewards, the Chapones, patronized by such prosing old formalists as Doctors Gregory and Aiken, and even by one man of vigorous talent, Johnson, and one man of real genius, Richardson. The last two endured much, because they were flattered much.

When we speak thus contemptuously of learned ladies, we intend to express a disgust at the pretensions of those who pass under that name. Genuine learning can never be despised, whoever may be its possessor; but of genuine learning it is not harsh to suspect a considerable deficiency where there is so much of display and anxious rivalry. Even where the learning is exact and solid, it is to be remembered that many departments are utterly unsuited to the female mind; where, at best, little can be accomplished and that of a harsh repulsive nature. We want no Daciers, no Somervilles, no Marcets, but give us as you will as many Inchbalds, Burneys, Edgeworths, Misses Barrett, as can be had for love or money.

From the ladies we seek literature, not learning, in its old scholastic sense. They certainly have received pleasure from books, and are bound to return the gratification in a similar way by delighting us. And this they can do in their legitimate attempts. It shall be a prominent object of the present general introduction to a short series of critical sketches, to attempt a definition of the limits which should bound those attempts, and also to endeavor at suggesting the proper studies for ladies, and the authors that ought to rank as favorites with the fair. In a list of the latter, female writers should bear a considerable proportion, and will assuredly not be forgotten.

We believe the question as to the relative sexual distinctions of intellectual character, is now generally considered as settled. There is allowed to be a species of genius essentially feminine. Equality is no more arrogated than superiority of ability, and it would be as wisely arrogated. The most limited observation of life and the most superficial acquaintance with books, must effectually demonstrate the superior capacity of man for the great works of life and speculation. It is true, great geniuses are rare and seldom needed, and the generality of women rank on a par with the generality of men. In many cases, women of talent surpass men of an equal calibre of mere talent, through other and constitutional causes—a greater facility of receiving and transmitting impressions, greater instinctive subtlety of apprehension, and a livelier sympathy. We cordially admit the female intellect, in the ordinary concerns of life and the current passages of society, has often the advantage of the masculine understanding. Cleverness outshines solid ability, and a smart woman is much more showy than a profound man. In certain walks of authorship, too, women are pre-eminently successful; in cases narrative of real or fictitious events, (in the last implying a strain of ready invention,) in lively descriptions of natural beauty or artificial manners; in the development of the milder sentiments, especially the sentiment of love; in airy, comic ridicule. On the other hand, the highest attempts of women in poetry have uniformly failed. We have read of no female epic of even a respectable rank: those who have written tragedies, have written moral lectures (of an inferior sort) like Hannah More; or anatomies of the passions, direct and formal, like Joanna Baillie; or an historical sketch, as Rienzi. We are apt to suspect that the personal charms of Sappho proved too much for the admirers of her poetic rhapsodies, otherwise Longinus has done her foul injustice; for the fragment he quotes is to be praised and censured solely for its obscurity. This would have been a great merit in Lycophron.

In the volume of British Poetesses, edited by Mr. Dyce, it is astonishing to find how little real poetry he has been able to collect out of the writings of near a century of authors, scattered over the surface of five or six centuries. It must be allowed that some of the finest shortest pieces by female writers have appeared since the publication of that selection. In the volume referred to, much sensible verse and some sprightly copies of verses occur; a fair share of pure reflective sentiment, delivered in pleasing language rarely rising above correctness; of high genius there is not a particle,—no pretensions to sublimity or fervor. The best piece and the finest poem, we think, ever composed by woman, is the charming ballad of Auld Robin Gray. That is a genuine bit of true poesy, and perfect in the highest department of the female imagination in the pathos of domestic tragedy. In the present century we have Mrs. Howitt and Mrs. Southey, but chief of all, Miss Barrett.[6]The finest attempts of the most pleasing writer of this class, do not rise so high as the delightful ballad above named. They are sweet, plaintive, moral strains, the melodious notes of a lute, tuned by taper fingers in a romantic bower, not the deep, majestic, awful tones of the great organ, or the spirited and stirring blasts of the trumpet. The ancient bard struck wild and mournful, or hearty and vigorous, notes from his harp—perchance placed “on a rock whose frowning brow,” &c. and striving with the rough symphonies of the tempest; but the sybil of modern days plays elegant and pretty, or soft and tender airs upon her flageolet or accordion, in the boudoir or saloon.

A poet is, from the laws both of physiology and philology,—masculine. His vocation is manly, or rather divine. And we have never heard any traits of feminine character attributed to the great poet, (in the Greek sense,) the Creator of the universe. The muses are represented as females, but then they are the inspirers, never the composers, of verse. So should be the poet’s muse, as she is often the poet’s theme. There are higher themes, but of an abstract nature, in general: ethical, religious, metaphysical. Let female beauty then sit for her portrait instead of being the painter. Let poets chant her charms, but let her not spoil a fair ideal image by writing bad verses. If all were rightly viewed, a happy home would seem preferable to a seat on Parnassus, and the Fountain of Content would furnish more palatable draughts than the Font of Helicon. The quiet home is not always the muses’ bower; though we trust the muses’ bower is placed in no turbulent society.

Women write for women. They may entertain, but cannot, from the nature of the case, become instructors to men. They know far less of life, their circle of experience is confined. They are unfitted for many paths of active exertion, and consequently are rendered incapable of forming just opinions on many matters. We do not include a natural incapacity for many studies, and as natural a dislike for many more. Many kinds of learning, and many actual necessary pursuits and practices, it is deemed improper for a refined woman to know. How, then,cana female author become a teacher of men?

Literature would miss many pleasant associations if the names of the best female writers were expunged from a list of classic authors, and the world would lose many delightful works—the novel of sentiment and the novel of manners, letter writing, moral tales for children, books of travels, gossiping memoirs—Mrs. Inchbald, Madame D’Arblay, Miss Edgeworth, Lady M. W. Montague, Miss Martineau, and Miss Sedgwick, with a host besides. Women have sprightliness, cleverness, smartness, though but little wit. There is a body and substance in true wit, with a reflectiveness rarely found apart from a masculine intellect. In all English comedy, we recollect but two female writers of sterling value, Mrs. Conley and Mrs. Guthrie, and their plays are formed on the Spanish model, and made up of incident and intrigue, much more than of fine repartees or brilliant dialogue. We know of no one writer of the other sex, that has a high character for humor—no Rabelais, no Sterne, no Swift, no Goldsmith, no Dickens, no Irving. The female character does not admit of it.

Women cannot write history. It requires too great solidity, and too minute research for their quick intellects. They write, instead, delightful memoirs. Who, but an antiquary or historical commentator, had not rather read Lucy Hutchinson’s Life of her Husband, than any of the professed histories of the Commonwealth—and exchange Lady Fanshawe for the other royalist biographers.

Neither are women to turn politicians or orators. We hope never to hear of a female Burke; she would be an overbearing termagant. A spice of a talent for scolding, is the highest form of eloquence we can conscientiously allow the ladies.

Criticism is for men; when women assume it, they write scandal. The current notion of criticism with most, is that of libelous abuse. From all such, Heaven defend us.

Women feel more than they think, and (sometimes) say more than do. They are consequently better adapted to describe sentiments, than to speculate on causes and effects. They are more at home in their letters, than in tracts of political economy.

The proper faculties in women to cultivate most assiduously are, the taste and the religious sentiment; the first, as the leading trait of the intellectual; and the last, as the governing power of the moral constitution. Give a woman a pure taste and high principles, and she is safe from the arts of the wiliest libertine. Let her have all other gifts but these, and she is comparatively defenceless. Taste purifies the heart as well as the head, and religion strengthens both. The strongest propensities to pleasure are not so often the means of disgrace and ruin, as the carelessness of ignorant virtue, and an unenlightened moral sense. This makes all the difference in the world, between the daughter of a poor countryman, and the child of an educated gentleman. Both have the same desires, but how differently directed and controlled. Yet we find nineteen lapses from virtue in the one case, where we find one in the other.

Believing that what does not interest, does not benefit the mind, we would avoid all pedantic lectures to women, on all subjects to which they discover any aversion. Study should be made a pleasure, and reading pure recreation. In a general sense, we would say the best works for female readers are those that tend to form the highest domestic character. Works of the highest imagination, as being above that condition, and scientific authors, who address a different class of faculties, are both unsuitable. An admirable wife may not relish the sublimity of Milton or Hamlet; and a charming companion be ignorant of the existence of such a science as Algebra. A superficial acquaintance with the elements of the physical sciences, is worse than total unacquaintance with them.

Religion should be taught as a sentiment, not as an abstract principle, or in doctrinal positions, a sentiment of love and grateful obedience; morality, impressed as the practical exercise of self-denial and active benevolence. In courses of reading, too much is laid down of a dry nature. Girls are disgusted with tedious accounts of battles and negotiations, dates and names. The moral should be educed best filled for the female heart, and apart from the romantic periods, and the reigns of female sovereigns, or epochs when the women held a very prominent place in the state, or in public regard. We would have women affectionate wives, obedient daughters, agreeable companions, skilful economists, judicious friends; but we must confess it does not fall within our scheme to make them legislators or lawyers, diplomatists or politicians. We therefore think nine tenths of all history is absolutely useless for women. Too many really good biographies of great and good men and women can hardly be read, and will be read to much greater advantage than histories, as they leave a definite and individual impression. The reading good books of travels, is, next to going over the ground in person, the best method of studying geography. Grammar and rhetoric,[7](after a clear statement of the elements and chief rules,) are best learnt in the perusal of classic authors, the essayists, &c.; and, in the same way, the theory of taste and the arts. The most important of accomplishments is not systematically treated in any system—conversation. But a father and mother of education, can teach this better than any professor. Expensive schools turn out half-trained pupils. Eight years at home, well employed, and two at a good but not fashionable school, are better than ten years spent in the most popular female seminary, conducted in the ordinary style. Such is a meagre outline of our idea of female education, into which we have digressed unawares.

Female authors should constitute a fair proportion of a lady’s library—and those masculine writers who have something of the tenderness and purity of the feminine character in their works. The subjects and authors we propose for occasional consideration, will embrace specimens of each, in prose and poetry, fiction and reality, satire and sentiment. We think we may promise a less erudite paper for the second number, though to some readers all that is not very lively is proportionably dull.

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