“Be her sleep calm and deep,Like theirs who fell, not ours who weep.”[2]
“Be her sleep calm and deep,Like theirs who fell, not ours who weep.”[2]
“Be her sleep calm and deep,Like theirs who fell, not ours who weep.”[2]
“Be her sleep calm and deep,
Like theirs who fell, not ours who weep.”[2]
[2]That same night, in the adjoining room of the hospital, died the son of Marmontel, from the effects of exposure and hunger. He had been traveling over North America, when from some cause his remittances from France were discontinued. He found himself at Albany utterly without resources. Leaving his trunk there, he walked to New York in hopes of finding the money, or of borrowing some from the French consul. His journey was a lone and toilsome one, and the exposure to the cold induced the return of a fever from which he had but lately recovered at the West. The French consul treated him harshly, disbelieved his story, and sent him to the hospital. The day after his death a large sum directed to him, was received through a packet-ship, which had been detained at sea by a succession of disasters, two months longer than her usual time.
[2]
That same night, in the adjoining room of the hospital, died the son of Marmontel, from the effects of exposure and hunger. He had been traveling over North America, when from some cause his remittances from France were discontinued. He found himself at Albany utterly without resources. Leaving his trunk there, he walked to New York in hopes of finding the money, or of borrowing some from the French consul. His journey was a lone and toilsome one, and the exposure to the cold induced the return of a fever from which he had but lately recovered at the West. The French consul treated him harshly, disbelieved his story, and sent him to the hospital. The day after his death a large sum directed to him, was received through a packet-ship, which had been detained at sea by a succession of disasters, two months longer than her usual time.
——
Eleonore became at once, by the death of her mother, an inmate of the Carron family. Mr. Carron petted the child for a short time, and then she was given over to the servants, Madame Carron having something else to do, as she said, beside taking care of orphans.
Eleonore vegetated—I cannot use any other word—in the servants’ rooms for six whole years. At the end of that time, fortunately for my heroine, Mr. Carron’s affairs obliged him to leave this country suddenly. It was rumored that he ran away from his creditors, but I know nothing of the matter. The consequence to Eleonore was, that she was left with Mr. Carron’s brother Jerome.
This brother Jerome had a very sensible wife, who was quite shocked at finding that the poor orphan had not been instructed even in the common rudiments of knowledge. Her health was delicate, and as she could not undertake the charge of Eleonore’s education, she placed her forthwith at Mr. Delombre’s boarding-school, one of the best in the city of New York.
I remember perfectly well the first time that I saw her. She was led by Madame Delombre into the school-room, and was there introduced to numbers of children of every size, from her own up to the grown woman. I, who write this memoir, was there among the rest. It was intermission, and we were all amusing ourselves in the way we liked best. A desk next to mine was empty, and Eleonore was placed there. She looked sad and frightened, and was withal so pretty, that I felt attracted to her. I essayed to make acquaintance by offering a part of my luncheon—she declined. I then continued, the ice being broken.
“Do you like going to school?”
“I do not know. I never went.”
I suppose my eyes expressed astonishment, for she blushed. “I wonder if we shall be in the same class? How old are you?”
“I am twelve years old,” answered Eleonore.
“Oh dear! I am between ten and eleven years old. I am afraid they will put you in the class above me!”
“What will be my studies?” said the young girl, timidly.
I gave her a catalogue of my own lessons, which made her look very blank, and I then proceeded to tell her who the scholars were, and which I liked the best; and I also gave her some information respecting the rules and regulations of the school.
“It is one o’clock,” said the teacher. “The intermission is over!”
We hurried to our desks. I went to my lessons, and though Eleonore sat beside me I could speak no more to her that afternoon. I saw, nevertheless, that there would be no danger of her getting in the class above me for a long time to come.
——
Two years and a half have passed since I introduced Eleonore as my companion at the desk. She was now between fifteen and sixteen. A tall and finely formed girl for her age, her personal appearance was so pleasing that she attracted universal attention wherever she appeared. Her hair still curled in the same long golden locks; she had the straight Grecian nose, and the deep, large blue eyes of her mother, and a noble forehead. Monsieur Delombre had more than fulfilled his promise. She was his best scholar.
Our intimacy had continued increasing, and we had become inseparable. Every other Saturday had been spent with her uncle and aunt; but as I was something of a favorite with Mr. Delombre, I was allowed to take her with me on the intervening Saturdays to my mother’s house.
Oh, how happy we were then! She was so gay and so cheerful, except when we talked of France, for papa Carron had intimated in his letters to his brother, that the time was approaching when Eleonore must leave America, she being now of an age in which her services would be required by the family.
“She loved uncle and aunt Carron,” she said, “and she dreaded papa and mamma Carron. She had kind friends in Mr. and Mrs. Delombre, and also in my mother’s family. It was hard to be obliged to leave them, and live with those who cared not forher. But she would try to gain their good-will by all the means in her power.”
Thus she talked as we were seated, one warm summer’s afternoon, side by side on the green sward before my mother’s cottage.
As the evening shadows fell, she grew more communicative, and gave me the little history which I have here related. Since then it has been attested to me by those who saw her mother.
. . . . . . . . The next winter passed by, and when the spring came my mother took her children to the country again for the summer. I bade Eleonore a gay adieu, under the promise of a long visit from her during the vacation. Alas! instead of a visit, I only received a brief but affectionate note, stating that in two days the “Silvie de Grace” was to take her as a passenger, and she should leave forever the shores of America.
Men and women usually laugh at the friendships of school-girls. It is true they are often transitory and of a frivolous character, but they are often, too, of a lasting nature, and founded on real esteem. I felt and appreciated the worth of Eleonore, and for years regretted her loss. Marriage, and a long residence abroad again brought me in contact with her, but under very different circumstances.
ELEONORE EBOLI TO WINIFRED BARRINGTON.
Paris, November 1st, 18—.“My dear Winifred,—Now that I am safely housed in Paris, I shall give you a short account of my journey. We were but four weeks on the ocean, and had no storms to boast of (at least the captain maintained this,) though we were all much frightened one windy night, when a gale arose that shattered our sails, and tossed us about in a most unceremonious manner.“I was very sick, and as I lay in my berth I could feel each wave as it upheaved the ship, and when she pitched, headlong down its side, I wondered sometimes if we should ever see the light again. But I felt no fear, I was too sad for that. I thought of the happy home I had left behind, and its probable contrast with that of Papa and Mamma Carron’s establishment, I remembered that it was my mother’s birth-place, that I should visit Paris. Paris was my goal! There every object would acquire new interest in my eyes, each house would seem the one in which my mother passed her girlhood, each beautiful girl my mother’s darling sister, each man her brother, the aged her parents;ALL AGESwould have the charm of mystery to attract me, and my fancy would quickly vision forth the family to which I was related! But I will talk no more of this.“The captain of our ship conducted me to Paris. He was very kind, and to gratify me, took the route up the Seine from Havre to Rouen in the day-boat, that I might see picturesque Normandy, with its lovely valleys, its cottages, with their thatched roofs and gables; the varied costumes of its peasantry, and its giant horses, which move with the power and majesty of elephants.“I was very inquisitive, and the captain often found a difficulty in ascertaining the names of the villages and the castles situated on the banks of the river, to reply to my queries. A young gentleman seeing our trouble, obligingly offered his guide-book, which contained all the information we needed. He also gave us many anecdotes concerning the nobility who lived in the chateaux. In the course of conversation he mentioned that his father lived but fifteen miles from Rouen, and that he was now on the way to visit him. His own name is Lazun.“When he heard that I came from America, he immediately offered to be our guide in visiting the cathedral, and other curiosities of Rouen, an invitation which we gladly accepted.“On separating for the night, our traveling companion said that we might expect him punctually at half-past ten the next morning to escort us. But when the hour arrived Mr. Lazun did not appear. The little French gilt clock on the mantel-piece struck eleven o’clock, then twelve, then one. The captain was fairly angry, and I must confess I was not at all pleased, for I had imagined he would come earlier than the hour. I am afraid I have but little penetration.“We sallied out alone, but the day was hot, and the city dirty. We could not find the cathedral, and the captain would ask for no directions; so we returned to the hotel, where we had but just time to eat our dinner before theDiligencearrived to take us away to Paris. You see what civility we meet with!“I cannot say that I am happy. Yet I do not complain, for I am well fed and well clothed, but my heart and mind are oppressed by my dependent situation, which is hinted at on every occasion. I domy bestto assist the family, but they are never satisfied with my efforts. Little Adele is at a boarding-school, so that I have no one to love; but say nothing of all this to any one. I would not have others know that I am unhappily placed.“After my first communion, which is to take place next year, I shall endeavor to gain my own living, though I do not know yet in what way.. . . . . “Write to me soon dear Winifred, for I am very lonely, and believe me, I remain always your sincerely attached friend,“Eleonore Eboli Carron.”
Paris, November 1st, 18—.
“My dear Winifred,—Now that I am safely housed in Paris, I shall give you a short account of my journey. We were but four weeks on the ocean, and had no storms to boast of (at least the captain maintained this,) though we were all much frightened one windy night, when a gale arose that shattered our sails, and tossed us about in a most unceremonious manner.
“I was very sick, and as I lay in my berth I could feel each wave as it upheaved the ship, and when she pitched, headlong down its side, I wondered sometimes if we should ever see the light again. But I felt no fear, I was too sad for that. I thought of the happy home I had left behind, and its probable contrast with that of Papa and Mamma Carron’s establishment, I remembered that it was my mother’s birth-place, that I should visit Paris. Paris was my goal! There every object would acquire new interest in my eyes, each house would seem the one in which my mother passed her girlhood, each beautiful girl my mother’s darling sister, each man her brother, the aged her parents;ALL AGESwould have the charm of mystery to attract me, and my fancy would quickly vision forth the family to which I was related! But I will talk no more of this.
“The captain of our ship conducted me to Paris. He was very kind, and to gratify me, took the route up the Seine from Havre to Rouen in the day-boat, that I might see picturesque Normandy, with its lovely valleys, its cottages, with their thatched roofs and gables; the varied costumes of its peasantry, and its giant horses, which move with the power and majesty of elephants.
“I was very inquisitive, and the captain often found a difficulty in ascertaining the names of the villages and the castles situated on the banks of the river, to reply to my queries. A young gentleman seeing our trouble, obligingly offered his guide-book, which contained all the information we needed. He also gave us many anecdotes concerning the nobility who lived in the chateaux. In the course of conversation he mentioned that his father lived but fifteen miles from Rouen, and that he was now on the way to visit him. His own name is Lazun.
“When he heard that I came from America, he immediately offered to be our guide in visiting the cathedral, and other curiosities of Rouen, an invitation which we gladly accepted.
“On separating for the night, our traveling companion said that we might expect him punctually at half-past ten the next morning to escort us. But when the hour arrived Mr. Lazun did not appear. The little French gilt clock on the mantel-piece struck eleven o’clock, then twelve, then one. The captain was fairly angry, and I must confess I was not at all pleased, for I had imagined he would come earlier than the hour. I am afraid I have but little penetration.
“We sallied out alone, but the day was hot, and the city dirty. We could not find the cathedral, and the captain would ask for no directions; so we returned to the hotel, where we had but just time to eat our dinner before theDiligencearrived to take us away to Paris. You see what civility we meet with!
“I cannot say that I am happy. Yet I do not complain, for I am well fed and well clothed, but my heart and mind are oppressed by my dependent situation, which is hinted at on every occasion. I domy bestto assist the family, but they are never satisfied with my efforts. Little Adele is at a boarding-school, so that I have no one to love; but say nothing of all this to any one. I would not have others know that I am unhappily placed.
“After my first communion, which is to take place next year, I shall endeavor to gain my own living, though I do not know yet in what way.
. . . . . “Write to me soon dear Winifred, for I am very lonely, and believe me, I remain always your sincerely attached friend,
“Eleonore Eboli Carron.”
——
Two young men were walking in theRue de Rivolione fine morning.
“There is a grand figure before us with a majestic walk,” said one of them. “Walk faster. I would see her face.”
“What!yourun after a woman because she walks well? I thought you only admired intellect. Beauty never possesses it, don’t you know that yet, Victor Lazun?”
“No; you don’t know any thing about the matter. Faith! ’tis the lady I met on board the steamboat between Rouen and Havre! I could not then ascertain her name, nor have I caught sight of her since till now. You know my father’s illness compelledme to leave Rouen at a minute’s notice, and you know I only arrived in time to bid him farewell. But I will not now lose sight of her. I will know where she lives.”
“You can easily do that!”
Monsieur Lazun saluted the lady; gave the reasons for his singular behavior at Rouen, which were kindly received, and taking leave, asked permission to call upon her, which she granted.
On returning from her walk she informed Madame Carron of having met Mr. Lazun, and of her giving him her address. A storm of reproaches followed this confession of herindiscretion, so that Eleonore concluded that if she made any friends it would not be through the aid of Madame Carron. In future she should not mention those she met.
But a few days elapsed before Eleonore met Mr. Lazun again. She gave him to understand, very delicately, that her guardian did not like to receive strangers. Which he answered, by saying that he should wait upon Mr. Carron at the earliest opportunity and show him some letters of recommendation, and also bring a friend with him, who was one of the first bankers in Paris, slightly acquainted with Mr. Carron. He thought he could satisfy any one as to his character and social position.
Eleonore heard this with pleasure, for she felt interested in Mr. Lazun, and as she had so few opportunities of conversing with agreeable people, looked upon the young man as quite a god-send.
It was not long before Mr. Carron received a visit from the two gentlemen, and upon the banker’s sending up his name, they were immediately ushered into his study with great attention; but when the object of the visit was made known, “mine host” changed his tone, and rudeness took the place of courtesy. There was no mistaking his manner, and Mr. Lazun knew that his acquaintance was not desired, and that he must give up all thoughts of the fair Eleonore who had made so strong an impression on his fancy.
But fortunately, or unfortunately, my hero and heroine frequently walked in the same direction, (drawn probably by some mesmeric attraction)—by degrees they became strongly attached to each other, and finally, an engagement of marriage took place.
A hint from one of the servants, who had met the lovers in one of their walks, mademadamesend the young lady directly to the convent of St. Germain, for her communion. She was ordered never to think of marriage, (for Eleonore had immediately confessed her engagement,) she must make herself useful in the family to whom she owed every thing, and work she must and should for them all her life.
Eleonore made no reply to all this, but afterwards, in the solitude of her convent cell, she made this decision: “Iwillmarry Victor Lazun—my debt of gratitude has been paid to my guardians. As a child, my only expense to them was clothing of the poorest quality. My food was not missed in the extravagant household which they kept. To their brother and sister I owe much, and also to Mr. and Mrs. Delombre.Theytaught meallthat I know. Since my arrival in France I have embroidered all madame’s collars, I have done the marketing, overlooked all household affairs, made preserves, done up the muslins, beside mending, sewing, and any little odd job which madame did not like herself.
“This has gone on for two years, and I have done it willingly, but now I am old enough to choose my future course, and shall do so.”
This passage I have copied from a note which she sent to Victor Lazun on her departure for the convent. There, of course, he could not see her, but he well knew that his pretty cousin Victorine La Graviere was at the same convent, and with a little coaxing, he persuaded his aunt to take a note to Victorine, in which he begged his cousin to show Eleonore some kindness for his sake, though without mentioning his name or their relationship.
The acquaintance of the two girls soon ripened into friendship, and it was not long before young Lazun thought his aunt sufficiently interested in Eleonore through his own representations and Victorine’s eulogies, to confide his secret to her care. Yes, dear reader! it was a secret, and you would have laughed to see the dismay on the face of the gentle Countess La Graviere when she learned of his intended marriage.
“But you are not going to marry this poor orphan, are you, Victor? With your rank and favor at court it is quite absurd?”
“I certainly shall, my dear aunt. As to my rank she knows nothing of that, nor my fortune either; so, thank God! she loves me for myself alone.”
“Is this indeed so, Victor?”
“It is all settled. I am my own master, and will marry whom I please. I do wish you would ask her to visit you at your country-seat during the next month. You will be delighted with her. She is the very image of your sister-in-law the Marchioness Eugenie.”
“She must be very beautiful then. I will see her, Victor, and invite her for your sake. But do not be hasty about the marriage. Think it over coolly. Your relations will be mortified, and I fear that the king will be much displeased.”
“The king cares less for rank than most of his subjects. And as to my relations,Imarry the girl, not they.”
——
We must now allow six weeks to have passed by, and we shall find Eleonore at the chateau La Graviere, dressing for a fête which is to celebrate Victorine’s birth-day. Victorine is assisting Eleonore.
“Only look at this pearl necklace of mine. It is beautiful, and you must wear it this evening,” said Victorine.
Eleonore returned—“I have also a pearl necklace, which I value highly. It contains a miniature of my aunt. Here it is.”
“What a resemblance to the marchioness. If I did not know that it was impossible, I should say that your aunt and mine were one and the same person. It is strange, now I perceive you have theregular Grecian La Graviere nose. Papa will fall in love with you at once. He is always looking at my nose, and wondering there is not danger that it will not become one-sided. I believe if I were to fall from a carriage the first question he would ask, would be, ‘Have you hit your nose?’”
“Your father will soon be here, will he not?” asked Eleonore.
“Yes, if the Duke of Orleans do not detain him. There will be eight gentlemen beside from the court. But I hear carriages. The neighboring guests have began to assemble, and I must help mamma to receive them—come!”
The ball-room was brilliantly lighted, and Eleonore’s beauty was the theme of every tongue. Her dress was white satin, covered with white lace and looped with white roses. The only ornament she wore was the miniature necklace, clasped tightly around her throat.
The countess was delighted with the appearance of her young guest, and introduced her to all her particular friends. In about half an hour there was a rush in the hall; the folding-doors of the ante-chamber were thrown wide open, and the prince royal entered, leaning on the arm of Monsieur La Graviere, and followed by his suite.
Monsieur La Graviere, after saluting his wife and presenting her to the prince, turned away to pay his compliments to some of the ladies present, when his eye was suddenly caught by Eleonore’s face, as she stood within a few feet of him. “Good God! my sister!” he exclaimed, impetuously.
“She does indeed resemble Aunt Eugenie! We all observed it,” said Victorine.
“Introduce me, my child. What is her name?”
“Eleonore Carron.”
“Carron—it was not his name. It is impossible.”
The introduction was made, and the master of the castle was inquiring if she was a native of Paris, when he stopped short—started, and then said:
“Forgive me, mademoiselle; but is not that a miniature of my sister Eugenie in your necklace?”
Eleonore trembled, but she stood erect, and answered firmly. “It is a miniature of my aunt.”
“And what was her name?”
“You will excuse my not answering any further questions.”
“I hope you will forgive my rudeness, when you see its likeness to my sister,” continued the count. “Here she comes!”
Eleonore turned pale, for she felt that the hour was at hand that would reveal her name and kindred. Her self-command increased in proportion. Pride forbade any manifestation of emotion before those who spurned the mother who gave her birth; yet when she saw a face streaming with tears before her, that she knew belonged to her mother’s only and dear sister; when she received a warm embrace, and heard in a soft voice, these words—“I know it is Eleonore Eboli, my beloved niece!” The poor child sighed “Yes!” and then fainted.
She was quickly carried out, and though soon restored to consciousness, did not venture again into the saloon. She was in the arms of an aunt, a cousin sat beside her; they both gave thanks to God that she had been brought to them; they wept when she told them of her mother’s death. And the poor marchioness said—
“I will be your mother in future, dear child! you shall no longer be an orphan. I am rich, and all that can be done to contribute to your happiness will be freely bestowed.”
Here Eleonore summoned courage, and with down-cast eyes and faltering words, told her aunt that her destiny was decided, she should become the wife of a young architect of Paris. He was poor in purse, but rich in affection, and she begged her aunt to say nothing against their marriage, till at least, she had seen the youth.
“She is like her mother in heart as well as in form,” sighed the marchioness. “But come, Eleonore, I think we must go to bed; we have had happiness enough for one night, and you, Victorine, must return to the ball; his royal highness will miss those bright eyes!”
With many a kind embrace they then separated for the night.
About an hour before breakfast, Victorine and Eleonore were taking their morning promenade on a terrace that overlooked the Seine, and Eleonore was unburthening her heart to her cousin, when Victorine exclaimed—
“Here comes the prince!”
“Good God! he is arm in arm with Victor Lazun!”
“Yes, that ismycousin, but notyours.”
“Your cousin!!! with the prince too. Ah! what will happen next; I hardly know now what I am saying, my senses are bewildered, one strange scene succeeds another till I almost doubt my own identity!”
“I salute you, ladies,” said the prince. “My lord duke and I have been rifling your flower-beds. May I present you this bouquet?”
“My flowers will feel grateful for your highness’ attentions,” said Victorine.
“Forgive me, Eleonore,” said young Lazun, “you will not love me the less now that I am a duke and peer of France. I am still Victor Lazun, as you are Eleonore Eboli.”
I had recently arrived in Paris. A ball was given at the Tuilleries, and many Americans were there. We stood in rows through which the royal family passed, followed by several maids of honor and ladies of the bed-chamber.
I caught my breath as one passed near me. “Who is that?” said I to a friend, who was well acquainted at court.
“It is the Duchess of Lazun, the intimate friend of the Princess Marie of Orleans. She is a great favorite with all the royal family, and her husband also. But here she comes again.”
Our eyes met, we recognized each other—my readers may guess the rest.
HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN,
DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
———
BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.
———
(Continued from page 72.)
The costume of the Catholic church at the altar has always been prominent and unchangeable, and even the secular garb of its priests has undergone fewer mutations than that of any other class of the community. All, however, will be struck with the marked difference between the following portrait of a young abbé and the churchmen of to-day.
We have to do, generally, in this and the following articles merely with the fashionable dress of the day, and therefore might omit all that related to what the noblesse were pleased to call thebas peuple; we will, however, give a portrait of a famous French Intendant of that day, filling an office the English call a steward. Except that the coat is plainer, that there is no sword, and that thecoiffureis less labored, it is almost identical with the first engraving given.
An examination of the above will show that one great difference between the costumes of that day and our own was the use of powder; a stupid fashion which nothing but the confusion of the French revolution could do away with, yet which was adhered to with the most wonderful tenacity. Another whim was the habit of wearing the sword, which may be said yet more positively to separate the eighteenth from the nineteenth century. This habit, which had its use in the days of theLigneand theFronde, lasted till the commencement of the present century. Etiquette absolutely required that all who presented themselves within the sacred precincts of Versailles should be thus decked, and it became ultimately a passport, so that the shopkeeper, dancing-master andcoiffeurhad only thus to deck themselves, and they might jostle in the stairway of the palace gentlemen as noble as the king. This, however, all disappeared amid the revolution, when the pike and musket usurped the place of the gilded rapier.
The materials of the fashionable coat of that day were Brussels’ camlet, velvet or silk. At this time we can form little idea of the variety of colors worn; black, green, blue, rose, yellow and violet all were seen. The waistcoat was not agilet, but reached the hip, extending below which were breeches, which being worn like a sailor’s, without suspenders, had from time to time to be hitched up by the hands. In the cold winter of 1739 the English gaiters and over-coat were worn for the first time, and to this new fashion an old French nobleman attributed the decay of the monarchy.
The fashions of the present time date from the days of Louis XVI. and when we come to treat of his reign, we shall see the passing away and development of the old and new modes. Nor do they disappear alone, for classes go with them. Having been rejected as a livery unworthy of men, the beings who had glittered in them disappeared like shadows, either because they had really been annihilated, or had been regenerated under the new order of things. Among the classes which thus disappeared was theMorgues, the gilded type of French folly, not the creature, but the butt of the wit of Moliere; a compound of pride, insipidity and wit, of politeness and impudence, of gallantry and impertinence, of affectation and good manners. Not even comedy preserves them. Dandies are eternal—for such were theMuscadins, theMervelleuxand theIncroyables, but theMorguesare gone. With the Morgues disappeared their younger brothers, the abbés andmousquetaires, and with their estates theintendants.
[To be continued.
WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.
———
BY PROFESSOR FROST.
———
THE MOCKING-BIRD.
This noble songster, the pride of the American forest, is peculiar to the New World. So greatly superior are its powers of melody to those of any European bird, that long after the discovery of the western continent, reports of its existence were treated as a mere fable, akin to the other unnatural marvels with which an excited imagination peopled our vast forests. And this skepticism will appear the more excusable when we remember that few persons, who have never heard the mocking-bird, have any sufficient conception of his powers of imitation, the sweetness of his melody, or the wildness of his native tones. When these are in full display, the forest resounds with a succession of notes, as though from every warbler of the grove, so that the listener, instead of believing that he hears only one bird, seems to be surrounded with myriads. Nor is this power confined to imitations of song. With the strains of the Thrush and Warbler, chime in the wail of the Whippoor-will, the crowing of the cock, and the loud scream of the eagle. The mewing of cats, the whistling of man, and the grating sounds of brute matter, form variations to this singular chorus, blended and linked together in so artful a manner as to surpass immeasurably every performance of the kind in the whole range of animated creation. “With the dawn of morning,” says Nuttall, “while yet the sun lingers below the blushing horizon, our sublime songster in his native wilds, mounted on the topmost branch of a tall bush or tree in the forest, pours out his admirable song, which, amid the multitude of notes from all the warbling host, still rises pre-eminent, so that his solo is heard alone, and all the rest of the musical choir appear employed in mere accompaniments to this grand actor in the sublime opera of nature.” Nor is the power of the Mocking-bird confined to mere imitation. His native tones are sweet, bold and clear; these he blends with the borrowed music in such a manner as to render the whole a complete chorus of song. While singing he spreads his wings, elevates his head, and moves rapidly from one position to another. Some observers have even fancied a regularity in his motions, as though keeping time to his own music. Not unfrequently he darts high into the air with a scream which at once silences every warbler of the grove.
Writers on Ornithology have sometimes amused themselves by comparing the powers of the Mocking-bird with those of the Nightingale. Barrington, a distinguished British naturalist, who had heard the American bird, declares him to be equal to the Nightingale in every respect, but thinks the song spoiled by frequent mixture of disagreeable sounds. On this opinion Wilson has the following remarks:
“If the Mocking-bird be fully equal to the song of the Nightingale, and, as I can with confidence add, not only to that, but to the song of almost everyother bird, beside being capable of exactly imitating various other sounds and voices of animals, his vocal powers are unquestionably superior to those of the Nightingale, which possesses its own native notes alone. Further, if we consider, as is asserted by Mr. Barrington, that one reason of the Nightingale’s being more attended to than others is, that it sings in the night; and if we believe, with Shakspeare, that
The Nightingale, if she should sing by day,When every goose is cackling, would be thoughtNo better a musician than a Wren,
The Nightingale, if she should sing by day,When every goose is cackling, would be thoughtNo better a musician than a Wren,
The Nightingale, if she should sing by day,When every goose is cackling, would be thoughtNo better a musician than a Wren,
The Nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than a Wren,
what must we think of that bird who, in the glare of day, when a multitude of songsters are straining their throats in melody, overpowers all competition, and by the superiority of his voice, expression and action, not only attracts every ear, but frequently strikes dumb his mortified rivals, when the silence of night, as well as the bustle of the day, bear witness to his melody; and whenever in captivity, in a foreign country, he is declared, by the best judges in that country, to be fully equal to the song of their sweetest bird in its whole compass? The supposed degradation of his song by the introduction of extraneous sounds and unexpected imitations, is in fact one of the chief excellencies of this bird, as these changes give a perpetual novelty to the strain, keep attention constantly awake, and impress every hearer with a deeper interest in what is to follow. In short, if we believe in the truth of that mathematical axiom, that the whole is greater than a part, all that is excellent or delightful, amusing or striking, in the music of birds, must belong to that admirable songster, whose vocal powers are equal to the whole compass of their whole strains.”
Confinement does not seem to have much effect upon the Mocking-bird’s song. In the cage it is a most agreeable pet, seeming to exert itself to give pleasure. Even at night, when all else is hushed to rest, it pours forth its magical notes, which ring along the solitary haunts of man with strange cadence, and as echoes of a more beautiful sphere. Its chief pleasure consists in deceiving the animals of the household. “He whistles for the dog,” says the author quoted above, “Cæsar starts up, wags his tail, and runs to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt chicken, and the hen hurries about with hanging wings and bristled feathers, clucking to protect her injured brood. The barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat, the creaking of a passing wheelbarrow, follow with great truth and rapidity. He repeats the tune taught him by his master, fully and faithfully.” Those taken when wild are the best singers; when raised by hand they should be kept perfectly clean, and at first fed regularly every half hour, on milk thickened with Indian meal. This should occasionally be mingled with cherries, strawberries, cedar-berries, insects, especially spiders, and fine gravel. Meat, cut very fine, is also given. Attempts, partially successful, have been made to breed them in confinement.
The Mocking-bird is found in all our forests from the Great Lakes to Mexico. It was once abundant in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, but has been driven thence by the amateur sportsman. It delights, however, in a warm climate, and especially one like that of Carolina, low, and near the sea. From the middle of April to the middle of May embraces the time of building, the season varying with the climate and nature of the spring. The nest is mostly placed upon a solitary thorn or cedar-bush, often close to the habitation of man, whose society this bird seems to court. The eggs are four or five in number, blue, with large brown spots. The female rears two broods in a season, during which time she is closely guarded, fed and enlivened by the male. The courage of these birds in defending their young is astonishing. During the period of incubation, neither cat, dog, animal nor man can approach the nest without being attacked. Their great enemy is the black-snake. When the male perceives this wily foe, he darts rapidly upon it, and to avoid its bite, strikes rapidly about the head and eyes, until the enemy, blinded and baffled, hastens to retreat. But his little antagonist pursues, redoubling his efforts until the snake is killed. Then joining his mate, the victor pours forth his loudest strains, seemingly in celebration of his good fortune.
The Mocking-bird is nine and a half inches long, and thirteen broad. The upper parts of the head, neck and back are a brownish ash color. The wings and tail nearly black, tipped with white. The male is distinguished by having the whole nine primaries of the wings of a clear white, while but seven are of that color in the female, with whom also the color inclines to dun. The tail is cuneiform; the legs and feet strong and black; bill of the same color; the eye yellowish, inclining to golden. His plumage, like that of the nightingale, is sober and pleasing, and his figure neat, active and inspiriting.
A bird, called by Nuttall, the Mountain Mocking-bird, possesses considerable powers of imitation. It is found on the vast table-lands of Oregon and Mexico. It is smaller than its valuable relative, somewhat different in shape and color, and possesses much power and sweetness of tone. The eggs are emerald green. Little, however, is known of this bird.
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.
———
BY CLARA.
———
Here, on the threshold of the year, we feelNew thoughts. New plans perplex the mental view,And fain would we endeavor thus to healTheOld Year’sdisappointments in theNew.As ends the year, to us all time must end—As time’s knell soundeth, to our knell must toll—Oh! may our lives so pass, that we may mendTheBODY’Ssorrows in theRISEN SOUL.
Here, on the threshold of the year, we feelNew thoughts. New plans perplex the mental view,And fain would we endeavor thus to healTheOld Year’sdisappointments in theNew.As ends the year, to us all time must end—As time’s knell soundeth, to our knell must toll—Oh! may our lives so pass, that we may mendTheBODY’Ssorrows in theRISEN SOUL.
Here, on the threshold of the year, we feel
New thoughts. New plans perplex the mental view,
And fain would we endeavor thus to heal
TheOld Year’sdisappointments in theNew.
As ends the year, to us all time must end—
As time’s knell soundeth, to our knell must toll—
Oh! may our lives so pass, that we may mend
TheBODY’Ssorrows in theRISEN SOUL.
THE LOST NOTES.
———
BY MRS. HUGHS.
———
“You could not have made your application at a more apropos time, my good fellow,” said a pale, emaciated invalid, who was seated on an easy chair in his own chamber, addressing a fine, intelligent-looking young man near him; “I had exactly the sum you want paid to me very unexpectedly yesterday. I had the good fortune some years ago to assist a friend with a few hundred dollars, but though the money was serviceable at the time, he eventually became a bankrupt, and as I had only his note for the loan, I never expected to receive any thing from him. Yesterday, however, he came and put into my hand two bank notes of a thousand dollars each, which was the amount of my own money and the legal interest upon it. I am very happy to be able to accommodate you, though I am sorry at the same time to find you are under the necessity of borrowing.”
“It is a painful circumstance,” replied the other, “but happily it does not arise from any fault of my own.”
“I never imagined it did,” returned the master of the house, “and consequently had no hesitation in promising to assist you. But pray, may I ask what has occasioned so painful a necessity?”
“I came with the full intention of explaining it to you,” said the young man, whom we will here introduce to our readers by the name of Norman Horton. “Do not leave the room, Lucy, I beg,” he continued, addressing a lovely girl, who had hitherto sat sewing at a distant window, but who at this moment rose to quit the apartment. “I have nothing to say that I would not wish you to hear.”
“I am sure you have not,” said Mr. Woodford, “so sit still, Lucy dear.” Then turning, as his daughter resumed her seat and her work, to Horton, he added, “My lease of life is so nearly expired that I am afraid to let my nurse leave me even for a few minutes, lest my warning to quit should come when she is away from me. The spasms to which I have for some time been subject have of late increased so much in violence, that I believe my physicians have little hope of my surviving another. But I am interfering with your explanation, which I am anxious to hear; for, though so nearly done with this world myself, I still retain my interest in the welfare of those I esteem. So go on, Norman, and let me hear what you were going to say.”
“You are aware,” returned Horton, with an expression of countenance that proved the subject to be a painful one to him, “that my poor father frequently involved himself in difficulties. At one time he became so embarrassed that his farm was condemned by the court, and would have been sold by the sheriff, had not his friends, for my mother’s sake, made great efforts in his favor. It is unnecessary for me to trouble you with all the particulars; suffice it to say, that the person who had intended to sell took a mortgage on the place, for two thousand dollars, still retaining the right which the court had given, of making a sale at any moment that he chose. This mortgage and privilege he last year transferred to old Hinkley, and he, though his interest has been regularly paid, and though he has never even asked for the principal, is, I find, about to seize upon and sell the property.”
“Is it possible? Are you sure of it? Have you heard it from himself?”
“Yes; I went to him as soon as I had an intimation on the subject, and found him determined; nor could I prevail upon him to promise to give me any time to look about me, except on a condition, which he had before proposed to me, but which I cannot possibly comply with.”
“And what may that be?” asked the master of the house.
“That I would consent to become his son-in-law,” replied Norman, whilst his cheeks became tinged with a color not unworthy of a young girl.
“Truly, I should suppose that would be no very unacceptable proposal,” returned Mr. Woodford, with a smile. “Maria Hinckley is a very sweet, pretty girl, and is generally thought a very amiable one. Beside which, it is well known she will have a very handsome fortune.”
“That is all very true, and I admire Maria exceedingly; but, unfortunately, there is an insurmountable obstacle in the way.”
“You mean, I suppose, that you are not in love, whatever she may be.”
“I have no reason to imagine that she is any more in love with me than I am with her.”
“But may it not be worth while, my young friend,” said Mr. Woodford, in a serious tone, “to consider whether this love which young people are so apt to think indispensable, is really so essential as they imagine. I am myself disposed to think that if there is care taken to choose a partner with amiable dispositions and correct principles, there would be as much real happiness found in the end, as if they allowed themselves to be wholly guided by the love that is proverbially blind.”
“But if the little god has happened to stumble in the way first,” said Horton, laughing, “what is to be done then?”
“Ah, true, that is another matter. I forgot at the time what was whispered about that pretty little Miss Shirley, who paid your mother so long a visit last summer. She was, indeed, a very fine girl, and as she and Lucy have been such great friends eversince they became acquainted, I would advise you, if you are not quite sure of your ground, to bespeak the interest of your old school-fellow and playmate. What say you, Lucy? You would do your best to aid Norman’s cause, would you not?” But Lucy, who had before been sewing at a wonderful rate, just at the moment her father appealed to her, happened to drop her needle, so that when he paused for a reply, she was too much occupied in searching the carpet to give it.
“Let me assist you,” said Horton, but before he reached the place where the needle had dropt, she had found it, and risen from her bending posture.
“Why, my child, you have sent all the blood of your body into your face, by stooping to search for that foolish needle,” said her father. And, indeed, the poor girl’s face was a perfect scarlet, and the beautifully defined shades of white and red, which were amongst her striking beauties, were completely destroyed.
“Youhaven’t told us yet,” continued the father, as Lucy made a slight effort to shake back the bright auburn tresses which seemed to try to curtain her face till it recovered its usual hue, “whether you will give Norman your vote and interest.”
“Oh, certainly, papa! Norman knows well enough it will always give me pleasure to be of service to him,” said the young girl, but in consequence, perhaps, of the blood having been forced into her head, her voice had not its sweet silvery sound, but seemed husky and scarcely audible.
“As soon as I have settled Hinckley’s affair, I believe I shall be tempted to come and make a trial of your kindness,” said the young man; “but as long as I am in his clutches, it would be inexcusable in me to try to involve any other person in my fortunes.”
“We will soon give him his quietus,” returned Mr. Woodford; “Lucy, dear, where did I put those notes?”
“I don’t know, papa, I never saw them. Indeed I didn’t know you had received them till I heard you mention it just now.”
“That’s strange! You are always with me, and know every thing I either do or say.”
“But you know you sent me yesterday morning to see brother Henry, when sister sent word he was sick; and I suppose the gentleman came while I was away.”
“Ah, true, so he did; and where was I dear—what room was I in. Sickness has destroyed my memory so entirely that I cannot remember any thing.”
“I left you in the breakfast-room reading, and when I came back, you were in this room lying down.”
“Yes, I remember now, I felt what I thought were premonitory symptoms of spasms, and hastened to lie down. But no doubt I put the notes by first, though where I don’t recollect. Go, dear, and look in my desk. You will probably find them in the large red pocket-book or in one of the little drawers, or—”
“I will look everywhere, papa,” interrupted Lucy, who had now recovered her voice and natural color, and immediately left the room.
“It seems a strange thing,” said Mr. Woodford, turning to his companion, “that I should be so careless about such a sum of money; but the fact is, I had already set my house in order, as far as money matters are concerned, and was therefore almost sorry to have my mind called back to such a subject, from things of so much higher importance.”
“There is one thing, however, in the business,” said Norman, “which cannot fail to be gratifying, and that is the proof your friend has given of his honorable feelings.”
“Yes, that gave me sincere pleasure; and, indeed, I don’t pretend to say that the money itself was not very acceptable, for though we have had enough to live upon comfortably whilst all together, it will be but a small portion for each when divided amongst my large family.”
Lucy now returned to the room, but with a look of disappointment. The notes were no where to be found. Again and again she was sent on various errands of search, but all proved equally fruitless.
“I should not wonder, after all,” said the invalid, “if I merely put them into my pocket till you came home;” and as he spoke he began to draw one piece of paper out of his pockets after another—but the right ones were not there.
“Papa,” said Lucy, and the color almost forsook her cheeks, “you gave me some paper out of your pocket last night to light the lamp with.”
“And what sort of paper was it?” asked the father.
“It was too dark for me to see it, but it felt soft and thin.”
“Was it single or double?”
“It was double; but I cannot tell whether it was in one or two pieces.”
“What did you do with the part that was not consumed? If the number is left, the money may still be obtained.”
“I threw it into the fire,” replied Lucy, in a mournful tone.
“Then I am afraid it is gone,” said the father “But keep up your spirits, Norman, I have promised my aid, and you shall have it, unless death overtake me before I have time to make the arrangement. I cannot think of letting one so deserving be trodden on by the foot of persecution.”
“For myself,” returned Horton, “it would not be of much consequence to have to begin the world again, even with very limited means. I am young and healthy, and have had an education which has put many resources in my power. But my poor mother! It would go hard, indeed, at her age, and with her delicate health, to be turned away from the scene of all her early pleasures, and which is endeared to her by a thousand tender associations.”
“It must not be,” said the invalid; “and I will see after the business as soon as I have taken a little rest; but at present I feel rather exhausted.”
Horton then took leave, and Lucy, after assisting her father to lie down, resumed her accustomed seat,and began to sew, her active mind keeping pace with her no less active fingers. With painful anxiety she dwelt on the state of her only surviving parent, and on the loneliness and destitution in which she would be left were he to be taken from her. It was true she had a brother older than herself, but she remembered with a sigh, how little either he or his wife were calculated to fill up the vacuum. The rest of the children were all younger than herself, and were consequently of an age rather to require protection than to render it. A sister of her father’s had promised to remain with the younger branches of the family, but though a well-meaning woman, she was but a poor substitute for the parent that was about to be taken from her. Then her thoughts would turn to Norman Horton’s embarrassments, and to the distress of his poor mother—and the tears of sympathy often filled her soft beautiful eyes, though they were as often dashed away, lest they should be observed by her father. Indeed, the gentle, self-denying girl, had learnt to deprive herself, almost wholly, of the luxury of tears, from an anxiety to keep her parent’s mind composed and tranquil. But nature would sometimes have its course, and on this day it was unusually imperative. “It would be strange if I did not feel for Mrs. Horton,” she argued with herself, as if anxious to find an excuse for the tears which in spite of her utmost efforts would course each other down her cheeks. “It would be most ungrateful of me did I not do so, for ever since mother’s death she has behaved to me with even maternal tenderness. It is true I have not seen much of her of late, but that is certainly not owing to any fault of hers.” The truth is that since the visit of Miss Shirley to Mrs. Horton, Norman and Lucy had met much less frequently than formerly. That young lady had hinted to Lucy the probability of an engagement taking place between herself and Norman, and as he had since that time been a much less frequent visiter at Mr. Woodford’s, Lucy concluded that the engagement had actually taken place. It was a subject which she had never ventured either to inquire into, or even to examine her own bosom upon, for though in the habit of scrutinizing her thoughts and feelings on all others, on this one she was a complete coward, and preferred remaining in ignorance to risking the result of an investigation. It was true that from what Norman had said that morning, it was evident no actual engagement yet existed, but as it was equally evident that it was a thing he desired, she was determined to use whatever influence she had in forwarding his wishes, though she at the same time felt ashamed of the strange sensations that the probability of being called upon to perform such an office, excited in her mind. She was, however, routed from these interesting though painful reveries by the voice of her father. On going to his bed-side she was exceedingly alarmed at the expression of his countenance, and the blueness round his mouth, which always preceded one of his severe attacks.
“Go, Lucy,” said he, in a feeble voice, “and look in the private drawer in my writing-desk. I had my desk open to write a receipt, and I may perhaps have put the notes in that drawer.”
“But, papa, you will be left alone,” objected the daughter.
“Send your aunt to me,” returned the invalid, “and look well, for I am exceedingly anxious on poor Norman’s account.”
Lucy did as desired, but with a faint and trembling heart; first, however, dispatching one of her brothers to summon the doctor, for there was a something about her father’s look that seemed to say, they would soon be an orphan family.
The writing-desk was diligently searched, and every paper it contained carefully examined, but in vain, and she was just turning the key to lock it again, when she was hastily called by her aunt, who said her father had made two or three attempts to speak, but she could not understand him. Lucy ran with all the speed of which she was capable to the bed-side of the invalid, but could scarcely restrain a scream of horror at sight of the frightful change that had taken place in the few minutes she had been absent. The blueness that she had before observed around his mouth had extended to his lips, and his whole face wore that expression that all who have attended the bed of death know as the indications of approaching dissolution. The moment she appeared he motioned to her to put her head close to his mouth, when he said, in a voice scarcely audible, “I know now, they are in the—” but the last word, though evidently spoken, could not be heard.
“Never mind the notes, dear papa,” cried Lucy, in an agony of distress, “only keep yourself composed and let them take their chance.”
But the dying man shook his head, and again attempted to speak. “Look in the—” but again the word died away, and though the anxious girl laid her ear close to the blue and stiffening lips, she was unable to catch a shadow of the sound which they emitted. After lying a few minutes as if to collect the small portion of strength yet remaining, the sufferer made another effort, and again Lucy put her ear to his now cold lips, and stretched every faculty to catch the sound, far more, however, for the sake of satisfying him, than on account of the money itself; but the word “in” was all she could distinguish. Distressed beyond measure at seeing his ineffectual efforts, she cried, “Don’t attempt to speak, dear papa, but let me guess, and if I am right only make a motion of assent.” She then guessed the breakfast-table drawer, the drawer in her own work-box, and a variety of similar places, but received no intimation in return. Whilst thus engaged thephysician arrived, who, struck with the extreme stillness of his patient, endeavored to raise his head, but in so doing he found that life was already extinct, and the spirit which had made its last effort in an attempt to aid a fellow-creature, had burst its prison bars.
We pass over the grief of the mourning family. Those who have never experienced such an affliction could have little idea of it from our description, and those who have already tasted the bitter cup,have no need of any thing to give clearness to their perceptions. Suffice it, then, to say, that after the first paroxysms of grief were over, Lucy’s mind reverted to the state of her friends from whom she had received many kind and sympathizing messages, and assurances that nothing but severe sickness would have prevented Mrs. Horton from offering them in person. After some consideration about how she should act, Lucy determined it would only be right to inform Norman of her father’s ineffectual efforts to serve him, and for this purpose she sent a request that he would call upon her. He was not long obeying the summons, and entered the room with a countenance little less agitated than her own.
“I would not have waited to be told to come,” said he, in a tone of deep feeling, “had I not been afraid of my visit being attributed to a selfish motive.”
“I know well that selfishness forms no part of your character,” replied Lucy, making a strong effort to speak with composure; “but though my poor father was deprived of the pleasure of serving you, I was anxious you should know that his very last efforts were made in your behalf. Could I have made out his last words, you might still have had the assistance you require.”
“I beg you will not trouble yourself any more about the matter,” returned Horton, endeavoring to speak cheerfully. “The worst, I believe, is now over, for the sheriff is already in possession of the place.”
“And your mother?” said Lucy, raising her soft eyes in anxious suspense to his face.
“She has been, and is still ill, but I hope she is gradually becoming more resigned. Transplantation, however, will, I fear, go hard with her.”
“Take care, Norman,” said Lucy, earnestly, “that you bring not severe repentance upon yourself by exposing her to it.”
“But what can I do? I have no alternative. I have left no stone unturned to procure the money; and if a few months had been allowed me, I could easily have obtained it, but this is just the time when everybody’s money is locked up.”
“Mr. Hinckley offered you an alternative,” said Lucy, timidly.
“And is it possible that you can advise me to accept it, Lucy! Can you, who know what it is to love, offer me such advice?”
“Who told you I knew how to love?” asked Lucy, in a tone of extreme alarm.
“I scarcely know whether it is honorable in me to repeat what was told me in confidence, but I had it from Emma Shirley that you had accepted the addresses of Joseph Constant.”
“Then she must have been trying the extent of your credulity,” returned the young girl, with a look of ingenuousness that could not for a moment be doubted, “for she knew very well that he was an object of actual dislike to me.”
“And yet he has visited you for a long time both regularly and frequently,” said Horton, whilst his eyes began to sparkle, and the cloud that had for months overspread his fine countenance was rapidly dispersing.
“He has come to the house both regularly and frequently, it is true, but never with my consent. Brother Henry, I scarcely know why, has undertaken to espouse his cause, and to bring him here. Though exceedingly annoyed at the circumstance, I could not bear to complain of it to papa, for fear of agitating him, and therefore satisfied myself with taking good care that my own sentiments were clearly understood.”
“Lucy,” said Horton, taking her hand tenderly, whilst a soul full of happiness and affection beamed in his eyes, “as long as I believed your heart to be disengaged, I used to flatter myself with the hope of one day making it mine; and now that I find it is still at liberty, the same fond hope is again swelling in my bosom and urging me to renew my endeavors. Say, dearest Lucy, would the effort be altogether a hopeless one?”
We cannot pretend to say what was Lucy’s reply, but we know the hand he had taken still remained in his possession, when an hour or two had elapsed and they began to think about the passage of time. Never once during that period had the thought of old Hinckley and his inveterate persecution entered their heads; or if for a moment the circumstance of having but little to commence life with obtruded itself on their recollection, it was met without fear or apprehension. They were both young, vigorous and active, and though they might have to work a little harder, their toil would be sweetened by the delightful idea that they mutually labored for each other.
“It will still be a hard struggle for my poor mother,” said Horton, after his full heart had so far found vent as to enable him to turn his thoughts once more on his sorrowing parent; “but she loves us both too well to grieve long when she sees us so happy.”
“And though,” said Lucy, “she will have to live in a much smaller house, and to exchange her large and beautiful garden for a very circumscribed one, she will still have the rich garden of nature to look at; and beside, she will have another child to watch over her, and administer to her comfort.”
The day of sale arrived, and it having been proposed by Lucy that Norman should bring his mother to spend that day with her, that she might be out of the way of the noise and bustle with which the house would necessarily be surrounded. The old lady came at an early hour, and Lucy exerted her every art to amuse her, and divert her mind from what was going on at home. As she was still a great invalid, she was obliged to recline almost constantly on the sofa, but she proved how much her thoughts clung to the home that was about to be so cruelly taken away from her, by the frequent questions she asked.
“Are the people beginning to gather yet, Lucy?” she asked, as she observed Lucy’s face turned toward the window which commanded a view of the place.
“Every thing seems very quiet yet,” returned her affectionate attendant.
“I see two, three, nine, seven wagons,” said Lucy’s little sister.
“And I see a great many men riding,” said a little fellow still younger than she who had just spoken. Lucy, anxious to stop the children’s remarks, enticed them away from the window by giving them a picture-book to look at. Then turning to Mrs. Horton, she asked if she could not read something to her to amuse her.
“Amusement is out of the question, dear,” said the invalid, “but you may read something that will give me a useful lesson. Take the Bible, my child, and read the sermon on the mount. I always feel myself a better woman after I have read it.”
Lucy took her father’s large quarto Bible, and the children, leaving their own pictures, came to stand by her as she did so, for it was beautifully illustrated, and they were anxious to see the engravings, which they had seldom a chance of doing, as it was too valuable a book for them to be allowed to touch themselves. But just as Lucy was opening it, the little boy, who happened to turn his head to the window, exclaimed, “Look! look at that man standing up above all the rest, and flourishing something in his hand!” Mrs. Horton heaved a deep sigh, and turned her face toward the back of the sofa, whilst Lucy, making a motion to the children to be silent, began to read. But just as she had pronounced the words, “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted,” a servant came to tell her she was wanted, and giving the children permission (by way of keeping them quiet) to look at the pictures whilst she was absent, she left the room. She was not gone many minutes, but when she came back she found that they had been disputing which should turn over the leaves, and in the struggle they had let the ponderous volume fall on the floor, where it still lay, with the leaves doubled in all directions. Mortified to see a book that her father had always forbidden the children to touch so abused, she ran to lift it up, and as she did so, two pieces of paper fell from between some of the leaves. But what was her surprise and delight, on looking at them, to see they were the two lost notes. Uttering a scream of delight, she ran out of the room, without even stopping to tell Mrs. Horton what she had found, from the fear that the auctioneer’s hammer might fall before she got within hearing. Camilla herself could scarcely have flown more rapidly across the intermediate fields, and just at the moment that the hammer was descending, evidently for the last time, she contrived to make her cry of “stop! stop!” heard, and the auctioneer’s hand was instantly arrested. The next moment Norman was at her side. The rest may be easily imagined. There is none, we presume, who will not rejoice at the defeat of Norman’s ungenerous persecutor; nor is there a heart so cold as not to sympathize with the invalid mother at finding she was still to remain in the home endeared to her by so many tender reminiscences, or with the young lovers, at the happy prospect that was opened out before them by the recovery of the lost notes.