SYMBOLS.

———

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

———

I lookedall abroad for a symbol of thee,And a thousand bright symbols replied,They bloomed on the land, they shone on the sea —There were flowers and stars that likened might beTo thy beautiful spirit, so nearly alliedTo all that is brightest on land or on sea.The brooks on the hills in their crystaline flow,Singing out of their mystical springs,The heralds of joy to the valleys below,Making all things more lovely wherever they go,Are the types of thy spirit, whose beautiful wingsMake gladness and music wherever they go.The birds, the sybiline birds of the grove,Entempled in shadowy bloom,Or clothed in a luminous vesture aboveOf sunshine and azure and music and love,Are the types of thy soul, that in brightness or gloomIs clothed in a luminous vesture of love.All things are thy symbols—thou sheddest on allThe lustre and sweetness of Song,Like the angels whose star-loving pinions let fallA glory that holdeth true poets in thrall: —To thee all things lovely as symbols belong.And thou art the beautiful symbol of all.

I lookedall abroad for a symbol of thee,

And a thousand bright symbols replied,

They bloomed on the land, they shone on the sea —

There were flowers and stars that likened might be

To thy beautiful spirit, so nearly allied

To all that is brightest on land or on sea.

The brooks on the hills in their crystaline flow,Singing out of their mystical springs,The heralds of joy to the valleys below,Making all things more lovely wherever they go,Are the types of thy spirit, whose beautiful wingsMake gladness and music wherever they go.

The brooks on the hills in their crystaline flow,

Singing out of their mystical springs,

The heralds of joy to the valleys below,

Making all things more lovely wherever they go,

Are the types of thy spirit, whose beautiful wings

Make gladness and music wherever they go.

The birds, the sybiline birds of the grove,Entempled in shadowy bloom,Or clothed in a luminous vesture aboveOf sunshine and azure and music and love,Are the types of thy soul, that in brightness or gloomIs clothed in a luminous vesture of love.

The birds, the sybiline birds of the grove,

Entempled in shadowy bloom,

Or clothed in a luminous vesture above

Of sunshine and azure and music and love,

Are the types of thy soul, that in brightness or gloom

Is clothed in a luminous vesture of love.

All things are thy symbols—thou sheddest on allThe lustre and sweetness of Song,Like the angels whose star-loving pinions let fallA glory that holdeth true poets in thrall: —To thee all things lovely as symbols belong.And thou art the beautiful symbol of all.

All things are thy symbols—thou sheddest on all

The lustre and sweetness of Song,

Like the angels whose star-loving pinions let fall

A glory that holdeth true poets in thrall: —

To thee all things lovely as symbols belong.

And thou art the beautiful symbol of all.

SONNET. TO SHIRLEY.

———

BY WM. P. BRANNAN.

———

Likea delicious dream that fades awayWhen morning zephyr breathes into the room,Bearing from unknown blossoms their perfume —Though thou art gone, still round my spirit playThe radiant memories of thy maiden bloom;Delightful fancies riot in my brain,A painful gladness thrills my throbbing heart,And I would live forever thus apart,Deeming such bliss may never come again.Enchanting vision! hast thou fled for aye?Thy seeming presence haunts me with a spell,That musing on thy image thus alway,The world would smile again an Eden-dellWhere all things lovely should delight to dwell.

Likea delicious dream that fades away

When morning zephyr breathes into the room,

Bearing from unknown blossoms their perfume —

Though thou art gone, still round my spirit play

The radiant memories of thy maiden bloom;

Delightful fancies riot in my brain,

A painful gladness thrills my throbbing heart,

And I would live forever thus apart,

Deeming such bliss may never come again.

Enchanting vision! hast thou fled for aye?

Thy seeming presence haunts me with a spell,

That musing on thy image thus alway,

The world would smile again an Eden-dell

Where all things lovely should delight to dwell.

THE FIRST LOVE OF ADA SOMERS.

———

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

———

Poca favilla gran Fiamma seconda.Dante.

WhenAda Somers was a romp of twelve years, she chanced one day, in too bold a search for some water-lilies, to fall headlong into the stream from whose blue depths they lifted their pretty heads.

Truth alone compels us to relate this mishap of Ada’s: for although thequasidrowning of heroines has been a popular tableau of romance ever since streams and heroines were; still, this is the era of investigation; and we who on our railroads outstrip the speed of the bronze horse—we for whom the delicate and trembling wires of the telegraph do the office of a thousand Ariels—we who have called upon the sun to be our portrait-painter, and upon the moon to yield up her secrets that our lecture-rooms may be crowed; surely we have some right to think for ourselves! and we boldly proclaim that nothing can be less sublime and more ridiculous than the loss of one’s equilibrium—a plunge head-foremost—and the spectacle of two inverted feet without any apparent body.

Perhaps that sometime race of heroines, who wandered up hill and down dale in satin slippers—unsoiled—undraggled—and unscratched—and wept without the concomitants of red eyes and swelled noses; perhaps a race of such curious physiological construction possessed also the secret of losing their balance without losing their grace. But our poor Ada was not of this race: she was only a little American girl, subject to the laws of gravitation, so she fell into the river in the manner above described. Poor little thing! she might have floated off to keep company with Glendower’s spirits in the vasty deep, but for the timely interposition of a certain youth, by name James Darrington. James was taking his afternoon ride along the river-bank, when he heard a sudden splash, and turned his eyes just in time to catch a view of the two little feet above-mentioned. He was not, like the Countess Hahn-Hahn, versed in the physiognomy of feet, so without venturing a guess as to the ownership of the pair in question, he sprung from his horse and plunged into the river.

The spot where Ada had fallen was deep, and its bed was a mass of treacherous slime; but James was a bold swimmer, and after some moments of struggle, ay, and of danger too, he succeeded in bearing his prize to the shore.

Now, as Ada was no heroine, she did not emerge from the river like a water-nymph: her faithful chronicler is fain to say that her dress was a net-work of slimy weeds; that her hair was tangled, and her face dirty. Nevertheless, she was a pretty little thing in spite of her draggled condition, and when James went home and thought over the matter, he felt bound by the chivalry of fifteen to fall in love with her, and he did so. To be sure, he had passed Ada Somers a hundred times, in his father’s house and at hers, without bestowing a thought upon her—but now that Destiny had thrown her into his arms, he saw that her hazel eyes were starry with brightness—that her rosy mouth was the nest of all the loves—and he resolved to keep her where she was.

Up to the day of her mishap, Ada had never thought of any thing more sentimental than skipping-ropes, pet fawns and ponies—but she suddenly became addicted to solitary walking, wild-flowers and moonlight. (N. B.Thesetastes lasted for about a week.) And instead of scampering over the country with a servant behind her, her pony Lightfoot roamed his paddock in lazy leisure, unless James Darrington was at liberty to accompany Lightfoot’s mistress in her ride.

James, though only fifteen, was so accomplished a horseman that Ada’s parents had no hesitation in committing her to his care. They were often joined in their rides by Ada’s favorite playmate, Catharine Ashton; but sometimes they rode alone, and although these rides were generally silent ones, still James thought them pleasanter when Catharine’s merry voice was not constantly challenging them to some childish feat, or making the woods ring with its bursts of glee.

“I hope I shall have her to myself to-day,” thought he, as he rode up the oak avenue to Mr. Somers’ house. Yes, there was Lightfoot pawing the groundalone—and no Catharine trying Fenella feats—cracking her riding-whip, and breaking the luxurious silence of his reveries with her ceaseless mirth.

James threw himself from his horse, rushed up the steps of the portico, and just as he was stammering an apology to Mrs. Somers for nearly upsetting her as she advanced to greet him, Ada came out equipped for her ride.

How sweetly the little gipsy looked, with her habit of dark green, her tiny while collar, and her black velvet hat and plume. Before James could present his hand, she sprung into her saddle, and cantered off with such speed that he put spurs to his horse to overtake her. The woods were gorgeous with beauty. Summer still lingered in the tender green of some trees, while others, tinted by the bold hand of autumn, towered in all the pomp of scarlet and yellow foliage. The crisp leaves rustled to the tread of their horses’ hoofs, and the soft breeze that swept over golden meadow and sunny hill, came laden to their young hearts with those sweet, vague reveries that visit the soul butonce—but once!—in that untried season ofyouth when the earth seems starred with flowers, the sea mirrors naught but heaven, and the very consciousness of animal life is happiness. For some time the youthful pair rode on in silence, till at length emerging from the shady woods they came suddenly to an opening, where a grassy slope led down to the river, and to the spot which some months before had been the scene of Ada’s misfortune.

“Oh, how beautiful!” exclaimed she, as she drew in her rein to look around. The turf was still bright with sunshine—the waters sparkled as if they had stolen the golden bed of the Pactolus—and above them, forever changing shape and hue, floated the silver clouds that hide from mortal gaze the home of Immortality!

“Beautiful!” was the response of her companion.

“Did you ever see such a bright sky!” continued the delighted child of nature. “And such a soft green turf, which, by the bye, Lightfoot is enjoying inhisway—see, James, how nicely he crops the grass in a circle. Do you remember the story of the Dervise and the stray Camel? How he not only knew him to be astray, but found out that he was blind of one eye, lame in one leg, had lost a tooth, and was loaded with corn and honey, and all without having seen him? What a curious observer he must have been, that dervise!”

No answer was vouchsafed to this piece of Oriental lore, whose connection with Lightfoot’s skill in cropping grass was somewhat unintelligible to one who had not read the story; so Ada broke into new raptures over the beauty of the river.

This time James looked up, and gazed earnestly at her varying and animated countenance. “That stream had nearly wedded us, Ada.”

Ada tossed her pretty little head as she replied, “I am glad that I escaped such an ugly bridal.”

“Pshaw!” thought James, “she is but a child, and does not understand me.”

And he was quite right; for while he was perfectly aware of his being “in love,” Ada was utterly ignorant of the meaning of the phrase. All she knew was that James Darrington’s presence materially increased her happiness; but she would not have confessed to the very reeds and rushes that she liked him even more than she did her dear Catharine. Her wise and gentle mother, aware that her little daughter was in an Eden of ignorant bliss, prudently forbore to tender her the fruit of precocious wisdom. She knew that Ada was as childish as became her years, and she judged it best to leave that little heart undisturbed by knowledge of the good and evil of artificial life.

James, on the contrary, though he ventured no more declarations to the lady of his thoughts, indemnified himself for the same, by pouring out his ecstasies into his mother’s ear. Mrs. Darrington was something more than amused with this juvenile courtship; she was delighted to be the recipient of her son’s confessions: too well skilled in the human heart to repulse his confidence by ridicule, she contented herself with reminding him that to win Ada he must deserve her. So, the course of Mr. James Darrington’s true love ran on, for a while, without a ripple.

——

Oh! how this Spring of Love resemblethThe uncertain glory of an April day.Two Gentlemen of Verona.

Oh! how this Spring of Love resembleth

The uncertain glory of an April day.

Two Gentlemen of Verona.

Some months again passed away, when, one morning, as James was about to leave the breakfast-room, he saw his mother suddenly put down an open letter, which she had been reading, and turn to his father with an exclamation—“Minister to France, William! Is this a stroke of Fortune or ofMisfortune?”

“Such a question,” replied Mr. Darrington, “requires no answer. Whatever my appointment be to me, to you, I see that it is misfortune. But you are a woman, and therefore a stranger to the pleasures of ambition.”

“And to its pains,” said the wife quietly.

“Then from you,” resumed Mr. D., with a shade of vexation in his tone—“from you I may expect no congratulation. Have you no pride in such a mark of confidence to me from my country?”

“If by ‘your country’ you mean, as I suppose you do, your government, I fear that I am not to be any more elated by its confidence than depressed by its distrust. And besides,” continued she fondly, “my pride in you, William, is of too old a date to be increased by political success.”

The husband smiled, as what husband would not, to so flattering a declaration.

“Whether I be worthy of such praise or not, Julia,youmust be right, as you always are, for your flattery has driven politics out of my head. See how the magic of a few kind words has transformed his Excellency the Minister into William Darrington, the most devoted of his wife’s vassals.”

“ ‘Ambition should be made of sterner stuff,’ William.”

“So it should, dearest, and therefore you need never fear her as a rival. The fact is, that I have been at my distaff so long as to love my very servitude. But here is a fellow smiling saucily to hear us talking of love. He thinks we should leave such things to Quixotic young gentlemen of sixteen, who go about the world rescuing hapless damsels from watery graves. Well, my boy,” continued he, rising, “since you are so precocious a gallant, what think you of exchanging pretty little Ada Somers for some black-eyed nymph, who traces her pedigree to the crusades, and calls herself Montmorency or De Longueville?”

James said nothing to this treasonable discourse; but like the silent parrot, “il n’enpensait pas moins;” and his thoughts were by no means flattering to the Ladies de Montmorency and de Longueville.

“What!” exclaimed his father, at the sight of his lugubrious countenance—“at your age not enchanted to see the world! Your little Omphale must have strong spells indeed if she can chain the roving spirit of sixteen to her feet! But come! I hear my phaeton at the door—I am going to town, and I want you to drive those little gray ponies for me to-day.”

At any other time the gray ponies would have divided James’ heart with Omphale herself, but just then love was in the ascendant, and he could only stammer out —

“I would—if you would—please to excuse me this morning, sir.”

But his father knew better than to excuse him, and after some persuasion they drove off together. At first, the discomfited lover held his reins in dejected silence, but by and bye the infection of his father’s cheerfulness spread over his young heart, his reins grew tighter, and his horses went faster, and by the time they reached the city, as he dashed along the streets at full speed, his brain was a kaleidoscope in which love, horses, Ada Somers and boyish curiosity tumbled about in glorious confusion.

Meanwhile Mrs. Darrington ordered her carriage and drove over to acquaint Mrs. Somers with her intended departure. For a series of years the families had been united in such close friendship that it was natural the movements of one should sufficiently interest the other to be made the object of a special visit.

Mrs. Somers, though her acquaintance in town was numerous, could hope, in none of her idle visiters, to find a substitute for her old friend; and she was sincerely distressed at this separation. They sat together for some hours, talking of the prospects of their children—their fears and hopes—the one trembling as she spoke of the dangerous career of her boy—the other, as she remembered thatherchild, as a woman, was to receive her fate from the hands of others. They then naturally fell upon the subject of their children’s mutual inclination, and wondered whether their destinies would ever be united.

“Ada is very near to my heart,” said Mrs. Darrington; “but it would be too much to expect any serious results from this childish freak.”

“We must leave them to themselves,” replied Ada’s mother. “In such cases, it is sacrilegious to lay a hand upon the web of the Fates; but I confess, I should be glad to know that Ada would ever marry your son.”

“Here she comes,” interrupted Mrs. Darrington; “I am curious to know whatshewill think of Mr. Darrington’s appointment.”

Ada ran up the steps, followed by her shadow, Catharine Ashton, who, guiltless of admirers, was addicted to romping of every kind. Not but what Miss Ada heartily enjoyed a romp herself, but of late she had become ashamed of being caught climbing fences and running races. At that moment, however, she had entirely forgotten that she ever braided her hair, or tied her sash “avec intention;” for the said sash streamed like a pennant to the wind, while the hair followed the same direction. Catharine, behind her, in much the same guise, was trying not to maketoogreat a clatter upon the marble pavement of the hall; but Ada dashed on like a young Bacchante, and never stopped till she reached the lawn behind the house, where she threw herself full length on the grass, and screamed to Catharine to do the same.

“She is something of a romp, my Ada,” said Mrs. Somers, smiling. “Not yet a lady, certainly.”

“So much the better,” replied her friend. “Who would wish to stretch those free young limbs upon a Procrustean bed of propriety?”

“Not I, certainly,” said the mother. “But I am sometimes afraid that in my dread of making Ada artificial, I give too much sway to—Nature.”

“Not to such a nature as hers. Were there any tendency to coarseness in Ada’s mirth, you might be right to moderate it; but where nature is graceful in her wildness, no art can compete with her in loveliness.”

Another shout of mirth was heard, and Ada and Catharine burst into the parlor.

“What descent of wild Indians is this, Ada?” asked her mother, doubting the grace or refinement of this last movement. Ada started back, coloring with shame, and Catharine sneaked behind the nearestcauseusethat offered concealment.

Mrs. Darrington easily divined that Ada’s embarrassment had special reference toherpresence; so she smilingly extended her hand, and as Ada advanced with sheepish mien and awkward gait, she kissed her and said,

“I am glad to find you so merry, Ada. What a nice romp you must have had under those shady trees.”

At so gracious an opening, Catharine’s head appeared above the frame of thecauseuse, but seeing Mrs. Darrington look toward her, down it popped again.

Mrs. Darrington saw her plainly enough; but she resisted her inclination to laugh, and went on.

“I want you to come and spend to-morrow with me, and I shall stop on my way home at Mrs. Ashton’s to ask if Catharine may come with you.” In her joy, Catharine nearly upset thecauseuse, which rocked as if a little earthquake were taking place under it. “But I came this morning especially to tell you a piece of news.” At this, Catharine could hold out no longer; not only her curly head, but her entire self, emerged from concealment, and she slided, as she imagined, unobserved, into a seat.

“We are going away for awhile, Ada,” resumed Mrs. Darrington, “and I have various commissions to intrust to you. Will you do them?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want you to take care of Hector and Fleeta,” continued Mrs. Darrington.

Hector and Fleeta! Then James was going too! Ada longed to ask where, and for how long, but she dared not; and Mrs. Darrington, seeing her large eyes ready to overflow, merely added that they would speak more on that subject on the morrow. She then spoke a few words to Catharine, repeated her invitation, and drove off.

“Where are they going, mamma?” asked poor Ada, the moment Mrs. Darrington left the room.

“To France, my love.”

“To France?” gasped Ada, to whom a voyage to Europe, or a voyage to the North Pole, was equally terrific.

“Yes, dear,” said her mother, “and I am not surprised that you are sorry to part with Mrs. Darrington and James, who are so kind to you.”

This at once relieved Ada from any obligation to contend with her grief; and using her mother’s sympathy as acarte blanchefor any amount of tears, she burst into a violent fit of crying, in which she wasjoined by the sympathising Catharine. Mrs. Somers, not feeling disposed to make a third in thisjérémiade, left them to weep in concert, which they did for some timeà qui mieux mieux.

At length Ada dried her eyes, whereupon Catharine, who for some minutes had been squeezing hers to little purpose, quickly did the same; and after both had drawn a long breath, and had held up their handkerchiefs to see how much they had cried, Catharine thought it time to administer consolation.

“Never mind, Ada, when James is gone, brother George will ride with us. He is coming home next month.”

Conceive this, ye who have loved! The audacity of one’s bosom friend proposing some uninteresting brother as a substitute for one’s lover!

Ada was indignant, and forgetting the proof of friendship exhibited in Catharine’s exceedingly wet handkerchief, she gave such strong vent to her abhorrence of George, that a quarrel seemed unavoidable. At that moment, however, a servant came to call them to dinner, where decency forbade that Ada should be rude to her guest. At first the friends were quite formal, but with each course disappeared one layer of reserve, till the dessert was put on the table, when the desire to eat Philapænas together was irresistible, and the first twin-almond found in Ada’s plate restored peace.

The next day was spent with Mrs. Darrington. It passed in mingled joy and grief; but it must be confessed that the former predominated. Late in the afternoon, a procession, composed of James, Ada and Catharine, escorted Hector and Fleeta to their new home.

At length came the parting-hour. The Darrington family spent their last evening at Somerton; and Ada, though her father deposed that she had spent the entire day in the cave of Trophonius, was somewhat revived by the sight of Mrs. Darrington’s parting present. This was a beautiful writing-desk of ebony, dainty enough to have served Seneca or Sir Philip Sydney; for the inkstand, pen, pencil, and sand-box were, as Ada triumphantly pointed out to Catharine, of “real gold.”

As for James’ gift, what could it be but a ring set in the form of a Forget-me-not? And as he was a student of the classics, and had heard of the ring of Polycrates, he chose an emerald. He attempted an explanation of the resemblance between these two rings, which poor Ada vainly endeavored to comprehend; and no wonder, as King Polycrates threwhisemerald to the sea, and James gave his to his sweetheart—but never mind! an emerald was in question, and Ada had been picked up out of a river; and as for the rest, why—the genius of sixteen is highly imaginative.

That night Ada went to bed with her ring on her finger, and cried herself to sleep. The next day the Darringtons sailed for Europe, and she heard nothing of her friends until three years afterward, when tidings arrived of the death of the American Minister at Paris, and the removal of his widow and son to England. After that, the mention of their names became less and less frequent; and when Hector and Fleeta were gathered to their fathers, so little remained to remind Ada of her lost playfellow, that she threw his ring into a box with old jewels, and by and bye threw his memory to the winds.

And so ended the first love of Ada Somers.

——

——Hasset noch weil sie nicht liebt.Schiller.

——Hasset noch weil sie nicht liebt.

Schiller.

Ten years have glided away since we left Ada in tears and pantalets, and she has reached the mature age of twenty-three, “in maiden meditation fancy free.” Not that she ever bestowed a thought upon her childhood’s love—not that she lacked suitors either; for beautiful as one of Domenichino’s dark-eyed sybils, and with too many of the incidental endowments of fortune not to be worshiped for her wealth, if not for her worth, Ada might have had admirers as many as she had thousands. But she chosenotto have them; and they might as well have “loved a bright particular star and hoped to wed it;” for Galatea would step from her pedestal for none of them. Always graceful and high-bred, the only charge brought against Ada by the sex who begin life by expecting to bag women’s hearts as they bag pheasants, was, that she returned their assiduities and their flattery with the utmost consummate indifference. “Favors to none, to all she smiles” extended; but beyond that, no word, look, or action ever gave evidence that the beautiful heiress regarded men in any other than in the light of so many monads, representing certain qualities of mind and soul, good or evil.

The men of —— were in amazement at such powers of resistance, when they reflected upon the amount of fascination and worth resisted; and Ada became as remarkable as the Rock ofGibraltar, not only in the eyes of the baffled enemy, but in those of certain of her female acquaintances, who, rather than die under the ban of old maidenhood, would have married Bluebeard himself, and therefore looked uponmankind as a race of husbands, “to be or not to be”—theirs.

But Ada was no Lydia Languish, and had no horror of being called a spinster; neither saw she any thing so attractive in marriage that all the world must go mad for it. Early in life, she had learned, as do all little girls, her lesson of inferiority to a greater sex, and she grew up with a vague idea of the sublimity and wisdom of man, and the folly and ignorance of woman; but by and bye, as faith gave way to reason, she discovered that the lords of the creation were, generally speaking, none the wiser for their usurpation of the glorious privilege of praising God with their intellects, but that three-fourths of this boasting race were as frivolous as if, like woman, they had been all their lives shut out from the Paradise of knowledge, and had not had possession of all the learning of the earth for thousands of years. Moreover, Ada took an exalted view of the condition of old maids; she considered it a position which gave scope for the exercise of a wider philanthropy than is safe or consistent with the dutiesof a wife and mother; and she wrought up her enthusiasm for the vocation of the sisterhood to such a pitch, that she made up her mind to become one of them. But,

“Varium et mutabile semperFæmina——”

“Varium et mutabile semper

Fæmina——”

So thought Catharine Ashton, when she heard of these resolves; for she had grown up with very different opinions; and faithful to her convictions, she was on the eve of being married, and wished for nothing in the world so much as that her friend should be as happy as herself. Catharine had spent two years in Europe, and although her lover, Charles Ingleby, had always resided in ——, they met for the first time in Germany, where Ingleby was spending the summer with a friend, whom Catharine never wearied of lauding; for, like a true woman, she was ready to take to her breast any thing and every thing that loved her Charles; and between him and Mr. Stanley, there existed so warm a friendship, that the latter had greatly hurried some business transaction which detained him in Europe, to return in company with his friend and his prettyfiancée.

Mr. Stanley was daily expected to perform the part of groomsman to the lovers, and Ada Somers had been chosen to bear him company as bridemaid.

Ada and Mr. Ingleby were the best friends imaginable; and they had, from their first interview, seemed so pleased with each other, as to cause Catharine to hope that all was not yet lost for her poor friend. If she had made so signal an exception in favor of her (Catharine’s) lover, as to grant him the boon of her friendship, what might not be accomplished by a high-minded and estimable man who offeredmorethan friendship? Mr. Stanley, for instance.

——

’Twas throwing words away, for stillThe little maid would have her will.Wordsworth.

’Twas throwing words away, for still

The little maid would have her will.

Wordsworth.

A week before the wedding Mr. Stanley arrived, and as Ada had been invited to join a family party at the house of Charles Ingleby’s sister, Catharine took the liberty of inviting Mr. Stanley on her own account, for she was determined to begin operations at once. She had deliberated for some time whether or not to apprize Ada of the important arrival; at last, it was decided in the negative, and as the decision had cost the impetuous Catharine a fearful exercise of self-denial, she repaid herself by hurrying off her mother, lover, andprotégé, half an hour before the time appointed. She might as well have spared herself the trouble, as no Ada made her appearance, and it was not until the evening had almost passed away that Catharine learned from their hostess, Mrs. Howard, that Ada had excused herself early that morning, upon plea of a pre-engagement.

This was too impertinent of Ada, and Catharine resolved, early the next morning to go over and tell her so. The Somerses always spent their winters in town, and as a few squares only separated the friends, Catharine was soon at the door of Mr. Somers’ house, ringing the bell with the vehemence of a postman. The well-bred servant who opened the door, looked surprised when he found that it was Miss Ashton who had nearly broken his bell-wire; but as Miss Ashton was a privileged belle herself, and had been running tame about Mr. Somers’ house ever since he could remember, he stepped back respectfully, while she passed unannounced into the sitting-room.

“Good morning, Mrs. Somers, where is Ada?” asked she, taking off her bonnet.

“You will find her in the library, my dear,” replied Mrs. Somers, and away flew Catharine, with the easy familiarity of one whose welcome is unquestionable. She was prepared to heap abuse upon the head of the offending Ada, but when she flung open the door, she had not the heart to find fault with any thing so pretty.

Herblouseof rich Cashmere was fastened around the waist by a cord and tassel, its loose sleeves lined with crimson silk, were looped back so as to contrast with the snow-white cambric of the under sleeve; and the dainty little collar that encircled her white throat was fastened by a very small cameo brooch. Her dark hair was drawn over her earsà la comtesse, and the edge of its large twisted coronal, was just visible above one of the prettiest heads in the world. Ada had been poring, with rapture, over Jean Paul’s apostrophe to an old maid. She had found an advocate, and her large orbs were luminous with the enthusiasm of a mind that has just found, mirrored in another, the image of its own thoughts; and she looked so fair, so fresh, so any thing but like a student, that Catharine forgot her offences, and could only exclaim:

“Ada, you are radiant with beauty this morning. So should a woman look who has just parted from her lover. But you! you might as well be a mummy three thousand years old, as the beautiful girl you are.”

“Thank you,” said Ada quietly, while Catharine rattled on.

“Pray, whose is the spell that has brought such brilliancy to your eye?”

“Jean Paul’s.”

“Jean Paul’s!” echoed Catharine, disdainfully, “Only think of giving one’s best feelings to an author! Literally falling in love with a set of abstractions!”

“Falling in love!” returned Ada, laughing. “Who but you would have applied such a term to such a passionless recreation as reading? Ah, my poor Kate, you are far gone, indeed, and there is no method in your madness!”

“Well, don’t preach, but shut your book, and listen to me. I am very angry with you. Why were you not at Julia’s last night?”

“Why, because I was engaged to go and hear Mr. —— lecture on Shakspeare.”

“How absurd! These lecturers are a nuisance to society, and ought to be suppressed. I wonder the ghost of Shakspeare has not risen long ago, to beg that they will leave his ashes in peace.”

“He ought to be much obliged to them, for unfolding his beauties to the million who have a comprehension, but no perception of the beautiful, and are quite capable both of seeing and admiring, when they have been toldwhatto see and admire.”

“You are very wise and eloquent, no doubt, Ada, but I am not able this morning to take part in a discussion on literary acumen,” said her lively friend, “I am here for something less profound, and more important, Julia’s soirée.”

“Well, what had you to offer, that could weigh in the balance with Mr. ——’s eloquence?”

“Mr. Stanley.”

“Who is Mr. Stanley? A rival lecturer?”

A rival lecturer! This was too provoking of Ada to forget the name of Charles’ friend, and Catharine looked up to see if the forgetfulness might not possibly be assumed. Alas! it was but too real, and she gave full vent to her indignation, as she recalled to Ada, who and what Mr. Stanley was.

“True, I had forgotten,” quietly rejoined the offender. “But surely, Kate, there is no occasion for so much warmth. How should I remember him, when I have never even seen him?”

“That is just the reason why I am provoked—I wanted to present him to you last evening.”

“Another time will do just as well.”

“But there is no time to be lost,” replied Catharine, vehemently.

“Whywehave no preliminaries to settle about the wedding ceremony, have we?” asked Ada, ingenuously.

The question recalled Catharine to a sense of the blunder she had been about to commit, and she answered carelessly:

“Oh, no! but it would be pleasanter for both, had you met before the wedding. By the bye, Ada,” added she, to change the subject, “you should have seen how handsome Charles was last night.”

“I dare say! Had he chosen to deck himself with an ass’s head, Titania would have found him so.”

“Poor Charles! That I should live to hear him likened to Bottom, the weaver. But I ought to know better than to expect you to appreciate him; you, who waste your love upon books and music, and —”

“Saucy girls like yourself, Kate. But when you begin to wander over your ‘Carte du pays tendre,’ pray don’t expect me to keep you company, for I have never explored it. I will acknowledge, at the same time, that Charles is handsome—nay, the handsomest man of my acquaintance.”

“Ah, you will!” said Catharine, with a bright smile. “Then I forgive you, but I predict that the day will come, when you will be punished for despising this ‘Carte du pays tendre,’ for mark me, Ada! yours is the very nature forune grande passion, and when you love—angels and ministers of grace defend me!—it will be Ætna poured into Vesuvius.”

Ada laughed heartily, and a very sweet laugh was hers—low and musical, as the chime of fairy bells.

“Pray, Kate,” asked she, “when did the mantle of divination fall upon those pretty shoulders?”

“Oh, I became wise like Cassandra. Love has made me a prophetess.”

“And like Cassandra, a prophetess whom nobody heeds.”

“Right, Ada,” exclaimed Catharine, exultingly, “and to complete the resemblance, a true prophetess, notwithstanding.”

“You are clever at repartee, my Kate, but you have mistaken your vocation. If at the mature age of twenty-three I have never loved —”

“You forget James Darrington.”

“Pshaw,” said Ada, slightly coloring, “as if that deserved a name.”

“It does—for it proves that the object, not the feeling, is wanting.”

“It proves no such thing, so stop weaving romances for me, and make up your mind, like a good girl, to see me live the life, and die the death of an old maid.”

“The death of an old maid!” Catharine lifted up her hands in horror.

“I could not die in better company, Catharine, and I am surprised to hear any thing somissishfrom one who was once a rational being.”

“Thank you, Ada. But if I err, I have the comfort of erring with the whole world; and as I am no Briareus, I cannot lift my single arm to do battle with its errors. Besides, the prejudice against old maids is not one of yesterday; remember the lament of Jeptha’s daughter.”

“Do not quote the Jews to me for any thing!” cried Ada. “A wicked and idolatrous race, who, in the very desert where heaven rained manna for their food, and the rocks gushed forth water for their drink, could turn from the visible presence of the living God, and bow down before a golden calf! The heathens, for their opportunities, were both wiser and better than the children of Israel; and among them, the priestesses of the temples, the most honored of their women, were virgins. But stay! we do not need their sanction. The most perfect of created beings, she who was chosen to be the mother of the Saviour, is she not called ‘the blessed Virgin?’ ”

“Ay, dear Ada,” said Catharine, dropping her levity, “but she was a mother, and so fulfilled woman’s highest and dearest mission.”

“In her case it was both; and in all cases, the vocation of the wife and mother is a beautiful and joyous one; but precisely because in the eyes of the world itisso graceful and honorable, does it seem to me less noble than that of the lonely woman, who, first in the heart of none, devotes herself to all, for the love of heaven. The sister of charity, whose gentle hand smoothes the pillow of the dying outcast, the pensive nun, who sits at the Redeemer’s feet, are they not the Marys, ‘who have chosen the better part;’ and the busy wife, with her thousand cares, is she not that Martha troubled about many things?”

Catharine was touched by the eloquent earnestness of her friend’s manner, but it was not in her nature to be serious; she could only pause, to get over the embarrassment of feeling solemn, and then answer:

“Ada, your ideal of an old maid is charming, but unluckily, itisbut an ideal. Who that saw the faultless picture you have just drawn, would recognize as its original Miss Trott, who, instead of sitting at anybody’s feet, spends her days pattering about town as a fetcher and carrier of scandal, or Miss Dolly Wiggin, whose religion is made up of pious detestation of herneighbors’ faults, and whose life is an epitome of the Pharisee’s prayer?”

Dearly as she loved Catharine, Ada felt sometimes that she deserved chiding for her levity; but as in all her attempts at reproof, Catharine invariably got the better of her, through her drollery and good-humor, Ada merely shook her head as she answered:

“Trifler! trifler! will nothing be sacred from your indomitable spirit of fun?”

“Certainly not old maids—and if you persist in being one, expect no bounds to my contempt.”

“My nature will steel me against it,” replied Ada, “for you well know that I am not one to be turned from any purpose by ridicule; and as argument on this subject, is about as unavailing as a homily on the virtues to a staring idiot, you had better leave me to my unhappy fate, and confine your exertions to the shaping of your own destiny. Marry if you will, dear Kate,” continued she, rising, “and swear by the simplicity of Venus’ doves; but don’t expect all your friends to go philandering over the world after your example. And now, come with me to my room, and tell me whether my dress for your wedding shall be of Organdie or Tarlatane.”

“I will, with pleasure,” exclaimed Catharine, gayly, “for I was just beginning to fear that you were:

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