SONNETS.—AT TWILIGHT.

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BY CHARLES R. CLARKE.

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I.Theday-god lingers in the waking west,And as I gaze upon his burning browMy truant, willful thoughts abide no rest,But wander forth in search of those who now,Like me, engage perchance an idle hourIn still more idle speculation, whence,(E’en as the case may be,) yon orb of powerSteals, begs, or borrows his magnificence: —And as he slowly wades beyond our sight,Methinks I hear him likened to a king,On rosy couch retiring for the night,Till morning stars, mild chanticleers, shall sing:O cruel thought! to bid him sleep in stateWhile half the world still for their coffee wait.II.Yet these are pointless thoughts, the hour, the place,Command my muse to plume her wayward wingFor some bold flight—o’er realms that bear no traceOf other footsteps—be it mine to singOf that more blissful twilight ofthe soul—Which poets say, steals over it in dreams,When Want and Care resign their base control,And tired Sense reclines ’neath Fancy’s beams.O! years agone I loved a maiden fair,My hopes were high and my joys Elysian:Oft as I gazed upon her beauty rare,Low my Fancy whispered’tis a vision!And now I turn and wish that o’er my soulSuch fair and pleasant twilights oftener stole.

Theday-god lingers in the waking west,

And as I gaze upon his burning brow

My truant, willful thoughts abide no rest,

But wander forth in search of those who now,

Like me, engage perchance an idle hour

In still more idle speculation, whence,

(E’en as the case may be,) yon orb of power

Steals, begs, or borrows his magnificence: —

And as he slowly wades beyond our sight,

Methinks I hear him likened to a king,

On rosy couch retiring for the night,

Till morning stars, mild chanticleers, shall sing:

O cruel thought! to bid him sleep in state

While half the world still for their coffee wait.

II.

Yet these are pointless thoughts, the hour, the place,Command my muse to plume her wayward wingFor some bold flight—o’er realms that bear no traceOf other footsteps—be it mine to singOf that more blissful twilight ofthe soul—Which poets say, steals over it in dreams,When Want and Care resign their base control,And tired Sense reclines ’neath Fancy’s beams.O! years agone I loved a maiden fair,My hopes were high and my joys Elysian:Oft as I gazed upon her beauty rare,Low my Fancy whispered’tis a vision!And now I turn and wish that o’er my soulSuch fair and pleasant twilights oftener stole.

Yet these are pointless thoughts, the hour, the place,

Command my muse to plume her wayward wing

For some bold flight—o’er realms that bear no trace

Of other footsteps—be it mine to sing

Of that more blissful twilight ofthe soul—

Which poets say, steals over it in dreams,

When Want and Care resign their base control,

And tired Sense reclines ’neath Fancy’s beams.

O! years agone I loved a maiden fair,

My hopes were high and my joys Elysian:

Oft as I gazed upon her beauty rare,

Low my Fancy whispered’tis a vision!

And now I turn and wish that o’er my soul

Such fair and pleasant twilights oftener stole.

Painted by Bonington Engraved by F. HumphrysTHE LAY OF LOVE.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine

Painted by Bonington Engraved by F. Humphrys

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine

LOVE’S INFLUENCE.

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BY ENNA DUVAL.

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Thus not all love, nor every mode of love is beautiful or worthy of commendation, but that alone which excites us to love worthily. If any one seeks the friendship of another, believing him to be virtuous, for the sake of becoming better through such intercourse and affection, and is deceived, his friend turning out to be worthless, and far from the possession of virtue; yet it is honorable to have been so deceived. For such an one seems to have submitted to a kind of servitude because he would endure any thing for the sake of becoming more virtuous and wise: a disposition of mind eminently beautiful. So much, although unpremeditated, is what I have to deliver on the subject of Love, O Phædrus.Shelley’s Translation of the Symposium of Plato.

Inlooking back upon my school-girl friendships, I always select Meta Hallowell as the most interesting, and the most satisfactory to dwell upon. The influences of friendship, love, society and time, have made the most beautiful developments in her character. She was a merry, light-hearted creature; but was more remarkable at school for an affectionate disposition, and a refined and delicate taste, than for any quick perception of intellect, or even proper application. She was a butterfly, flying from one thing to another in her studies, just as the interest of the moment led her; acting as if all the duties of life were merely for amusement. I used to look at her and wonder silently how she would ever be able to endure any trouble that might come upon her in the future; she seemed so volatile, so delicate, so totally unfitted to come in contact with the thousand and one struggles and trials that spring up in every one’s life-path. “Surely,” I would say to myself, “trouble would overwhelm such a frail spirit, or harden it, and deprive it of its refined beauty.” But I have always been the very worst person in the world to judge of character; and I never could prophesy in that knowing manner, that so many wise ones do, on the effects that certain influences or circumstances would produce on different natures. Nor has experience done me any good. I am no better judge now, and although events have taken place in my own life and in my own circle that would have enlightened most persons, I am no brighter, no quicker; and I make just as many blunders as I did when I played with dreamy philosophy and the study of character at seventeen.

But I commenced with Meta Hallowell not with myself. Meta was beautiful in person as well as in spirit. She had a graceful, willowy figure, delicately developed; a sparkling, yes, a brilliant face, with eyes that were flashing or melting, just as she felt gay or sentimental; and a finely-shaped mouth, whose lips trembled with every shade of feeling, and around it hung the expression of intuitive refinement and delicacy that always hovers around the mouth if there be any refinement in a person’s nature. Then her laugh was the most musical thing in the world, and her voice the sweetest of all voices. This sounds enthusiastic, but Meta Hallowell was and is a subject worthy of enthusiasm. She has never worn out; she is better, lovelier and purer than when I first loved her in my school-days.

We left school at the same time, but our positions were very different in the world. She belonged to a gay family, and was immediately plunged into the whirl of fashionable life, while I led a very quiet, sober existence, which was well suited to my shy nature, but formed a strong contrast to pretty Meta’s sphere of action. One might have supposed our intercourse would have been broken off; on the contrary, we remained as intimate, as when we studied the same lessons, and sat at the same desk. True, a great deal of the visiting had to depend upon Meta, as home duties necessarily kept me from her; and she seldom passed a day without peeping in upon my “little nest,” as she called our cozy library; and once in a while she would enliven an evening by drinking tea with us; thus she kept me “booked up” in all the gossip and doings of the fashionable world.

She had no parents; her sister, two years her senior, and a widowed aunt, were her only near relatives. Meta and her sister were in comfortable circumstances—they had a nice little fortune apiece, which, of course, the world magnified. Their aunt had, however, quite a large life income, which, united with their own, made a very handsome appearance. Mrs. Hunsdon, the aunt, was a sillyone-ideaedwoman. To be fashionable, was the sole aim of her existence. She had no children, and turned all her attention to the establishment in life of her nieces. She had not cleverness, nor independence enough to be a leader in the gay world, but was always found fastened on to somedistinguéperson, whose shadow she made herself—going and coming, living and breathing as near like her model as possible; poor soul! how much labor she endured for her position in society. Her eldest niece was her exact counterpart; and at the time of Meta’sentrée, Miss Hallowell had secured an excellent offer from a most unexceptionable person, according to their ideas of such things; and the preparations for the approaching wedding were carried on in a grand manner. The whole town rang with Miss Hallowell’s magnificent wardrobe; the beautiful gifts presented by her husband elect; and I heard no less than a dozen different accounts of what was to be her wedding-dress; each account professing to come from Miss W., the fashionable dress-maker andmodisteof the day.

One morning Meta came dancing into the library where I had snugly seated myself for a quiet hour’s study, after having settled for the day, the affairs of my little domestic kingdom.

“Ah; this is a treat,” she exclaimed, “here is true comfort;” and taking possession of her favorite lounge, she gave me a half-laughing, half-serious account ofthe bustle and preparatory arrangements for the approaching wedding. “How stupid is all this ceremony, Enna, dear,” she continued, “aunt fusses about, and Therese looks as grand as a queen. Then Mr. Folwell is so wearying; how Tettie can fancy him is a wonder to me. I have never heard him call her ‘dear Therese’ yet; it is always ‘Miss Hallowell’—such dignity chills me. When I marry, there shall be no grandeur about the affair. I want quiet, home love. My husband shall call me ‘Meta, darling,’ varying it once in a while with ‘angel bird,’ and all sorts of sweet expletives; he shall love me dearly, put me in a nice little home like this—just such a library; here he shall study and write, and I’ll sit beside him, sew and sing, and look at him, and bless heaven for making me so happy.”

“Why, Meta, your aunt and sister would lift their hands in horror,” I said, laughingly. “But where are you going to find such a nice lover—will Mr. Lawson be all this?”

A look of vexation overspread Meta’s pretty face as she replied, “Oh no, not Mr. Lawson. I know aunt would be delighted with him, but he is almost as stupid as the rest of them.”

“Mr. Lawson stupid!” I exclaimed. “Meta, where is your taste? He is quiet and calm, I admit, but not stupid. You naughty girl, not to love him; he is just the husband for you, madcap. To be sure he might not indulge in so many affectionate expletives, as you say your husband must, but he would watch over your happiness tenderly.”

“Better marry him yourself, Enna, since you think him so agreeable,” said Meta, a little quickly; then springing toward me, she threw her arms around me exclaiming, “I have just such a lover as I have pictured, pet one; and I depend on your assistance in my love affair.”

Now, young as I was, I was a perfect model of propriety—the idea of being an assistant in a “love affair,” frightened me out of my wits; for I was in truth, a “born old maid,” as my old nurse, Katy, used to call me.

“Me assist you?” I asked. “How can that be possible; I—who never go out any where, never see any one?”

“For that very reason,” replied Meta, laughing heartily at my fright and astonishment, “you are just the very one; and that is why I have selected you. This paragon lover of mine dislikes ceremony as much as I do. He is perfectly unexceptionable; when I tell you his name, you will admit that he is. If he had addressed Tettie, I know she would have had him—that is, if the rich Mr. Folwell had not come in the way; but, thank Heaven, he did not want Tettie!”

“Then why do you need any assistance, Meta?” I asked, in a perplexed tone.

“Because we wish to have our courtship perfectly unsuspected,” she answered. “Charles Morris—there, you see I have made no bad selection—Charles is a little embarrassed just now; some unfortunate speculations and business matters entangle him. Our engagement may last a year, and I never could endure hearing Aunt Margaret announce with such self-complacency, that her niece, Miss Meta Hallowell, was engaged, actually engaged, here, at the commencement of her first season. If we were to be married now, within a month or so, I would endeavor to bear it, but to bear it at every dinner-party, every morning visit, and everysoirée, would surely kill me, and put an end to all Charles’s prospects of future happiness. Our plan is this, to keep perfectly quiet until his affairs areen traine, then announce our intention of marriage to Tettie and Aunt Margaret, just immediately before the ceremony, and thus avoid all talk and interference. But poor Charles says he cannot exist without seeing me once in a while as a lover, so with your permission we will chance to meet here now and then. I know he has a calling acquaintance with you—there lies his card uppermost on your card-basket.”

“Yes,” I replied. “He called yesterday. I did not know his call was intended to prepare the way for such a momentous affair as this.”

“But you will help me, Enna, pet, will you not?” said Meta, coaxingly. “There is no impropriety in it, prude”—and I consented. It was wrong, I know; mysteries and concealments rarely turn out well, and are always injudicious; but I was very young, entirely my own mistress, for my dear old father and Aunt Mary fancied I had the judgment of a woman of forty; and, moreover, I could not refuse any thing to dear Meta. I had not liked Mr. Morris heretofore; true, he was, as Meta had said, “perfectly unexceptionable,” being a young merchant of good standing in society, and having the reputation of some wealth. I knew very well that there was no fear of Mrs. Hunsdon objecting to him; but to me he had always seemed too bland, too artificial; he never, by any chance forgot himself; then I had heard a gossiping story about him, although I did not respect the source from whence it had proceeded, still it had prejudiced me against him. I had been told by a scandal-loving connection of ours, that Mr. Morris, a year before, had addressed a Miss Wilson, and would have eloped with her had not her friends interposed. This Miss Wilson was an ugly, red-haired heiress, with little brains, excessive vulgarity, but an immense estate. She was entirely out of the set of his associates, and if he had addressed her, it had been from mercenary motives. But now that I heard Meta’s account of her engagement with him, I dismissed Kate Holton’s story from my mind as a contemptible gossiping falsehood, which I should have been ashamed of listening to, and endeavored to find him as agreeable and good as dear Meta said he was.

During the ensuing winter, Meta and Mr. Morris met repeatedly at our house. We rarely received company in the evenings, therefore, they were always sure of being undisturbed. It was my father’s custom to retire early, and my good Aunt Mary is by nature unsuspicious and innocent as a child. She and I would sit in the library, sewing and knitting, listening to Meta’s merry talk; then, after Mr. Morris would join the circle, I generally proposed music, which made an excuse for Meta and her lover to go into the drawing-room, which opened on my library. Meta was a good musician, she played very finely, and had a beautiful voice. I used to declare the music sounded betterfrom the library; so by this little piece of management on my part, the lovers were left together. After a few pieces, the music ceased, and for an hour or more their low, murmuring conversation would come soothingly on my ear like the sound of sweet melody. I used to smile as I would look around me. We would have made a pretty picture if that sweet music of loving voices could have been made visible on the canvas. I was the only observing, conscious one of the circle, for dear Aunt Mary was as unconscious as Zoe and Flirt, the little hound and pet kitten that napped comfortably on either side of the library fire. My aunt in her large easy-chair and reading-stand before her, while her knitting-needles fairly flew, would be completely absorbed in some work of fiction, her greatest delight, never dreaming that a real love-story was progressing under her eyes. She has always been an inveterate novel reader, this same Aunt Mary; but I must say for her, that this taste, so pernicious to many, preventing them from performing their daily duties with interest, making real life tame for them, has had no bad effect upon her—a more industrious, excellent woman never breathed; and it has often amused me that, although she dotes upon love-stories on paper, and can follow patiently and unwearyingly the written account of the most intricate romance, love in real life possesses but little interest for her. She breathes a different atmosphere while reading—seems in another state of existence, which completely vanishes so soon as the book is laid aside; and she takes up life and life’s duties in the most matter-of-fact, conscientious manner imaginable. I often wonder what she does with all the love stories she reads, for she never makes use of them in every day affairs; and even when a real little bit of romance which has taken place in actual life is pointed out to her, she is entirely wanting in sympathetic appreciation, regarding it as quite absurd.

The winter passed quickly on. The only event of moment that occurred was Meta’s rejection of Mr. Lawson. How Mrs. Hunsdon stormed, and the haughty Mrs. Folwell lectured, and I could not help regretting it myself—Mr. Lawson was so gentlemanly, so good. I knew it would have been far better for Meta to have loved him; his influence over her impressible nature would have been so beneficial; and when by chance once or twice I met him in company with Meta, and noticed his serious, grieved countenance, my conscience felt smitten, and in sadness I would compare him with Charles Morris, the comparison being any thing but flattering to the latter.

The spring opened upon my pair of lovers, who were still as adoring as ever. One thing I do remember as strange, and at the time it annoyed me, although I felt at the time as we do in dreams, not able to express or even realize the actual annoyance. Although Mr. Morris knew, could not help knowing, that I was fully aware of his engagement with Meta, he never once spoke openly about it to me, never hinted at it; and two or three times, when other unavoidable engagements prevented Meta from joining him at the appointed time, and on his coming in the evening, I would hand him Meta’s note of excuse, containing a lovepouletfor him, he would read it without remark, and, to my surprise, stay the accustomed time, entertaining Aunt Mary and myself as if he had come for that purpose. That clever authoress, Mrs. Grey, makes one of her heroines express an opinion, that certainly does apply to such men us Charles Morris. She says, “I have the highest opinion of men’s honor amongst themselves, but you may depend upon it, there is very little in the case where we women, with our interests and affections are concerned.”

The traveling season came on; and Mr. Morris promised to meet Meta at the fashionable watering-place she was going to with her aunt and Mrs. Folwell; but the season passed without his doing so—business, he said, had prevented him; and when Meta returned in the fall, she looked pale, dispirited and unhappy.

“I could not hear from Charles,” she said, “without exciting suspicion. Had you been in town, Enna, he would have written through you; but as it was, I had to pass the weary season without any intelligence from him. Nine unhappy weeks have they been, and truly, I think, even the horror I used to have of Aunt Margaret’s fuss and bustle over my engagement, has almost vanished. I think I could bear with it better than this misery of silence and separation.”

They met again—but after the interview Meta seemed still tearful and nervous. It was evident she wearied of the concealment, but her lover did not.

“I have acted very foolishly,” she said to me one evening, when, instead of meeting Mr. Morris at our house, he had sent her a note of apology filled with excuses for his unavoidable business engagements, “I entered into this secret engagement so thoughtlessly—and Heaven only knows when or where it is to end.”

We were alone. Aunt Mary, not being very well, had retired immediately after tea. Meta threw herself on the lounge, and drawing me to her, rested her head on my shoulder, and sobbed like a child. I caressed her silently, and my tears mingled with hers. Frank and open, Meta could not have a thought or shade of feeling without disclosing it to me. Her concealment of her engagement from her family, had arisen from delicacy, shyness, and the strong dash of romance in her character; then the artificial natures of her aunt and sister prevented all confidence with them, but with those she loved and depended on, she was as confiding and candid as an innocent child.

“Charles says I have grown suspicious and fretful,” she at last said, as her sobs became more quieted. “I know I am altered; our separation in the summer was so very painful to me as to make me restless in temper. I confess I am tired of concealment, and when I told him so, the other evening, I was mortified by the cold manner with which he received it. He said it had been my own proposition, that some time would necessarily elapse before we could be married, and that the same objections existed as at first to an open announcement of our engagement. I felt wounded to the quick, and when I passionately accused him of no longer loving me, he very coolly left me to become more reasonable, as he said, and came here into the library and talked to you and your aunt. I have not seen him since; no engagement should have kept him from me;he knows how wretchedly I must feel, even though I may be unreasonable, and cherish groundless suspicions; and yet his note this evening is so calm and unmoved.”

I soothed and encouraged her in the best way I could, but I thought within myself it was a cloudy affair. Again and again they met, but their meetings failed to produce happiness for Meta. He was cold—she suspicious.

“He never alludes to a past misunderstanding,” she said, one evening to me after he had left, for he no longer staid the whole evening as formerly, nor did he come so often. “When he knows we have parted miserably, and we meet again, instead of soothing and assuring me, he commences talking on some indifferent subject, as if nothing had occurred. If he has changed, why not candidly avow it? So I told him this evening, and he told me my absurd jealousy made me both selfish and unkind. Oh, Enna! I am miserable, this state of affairs cannot last much longer, it will kill me. Do tell me, Enna, am I unjust in my accusations—is not Charles altered?”

I scarcely knew what to say, and by soothings and caressings evaded a direct answer. Altered he surely was; he no longer showed any particular desire to meet her; sometimes a week and more would pass without his coming; while poor Meta rarely omitted an evening. Every night her pale, sad face rested on my shoulder, starting nervously at every noise, and then, when the carriage would come for her at ten o’clock, she would kiss me good-night with trembling lips, and disappointment in her heart; and for an hour after, I would rest my head on my pillow, her glazed and heavy eyes and wretched countenance would come up before me like a spectre.

A few mornings after this last conversation I received a visit from the Mrs. Holton who had first told me of the gossip about Mr. Morris and Miss Wilson. She had been absent from town several months, and came in upon us unexpectedly, just as we were arising from a late breakfast. I had not even read the morning paper, which I had in my hand as she entered.

“Ah! I suppose, then, you have heard the news,” she said.

“Why we rarely hear news, Kate, excepting from you,” replied Aunt Mary.

Mrs. Holton laughed, but was evidently too much interested in her new piece of gossip to notice Aunt Mary’s sarcasm. She turned to me with a malicious expression of countenance, and said, “Notwithstanding it interests you so particularly, Enna, you bear it very properly, I must confess.”

I stared, as I well might, for I could not understand a word of what she was saying.

“What is it you mean, Catharine?” said my aunt, a little decidedly. Mrs. Holton stood a little in awe of Aunt Mary, and said quickly, “Oh, I mean nothing, to be sure; I did not believe the report about Enna when I heard of it this morning, notwithstanding even Mrs. Wilson herself told me Betty had been outrageously jealous of her.”

“Mrs. Wilson!—Betty!—jealous of Enna!—what are you talking about, Catharine Holton?” exclaimed Aunt Mary, really angry, “truly that unruly member of yours does make you take strange liberties.”

“I only say what every one else says,” said Mrs. Holton, in a piqued tone, “that Mr. Morris’s attentions to Enna, have been the means of his obtaining a rich wife. That newspaper will tell you, if you choose to look at it, that yesterday he eloped with Betty Wilson. The whole affair has been managed admirably; her mother never dreamed of such a thing until the bird had flown. I went to see Mrs. Wilson this morning, as soon as I read it in the paper, and she was raving away at a terrible rate. She says she knew Betty was terribly jealous of you, Enna, all last winter; but she thought it had all blown over, as Betty had not mentioned his name for a long while.”

I have no doubt Kate Holton felt more gratification in giving this account of Mr. Morris’s and Miss Wilson’s marriage, than she had ever experienced before, for my terror and wretchedness were expressed on my face, although I listened with a forced calmness to all her gossiping details of the affair. Up to this day I am sure she thinks I was jilted by Mr. Morris, but at the time I could say nothing, so anxious was I for poor Meta. I knew that the elopement would be a town talk, for during the last few months Miss Wilson had made herself very prominent. Although not belonging to that charmed circle ycleptpar excellence, “society,” she had made herself a subject of conversation with them, by her splendid equipage, her rich and noisy costume, and lavish expenditure of the immense income left to her, untrammeled, by her father, two years before. Young, aristocratic beaux, with little money, had saucily pitied the “poor thing’s isolated position,” and more than one had declared his generous, self-sacrificing intention of “taking the girl, and showing her how to spend her money,” but here Charles Morris had quietly stepped in and carried her off! I may as well mention here, the part of Mrs. Holton’s recital, which I subsequently learned, was true.

Mr. Morris had, before meeting with Meta, addressed Miss Wilson. This occurred soon after the death of her father. The mother, a sensible, shrewd old woman, had influenced Miss Betty to refuse the aristocratic lover. Then he met with Meta, with whose family he had always been on intimate terms. At first I believe he was sincere, or at least as sincere as his selfish nature would permit him to be; but during the previous summer he had discovered that the silly heiress was dying of disappointed vanity and jealousy, fancying from his frequent visits to our house, that he had transferred his affections to me. By some chance they met; he found her ready to throw herself and her half million into his arms, almost without the asking, which temptation he could not, of course, withstand. This was the cause of his coldness and indifference to poor Meta, for I suppose he did not wish to give her up entirely until certain of the heiress.

Although I listened to Mrs. Holton’s conversation in dignified silence, the agony I endured was almost unbearable. I could almost have put her out of the house, so anxious was I to go to Meta—and heartily did I rejoice when this gossiping woman rose to go. As the door closed on her, Aunt Mary exclaimed,“Why, Enna, one might believe Kate Holton’s story about Mr. Morris’s jilting you was true, you look so wretchedly.”

“Do I?” asked I, with an hysteric laugh and sob mingled, and for a few moments my weeping was so violent that my poor aunt really believed it, and turning it over in her mind, innocent soul! she wondered she had not divined it before. At last, under promise of secrecy, I told her the whole affair, for I knew she would fret unceasingly.

“Poor Meta! foolish girl!” said Aunt Mary, as I concluded. “She ought to consider herself well off for being rid of him; he’s a good for nothing fellow, and she never would have been happy if she had married him.”

Just as she was taking this matter-of-fact view of the subject, the library-door opened, and in rushed Meta, looking wild and startled. Aunt Mary left us.

“Tell me, Enna,” she said, clinging to me, “have you heard any thing? I know you have, darling, for you will not look at me. Tell me all you have heard, for indeed it will be better for me. I cannot suffer more than I have these six months past;” and she sunk on the floor before me, overwhelmed with her anguish. She had heard the news from some morning visiters, and had escaped from home quietly, to come to me for comfort. The only consolation I could give, was sympathy. The whole day passed sadly enough, and I felt almost hopeless for her future, when suddenly a ray of light beamed upon me, as I heard her exclaim, “Well, thank Heaven! no one knows my miserable folly but you, Enna. I shall not be mortified and wounded by the insolent pity of society.” I saw that her pride was roused, and there is every hope for both man and woman so long as that remains. I took advantage of this, and lost no time in rousing her self-esteem. What an altered creature she seemed, pacing up and down my library a half hour afterward. I thought all the time of Queen Elizabeth’s reception of Leicester, in Kenilworth, after she had learned his perfidy to her and his poor wife, “Sweet Amy Robsart.” Meta queened it nobly over herself; and after the first struggle had passed, and the excitement of wounded pride even had passed, purer and better influences came to her aid and strengthened her. I had trembled, as I have said, for the effect of any great trouble or disappointment on Meta’s character, fearing the meet injurious consequences; this proved how I little I knew. The influence of trouble was beneficial to her, it served to quicken and strengthen her intellect; shook off the dreamy sentimentality that had hung like a mist over her fine mind, and she took a better, clearer view of life’s pursuits and duties.

A few years after this affair Meta married well and happily. Her husband is a distinguished man, and my friend leads the gay life of a woman of real society not in a little provincial circle, like that in which she had been brought up, and which had disgusted and wearied her by its silly, trifling vanities and nothings, but in stirring scenes of life, interesting herself in the grand and noble pursuits of her husband, who is a statesman and a scholar; receiving and entertaining the crowds of people who are attracted around her by her husband’s talents and her own brilliant, bewitching manners.

Our intimacy still continues; and whenever I read one of her sparkling letters, or pay her a visit, and see how healthily and heartily she enjoys life, I can scarcely conceive that she was ever the love-sick, romantic Meta Hallowell of former days; and I see with delight that she is now under the influence of the most beautiful, the most holy of all feelings—true, spiritual love; and that she retains only a smiling, pitying recollection of that season of her past life, when she had for awhile lingered in the depths of mortality, held down by the enervating influence of that hollow mockery—love for an unworthy object.

SONG.

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FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE WALTER HERRIES, ESQ.

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Wouldthou wert mine own wife,I’d fold thee in these arms,And shield thee on this faithful breastSecure from all alarms.Thou shouldst be with me ever,And in gladness or in gloom,Thy presence like a sunbeamShould life’s every hour illume.The heaviest toil of life, love,The weary weight of care,Cheered by thy smile serene and true,Most gladly I would bear,And though forced by sterner dutiesFrom thy gentle side to roam,I would know an angel blessed meFrom the fireside of my home.Would thou wert mine own wifeThen cherished in this breast,Thou’dst dwell in tender joyousnessA dove within her nest.Thus, hand in hand together,We would tread the path of life,While flowers of joy should greet thy steps —Oh! would thou wert my wife.

Wouldthou wert mine own wife,

I’d fold thee in these arms,

And shield thee on this faithful breast

Secure from all alarms.

Thou shouldst be with me ever,

And in gladness or in gloom,

Thy presence like a sunbeam

Should life’s every hour illume.

The heaviest toil of life, love,The weary weight of care,Cheered by thy smile serene and true,Most gladly I would bear,And though forced by sterner dutiesFrom thy gentle side to roam,I would know an angel blessed meFrom the fireside of my home.

The heaviest toil of life, love,

The weary weight of care,

Cheered by thy smile serene and true,

Most gladly I would bear,

And though forced by sterner duties

From thy gentle side to roam,

I would know an angel blessed me

From the fireside of my home.

Would thou wert mine own wifeThen cherished in this breast,Thou’dst dwell in tender joyousnessA dove within her nest.Thus, hand in hand together,We would tread the path of life,While flowers of joy should greet thy steps —Oh! would thou wert my wife.

Would thou wert mine own wife

Then cherished in this breast,

Thou’dst dwell in tender joyousness

A dove within her nest.

Thus, hand in hand together,

We would tread the path of life,

While flowers of joy should greet thy steps —

Oh! would thou wert my wife.

THE TWO PORTRAITS.

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BY HELEN IRVING.

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“—his spirit wholly turnedTo stern ambition’s dream, to that fierce strifeWhich leads to life’s high places, and recked notWhat lovely flowers might perish in his path.”L. E. L.

“—his spirit wholly turned

To stern ambition’s dream, to that fierce strife

Which leads to life’s high places, and recked not

What lovely flowers might perish in his path.”

L. E. L.

“Life, with all its hues and changes,To thy heart doth lie,Like those dreamy Alpine rangesIn the southern sky;Where in haze the clefts are hidden,Which the heart should fear,And the crags that fall unbiddenStartle not the ear!”Bayard Taylor.

“Life, with all its hues and changes,

To thy heart doth lie,

Like those dreamy Alpine ranges

In the southern sky;

Where in haze the clefts are hidden,

Which the heart should fear,

And the crags that fall unbidden

Startle not the ear!”

Bayard Taylor.

Leaningagainst the wall in the atelier of a young artist, stood a picture to which the finishing touches had that day been given. It was a face of singular loveliness, and seemed to be that of a young girl in the bloom of early womanhood, if the word bloom could be used in connection with a face so spiritual in its character. From the pale and rounded forehead, in whose transparent temples the delicate tracery of veins was distinctly seen, the hair flowed back in dark waves, closely confined at the back, with the exception of one or two long ringlets, which had escaped and lay upon the white neck. The eyes were of softest hazel, and into their far depths of sadness, calm, and heavenly thought, it seemed impossible to look. The delicate Grecian nose corresponded with the spiritual brow and eye, and it was only in the full, warm mouth, that the secret of an impassioned nature was revealed.

Gazing upon the picture with drooping eyelids and folded hands, sat a woman far past her early prime, wearing an ordinary dress of deepest mourning. There was something in the outline of her face, and in the beauty of her dark-hazel eye, which would have suggested to an observer the truth that she stood in the relation of mother to the fair original of the portrait before her, and the mourning garb might have aroused a suspicion of what was also true, that Death had claimed this treasure of her heart.

“And you will not sell me this picture?” she said in a broken voice, apparently resuming a conversation with the artist, who sat before his easel, at the farthest end of the room.

“No, madam, it is quite impossible,” was the coldly civil reply, as he touched and re-touched the work before him.

“But I have said that I would pay you all, and more than you usually demand for such a work, and—and—she was my child.”

“Let us once for all, madam, understand each other,” said the artist, laying down his brush and looking her full in the face—“it is true that I have taken and still do take likenesses for the paltry sum of fifty dollars, for I am young, with my fame yet to earn, and fame alone in our profession wins money. But this is no common picture—I had conceived the thought to execute a work on which I would lay out all my power, on which I would set the full seal of my genius, when I met your daughter. Her face attracted me; it was beautiful, it was singular in its character, it was what I wanted—at my request she sat to me, and for those sittings I paid her, as you well know, a liberal price. I have spent weeks over this picture, I have expended upon it all my energies, and for a purpose. You may not be aware that the artists’ exhibition takes place soon—my picture will be there—it must command attention; I shall be known and my fame will be established! Part with it now! No, not for ten times its value would I sacrifice all the hopes that hang upon that work.”

The woman had held her breath to listen to his words, and as his voice ceased, the long-suppressed emotion burst forth, and she passionately cried—

“Do not, do not refuse me—think of your own heart, should all that it worshiped on earth be torn from it: think of your own mother, and for the love of her and heaven, hear me! What is the fame you tell of? Will it not come for other things than this—will it be sweet if you trample over one bruised heart to reach it—will praise be precious, bought at the price of a mother’s agonized tears? Oh, pity my wretchedness, and heaven will smile upon you—all the fame you covet will one day be yours!”

As she finished, the artist quietly resumed his brush, saying in his calm voice —

“My time is greatly occupied this morning, Mrs. Revere, and you will excuse me, if I decline all further conversation on a subject, concerning which I have already given you my intentions. I am momently expecting a sitter, and must beg your pardon for requesting you to allow me to attend to my preparations for her reception, undisturbed.”

A convulsive cry escaped from the woman’s lips as he turned away, and gathering her coarse veil about the face which was now deathly pale, she turned to leave the room. The cold heartlessness of those words had frozen the last channel of Hope, and daring not a glance at the face of her child, she feebly passed over the broad staircase, and into the noise and bustle of the crowded street.

She had been gone but a few moments, and the artist had had just time to brush with careless elegance the magnificent hair from his white forehead, and to fling a drapery over the portrait of Elise Revere, when steps were heard approaching, and with eye all light and lip all smiles, he hastened to the door to welcome his young sitter.

“Good morning Emil—Miss Hastings; I have been impatiently looking for you,” and with deferential tenderness he ushered her into the studio, and offered theluxurious chair which seemed to be her accustomed seat. His voice was deep and musical, and his eyes eloquent of admiration, as he stood conversing while she laid aside her hat and shawl, and drew off her delicate gloves.

Well might Edgar Loring gaze admiringly upon her, for she was “beautiful exceedingly,” and yet a greater contrast could not perhaps have been found, than she presented to the picture we have just noticed.

She was scarcely seventeen, of a petite figure, and her face, in the softness and delicacy of its outline, seemed almost childish. Golden curls clustered around her pure, sweet brow, lay against the sunny bloom of her cheek, and fell in a bright shower over her dimpled and snowy shoulders. Her eyes had that summer’s day radiance given only to eyes of blue—her soft lips were of the richest red, and seemed moulded to thoughts of lovingness, and gentleness, and happiness. It was a face into which you could not look without the conviction that it had never known aught but sunshine and love—that the dark truths of the world were to its owner, but unreal visions of a far-off future. No deep tide of feeling, no storm of strong passions had left its impress there; yet the face so exquisite in its infantile loveliness, was not without its signs of latent power. There was often a deepening of the light within those soft eyes, an earnest compressing of the full lips, that were a prophecy of a higher type of beauty for her maturer womanhood.

And Edgar Loring loved sweet Emily Hastings, although he had not yet told her of it save by looks and tones perhaps as unmistakable as words. He loved her fondly, almost passionately,next to himself and fame. Intensely selfish and insatiably ambitious, he was ignorant of his incapacity for a great and generous love. Possessed of a good education, and a fine share of talent if not genius, he had come to the city, with no friends but these and his remarkably handsome person, filled with the determination of making to himself a name. Accident had brought him into contact with a few influential persons, and he soon became known among a certain clique as a young man whom it were well worth while to patronize.

He had been in the city a little more than two years, and had painted several portraits in good families, when he met with Emily Hastings, the daughter of one of his patrons. Her beauty delighted his artistic eye, her winning gentleness captivated his heart, her position in society was a mark for his ambition. Well assured of his growing love for her, he was also far from insensible to the advantages which a union with her would confer. Mr. Hastings, although a man of wealth and high-standing, was free from the weak prejudices of many of his class, and Edgar knew that were his daughter’s heart bestowed upon a man of education and character, he would not be looked upon as unworthy, even though penniless. Could he win Emily’s love, he felt that her father’s approval was sure, and in all his thoughts of the future, he pictured himself a distinguished artist, and the husband of Emily Hastings.

But fame seemed to him yet afar off; to hear himself spoken of as “a young artist who was remarkably successful in likenesses”—“a young man of considerable promise,” was galling to his vanity, and he resolved to execute some work that should claim attention. While he was thinking of this, unable to fix upon any subject, he met, as we already know, Elise Revere. That face of such strange beauty, line by line his skillful pencil could copy; he could catch as he gazed upon them living before him, the spiritual brow, and the eye’s deep poetic thought—all that only a master-hand couldcreateupon canvas. The sittings were long and many, but the artist was enchanted with his success—his ambitious dreams grew brighter, and he almost felt the laurel on his brow. Days and nights were occupied with thoughts of this new work, and the cold selfishness of his ambition cannot be better shown than by the fact, that when the illness and death of poor Elise reached his ears, the involuntary first thought was, “My picture was in time!”

And this was the being—his selfish nature unrevealed in his good-natured face and cordial manner, who sought to win the young, child-like heart of Emily. Few could have resisted the fascination of his presence—the mien deferential, tender—so eloquent of admiration, and finally of love. Emily did not at least; she thought him good, noble and gifted, and then he was so handsome, and beauty is a powerful pleader to the heart of seventeen. She soon learned to love the books and music he had praised, to look for his smile amid the crowd, and be sad if she met it not—to treasure the flowers he had given and the words he had whispered over them, and at last to be pensive or gay, happy or sorrowful, in harmony with the music of those sweet chimes that usher in the morning of a first love.

The sittings for Emily’s portrait had been a happy period to both the artist and his beautiful subject—hours of pleasant interchange of thought and feeling, memorable steps in the rosy pathway they were now treading—and this day in especial had been so delightful, with its thousand nothings of conversation, to which time and circumstance give such a value, that an unconcealed shadow of regret fell upon each face, as Miss Hastings’ servant announced that the carriage waited.

“I believe,” said Emily, as she tied the little white chip hat under her dainty chin, “that you told papa yesterday there would be but one more sitting before the picture was finished.”

“Only one more,” replied Edgar, in a tone which sent a richer bloom into Emily’s cheek, and as fearful of betrayal she turned away her head, her wandering eyes fell upon the portrait of Elise Revere, from which the carelessly fastened covering had fallen.

“Oh, how beautiful, how adorably beautiful!” she exclaimed, pressing eagerly forward, “and is it yours, Edgar?”

He looked into her glowing face, and his heart swelled proudly as he answered:

“Yes, I have just finished it for the coming exhibition; it has occupied me for some time, and no one has yet seen it, but I intended showing it toyou; do you like it?”

“Like it? I could look forever into those wonderfuleyes, and upon that calm, noble forehead. Is it a portrait?”

“No!” came from the artist’s false lips, “it is an ideal work.”

How unworthy was he of the look of proud delight, of reverent worship written on the pure, girlish face upturned to his! How unworthy was he of the tears that quivered on the long, golden lashes—the tremulous tones of that low voice! Yet with a quickened pulse, he received the incense of her enthusiasm, for it was a delicious foretaste of the homage yet to be paid his name—a drop from the full beaker of fame for which he thirsted.

“I could almost envy you,” said Emily, “the visions of loveliness that must have come to you ere you could have called into being so glorious a creation.”

“It was from the recollection of much, very much of beauty that I wrought the work,” answered Edgar. “I called into it the choicest elements of grace I had ever known. Do you not recognize the mouth?” he added, turning to Emily with a peculiar smile.

Unconscious as she was of her own charms, it was impossible not to recognize in the form and expression of those full, sweet lips, a likeness to her own. False Edgar! it seemed to Emily a most delicate tribute of admiring love, and it filled her heart with a strange delight, to know that she was remembered amid his visions of beauty, that she realized even in part his dreams of the ideal. She did not answer, it was not a time for words. The consciousness of Edgar’s interest in her, now more fully revealed than ever, came fraught with still thought to her spirit.

And Edgar was silent, feeling for the first time sure that the affections of the young being beside him were his own; for it was but a part of the selfishness of his nature to refrain from declaring his passion in direct terms, until he could read in the face of the guileless Emily that it were a welcome avowal. For a few moments they stood gazing on the portrait, then Emily lifted her happy eyes for one moment to his face, and with a slight inclination of her head, passed from the room.

Gladsome morning and tempestuous night are not in greater contrast than were the light foot-fall and joyous spirit of Emily, to the lingering step and heavy heart of her who had so short a time preceded her. Both had come from the contemplation of the same picture—and to one its memory was as a talisman of love and happiness, and to the other of anguish and despair.

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