THE UNMASKED.

THE UNMASKED.

———

BY S. ANNA LEWIS.

———

The struggle is over—my pulses once moreLeap free as the waves on the surf-beaten shore;And my spirit looks up to that world of all bliss,And heaves not a sigh for the faithless in this.’Twas in Sorrow’s bleak night, when the sky was all dark,And the tempest shrieked loud round my storm-beaten bark,That arose, ’mid the darkness, thy radiant form,Like the rainbow illuming the brow of the storm.An angel thou seemedst, that had come to the earth,To guide me—to nourish my heart in its dearth;And blindly, as Paynim kneels down to his god,I have loved thee—have worshiped the earth thou hast trod.But this waste of affection—this prodigal part—Is over—the mask has been torn from thy heart—And back with affright and amazement I shrink—At a fount so unholy my soul cannot drink.

The struggle is over—my pulses once moreLeap free as the waves on the surf-beaten shore;And my spirit looks up to that world of all bliss,And heaves not a sigh for the faithless in this.’Twas in Sorrow’s bleak night, when the sky was all dark,And the tempest shrieked loud round my storm-beaten bark,That arose, ’mid the darkness, thy radiant form,Like the rainbow illuming the brow of the storm.An angel thou seemedst, that had come to the earth,To guide me—to nourish my heart in its dearth;And blindly, as Paynim kneels down to his god,I have loved thee—have worshiped the earth thou hast trod.But this waste of affection—this prodigal part—Is over—the mask has been torn from thy heart—And back with affright and amazement I shrink—At a fount so unholy my soul cannot drink.

The struggle is over—my pulses once more

Leap free as the waves on the surf-beaten shore;

And my spirit looks up to that world of all bliss,

And heaves not a sigh for the faithless in this.

’Twas in Sorrow’s bleak night, when the sky was all dark,

And the tempest shrieked loud round my storm-beaten bark,

That arose, ’mid the darkness, thy radiant form,

Like the rainbow illuming the brow of the storm.

An angel thou seemedst, that had come to the earth,

To guide me—to nourish my heart in its dearth;

And blindly, as Paynim kneels down to his god,

I have loved thee—have worshiped the earth thou hast trod.

But this waste of affection—this prodigal part—

Is over—the mask has been torn from thy heart—

And back with affright and amazement I shrink—

At a fount so unholy my soul cannot drink.

Mormon Temple, Nauvoo

Mormon Temple, Nauvoo

MORMON TEMPLE, NAUVOO.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

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

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

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

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

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

ROSE WINTERS.

A TALE OF FIRST LOVE.

———

BY ESTELLE.

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And where was Robert Selwyn, while by slow gradations from year to year this change had been silently wrought in his heart’s first idol. His migrations in the meantime had been many, and his fortunes varied. Profits and loss were for some years nearly balanced in his accounts, but at length the brighter side predominated. Misfortunes and mishaps were cleared away from his horizon, and his sails swept onward through a tide of unexpected success. It was then that he began to weary of his long, self-imposed exile, and turn his thoughts and wishes to home and “native land.” Energetic in purpose, and prompt in action, he no sooner formed the resolution of returning than it was put in execution. The voyage, quickly accomplished, he once more found himself among his old friends and townsmen, who shook him heartily by the hand, and welcomed him back with right good will. Some author remarks, that “one of the greatest pleasures in life, is to be born in a small town, where one is acquainted with all the inhabitants, and a remembrance clings to every house.” He no doubt felt this on his first arrival, and his satisfaction was unalloyed; for, like Rose, he had yet to know himself as he now was. Most of his youthful companions were married, and settled down into steady, sober-minded, every-day sort of people—having made but little improvement either in mind or manners; but they were not slow to perceive that the Selwyn who had just returned, was quite a different man from the Selwyn they had formerly known. There was certainly a change in him, but in what it consisted, they found it impossible to decide. He lacked nothing in cordiality—he assumed no airs of superiority—he was neitherelegantnorfashionable—but he was not what he used to be. Perhaps it was that he had acquired more manliness of character; and there was the least bit more of dignity in his manners; he was the smallest possible degree more guarded in his expressions; and his frank and easy address was entirely free from the most distant approach to awkwardness. It is true, he was still the gay and jovial sailor, noble-spirited and generous to a fault—but he was more the gentleman, more the man of the world than before he went to foreign parts; and upon the whole, the conclusion was that he was greatly improved, and would most likely turn out to be quite a credit to the town. He had certainly grown handsomer, as he had grown older. His face wore no traces of any inward discontent or disappointment, and it is probable that he had worn his love either lightly or hopefully in his heart. His first inquiry, after his return, however, was for Rose; and hearing she was in New York, he hastened thither to meet her. It was at the close of a summer afternoon when he found himself at the door of the house where he was told she boarded. He inquired for her, walked in, and sat down in the parlor in the dim light of the fading day, which was rendered more obscure in the shadow of the curtained windows.

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

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

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

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

Selwyn sprang toward her and caught her hand.

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

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

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

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

“No, not myfriends, Rose. It must have been myenemieswho said that; butyouknew better. Didn’t I tell you I would never marry any one but you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You knew all my faults, dearest, long, long ago,” said Selwyn. “They did not hinder you from loving me once. Love me still, Rose, as you once did. Be mine, as you promised you would before we parted, and you shall make me what you please.”

Rose was silent. Her lover’s arm was around her, and memory was holding its mirror to her mind: and when she did speak at length, her voice was low and indistinct, and her words nearly unintelligible. The spirit of them may be guessed, however, from the fact that Selwyn did not go to sea, and she resigned her situation as teacher, and returned with him to her former home. The wedding was soon after celebrated with the sanction of her father, and but one source of regret to Rose, that the old minister, who in her youthful days was the pastor of her native village, had been removed in the meanwhile to another world, and the ceremony of her marriage was performed by a stranger.

THE MINIATURE.

THE MINIATURE.

THE ZOPILOTES.

———

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

———

[A Mexican soldier, being grievously wounded in one of the battles of Hidalgo, was deserted by his victorious companions. Unable to defend himself against the numerous Zopilotes, or vultures, which hovered around him, he put an end to his life with his own hand.]

[A Mexican soldier, being grievously wounded in one of the battles of Hidalgo, was deserted by his victorious companions. Unable to defend himself against the numerous Zopilotes, or vultures, which hovered around him, he put an end to his life with his own hand.]

I feel the motion of each heavy wing—I hear the rustling of the air they cleave—The shadows they, like sombre phantoms, flingClosely around and o’er me, hovering,Beget wild fears, which busy fancies weaveInto a dreadful certainty.I hear the war-cry on the distant field!I see the dust, by charging squadrons cart;The cannon’s blaze, the flash of burnished steel;Bright banner’s wave, the rapid march and wheel,Where every step may be, perhaps, the lastA soldier e’er may take.Closely, more closely, still I see them sweep,Their wings are furled, and eagerly, they tread,Yet silently, as one who walks in sleep,Swiftly, as tyrant monsters of the deepRush on their helpless prey, which seems to dreadFar, far too much to fly.Ye whom I loved, my brethren of the sword,With whom I left my distant mountain-home,Come, come to me. Alas! no single wordI speak will ever by your ears be heard,Where battle cries, the trump and stirring drum,Salute your victory.Was it for this I left my mother’s side,And bade to her I loved a last adieu,The dark-eyed girl I won to be my bride?Was it to watch this warm, empurpled tideOf life come gurgling, like a fountain, throughMy rent and gaping breast?Wounded, alone, upon the field of strife,The shouts of victory upon mine ear,My comrades joyous, or bereft of life,Martyrs, with fame and glory ever rife—I do not dread to die alone e’en here,As yon brave men have died.But oh, great God! I would not feel the beakOf yon dark vulture tear away my heart;Not that I wish my failing strength to eke—A soldier’s death it was my joy to seek,Wounded, alone, I have no other artTo save me. Let me die.

I feel the motion of each heavy wing—I hear the rustling of the air they cleave—The shadows they, like sombre phantoms, flingClosely around and o’er me, hovering,Beget wild fears, which busy fancies weaveInto a dreadful certainty.I hear the war-cry on the distant field!I see the dust, by charging squadrons cart;The cannon’s blaze, the flash of burnished steel;Bright banner’s wave, the rapid march and wheel,Where every step may be, perhaps, the lastA soldier e’er may take.Closely, more closely, still I see them sweep,Their wings are furled, and eagerly, they tread,Yet silently, as one who walks in sleep,Swiftly, as tyrant monsters of the deepRush on their helpless prey, which seems to dreadFar, far too much to fly.Ye whom I loved, my brethren of the sword,With whom I left my distant mountain-home,Come, come to me. Alas! no single wordI speak will ever by your ears be heard,Where battle cries, the trump and stirring drum,Salute your victory.Was it for this I left my mother’s side,And bade to her I loved a last adieu,The dark-eyed girl I won to be my bride?Was it to watch this warm, empurpled tideOf life come gurgling, like a fountain, throughMy rent and gaping breast?Wounded, alone, upon the field of strife,The shouts of victory upon mine ear,My comrades joyous, or bereft of life,Martyrs, with fame and glory ever rife—I do not dread to die alone e’en here,As yon brave men have died.But oh, great God! I would not feel the beakOf yon dark vulture tear away my heart;Not that I wish my failing strength to eke—A soldier’s death it was my joy to seek,Wounded, alone, I have no other artTo save me. Let me die.

I feel the motion of each heavy wing—

I hear the rustling of the air they cleave—

The shadows they, like sombre phantoms, fling

Closely around and o’er me, hovering,

Beget wild fears, which busy fancies weave

Into a dreadful certainty.

I hear the war-cry on the distant field!

I see the dust, by charging squadrons cart;

The cannon’s blaze, the flash of burnished steel;

Bright banner’s wave, the rapid march and wheel,

Where every step may be, perhaps, the last

A soldier e’er may take.

Closely, more closely, still I see them sweep,

Their wings are furled, and eagerly, they tread,

Yet silently, as one who walks in sleep,

Swiftly, as tyrant monsters of the deep

Rush on their helpless prey, which seems to dread

Far, far too much to fly.

Ye whom I loved, my brethren of the sword,

With whom I left my distant mountain-home,

Come, come to me. Alas! no single word

I speak will ever by your ears be heard,

Where battle cries, the trump and stirring drum,

Salute your victory.

Was it for this I left my mother’s side,

And bade to her I loved a last adieu,

The dark-eyed girl I won to be my bride?

Was it to watch this warm, empurpled tide

Of life come gurgling, like a fountain, through

My rent and gaping breast?

Wounded, alone, upon the field of strife,

The shouts of victory upon mine ear,

My comrades joyous, or bereft of life,

Martyrs, with fame and glory ever rife—

I do not dread to die alone e’en here,

As yon brave men have died.

But oh, great God! I would not feel the beak

Of yon dark vulture tear away my heart;

Not that I wish my failing strength to eke—

A soldier’s death it was my joy to seek,

Wounded, alone, I have no other art

To save me. Let me die.

HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN,

DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

———

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

———

(Continued from page 198.)

Nor does the following present a much greater difference, and, but for the ear-rings and knee-breeches, would pass muster even now amid our infinite varieties ofpalelots,sacksandHongroises. The boot-black represented in the cut is a miniaturebonnet-rouge.

It is worth while to state that costumes, like opinions, reproduce themselves. As the ideas which were once in vogue, and have been abandoned, return and resume their influence and orthodoxy, so do the costumes of other days continually reappear, it is true, with a difference often striking enough, for men no longer wear either coats of mail or inexpressibles of velvet, yet the Norman cloak of the Black Prince, and thesackof Lauzun, the handsome French colonel, who, during our own Revolutionary war, turned the heads and carried away the hearts of half the women of Philadelphia, are still every day to be seen.

The same thing is observable in female costume. The long waists, tight sleeves and full skirts of old times have returned, and even the ungainly ruffs of Queen Elizabeth’s age have shown a disposition to return. The mode of dressing the hair is also retracing itself, so that there is little real difference between the traditional court-dress of former times and that of every-day life worn at present, except the train.

The following is a caricature of that day, but scarcely more outré than the bearded creatures from time to time seen in our own streets. It may be remarked that the passion for hair on the face always is consequent on a war. In the time of Henri IV, all the world was bearded; so during the days of Cromwell were his ironsides, and now men who never saw a shot fired, force the sublime into the ridiculous, by parading a moustache in every thoroughfare throughout the country.

Who knows but that our own Mexican war may exert an influence on dress, and that some day the Ranchero’s striped blanket and broad-brimmed hat may become the fashion. Men will stalk about the streets in boots of cow-hide, and instead of hunting with dogs and rifles, thelazoorlariettewill be adopted universally. All the world knows that immediately after the return of the army of the Duke of Wellington to England, from Waterloo, the military black stock was adopted, and it may be that the green pantaloons with the brown stripe, now worn, are an imitation of the dress of the Mexican veterans who were defeated at Cherebusco. The same may be said of the cloth caps, with the covers of oil-skin, now so much in vogue. It may be remarked that this article of dress has always followed thetenueof the army, the flat cap replacing the hussar’s, as the latter did the old gig-top leather apparatus.

Other nations of Europe did not participate in the French Revolution, but became imitators of the costumes it created. We have now come to the period of the Directory, which exerted its influence on costume, or rather the influence of which was reflected by the costume of the day.

The Directory and Consulate saw all France seized with fury for the antique. These were the days of theRomainesandAtheniennes, when David was toiling with the pencil to effect a reform of costume, and when Talma sought to introduce correct ideas of dress on the stage. The men of Paris still adhered to the English costume, which, fortified by theirfiat, became that of the world. They compromised their English predilections, however, so far as to wear their hairà la Titusorà la Caracalla, what that was may be seen from the following engraving.

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