A HOUSEHOLD DIRGE.

———

BY R. H. STODDARD.

———

I’velost my little May at last;She perished in the Spring,When earliest flowers began to bud,And earliest birds to sing;I laid her in a country grave,A rural, soft retreat,A marble tablet o’er her headAnd violets at her feet!I would that she were back again,In all her childish bloom;My joy and hope have followed her,My heart is in her tomb;I know that she is gone away,I know that she is fled,I miss her everywhere, and yetI cannot make her dead!I wake the children up at dawn,And say a simple prayer,And draw them round the morning meal,But one is wanting there;I see a little chair apart,A little pin-a-fore,And Memory fills the vacancy,As Time will—nevermore!I sit within my room, and writeThe lone and weary hours,And miss the little maid againAmong the window flowers;And miss her with her toys besideMy desk in silent play,And then I turn and look for her,But she has flown away!I drop my idle pen and hark,And catch the faintest sound;She must be playing hide-and-seekIn shady nooks around;She’ll come and climb my chair again.And peep my shoulder o’er,I hear a stifled laugh—but no,She cometh nevermore!I waited only yester night,The evening service read,And lingered for my idol’s kiss,Before she went to bed,Forgetting she had gone before,In slumbers soft and sweet,A monument above her head,And violets at her feet!

I’velost my little May at last;

She perished in the Spring,

When earliest flowers began to bud,

And earliest birds to sing;

I laid her in a country grave,

A rural, soft retreat,

A marble tablet o’er her head

And violets at her feet!

I would that she were back again,In all her childish bloom;My joy and hope have followed her,My heart is in her tomb;I know that she is gone away,I know that she is fled,I miss her everywhere, and yetI cannot make her dead!

I would that she were back again,

In all her childish bloom;

My joy and hope have followed her,

My heart is in her tomb;

I know that she is gone away,

I know that she is fled,

I miss her everywhere, and yet

I cannot make her dead!

I wake the children up at dawn,And say a simple prayer,And draw them round the morning meal,But one is wanting there;I see a little chair apart,A little pin-a-fore,And Memory fills the vacancy,As Time will—nevermore!

I wake the children up at dawn,

And say a simple prayer,

And draw them round the morning meal,

But one is wanting there;

I see a little chair apart,

A little pin-a-fore,

And Memory fills the vacancy,

As Time will—nevermore!

I sit within my room, and writeThe lone and weary hours,And miss the little maid againAmong the window flowers;And miss her with her toys besideMy desk in silent play,And then I turn and look for her,But she has flown away!

I sit within my room, and write

The lone and weary hours,

And miss the little maid again

Among the window flowers;

And miss her with her toys beside

My desk in silent play,

And then I turn and look for her,

But she has flown away!

I drop my idle pen and hark,And catch the faintest sound;She must be playing hide-and-seekIn shady nooks around;She’ll come and climb my chair again.And peep my shoulder o’er,I hear a stifled laugh—but no,She cometh nevermore!

I drop my idle pen and hark,

And catch the faintest sound;

She must be playing hide-and-seek

In shady nooks around;

She’ll come and climb my chair again.

And peep my shoulder o’er,

I hear a stifled laugh—but no,

She cometh nevermore!

I waited only yester night,The evening service read,And lingered for my idol’s kiss,Before she went to bed,Forgetting she had gone before,In slumbers soft and sweet,A monument above her head,And violets at her feet!

I waited only yester night,

The evening service read,

And lingered for my idol’s kiss,

Before she went to bed,

Forgetting she had gone before,

In slumbers soft and sweet,

A monument above her head,

And violets at her feet!

THE YOUNG ARTIST:

OR THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE.

———

BY T. S. ARTHUR

———

(Continued from page 8.)

Clara, as has been seen, fell into a thoughtful, sober state of mind, after the interview with her husband, in which she mentioned the fact of having five thousand dollars in stocks. Something in the manner of Alfred troubled her slightly. When he came home in the evening she experienced, in meeting him, the smallest degree of embarrassment; yet sufficient for him to perceive. Like an inflamed eye to which even the light is painful, his morbid feelings were susceptible of the most delicate impressions. A mutual reserve, unpleasant to both, was the consequence. Ellison imagined that his wife had, on reflection, become satisfied of his baseness in seeking to obtain her hand in marriage because of her possession of property, and the change in his manner which this feeling produced, naturally effected a change in her. From that time their intercourse became embarrassed, and both were unhappy.

A few days after Clara had informed her husband of the fact that she possessed five thousand dollars in stocks, she brought him the certificates which she held, and placing them in his hands, said,

“You must take care of these now.”

“What are they?” he asked, affecting an ignorance that did not exist, for the instant his eyes rested on the papers he understood what they were.

“Certificates of the stock about which I told you.”

Ellison handed them back quickly, and with a manner that could not but wound the feelings of his wife, saying at the same time,

“Oh, no, no! I don’t want them. Draw the interest yourself as you have been doing.”

“I have no further need of the money,” replied Clara, in a voice that had acquired a sudden huskiness. “Our interests are one you know, Alfred, and you take care of these matters now.”

But, the young man, acting under a perverse and blind impulse, positively refused to keep the certificates.

“I’d rather you would draw the money as you have been doing,” said he, his voice much softened and his manner changed. “It may be weakness in me, but I feel sensitive on this subject.”

Ellison’s evil genius seemed to have him in possession.

“On what subject?” inquired Clara, in a tone of surprise.

“On the subject of your property,” replied Ellison, with a want of delicacy the very opposite of his real character.

If a cold hand had been laid upon the bosom of Clara, she could not have experienced a more sudden chill. She made no reply. Ellison perceived, in an instant, the extent of his error. Like a man struggling in the mire, every moment seemed but to plunge him deeper. A more painful reserve followed this brief but unhappy interview. Deeply did the young man regret not having taken the certificates when they were handed to him. That was his only right course. But they were presented unexpectedly, and the first suggestion which came was that the act was more compulsory than voluntary on the part of his wife.

The subject was not alluded to again, but it was scarcely for a moment out of the thoughts of either Clara or her husband. When the half-yearly interest became due, which was in the course of a week, Clara drew the money. It amounted to the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars.

“You will not refuse this, I hope?” said she smiling, as she handed him what she had received. “It is the half-yearly interest on our stock.”

Alfred was a little wiser by experience.

“I have no particular use for it just now,” was his reply. “Suppose you keep it and pay our board every week as long as it lasts. Twenty-four dollars will be due to-morrow.”

“Very well, just as you like, Alfred. If you should want any of it, you must help yourself. You will find it in my drawer.”

“I’ll call on you if I should get out of pocket,” was replied to this in a playful tone of voice.

Both felt relieved. But it grew out of the fact that Ellison had been able to disguise his real feelings, and this was but a false security. There was a certainty, however, about the means of paying the weekly charge for boarding, that was a great relief to the mind of Ellison, and which enabled him the better to hide his real feelings from his wife. Happily for him, the four pictures which had been talked about were ordered. He completed them in about five weeks, and received two hundred dollars, the price agreed upon. One hundred of this sum he paid to the friend who had loaned him the money to lift the obligation that was felt to be so oppressive. Fifty of what remained he placed in the hands of Clara, playfully saying to her as he did so, that she must be his banker. The remark was timely and well expressed, and it had its effect both upon his own mind and that of his wife. But the source of trouble lay too deep to be easily removed.

Seek to disguise it as he would, Ellison could not hide from himself the fact, that he had suffered a great disappointment. Often and often, would come back upon him his old dream of the sunny clime of art andmusic, and he would feel the old, irrepressible longing to visit the shores of Italy. At last, it was some months after his marriage, he said to Clara, something favoring the remark —

“I don’t think I shall ever be happy until I have seen the galleries of Rome and Florence.”

Clara looked surprised at this remark, it was so unexpected, for no intimation of such a feeling had ever been breathed ere this by her husband.

“Why do you wish to go there?” she naturally inquired.

“To took upon the glorious old masters,” replied Ellison. “I will never be any thing in my art until I have studied them.”

“You think too meanly of your present attainments,” said Clara. “N—— has been to Italy, but with all his study of the old masters he has not half the ability as an artist that you possess.”

“It isn’t in him, Clara,” replied Ellison with some warmth. “He might study in the galleries of Florence forever, and not make a painter.”

“There are many specimens and copies of the old masters in our city,” remarked Clara, “could you not find aid from studying them?”

“No, no—or at least but little,” said Ellison coldly. He had hoped that his wife would feel favorable, at least, to a visit to Italy, even though it might not at the time be practicable. But her evident opposition to the thing chilled his over-sensitive feelings.

“Ah me!” sighed the young artist to himself, when alone, “I am free in nothing!”

Other thoughts were coming into utterance, but he checked and drove them back. As for Clara, she was utterly unconscious of what was in the mind of her husband. Could she have understood his real feelings, she would have sacrificed even her natural prudence and forethought, and cheerfully proposed to sell the stock they possessed in order that they might visit Italy and spend a year or two in that classic region. But a reserve had already been created, and Ellison, in particular, kept secret more than half of what was passing in his mind, while he imagined his wife to have thoughts and feelings to which she was a total stranger. He said no more about Italy, for it was plain to him that she would oppose the measure if suggested; and, as she had brought him a few thousands, she of course had a right to object.

Fortunately for the young artist, the four pictures which he had painted gave excellent satisfaction. In fact, they were his best works. The mind, when smarting under pain, often acts with a higher vigor, while the perceptions acquire a new intensity; and this was the real secret of his better success. The pictures pleased so well that they brought him other sitters, and he was able, some time before Clara’s instalment of interest was exhausted, to place more money in her hands. The fact of doing this was always a relief to his mind. It was a kind of tacit declaration of independence. From that time both his work and his ability increased, and he was able to make enough to meet, with the aid of his wife’s income, the various expenses to which he was subjected, and to pay off the few obligations that were held against him. But he was not happy. No man can be who forfeits, by any act that affects the whole of his after life, his self-respect; and this Ellison had done. In spite of his better judgment, he would permit himself to see in Clara’s words, looks and conduct, a rebuke of the mercenary spirit that first led him to seek her favor. Nothing of this was in her heart. But guilt makes the mind suspicious.

——

The young artist worked on with untiring assiduity—he was toiling for independence. Never, since his marriage, had he breathed the air with the freedom of former times. The reaction of his often strange manner—his days of reserve—had been felt by his wife, and the effect upon her was plainly to be seen. With a perverseness of judgment, hardly surprising under the circumstances, he attributed the change in Clara to her suspicions as to the purity of his motives in seeking an alliance. In the meantime, he had become more intimately acquainted with her relatives, none of whom he liked very well. Her oldest brother interfered a good deal in the suit which he was engaged in defending on behalf of his wife; and by much that he said, left the impression that he did not think Ellison’s judgment sound enough in business matters to advise a proper course of action.

This fretted the sensitive and rather irritable young man, and, in a moment when less guarded than usual, he told him that he felt himself fully competent to manage his own affairs, and hoped that he would not, in future, have quite so much to say about things that did not concern him. The brother was passionate, and stung Ellison to the quick by a retort in which he plainly enough gave it as his opinion that before five years had gone by, his sister’s property would all be blown to the winds through his mismanagement. This was little less than breaking Ellison on the wheel. He turned quickly from his cool, sneering opponent, and never spoke to him afterward. Piqued, however, by the taunt, he proposed to Clara that they should visit the West, and remain there for as long a time as it was necessary to personally look after their interests. He could paint there as well as at the East; and might possibly do better for a time. To this Clara’s only objection was the necessity that it would involve for disposing of some of their stock, in order to meet the expense of removal, and the sustaining of themselves, if Alfred should not readily obtain employment as an artist, thus lessening the amount of their certain income.

“But see how much is at stake,” replied Alfred. “All may be lost for lack of a small sacrifice.”

“True,” said Clara, in instant acquiescence. “You are right.”

But when the proposed movement of Ellison and his wife became known, her relatives had a good deal to say about it. George Deville, the oldest brother, whose feelings now led him to oppose any thing that he thought originated with Alfred, pronounced it as preposterous.

“Why don’t Ellison go himself?” said he. “What does he expect to gain by dragging Clara out there?”

“You surely are not going off to Ohio on such an expedition,” was his language to his sister.

“Yes,” she replied to him, mildly, “I am going.”

“What folly!” he exclaimed.

“George,” said Clara, in a firm, dignified manner, “I must beg of you not to interfere in any way between my husband and myself. In his judgment I am now to confide, and I do it fully. We think it best to go and see personally after our own interests.”

“But Clara—”

“Pardon me, George,” interrupted the sister, “but I must insist on your changing the subject.”

Deville became angry at this, and as he turned to go away, said something about her being beggared by her “husband’s fooleries,” in less than five years.

It so happened that Ellison entered at this moment, and heard the insulting remark. It was with an effort that he kept himself from flinging the brother, in a burst of unrestrained passion, from the room. But he controlled himself, and recognised him only by an angry and defiant scowl. As Deville left the room, Clara burst into tears, and placing her hands over her face, stood weeping and sobbing violently. Alfred’s mind was almost mad with excitement. He did not speak to his wife at first, but commenced walking hurriedly about the room, sometimes throwing his arms over his head, and sometimes clasping his hands tightly across his forehead. But, in a little while, his thoughts went out of himself toward Clara, and he felt how deeply pained she must be by what had just occurred. This softened him. Approaching where she still stood weeping, he took her hand and said,

“We would have been happier, had you been penniless like myself.”

The tears of Clara ceased flowing almost instantly. In a few moments she raised her head, and looking seriously at her husband, asked,

“Why do you say that, Alfred?”

“No such outrage as the present could, in that case, ever have occurred.”

“If George thinks proper to interfere in a matter that does not in the least concern him, we need be none the less happy in consequence. I feel his words as an insult.”

“And so they are. But they do not smart on my feelings the less severely. Lose your property! He shall know better than that, ere five years have passed.”

“Don’t let it excite you so much, Alfred. His opinion need not disturb us.”

“It has disturbed you, even to tears.”

“It would not have done so, had not you happened to hear what he said. This was what hurt me. But as we have provoked no such interference as that which my brother has been pleased to make; and, as we are free to do what we think right, and competent to manage our own affairs, I do not see that we need feel very unhappy at what has occurred.”

“If you have any doubts touching the propriety of doing what I suggested, let us remain where we are,” said Ellison.

“I have no doubts on the subject,” was Clara’s quick reply. “I think that where so much property is in danger, that we ought to take all proper steps to protect our interests; and it is impossible for us to do this so well at a distance as we could if on the spot where the contest is going on. When you first proposed it, I did not see the matter so clearly as I do now.”

Preparations for a temporary removal to the West were immediately commenced; and in the course of a few weeks they were ready for their departure. There was not a single one of Clara’s relatives who did not disapprove the act, nor who did not exhibit his or her disapproval in the plainest manner. This, to Alfred, was exceedingly annoying, in fact, coming as it did on his already morbid and sensitive feelings, actually painful.

“They shall see,” he said to himself, bitterly, “whether I squander her property! If I don’t double it in five years, I’m sadly mistaken.”

This was uttered without there being any clearly defined purpose in the young man’s mind; but it was in itself almost the creation of a purpose. From that moment he became possessed with the idea of so using his wife’s property as to make it largely reproductive. He studied over it every day, and remained awake, with no other thought in his mind, long after he had laid his head upon his pillow at night.

With five hundred dollars in cash, obtained through the sale of five shares of stock, Ellison and his wife started for the West on the errand that we have mentioned. Clara looked for an early return, but Alfred left his native city with the belief that he would never go back there to reside; or if so, not for many years. Plans and purposes were dimly shadowing themselves forth in his mind, as yet too indistinct to assume definite forms, yet absorbing most of his thoughts. For the time all dreams of Italy faded, and in vague schemes of money-making, he forgot the glories of his art.

The place of their destination was a growing town, numbering about six thousand inhabitants. Near this lay the five hundred acres of land in dispute. On arriving, they took lodgings at a hotel, and, in due time, sent for the agent who had charge of the property. He informed them as to the state of affairs, and assured them that all was going on as safely as possible. The case had been called at the last term of court, but was put off for some reason, and would not be tried for three months to come, when they hoped to get a decision. If favorable or adverse, an appeal would be made, and a year might probably elapse before a final settlement of the questioned rights could be obtained.

Ellison hinted at their purpose in visiting the West. The agent said, in reply, that their presence would not in the least affect the case. It would be as safely managed if they were in Europe.

“That is all easily enough said,” remarked Alfred, after he was alone with his wife; “but I am disposed to think differently. Every man ought to understand his own business, and watch its progress.”

In this view Clara fully acquiesced; and they made their arrangements to reside in the West for at least some months to come. In the course of a week or two Ellison announced himself as an artist from the East, whose intention it was to pass a short time in D——. He arranged a studio, and made all needfulpreparation for sitters; but, during the first two months of his residence there, not an individual came forward to be painted. Expenses were going on at the rate of about fifteen dollars a week, with a good prospect of their being increased ere long. This was rather discouraging, and it may be supposed that the young artist was in no way comfortable under the circumstances. By this time he had become so well acquainted with the state of the case pending, as to be pretty well satisfied that his presence would be of no great utility in securing a favorable termination of the affair. If he had come to the West alone, a week’s personal examination of the position of things would have enabled him to see their entire bearing, and to understand that his presence was in no way necessary.

This conviction, to which the mind of Ellison came reluctantly, did not by any means help him to a better state of feeling. He had closed his studio at the East, just as he was beginning to get sitters enough to secure a pretty fair income, and was in a strange place, where people were yet too busy in subduing nature’s ruder features to think much of the arts. He was the only painter in town; yet he did not receive an order. Occasionally one and another called at his rooms, looked at his pictures, asked his prices, and talked about having some portraits taken. But it never went beyond this.

Steadily the sum of money they had brought with them diminished, and nothing came in to supply the waste. To go back again was, to one of Ellison’s temperament, next to impossible; and even if he returned, he felt now no certainty of being able to do so well as when he left. His unhappiness, which he could not conceal, troubled Clara, who understood its ground. He was talking, one day, in a desponding mood, of his doubtful prospects, when Clara said to him,

“There is no need, Alfred, of your feeling so troubled. We have enough to live on, certain, for the next four or five years, even if you do not paint a portrait; to say nothing of the property in dispute, which will, without doubt, come, with a clear title, into our possession before a very long time.”

“All very true,” replied Alfred. “But that consideration doesn’t help me any. I cannot see your property wasting away without feeling unhappy. It is for me to increase it; whereas, now, I am the cause of its diminution.”

“Alfred, why will you talk thus?” said Clara, in a distressed tone of voice. “Why will you always talk of my property? When I gave you myself, did not all I possessed become as much yours as mine?”

Alfred sat silent.

“We need not remain here,” resumed Clara, “any longer than it will be useful.”

“I cannot go back to Philadelphia,” said Alfred, quickly. “At least not until the business upon which we came has reached a favorable termination.”

Clara did not ask why he said this; for she comprehended clearly his feelings.

“We needn’t return there,” she replied. She said this, notwithstanding her own desire to go back was very strong. “In Cincinnati, artists are encouraged. We can go there.”

“Yes, or to one of the cities lower down the river. Any thing rather than return to the East with your property lessened a single dollar.”

“It is wrong for you to feel so, Alfred—very wrong,” said Clara. “We ought always to let a conviction of having acted from right motives sustain us in every position in life. Here, and only here, is the true mental balance.”

Alas for Ellison! the lack of this very conviction was at the groundwork of his inquietude. The property that now caused him so much trouble was the first thing that drew him toward his wife; and all the alloy that had mixed itself with his happiness came from this source. Had she not been the possessor of a dollar, and had he been drawn toward her for her virtues alone, their minds would have flowed together as one, and, in the most perfect union, they would have met and overcome whatever difficulties presented themselves. But all was embarrassment now, rendered more oppressive through the morbid pride of the young man, who felt every moment as if a window were about to open in his breast, so that his wife could see the baseness of which he had been guilty. This very effort at concealment but awakened a suspicion of what was there.

The conversation continued, Alfred getting in no better state of mind, until Clara became so hurt, or rather distressed, by many things said by her husband, that she could not control her feelings and gave vent to them in tears. Thus, as week after week went by, the causes of unhappiness rather increased than diminished.

——

Ellison had been in D—— three months, and was about leaving for Cincinnati, when his lawyer called on him, and stated that he was authorized by the opposing counsel to say, that the plaintiffs in the case were willing to withdraw their suit if one hundred acres of the land in question were relinquished.

“At the same time,” remarked the lawyer, in giving this information, “it is but right for me to state my belief that the offer comes as the result of a conviction that the claim urged for the ownership of the property has no chance of a favorable termination.”

“Yet the suit may be continued for two or three years,” said Ellison.

“Yes, and they can put you to a great deal of trouble and expense.”

“And there is at least a doubt resting on the issue.”

“There is upon all legal issues.”

“Then I think we had better accept the compromise.”

“You must decide that for yourself,” said the lawyer.

“How long will the question be open?”

“For some days, I presume.”

“Very well. I will see you about it to-morrow, or at latest on the day after.”

Clara, on being informed of the new aspect the case had assumed, fully agreed with her husband that the offer of a settlement had better be met affirmatively; and this being done, the suit was withdrawn, and they were left in the peaceable possession of some four hundred acres of excellent land. The costs were nearly two hundred dollars. This made it necessary to part with more of their stock, which was effected through their agent at the East. Five more shares were sold.

The termination of this suit wrought an entire change in the views and purposes of Ellison. A residence in the West of three months had brought him in contact with people of various characters and pursuits, all eagerly bent on money-making. Towns were springing up as if by magic, and men not worth a dollar to-day were counting their thousands to-morrow. The spirit of enterprise was all around him; and it was hardly possible for him to remain unaffected by what was in the very atmosphere that he was breathing.

“Let me congratulate you on the happy termination of your suit,” said an individual with whom Ellison had some acquaintance, a day or two after all was settled. “You have now as handsome a tract of land as there is in the state; and if you manage it aright, will make out of it an independent fortune.”

This language sounded very pleasant in the ears of Ellison.

“You know the tract?” said he.

“Oh yes! Like a book. I’ve traveled over every foot of it. There is a hundred thousand dollars worth of timber on it.”

“Not so much as that.”

“There is, every dollar of it. Not as fire-wood, of course.”

“In lumber, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

The man’s name was Claxton. He had come to D——, about a year previously, with some six thousand dollars in cash, and as full of enterprize and money-loving ambition as a man could well be. The town was growing fast, and the supply of lumber, which a saw-mill of very limited capacity was turning out, so poorly met the demand, that prices ranged exceedingly high. A large landholder, whose interests were seriously affected by this high rate of lumber, made Claxton believe that he had only to erect a steam saw-mill, capable of turning out, per day, a certain number of feet of boards and scantling, and his fortune was made. Without stopping to investigate the matter beyond a certain point, and taking nearly all the statements made by the individual we have named for granted, Claxton ordered a steam-engine from Pittsburg, rented a lot of ground on the bank of the river, and forthwith commenced the erection of his mill. As soon as the citizens of D—— understood what he was about, there were enough of them to pronounce his scheme a foolish one, in which he would inevitably lose his money. But he had made all the calculations—had anticipated, like a wise man, all the difficulties; and knew, or thought he knew, exactly what he was about. It was nearly a year before he had his mill ready. By this time he was not only out of funds, but out of confidence in his scheme for making a fortune. In attempting to put his mill in operation, some of the machinery gave way, and the same result happened at the next trial. Thus expense was added to expense, and delay to delay.In the mean time, the owner of the other mill had been spurred on by the approaching competition, to increase its capacity, and was turning out lumber so fast as to cause a reduction in the price.

So soon as Claxton became aware of the fact that Ellison’s suit had come to a favorable termination, he conceived the idea of getting off upon the young artist his bad bargain with as little loss to himself as possible, and he had this purpose in his mind when he congratulated him so warmly on his release from the perplexity and uncertainty of the law.

“Trees standing in the forest, and lumber piled up ready for use in building,” said Ellison, in reply to Claxton’s suggestion, “are very different things.”

“Any man knows that. But, in the conversion of the trees into lumber, lies the means of wealth. There is not an acre of your land that will not yield sufficient lumber to bring three hundred dollars in the market.”

“Are you certain of that?” inquired Ellison.

“I know it. The tract is very heavily timbered.”

“Three hundred dollars to the acre,” said Ellison, musing; “four hundred acres—three times four are twelve. That would make the lumber on the whole four hundred acres worth over a hundred thousand dollars!”

“I know it would. And you may rest assured that the estimate is not high. I only wish I had your chances for a splendid fortune.”

“How is this lumber to be made available?” asked Ellison.

“Cut and manufacture it yourself. You’ll find that a vast deal more profitable than painting pictures. You can see that this is one of the best situated towns in the West. The supply of lumber has always been inadequate for building purposes, and, in consequence, its prosperity has been retarded. Reduce the price by a full supply, and houses will go up as by magic, and the value of property rise in all directions. At present, you could not get over fifteen dollars an acre for your land if you were to throw it into market. But go to work and clear it gradually, sawing up the timber into building materials, and, in ten years, such will be the prosperity of the place, growing out of the very fact of a full supply of cheap lumber, that every acre will command fifty dollars.”

The mind of the young man caught eagerly at this suggestion. He held long interviews with Claxton, who made estimates of various kinds for him, and gave him mathematics for every thing. They rode out to the land together, and there it was demonstrated, to a certainty, that at least seven hundred dollars worth of timber, instead of three hundred, could be obtained from every acre. Ellison saw himself worth his hundred thousand dollars, and as happy as such a realization of his hopes could make him. He went with Claxton to his mill, where the operation of every thing was fully explained to his most perfect satisfaction. Even in this enterprise a fortune was to be made, notwithstanding Claxton had no land of his own heavily timbered, and would have to pay at least two dollars for every log brought to his mill, which stood on the river bank. This site had been chosen because of the facilities it afforded for getting the raw material which could be floated down from above.

Of all this the young man talked constantly to his wife, and with a degree of confidence and enthusiasm that half won her cooler and less sanguine mind over to his views. She did not, however, like Claxton. Her woman’s true instinct perceived the quality of his mind; and she therefore had little confidence in him. In suggesting this, her husband’s reply was,

“I don’t take any thing on his recommendation. I look at facts and figures, and they cannot lie.”

There was something unanswerable in this; yet it did not satisfy the mind of Clara.

When Ellison talked to others of what was in his mind, some listened to what he said in silence; some shrugged their shoulders, and some said it wouldn’t do. He had been forewarned of this skepticism by Claxton, and was therefore prepared for it. He well understood that the people lacked true, far-seeing enterprise; were, in fact, half asleep! All objections, therefore, that were urged, rebounded from his mind without producing any rational impression.

He had already picked out a spot for the location of his mill, and was obtaining estimates for its construction, when Claxton called on him one day, with a letter in his hand, which he said he had just received from Cincinnati. It was from a brother who was engaged in the river trading business, and who owned three large steamboats. He had already made a fortune. But ill health had come upon him, and he found it necessary to retire in part from the active duties which had absorbed his attention for years. To his brother he offered most tempting inducements to give up his saw-mill scheme, unite with him, and take the active control of every thing. “If,” said the letter, “you have any difficulty in finding a person in your stupid place with enterprise enough to take your mill off of your hands, I know a man here who will relieve you; but he will want time on nearly the whole amount of the purchase. He is perfectly safe, however, possessing a large amount of property.”

Of course, Mr. Claxton, having taken a particular fancy to Ellison, and being anxious to put him fairly in the road to fortune, offered him the mill at cost; and Ellison, without asking the advice of any one—being fully impressed with the belief that he knew his own business, and had sense enough to understand a plain proposition when presented, immediately closed with the offer. The price asked was exactly cost, and to determine what this was, the bills for every thing were exhibited and taken as the basis of valuation. According to these the mill had cost six thousand dollars. And for this sum, Claxton generously consented to sell the entire concern, with all prospective benefits, to his young friend. The amount of cash to be paid down was three thousand dollars, and for the balance, notes of six, nine, and twelve months were to be given, secured by mortgage on the four hundred acres of land.

When matters assumed this aspect, Clara, who, strangely enough to the mind of Alfred, appeared to like Claxton less and less every day, suggested many doubts, and proposed that the matter should be submittedto three old residents of the place, and their advice taken as conclusive. But Alfred objected to this. They were plodders, he said, in an old beaten track, where, like horses in a mill, they had gone round and round until they were blind. They would, of course, suggest a thousand doubts and difficulties, all of which he had already solved. There was no aspect of the case in which he had not viewed it, and he understood all the bearings better than any one else.

“He is a poor sort of a man who cannot lay his course in life, and steer safely by force of his own intelligence,” said the young man, proudly.

Clara, however, was not satisfied; but having had some experience in regard to her husband’s sensitiveness when any question touching their property came up, she was afraid to say a great deal in opposition to a purpose that was so fully formed as to admit of no check without painful disturbance. So she permitted him to take his own way, neither approving nor objecting.

Alfred understood, however, from his wife’s manner, that she had little confidence in the new business upon which he was about entering.

“Happily, I will disappoint her fears,” was his consoling and strengthening reflection. “When her little property has swelled in value to fifty or sixty thousand dollars, how different will be her feelings! She will then understand the character of her husband better—will know that he is no common man.”

With a presentiment of coming trouble, Clara saw their stock sold, and three thousand dollars paid over to Claxton; but she appeared to acquiesce in the transaction so entirely, that Alfred was deceived as to her real feelings.

[To be continued.

THE PRIZE SECURED.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine

THE PIRATE.

———

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

———

Twelvehours along the glowing strandThe sunlight, like a flame, hath lain;The surf is swelling on the sand,And day is on the wane;And, like a shadow on the shore,The pallid plover winnows by,And, like a ghost’s, the heron’s cryRises above the breakers’ roar.And eddies down the sky.Who saw her gliding from the stocksWould know my gallant brigantine?The granite teeth of rugged rocksHave torn my ocean queen:A royal ransom under deck,The slave of every wave, she liesNever, ah, nevermore to rise,A helpless hulk—a crumbling wreck —Before my dying eyes.Alone! alone! alas! alone!Not one of those who swayed the waveSurvives, to hear my dying moan,Or give his chief a grave.No, no, not one; alone I treadThese desolate, desert sands—alone,Where, in the moon, as they were thrown,My merry men lie, cold and deadAnd motionless as stone.Night after night, along the sea,In maiden modesty of mien,Glides, gazing mournfully on me,My gentle Geraldine.Her glances pierce my penitent heart,As like a statued saint she stands —A seraph from those unknown landsTo which my soul must soon depart,Freed from its fleshy bands.Sweet Geraldine! her beauty fellOn sense and soul, like light from heaven;My heart looked up, like Dives from hell,And prayed to be forgiven;Love swam within her lustrous eyes,Played in her shadowy hair.Moved in her more than queenly air,And floated on her silver sighs —To drown me with despair.O, woful day! O, woful hour!That told me that my hopes were vain;I felt, that second, centuriesOf agonizing pain!Hope, tremulous with feverous fears,Unclasped her wings, and fled;I stood, like one whose dearest deadLies on the trestles—steeped in tears —Heaven’s judgment on my head.Why did she hate me! Wherefore blightMy penitent heart with piercing scorn?My better angel took her flightDespairing and forlorn:The Fiend, who stood exulting by,Reclaimed his trembling slave;God saw, but would not stoop to saveThe struggling wretch who dared defyHis laws, on land and wave.O, Geraldine, I see thee fly,Despairing, from my accursed hands:“Better my bones should bleach,” thy cry,“On savagest of strandsThan that my fatal charms should causeMy never—never-dying shame;Better, O, villain, virtuous fameWith death, than life, when human laws,And God’s, accuse my name!”I see again thy mute, white face,Thy pallid cheeks and bloodless lips,Thine eyes, that shone like stars in space,Rayless with shame’s eclipse —As flying, ghost-like, through the night,Fearing death less than me,Thy heart went out beneath the sea:An angel soul that night took flight,A martyr ceased to be!I walked in blood, I swam in wine,Until my desperate, daring crewTrembled at guilt so great as mine:The unbelieving JewWho smote his God was white as snowTo that which I became;So black was I, so steeped in shame,The very fiends, who writhed below,Howled when they heard my name.Nature gave way: when I awokeThe sky was black, the sea was white;Day, that long since had dimly broke,Was little more than night;And madly struggling with the wavesCareered my gallant craft;My crew were pale, I only laughed,And coarsely cursed the drunken knavesWho, full of wine, still quaffed.Night came; my men lay sunk in sleep;I only trod the silent deck:God’s anger walked the boisterous deep,But little did I reck;When in the storm, before my eyes,My memory’s virgin queen,The dead, the sainted Geraldine,Stood calmly pointing to the skies,Madonna-like in mien.I waved her from me, and she waned;I saw not, know not, how, or where;A single pitying look she deigned,Then, vanished into air.Then came a sudden shock and crash:In frantic haste I claspedA fragment of a shattered mast;I saw the boiling breakers flash,And sense and memory passed.When I revived, the noon-day sunLay swooning on the sultry sand:I was the only human oneThat ever touched the strand.The very birds that sported roundScreamed when they neared the shore;The trackless sands were gray and hoar;Nor shrub, nor grass relieved the ground,Which nothing living bore.We were alone—I and my soul —A timid, trembling, guilty pair,Already near our earthly goal,And livid with despair:Six weary days, six sleepless nights,We walked the painful Past:Our crimes, like ghosts, arose and castTheir glances on us: ah, what sightsAnd scenes were in that Past!But when the moon lies on the sea,The seraph soul of GeraldineNight after night comes down to me,Walking its waves of green.Hunger and thirst like phantoms seemBefore her pitying eyes,As pointing always to the skies,She wanes and vanishes like a dream —She and her pitying eyes.I feel that I shall die to-night;Death seems already at my heart;My soul has plumed its wings for flight,And struggles to depart.I only wait for GeraldineTo take me by the handAnd lead me to that blesséd band,Whose forms in visions I have seen,Walking the Better Land.

Twelvehours along the glowing strand

The sunlight, like a flame, hath lain;

The surf is swelling on the sand,

And day is on the wane;

And, like a shadow on the shore,

The pallid plover winnows by,

And, like a ghost’s, the heron’s cry

Rises above the breakers’ roar.

And eddies down the sky.

Who saw her gliding from the stocksWould know my gallant brigantine?The granite teeth of rugged rocksHave torn my ocean queen:A royal ransom under deck,The slave of every wave, she liesNever, ah, nevermore to rise,A helpless hulk—a crumbling wreck —Before my dying eyes.

Who saw her gliding from the stocks

Would know my gallant brigantine?

The granite teeth of rugged rocks

Have torn my ocean queen:

A royal ransom under deck,

The slave of every wave, she lies

Never, ah, nevermore to rise,

A helpless hulk—a crumbling wreck —

Before my dying eyes.

Alone! alone! alas! alone!Not one of those who swayed the waveSurvives, to hear my dying moan,Or give his chief a grave.No, no, not one; alone I treadThese desolate, desert sands—alone,Where, in the moon, as they were thrown,My merry men lie, cold and deadAnd motionless as stone.

Alone! alone! alas! alone!

Not one of those who swayed the wave

Survives, to hear my dying moan,

Or give his chief a grave.

No, no, not one; alone I tread

These desolate, desert sands—alone,

Where, in the moon, as they were thrown,

My merry men lie, cold and dead

And motionless as stone.

Night after night, along the sea,In maiden modesty of mien,Glides, gazing mournfully on me,My gentle Geraldine.Her glances pierce my penitent heart,As like a statued saint she stands —A seraph from those unknown landsTo which my soul must soon depart,Freed from its fleshy bands.

Night after night, along the sea,

In maiden modesty of mien,

Glides, gazing mournfully on me,

My gentle Geraldine.

Her glances pierce my penitent heart,

As like a statued saint she stands —

A seraph from those unknown lands

To which my soul must soon depart,

Freed from its fleshy bands.

Sweet Geraldine! her beauty fellOn sense and soul, like light from heaven;My heart looked up, like Dives from hell,And prayed to be forgiven;Love swam within her lustrous eyes,Played in her shadowy hair.Moved in her more than queenly air,And floated on her silver sighs —To drown me with despair.

Sweet Geraldine! her beauty fell

On sense and soul, like light from heaven;

My heart looked up, like Dives from hell,

And prayed to be forgiven;

Love swam within her lustrous eyes,

Played in her shadowy hair.

Moved in her more than queenly air,

And floated on her silver sighs —

To drown me with despair.

O, woful day! O, woful hour!That told me that my hopes were vain;I felt, that second, centuriesOf agonizing pain!Hope, tremulous with feverous fears,Unclasped her wings, and fled;I stood, like one whose dearest deadLies on the trestles—steeped in tears —Heaven’s judgment on my head.

O, woful day! O, woful hour!

That told me that my hopes were vain;

I felt, that second, centuries

Of agonizing pain!

Hope, tremulous with feverous fears,

Unclasped her wings, and fled;

I stood, like one whose dearest dead

Lies on the trestles—steeped in tears —

Heaven’s judgment on my head.

Why did she hate me! Wherefore blightMy penitent heart with piercing scorn?My better angel took her flightDespairing and forlorn:The Fiend, who stood exulting by,Reclaimed his trembling slave;God saw, but would not stoop to saveThe struggling wretch who dared defyHis laws, on land and wave.

Why did she hate me! Wherefore blight

My penitent heart with piercing scorn?

My better angel took her flight

Despairing and forlorn:

The Fiend, who stood exulting by,

Reclaimed his trembling slave;

God saw, but would not stoop to save

The struggling wretch who dared defy

His laws, on land and wave.

O, Geraldine, I see thee fly,Despairing, from my accursed hands:“Better my bones should bleach,” thy cry,“On savagest of strandsThan that my fatal charms should causeMy never—never-dying shame;Better, O, villain, virtuous fameWith death, than life, when human laws,And God’s, accuse my name!”

O, Geraldine, I see thee fly,

Despairing, from my accursed hands:

“Better my bones should bleach,” thy cry,

“On savagest of strands

Than that my fatal charms should cause

My never—never-dying shame;

Better, O, villain, virtuous fame

With death, than life, when human laws,

And God’s, accuse my name!”

I see again thy mute, white face,Thy pallid cheeks and bloodless lips,Thine eyes, that shone like stars in space,Rayless with shame’s eclipse —As flying, ghost-like, through the night,Fearing death less than me,Thy heart went out beneath the sea:An angel soul that night took flight,A martyr ceased to be!

I see again thy mute, white face,

Thy pallid cheeks and bloodless lips,

Thine eyes, that shone like stars in space,

Rayless with shame’s eclipse —

As flying, ghost-like, through the night,

Fearing death less than me,

Thy heart went out beneath the sea:

An angel soul that night took flight,

A martyr ceased to be!

I walked in blood, I swam in wine,Until my desperate, daring crewTrembled at guilt so great as mine:The unbelieving JewWho smote his God was white as snowTo that which I became;So black was I, so steeped in shame,The very fiends, who writhed below,Howled when they heard my name.

I walked in blood, I swam in wine,

Until my desperate, daring crew

Trembled at guilt so great as mine:

The unbelieving Jew

Who smote his God was white as snow

To that which I became;

So black was I, so steeped in shame,

The very fiends, who writhed below,

Howled when they heard my name.

Nature gave way: when I awokeThe sky was black, the sea was white;Day, that long since had dimly broke,Was little more than night;And madly struggling with the wavesCareered my gallant craft;My crew were pale, I only laughed,And coarsely cursed the drunken knavesWho, full of wine, still quaffed.

Nature gave way: when I awoke

The sky was black, the sea was white;

Day, that long since had dimly broke,

Was little more than night;

And madly struggling with the waves

Careered my gallant craft;

My crew were pale, I only laughed,

And coarsely cursed the drunken knaves

Who, full of wine, still quaffed.

Night came; my men lay sunk in sleep;I only trod the silent deck:God’s anger walked the boisterous deep,But little did I reck;When in the storm, before my eyes,My memory’s virgin queen,The dead, the sainted Geraldine,Stood calmly pointing to the skies,Madonna-like in mien.

Night came; my men lay sunk in sleep;

I only trod the silent deck:

God’s anger walked the boisterous deep,

But little did I reck;

When in the storm, before my eyes,

My memory’s virgin queen,

The dead, the sainted Geraldine,

Stood calmly pointing to the skies,

Madonna-like in mien.

I waved her from me, and she waned;I saw not, know not, how, or where;A single pitying look she deigned,Then, vanished into air.Then came a sudden shock and crash:In frantic haste I claspedA fragment of a shattered mast;I saw the boiling breakers flash,And sense and memory passed.

I waved her from me, and she waned;

I saw not, know not, how, or where;

A single pitying look she deigned,

Then, vanished into air.

Then came a sudden shock and crash:

In frantic haste I clasped

A fragment of a shattered mast;

I saw the boiling breakers flash,

And sense and memory passed.

When I revived, the noon-day sunLay swooning on the sultry sand:I was the only human oneThat ever touched the strand.The very birds that sported roundScreamed when they neared the shore;The trackless sands were gray and hoar;Nor shrub, nor grass relieved the ground,Which nothing living bore.

When I revived, the noon-day sun

Lay swooning on the sultry sand:

I was the only human one

That ever touched the strand.

The very birds that sported round

Screamed when they neared the shore;

The trackless sands were gray and hoar;

Nor shrub, nor grass relieved the ground,

Which nothing living bore.

We were alone—I and my soul —A timid, trembling, guilty pair,Already near our earthly goal,And livid with despair:Six weary days, six sleepless nights,We walked the painful Past:Our crimes, like ghosts, arose and castTheir glances on us: ah, what sightsAnd scenes were in that Past!

We were alone—I and my soul —

A timid, trembling, guilty pair,

Already near our earthly goal,

And livid with despair:

Six weary days, six sleepless nights,

We walked the painful Past:

Our crimes, like ghosts, arose and cast

Their glances on us: ah, what sights

And scenes were in that Past!

But when the moon lies on the sea,The seraph soul of GeraldineNight after night comes down to me,Walking its waves of green.Hunger and thirst like phantoms seemBefore her pitying eyes,As pointing always to the skies,She wanes and vanishes like a dream —She and her pitying eyes.

But when the moon lies on the sea,

The seraph soul of Geraldine

Night after night comes down to me,

Walking its waves of green.

Hunger and thirst like phantoms seem

Before her pitying eyes,

As pointing always to the skies,

She wanes and vanishes like a dream —

She and her pitying eyes.

I feel that I shall die to-night;Death seems already at my heart;My soul has plumed its wings for flight,And struggles to depart.I only wait for GeraldineTo take me by the handAnd lead me to that blesséd band,Whose forms in visions I have seen,Walking the Better Land.

I feel that I shall die to-night;

Death seems already at my heart;

My soul has plumed its wings for flight,

And struggles to depart.

I only wait for Geraldine

To take me by the hand

And lead me to that blesséd band,

Whose forms in visions I have seen,

Walking the Better Land.

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