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THE
SNOW FLAKE:
CHRISTMAS, NEW-YEAR,
AND
BIRTHDAY GIFT,
FOR
-
PHILADELPHIA:
PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & CO.
1851.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850,
BY E. H. BUTLER AND CO.,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of
Pennsylvania.
.
'
ADVERTISEMENT.
ENCOURAGED by the very flattering success of
former years, the Publishers of THE SNOW FLAKE
again submit it for the examination and approval
of the public. The growing love for the fine arts
among us, and the increased knowledge, which has
been the result, have at the same time created a
greater desire for works of taste, and made people
more discriminating in their choice. Stimulated
at once, and encouraged by this fact, the publishers
have aimed to make the Snow Flake for 1851 cor-
respond to the growing taste of their patrons.
The Engravings all, as heretofore, from the burin
of MR. SARTAIN are entirely new, having been
made expressly for the work. They exhibit a
pleasing variety in the subjects, and are executed
by Mr. Sartain in his happiest style. The literary
department has been placed in the same editorial
Viil ADVERTISEMENT.
hands by which it has been so ably conducted in
former years. The evidences of this will be seen
by reference to the Table of Contents, where will
be found the names of some of the most success-
ful contributors to elegant letters.
CONTENTS.
SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE
The She-Eagle, Fredrika Bremer, 13
Amy, Sara H. Browne, 18
Eobin Eiddle's Purse, A. Marsh, 21
The Mother and Child, .... Miss E. A. Starr, 49
Winter, S. D. Anderson, 51
The Blind Man to his Wife, . . Sarah Roberts, 54
Nina. The Birthday Gift, . . . Mary Spenser Pease, 57
The Trojan Fugitives, J. J. Woodward, 81
My Second Love, Leitch Eitchie, Esq., 85
Evening Thoughts, Eliza L. Sproat, 109
Taking Toll, T. S. Arthur, 114
The Contrast, Maria Jane B. Browne, .... 125
Comets, Professor Nichol, 144
Past, Present, Future, Dr. Bowring, 159
The Waters of Oblivion, .... John Malcolm, 161
Helen Argrave, Samuel S. Fisher, 165
How can I Sketch the Tree, . . Caroline May, 177
The Carrier-Pigeon, Author of " Vivian Grey," . . . 179
A Bunch of Flowers, Miss Jewsbury, 197
X CONTENTS.
SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE
The Worm and the Flower, . . . James Montgomery, 199
Story of an Ear-ring, Kate Campbell, 203
A Ballad, Charles Swain, 216
The Man in Red, A Modern Pythagorean, .... 218
Thine for Ever, Caroline Eustis, 236
Children, Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 239
Cupid Taught by the Graces, . . Leila, 243
Gilbert Grimes, W. H. Harrison, 244
The Peasant's Song, Charles Swain, 253
The Boor of the Brocken, . . . Miss Jewsbury, 255
Hymn, John Bowring 272
Amelia, Miss E. W. Barnes, 275
Constance Ripley, R. Bernal, Esq., 279
Night, H. C. Deakin, Esq., 319
The Soldier's Dream, David Lester Richardson, Esq., . . 323
Song, F. H. Burney, Esq., 328
The Young Bride's Farewell, . . Rev. T. Dale, 329
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Subject. Painter. Engraver.
&MY LESLIE SARTAIN. Frontispiece.
VIGNETTE , . MBS. HEMANS. .... BARTAIN. Title Page.
v*- THE MOTHER AND CHILD. . LAWRENCE SARTAIN. . , Page 48
,v THE TROJAN FUGITIVES. . JONES, R.A SARTAIN 80
v^ THE CONTRAST. . ... . WRIGHT SARTAIN. .... 124
k \ THE ESCAPE CHALON, R.A SARTAIN. .... 164
THE FIRST EAR-RING. . . WILKIE SARTAIN 202
CUPID AND THE GRACES. . HAMILTON, R.A SARTAIN 242
AMELIA, BOXALt. ..... BARTAIN. 274
THE SNOW FLAKE.
THE SHE-EAGLE.
BY FREDERIKA BREMER.
IT was morning, and the sun shone brightly. The
Eagle's sister sat in the nest upon the rock. The bro-
ther had already flown out; the parent birds were asleep
in the nest. The young She-eagle looked down with a
longing glance into the great sun-bright world, and raised
herself upon her yet untried wings. Her breast heaved
proudly.
u To the sun ! up to the sun \" sang a voice within
her. "Why should I not gaze yet nearer upon that
glorious existence, and bathe my eyes in his light, and
inhale strength from his beams? Why should not the
heavenward journey of the She-eagle be sung, as well as
that of the Eagle ? My wings are strong, my glance is
clear, my heart beats courageously. Up towards the
sun, towards the sun !"
2
14 THE SNOW FLAKE.
She took flight. The morning, and the sunbeams,
and the infinite space through which she passed with
fanning wings, filled her breast with felicity.
She looked around her for a moment's resting-place,
and full of the enjoyment of her young, glorious exist-
ence, alighted on the top of a tall oak.
A crowd of birds of all kinds assembled around her
here. They had been watching her bold flight.
u Trillili ! trillili I" carolled the larks, " go on, young
She-eagle, thou wilt be a credit to thy relations. Suc-
cess to thee upon thy sun-journey! Trillili! trillili!"
" Courage!" cried a noble heron, kindly; "courage,
my little friend I"
" Hail to thee, sister, hail I" sang the white swans as
they swam, along beautifully over the blue waters; " hail
to thee, hail!"
"Croak! croak! yours is a dangerous journey!"
screamed the crows; "take care of yourself, mamsel!"
" Turlututu !" cooed the doves, " why seek for happi-
ness so far off? Stay at home, in the nest; cheer thy-
self with a mate ; lay eggs and feed thy young ! That
is the true happiness, Turlututu!"
"Hui, hui! kla, hoit!" screeched an owl; "ill luck
will come of this ! kla, hoit !" " Kla, hoit !" repeated
the starlings and the parrots; "ill luck will come of
this !"
THE SHE-EAGLE. 15
l( Bru ! bru !" cried a flock of wild geese, as they flew
tunmltuously over the wood, " bru, bru !"
But a young and noble Eagle flew down to the She-
eagle's side, and said:
" Thine is a beautiful journey, but the way is long,
and as yet, thy strength insufficient. Permit me to
accompany thee ! My glance and my wing shall direct
thee upon thy journey, and when thou art weary, I will
lead thee to my nest upon the high mountain, and dwell
near thee !"
The She-eagle gratefully bowed her head to the noble
bird at her side, and turning slightly away, she said :
" I wish to be alone; alone to fashion my own fate."
She scarcely heard the voices of the other birds. She
listened only to the voice within her own breast. " To
the sun ! to the sun I"
Again she spread her wings. Invigorated by the sun,
by freedom, and by joy, she flew higher and higher, far
from all the others.
The noble young Eagle, full of sorrow and anger,
shook his wings, turned his glance away from the aspi-
ring one, chose another mate, and conducted her to his
nest, upon the lofty mountain.
The She-eagle took her flight alone, and gazed nearer
at the sun. But it dazzled her eyes, she grew dizzy,
and no longer could distinguish her path. She still flew
THE SNOW FLAKE.
onwards, but without knowing that her course was de-
scending earthward.
A sportsman saw this, loaded his deadly weapon, and
the charge reached the heart of the She-eagle.
She continued her flight, but not towards the sun ; she
flew down into a deep, deep wood. She felt herself
stricken by death.
The She-eagle sat with her bleeding breast upon the
branch of a pine tree, and a tear was in her glazing eye !
"It is well for me that I am alone I" said she, " that
the She-eagle can die undeplored and unseen !"
Then heard she the mother-dove cooing, and saying
to her young :
" Do not you, my daughters, do any foolish thing, like
the She-eagle. She soon came to her end ! Remain at
home, in your own valley, in your own nest, and then
you may live many, many years. Those who will fly
higher than their wings can carry them "
"I have erred I" cried the She-eagle, but her heart
heaved proudly beneath the wound, " I have erred in
my youthful impetuosity, and am punished. But I can
silently bear my fate. I will not complain. And, after
all, I have had a near gaze at the sun I"
u Hui, hui ! kla, hoit !" cried the owl.
"Kla, hoit, kla, hoit!" repeated the starlings and the
parrots.
THE SHE-EAGLE. 17
"Bru! bru!" screamed the cackling wild geese,
stretching out their necks, " bru ! bru !"
" I die I" said the She-eagle, with a faltering voice
" I die ! But and, after all, I have approached
the sun, and gazed at him. It is well for me !"
With outstretched wings, she dropped from the branch
of the pine tree where she sat, and was no more !
AMY.
BY SARA H. BROWNE.
(See Frontispiece.)
THEY tell me I am beautiful.
They tell me I am young ;
That the crimson current in my veins,
From a princely fountain sprung.
They say the coffers of our house,
With glittering wealth o'erflow ;
That gems in costly caskets sleep,
Which on my brow should glow.
They say that many a haughty heart
Beats wildly at my side ;
That many a highborn suitor waits
To win me for his bride.
They tell me I was born for joy,
For music, and for song ;
They bid me prize the rare delights,
Which round my pathway throng !
AMY. 19
I know not if the tales are true,
These flattering minions speak ;
I only know that joys like these,
I never more may seek !
There is a shadow on my life,
A vow upon my soul,
That binds me with a fearful strength
Beneath its stern control !
And if I falter to redeem
That promise made to heaven,
I know my perjured bosom's sin
Too black to be forgiven !
And I could never meet in bliss,
My mother's saintly face ;
Nor in the upper Paradise,
E'er hope to find a place.
'Twas she who on nay childish heart
The sacred trust imposed;
Amidst the struggling agonies,
Which life's last conflict closed !
And e'en from Jordan's farther shore,
I thought she looked and smiled ;
Well pleased that she had pledged to Heaven
Her lone young orphan child !
20 THE SNOW FLAKE.
But years have passed, and vainer thoughts,
Swift crowding on the mind,
Had half effaced the solemn vow,
Which parts me from my kind.
But yesternight a ghostly shape
Sad vigils o'er me kept ;
And tones that moved my wildest grief,
Reproached me as I slept !
I wakened at the midnight chime,
I bowed my trembling knee,
And told my guilt and weakness o'er,
With cross and rosary !
And now my soul is firm resolved,
My bonds to earth are riven ;
I'll seek the cloister's shade to-day,
And live henceforth to heaven !
ROBIN RIDDELL'S PURSE.
A LEGEND OF LOCHAR MOSS.
BY A. MARSH.
OUR little story refers to days of " Auld lang
syne/' soon after King James the Sixth of Scotland
mounted the English throne. At that period there
stood,, not very far from Lincluden, in Dumfries-shire,
a farm-house which presented a perfect picture of inde-
pendence and comfort. The building was low and
irregular ; sundry outshots projected from the back, and
additions on additions diverged from the gables, form-
ing two straggling flanks. In short, the house was a
piece of patchwork from one end to the other ; despite
of which, however, it had an air of cosiness and comfort.
In the farm-yard behind, tun-bellied stacks of grain
seemed bursting with a sense of their importance ; fat
geese waddled, pert young cocks crowed, hens cackled,
and peacocks sailed through the yard, whisking their
tails about hither and thither, as a pretty coquette does
her fan.
22 THE SNOW FLAKE.
The owner of all these goods and chattels was John
Maxwell: a good man enough, but not without some
few failings, which will be set forth in the progress of
our story. Amongst his appurtenances, John numbered
an excellent wife and a pretty daughter, over whom,
according to the fashion of the " olden time," he kept a
tolerably tight rein.
About a mile from John's domicile, stood a dwelling
of a different description, being a stiff, straight, grena-
dier-looking house of two stories, with a high pointed
roof. This house, which had an ancient tumble-down
appearance, was placed in the centre of a large orchard,
from which, and from a few acres of land adjoining, the
proprietor, Robin Riddell, and his son, derived their
whole support. Robin was a hale ruddy old man ; and,
like his own apples, was an odd compound of different
qualities. Robin's wife had long been dead, but his
house was cheered by his son Malcolm, who was the
best dancer, leaper, skater, curler, and wrestler in the
whole parish, besides being the handsomest youth in
the country side. Whether engaged in pulling apples,
nailing up trees, skating or dancing, Malcolm always
appeared to advantage ; but somehow or other, pretty
Mary Maxwell thought he never looked so handsome as
when seated beside her at the back of a rick of new-
mown hay, which, if the truth must be told, was pretty
frequently the case, when his chief amusement was to
ROBIN RIDDELI/S PURSE. 23
sprinkle hay amongst her brown hair for the sole plea-
sure, it would appear, of taking it out again. They
were thus employed one soft summer evening, when
Robin Riddell bethought himself of u stepping west-
ward" to spend an hour with his old friend John Max-
well; so reaching down his broad blue bonnet, and
taking his staff in hand, he set out on his walk.
" That's surely your father daikering down the brae,"
said Mary, as she shook the hay from her head, and
shed back her hair from her fair brow.
" So it is/' answered Malcolm; " he has been wearying
sitting by himsel without a body to speak to. Really,
Mary, ye should be ashamed o' yoursel for wiling me
here every night, and leaving my honest auld father by
himsel."
" And wha bids you come here?" replied Mary. "I
fancy there are other lads in the country besides you.
There would be little chance, I trow, o' my sitting here
my lane, though ye were no to come for a year and a
day."
"Ay, but Mary, though there are plenty o' lads in
the parish, ye ken there's no ane ye like half so weel as
me.'
a l ken nae sic thing," replied Mary, as she scratched
his hand with a branch of hawthorn.
" Ye needna' deny it," said Malcolm with a merry
smile ; a sae tell me, Mary dear, when will ye come hame
to us?"
24 THE SNOW FLAKE.
u
I dinna ken ; maybe never. But look at your father
dinging aff the heads of the thistles wi' his staff; he looks
unco canty/ 7
" Lang may he be sae, for he is the best father that
ever drew breath. I would gang through fire and water
to serve him ; but he is getting auld now and needs your
tending; so ; Mary, as your father and mine hae gien
their consent, we'll just speak to the minister, and tell
him what day the wedding is to be."
Leaving the lovers to settle this point, we shall follow
honest Robin to the house of his old crony, whom he
found seated on a bench in front of his comfortable
dwelling.
" This is a braw night John," said Robin.
" It's no that ill/' replied John ; " but set yoursel down,
and we'll hae a bit crack. I was wearying for somebody
to speak to; for Mary is out some gate, and the wife is
milking the kye. Beenie," he continued, " bring a horn
o' ale. You'll no be a hair the waur o' a drink after
your walk down the brae."
" I've heard waur offers than that," said Robin, as he
set himself down by his friend; " and, to tell the truth,
lad, I'm as glad as ye are to hae a crack; for, ye see, in
the daytime Malcolm and I are ower thrang to speak
mickle; and nae sooner is our wark done than he's aff
and awa some gate or ither wi' your bonny Mary. I
really wish this courting business was ow^r, that he
ROBIN RIDDELI/S PURSE. 25
might settle at hame wise-like. We maun see about
the wedding, John, for I canna thole the want o' my
laddie."
" If ye canna thole the want o' your laddie, I wonder
how ye think I can thole the want o' my lassie ? Troth,
neebor, ye're no blate."
" Ay, but John, mind ye hae a wife to tak tent o' ye.
Now when Malcolm is out, I'm left my leafu' lane, and
this niaks me very dowie; sae ye maun hear reason."
" Weel, weel, by the time the hairst comes round we'll
see about it; for this I will say, there's not a better lad
in the parish than Malcolm. But hae ye heard that
Rab Johnstone has bidden ower Willie Graham's head
for the lease o' the Holms, and that he's mooling in
with my lord's factor to favour him? This is no right;
mair especially as Willie has a family o' motherless
weans to work for."
" I dinna believe a word o't/' retorted Robin. " I've
ken't Rab Johnstone for the best part o' fifty years, and
he's no the ane to take the bread out o' another man's
mo.uth."
"It's the clatter o' the country, however," replied
John; "and I doubt there's some truth in't, or there
wadna be siccan a sough about it."
" I would be unco laith to believe that screed o' doc-
trine," answered Robin; " by reason that a wheen gowks
say ye hae a right to my bit house and land : na, na ; a
3
26 THE SNOW FLAKE.
lee's a lee, though it were in the mouths o' half the
parish; ye may just as weel believe the ae tale as the
other."
" And maybe I do/ 7 replied John somewhat nettled;
" for Saunders Wylie the writer has tauld me a hunder
times ower that my great-grandmother, wha left the
house and land to your forbears, had nae power to will
it awa frae her ain kith and kin, and that if the property
had gane the right road, itfwad hae been mine and no
yours at this time o' day."
" Dinna ye let Saunders blaw in your lug/' said Robin,
" he wants to make a fool o' ye; -nane but an evendown
gowk would lippen to him."
" Ye' re less than civil, friend," retorted John, waxing
wroth; "this is a' the thanks I get for no haeing ye
before the Fifteen, where ye should hae been lang syne.
Faith ! I'll hae ye there yet, if ye dinna shaw rnair dis-
cretion."
"I'll be blythe to tell their lordships a' the outs and
ins o't," said Robin; "and if they hae a grain o' sense
aneath their muckle wigs, they'll gie a verdict that will
make Saunders Wylie and some o' his friends look a wee
blue." 9
" Ye crack unco crouse," said John in a rage, " be-
cause ye think that as our bairns are trysted, I'll no
make this stramash ; and nae doubt this has made me
ROBIN RIDDELI/S PURSE. 27
\
let you sit still in a house that should be mine. I think,
my man, ye dinna ken your mercies."
" Mercies, good faith I" said Robin in high indignation,
" ye're no blate to say the word. What the sorrow ! d'ye
expect me to be thankfu' to you for leave to sit in my
ain house?"
" It's no your house, it's my house," thundered John ;
"and if you'll own to that, I'll say nae mair about the
Fifteen, and just allow you to live on as if it was your
ain.'
" A snuff for your allowance !" answered Robin; " this
house is mine, and the land is mine, and I defy you and
Saunders Wylie to take them frae me, though you had
twice fifteen lords at your back."
"We'll try it, however," shouted John; "and when
you're pulled out o' the house by the lug and the horn,
you'll maybe repent having refused a good offer."
"I'll ne'er repent o' having stood up for my rights:
the house and land came honestly to my forbears, and
I would muckle demean mysel to say that they were
yours by right, which would be telling a base beggarly
lee; so ye see, John, since you are sae keen to gang-
before the Fifteen, ye may please yoursel and welcome."
And so saying, Robin flung on his blue bonnet with an
air of defiance, and seizing his staff, strode off in great
wrath.
It happened most unfortunately, that soon after Robin's
^ THE SNOW FLAKE.
departure, John received a visit from Saunders Wylie
(who hated Robin for having prevented him from lead-
ing a bonny lassie an ill gate), to whom he related what
had passed; and so adroitly did Saunders manage to in-
flame John's ire, that the lawsuit was fully determined
on, and Saunders, having received directions to proceed
to business, hastened away to carry the order into exe-
cution. Great was Annie's amazement when, on return-
ing from the milking-field, she heard from John of the
quarrel between him and his old friend ; and still greater
was her dismay when she found John firmly resolved to
involve him in the troubles of a lawsuit.
" Indeed, John," said Annie, " if you take my advice,
you'll let alane this matter. I ken something about law;
and it makes me grue from tap to tae when I think the
same mishap may befa' you as did to my grandfather,
wha was a been carle till he fell out wi' Lowry Landale
about an acre o' ground that would grow naething but
a wheen thistles. Aweel, although his wife gaed down
on her bended knees to him to let Lowry keep his this-
tles, naething would hinder him frae taking the law o'
Lowry. Aweel, he took the law, and the law took every
bawbee frae him, and left him as bare as birkie : sae,
gudeman, ye had better take another thought, and let
Robin and his house alane."
"Gudewife," said John, sternly, "keep your advice
to yoursel. I can sort my matters without your help;
ROBIN RIDDELL'S PURSE.
and I command you to hand your tongue, and leave me
to take my ain gate, for I'll no be turned in this thing
by man nor woman/'
These words, and the tone in which they were spoken,
sufficiently admonished Annie of the uselessness of all
further interference. She, therefore, maintained a pru-
dent silence, and soon after went in search of Mary, who
was much distressed on hearing of the dispute that had
occurred; nor was Malcolm less grieved by this unex-
pected quarrel : but as John was deaf to all entreaties,
they were forced to submit and allow things to take their
course.
In a short time, however, John's wrath cooled, and
he wearied sadly for the visits of his cheerful old crony;
but the reluctance that all feel to own an error, combined
with Saunders Wy lie's reporting speeches of Robin's,
which Robin never made, prevented him from retracing
his steps ; and about the middle of November, he set off
to attend a fair in a distant part of the country, after
receiving from Saunders an assurance, that nothing
should be done in the cause till after his return.
The dissatisfaction John felt with himself naturally
extended itself to every other object; he cast disdainful
glances on the unoffending hoggs and giinmers,* pro-
nounced the year-aulds a no' worth ca'ing out o' a kail-
yard," and after looking as black as night on the
* Sheep of different sorts.
3*
30 THE SNOW FLAKE.
peaceable nowt,* as drove after drove arrived in the fair,
he turned his horse's head about without buying a
single beast ; and, after an absence of ten days, entered
a little village about half a mile from his home. The
weather was piercingly cold, and large flakes of snow
darkened the air. "A cauld day this, Maggie/' said
John to a woman, whom the sound of his horse's feet
had brought from her cottage. "Ye may say that,"
replied Maggie, as she walked into her house and shut
the door with a loud slap. " What the sorrow ails the
wife?" muttered John to himself, as he rode on. A
short time brought him up to an old man who was
breaking stones on the roadside. " You' re at a cauld
job, Willie/' said John.
"I cannot deny that/' replied Willie, dryly j "but
there's ae thing I'm thankfu' for, whilk is, that when
my wark is done, I hae a room to shelter me and meat
to eat, which is no the case wi' every ane."
" Lord pity them that want either the ane or the
other," responded John.
"The Lord may pity them," retorted Willie, "but
man winna."
"I hae na kent sic a cauld November for seven
years/' answered John ] " I'm amaist frozen. This is
a day that a body wadna turn a dog frae the door."
* Horned cattle.
ROBIN RIDDELI/S PURSE. 31
" John Maxwell/' said the old man, as he dashed a
stone in fifty pieces ; "I aye thought ye a God-fearing
Christian man; but this day's wark proves your good-
ness to be but lip-deep. Ride awa, man ! ride awa ! it
would be a sair pity if ye missed the grand ploy that's
gaun on at Robin Riddell's house I"
" Is that John Maxwell ?" cried an old woman, as she
left her cottage door, and tottered towards them. " Stop
him, Willie ; stop him till I hae banned him, and a' his
kith and kin."
" Whisht, Jenny," said Willie ; " ye ken as weel as
me that the wife and the bairn hae nae hand in this
sinfu' job; they're greeting thernsels blind about poor
Robin."
" And wha wadna greet," answered Jenny, " to think
that he that had compassion on the widow and the
orphan should want a place to put his head in ? Greet !
quoth I? faith, I'll ban first, and greet after !"
" For the love o' heaven," said John, in trepidation,
" what's a' this about?"
"Ay, ' what's a' this about?' said the wolf to the
sheep that came greeting about her lamb that he had
eaten up stoup and roup," retorted Jenny.
"I'll soon tell you what it's a' about. The fifteen
lords at Ernbro' (di'el pike their banes !) hae gi'en
you Robin's house (bonny like judges they are, I trow,
to gi'e ae man twa houses, and leave another without
THE SNOW FLAKE.
ane) ; and as Robin hasna siller enough to pay the law
folks for the trouble they had in putting him out o' his
house, the Embro' writers (black be their fa' nae
wonder that folk put W. S. for ' wicked sinner ' after
their names !) hae taken a' Robin's goods and gear.
I kenna if they hae even left him his blue bonnet to
keep the snaw off his auld gray pow. And now I tell
you to your face, John Maxwell, that it would hae been
better for you if you had been drowned in the deepest
pool o' the Nith, before you had done sic a black deed."
"Haud a' out o' my road I" cried John Maxwell;
and giving his horse the spur, he was soon out of sight.
The information of old Jenny was unhappily but too
correct; for no sooner had John set out on his expedi-
tion, than Saunders Wylie pressed on the suit with so
much activity and vigour, as to insure an early hearing ;
and the decision being in favour of his client, he lost no
time in ejecting Robin, against whom the present rigor-
ous measures were adopted at his instigation.
The scene that met John Maxwell's sight on arriving
at Robin's dwelling filled him with a mixture of shame,
grief, and indignation. Before the house stood two
carts, loaded with furniture ; the well-polished chest of
drawers, and substantial aumrie, were placed on the
little green, apparently ready for removal; and the
carved oak settal (resting-seat), torn from its ancient
station, stood beside the door. But trying as this was
ROBIN RIDDELL'S PURSE.
to John's feelings, he experienced a still greater shock
when, on bursting into the house, his eyes fell on the
assembled group. In one corner of the room sat Robin,
looking with an expression of rage and grief at Saunders
Wylie and his myrmidons, some of whom were busily
employed in tearing down the old man's bed, others in
carrying out chairs and tables. Close to Robin sat
Annie, with her apron thrown over her head to hide
her tears ] while near the window stood Malcolm, hold-
ing Mary in his arms, whispering words of comfort and
consolation, and endeavouring to impart that fortitude
and resignation which his changing cheek proved he had
himself failed to attain.
" The Lord be praised !" cried Annie, starting up on
hearing the step and voice of her husband; u a' things
will gang right now."
" Haud your hands !" said John to the officers; "let
alane that bed if you would keep a hale bane in your
skins."
" We daur ye to touch us," retorted one of the men ;
" we have good warrant for our proceedings, and if the
money is not forthcoming we maun do our duty."
"But it is forthcoming," said John, tossing his
pocket-book upon the table ; " help yoursels out o' that,
and be off with you ; and now, Saunders Wylie, I hae
an account to settle with you next. By this day's job,
whilk ye ken is clean coutrair to my orders, ye hae
34 THE SNOW FLAKE.
brought shame to my house and sorrow to my heart.
Take this for your payment :" and, in fierce wrath, John
struck him on the head with the handle of his riding-
whip, till the blood streamed over his face.
" Take him awa !" cried Robin to the men ; " take
him. awa before this man adds murder to his other evil
deeds :" and the men, awed by the fury that gleamed
in John's eyes, hurried Saunders out of the house ; and,
lifting him into one of the carts hastily drove off.
"Robin/' said John in a contrite tone, "this day's
wark has gien me the sairest heart I hae had for twenty
years. You heard me say, before Saunders, and the
gude wife there can tell you the same, that I never in-
tended to put you out o' your house : gude kens I dinna
waunt it and"
"That's just sae muckle the waur," retorted Robin.
"Ye say ye dinna need it, and wadna take it; sae it
was naething but pride that egged ye on : but by lees
and jookerie pawkerie, ye hae got the house and the
land, and I trow you'll keep them for me."
"Dinna say that, Robin," replied John; "you'll
keep them baith, and lang may you and yours live to
enjoy them; so we'll get a' things put right again, and
the furniture sorted. Malcolm, come and help me to
bring in the settal."
" If ye stir a foot on ony sic errand," said Robin to
Malcolm, "you'll be nae longer son o' mine. It's no a
ROBIN RIDDELI/S PURSE. 35
wheen smooth words, John Maxwell, that's to hinder
ine frae wishing a malison on the man that has brought
me and mine to want and poortith :" and the old man
dashed his bonnet on the ground.
"Oh, dinna let him curse my father!" said Mary,
clinging closer to Malcolm.
"Father/' said Malcolm, "if John Maxwell has
done an evil deed to you, he can do nae rnair than say
that he rues the same ; and as he is willing to make re-
paration"
"And are ye gaun to turn against me, too?" ex-
claimed Robin, in high wrath. "I see what you're
after: you'll marry that man's daughter; he'll gie you
my house and land, goods and gear, and your auld
father may dee at the back o' a dyke for what ye care.
This is warst o' a' ! this is warst o' a' !"
"I'll not let you say that," interposed Annie, " for
a better son than Malcolm ne'er drew breath."
"Hear reason, Robin," said John. "I winna deny
that I've been in a faut; for my conscience tauld me
scores o' times, that as your gear and mine would a'
come to our bairns, it was an unchristian-like thing to
take the law o' ye. But I'm sorry for the same, and
I'll be blythe to make a' things square; and you'll just
live on here, as if a' was your ain."
"John Maxwell," answered Robin, "ye little ken
the man you're speaking to. I wadna take a meal o'
36 THE SNOW FLAKE.
meat frae ye if I was dying o' hunger; far less wad I
take as an awmous what I hae aye thought my ain. I
reckoned on stretching my auld banes on the bed where
my faithfu' wife gied up her spirit ; but a pickle straw
behint a dyke will serve the turn. Take down that
Bible, Malcolm ; it was your blessed mother's ; it's a'
that belangs to you in this house. Now gather up a
wheen clouts to make meal pocks to us, and we'll awa
and beg our bread frae door to door." And the old
man put on his bonnet and seized his staff.
"Oh, father!" said Malcolm, as he stepped between
him and the door.
" D'ye want my malison ?" he answered fiercely.
" Dinna thraw him ! dinna thraw him !" said Annie,
softly to Malcolm. "Take him to auld Jenny's; she
was down here, a while syne, greeting for him to come
to her bit house ; it's a poor place nae doubt, but ony-
thing is better than to hae him wandering about the
country with the snaw drift blawing on his gray head."
"You are right," answered Malcolm; "he'll come
to a better spirit before lang. Comfort Mary." And
Malcolm hastened after his father, who, staggering in
the snow at every step, at length suffered himself to be
conducted to Jenny's cottage, where he was imme-
diately put to bed, from which he did not rise for many
weeks.
So soon as his father ceased to require Malcolm's
ROBIN RIDDELL'S PURSE. 37
personal care, he engaged himself as a day-labourer on
a farm near the village, and toiled early and late for his
support. Robin's strength gradually returned, and as
he disdained to eat the bread of idleness, he betook
himself to digging peats in Lochar Moss. One day,
while Malcolm was busily at work, he saw his father
with his spade in his hand running towards him.
" Fling down your spade, Malcolm," said Robin in
high glee. " A change o' days is coming to us baith.
Look at this purse, man ! as fu' as it can hand o' red
gowd, which is as welcome as flowers in May; for hear
ye, laddie, I'll use it in such a fashion as will make
John Maxwell rue the day he put me out o' my biggin.
Til revenge myself in a way they little think o'."
"Where did you get this siller, father ?"
"D'ye think I stealt it, ye gowk? I got it in Lochar
Moss, where I was digging peats."
"In the moss? Then it's nane o' yours; for I've
heard you tell a hundred times, that all found treasure
belaugs to the king."
"I may hae said sae," replied Robin, as his counte-
nance fell; " but I dare say it was just country clatters."
" Ye ken it was nae such thing," replied Malcolm ;
" oh ! dinna gang to sin against your conscience ; I'll
dig for you, I'll beg for you but, oh father, dinna gie
yoursel up to the tempter."
" Ye' re right, laddie," said Robin ; " I hae been an
4
38 THE SNOW FLAKE.
honest man a' my days, and I'm ower auld now to take
up anither trade ; but if ye could see into my breast,
ye would ken what for I was sae keen to keep the
siller.' 7
"Fling awa' the purse/ 7 said Malcolm, "I canna
bear to see it in your hand."
" Fling awa' the purse ? faith ! I'll do nae sic thing ;
wha kens but the king may gang halves with me."
" And what will ye do wi' the money ?" asked Mal-
colm.
"Ne'er fash your beard about that/' retorted Robin,
as he shouldered his spade, and walked sturdily off.
The next morning, Jenny, with a face of great impor-
tance, informed Malcolm, that his father had bid her tell
him, that he had gone away on " an errand/' as she ex-
pressed it, and that he would not be home again for some
weeks. Exceedingly uneasy at this intelligence, Mal-
colm assailed her with all manner of questions respecting
this sudden expedition; but Jenny resisted all his en-
treaties, declaring she had promised on the Bible to keep
Robin's secret, and she concluded by saying that, "he
was on nae ill errand, and that he had routh o' company
with him :" and with this meagre scrap of information,
Malcolm was forced to be content.
It was fortunate for Robin's secret, that Jenny had
so solemnly promised to keep it, otherwise she would
certainly have been unable to contain the surprising
ROBIN RIDDELI/S PURSE. 39
intelligence, that Robin had gone to London to " gie the
king a ca," as he termed it. Robin had confided to
Jenny the circumstance of his having found the purse,
and his anxiety for its safe conveyance to the king.
" Could I no get ane o' the great lords to take the purse
to the king, think ye?" " On, nae doubt they might
take the purse to the king," responded Jenny, with a
sagacious air; "but diel a bodle would be in't by the
time it got his length. I see naething for it but that ye
maun just step awa to Lunnon yoursel, and ca' on the
king: and now I think on't, Donald Mackintosh gangs
aff by daylight the morn to Lunnon wi' a drove o' nowt;
sae that if ye could be ready by that time, they would
be grand company for you on the road." As this was
an opportunity not to be slighted, Robin agreed to the
proposal. Jenny then sewed up the purse in the lining
of his bonnet, and having accompanied him to the place
of rendezvous, and put him under Donald's special care,
she bade him " Grod speed."
After a long and fatiguing journey, the whole squad
arrived in London ; and having seen his four-footed com-
panions safely bestowed, Donald accompanied Robin to
the palace; where he left him, after promising that he
would call for him in an hour or two, to conduct him
back to the little inn where they had taken up their
quarters. A number of domestics were lounging about
40 THE SNOW FLAKE.
the palace-gate who regarded the poor Scotchman with
evident marks of contempt.
"Could I get a word o' the King's Majesty?" asked
Robin, touching his "broad blue bonnet.
" You may chance to get a blow, as well as a word,
an you take not yourself off," answered the saucy me-
nial; a there are too many beggarly Scotchmen here
already/'
" I 'in nae mair a beggar than yoursel," said Robin,
sturdily; " I want naething frae the king, whilk is may-
be mair than ye can say, for a' your fine coats."
At this moment a young page issued from the gate,
and Robin fancying from his rich dress, and the respect
which was paid him by the insolent menial, that he was
no less a personage than the Prince of Wales, reverently
doffed his bonnet, saying, " Oh, my bonny young prince,
ye would rnickle oblige me, if you would bring me to
the speech o' your royal father. I want to say twa or
three words to him."
" I am not the prince, my good man," answered the
page, highly nattered by the mistake. " And I fear it
will not be in my power to procure you an audience of
the king; but if you will intrust your business to
me "
"Na, na," said Robin, hastily; "my business is far
ower weighty for you: faith, I'm thinking it would be
lighter before it reached him. Now gang ben, and tell
ROBIN RIDDELL'S PURSE. 41
the king, that I've walked a' the way up frae auld Scot-
land to let him see a sight that will make his een reel in
his head; and that I winna trust my secret with ony o'
his courtiers; sae he maun e'en let me see him face to
face, or I'll awa back as I came, which his royal majesty
would sair repent o' if he kent a'."
"But what do you want from the king?" asked the
page.
"Naething," answered Robin.
" Could I not carry your secret safely?" said the
youth.
"I doubt it," replied Robin, with a sagacious air;
" my secret would ne'er get the length o' the king, or
your courtiers are sair misca'd."
"Well, well," replied the page, "since you will not
trust me, you must e'en tell your story yourself; follow
me.'
" I'll be blythe to do that," said Robin, as he followed
his young protector, who left him in an ante-room, till
he craved for him the desired audience.
"May it please your Majesty," said the page, who
was no other than young Lord Lindsay, " a poor Scotch-
man humbly craves an audience."
"But it does not please my majesty," exclaimed
James, gruffly; " he'll be wanting some gear or bountith.
Do the loons think their king is made o' gowd or siller?
tell your friend to rest his shanks and gang back again."
4*
42 THE SNOW FLAKE.
" So please your grace, he says he has some weighty
secret to impart, which he refuses to intrust to any of
the courtiers, as he thinks it would never reach your
Majesty."
"It's a' a feint, man, it's a' a feint to get into our
presence."
u But," persisted the good-natured page, a he insists
that he wants nothing from your grace."
(( Lordsake ! bring him in," said the king; " a Scotch-
man that wants naething frae us is a ferlie worth looking
at: bring him in, Lindsay." And Robin was forthwith
ushered into the royal presence.
" And who may you be, friend ?" asked the king.
"A poor Scotchman, my lord king," replied Robin,
making a low obeisance.
" That's nae news," answered James, " but gang on
with your story, for tempus prseteritum nunquam rever-
titur, whilk, in the vulgar tongue, means, time past
never returns; so now let's hear what grand secret this
is, that you were so feared to trust with any of our
Lords."
" Here it is," said Robin, as he pulled out the purse,
and displayed its contents. "I just had a notion that
some o' the gowd might stick to their fingers, and that
made me sae instant to come ben to your Majesty."
"Deil take me," said James, bursting into a loud
laugh, and looking round at the nobles who were in
ROBIN RIDDELL'S PURSE. 43
attendance. " I would not have missed this ploy for
ten purses of gold. Now, tell us, ye pawky auld carle,
where got ye the siller; and what for have you brought
it to us. Where do ye come frae ?"
" I come frae near Dumfries, please your majesty/'
replied Robin. "Ye maun ken, that poor as I now
am, I ance had routh o' siller, and a been weel ple-
nished house; but sair changes happened, with the
whilk I need na fash your grace's highness; so I took
to digging peats in Lochar Moss, where I found this
purse, which I ance thought o' keeping to mysel ; but
minding that a' found treasure belangs to your majesty,
(I'se warrant, kings were at the making o' that law !) I
just took a step up to Lunnon, to gie it into your a in
hands."
"Cocksnails, man!" said the king, in high glee, "we
are mair glad than if you had brought us a cauldron fu'
o' diamonds. This matter will tie up the ill scrapet
tongues o' the English loons, who are aye sneezing at our
poor countrymen. Faith, we're thinking, that though
an Englishman had found a purse as big as Ben
Lomond, we would ne'er have been a preen the better for
it. Odd man, but we're proud o' ye; here's our hand;"
holding out his hand to kiss, which Robin took between
his horny fists and shook heartily, to the great amuse-
ment of the courtiers.
"Enough done, enough done," exclaimed James,
44 THE SNOW FLAKE.
somewhat disconcerted by this breach of etiquette;
" and now man, tak up the purse again ; we're think-
ing it's no sae fu' but it might hauld a pickle mair sil-
ler/' thrusting in some pieces as he spoke. " And now,
gang awa back to auld Scotland, and bigg yoursel a
house in the bonny town o' Dumfries ; and as a reward
for your honesty, we promise to take a night's lodging in
it, when we gang back to the North, which may be
sooner than ye expect."
"I'm mair than obliged to you," responded Robin,
in a joyful tone; "and may ye hae routh o' gowd, and
length o' days to ware it. But, I would fain gie a bit
token o' my thankfu'ness to the bonnie young laddie
that brought me to the speech of your grace. Will ye
take this to buy you a fairing?" said honest Robin,
offering a piece of gold to Lord Lindsay, who laughingly
declined the gift. "Aweel," said Robin, "since you'll
no hae't, it will gang with twa or three marrows into
the poor's brod, the first sabbath I gang to the kirk in
Scotland : and now, I'll awa hame. G-ude day to your
majesty." And putting up his purse, and' clapping
on his bonnet, Robin walked sturdily out of the palace.
It was on a clear frosty night in January, when
Robin Riddell lifted the latch of old Jenny's cottage,
where he remained only long enough to assure her of
his welfare, and learning from her that Malcolm was
then at John Maxwell's, he took his way to the farm.
ROBIN RIDDELI/S PURSE. 45
The light of a blazing fire drew Robin to the window,
which enabled him to see all within. John was sitting
by the fire ; Annie was baking cakes ; and Malcolm was
helping Mary to reel a pirn of yarn. "I wonder
where my auld father is?" said Malcolm, as a loud
gust of wind roared down the chimney. " May the
Lord be about him wherever he is," said Annie.
" Amen I" cried John, with fervour. Robin could stand
this no longer, and in another minute he was in the
midst of the group.
"Robin Riddell I" exclaimed John, "are ye here for
gude or for ill ?"
" For gude, I'll answer for it," said Annie, as she
threw her arms round his neck.
"Deil take the wife," exclaimed Robin, " she's pou-
thered me a' with meal."
" Dear father," said Malcolm, " where have you
been ?"
"I'll soon tell you that," said Robin. "Ye ken
when I found the purse in Lochar Moss, I told you it
would help me to be revenged on John Maxwell; and
what think you that was to be? just to forgie a' that had
been done : now that we were nae longer beggars, it
could na be thought we did it for our bread; and I was
in a great vexation, when you put me in mind that it
belanged to the king; but as I couldna deny the same, I
took a step up to Lunnon, and ca'd on the king, wha
46 THE SNOW FLAKE.
behaved unco genteel to me, and gied nie back a' the
siller, and bade me bigg a house wi' it, and said that he
would come and take a night's lodging with me some
night : niy benison be on him. Sae, John, my old friend,
here's my hand. Mary, gie me a kiss; the gudewife has
got hers already. I maun haste me to get the house
biggit, before the king comes, honest man. And now,
bairns, we'll hae a blythe wedding, and live as happy as
the day's lang."
This motion was carried by acclamation; and soon after
John's roof dirled with the sound of mirth and revelry.
Robin was the hero of the night, and looked as proud as
a Highland piper, as he held forth to the rustics on his
wonderful adventures, profusely interlarding his narra-
tive with " says I to the king," and " quoth the king to
me.'
The old domicile was, by mutual consent, appropriated
to the use of the young couple ; and Robin built himself
a new house, which, till within these few years, might
be seen in the High Street of Dumfries, and where in
due time, he was actually honoured by a visit from the
king, as he passed through the town on his way to his
northern capital. Respected and loved, Robin lived to
a good old age, and he failed not to inculcate on his chil-
dren's children the excellent maxim that " Honesty is
the best policy."
THE MOTHER AND CHILD.
BY MISS E. A. STARR.
(See Engraving.)
AH, fold him closely in thy happy arms,
And press soft kisses on his infant face }
Thy fond caresses making still more dear,
To his young heart, its lovely resting-place ;
Which through all life will tender memories bear
Of thy ripe beauty, and thy matron care.
His years will pass, how quickly ! and the boy
TTill fly the aids which infancy required ;
The rounded cheek forget its earliest bloom,
By thee so loved, by others so admired ;
And from thy side will bound to noisy play,
Wild with the fancies, pleasures of the day.
youth and manhood, in your gorgeous blooms,
And tropic wilds, what lavish strength is rife ;
The mind must strive and win, the eager heart
Must double joy, and multiply its life;
50 THE SNOW FLAKE.
The bliss of knowledge overpowers the pain,
For who would be a witless child again ?
Thine eyes will glory in his fearless tread,
Thy soul drink gladness from that manly face
But, oh ! his heart, in all its pride, will still
Long for the peace of thy serene embrace ;
Beloved and loving, yet can never find
A breast, like thine as safe, like thine as kind.
For not in childhood can we truly prize
The unbroken charm of our unblemished life ;
The innocence for which affection makes
A stormless harbour, far apart from strife ;
Our little boat rocks in its sheltered bay,
And joys as duly rise, as buds in May.
Nor till our lips have tasted many a spring
Of bitter feeling, is the freshness known,
The assuaging mildness, of maternal love,
Whose fulness gushes for our sake alone,
And thirsted, how often, for the cool,
Untroubled waters of that sacred pool !
WINTER.
BY S. D. ANDERSON.
SUNLESS winter ! it is coming,
Coming with its breath ;
Coming with the tempest's singing,
Through the bare boughs, wild and ringing;
And the hail and sleet are drumming
Tones for Summer's death.
Sunless winter! it is coming,
Coming with its breath.
Joyless winter ! it is stealing,
Stealing o'er the earth;
Stealing with its darksome hours,
O'er the pathway of the flowers ;
And each gay and happy feeling,
Withers at its birth.
Joyless winter ! it is stealing,
Stealing o'er the earth.
5
52 THE SNOW FLAKE.
Ghostlike winter ! it is gliding,
Gliding o'er our way ;
Gliding with its icy fingers,
O'er each scene where beauty lingers,
And within its cheerless biding,
Reigns no sunny day.
Ghostlike winter ! it is gliding,
Gliding o'er our way.
Tyrant winter ! it is marching,
Marching quickly on ;
Marching with a conqueror's tread,
O'er the wreck of beauty fled ;
While the lingering rays are arching,
O'er the summer's throne.
Tyrant winter ! it is marching,
Marching quickly on.
Stormy winter ! it is sighing,
Sighing through the trees ;
Sighing o'er the lake and river,
When the moonbeams dance and quiver,
And its mournful voice is dying,
On the fitful breeze.
Stormy winter ! it is sighing,
Sighing through the trees.
WINTER. 53
Hoary winter ! it is treading.
Treading on the streams ;
Treading with its foot of sadness,
On each scene of mirth and gladness,
And its chilling touch is spreading
Coldness on our dreams.
Hoary winter ! it is treading,
Treading on the streams.
Mournful winter ! it is moaning,
Moaning all around ;
Moaning in each wintry gale,
Like the tones of funeral wail,
When sad broken hearts are groaning,
O'er. the churchyard mound.
Mournful winter ! it is moaning,
Moaning all around.
Deathlike winter ! it is closing,
Closing like a pall ;
Closing round our path with warning,
That the night that knows no morning,
Soon will come with its reposing,
Grently over all.
Deathlike winter ! it is closing,
Closing like a pall.
THE BLIND MAN TO HIS WIFE.
BY SARAH ROBERTS.
I NEVER saw you, Bertha,
Though you're my own sweet wife,
And fondly, dearly, do I love
The sunshine of my life.
For midnight brooded o'er my soul,
And midnight was my day,
Till your kind voice and gleesorne laugh
Made e'en the blind man gay.
Young maidens jeered you, Bertha,
When you became my bride,
And wealth and titles bowed to you,
To lure you from my side.
My form, they said, was noble,
And godlike was my mind,
My brow told thought and intellect,
Alas ! but I was blind.
THE BLIND MAN TO HIS WIFE. 55
My eyes indeed are clouded,
But visions bright and fair,
Of Nature's thousand beauties,
My mind sees everywhere.
Dearest of all, sweet Bertha mine,
Is thy loved image bright,
I would not lose its impress there
To see God's blessed light.
They ofttimes speak of beauty,
And then I think of thee ;
Gay-tinted flowers, and sunset clouds,
And still I think of thee ;
The starry heavens, the sparkling brook,
Faces most fair to see ;
But my fond heart earth's loveliness
Embodies all in thee.
Thy voice to me, dear Bertha,
Is sweeter than the bird's;
Nor harp, nor lute so sweet to me,
As thy own gentle words.
At thy light footfall on the stair,
My heart beats high with joy,
And though ten wedded years have past,
I love as when a boy.
56 THE SNOW FLAKE.
God bless thee, dearest Bertha,
For all thou'st been to me,
For light, and joy, and sunshine poured
On my sad destiny.
Oh ! when the scales fall from these eyes
In the land where all can see,
Next to my God, sweet wife of mine,
My gaze shall fall on thee.
NENA.
THE BIRTHDAY GIFT.
BY MARY SPENSER PEASE.
A SOFT whirring noise, such as a bird makes on wing,
fluttered dreamily in my ear, and I felt that my merry,
tormenting, restless, friendly sprite hovered near me.
He came in a gentle, happy mood ; and then I knew
my dark hour was over, and that the warm, bright sun-
shine of hope and love would nestle around my heart
once again.
The joyous sprite laid his warm hands tenderly upon
my head, and from his fingers-ends flowed into my brain
many a glowing image of wild and beautiful poetry/
Fancies came at his magnetic touch, and castles, hea-
ven high, filled with the good and beautiful, sprung up
around me.
" A story did you say, darling sprite? Sing to me in
that soothing, caressing tone of soul-melody, and I will
weave you a tale as you sing."
" A merry ono not too sad."
58 THE SNOW FLAKE.
" A merry one if you will. Keep your hand quietly
upon my brain, that it may not wander from the story's
thread into those delicious fields of fragmentary poetry,
where it too dearly loves to roam. Sporting idly with
the butterflies of thought "
" The story."
"Ah! yes, the story. Did you know Nina ?
No ! Then you shall hear of her. And where could I
choose a brighter or more beautiful soul than the one
that dwelt in her lovely form ? Glorious, glowing Nina !
Airy, fairy Nina! Look into her eyes twin violets
glistening with summer's dew those liquid, soul-beam-
ing eyes, and you see her pure and gentle spirit shining
confidingly through them. Youth loved her, and age
blessed her. For was not her presence enough of itself
to make the whole legion of azure demons, with all their
evil train, flee at the sight of so much radiant goodness ?
Joyous Nina! The most morose and dyspeptic cynic
alive would have forgotten to be miserable in the sun-
shine of her warm, glad heart. She had not an enemy
in the wide world. Not even Miss Prudence Flinn was
ever known to do her more than one harm. No, the
ancient damsel loved her, beautiful and young as she
was, for the unwearying kindness she had shown her.
Miss Prudence loved her. The whole village loved her.
Norman Blank, the dreamy, mystic poet of him anon.
But more than all did Hugh Linard, her good old uncle,
THE BIRTHDAY GIFT. 59
love her. He could not live without her. When he
grew peevish and restless with the pain gnawing at his
limbs and heart, what soothed him to quiet like the
silvery tones of Nina's sweet voice?
" He was childish and old. All ties that made life dear
to him had been broken in death. His sweet young wife
went first, then one by one the little happy faces grew
less around him, until all was left a blank. His only
sister then he clung to with the tenacity of a drowning
heart; and when death came for her, he clasped the living
Nina her little orphan child close to his desolate heart,
and in a silent prayer to heaven besought that he might
be all to her father, mother, brother, and sister.
******
" The old man was sitting in his quiet, cosily-ordered
room, refreshing his dim eyes on the untiring proofs that
lay all around him of the care and affection of his sweet
niece, when, silent as a sunbeam, the bright Nina herself
glided into his presence.
" i Ah ! you dear, good uncle ! How patiently you have
borne my long absence. But see ! I did not forget you/
And she lifted a daintily arranged bunch of wild-flowers,
and underneath, in the basket hanging on her round
white arm, reposed a porcelain bowl filled with deli-
ciously ripe strawberries, the melting sugar lying like
swan's down piled up on them.
" ' I picked them for you myself, dear uncle/ To the
60 THE SNOW FLAKE.
truth of this, the ripe rosy tips of her slender fingers
fully attested. 'The warm fragrant morning tempted
me into i>he meadow down by the brook ; and there they
lie, like so many red-blooded rubies, gemming the grass/
" ( Bless the dear child ! Her every thought is for her
old good-for-nothing uncle. And here is the yellow
cream in the bright silver cup snugly reposing beside
the tempting fruit. And now the old man is going to
have a feast, which will be doubly delicious as he thinks
whose dainty fingers have kissed each blushing berry
that passes his lips/
u ( Ah you are a dear, darling flatterer. I love to be
always doing for you, for everything I do pleases you;
and that is so grateful to a poor little love-thirsting heart
like mine/
" ( Love-thirsting ! Nina T
li i For your love always, dearest uncle/ replied Nina
with a vivid blush.
" ( Ah, for mine now.' And the old man fell into a
long fit of sorrowful musing.
" ( Uncle, uncle ! dearest uncle ! Ah, now you hear me
again; this is only the thirteenth time I have called you
and said everything kind I could think of. Ah, you are
a sad uncle but nevertheless a dear one. Let me
tempt you out into this warm, glowing sunshine. Does
not the new spring air, as it comes over the budding
THE BIRTHDAY GIFT. 61
meadow laden with the wild thyme and sweetbriar,
whisper joy and life to your heart as it does to mine?'
" ' Nothing whispers joy and life kfmy heart but thou,
my little spring-beauty my little lady-in-green my
mignonette my wild-rose/
u i What a dear, good, loving uncle you are; and how
much I love you I have not words to tell ! Hark ! Did
you hear that wood-robin ? And so near us. The little
timid creature has grown bold, because he knows he has
nought to fear upon your most humane grounds. There
it is again ! that wild, sweet, clear note of music. Oh !
how I joy in spring! the new, fresh spring! For then
is each glistening dew-drop that beads the tender grass-
blade, more bright; then have the flowers their rarest
perfume ; then is the voice of good, in each glad-throated
bird, more full of heavenly sweetness and love. Oh,
uncle dear, do you not with me love best of all seasons,
the leaf-giving, life-giving, joyous spring V
" i Do I not tell thee, my sweet Nina, I have no joy on
earth but thee ? I gaze in the summer upon the golden
grain, and in its undulating, wavy motion, I see thy
graceful, swaying form. The autumn's peach I view
only as twin rivals in the rich beauty of thy downy
cheek. The winter's snows are an eternal type of thy
white and guileless heart. The fragrant airs of spring
bring thy soft breath upon my cheek. Thus from thy
childhood have the seasons, as they roll, sung to my heart
62 THE SNOW FLAKE.
but one eternal hymn of thee, my precious, precious,
only child/
" ' Thy only child ! Have you not one other child,
once almost as dear, but wilfully forgotten ?' whispered
a voice in the old man's heart. But he stifled down the
*
voice and caressed his beautiful Nina.
" ' Ah ! how shall I ever repay thy love, dear, darling
uncle ?'
u l By being as good and beautiful as you are, sweet
Nina/
" ( But, uncle dear, you are unusually sad to-day, and
your eye wanders in an untold dream. Are you not
well ? Are you unhappy ? Shall I sing to you ?'
" ( Not now, dear Nina/
" ( Not now, dearest uncle ! Tell me your grief, then,
that sits so heavily upon you, that I may help you bear
it.'
" ' Life weighs gloomily upon me at times, dear Nina,
and dark fancies will arise. I think of the departed,
sweet Nina the beautiful ones who come beckoning to
me from the happy spirit-land, teaching me to be good,
that I may join them/
"'Ah! dearest uncle/ responded the gentle Nina,
wiping her tearful eyes and kissing her old uncle fondly.
* You need no teaching to be good, save the true voice
of your own holy heart/
" ( And then, Nina, my dearly loved, my only child '
THE BIRTHDAY GIFT. 63
"'Thy only child!' again urged the secret voice, and
again was that voice stifled. 'And then, beautiful
Nina, the thought will come to me that the law of
nature, ever onward, cannot be stayed for the weak fan-
cies of an old man. First comes the slender blade thy
infancy : then the stalk, growing taller and taller until
it sways to the breeze with a motion as graceful as the
soft undulations of thy lithe form. Then the tender ear
germinates, just as love-thoughts will spring in thy young
heart : and then conies the ripe sheaf, and in its fulness
of life repeating its own perfect work. Ah ! the time
will come, when the love-tale will be sung to thy heart;
and the time will come when thou wilt listen; and then
I shall lose my child and be once more alone and lonely
without one hope to live for '
" 'Never, dearest uncle ! never will I leave thee ! I
will always be thine own child thine own loving Nina,
always with thee to soothe and comfort thee/
" e Dearest, make no rash promises ; whatever is
written must be fulfilled. One thing only will I
demand of thee ; and that is, that thou wilt shun,
as thou wouldst the evil voice of sin, one whom I
will name to thee ; one whom, as I hate him and as I
love thee, I had rather see thee lying low in thy grave
than to see tl^ee his wife an ungrateful worse a
crime-stained ^But I rave. He is far from here. Thy
pure ears will never be sullied with the sound of
6
64 THE SNOW FLAKE.
his base words, and thy pure soul could never listen
to'
" Her uncle sank once more into an abstracted and
gloomy revery, and sat with his brows knit and his
hands tightly locked together, while, occasionally, there
was a nervous twitching at the corners of his mouth,
that told of a painful struggle within his heart. As her
uncle spoke, Nina felt the cold chills creep through her
veins, from the roots of her hair through her whole
person : why, she could scarcely divine.
" ' Shall I tell him now V thought she ; and at that
thought, the cold chill circled about her heart, and
curdled there, with a suddenness that well-nigh caused
her to faint. { No, not now ; I cannot !' again thought
she ; and the same quick emotion that left her snow-
pale caused the crimson blood to rush to her brow and
neck, which, if her uncle had noted, would certainly
have awoke his suspicions. l No, he is sad ; I will not
disturb him now with my own selfish happiness. Besides,
he is not the one my uncle hates. He is good/ All
this the maiden thought, and much more, as she stood
patiently at his side, awaiting the conclusion of his
sentence, her small, lily-white fingers fondly combing
his silvery hair with a slow, caressing motion.
" By little and little his dark mood passed away, and
he called her his old heart's comforter, his beloved child.
And the loving little maiden sang for him, and read him
THE BIRTHDAY GIFT. 65
to sleep his usual morning's nap and, after lingering
around him to shade the light from his face and to
arrange the cushions, she put the fresh morning flowers
in a vase, and placed them where his eyes would rest on
them when he awoke. Then, with a noiseless step, she
glided from the room.
" She took a note from her pocket as soon as she found
herself all alone, and, after kissing it, she read, for the
one hundredth time, the words of passionate love that
had stolen warm into her young heart, never to be for-
gotten.
" 'At ten o'clock !' murmured she, glancing up at the
good-natured, great round face that had looked down
from the same nook ever since she could remember.
The tickings time's heart-beatings that came from
the expansive chest beneath that old, round, always-
laughing dial, could they have been understood, might
have told many a glad tale, and many a tragic one of
sorrow. For upon the infancy of her old uncle, as well
as her own, had that inscrutable face looked down,
noting, with the same unwavering look of quizzical
unconcern, the numerous changes of his long and event-
ful life eventful in its heart's history. To Nina that
old clock had always been an object of especial reve-
rence, and as she glanced up at its long, slim hands, she
saw, with a thrill of blushing joy, that their warning
66 THE SNOW FLAKE.
finger pointed to ten minutes of the hour named in the
note his note.
^ * * =K *
"It was ten o'clock and both were there. Once again
did Nina hear that 'wildering love-song sung in her ears ;
and once again did her fair head nestle as lovingly and
confidingly upon his manly breast as though it lay upon
that of her own sweet mother. The bright sun smiled
approvingly down upon them. The birds sang their
sweetest ballads for them, telling of love and goodness.
The leaves overarching the two waved and nodded at
them pleasantly. The soft breeze crept along at their
feet, rustling the grass with a gentle motion. Spring-
ing upwards, it familiarly fanned their cheeks, and
played hide-and-seek among the beautiful locks of those
two heads so close together, the fair, sunny hair of
Nina, and the chestnut curls of who ?
" ( Dearest, you seem sad to-day ; will you not tell me
why?'
" ' I have just come from my uncle, and he was un-
usually sorrowful and gloomy this morning.'
" 'Did he tell thee at what?'
" < Old fancies came to him. A voice from the departed
spoke to his heart. I tried to tell him what I long have
tried in vain to reveal to him/
" t And what is that, sweetest ?'
THE BIRTHDAY GIFT. 67
. u l Our love. It hangs like a weight on my heart.
But my tongue is spellbound, and when I would acquaint
him with niy secret, nothing but blushes rise to my lips ;
the words I urge in vain, they will not come to my
call. You must see my uncle before I can meet you
again/
" c I! Do you know what you say, dearest ?'
" i Yes. And you must tell him all; for I feel that I
am not doing right in continuing to meet you thus with-
out his knowledge/
" ' Nina, did your uncle ever speak to you of one he
once loved of one who, by one act, had embittered his
life more than the death-knell of each and of all his
dearly loved V The young man spoke with a choked
utterance as though swallowing back some strong up-
rising emotion.
" ' Something of the sort he said warning me of one
whom it would be worse than death for me to know/
" ( I am he, Nina. That one of whom your uncle
warned you, dearest/ said her companion in a low, sad
voice.
" i You ! oh impossible ! You are good. You are '
" i No, not good, Nina. Still I am innocent as your-
self, beloved, of the black crime which he imputes to me,
which, alas ! I cannot prove was the work of another/
" ' You, Norman ! oh are you sure you are not mistaken ?
Your eyes tell me sorrowfully that you are he of whom
68 THE SNOW FLAKE.
my uncle warned me in such fearful tones that made my
heart shiver and grow cold within me. Oh ! I remember
every word as though even now he were sounding them
in my ear/ and Nina repeated what her uncle had
spoken. < Heaven save me ! What have I done ? He
must never know I have seen you. Oh ! I can never see
you again. Never, never. I can never give him one
moment's anguish; he has suffered too much already.
No, I will die myself sooner than see him suffer, and I
the cause/
" t Nina, beloved, I feel like a wretch to see you thus.
Pray, dearest, calm yourself. I tell you, dear one, on
my heart's life, that I am utterly guiltless of the dark
crime that has clouded your uncle's life.'
" i And yet, Norman, you say you cannot prove your
innocence.'
" ' Was there one but he is dead. No, Nina, I fear
I cannot/
" ( Then oh, tell me nothing. I fear you your power
over me. I fear my too great love for you. Let my
hand free, Norman. I cannot go if you detain me, and
you will not detain me when I entreat you not to keep
me from my uncle. My dear, dear, dearest uncle ! My
good, patient, suffering uncle ! Thy Nina will come to
thee. And Norman' Nina's voice lowered almost to a
whisper 'now that you have released my hand, and
that your eyes do not plead with me, with such beseech-
THE BIRTHDAY GIFT. 69
ing earnestness, I can say to you what my heart tells
nie I must say.'
" ' Say on, dear Nina.'
" l When my uncle puts my hand in yours, Norrnan- 1 -
with his own sweet, happy smile when he believes you
as innocent as you say you are, then will I be yours,
and not till then. And not till then will I ever again
see you/
"'Nina! ' . . - . - S
" ( Say not one word in expostulation to me, but if
you love me, let me go.'
" < If I love you yes, Nina, go.'
" 'But you have my hand again, how can I?'
"'Have I? There! Heaven bless you, darling.'
5jC 5j 5fi yfc ?j *J^
"Within the snow-white, downy walls of her own
dove-cote a little smiling room, alive with the twitter-
ings of a nest of young canaries, and the warm, golden
sunshine that came softened through the white-draperied
windows Nina breathed more peacefully. She sank
on her knees devoutly, and lifted her pure heart up to
the Father who loved its truth, in fervent, trustful
prayer. And as the prayer ascended to the throne of
love, the angels on high chanted aloud this holy beati-
tude : ( Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see
God.' The soft music entered her spirit, and she felt
70 THE SNOW FLAKE.
the happiness of self-sacrifice, in the knowledge that she
had done right.
" ( I can go to niy uncle now/ thought she, ' with a
clear brow and a heart free from wrong at least to
him.' And as she thought thus, a messenger summoned
her to his presence.
"'Uncle, dear uncle, are you ill? Have you heard
any bad news ? What is it, darling uncle ? Speak, and
tell me !' For she found him pale and agitated, walk-
ing the room with hasty and uneven steps.
" ( Yes, ill, Nina. Sick at heart. Bad news did you
say, Nina? "Will any news ever be good to me again?
See here, Nina ! Ah ! you recognise it.'
" ' Uncle, dear uncle, who gave you that?' For her
uncle held up before her eyes her own little note, she
had that morning received.
" ' One who is my friend and one who is yours, Nina
Miss Prudence '
" ' How could Miss Flinn do so base an act ?'
" l Base, Nina ! How could my Nina but I will
not reproach one whose own heart-beatings must be more
than a sufficient reproach/
u i Say not a word, dear uncle, until I tell you that
before this morning I knew not that he was the one you
wished me to shun. From his own lips I heard that
there was a fearful misunderstanding between you and
THE BIRTHDAY GIFT. 71
himself but that he is innocent, and has ever been, of
any greater crime toward you than that of profoundest
love and respect/
" ' He ! name him not to me, Nina. Oh, the blackest,
foulest, deadliest sin that ever darkened heart of man
but I will not offend your pure ears Nina, with a recital
of his base wickedness/
" ' Uncle, dear uncle, I beseech you to grow calm,
while I tell you truly that I have dismissed him from
my heart and presence; and have told him I should
never, never see him again until you yourself bade me/
"'Of your own free will you told him so, Nina?
Come to my heart, dear child. For since I read that
Judas letter of 1 cannot name him until now, a
black spectre has stood between me and my heart's
child. Oh ! Nina, I could not bear that. The day that
saw you his, Nina, would see me low, low in the silent
grave/
" ( Hush, dear uncle. There, your smile is once again
more cheerful. It breaks my heart to see you look so
sad. You did not really think I could leave you, now
did you, my precious uncle T
u ( Yes, Nina, I feared you might, for I know the
strength and power of love. But leaving me I could
bear, as I have told you, Nina, could I see you the happy
wife of one worthy of you. But tell me, darling, how
you came to know him ; for noiv I can bear to hear of him/
72 THE SNOW FLAKE.
" And Nina blushingly told her uncle how it came
about that she was one day in the summer-house,
rhyming a few verses for her friend Imogen; that she
carelessly left the unfinished sheet on the table beside
the book she had been reading; that when she returned
for both, the incomplete verse was finished, and another
verse added, expressing her own thought, though in
infinitely more beautiful language than she could have
conceived, while upon the paper lay a sprig of Heliotrope.
" ' Ha !' interrupted her uncle, ' rather early to express
his devotion; but go on, Nina/
" ' And every day after/ continued Nina, ' would I
find a flower or a verse of poetry that interpreted the
most respectful love for me, until one day I found him-
self awaiting me. And indeed, dear uncle, he seemed
so gentle and beautiful '
" < So did the serpent to Eve, dear baby/
" ( And, uncle dear, he seemed so good oh, who -is
good if he is bad? And, uncle dear, every day I was
going to tell you all, and every day my heart failed me/
" ' And now Ah ! well, dearest child, all yet will be
well, for your truth-loving heart could not nurse wrong
in it, and he is wrong/
"'Why should wrong ever seem right, dear uncle?'
asked Nina with a sigh.
" ( Dearest child, your question involves an enigma
that has for ages puzzled wiser heads than yours/
THE BIRTHDAY GIFT. 73
" Nina was happy in feeling she was doing right, but
day by day she grew more listless ; and, although she
made an effort to appear cheerful before her uncle, and
although she neglected nothing that could add to his
comfort, yet when she was alone she was abstracted and
dreamy, and would sit for hours together, silent and
idle, her heart buried in the past.
"People came and went, and she heeded them not,
unless her uncle's watchful eye was upon her; then was
she her own light-hearted self again.
" Poor simple child ! she really nattered herself that
she effectually succeeded in blinding her fond old uncle
into the belief that she was as happy as the day was
long ] not dreaming that her paling cheek and languid
step betrayed her heart's unrest, in spite of her forced
smiles.
" Upon a certain day she was aware of more stir than
common in that usually quiet house. Heavy steps came
and went, but she sat alone in her own little room, and
heeded them not. The next day would be her birthday,
the first birthday she had passed, from infancy, that had
not borne unto her some new and unexpected pleasure,
filling her heart more than ever full of the joy she felt
in living. And to-morrow this new birthday coming
what could now delight her heavy heart ?
"The little birds arose bright and early on that next
morning. They poured forth their morning devotion to
74 THE SNOW FLAKE.
the Maker of their glad lives, in one harmonious burst
of praise ; and then, like prudent little folk, they hopped
about, singing as they went, and picked up a dainty
breakfast for themselves and their little nestlings.
" The dark green leaves nodded and courtesied to one
another, saying, doubtless, l Good morning, ma'am/
1 A pleasant morning, sir ;' and the jagged leaves, that
had been torn by the rude breeze, were not in the least
envious of the slender, graceful ones, so prettily notched,
who were waving their stately heads in all the pride of
new shining vesture.
" The sun shone with a more golden splendour ; and
each pearly dew-drop glistened with a rarer brightness
from every trembling blade of grass and flower-cup.
All nature was more than usually glad and smiling, and
Nina, unconsciously to herself, felt the hallowing influ-
ence ; and she received her uncle's affectionate greeting
with more like a real smile than had illuminated her
face for more than a month.
" l Another birthday, sweet Nina. Bless my soul ! the
birthdays come round faster than I can contrive presents
to meet them and yet you have always had one, have
you not, dear Nina ? one every year
<l ' Ever since I can remember, dear uncle.'
" 'Your present this day is to be by far the hand-
somest and most valuable you have ever yet received,
and one you have long coveted. I very near failed in
THE BIRTHDAY GIFT. 75
getting it ready in time. But niy offering awaits your
acceptance ; I hope it will please you, darling/
" ' I have not the least doubt, dear uncle, but that it
will/ said Nina, brightening into a summer's warmth
under the influence of her uncle's genial manner.
" ' Down to thy summer-house, then, beloved/ For
there being the favourite haunt of Nina did her uncle
always mysteriously bury, under a pyramid of flowers,
the yearly gift always some new and welcome surprise.
" The very gravel-stones shone and sparkled with more
life and brightness than usual, as Nina sped with a light
step along the garden walk.
" She was in the vine-covered bower, but nothing was
there ; no flowers, nothing but a man ; and he was
asleep or dreaming, for he was seated on the bench with
his back to Nina, with his elbows resting on the table
and his face buried in his hands. He was asleep or
but no, he looked up, and Nina is clasped to the heart
of Norman Blank, the young poet.
" l Norman/ said Nina, in a reproachful voice, ' I
thought we were never to meet again/
" ' Dearest, your uncle '
u ' Ah ! my uncle ! Let me go ! I must not be
here I promised him I would never see you again/
" < But, dearest'
u ' Let me go you never loved me no never, or you
would not make me break my promise/
7
76 THE SNOW FLAKE.
" l But, sweet Nina '
" 'I must, I must go.'
" ' Listen to me, dearest beloved don't struggle, I
will free you if you wish one moment, listen to me.
Nina dear, dear Nina '
a ' In mercy stay. There, dearest, I cannot detain you
against your will. But if you would stay ' He
finished his sentence to the creeping honeysuckle that
stood up on tiptoe peering into the window.
" l Well, Nina/ said her uncle, as she stood once again
in his presence, panting and rosy from the exercise of
her flight. ( Well, Nina darling, eh, Nina ! What do
you think of my present ? eh, Nina ! 7s it not valuable ?
7s it not beautiful ? eh, Nina ! Why, my dear child ! in
tears ! and back too ! I did not think of that, or why
What brought you back to me? What is it, my child?
What has disturbed my pet bird?'
"But before the 'pet bird' could answer, for her
choking sobs, Norman Blank the terrible Norman
stood in her presence in the presence of her uncle;
but with the utmost fearlessness, with the most smiling
confidence that looked very much like the conscious-
ness of innocence."
THE BIRTHDAY GIFT. 77
"And this is the end?"
" Yes, dear sprite : for the rest you can very easily
imagine."
"Certainly. The uncle joining their hands the
wedding and all that. This Norman, I suppose, was
Hugh Linard's son, banished from his heart for some
supposed crime."
" Which supposition is vastly creditable to your pene-
tration."
"But what was the horrible crime only hinted at?"
" As the real perpetrator of it proved not to be dead,
and as the supposed perpetrator proved to be innocent,
let it sleep in peace."
" And so the old man, instead of losing his only child,
found two dear, loving children. A vastly pretty story,
though somewhat crude. I still am allowed to criticise."
" Always, dear sprite."
" This, then, is a little better than some of your vaga-
ries, but vastly worse than some others you have chanced
upon. But it lacks finish "
" A sketch merely, dear sprite."
"No, nor an artistic sketch. There are some good
points. But more execrably bad ones."
" Thank you, dear sprite."
" It might have been made, in the hands of a skilful
artist, a sparkling, witty, tender, tear-provoking, laugh-
provoking "
78 THE SNOW FLAKE.
" Thank you, good sprite."
"But practice makes perfect. Persevere, and, in the
end, who knows but that you may write something that
some one may read?"
" Thank you, dear sprite. Ah! you have vanished."
THE TROJAN FUGITIVES.
BY J. J. WOODWARD.
4
(See Engraving.)
I.
FROM Troy's lost ruins, rolling through the air,
Dark-volumed smoke moved slowly to the sky;
At times the black sea glistened with the glare
Of the wild bursts of flame that rose on high;
At times the dim clouds closed in heavily,
As struggling to conceal, on that sad shore,
The rout's wild fears, th' excess of victory,
And those fierce scenes of violence, which o'er,
Oblivion's night comes on, that knows no waking more.
ii.
From far their damp eyes caught the gloomy sight
Soft hearts beat wildly and the hot tear falls,
And warriors, matchless in the desperate fight,
Viewed with a flood of grief the smouldering walls;
The glare of flame that burst from blazing halls,
Played on fair faces wrought with agony,
That fierce, strange, vague expression which appals
THE SNOW FLAKE.
Watching that scene of fiendish revelry
With passionate emotions, and with haggard eye.
in.
Some cast them down upon the ground and wept,
And grovelled on the bosom of the earth,
And called upon that justice which still slept,
And howled aloud, and cursed their hour of birth,
And conjured up within each scene of mirth,
AYhich had, in better days, in happier times,
Amused them, crowded round the cheerful hearth,
Ere Spartan Helen fled from foreign climes,
To curse the Trojans with her follies and her crimes.
IV.
Some gazed upon that scene of fiery death
With a strained, all-absorbing eagerness,
And in their anguish almost held their breath,
Gazing with that wild, agonized distress,
Which, when dark thoughts the startled mind oppress,
Steals o'er the face; that look of thought, which tells
That the bright, fading hopes of happiness,
Are blasted by misfortune's potent spells,
And nought but maddening pain in the wrung bosom
dwells.
THE TROJAN FUGITIVES.
V.
They viewed the wreck, and saw their hopes expire,
As one by one the turrets disappear,
And tottering buildings fall before the fire,
Viewed with their young hearts withered, their souls
sere,
Yet they wept not; but drove the burning tear
Back to its source then knelt as though amazed,
Looked their last look on scenes, oh, once so dear,
On their loved homes which now in silence blazed,
And strained the fainting eye, and homeward, Troyward,
gazed.
VI.
Oh, they had had dark wrongs perhaps the brain
Reeled as they thought of them, and viewed the
scene
Where happiness, that may not come again,
And joys, now fled for ever, once had been;
The gloomy sea rolled sullenly between
Them and their burning homes, no longer theirs,
But Time's and Ruin's; then, oh then, I ween,
Fierce thoughts of vengeance mingled with their prayers,
As each, with lingering step, for the sad flight pre-
pares.
84 THE SNOW FLAKE.
VII.
Then turned again to view the blazing town,
As wrapt in flames it melted into air
And toppling towers came slowly crumbling down,
And ruin lay before them everywhere.
Death frowned upon that region once so fair,
And brooding darkness settled on the shore,
Which lightened yet again to one last glare,
A moment's mockery : darker than before
The gloom closed in again, and Ilium was no more.
MY SECOND LOVE.
BY LEITCH RITCHIE, ESQ.
THE history of the heart I hold to be very nearly
alike in all men. The apparent difference consists in
the strength or faintness of the impression made upon
the mind by things always the same. All men have
their first love, their second love, and their third love ;
but some men do not know that they have had any,
while others imagine that they have had a great many
more.
The history of love is like a picture engraven upon a
plate of adamant, with inimitable boldness and delicacy,
depth and lightness, simplicity and art. But its effect
depends mainly upon the paper subjected to the im-
pression. The heart of man is like that paper clouded,
spongy, spotted, smooth, hard, coarse, soft, or fine, as
it may happen. In some cases the lines appear fairly
rendered; in others, they are blotted and confused; in
others, they become so faint, on exposure to the air of
the world, that they are nearly, or altogether, invisible.
The history of love is divided into three books. The
86 THE SNOW FLAKE.
first is like a fairy tale ; the second like a poem ; the
third like a chronicle. The first is the only one we re-
peruse in after-life with unmixed complacency. No
matter what may have been the fate of the heroine the
catastrophe of the story it is associated with all our
best and most beautiful feelings; with the spring-time
of the heart, when our young bosoms open like a flower,
in an atmosphere of light, and music, and perfume.
The recollection of disappointment has no annoyance;
the memorials of death bring back no sorrow; we
talk of that shadowy past with complacency, even to
strangers ; it seems as if the fearless, guileless spirit of
early life returned with the theme.
The second era of love is very different. At that
epoch the world began to mingle with our dreams the
world comprehensive word ! including strife, envy,
hope, terror, delirious joy, and bitter, burning tears.
The history of this period is a secret and a mystery,
which in most cases descends with us to the grave.
In public we recoil from its associations with terror; in
private, they crimson or blanch our cheek at the dis-
tance of half a century : yet the narrative would, in
general, seem to a listener to be the most common-place
imaginable. Alas ! it is not the events that give it im-
portance; it is the thoughts the imaginations the
stirrings, and heavings, and writhings of the wrung
spirit amidst the terrible lessons of early experience.
MY SECOND LOVE. 87
Why do I impose upon myself the task I have now
undertaken ? It is a question I can hardly answer. I
do it by a kind of compulsion, of what nature I know
not. I sought this spot for a very different purpose. It
is a small and lonely island of the Seine lonely although
within view of the mighty capital : I am shrouded in a
grove of acacias, overtopped by walnut trees ; the outer
world is fainting with heat ; the fields are deserted ; a
dull and drowsy murmur rises from the river. Some-
times a leaf stirs behind or above me ; sometimes a thin
vapour rises from the water, and I turn my eyes upon
the phenomenon with a kind of terror. The murmur is
filled with voices, the vapour with shadows ; the trees,
the river, the fields, the far hills, the mighty city,
vanish like a dream. Louder more distinct ! Speak !
appear ! I will confront ye ! Look at these gray hairs
which you have flung upon a brow yet spared by time !
Can you do more ?
My father, once a master in the navy, attached him-
self at length entirely to the merchant service, with the
view of making a fortune (which was at that time some-
times done) by private speculations. I know not if it
is to him I owe that adventurous and romantic disposi-
tion which has made my life a series of struggles. The
house, as far back as I can recollect, was filled with the
choicest productions of the tropics fruits, birds, and
beasts; and the faces of the foreign sailors, Spanish,
THE SNOW FLAKE.
Portuguese, African, Indian, as they canie to receive
their wages, or present to rny mother little articles of
luxury, such as limes, tamarinds, or guava, made also a
strong impression upon my imagination.
It was determined, however, that I was not to be a
sailor ; I was rarely permitted to go on board my father's
ship ; and he abstained as much as possible from speak-
ing in my presence of the vicissitudes of his wandering
life. He was not aware that I was in the habit of
making stealthily, in a small boat, trips, not so distant
indeed, but quite as dangerous as his own ! The motive
for his conduct may probably be found in the fact, that
the merchant service was becoming less genteel than
heretofore. Formerly, no person under the rank of a
gentleman's son could look forward to attaining the
command of a ship, in the ordinary course of affairs.
Now, the more rational qualification of merit was be-
ginning to be thought of some consequence in all pro-
fessions, not only at , but throughout Scotland.
Upon this subject of gentility, which I consider the
most paltry and trashy in nature, it is necessary, for the
due understanding of the narrative, to say something
more.
My father's fortune, like the sea he traversed, was
sometimes rough and sometimes smooth. Sometimes he
was rich, and sometimes poor ; sometimes we kept three
servants, sometimes only one or, at least, one and a
MY SECOND LOVE. 89
half, a woman and a lassie. It may be conceived,
therefore, that although the rank of the family in the
community was permanent, it depended upon circum-
stances whether or not we pushed ourselves forward
among the " genteel people." My father, however,
had been a ship-captain at the early age of twenty;
and he was a high Tory on principle. His oracle was
the Courier; and he thought "our contemporary, a
morning paper" had ever the worst of it. All this was
in his favour few families in the place could look back
to gentility of longer existence. But, alas ! he was un-
lucky. He began to grow old without having made a
fortune ; while his neighbours built their carriages and
palaces, and the little town commenced that career of
prosperity which was one day to number it among the
great sea-ports of the kingdom.
My father's last voyage was a memorable one both to
him and to me his ship was wrecked, on her return
from the West Indies, at the very entrance of the river.
The event threw the whole town into commotion. It is
impossible to describe the feelings of his own family.
First came the vague rumour a Minute guns heard off
the coast a large vessel, half seen through the fog
supposed to have gone on the rocks ;" and then the con-
firmation the name the thousand conjectures as to
the number and rank of those who were lost! Never
8
90 THE SNOW FLAKE.
before did I feel the full force of that beautiful word by
which iny countrymen express the fate of those who
perish in the deep.
On the evening of the day on which the name of the
vessel was ascertained, I reached the fatal spot. The
scene was sublime. The storm had spent its fury, and
was now moaning heavily along the sea, which rose in
enormous masses upon the cliffs, with a dreary yet
majestic uniformity. In the offing, the snow-white
foam gave its prevailing colour to the mass, till gradu-
ally lost at that distant line where the black and heavy
sky met the rim of the ocean. The ship was on her
beam-ends, so near the coast that her spars hung over
upon the cliffs ; and the creaking of her timbers,, as the
dusky hull was moved by the white waves, seemed to
my ear like the convulsive groans of some dying levia-
than of the deep.
I saw in an instant that my father was safe ; but
there was that in his eye, as it rested for a moment
upon mine, which forbade me to intrude. He sat
upon a rock, issuing his commands through a speak-
ing-trumpet to the sailors, who were employed in
easing the ship of her guns and heavy ballast, in the
faint hope of getting her to float at the returning tide.
Their measured cries, mingling with the last wailings
of the storm, added much to the wild effect of the
MY SECOND LOVE. 91
scene. The twilight was far advanced; and here and
there a lantern spotted with its dim light the dusky
edges of the crags.
This scene ought to me to have been one of unmixed
pain. I knew what my father's feelings were at the
moment; I had read them in his eye at the first glance;
and despair was in his voice, deep, steady, and severe
as were the tones of habitual command. This was the
end of his travailings by sea and land; this the con-
summation of a lifetime spent in danger and hardship !
My feelings, notwithstanding, had no touch of pain.
There was wonder, admiration fierce feverish excite-
ment. I felt as if I was in a dream more precious than
a hundred realities. Perhaps the young and romantic
will understand me (for no one else can) when I state
my conviction, that that hour decided my fate, and
made me a wanderer upon the face of the earth !
As it grew darker, I began to be ashamed of my
inactivity; and yet I felt that I durst not approach
my father till his immediate occupation was finished.
There was no human dwelling near the place, but I
observed, at a little distance, a rude tent, composed of a
sail hung over a stunted tree ; and this I rightly conjec-
tured to be the temporary hospital for such of the crew
as had been hurt. I immediately walked towards it for
the purpose of offering my assistance, but ever and
anon turning back to look again upon the strange, wild,
92 THE SNOW FLAKE.
foreign-looking scene behind me. A fire by this time
had been kindled upon the rocks; and the sailors,
black, white, and copper-coloured, all naked to the
waist, and many with large gold ear-rings, and enor-
mous queues and moustaches, as they flitted to and
fro through the smoke, looked like beings of another
world.
I was not at that time accustomed to the sight of
death, and I felt almost an unmanly horror at the idea
of thrusting myself into the presence of the dying or
the dead. The tent was as still as a grave. Situated
in the lee of a rock, it was protected from the wind;
and as I entered the cold precincts, the silence was
so sudden and so deep, that I unconsciously slackened
my pace, and crept towards the opening on tiptoe.
As I put aside the canvass, I perceived, by the light
of a lantern, that I was indeed entering the house of
death. The body of a sailor, which appeared to have
been animated by the breath of life not many minutes
before, lay upon the ground, decently laid out, and
wrapped in a flag by way of winding-sheet. Near it sat
a young girl as black as night, leaning her head upon a
sea-chest, and buried in profound sleep. I advanced
another step, and stood within the tent.
For a moment I was uncertain whether it contained
another tenant, either sleeping or dead ; but presently,
raising her head from a table, on which she had stooped
MY SECOND LOVE. 93
with her face buried in her hands, and throwing aside
the hood of a black mantle which enveloped her, a
second female appeared. I say appeared. The appari-
tion haunts me still. It was a spirit of woman an
idea of feminine grace, softness, and beauty. One
would think it was nothing more than an idea; for
there she stands at this moment before my eyes, as
perfect in life and limb as ever ! Why is this ? What
would you now f I speak, and you cannot answer me
again ! I stretch forth my arms, and they clasp only
the empty air, painted though it be with beauty, and
fragrant with love !
You fancy that there may be (as there commonly is
in such cases) some exaggeration in this indefinite por-
trait ? I have thought so too ; and I have often endea-
voured to separate her in idea from the circumstances
in which I first met her. But it is impossible : they
are inseparably united. My mind was prepared to
receive her.
t *
All impulses of soul and sense'
had lent their aid to fix her, as she then appeared, in
my imagination, heart, memory. I gazed on the appari-
tion in silence, drinking her beauty into my soul in a
draught so long and deep that I had no power to speak.
I used to laugh at "love at first sight ;" and, in most
cases, it is a thing to be laughed at. Nevertheless, the
8*
94 THE SNOW FLAKE.
coincidence does sometimes happen like the fulfilment
of a dream, for instance of two beings, adapted by
nature, and apparently destined for one another's love,
being sifted from the mass of mankind, and thrown
together by the accidents of life. The recognition,
when this takes place, is mutual, instantaneous, yet
unconscious.
The apparition spoke first.
a You are a son of Captain ?" said she ; u I
know you by the eyes/'
"I am. And you?"
" I am a passenger."
I looked around the tent. My eye wandered from
this radiant creature, and rested on the corpse. I
seemed to be environed by the incongruities of a dream.
" Alas !" said she, shaking her head with an almost
childish simplicity, " I did all I could, but he would
die !"
She arose, and taking up the lantern, walked across
the tent, and looked in the dead man's face. Her foot-
fall had no perceptible sound; but I found a kind of
intoxication steal over me when I felt the waving of the
atmosphere as she glided past.
" Poor Gaspar !" said she ; " he was a countryman of
my own !"
Till this moment I had believed her to be an English
woman; but afterwards I detected in her speech that
MY SECOND LOVE.
slight foreign accent which is sometimes both touching
and beautiful. The next moment, the young negress
sprang from her sleep, terrified by a dream, and ad-
dressed her mistress by the name of Donna Antonia.
I was not a boy ; but I was not beyond the years when
we are slaves to the "magic of a name." He who
cannot conceive the heightening effect of this young
girl being a Spaniard, and being called Donna Antonia,
may shut the book !
Such was my first meeting with Antonia . I
might have told the history in a couple of lines, as
thus : " She came to this country a passenger, under
my father's charge ; was shipwrecked with him near the
entrance of the river, and I conducted her thence to his
house." Were we in every case to collect the circum-
stances, and examine them in reference to the character
of the individual, no action, no train of feelings would
appear surprising.
By my father's desire, I carried her home with me
that night in a post-chaise. Worn out by terror and
fatigue, she fell asleep almost as soon as she entered
the vehicle. At midnight she awoke, and for some
moments could hardly comprehend her situation.
" I am in Scotland !" she cried at length, bending
eagerly out of the window a Yes, this is Scotland !
What a wild, what a beautiful country ! That is what
you call a glen there, where the moonlight carries the
96 THE SNOW FLAKE.
eye along that far deep vista of rock, and wood, and
water. It is my mother's country I" and, throwing
herself back in the carriage, she covered her face with
her hands.
" What a strange thing it is," said she, again sitting
up, "what a strange thing it is to be in Scotland, and
in all the wide land to know only a single individual.
Captain is the only friend I have in Europe !"
i( And his son," added I with emotion.
te You are very good ; but ought I to call you a
friend yet ? Our acquaintance has just commenced !"
"Time has less to do with acquaintanceships than
is commonly supposed. I know you better at this
moment than, under ordinary circumstances, I should
have done in a year. I understand you. I even think
that your face is familiar to me. Do you remember
the story in the Arabian Nights, of the man who dipped
his head, for a moment, in a basin of water, and in that
moment seemed to undergo whole years of adventure
and vicissitude ? The mind being eternal, is not sub-
ject to the laws of time. I tell you we are already
friends !"
" That is really a beautiful fancy," said Antonia, " to
whomsoever it may belong ; but the odd thing is, I was
actually thinking in the tent, that I must have seen
you before, and that I remembered the tones of your
voice !"
MY SECOND LOVE.
97
" And so you did !"
"Nay," interrupted she, laughing, "do not stretch
your philosophy to extravagance ; for I know your
mother as well as you. Captain is fond of his
family, and we quite lived in your Scottish home during
the voyage."
In knowledge of the world and of society Antonia
was a child ; but she had a certain natural elegance of
manner which would have carried her through a court.
The vulgar imagined her to be high-bred; and the high-
bred looked upon her very mistakes as a proof of that
breeding which scorns the vulgarity of fashion. She
possessed considerable talent ; but her fertile mind was
only cultivated here and there. A consciousness of
power, however, a thirst of knowledge, a longing after
excellence, gave glorious promise. We had one taste in
common or rather one passion; and that was a love
of natural scenery. She was a painter by intuition : I
was only a rhymester. No matter. She called my
verses poetry and she felt them to be so. They were
recited in the lonely glen; they were accompanied by
the murmur of the mountain stream, or the dash of the
distant waterfall; we were surrounded the while by
hills, and woods, and waters; we were ourselves, our
words, our songs, our very figures a portion of the
scene component parts of the poetry of nature.
Her stay at was to be only for a few days,
98 THE SNOW FLAKE.
and there could be no harm, therefore, in intrusting her
to the guidance of one so well able as myself to show
her the beauties of the neighbourhood. Owing to the
absence of her friends, a few days more passed by a
week two weeks three weeks. She was then taken
away.
I sometimes complain, like other men, of the misfor-
tunes to which my fate or folly has subjected me; but
this is unjust and ungrateful. These three weeks con-
tained happiness enough for any one life. In this
happiness there was not a single particle of alloy : there
was no thought of the past, no care of the future. We
did not talk of love ; we only felt it. We did not
dream of marriage; we knew that we were united in
soul, and the idea never entered our hearts that any-
thing could occur to separate us permanently.
Well she was taken away by her friends. We had
formed no plan for future communication all this was
to come in the common course of nature and necessity !
I am glad of it. It leaves the era of innocence, confi-
dence, and happiness, uninterrupted. Now we com-
mence a new one. Now the world enters into the scene.
After the loss of his ship, my father's spirits fell,
and he determined to go no more to sea. The income
of the family was now smaller than ever; and the
sudden abridgment of indulgences to which we had
been so long accustomed, forced my attention, in a very
MY SECOND LOVE. 99
disagreeable manner, to the circumstances of our situa-
tion. It was time now for me to contribute to the
support rather than the burdens of the family ; but this
in itself gave me no uneasiness. I was young; my
spirits were elastic ; I thought it was only necessary to
put forth my hand upon the riches of the world in
order to grasp them. But how was this to be set about ?
there was the rub. My father had determined that I
was to be a foreign merchant ; and / had determined
that the preliminary time should be spent in a counting-
house in the West Indies, rather than in this country.
No matter. My absence would not be long; Antonia' s
education would be completed by the time of my return ;
and
It is enough to make one smile, to remember that I
was a penniless adventurer, and Antonia a rich heiress !
Her property, indeed, was small in the Spanish island;
but her mother's sister, a woman of immense wealth,
had invited her over to Scotland, to take the place of an
only child she had just lost. And yet my blindness
was not altogether unaccountable; for in my native
place I had known nobody above me in point of rank,
while the wealthiest inhabitants, only a few years
before, had been adventurers like myself.
I began to get anxious, however, as the time ap-
proached for active exertion. Antonia was to have
written to my mother soon after her arrival at her aunt's
100 THE SNOW FLAKE.
house. She did not write. I became discontented
suspicious angry. At length I wrote to her. The
ostensible purpose was to express my mother's fears
that she was unwell; but I contrived, and with great
ingenuity as I imagined, to introduce such hints as were
sure to awaken the most tender associations, while con-
vincing her that my heart was unchanged.
To this letter I received no reply for more than two
months. In the interval the mask dropped, and the
world opened before my eyes. " She must think it
meanness herself/' said I at length, " for such as I to
endeavour to obtain the hand of an heiress !" This
pitiful, sneaking, dastardly sentiment shows what an apt
pupil of society I had become. Nevertheless, I deter-
mined not to leave the country till I had heard from
her. I refused the offer of a lucrative appointment
abroad, and yet still declined going into a counting-
house at home. My father was of course violently
enraged ; but I continued obstinate.
At length the answer came, and it was written in a
hurried, almost illegible hand : " Write to me no more.
I am ill miserable. Ignorant of the customs of the
country, I am surrounded by terrors. If I could see
you ! but no ! that is impossible. A gulf is between
us, which you cannot pass. Forget me, as you value
the happiness of both!"
"A gulf is between us!" Docile scholar as docile
MY SECOND LOVE. 101
as myself? But the discovery makes her wretched?
Why, so it does me ! She wished to see me ? and I
her : it is all in rule. Forsake her forget her leave
her to happiness and fortune! woman! woman!
Such was my first commentary ; and I went immediately
to my father, begged his forgiveness, and pledged so-
lemnly my word of honour to accept the next appoint-
ment that was offered to me.
But there was one expression in the note to which
my hopes clung in spite of myself. " Ignorant of the
customs of the country/' said she, "I am surrounded
by terrors." What could this mean? Her aunt was a
woman of high reputation, and lived in the gay world.
In spite of the nonsense we read in novels, a girl even
so young as Antonia, if independent in point of fortune,
must, to all intents and purposes, be mistress of her own
actions. But Antonia was a Spaniard; the customs of
her country were very different; and the doubt sug-
gested by this point aroused me from that kind of mo-
rose despondence into which I had sunk.
Another month passed away; and then we were sud-
denly surprised by a visit from the young negress, the
personal attendant of Antonia. She had come to give
her testimony in some law business, which had arisen
out of the circumstances of the shipwreck; but for an
entire day I felt the agitating conviction that her prin-
cipal errand was to me. Her manner, I thought, was
9
102 THE SNOW FLAKE.
confused; she seemed disinclined to meet my eye; and
I waited, in agony of impatience, till I could see her
alone.
All was delusion; she brought not a line not even a
message. Her appearance, however, associated as it was
with the idea of Antonia, had melted me. My pride
gave way; and, retiring to my own room, I poured my
whole soul into a letter. I spoke of my hopes, my pros-
pects; I prayed for time as eagerly as a malefactor con-
demned to execution; and, finally, I implored her to
allow me to see her before I left the country.
The answer to this letter (forwarded by the negress)
was conveyed to me some weeks after, through my father.
He informed me that although Miss (Donna An-
tonia) had sold her property in the Spanish island, she
had obtained for me an appointment there, through her
interest with a house in this country !
" I call upon you," continued he, " to redeem your
word of honour. Do you accept the offer?"
"I do."
" Then you sail next week; and I would advise you
to set off immediately to make your acknowledgments to
Miss .'>
I followed my father's advice. Two days after I found
myself in a magnificent mansion at fifty miles distance,
and was ushered into the presence of Antonia and her
aunt. Antonia rose, blushed, and then grew pale. She
MY SECOND LOVE. 103
half put out her hand, and then allowed it to drop by
her side. I advanced steadily.
" Madam/' said I, in a voice which I intended to be
coldly calm, " I cannot banish myself from this country
in all probability for ever without returning my
acknowledgments for your goodness in obtaining me
employment in another climate."
I did not dare to meet her eyes; but I felt as if she
was looking at me. She did not answer she was no
doubt embarrassed, and no wonder; but at length her
aunt came to her relief.
"It gives Miss ," said she, "much pleasure to
think that she has been of use to your father's son."
"Banished!" said the young lady, apparently not
having heard her aunt; "you go willingly?"
"Willingly." ;
"I wish you all manner of happiness." This was
said with a grave inclination; and, bowing as gravely to
both ladies, I withdrew. When on the stairs, I heard
a sudden movement in the room I had just left; and I
paused, thinking for an instant I know not what. All
was silence; and I went forth.
One of the passengers in the ship in which I proceeded
to the Spanish island was the young negress. I loathed
the sight of this girl; and, for what reason I know not,
the dislike appeared to be mutual. When I appeared
upon deck, she immediately went below; and I have no
104 THE SNOW FLAKE.
doubt it was owing to the circumstance of her thus con-
fining herself during the finest part of the day that she
became unwell. I did not loathe her the less; but she
was a favourite of my lost Antonia I attended her from
morning till night till she recovered.
I can give no account of the nine months I spent on
the island : my spirits were bad. I was at length seized
with a fever, and confined to bed. In my delirium, I
imagined that the negress was constantly by my side;
and that she confessed to me that her real errand to
had been to carry a letter from Antonia to me,
which letter, influenced by a heavy bribe, she had deli-
vered, together with my subsequent one, to the aunt.
Whether this was an illusion of the fever or not, I can-
not tell to this hour. I imagined other things with
equal distinctness, which it is impossible I could have
heard from her; for instance, that Antonia, on my leaving
the room after bidding her farewell, had fallen senseless
into the arms of her aunt. Be this as it may, I learnt
when I recovered, that the negress had actually visited
my sick room more than once; and that she had then
caught the fever, and was since dead !
I believe I must say that my mind did not altogether
recover as speedily as my body. I recollect but indis-
tinctly the frantic eagerness with which I prepared for my
return to Scotland ; but at length all was accomplished,
and when I found myself once more tumbling on the
MY SECOND LOVE. 105
boundless deep, ray spirits grew comparatively calm. In
vain, however, I endeavoured, by every process of reason-
ing, to ascertain whether or not I was now the victim of
a delusion still more cruel than that which I had in-
dulged, when dreaming with Antonia among the glens
and mountains of my native place. My imagination
during the fever seemed to have gone over the whole
of my history since boyhood, explaining what had
hitherto appeared inexplicable, and connecting circum-
stances the most incongruous. The distant and the dead
had appeared at my bedside, as well as the near and the
living. Was there any part of this real, or was it all a
vision of my disordered mind ? I could not tell ; but
since a doubt, engendered by Heaven or hell, had sug-
gested itself, I determined to ascertain the truth from
the lips of Antonia.
The voyage was prosperous; and I found myself
once more, with a fainting heart, in the avenue
to House. All there was animation and festivity.
Mr. , a nephew of the aunt (and a cousin of An-
tonia), as I learnt from the conversation of the passers-
by, had been lately married, and the whole country-side
took a part in the rejoicings. So much the better,
thought I; in the midst of the bustle she will be able to
spare me a moment unobserved, and a moment is all I
require. The door was open, and servants and trades-
people crowding out and in. I could get no one to
9*
106 THE SNOW FLAKE.
attend to me; for at that moment, with my haggard
countenance and neglected dress, I could not have com-
manded much respect. I walked towards the room
where I had been before entered and found Antonia
there, and alone.
She was sitting on a sofa near the window engaged in
reading. A rich pink domino was thrown loosely over
her shoulders ; her dark hair, parted plainly on the fore-
head, in that manner which is by far the most conducive
to the effect of real beauty, was confined by a gold orna-
ment encircling the head. Her face was paler than be-
fore, and a pensiveness, not amounting to melancholy,
sat upon the features. She looked like one whose
mind, caught by the spell of genius, enjoys a momentary
respite from the world.
I stood for some moments breathless, almost fainting
with emotion before her, till at length, heaving a deep
sigh, she looked up. The book fell to the ground, and
she clasped her hands suddenly upon her forehead, as
if to steady her brain.
"Antonia !" said I. Although weak and broken, it
was the voice of a living man ; and she fell back in the
sofa, while the blood rushed in a torrent to her face.
" Antonia !" said I, " I demand but a moment. I have
been ill, very ill ; and perhaps the things I have heard
were only the illusions of insanity. But tell me this
answer me this, and I will be gone. Did you write to
MY SECOND LOVE. 107
me by the negro girl ? and did you receive a letter from
me by the same channel ?" She gasped for air ; she
attempted to speak, but her throat seemed swollen.
" What did your letter contain ?" she at length said,
in a voice so indistinct that I could hardly catch the
words.
" Merciful God!" cried I, "then you did not receive
it ! It contained the sacrifice of my manly pride ; it
contained the vows of a passion in which my life and
soul were bound up ; it contained '
" Hold ! enough !"
" Antonia ! Speak ! you terrify me !"
" Hold back ! touch me not for your life !"
" This is frenzy !" and I attempted to take her hand ;
but, with a wild, unearthly shriek, she sprang beyond
niy reach.
" Betrayed ! Ruined ! Lost !" These were the last
articulate words I heard from her lips : she rushed from
my presence, filling the air with the most terrific screams.
An instant of vague, formless, indefinite horror ensued,
when I was roused from my stupor by a man's grasp
upon my throat. He attempted to drag me to the door.
My delirium returned; I caught hold of him with all
the fury of despair; and after a brief but desperate
struggle, bent him down to the earth. He was rescued
in all probability from strangulation by the servants
and guests rushing into the room.
108 THE SNOW FLAKE.
" Villain !" cried they, " would you murder the hus-
band after destroying the wife ?'
This is the story of my Second Love. Is there
enough ? Would you have the how the when the
why ? "Would you trace, through all its hideous de-
tails, the conspiracy of the aunt against me the mean,
vulgar, prosaic trickery of that pitiful yet terrible imbe-
cile, a woman of the world? Would you count the
screams of Antonia ? Would you listen, by her bedside,
to the ravings of her love and her despair ? Would you
calculate nicely how long life may linger in a young,
sensitive, fragile, and most delicate being, after she has
awakened to hopeless misery from the excitement and
delirium of woman's pride ? What I have given you
tears, and you demand blood ! Away !
EVENING THOUGHTS.
BY ELIZA L. SPROAT.
OH, cheerless, sunless day ! The maudlin clouds
Have wept and wept ; the wind, with ceaseless whine,
Has wandered through the rain ; now stooping low
To plague the sullen stream ; now whirling high
And diving down some chimney, where the dame
Strove vainly for a cheerful evening fire,
Fighting the smoke into her patient face :
Now skimming earth so swift, that the long grass
Grew shrill with pain ; now blustering past the flowers,
And through the angry corn ; now to the stream,
Making the willows sulk, and flounce, and trail
Their wet arms on the ground ; now scorning earth,
He's up to fight the clouds. Good wind, sweet wind !
Rattle them sore scatter the enemy,
That we may bid good even to the sun,
And bless his journey. Joy ! The weary foes
Have raised the siege, and now, dispersing slow,
They melt before the sun. The mighty trees
Don 7 their dark haughtiness, and stand ablaze,
THE SNOW FLAKE.
Thrilled by the rich free light, that suddenly
Enclasping, set each separate soft green leaf
Quivering with life; till with majestic joy,
They fling on high their bold ambitious arms,
In hope to touch the skies that seem so near.
The loving clouds bend downward from the blue,
And form, and melt, and break like hills of foam,
Paling to silver ; blushing back to rose ;
Gathering in mountains of rich purple glooms ;
Deepening to awful caverns and strange chasms ;
Then breaking, softening, melting, till the sky
Grows dark, and deep, and clear, and a keen eye
Can almost reach to heaven, whence stepping forth
With their fresh glory on them, one by one
The great stars take their places ; and poor Earth
Stands in the presence of the Universe.
Shrink back, thou small mean orb, into the dark !
Heaven passes ; veil thee mid dim leaves and clouds.
Yet I would rather dwell with thee, sweet Earth,
Mid human woes and joys, than be a star,
Hard smiling in cold beauty, bright and bleak.
I envy not your glory, proud, pale stars !
Each on a separate throne do ye not pine,
Flinging your dark arms vainly through the blank,
For some sweet twining touch ? Do ye not yearn,
Searching through space with sadly burning eyes,
EVENING THOUGHTS.
For our poor leaf-clad orb, where some small flower,
Leaning its cheek against another near,
Loves its frail life away ? What's life but love ?
What soul in highest heaven can more than love ?
Oh, who would be supreme, and sit alone,
With cold, calm eyes fixed on a universe,
Now beckoning in battalions of bright worlds,
Now sending forth the millions with a nod !
I would not be a god o'er one small star,
And know I had no mate, and rule alone !
Dear Earth, sweet happy Earth ! whose very sighs
Are but the distilled fragrance of rich hearts,
Whose smiles, like rainbows, live more bright for tears,
Oh, lovely Earth, I hail thee ! This fair night,
While yet my keen-strung soul, like some rough harp,
Thrilled with a breath from heaven, swells high and loud
With music not its own, I sing to thee
Of woods and waters, glorious in the sun ;
Of flowers and fountains, yielding their fair lives
In beauty and in music ; of dear smiles
Rained from the heaven of some loved one's eyes
Upon a thirsting heart ; of mellow eves,
When heaven bends kindly o'er the autumn field
And bids the labourer rest; of children's voices,
Ringing out welcomes like sweet little bells
From every poor man's home ; of harvests brown ;
112 THE SNOW FLAKE.
"Warm fragrance, and rich blooms, and silver rains ;
Myriads of roses thrilling in the sun ;
Cool glens, with dark clear waters in their depths;
Rich flaming sunsets, pouring through the trees,
Throwing sweet pictures of quick dancing leaves
On eaves and door-sills ; streams, like swift white heaps
Of melting diamonds rushing over rocks ;
Forgotten forests, where the dark leaves rise
Piled in rich masses ' gainst the summer light ;
Where crouch all day those shadows old and huge
That lie and watch the sun, and when he turns,
Forth issuing softly, seize upon the world;
Of fragrant nights, when the young crescent moon,
Night's radiant bow of promise, silver calm,
Stands like a memory of the glory gone,
And smiles sweet earnest of the dawn to come ;
Shadows, and stars, and music, for Earth's night ;
Roses and waves and sunshine for her day;
And Love for all. Thou LIFE ! who sit'st above
Creating life, aye sprinkling space with worlds
From Thy dim fingers, not so much for these
I bow to Thee, as that in this far Earth
Thou hast made human hearts, and taught them love
Fresh April hearts, with young hopes all in bud ;
Warm autumn hearts, overbrimmed with rich content,
Whose loss of some spring blossoms makes more rare
And more intense the biding fruits of love ;
EVENING THOUGHTS. 113
High martyr hearts, where some great chastisement
Hath swept the household altars desolate,
And made of them pure temples to the Lord ;
Whence thoughts, like white-robed vestals, issuing forth,
Speed silent through the groping multitudes
With eyes turned swinelike toward the earth, and point
Unceasingly to heaven ; where Hope is dead,
But Faith triumphant mounts her tomb, and smiles ;
Where sits the lonely soul, and plans to cheer
All lonely ones; where Love's flame never dies,
And self is slain in daily sacrifice.
Oh Love ! thou art invincible ; through thee,
Frail, faltering man brave, striving, conquering man
Towers o'er the angels innocent and untried.
Oh Love ! thou art omnipotent. No soul
Without thy tending could outlive its clay,
So brutish else, and weak. We wake, and sleep ;
We hunger, and are cold \ we grow, and die ;
We strive with weaker brothers for their spoils,
And yield to stronger ; spider-like, we toil
And plot to snare our fellows ; or like ants,
We build wise plans, and stand in blind amaze
To see them crushed beneath Fate's iron heel,
Or scattered by the winds of Circumstance ;
We strive, and fail ; we reason, and are lost ;
We love, and we touch God !
10
TAKING TOLL.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
MR. SMITH kept a drug shop in the little village of
Q , which was situated a few miles from Lancaster.
It was his custom to visit the latter place every week or
two, in order to purchase such articles as were needed
from time to time in his business. One day, he drove
off towards Lancaster in his wagon, in which, among
other things, was a gallon demijon. On reaching the
town, he called first at a grocer's, with the inquiry,
"Have you any common wine?"
"How common T' asked the grocer.
" About a dollar a gallon. I want it for antimonial
wine."
"Yes; I have some just fit for that, and not much
else, which I will sell at a dollar."
" Very well. Give me a gallon," said Mr. Smith.
The demijon was brought in from the wagon and filled.
And then Mr. Smith drove off to attend to other busi-
ness. Among the things to be done on that day, was
TAKING TOLL. 115
to see a man who lived half a mile from Lancaster.
Before going out on this errand, Mr. Smith stopped at
the house of his particular friend, Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones
happened not to be in, but Mrs. Jones was a pleasant
woman, and he chatted with her for ten minutes or so.
As he was about stepping into his wagon, it struck him
that the gallon demijon was a little in his way, and so,
lifting it out, he said to Mrs. Jones,
" I wish you would take care of this until I come
back."
" Oh, certainly/' replied Mrs. Jones, " with the great-
est pleasure."
And so the demijon was left in the lady's care.
Some hours afterwards Mr. Jones came in, and among
the first things that attracted his attention was the strange
demijon.
"What is this?" was his natural inquiry.
" Something that Mr. Smith left."
"Mr. Smith from Q ?" . -
"Yes."
" I wonder what he has there ?" said Mr. Jones, taking
hold of the demijon. "It feels heavy."
The cork was unhesitatingly removed, and the mouth
of the vessel brought in close contact with the smelling
organ of Mr. Jones.
" Wine, as I live !" fell from his lips. " Bring me a
glass."
116 THE SNOW FLAKE.
"Oh no, Mr. Jones. I wouldn't touch his wine/'
said Mrs. Jones.
" Bring me a glass. Do you think I'm going to let a
gallon of wine pass my way without exacting toll ? No
no. Bring me a glass."
The glass, a half-pint tumbler, was produced, and
nearly filled with the execrable stuff as guiltless of
grape-juice as a dyer's vat which was poured down the
throat of Mr. Jones.
" Pretty fair wine that; only a little rough/' said Mr.
Jones, smacking his lips.
" It's a shame," remarked Mrs. Jones, warmly, " for
you to do so !"
" I only took toll," said the husband, laughing.
" No harm in that, I'm sure !"
"Rather heavy toll, it strikes me," replied Mrs.
Jones.
Meantime, Mr. Smith, having completed most of his
business for that day, stopped at a store where he
wished two or three articles put up. While these were
in preparation, he said to the keeper of the store,
" I wish you would let your lad Tom step over for
me to Mr. Jones's. I left a dernijon of common wine
there, which I bought for the purpose of making into
antimonial wine."
" certainly," replied the store-keeper. " Here,
Tom !" and he called for his boy.
TAKING TOLL. 117
Tom came, and the store-keeper said to him, " Run
over to Mr. Jones's and get a jug of antimonial wine
which Mr. Smith left there. Go quickly, for Mr. Smith
is in a hurry."
" Yes, sir/' responded the lad, and away he ran.
After Mr. Jones had disposed of his half a pint of
wine, he thought his stomach had rather a curious sen-
sation, which is not much to be wondered at, consider-
ing the stuff with which he had burdened it.
" I wonder if that really is wine ?" said he, turning
from the window at which he had seated himself, and
taking up the demijon again. The cork was removed .
and his nose applied to the mouth of the huge bottle.
"Yes, it's wine; but I'll vow it's not much to brag
of." And the cork was once more replaced.
Just then came a knock at the door. Mrs. Jones
opened it, and the store-keeper's lad appeared.
"Mr. Smith says, please let him have the jug of
antimonial wine he left here."
" Antimonial wine !" exclaimed Mr. Jones, his chin
falling, and a paleness instantly overspreading his face.
"Yes, sir," said the lad, taking up the demijon to
which Mrs. Jones pointed with her finger, and depart-
ing without observing the effect his appearance had pro-
duced.
" Antimonial wine !" fell again, but huskily, from the
quivering lips of Mr. Jones. " Send for the Doctor,
10*
118 THE SNOW FLAKE.
Kitty, quick ! Oh ! how dreadfully sick I feel ! Send for
the Doctor, or I'll be a dead man in half an hour !"
" Antimonial wine ! Dreadful !" exclaimed Mrs.
Jones, now as pale and frightened as her husband.
" Do you feel very sick ?"
" Oh yes. As sick as death V And the appearance
of Mr. Jones by no means belied his words. " Send for
the Doctor instantly, or it may be too late."
Mrs. Jones ran first in one way and then in another,
and finally had presence of mind enough to tell Jane,
her single domestic, to run with all her might for the
Doctor, and tell him that Mr. Jones had taken poison
by mistake.
Off started Jane at a speed outstripping that of John
G-ilpin. Fortunately the Doctor was in his office, and
he came with all the rapidity a proper regard to the
dignity of his omce would permit, armed with stomach-
pump and a dozen antidotes. On arriving at the house
of Mr. Jones, he found the sufferer lying upon a bed,
ghastly pale, and retching terribly.
" Oh, Doctor ! I'm afraid it's all over with me !"
gasped the patient.
" How did it happen ? what have you taken ?" in-
quired the Doctor, eagerly.
" I took, by mistake, nearly half a pint of antimonial
wine."
" Then it must be removed instantly," said the Doc-
TAKING TOLL. 119
tor ] and down the sick man's throat went one end of a
long, flexible, India-rubber tube, and pump ! pump !
pump ! went the Doctor's hand at the other end. The
result was very palpable. About a pint of reddish fluid,
strongly smelling of wine, came up, after which the in-
strument was withdrawn.
" There I" said the Doctor, (( I guess that will do.
Now let me give you an antidote." And a nauseous
*
dose of something or other was mixed up and poured
down to take the place of what had just been removed.
"Do you feel better now?" inquired the Doctor, as
he sat holding the pulse of the sick man ; and scanning,
with a professional eye, his pale face, that was covered
with a clammy perspiration.
" A little," was the faint reply. " Do you think all
danger past ?"
"Yes, I think so. The antidote I have given you
will neutralize the effect of the drug, as far as it has
passed into the system."
" I feel as weak as a rag," said the patient. " I am
sure I could not bear my own weight. What a power-
ful effect it had !"
" Don't think of it," returned the Doctor. " Compose
yourself. There is now no danger to be apprehended
whatever."
The wild flight of Jane through the street, and the
hurried movements of the Doctor, did not fail to attract
120 THE SNOW FLAKE.
attention. Inquiry followed, and it soon became noised
about that Mr. Jones had taken poison.
Mr. Smith, having finished his business in Lancaster,
was just stepping into his wagon, when a man came up
and said to him and the store-keeper, who was standing
by,-
" Have you heard the news ?"
" What news ?"
" Mr. Jones has taken poison."
"What!"
"Poison!"
"Who? Mr. Jones?"
" Yes. And they say he cannot live."
" Dreadful ! I must see him." And without wait-
ing for further information, Mr. Smith spoke to his
horse, and rode off at a gallop for the residence of his
friend. Mrs. Jones met him at the door, looking very
anxious.
"How is he?" inquired Mr. Smith, in a serious
voice.
" A little better, I thank you. The Doctor has taken
it all off of his stomach. Will you walk up ?"
Mr. Smith ascended to the chamber where lay Mr.
Jones, looking as white as a sheet. The Doctor was
still by his side.
" Ah, my friend !" said the sick man, in a feeble
TAKING TOLL. 121
voice, as Mr. Smith took his hand, "that antimonial
wine of yours has nearly been the death of me."
" What antimonial wine ?" inquired Mr. Smith, not
understanding what his friend meant.
" The wine you left here in the gallon demijon."
" That wasn't antimonial wine."
" It was not ?" fell from the lips of both Mr. and Mrs.
Jones.
" Why, no ! It was only wine that I had bought for
the purpose of making antimonial wine."
Mr. Jones rose up in bed.
" Not antimonial wine ?"
"No."
"Why, the boy said it was."
" Then he didn't know anything about it. It was
nothing but some common wine which I had bought."
Mr. Jones took a long breath. The Doctor arose
from the bedside, and Mrs. Jones exclaimed,
"Well, I never!"
Then came a grave silence, in which one looked at the
other doubtingly.
" Good-day," said the Doctor, and went down stairs.
" So you have been drinking my wine, it seems !"
laughed Mr. Smith, as soon as the man with the stomach-
pump had retired.
" I only took a little toll," said Mr. Jones, back into
whose pale face the colour was beginning to come, and
122 THE SNOW FLAKE.
through whose almost paralysed nerves was again flow-
ing from the brain a healthy influence. " But don't say
anything about it. Don't for the world I"
f U I won't, on one condition/ 7 said Mr. Smith, whose
words were scarcely coherent, so strongly was he con-
vulsed with laughter.
"What is that?"
" You must become a tetotaller."
" Can't do that/' replied Mr. Jones.
" Then I can't promise."
" Give me a day or two to make up my mind."
" Very well. And now good by ; the sun is nearly
down, and it will be night before I get home."
And Mr. Smith shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Jones,
and hurriedly retired, trying, but in vain, to leave the
house in a grave and dignified manner. Long before
Mr. Jones had made up his mind to join the tetotallers,
the story of his " taking toll" was all over the town, and
for the next two or three months he had his own time
of it. After that, it became an old story.
THE CONTRAST.
BY MARIA JANE B. BKOWNE.
i
B
(See Engraving.)
/ i ^2 L
" WHY steal there over me sad thoughts in an hour
like this 1" said Mrs. Elliott, rousing herself, with an
effort, from the deep reverie which had held sway over
her spirit with the power of a charm, and directing her
earnest gaze afar over the vast and almost motionless
^^v^ J
bosom of ocean, that lay spread out before her. " Dark
and ill-boding fancies are these ; and yet yon sun rides
gloriously to his setting, and^ this gorgeous blazonry of
clouds, in crimson, and purple, and silver, portend they
not a calm and beautiful to-morrow ? God ! bring
him safely ! my husband, the father of my child !
and this glad heart shall pour thee out its grateful
adoration."
There were bright tears, like dew-drops brimming the
cup of a violet, in her gentle eyes ; but they were not
tears of sorrow for there was a soft rejoicing smile
126 THE SNOW FLAKE.
playing on her lip, and the incense of prayer (or rather,
might one say, a hymn of thanksgiving), swelled upward
from the altar of her soul, and found welcome accept-
ance at the shrine of the celestial temple. A round and
rosy arm. circled her neck, and a dimpled cheek, ruddy
with the freshness of young life, pressed its silken soft-
ness upon her shoulder; while the wavy ringlets of
childhood, just stirred by the breath of the evening,
mingled themselves with the golden luxuriance of her
own half-truant tresses.
" And will he come to-morrow ? my own papa !" in-
quired the little Lenora, raising her head, and looking
up confidingly in her mother's face.
" To-morrow, dearest, God willing and look ! how
the waves sparkle and dance, as if they would rejoice to
bear along his noble vessel, and bring him home to our
love again. He left you a tiny babe in my arms, Le-
nora, and now you have had six long years to grow tall,
and gentle, and good. I fear your papa would scarcely
recognise his baby Lenora, in such a large, laughing,
frolicksome girl as he will find you !" And the face of
the young mother glowed in sympathy, with the surprise
and joy her husband would experience when he should
clasp so fair a daughter to his paternal heart, and enfold
so sweet a child in his unutterable love.
" I wonder how he looks, mamma ? Is he beautiful
like you, and will he wake me in the morning with a
THE CONTRAST. 127
kiss, and may I bend my head upon his knee, as I do
on yours, mother, to say my prayer at evening 1" pur-
sued Lenora, catching her mother's enthusiasm, and
pressing still closer to her side.
Mrs. Elliott drew from her bosom a lifelike miniature
of her husband, as he had left her in the pride of his
manhood's strength, and, holding it up before Lenora,
she replied,
" He looks just like this picture, you have kissed so
often, and loved so dearly, while he has been away;
manly, and strong, and noble, and good. To-morrow,
darling, only to-morrow, and you shall twine your arms
about his neck, and love me less, that you may love him
more 1"
A shadow instantly crossed Lenora' s radiant face, and
a tear dimmed the lustre of her eyes, a tear, welling
up from the overflowing and fathomless fountain of
aifection for her mother that mother who had been the
angel of her cradle-life, almost a divinity, calling forth
her heart's first worship. She sprang into her mother's
arms, and, looking up with her whole soul outgushing
in a tenderness which seemed half-quickened into a
jealous pain, she impressed a shower of kisses on her
lips, as if each one stamped new contradiction on the
unwelcome thought which, for one moment, had dark-
ened the light of her happiness.
The curtains of evening had already fallen, while the
11
128 THE SNOW FLAKE.
mother and child still lingered upon the seashore, in
joyful anticipation of the morrow. And as one star
after another glanced out, like a smile, from the serene
skies above, and the breeze grew fresher from the waters,
she took Lenora's hand in hers, and led her back to
their cottage-home, nestled among vines and evergreens.
It was a lovely home, an Eden, where the angels
of peace and contentment might well delight to hover,
or to fold their wings ; for without, the Divine hand
had garnished its surrounding scenery with a thousand
natural beauties, varying and changing with the chang-
ing seasons; and within, the fragrance that rolled up
from its altar-fires, was the acceptable incense of grate-
ful devotion. Behind rose a line of picturesque and
densely-wooded hills, stretching northward and south-
ward like tall guardian sentinels, watching and shelter-
ing the valley that slumbered almost in tropical luxu-
riance below. In front lay a sublime expanse of ocean,
bounded only by the far blue horizon, sometimes glo-
rious in its glassy calmness, sometimes terrible in the
majesty of its resistless might, sometimes lying in un-
ruffled repose, so still, the heavens completed their won-
derful sphere in its profound and motionless depths,
sometimes dashing its crested billows upon the shelving
beach, or whirling its white and feathery mists in swift
volumes inland, till it descended in spray-showers upon
the trees and cottages.
THE CONTRAST. 129
By the time Mrs. Elliott and her little daughter
reached their home, Lenora's eyelids were drooping, and
the evening petition, full of fresh fervency and hope,
was scarcely offered, before her head sunk on its pillow,
and her senses were locked in deep and dreamless repose.
Mrs. Elliott sat long by the bedside, gazing on her
beautiful child, and rejoicing that another parental heart
would soon mingle its fondness and pride with hers ;
and with these emotions of gladness, her thoughts swept
backward over the lapse of years, and the flood-gates of
memory seemed to be flung wide open, for the tumul-
tuous inrushing of a thousand recollections, bitter and
painful, connected with her own childish history its
forlornuess, destitution, and misfortune, and her mind
soothed itself into rest by the utterance of its praise to
that overruling Goodness which had cast the lines of her
riper heritage in so strange a contrast to the wretched-
ness of her childhood, and strown only flowers, instead
of thistles and briers, in the young Lenora's pathway.
And while they slumber, the reader and I will draw
aside the veil that shuts out the past, and read an epi-
sode from the early experience of the young wife whose
devoted heart was beating so anxiously for the return of
her husband ; and we shall learn, perhaps, why there
was graven upon her soul such a vital and devout recog-
nition of her happiness.
130 THE SNOW FLAKE.
H.
Mary Forester had passed a miserable childhood.
She had been "born in bitterness, and nurtured in
convulsion/' and strange indeed, it was, that every
spark of gentleness, every lingering of loveliness in her
nature, had not been blotted out in idiocy. She might
almost be said to have had no childhood; for the sunny
season of life, the season of careless trustfulness, the
very springtime and blossoming season of her existence,
had been passed amid scenes of brutality, clamour, star-
vation, and misery. By the ascendency of imbruting
passions, and the ungoverned tyranny of intemperate
appetites, her father had fallen from an enviable station,
down into a position lower than the dignity of the
beasts, and smothered out the light of a powerful intel-
lect in besotted and degrading imbecility. Her mother,
vain and handsome in her maidenhood, deceived, dis-
appointed, and discouraged by her marriage, belied the
pride and power of endurance, for which woman in all
ages has been honourably renowned, looked cravingly
upon the poison-mixture in her husband's cup, though
it loaded the atmosphere of their home with the Upas-
perfume of ruin and death. She profaned her lip with
one stolen draught after another, till it became the
panacea for all her multiplying ills, the comforter
under all her accumulating sorrows, the serpent, slimy
THE CONTRAST.
and seductive, coiling at her too willingly-yielded ear,
and whispering, " Touch, taste, handle ! Is it not joy-
laden ? Is it not sweeter than honey and the honey-
comb ? Brings it not quiet and forgetfulness, as if it
were a fresh and kindly draught from the waves of
Lethe ? Ye shall not surely die !" The subtle sophisms
of the tempter battered stealthily against the ramparts
of her pride, till they fell down crumbling and prostrate ;
and then she learned, shamelessly, to quaff the liquid
fire to its filthy dregs, and to quarrel and carouse, and
add potation to potation, till she became deliriously wild
with the lava-streams that consumed her brain, burned
out every womanly virtue, and scorched into blackness
every sweet affection that springs spontaneously in the
maternal heart.
Under auspices like these the first twelve years of
Mary's miserable life were tortured away. Young as
she was, existence had become a weariness and a bitter-
ness, almost too insupportable to endure ; and she longed
to lay her head on a gentler bosom than her mother's
that dear natural pillow of a child's softest repose and
close her eyes for ever on life and its deformities. There
was an anguish within her, keen as the stinging of a
scorpion, and it poisoned the current of youthfulness,
hope, and gladness, that should have been bounding
through her veins and pores, and withered her heart,
when its affections should have been outbursting in
11*
132 THE SNOW FLAKE.
their joyousness. She was despised and spurned, because
she was the child the blameless child of loathsome
and degraded parents, who was forced to beg, or perish,
while they wallowed in the deep pollutions of drunken-
ness and vice. Her lacerated sensitiveness shrank away,
like the mimosa, from the frost-breath of selfishness
and the niggard and reluctant charity of the world, or
from the gibes and insults of the coarse rabble she
encountered in her daily and often fruitless wanderings
in search of food. Every day brought but a renewal of
her wretchedness ; every day slie experienced new
violence and cruelty from her besotted parents, and
every day seemed to force to its folfilment a kind of
suicidal resolution, which, born of the desperateness of
her circumstances and the hopeless acuteness of her
inward as well as outward sufferings, had become more
than half mature, even in the heart of a child.
It chanced one morning that Mary had been driven
forth at an earlier hour than usual on her mission of
beggary, to supply the wants of her miserable parents.
She had arisen from a night of sleepless alarm, occa-
sioned by the jarrings, contentions, and strifes, that
made the darkness of her hovel-home both hideous and
terrible to the quick-startling susceptibilities of a timid
child, whose nerves were worn to the tenderness of an
abraded wound, and she had gone out faint and lan-
guishing on a successless errand. Her basket was still
THE CONTRAST. 133
empty; for her pale, imploring face, and gentle voice,
had failed to touch the springs of humanity or benevo-
lence, and, tottering with weakness and the weight of
her woes, she feebly retraced her steps to her wretched
home, trembling in fcarfulness of the bursts of passion
perhaps the cruel stripes that awaited her. She sat
down in a little gleam of sunlight before the door.
Alas ! the sunlight was the only light that shone upon
her. There were no beams, warm and genial from the
heart of parental love, to shower themselves around her,
and scarce a glimmering of that moral radiance which
reflects sublimely from the Sun of Righteousness, had
pierced its way into the darkness of her mind. The
name of G-od was familiar to her ear only as it rolled
from profane and blaspheming lips. Of Grod in the
beautiful character of a father she knew nothing, save
from the undefined revealings of consciousness answer-
ing to the unsatisfied longings and yearnings of her
soul.
She sat down in the sunshine and listened to discover
what was occurring within afraid to enter afraid to
tell her beastly parents that all her pleadings had fallen
on stony hearts, and not a morsel had she gathered to
appease their hunger, or her own almost famishing
need. Her inebriate father was just rousing himself
from the long and heavy slumber induced by the deep
draughts he had swallowed the evening before } and her
134 THE SNOW FLAKE.
maniac mother, chained in one corner of the hovel to a
naked beam, fierce from hunger, and maddened into
more horrible frenzy by the ragings and gnawings of an
unsatisfied appetite for the poison-draught whose slow
fires had burned up her reason and made her less a
woman than a demon, clanked her chains, and shouted
and shrieked and imprecated for the return of her
daughter.
|
Poor Mary stole a glance through the half-open door
at the bloated face of her unnatural father, and at the
wild and haggard visage of her mother; and then she
crept away, terrified and in despairing tears, from the
glare of those furious eyes. With the keen agony of
helplessness and hopelessness rending her childish heart,
she wept till her nature yielded under the exhaustion,
and she sank down in a deep, swoon-like slumber on the
ground her senses un quieted by a mother's voice softly
warbling the Cradle Hymn, but appalled and wearied
into unconsciousness by the fiercer lullaby of a maniac
laugh, and vile snatches of a ribald song, hoarsely ex-
ploded from a parching throat.
The sun mounted to his meridian, but still Mary slept
on. Her father, at length, roused from his lethargy by
the pangs of hunger and the clamourings of his wife,
growled out his curses on her delay, and staggered to the
open door. His blurred and bloodshot eyes fell on her,
as she lay in her pallid and deathlike beauty, with her
THE CONTRAST. 135
small, thin hands clasped across her bosom, whose fitful
throbbings were almost the only tokens of remaining
life. The sight might have wrung compassion from the
heart of a fiend, but it only awakened the rage of her
drunken parent. He grated his teeth in anger, and
reeling towards her, he raised his clenched hand to deal
her a fatal stroke, when a strong arm suddenly seized
him, and in a moment sent him backward to the ground.
And there he lay, prostrate and helpless, while the deli-
verer of his child, a youth of iron sinew and athletic
proportions, examined at his will the aspect of the hovel
and its wretched inmates. "Within, there was what an
appalling spectacle ! Close in her filthy and straw-
littered corner, crouched the mad mother, her grim and
ghastly features frightfully contorted, gasping, and howl-
ing, and quivering, in the last fierce, mortal conflict.
The young man involuntarily shuddered at the sight,
and stood a moment, as it were, chained to the spot, by
the horror of the scene. She turned her fiery eyes upon
him, and then the death-film extinguished their flame-
like glow. She stretched out her starved and emaciated
body and expired.
But you and I, dear, gentle-hearted reader, will retreat
from such a loathsome phase of existence, and leave our
young hero to the promptings of his humanity and his
wisdom.
When Mary Forester recovered her consciousness, she
136 THE SNOW FLAKE.
looked around, bewildered and amazed; for she seemed
to be realizing all the dreams of blessedness and of hea-
ven, that ever flitted through the fancy of childhood.
She was arrayed in white, like the vesture of the angels
she lay on a bed whose downy and delicious softness
contrasted strangely with all her past experience white
curtains drooped gracefully about her, and there was a
sweet, maternal face bending anxiously over her, with
an expression more benign and heavenly than ever she
had seen on a human face, and a cool, soft hand smoothed
back the hair from her forehead, or laved her thirsty lips
with a draught as grateful as if it had been drawn from
the waters of Paradise. Her labouring senses whirled
in giddy confusion as she strove to take up her last
conscious impressions, which seemed utterly to have
faded away, and, to her childish imaginings, she had
indeed passed beyond the drear boundaries of life, and
this was heaven ! This was the beginning of a new ex-
istence ! and 0, how inexpressibly soothing and beautiful
to her worn, young spirit ! She feared to stir, almost to
breathe, lest the spell which bound her should be riven,
and its revealings should vanish away, like the unreal
pageantry of a dream. Then a delirious sense of alarm
convulsed her wasted frame, and she made a feeble effort
to rise ; but suffering and starvation had laid stern hands
upon her. She was grappling with a burning fever, and
day after day she seemed doubtfully vibrating between
THE CONTRAST. .
life and death. But the elasticity of her youthful con-
stitution, shattered though it had been by neglect and
cruelty, at last triumphed, and she recovered to learn
that this heaven upon earth was the home of her deli-
verer, and that she was no longer an orphan, though
parentless.
III.
I need not pause to speak of those graces of person
and mind that unfolded themselves in Mary Forester,
under such genial sunshine, nor of the nature of that
emotion which spontaneously sprung up between herself
and Alonzo Elliott. Six years from the time he had borne
her frail and almost lifeless form, in his arms from the
scene of her infant misery to the fostering care and gen-
tle training of his beloved mother, Mary became his wife.
The preliminary preparations which fitted him for his
chosen sphere of life the naval service were at this
period completed, and only one short year of almost un-
clouded happiness passed at the seaside cottage to which
he removed his fair young bride, before he was appointed
to the command of a vessel, and ordered out on a long
exploring cruise. He tore himself away from his beloved
Mary, " with her baby on her breast," and after an absence
of six eventful years, the hour seemed to be approaching
when the husband and father would be restored to the
bosom of his family, and reposing from those wild and
138 THE SNOW FLAKE.
tempestuous adventures amid the storms and icebergs of a
polar ocean, sun himself in the very heart of domestic love.
Many times during the night preceding her husband's
anticipated arrival, Mary arose from her pillow, to look
out upon the skies and ocean, watching for a cloud or a
breeze that might threaten to delay him. And she felt
a pang of restless anxiety, as she discovered towards
midnight, that the heavens were obscured, and a hoarse,
foretokening moan seemed to roll inward from the waters,
smiting like a death-wail upon her ear.
With the coming of day, fierce winds ruffled the whole
expanse of ocean within her view into valleys and moun-
tains, and the sky was densely overcast with black and
threatening clouds. Huge waves broke in upon the
rocky and dangerous shore, and then swept backward
with a loud and angry hiss, as they met and intermingled
with other approaching billows. The scene became
sublimely terrible. Mrs. Elliott stood hour after hour at
her window, listening to the mystic voices of the storm,
as if they could disclose to her the secret she longed,
yet dreaded to learn, whether her beloved was safely
moored from the tempest, or if his gallant ship was still
battling its way against the raging of those mighty
waters. One vessel and another laboured along within
the range of her vision, with tattered canvass and reeling
masts, still pressing onward to a haven. Again she
knelt, with Lenora by her side, to pray for the safety of
THE CONTRAST. 139
her husband; and when she rose from that posture of
supplication, and looked out upon the turbulent and
foam-covered waves, a vessel, before undescried, a noble
vessel, had been driven upon that dangerous reef, only
a few furlongs from the shore, and there she hung,
pitching and chafing like an impatient war-horse, too
mighty for the mad tugging of the surges that boiled
around.
Then rushed upon Mary's heart an instinctive convic-
tion, like the quick errand of the electric wire, that she
had a vital interest in the fate of the stranded ship.
She strained her powers of vision to the utmost, to watch
every motion, and to scan every form that, with perilous
precipitancy, dropped into the boats. She watched till
one noble figure alone stood on the deserted deck, and
the last boat and with it the last reasonable hopes of
escape, or of life, in that wild, elemental conflict had
drifted away. Mary's face blanched to the paleness of
death, and her heart grew almost still in the helplessness
of her mental agony. Unmindful of the tempest, un-
mindful of the increasing thunder of the waves as they
leaped upon the shore, she hurried to a spot a little
sheltered by a cliff from the furious sweep of the wind,
and with the instinct of love, she riveted her eyes on
that sole, manly form, still walking backward and for-
ward as if yet inwardly debating measures of safety and
12
140 THE SNOW FLAKE.
escape. He paused a brief moment, perhaps in doubt
perhaps in despair perhaps in the lull of an instant,
his eye caught, in outline against the rock, the very
form, beautiful and beloved, he had once borne away
from death in his arms. His face was turned toward
the shore, as if he saw the cottage which sheltered the
mother and her nestling, and he almost refused to perish
beneath its very shadow. Inspired with the heroism of
agony, and nerving those iron sinews with the energy of
despair, the promptings of his strong heart, which had
faced death fearlessly under hideous and savage forms
before, urged him to try a single combat with that
mightiest instrument of power and terror, which dandles
fleets and navies as if they were but an infant's play-
thing. With one bold leap he sprung into the gulf
of waters, and rose and fell with the fierce swelling of
the deep. One desperate bound after another brought
him nearer and nearer. Mary watched his coming with
an intense and straining gaze, as if her life hung on the
issue. Her heart fluttered painfully between the kin-
dlings of hope and the torture of suspense. She fell on
her knees and cried to Him who " holds the waters in
his hand, and taketh up the isles as a very little thing,"
that the strength of the hero might last him through
unequal struggles. There were only a few more yards to
gain but he falters ! 0, merciful heaven ! She sees it
THE CONTRAST. 141
is her husband and must he die almost within the sound
of her voice, and the clasp of her arms !
Mary had lost sight of her husband, as a large wave
came careering swiftly inward upon the shore, and she
sunk down on the cold rocks, overwhelmed with a
sense of bereavement and widowhood; but when the
billow retreated, there lay his beloved body, only a few
steps from her side, and in a moment he was folded to
her heart ! He was torn, and bleeding, and drenched,
and senseless but a cry of gratitude burst from her
inmost soul that he was still alive. With almost super-
human strength, she dragged him beyond the swell of
the waters, and then she pressed her lips to his cold fore-
head, and chafed his temples and his hands, as if the
warmth of her love and joy would kindle again his con-
sciousness.
Recovering her self-possession, which, for a moment,
was guilty of recreancy, Mary pillowed her husband's
head on a pile of sea-weed, muffled him in the mantle
she tore from her own shoulders, and then hastened to
the cottage to summon her servants to bear home his
still insensible body. Timely efforts for his restoration
proved availing. His heart began to throb heavily in
his bosom, and he opened his eyes to recognise with a
rapturous pleasure, the face of his devoted wife, and to
gaze with paternal delight on their lovely child.
142 THE SNOW FLAKE.
It hath been said by one who spake as he was moved
by the inward utterances of inspiration, " Thou knowest
not what a day may bring forth/' With pardonable
latitude of interpretation, this may not, perhaps, unwisely
be rendered, " The promise of the morning of life, is but
a doubtful augury of its progress or its close." In those
unwritten passages of human history, which are only to be
read when the throne is set and the seals are opened, what
lights and shadows, what strange and startling contrasts,
will be seen to have brightened or darkened the progres-
sive stages of many a life. A morning sun, rising, per-
haps, in obscurity and gloom, may burst out in full glory
before the noontide or a day, cloudless and rosy at its
dawning, may go down in darkness and a tempest.
In just such strong contrast as I have referred to
above, passed the sin-blackened beginning, and the calm
and beautiful evening of Mary Elliott's life. Surrounded
in childhood by the grossest and most pestilent influences
which vice can wear, her affections were chilled and
trampled upon, till their vitality had become well-nigh
extinguished. Above her maiden head, the darkness
broke away; and blessed and beloved as a wife and
mother, with her soul irradiated by that immortal light
which diffuses its beams with a softening glow over every
human relation, her sun went peacefully down; and the
tears which fell upon her grave, were the holy libation
THE CONTRAST. 143
of love, poured out in testimony of the truth, the faith,
the serene purity of her character.
" God moves in a mysterious way," and life is but a
perpetual miracle. Most happy are they who can look
up adoringly from the summits of prosperity, or the
valleys of adversity, and bless the hand that blesses
them, or kiss the rod which chastises !
12*
COMETS.
BY PROFESSOR NICHOL.
EARLY in the year 1843, an object appeared in
the heavens that must have astonished many worlds
besides ours. Situated in the region below the constel-
lation Orion, it had the appearance of a long auroral
streak, visible immediately after sunset, and evidently
pursuing a course through our system. Unfavourable
weather concealed it from nie until the 25th of March,
when it presented a peculiar dim and strange ap-
pearance. The beginning or head of this streak,
although never observed here, was often seen in south-
erly latitudes, where it appeared like a very small
star with an enormous misty envelope; behind which
that immense tail streamed through the sky. There
is no reason to believe that this nucleus was in reality
a star, but only a denser portion of the nebulous sub-
stance of which the whole object was composed; for
with other apparitions of the same kind, whose brighter
parts looked like a star, the application of a very small
telescopic power has always been enough to dissipate
COMETS. 145
the illusion, and to resolve what seemed their solid
region into a thin vapour.
This extraordinary visiter was measured, and the
nature of its path detected ; and certainly the results of
these inquiries caused us to look on it with still greater
wonder. The diameter or breadth of its nucleus was
more than one hundred thousand miles ; and the tail
streaming from it, which in some parts was thirty times
as broad, stretched through the celestial spaces to the
enormous distance of one hundred and seventy millions
of miles, or about the whole size of the orbit of the
Earth. Nor were its motions less singular. Unlike
any globe connected with the Sun, it did not move in a
continuous curve, which, like the circle or ellipse, re-
enters into itself, and thus constitutes to the body that
has adopted it, a fixed however eccentric home ; but spy-
ing our luminary afar off, as it lay amid those outer
abysses, it approached along the arm of an hyperbola;
rushed across the orderly orbits of our system into
closest neighbourhood with the Sun, being at that time
apart from him only by a seventh part of our distance
from the Moon; and, defying his attraction, by force of
its own enormous velocity, which then was nothing less,
in one part of its mass, than one-third of the velocity of
light, it entered on the other divergent arm of its course,
and sped towards new immensities.
146 THE SNOW FLAKE.
It was when retiring that this unexpected visitant
was seen for a brief period in Europe. In the course of
its approach, it must have passed between us and the Sun,
causing a cornetic eclipse, and, in so far, an interception
of his heating rays ; but that occurred during our night.
And now, what is to be made of this extraordinary
apparition ? what is its nature ? what its relations to our
system ? and what new revelation did it bring concerning
the structure of the Universe? Its relations with our
system appear to have been few and transitory ; and in
this it resembles the probable millions of such masses,
that have, since observation began, crossed the planetary
orbits towards the Sun, and after bending round him,
gone in pursuit of some other fixed star. No more than
three are known to belong, properly speaking, to the
scheme dependent on our luminary Encke's, Biela's,
and Halley's ; but though these do revolve around him
in fixed periods, the circumstance must be regarded in
the light of an accident, their orbits being wholly un-
like any other, and having little assurance of stability ;
for as they cross the planetary paths, every one of them
may yet undergo the fate of Lexell's, which, by the
action of Jupiter, was first twisted from its diverging
orbit into a comparatively short ellipse ; and then, after
making two consecutive revolutions around the Sun, so
that it might have begun to deem itself a denizen, was,
COMETS. 147
by the same planet, twisted back again, and sent off,
never to revisit us, away to the chill abysses ! Strange
objects, with homes so undefined flying from star to
star twisting and winding through tortuous courses
until, perhaps, no depth of that Infinite has been untra-
versed ! What, then, is it your destiny to tell us ? To
what new page of that infinite book are you an index ?
"We missed, indeed, only very narrowly, an opportunity
of information, which might have been not the most
convenient ; for the Earth escaped being involved in the
huge tail of our recent visiter, merely by being fourteen
days behind it. For one, I should have had no appre-
hension, even in that case, of the realization of the geo-
logical romances, viz., of our Equator being turned to
the Pole, and the Pole to the Equator the ocean,
meanwhile, leaping from its ancient bed. But if that
mist, thin though it was, had, with its next to incon-
ceivable swiftness, brushed across our globe, certainly
strange tumults must have occurred in the atmosphere ;
and probably no agreeable modification of the breathing
medium of organic beings. Right, certainly, to be most
curious about comets ; but prudent, withal, to inquire
concerning them, from a greater distance than that :
although one night in November 1837, I cannot be per-
suaded that the Earth did not venture on a similar, but
comparatively small experiment. It was when our globe
passed from the peaceful vacant spaces into that myste*
148 THE SNOW FLAKE.
rious meteor region. The sky became inflamed and red as
blood; coruscations, like Auroras, darted across it; not
as usual, streaming from one district, but shifting con-
stantly, and sweeping the whole heavens.
That highest problem, to which the spectacle of a
comet incites us, viz., what are its relations to the or-
ganized bodies of the Universe ? whether it is a germ,
or a relic, or a mere celestial vapour, having no con-
nexion but with itself? I have endeavoured to discuss
elsewhere ; nor is it apt to this place ; for other consi-
derations press on us, touching on some of the highest
achievements of human genius, and on revelations con-
cerning powers that uphold the Universe, of which we
have had no indication before. Unconnected though
these bodies are, in most particulars, with the planetary
scheme, it is plain, that between them and that system,
and especially that between them and the Sun, there
exist very powerful sympathies; for although they es-
cape again, they are yet drawn through force of these
sympathies from the profoundest depths, and constrained,
at least once, into definite motions. Let us penetrate
the mystery of those powers.
I.
A most noticeable fact here impresses us at the out-
set. However diverse may be their character and clirec-
COMETS. 149
tion whether, as the three above specified, they move
in long and narrow ellipses, or, as the other vast num-
bers, in paths whose arms are divergent, the comets are
yet rigidly confined to some one of that small family of
curves to which the ellipse belongs; and their varying
velocities, in so far as they are known, also rigidly con-
form to Kepler's second law. Here, then, is a mark of
order where there seemed only disorder : but observe
yet farther; in these two facts we have the clearest
proof, that over the comets also mists though they are
THE LAW OF GRAVITATION PREVAILS ! Come from
whence that vapour may whether from the neighbour-
hood of a remote fixed star, or from spaces nearer us
the instant it bends its course towards the Sun, it is
guided by the same unerring force which we with our
Moon and seas unconstrainedly obey. "Where, then, can
disorder be found in the Universe ? "Where, within all
its wide warmth is the domain of CAPRICE ? Let it be
but a speck of dust amid these deep celestial vacancies,
or a breath of morning wind, capricious apparently as
man's thoughts, it is yet part of all things, and safe
under the government of immutable laws ! It is surely
not astonishing that the name of the man whose saga-
city first pierced so far into immensity, tracing there the
action of law, should, by universal consent, have been
engirt by an undying honour ! Soon after Newton had
detected the reality of that cosmical influence, it occurred
150 THE SNOW FLAKE.
to HALLEY, when contemplating a great comet that
blazed over Europe in the year 1682, that previous ap-
paritions, in all respects similar, almost went to establish
iis periodicity. Apparently the same object had been
noticed by Kepler in 1607 ; and in 1531, Apian ob-
served it at Ingoldstadt. The identity of these meteors
seeming unquestionable, Halley ventured to predict that
the same comet would reappear in 1758 ; and that it
would be found -to revolve in a very elongated ellipse in
about seventy-six years. As the critical period ap-
proached, which was to decide so momentous a question
regarding the system of the world, the greatest mathe-
maticians endeavoured to track the cornet's course with
a minuteness which Halley' s opportunities did not per-
mit him to reach. The illustrious CLAIRAUT, feeling
that a general prediction was not enough that if gra-
vity was universal, not a nutter of that object should
escape us undertook the most complex problem as to
the disturbing effects of the planets through whose
orbits it must pass. Observe the real nature of that
problem. Cornets must often come through all the
orbits, and be subject to the most extraordinary ac-
tions on the part of planets which they pass. Yet
this great Geometer succeeded in predicting one of
the positions of Halley 's for the middle of April ;
stating, however, that he might be in error by thirty
days. The comet occupied the position referred to on
COMETS.
the 12th of March. Since then, Uranus has been dis-
covered, and the influence of the other planets better
ascertained; and at its late return in 1835, the German,
Rosenberger, who seems to have nearly exhausted the
subject, approached to the observed time within the
short period of six days ! Nor, insignificant though they
seem, are these six days to be neglected. A whiff of
some unknown ether might have produced the discre-
pancy, or the attraction of some planet far beyond Uranus,
and not yet descried by the telescope ; but unless they
spring from error of calculation, they must have a defi-
nite meaning, to be found, in all likelihood, before the
comet's next return. Even in presence of actions so ma-
jestic, on the footprints, as it were, of the march of laws
so vast, is it not excusable to refer, with some exulta-
tion, to the grandeur of that intellect which has become
familiar with the throbbings of Nature's mighty heart ?
" Is it then," says an eloquent writer, " is it otherwise
possible in the government of God ? Shall the material
thing, inorganic, inert, impercipient, move on in this
wondrous perpetuity ; and shall the soul that discerns its
order, and tracks its career, and detects its laws, and
speculates on its constitution, be swept away as nothing
before it ? Shall unconscious matter last, while the mind,
to which alone its functions are subservient, which in-
terprets its mysteries, and reads in them the signature of
God, vanish like the passing wind ? Shall the knowledge
13
152 THE SNOW FLAKE.
and the thoughts of men be handed down in endless gene-
alogy, teaching and inspiring the soul of other times ; and
shall the conscious creature that called them into being
be blotted ignominiously from creation ? Impossible ! It
cannot be but that they, through the medium of whose
thought we now gaze at the skies, witness elsewhere the
excellence of their past toils, the triumph of their stu-
dious meditations. Surely the Heavens that they de-
ciphered, they behold with eyes undimnied by age, and
minds yet yearning, but in a spirit of profounder adora-
tion, to press forward towards vaster disclosures of the in-
finitude of GOD !"
H.
But we are told by the comets, of still grander deve-
lopments of power. As any of these bodies approaches
the Sun, it manifests the action of a new set of relations
between him and the matter of which it consists ; rela-
tions probably subsisting also between that luminary and
his planets, but which have yet escaped detection. The
train or tail of a comet, whether single or multiplex, is
a phenomenon of deep significance, and demands close
investigation. Taken in all its generality, the pheno-
menon amounts to this that the nucleus or densest part
does not occupy a central position in the mass, as cer-
tainly it would do, were the interior arrangement of the.
particles undisturbed by any force from without.
COMETS. 153
What, then, is the disturbing force, and whence ?
The reply is indicated by the chief features of the tail.
When the comets are far from the Sun, that appendage
is feeble ; but as they approach him, it is developed with
wonderful activity ; for the whole mass becomes agitated,
and part of it is apparently driven backwards along a
line straight from the Sun. The power that deranges
the interior arrangements of the comet, is therefore re-
sident in the central luminary; and it may either be
some peculiar repulsive force which in reality drives
many of the particles backwards, or an attractive force,
also of a peculiar kind, acting on the nucleus alone, and
dragging it forward. But neither of these forces alone
is sufficient for the difficulty ; inasmuch as the action of
either by itself would necessarily affect the rate of the
body's motion.
If, for instance, we take the hypothesis of a repulsive
force acting energetically, even on part of the matter of
the comet, the velocity of the whole of its orbit must
be diminished ; and the opposite supposition would ne-
cessitate phenomena, in the way of acceleration, equally
inconsistent with that law of gravity to which these
bodies are all scrupulously obedient. The puzzle seems
resolvable only in one way. "We must suppose that
the agencies of the Sun on these bodies, are, however
active, and capable of deranging the positions of their
particles neutralized within the mass itself; in other
154 THE SNOW FLAKE.
words, that they produce both repulsive and attractive
forces, which, in regard of any other energy like gravi-
tation, exactly balance eacli oilier. Take, in illustration,
the old theories about magnetism and electricity. These
supposed, that what were termed the magnetic and
electric fluids, existing usually in combination and inert,
were by some external agency separated into opposites;
so that while one manifested an attractive energy to
foreign bodies, the other was equally repelled. Look
at the magnetic needle. By a touch, it has been gifted
with its new character, or rather by the mere presence
of another body : it will now rest in only one position in
regard of this other; but its weight is not altered. Are
not those cometic masses, then, akin to the magnetic
fluid decomposed by an energy in the Sun ; and thus
without their gravity being altered, because of the
exact balance of the developed forces constrained to
exist towards him, in one particular direction, as the
position of the needle is determined by the place of the
inducing magnet ? We shall find that this illustration
is more than a vague one ; for phenomena have now de-
monstrated that the Sun is so acting on these strange
mists, and with a grandeur hitherto unnoticed in the
Universe.
When the Comet of Halley reappeared, it duly ful-
filled its apparent mission of stirring new thoughts ; and
COMETS. 155
we owe our instruction in this case chiefly to the illus-
trious BESSEL. After it became visible in Europe, it
continued for some time to present the aspect of a mere
nebulous spot, with no speciality of configuration ; but
on approaching the Sun, an intense internal activity ap-
peared. One evening, for instance, its lustre increased
almost with the rapidity of a flash : but its other changes
were more interesting, because more intelligible. The
most striking of these was a vivid emanation or out-
streaming of matter from the comet toivards the Sun.
This was not the tail, which lay on the other side of the
comet ; but a distinct and direct flow of particles from
the mass of the nucleus, in virtue of some peculiar
attractive energy not gravity exercised over them by
our luminary. But what followed was far more re-
markable. After stretching towards the Sun through a
long but well-defined distance, the emanation seemed to
be obstructed, it wavered, as if on the verge of hostile
or repulsive territories took on a curious motion of
vibration, something like a pendulum, to and fro bent
and curved inwards, and assumed the shape of a fan.
Think now of the pith-ball of an electric machine.
It approaches the charged conductor until it is saturated,
and then darts backwards into space. And what else
is this ? Tremendous indeed the scale ; but after all,
merely the repetition and enlargement of something like
that small phenomenon : the majestic cometic einana-
13*
156 THE SNOW FLAKE.
tion first approaches the Sun in virtue of the exercise of
an electric or magnetic, or other POLAR FORCE, and
then, with immense activity, streams backwards and
passes into the tail.
The speculation thus unexpectedly realized by the
comets, will in future times lead to discoveries of the
profoundest interest regarding the system of the Universe.
It has bestowed on the Sun a new character, and enlarged
indefinitely the sphere of his action. By how many
cosmical mysteries is our own world engirt, which, in
the energy now revealed, may receive their explanation !
Look at the Auroras, with their strange magnetic influ-
ences ! nay, think of the potent magnetic dispositions of
our globe, and of their variations, so closely connected
with our luminary's diurnal and annual course. The
intimation of a new cosmical power I mean of one so
unsuspected before, but which yet can follow a ^cornet
through its wanderings throws us back once more into
the indefinite obscure, and checks all dogmatism. How
many influences, hitherto undiscerned by our ruder senses,
may be ever streaming towards us, and modifying every
terrestrial action ! And yet, because we had traced one
of these, we have deemed that our Astronomy is com-
plete ! Deeper far, and nearer to the root of things, is
that world with which Man's destinies are entwined.
Again into those august spaces that wandering thing
COMETS. 157
has passed to undergo its fates. Dim though it is,
without a mountain, without an ocean, without morn or
eve, encompassed by strange ethers, doubtless, in its
journey, it too rejoices in the Universal Life; and, with
whatever object, is like all visible things, preparing for
another form of being. As to us, we have said to it our
everlasting farewells. When with new tidings it returns,
it will speak of the higher mysteries to a generation
fresh from Nature's womb : for that which now beheld
it, shall then be speeding through immensities far more
awful than its own. Dread voyage ! Surely throughout
it, we, too, as well as that mist, shall continue within
the power of Immutable and Benignant Laws.
As I close this essay, the presence of Immensities so
dread, and to which is seen no end, wholly overawes me,
while knowing nothing of them, although by them all
she too is surrounded my infant daughter at my feet,
is repeating her Infant Hyran :
Beyond the stars, beyond the Sun,
He hears our softest prayers,
And He will guide His tender lambs
Through this dark vale of tears.
And He will be our Father still,
And when this life is o'er,
A pearly dwelling shall be ours,
Upon a golden shore.
158 THE SNOW FLAKE.
And that voice, whose silver tone is heard even beneath
the august Heavens, banishes from my heart all chill of
Scepticism for ever ! But around and around the deep
bass of the Infinite rolls and resounds ; and presumption
and dogmatic Self can find no denizenship amidst its
majestic Realities. All things are pressing towards new
conditions ; and so ever thirsting after Truth, which is
our only Vitality, let us, too, fix our eyes ever on that
high Home. Mingling in sincerity with the grand
events that environ us, and aspiring to take part in their
mighty developments, we shall have the possession, and
not the word merely, of Eternal Life, which is the
Power to rise and expand evermore, along with that
growing Universe in which He is mirrored, until we
become liker to Him, in whom there is neither transi-
tion nor changeableness, because He is the origin and
substratum of all change the Inscrutable ALL IN
ALL!
READER, Farewell !
PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE.
BY DR. BO WRING.
I MUSED while I turned on a feverish bed,
Recalling the changes Fve seen ;
" There is so much of grief and of grievance," I said,
" In the things and the thoughts that have been,
That they canker the budding of hope with their blight,
And o'ershadow the future with memory's night."
Then I counted the joys, and the beautiful dreams,
Of the sunshine and stars of the past,
In the glory-gilt twilight of youth-time, which seems
To echo back bliss to the last :
And I said, "Life's a blessing, and man should be blest,
And the sorrows of life are but shadows at best."
It seemed that I stood on the verge of the tomb,
While the flapping of ravens I heard ;
I felt the sweet calm between gladness and gloom,
And patiently waited the word
160 THE SNOW FLAKE.
The word which should bid ine descend, but my breast
Was still as the snows on the mountains that rest.
Too much I've enjoyed on life's journey, to close
My pilgrimage free from regret ;
And I've suffered too much from its wants and its woes,
Their scourgings and stings to forget :
So come when it will, the decree from on high,
I am willing to live but contented to die.
THE WATERS OF OBLIVION.
BY JOHN MALCOLM, ESQ.
THE waters of oblivion's stream
Effacing of this mortal day
The scenes that lived in memory's dream,
From spirits passed away;
How blest, methinks, their healing balm
That dewed the soul in endless calm !
For not alone did they efface
The records memory loves to view,
But blotted sorrow's graven trace
From her pale tablets too;
Washed out the woes of parted years,
That made the eye a fount of tears;
Erased the heartstains of the past
Regrets that haunt the brightest bowers,
Like oft-returning clouds, and cast
A shade on summer hours;
162 THE SNOW FLAKE.
Remorse, that conies our sleep to blight,
Begirt with gloom and ghostly night.
But oh ! that Lethe's blessed wave
Ne'er but in Fancy's realm abode;
In the far world beyond the grave
Its waters never flowed,
To banish from that future sphere
One little record written here.
HELEN ARORAVE, OR THE ESCAPE.
A TALE OF THE CIVIL WARS.
BY SAMUEL S. FISHER.
(See Engraving.)
"!N the name of the Parliament, I desire thee to
give us entrance, that we may rest our wearied beasts !"
These words, uttered in a tone of entreaty rather
than of command, were addressed to the warder of a
strong though negligently guarded castle near the town
of Harford. Before the gateway stood a baud of armed
men, whose steel head-pieces and cropped heads pro-
claimed them Puritans ; and at their head was a short,
thickset man, whose ungainly form and disagreeable
features were stamped with all of those peculiar charac-
teristics which generally designated the soldiers of
Cromwell's army, though the fact that he was one of
the number was sufficiently evident, since he demanded
entrance, not in the name of his king, nor of the King
of kings, but of the Parliament.
The warder, as he surveyed this array and listened to
14
166 THE SNOW FLAKE.
their request for admission, stood perplexed and doubt-
ful. To open the gates to the Roundhead party would,
he feared, be but to give entrance to a gang of marauders
within one of the noblest structures of England, and to
expose to jeopardy the lives and safety of those whom
years before he had promised his dying master, the Earl,
to defend while life remained. On the other hand,
however, Lady Argrave, who, with her daughter and a
few retainers, alone inhabited the castle, was noted for
her hospitable nature, and having taken no part in the
political troubles of the times, would not hear of the
exclusion of any one from her sheltering roof and well-
filled board.
" Certainly/ 7 she replied, in answer to the warder's
question touching the admission of the strangers ; " cer-
tainly : bid them at once enter and taste of our cheer."
"But, my lady/' expostulated the faithful servitor,
" they are Roundheads !"
"And, pray, what of that, Master Warder? does
their being Roundheads prevent their receiving food
and shelter ? No, no ! our house has ever been noted
for its hospitality; let it not now lose its character."
" Since it is your wish, then, my lady, I will obey
you ; yet do I fear me much that it were better to treat
with these men as enemies outside of the gate than to
welcome them as friends to our table."
" Fear not, but admit them - } and see that by thy
HELEN ARGRAVE. 167
churlishness thou do not make enemies where else had
been friends."
The gates were accordingly flung open, and the Par-
liamentary troop admitted. No sooner, however, did
they find themselves safely within the castle walls, than,
unmindful of every principle of gratitude, they evinced
their appreciation of their kind and generous reception
by the mistress of the fortress by disarming and se-
curing her retainers and placing their own soldiers as
guards upon the walls and at the gate; in short, by
taking complete military possession.
" 'Twas what I feared," murmured the warder, as the
Roundhead captain, calling him roughly, bade him go
at once and tell his mistress that the castle was then in
the custody of the troops of the Parliament, who would
retain possession of it, and suffer no one to leave it upon
any pretence whatever.
The answer of the Lady Argrave was in the same
spirit of generosity that had hitherto influenced her.
"I am sorry," said she, "that I am to entertain such
unworthy guests. Yet I do not regret having given
them entrance : I have been thus far faithful to the laws
of hospitality ; if they prove unfaithful guests, it will be
to their own disgrace. But send- my daughter Helen
hither," she continued ; " I will warn her of the cha-
racter of our visiters, that she may avoid annoyance
from them."
168 THE SNOW FLAKE.
In obedience to her mother's summons, the Lady
Helen Argrave left her room to visit her. She was a
beautiful girl, just budding into womanhood ; one, too,
whose finely moulded and well-rounded form and the
healthful flush upon her cheek, told of the country air,
of exercise, and of buoyant spirits, rather than of the
confinements and sorrows of the court. She knew
nothing of the arrival of the Puritans; for, seated in
her chamber, in a part of the castle remote from the
entrance, she had been buried in a trance, a revery, of
love. The cause was not hidden ; for upon the table
lay an open letter, whose words, traced in bold and
manly characters, brought alternately mirth and sorrow
to the heart of the fair reader. It bore the name of
the neighbouring town, and had been received early that
very morning from the postboy of the castle, to whom
it had been delivered by the young and handsome
knight, Sir Charles Sydney, one of the bravest captains
then attending upon the falling monarch Charles I.
The Lady Helen was greatly surprised and astonished
when informed of what had just taken place in the
castle. The King's army had lately arrived at ,
and she knew that, if they had refused the Roundhead
band admission, they would easily have been sustained
by a detachment from the royalist camp.
"I am sorry, my dear mother," said she, "that this
has happened ; but since it is so, and there is no pros-
HELEN ARGRAVE. 169
X
pect of a speedy relief, it will, I think, be best for us to
wait patiently for a change in our fortunes, be it for
good or evil ; at least' '
" Miss Helen ! my lady ! do step this way. Softly !"
hurriedly exclaimed the voice of Elizabeth, Helen's
pretty waiting-maid, as she entered the room with her
finger to her lips. " Come with me ; I have overheard
two of the rascals talking to each other. Do not make
the least noise," she continued, leaving the room on
tiptoe, followed by her young mistress, who was entirely
at a loss in what manner to account for this mystery.
On their way through the hall, however, Elizabeth
informed her that, having accidentally entered one of
the large closets of the castle, she had unintentionally
overheard two of the Puritan band, one of whom she
was sure from his voice was the leader, who were dis-
cussing the reasons by which they had been induced to
take possession of the castle in so summary a way.
" They said, miss, that the King's army was to-day to
encamp at Harford, and that they had been despatched
by some of the parliamentary chiefs to obtain and keep
possession of Argrave Castle before the royalists should
be able to anticipate them. They did not expect any
difficulty in entering, as the kind heart and hospitable
disposition of my lady, your mother, were well known ;
and once inside, they say that a very small body can
hold it against an army."
14*
170 THE SNOW FLAKE.
This information was communicated in a whisper as
they walked along the corridor. By this time they had
entered the closet, and listened to the conclusion of the
conversation.
"'Twas a severe attack," continued the one whom
Elizabeth had supposed was the leader of the gang;
" 'twas a severe attack, and cost us many men, though
I had rather that all had perished than that Bushnell,
who was our bravest chief, should be amongst the slain.
Vengeance on that young knight who struck the fatal
blow, and turned the day against us ! I have sworn to
avenge Bushnell, and I will fulfil my vow."
" Thou' It not find that so difficult a task as thou
mayst at first imagine," replied the second voice, " for
the daughter of the mistress of this castle, young Lady
Helen Argrave, is the betrothed of Sir Charles Sydney,
the object of your vengeance. He will probably visit
her in a few days, and, not dreaming of bur presence,
will no doubt be unaccompanied by any retinue. Sup-
posing all safe, he will unsuspectingly enter the gates,
and may easily be entrapped ; therefore, see that no one
leave the castle for two days under any pretence what-
ever, and thy revenge is certain."
" Thanks ! both for thy information and thy advice,
which last I will certainly follow; let it be thy charge
to have all the outlets properly guarded, and to permit
no one either to leave or enter the castle/
HELEN ARGRAVE. 171
The conversation ceased, and the speakers left the
room. Helen stood for some moments confounded. This
new danger, so unexpected, stunned every faculty. Not
a moment, however, was to be lost. Her lover might
come at any moment to pay his first, long-looked-for
visit, since his arrival. Rousing herself, therefore, from
the partial lethargy into which she had fallen, she as-
cended to the watch-tower, and cast a long, fearful look
in the direction of King Charles's encampment.
For hours and hours did she thus gaze, till the day
was waning and the sun fast hastening to the western
horizon. Her mother's inquiries for her had been met
and promptly answered by Elizabeth, in a way to calm
her anxiety without giving her a knowledge of the actual
state of affairs, and she had remained unmolested. The
guard upon the tower was several times relieved during
the day, and the rough troops oftentimes in their walk
cast a glance at the fair young girl, who, disregarding
the heat and exposure, adhered steadily to her post.
At last, with a half-uttered shriek of terror, she per-
ceived, far in the distance, a white plume that she but
too well recognised, hastening with a lover's eagerness
towards the castle. Fortunately for her, the attention
of the sentinel was at that moment diverted to some
object in the opposite direction, or all had been lost.
Hastily rising from the seat she had so long occupied,
she visited in frantic eagerness every outlet of the castle,
172 THE SNOW FLAKE.
but before each stood the living statue of a bronzed, irn-
passable guard. Every moment was an age, for should
the guard upon the tower discover and understand that
which she had just seen, all her efforts to save her lover
would be unavailing. But the Lady Helen Argrave,
although a nobleman's daughter, did not despair or hesi-
tate; she rushed to her own chamber, the window of
which opened in the direction of the coming knight,
and having thrown up the casement and fastened her
sash to the staple which secured the heavy lattice, seized
the silken folds in her trembling grasp and lowered her-
self from the window with feverish earnestness. When,
however, she reached the extremity of her silken rope
and looked beneath her, her heart sickened, she was
not half-way down ! To spring seemed to her destruc-
tion, and then her mother she had not thought of her
before ; what would the Roundheads do to her when they
found that she had escaped, and guessed why she had
done so? Her determination wavered, and she looked up.
"Ha! ha! my pretty young lady, whither so fast?"
exclaimed at that moment a rough voice at the window.
It was that of a trooper, who, passing the room and
seeing the door and window open, and the sash tied upon
the inside, had rushed in and discovered the fair fugitive.
Helen gazed at him with terror, but as she looked from
the castle she again beheld the plume of her lover, now
fearfully near. The Puritan, following her glance, had
HELEN ARGRAVE. 173
seen it too, and divining all, endeavoured, with a mut-
tered exclamation of anger, to draw her up. But with
that glance all hesitation had vanished, and closing her
eyes, she let go her hold and fell ! A thrill of horror
and a sharp sense of pain darted through her frame, and
she lay senseless upon the ground !
But she had been successful. Charles Sydney had
seen her fall, had seen the trooper at the window, and,
with the quick apprehension of a lover, had suspected
the cause. Fearlessly dashing the spurs into his horse,
he rode straight to the castle wall, at whose base his
beloved lay; but the Puritan at the window had given
the alarm, and the brave knight had but raised the in-
animate form of the lady and placed her before him. on
the saddle, when a small body of the parliamentary
cavalry issued from the castle gate and pursued him.
With his arm clasped firmly around the form of the
still insensible Helen, he turned his steed towards the
camp of King Charles, and then began a fearful chase.
The Puritans, well mounted and thirsting for vengeance,
excited their every energy in the pursuit, while Charles
Sydney, no less incited by love than were his enemies
by hate, and determined to die or preserve the treasure
then in his arms, urged his noble horse to his utmost
speed. Alone, he was more than a match for them in
point of swiftness, and now, with a double burden, he
174 THE SNOW FLAKE.
still held his own with a pertinacity which almost made
his pursuers despair of success.
On! on! they flew, over hills and through valleys,
until but one niile lay between Sir Charles and his
camp. But that mile would be a fearful one : his horse
was fast giving out, in consequence both of his heavy
burden and of the extraordinary speed at which he had
hitherto travelled, while the beasts of the enemy seemed,
as if conscious that their prey was nearly escaping them,
to make efforts far beyond their strength; they were
gaining momentarily. Suddenly they raised a shout
of triumph, for their victim seemed almost within their
grasp; his horse stumbled, and limped slowly around a
sudden bend in the road. The Koundheads dashed on
after him, expecting to find him either dismounted or
unable to go farther, when, as they wheeled around the
turn, they found themselves in the presence of a troop
of Cavaliers. Resistance or flight was impossible ; both
were attempted, but ere a sword had been drawn or a
horse turned, two of their number were slain, and the
remainder disarmed.
At this moment Helen opened her eyes with the first
faint flush of returning consciousness, and meeting her
lover's ardent gaze murmured, "Where am I?"
" Safe ! dearest, safe ! in the camp of King Charles."
" And my mother, Charles, where is she? Oh!" she
HELEN ARGRAVE. 175
continued, "they will kill her! the Roundheads have
possession of the castle V
"How many are there in the band?" asked Charles,
as a sudden thought illuminated his features.
" There were about fifty in the company, and here are
ten of them."
" Ah ! I bethink me of a plan by which the castle
may be recapture'd. Lord Musgrave," he continued,
calling to the nobleman who commanded the foraging
party which had so providentially turned the scale of
fortune in favour of the lovers, " dost thou know that
Argrave Castle is in the possession of the rebels ? I have
devised a plan for its recapture, if thou wilt but aid me
in its accomplishment."
"Thou inayst command myself and troop; I place
both at thy service, Sir Charles."
"This is the manner in which I propose to effect our
object. Disguise ten of thy men in the garb of these
prisoners, and let them fly to the castle as if pursued;
do thou, after leaving here a sufficient guard for the lady
and the prisoners, follow thy disguised men with the
remainder of thy troop as the pursuers. The rebels in
the castle, seeing ten men in their dress and supposing
them to be the party who left to capture me, flying before
thy fifty, will have no suspicions, but will at once admit
them. Then let thy followers kill the warder and the
guard, and hold the gate till thou arrive and enter; the
176 THE SNOW FLAKE.
remainder will be but paltry work. If thou hast no
objections, I myself will willingly head thy disguised
troop."
" So far from objecting, I would entreat thee to accept
of it; thy plan is so ingenious that we will at once pro-
ceed to execute it."
The result was completely successful. The Round-
heads, seeing ten of their number flying before a party
of Cavaliers, unsuspectingly threw open the gates. The
supposed Puritans entered, and quickly attacking the
guard, overcame them. The alarm was given, but long-
before the enemy could assemble, the whole troop of
Lord Musgrave was within the castle walls. A short
and bloody conflict ensued, but fortune was with the
Cavaliers. The castle was recaptured and afterwards
garrisoned by a company of the troops of King Charles.
The sequel of this little tale is of no difficult conjec-
ture. Sir Charles, in due time, led the beautiful and
courageous Lady Helen Argrave to the hymeneal altar,
and was united to her in the bonds of wedlock. The
after life of the happy couple, notwithstanding the dis-
order of the times, was a happy one. They generally
resided at Argrave Castle, and often showed their chil-
dren the scene of their mother's frightful leap, and told
the story of her flight from the castle.
HOW CAN I SKETCH THE TREE ?
BY CAROLINE MAT.
THE odour-winged wind
Is singing there his song,
Dancing from feathery leaf to leaf,
Each waving bough among ;
He seems possessed with maddest mood
Of frolic, wild and free,
And calls to me to watch the game ;
How can I sketch the tree ?
I cannot choose but gaze ;
For, on the evening sky,
How gracefully those quivering leaves,
Those shadowy branches lie.
And as I look, more beautiful
Each outline seems to be :
The beauty shakes my fingers so
How can I sketch the tree ?
The fragrance of the air,
So filled with quiet rest \
15
178 THE SNOW FLAKE.
The richness of the rosy tints
In the warm glowing west ;
The thought-inspiring loveliness
That everywhere I see,
Make niy heart tremble with their power-
How can I sketch the tree ?
And memories of the loved
The loved and far away
Live in those dark and heavy boughs,
And hang upon each spray.
How can ye, thoughtless winds,
Sing there with so much glee !
My eyes are dimmed with sadness now
How can I sketch the tree ?
THE CARRIER-PIGEON.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "VIVIAN GREY."
I.
ALTHOUGH the deepest shades of twilight had de-
scended upon the broad bosom of the valley, and the
river might almost be recognised only by its rushing
sound, the walls and battlements of the castle of Charo-
lois, situate on one of the loftiest heights, still blazed in
the reflected radiance of the setting sun, and cast, as it
were, a glance of triumph at the opposing castle of
Branchiinont, that rose on the western side of the valley,
with its lofty turrets and its massy keep black and
sharply denned against the resplendent heaven.
Deadly was the hereditary feud between the powerful
lords of these high places the Counts of Charolois and
the Barons of Branchirnont; but the hostility which had
been maintained for ages never perhaps raged with more
virulence than at this moment : since the only male heir
of the house of Charolois had been slain in a tourna-
ment by the late Baron of Branchiniont, and the dis-
180 THE SNOW FLAKE.
tracted father had avenged his irreparable loss in the
life-blood of the involuntary murderer of his son.
Yet the pilgrim, who at this serene hour might rest
upon his staff and gaze on the surrounding scene, would
hardly deem that the darkest passions of our nature had
selected this fair and silent spot for the theatre of their
havoc.
The sun set : the evening star, quivering and bright,
rose over the dark towers of Branchirnont ; from the
opposite bank a musical bell summoned the devout
vassals of Charolois to a beautiful shrine, wherein was
deposited the heart of their late young lord, and which
his father had raised on a small and richly wooded pro-
montory, distant about a mile from his stern hold.
At the first chime on this lovely eve came forth a
lovely maiden from the postern of Charolois the
Lady Imogene, the only remaining child of the be-
reaved Count, attended by her page, bearing her book
of prayers. She took her way along the undulating
heights until she reached the sanctuary. The altar was
illumined ; several groups were already kneeling, faces
of fidelity well known to their adored lady ; but as she
entered, a palmer, with his broad hat drawn over his
face, and closely muffled up in his cloak, dipped his
hand at the same time with hers in the fount of holy
water placed at the entrance of the shrine, and pressed
the beautiful fingers of the Lady Imogene. A blush,
THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 181
unperceived by the kneeling votaries, rose to her cheek ;
but apparently such was her self-control, or such her
deep respect for the hallowed spot, that she exhibited
no other symptom of emotion, and, walking to the high
altar, was soon buried in her devotions.
The mass was celebrated the vassals rose and retired.
According to her custom, the Lady Imogene yet re-
mained, and knelt before the tomb of her brother. A
low whisper, occasionally sounding, assured her that
some one was at the confessional ; and soon the palmer,
who was now shrived, knelt at her side. " Lothair,"
muttered the lady, apparently at her prayers, " beloved
Lothair, thou art too bold !"
" Oh, Imogene ! for thee what would I not venture 1"
was the hushed reply.
" For the sake of all our hopes, wild though they be,
I counsel caution."
" Fear nought. The priest, flattered by my confes-
sion, is fairly duped. Let me employ this golden
moment to urge what I have before entreated. Your
father, Imogene, can never be appeased. Fly, then,
my beloved ! oh, fly ?"
" Oh, my Lothair ! it never can be. Alas ! whither
can we fly ?"
" Sweet love ! I pray thee listen : to Italy. At the
court of my cousin, the Duke of Milan, we shall be safe
and happy. What care I for Branchimont, and all its
15*
182 THE SNOW FLAKE.
fortunes ? And for that, my vassals are no traitors. If
ever the bright hour arrive when we may return in joy,
trust me, sweet love, my flag will still wave on my
father's walls."
" Oh, Lothair ! why did we meet ? Why, meeting,
did we not hate each other like our fated race ? My
heart is distracted. Can this misery be love ? Yet I
adore thee "
"Lady!" said the page advancing, "the priest ap-
proaches."
The Lady Imogene rose, and crossed herself before
the altar.
" To-morrow, at this hour," whispered Lothair.
The Lady Imogene nodded assent, and, leaning on her
page, quitted the shrine.
n.
"Dearest lady," said the young page, as they re-
turned to the castle, " niy heart misgives me. As we
quitted the shrine, I observed Rufus, the huntsman,
slink into the adjoining wood."
" Ha ! He is my father's most devoted instrument :
nor is there any bidding which he would hesitate to exe-
cute a most ruthless knave !"
" And can see like a cat in the dark, too," observed
young Theodore.
" I never loved that man, even in my cradle," said
THE CARRIER-PIGEON.
183
the Lady Imogene ; " though he can fawn, too. Did he
indeed avoid us ?"
" Indeed I thought so, madam."
" Ah ! my Theodore, we have no friend but you, and
you are but a little page/'
" I would I were a stout knight, lady, and I would
fight for you."
" I warrant you," said Imogene; "you have a bold
heart, little Theodore, and a kind one. Oh, holy Vir-
gin ! I pray thee guard in all perils my bright-eyed
Lothair!"
" Lord Branchimont is the finest knight I ever set
eyes upon," said Theodore. "I would I were his
squire."
" Thou shalt be his squire, too, little Theodore, if all
goes well."
" Oh ! glorious day, when I shall wear a sword instead
of a scarf! Shall I indeed be his squire, lady sweet?"
"Indeed I think thou wilt make a very proper
squire."
"I would I were a knight like Lord Branchimont;
as tall as a lance, and as strong as a lion ; and such a
fine beard too !"
"It is indeed a beard, Theodore," said the Lady
Imogene. " "When wilt thou have one like it ?"
"Another summer, perchance," said Theodore, pass-
ing his small palm musingly over his smooth chin.
184 THE SNOW FLAKE.
" Another summer I" said the Lady Imogene laugh-
ing ; " why, I may as soon hope to have a beard my-
self."
" I hope you will have Lord Branchimont's," said
the page.
" Amen I" responded the lady.
III.
The apprehensions of the little Theodore proved to be
too well founded. On the morning after the meeting of
Lady Imogene with Lord Brauchimont at the shrine of
Charolois, she was summoned to the presence of her
father } and, after having been loaded with every species
of reproach and invective for her clandestine meeting
with their hereditary foe, she was confined to a chamber
in one of the loftiest towers of the castle, which she was
never permitted to quit, except to walk in a long gloomy
gallery, with an old female servant remarkable for the
acerbity of her mind and manners. Her page escaped
punishment by flight ; and her only resource and amuse-
ment was her mandolin.
The tower in which the Lady Imogene was imprisoned
sprang out of a steep so precipitous that the posi-
tion was considered impregnable. She was therefore
permitted to open her lattice, which was not even
barred. The landscape before her, which was pictu-
resque and richly wooded, consisted of the enclosed
THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 185
chase of Charolois; but her jailers had taken due care
that her chamber should not command a view of the
castle of Branchimont. The valley and all its moving
life were indeed entirely shut out from her. Often the
day vanished without a human being appearing in sight.
Very unhappy was the Lady Imogene, gazing on the
silent woods, or pouring forth her passion over her
lonely lute.
A miserable week had nearly elapsed. It was noon ;
the Lady Imogene was seated alone in her chamber,
leaning her head upon her hand in thought, and dream-
ing of her Lothair, when a fluttering noise suddenly
roused her, and, looking up, she beheld, to her asto-
nishment, perched on the high back of a chair, a beauti-
ful bird a pigeon whiter than snow, with an azure beak,
and eyes blazing with a thousand shifting tints. Not
alarmed was the beautiful bird when the Lady Imogene
gently approached it; but it looked up to her with eyes of
intelligent tenderness, and flapped with some earnestness
its pure and sparkling plunie. The Lady Imogene smiled
with marvelling pleasure, and for the first time since her
captivity ; and putting forth her hand, which was even
whiter than the wing, she patted the bright neck of the
glad stranger, and gently stroked its soft plumage.
u Heaven hath sent me a friend," exclaimed the beau-
tiful Imogene ; " ah ! what what is this ?"
" Didst thou call, Lady Imogene ?" inquired the harsh
186 THE SNOW FLAKE.
voice of acid Martha, whom the exclamation of her mis-
tress had summoned to the door.
" Nothing nothing I want nothing/' quickly an-
swered Imogene, as she seized the bird up with her
hand, and, pressing it to her "bosom, answered Martha
over her shoulder. " Did she see thee, my treasure ?"
continued the agitated Iniogene, " oh ! did she see thee,
my joy? Methinks we were not discovered." So say-
ing, and tripping along on the lightest step imaginable,
the captive secured the door; then bringing forth the bird
from its sweet shelter, she produced a letter, which she
had suddenly detected to be fastened under its left
wing, and which she had perceived, in an instant, to be
written by Lord Branchiniont.
Her sight was dizzy, her cheek pale, her breath
seemed to have deserted her. She looked up to heaven,
she looked down upon the letter, and then she covered it
with a thousand kisses; then, making a vigorous effort to
collect herself, she read its strange and sweet contents :
"LOTHAIR TO IMOGENS.
" Soul of my existence ! Mignon, in whom you may
place implicit trust, has promised me to bear you this
sign of my love. Oh, I love you, Iniogene ! I love you
more even than this bird can the beautiful sky ! Kiss
the dove a thousand times, that I may steal the kisses
again from his neck, and catch, even at this distance,
THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 187
your fragrant breath. My beloved, I am planning your
freedom and our happiness. Each day Mignon shall
come to tell you how we speed ; each day shall he bring
back some testimony of your fidelity to your own
" LOTHAIR."
It was read it was read with gushing and fast-flowing
tears tears of wild joy. A thousand times, ay a thou-
sand times, Imogene embraced the faithful Mignon ; nor
could she indeed have ever again parted with him, had
she not remembered that all this time her Lothair was
anxiously waiting the return of his messenger. So she
tore a leaf from her tablets and inscribed her devotion ;
then, fastening it with care under the wing, she bore
Mignon to the window, and, bestowing upon him a last
embrace, permitted him to extend his beautiful wings
and launch into the air.
Bright in the sun glanced the white bird as it darted
into the deep-blue sky. Iniogene watched it until the
sparkling form changed into a dusky shade, and the
dusky shade vanished into the blending distance.
IV.
It was now a principal object with the fair captive of
Charolois, that her unsympathizing attendant should
enter her chamber as little as possible, and only at
seasons when there was no chance of a visit from
188 THE SNOW FLAKE.
Mignon. Faithful was the beautiful bird in these daily
visits of consolation; and, by his assistance, the cor-
respondence with Lothair respecting her escape was
actively maintained. A thousand plans were formed by
the sanguine lovers a thousand plans were canvassed,
and then decided to be impracticable. One day, Martha
was to be bribed ; another young Theodore was to re-
enter the castle disguised as a girl, and become, by some
contrivance, her attendant ; but reflection ever proved
that these were as wild as lovers' plans are wont to be ;
and another week stole away without anything being
settled. Yet this second week was not so desolate as
the first. On the contrary, it was full of exciting hope ;
and each day to hear that Lothair still adored her, and
each day to be enabled to breathe back to him her own
adoration, solaced the hours of her captivity. But
Fate, that will often frown upon the fortunes of true
love, decided that this sweet source of consolation should
flow on no longer. . Rufus, the huntsman, who was ever
prowling about, and who at all times had a terribly
quick eye for a bird, one day observed the carrier-pigeon
sallying forth from the window of the tower. His
practised sense instantly assured him that the bird was
trained, and he resolved to watch its course.
" Hah, hah I" said Rufus, the huntsman, " is Bran-
chimont thy dovecot ? Methinks, my little rover, thou
bearest news I long to read."
THE CARRIER-PIGEON.
Another and another day passed, and again and again
Rufus observed the visits of Mignon; so, taking his
cross-bow one fair morning, ere the dew had left the
flowers, he wandered forth in the direction of Branchi-
mont. True to his mission, Mignon soon appears, skim-
ming along the sky. Beautiful, beautiful bird ! Fond,
faithful messenger of love ! Who can doubt that thou
well conrprehendest the kindly purpose of thy consoling
visits ! Thou bringest joy to the unhappy, and hope to
the despairing ! She shall kiss thee, bright Mignon !
Yes ! an embrace from lips sweeter than the scented
dawn in which thou revellest, shall repay thee for all
thy fidelity ! And already the Lady Imogene is at her
post, gazing upon the unclouded sky, and straining her
beautiful eyes, as it were to anticipate the slight and
gladsome form, whose first presence ever makes her heart
tremble with a host of wild and conflicting emotions.
Ah ! through the air an arrow from a bow that never
erred an arrow swifter than thy swiftest flight, Mignon,
whizzes with fell intent. The snake that darts upon its
unconscious prey is less fleet and fatal ! It touches thy
form it transfixes thy beautiful breast ! Was there
no good spirit, then, to save thee, thou hope of the hope-
less ? Alas, alas ! the blood gushes from thy breast, and
from thine azure beak ! Thy transcendent eye grows
dim all is over ! The carrier-pigeon falls to the earth !
16
190 THE SNOW FLAKE.
V.
A day without hearing from Lothair was madness;
and, indeed, when hour after heavy hour rolled away
without the appearance of Mignon, and the Lady Imo-
gene found herself gazing upon the vanishing twilight,
she became nearly frantic with disappointment and ter-
ror. While light remained, an indefinite hope sus-
tained her ; but when it was indeed night, and nothing
but the outline of the surrounding hills was perceptible,
she could no longer restrain herself; and bursting into
hysteric tears, she threw herself upon the floor of her
chamber. Were they discovered ? Had Lothair forgot-
ten her ? Wearied with fruitless efforts, had he left her
to her miserable, her solitary fate ? There was a
slight sound something seemed to have dropped. She
looked up. At her side she beheld a letter, which,
wrapped round a stone, had been thrown in at the win-
dow. She started up in an ecstacy of joy. She cursed
herself for doubting for an instant the fidelity of her
lover ! She tore open the letter ; but so great was her
emotion that some minutes elapsed before she could de-
cipher its contents. At length she learned that, on the
ensuing eve, Lothair and Theodore, disguised as hunts-
men of Charolois, would contrive to meet in safety
beneath her window, and for the rest she must dare to
THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 191
descend. It was a bold, a very perilous plan. It was
the project of desperation. But there are moments in
life when desperation becomes success. Nor was the
spirit of Lady Lnogene one that would easily quail.
Hers was a true woman's heart; and she could venture
everything for love. She examined the steep; she
cast a rapid glance at the means of making the descent :
her shawls, her clothes, the hangings of her bed here
were resources here was hope !
Full of these thoughts, some time elapsed before she
was struck at the unusual mode in which the communi-
cation reached her. Where was Mignon ? But the
handwriting was the handwriting of Lothair. That she
*
could not mistake. She might, however, have observed,
that the characters were faint that the paper had the
appearance of being stained or washed ; but this she did
not observe. She was sanguine she was confident in
the wisdom of Lothair. She knelt before an image of
the Virgin, and poured forth her supplications for the
success of their enterprise. And then, exhausted by
all the agitation of the day, the Lady Imogene sunk
into a deep repose.
VI.
Morn came at length, but brought no Mignon ! " He
has his reasons/' answered the Lady Imogene ! " Lothair
192 THE SNOW FLAKE.
is never wrong. And soon, right soon, I hope we shall
need no messenger." Oh, what a long, long day was
this, the last of her captivity ! Will the night never
coine that night she had once so much dreaded ? Sun,
wilt thou never set? There is no longer gladness in
thy beams. The shadows, indeed, grow longer, and yet
thine orb is as high in heaven as if it were an everlast-
ing noon ! The unceasing cry of the birds, once so con-
soling, now only made her restless. She listened, and
she listened, until at length the rosy sky called forth
their last trilling chant, and the star of the evening
summoned them to roost.
.
It was twilight : pacing her chamber, and praying to
the Virgin, the hours at length stole away. The chimes
of the sanctuary told her that it wanted but a quarter of
an hour to midnight. Already she had formed a rope
of shawls ] now she fastened it to the lattice with all her
force. The bell struck twelve, and the Lady Imogene
delivered herself to her fate. Slowly and fearfully she
descended, long suspended in the air, until her feet at
length touched a ledge of rock. Cautiously feeling her
footing, she now rested, and looked around her. She
had descended about twenty feet. The moon shone
bright on the rest of the descent, which was more
O I
rugged. It seemed not impracticable she clambered
down.
THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 193
"Hist! hist!" said a familiar voice, "all is right,
lady but why did you not answer us ?"
"Ah ! Theodore, where is my Lothair?"
" Lord Branchimont is shaded by the trees give
me thy hand, sweet lady. Courage ! all is right ; but
indeed you should have answered us."
Imogene de Charolois is in the arms of Lothair de
Branchimont.
" We have no time for embraces," said Theodore ;
"the horses are ready. The Virgin be praised, all is
right. I would not go through such an eight-and-forty
hours again to be dubbed a knight on the spot. Have
you Mignon ?"
" Mignon, indeed ! he has not visited me these two
days."
"But my letter," said Lothair " you received it?"
" It was thrown in at my window," said the Lady
Imogene.
"My heart misgives me," said little Theodore.
" Away ! there is no time to lose. Hist ! I hear foot-
steps. This way, dear friends. Hist ! a shout ! Fly !
Fly ! Lord Branchimont, we are betrayed !"
And indeed from all quarters simultaneous sounds
now rose, and torches seemed suddenly to wave in all
quarters. Imogene clung to the neck of Lothair.
" We will die together !" she exclaimed, as she hid
her face in his breast.
16*
194 THE SNOW FLAKE.
Lord Branchiniont placed himself against a tree and
drew his mighty sword.
" Seize him !" shouted a voice, instantly recognised by
Imogene; " seize the robber!" shouted her father.
"At your peril!" answered Lothair to his surrounding
foes.
They stood at bay an awful group ! The father and
his murdering minions, alike fearful of encountering
Branchiniont and slaying their chieftain's daughter;
the red and streaming torches blending with the silver
moonlight that fell full upon the fixed countenance of
their entrapped victim and the distracted form of his de-
voted mistress.
There was a dead, still pause. It was broken by the
denouncing tone of the father, " Cowards ! do you fear a
single arm ? Strike him dead I spare not the traitress !"
But still the vassals would not move; deep as was
their feudal devotion, they loved the Lady Imogene,
and dared to disobey.
" Let me, then, teach you your duty !" exclaimed the
exasperated father. He advanced, but a wild shriek
arrested his extended sword; and as thus they stood, all
alike prepared for combat, yet all motionless, an arrow
glanced over the shoulder of the Count and pierced
Lord Branchiniont to the heart. His sword fell from
his grasp, and he died without a groan.
Yes ! the same bow that had for ever arrested the airy
THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 195
course of Mignon, had now, as fatally and as suddenly,
terminated the career of the master of the carrier-
pigeon. Vile Rufus, the huntsman, the murderous aim
was thine !
VII.
The bell of the shrine of Charolois is again sounding ;
but how different its tone from the musical and in-
spiring chime that summoned the weary vassals to their
grateful vespers ! The bell of the shrine of Charolois
is again sounding. Alas ! it tolls a gloomy knell. Oh !
valley of sweet waters, still are thy skies as pure as
when she wandered by thy banks and mused over her
beloved ! Still sets thy glowing sun ; and quivering
and bright, like the ascending soul of a hero, still
Hesperus rises from thy dying glory ! But she, the
maiden fairer than the fairest eve no more shall her
light step trip among the fragrance of its flowers; no
more shall her lighter voice emulate the music of thy
melodious birds. Oh, yes ! she is dead the beautiful
Imogene is dead ! Three days of misery heralded her
decease. But comfort is there in all things; for the
good priest who had often administered consolation to
his unhappy mistress over her brother's tomb, and who
knelt by the side of her dying couch, assured many a
sorrowful vassal, and many a sympathizing pilgrim who
196 THE SNOW FLAKE.
loved to listen to the mournful tale, that her death was
indeed a beatitude ; for he did not doubt, from the dis-
tracted expressions that occasionally caught his ear, that
the Holy Spirit, in that material form he most loves to
honour, to wit, the semblance of a pure white dove,
often solaced by his presence the last hours of Imogene
de Charolois !
A BUNCH OF FLOWERS,
RECEIVED FROM THE AUTHOR OF "THE EXCURSION."
BY MISS M. J. JEWSBURY.
FLOWERS ! that a poet's hand hath culled,,
Ye lull, as oft his strains have lulled,
Thoughts that my heart consume :
In harmony your tints oppose,
Carnation, jessamine, and rose
A melody of bloom.
And yet ere night, your leaves, forlorn,
Will ask " Where are the dews of morn ?"
To-morrow " Where the sun ?"
And, missing these, the gracious powers,
That are divinities to flowers,
Soon will your lives be done.
But now how beautiful ye are !
Each gleameth on me like a star,
Only with milder hue ;
198 THE SNOW FLAKE.
And many a thought and fancy fleet,
And some, by sadness made more sweet,
Bright flowers I give to you.
Sadness ! I dare not look on thee,
Thou richly red anemone !
And let the word remain ;
I dare not think of him who wrought ye,
Nor even of the hand that brought ye,
With thoughts akin to pain.
So, vanish sadness from my rhyme !
Killing all beauty ere its time :
I will not muse on death ;
But only wish that I could be
Innocent lovely flowers as ye,
Living a life of tranquil glee,
Undimmed by passion's breath.
THE WORM AND THE FLOWER.
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY.
YOU'RE spinning for my lady, worm !
Silk garments for the fair ;
You're spinning rainbows for a form
More beautiful than air,
When air is bright with sunbeams,
And morning mists arise,
From woody vales and mountain-streams,
To blue autumnal skies.
You're training for my lady, flower !
You're opening for my love ]
The glory of her summer bower,
While skylarks soar above.
Go, twine her locks with rosebuds,
Or breathe upon her breast,
While zephyrs curl the water-floods,
And rock the halcyon's nest.
200 THE SNOW FLAKE.
But oh ! there is another worm
Ere long will visit her,
And revel on her lovely form
In the dark sepulchre :
Yet from that sepulchre shall spring
A flower as sweet as this ;
Hard by, the nightingale shall sing,
Soft winds its petals kiss.
Frail emblems of frail beauty, ye !
In beauty who would trust ?
Since all that charms the eye must be
Consigned to worms and dust :
Yet, like the flower that decks her tomb,
Her spirit shall quit the clod,
And shine, in amaranthine bloom,
Fast by the throne of Grod.
STORY OF AN EAR-RINO.
BY KATE CAMPBELL.
(See Engraving.)
IT. was quite an exciting scene the placing of that
sparkling diamond ring within the tender, shell-like ear
of the little Lady Marion.
Mamma had been coaxed, and papa even, who never
said a word about dress ! She did not believe that he
even knew that on her last birthday she had had the
most perfect robe of rose-coloured satin given to her by
her godmother, and that it fitted her charmingly, as
every one said ! And then to think, she had actually
mustered courage to coax papa ! had peeped under his
gold spectacles, and stroked his hair, and kissed his
hand, and looked up in his face, just as sweetly as she
possibly could!
What was it his little girl wanted ?
Did papa know that next Monday was her birthday ?
Papa didn't exactly recollect, but was willing to take
her word for it.
And that she should be eleven full eleven and
17
204 THE SNOW FLAKE.
Aunt Isabel said that she was quite old enough to have
her hair tucked up, and to have to have a pair of
ear-rings !
Papa laughed.
She did not mean to be a baby ; she bit her lip be-
cause the water came sparkling into her eyes ; but it was
strange, really very singular, that when one wanted
something nice very badly, one could not help feeling
frightened a little, for fear they might not get it.
Would papa please not laugh, but tell her quick,
before
Papa parted the curls upon her forehead then, and
called her a " little fool!" Grave papa to say such a
hard thing ! but the ear-rings ?
Yes they should be forthcoming.
What a shy, fluttering pulse Lady Marion carried all
that long, bright, birthday morning, before mamma
summoned her to her dressing-room. Aunt Isabel had
told her she was to be sent for, and mamma's own maid,
Morris, had dressed her in her new blue silk frock,
trimmed with such pretty knots of ribands on the skirt,
and then she left her, to wait upon " her lady" ; and
Marion sat down upon a low ottoman with her hands
not resting on her lap, for fear they should crush her
dress ; but held out in an attitude not at all agreeable
to be sure, but quite unavoidable, decided the premature
philosopher.
STORY OF AN EAR-RING. 205
Presently came Vaurien, mamma's tall footman, with
the dreaded summons. Yaurien held open the door for
his little lady to pass out, and followed her with stealthy
tread, only coming up to her once to open the door of
the dressing-room.
Marion wondered much, while she slowly glided
among the furniture towards the dressing-table, when
she would be old enough to get married, and have so
fine a room to herself. Finer she could not possibly
wish it, for she was treading upon living flowers it
seemed, and the couches and sofas were all so soft and
luxurious, and the curtains, which shielded the rose-
stained glass, were of delicate lace and azure silk ; and
in the far off corners, polished statuary gleamed out in
the dim light, with a u presence of beauty," which made
Marion's heart flutter with pleasure; she had often ad-
mired these things before, but she never grew tired it
seemed; mamma's dressing-room was a mysterious, de-
lightful place to her, and mamma's self, in that low,
easy-chair, the personification of beauty and elegance.
Morris was just putting the finishing touches to her
lady's head-dress, but she smiled for all from under the
folds of tulle, which covered her face for the present,
and pushed a stool towards Marion, with her small
slippered foot.
When Morris had gone, Lady Harrington took from
a small drawer of her dressing-table, a parcel care-
206 THE SNOW FLAKE.
fully enveloped in many folds of tissue-paper. Marion
wondered somewhat at the size of the casket which must
certainly hold her ear-rings, and her little fingers shook
so, she could not untie the silver thread which was
knotted around it. She held it out, with an implo-
ring,
" Please mamma !"
Lady Harrington smiled.
" Silly child ! it is only a prayer-book a pretty
prayer-book, which you must always use like a good
girl-
Poor little Lady Marion ! she forgot to say " thank
you," and her lip quivered against mamma's instead of
giving a loving pressure ; but it certainly was a great
disappointment.
Just then a pair of arms stole softly round her neck,
and Aunt Isabel's voice wished her a happy birthday,
and many returns of it, to wear her little present. Papa
and mamma had both allowed her the pleasure of grati-
fying her little favourite's wishes, and there, in Marion's
lap, a small pearl box was lying, exquisitely enamelled,
with the lid raised, and within a pair of the most beau-
tiful ear-rings Lady Marion had ever beheld. How she
screamed for joy and danced around the room ! How
mamma laughed ! Marion did not think she had ever
heard her laugh so merrily before, and Aunt Isabel
smiled sadly though, Marion thought, and so she flung
STORY OF AN EAR-RING. 207
her arms around the neck of the kind spinster, and softly
asked if she had done anything to hurt Aunt Isabel.
" Nothing, my child/' she murmured in sad low tones;
yet her faded lips quivered, and her old, worn cheeks
tinged with a faint red. She was probably thinking of
her own joyous youth, and hoping, perhaps, that her
little favourite's day would always keep bright as
now. Yet it was somewhat curious to see how quickly
Aunt Isabel regained her usual manner, and prepared to
fasten the rings in Marion's ears. The young are apt to
nurse sorrow the old learn better than to coax into
being the ashes of some fading grief.
Marion winced a little, when her aunt produced a
cruel-looking needle, and attached a silken thread to it.
" Will it hurt ?"
" Not much, darling."
"But, aunt, I I indeed, Fm afraid it will!" she
said, in frightened tones, as the lady spread her flowing
garments upon the same low ottoman from which Marion
had risen, and drew the little girl towards her.
u Oh, mamma ! come and help me ! Let me hold your
hand !"
Mamma rose smilingly, and stood behind her.
" It will not hurt, foolish child !" Yet the little lady
clasped the beautiful hand extended to her, and clung
to it till the bright gems glittering upon the snowy
fingers, cut into her own tender skin.
17*
208 THE SNOW FLAKE.
A slight scream, and one pretty ear had received its
burden, and with the tears half starting, and a joyful
smile upon her face, Marion turned towards her mother.
" Why it did not hurt me badly ! and see mamma !
look at poor Bijou ! if he is not scratching his ear, just
as though he was getting hurt, too ! Isn't that comical,
mamma ?"
Mamma and Aunt Isabel laughed, and Bijou, a pretty
spaniel, whined gently, and with considerable relief, to
hear his young mistress's glad voice once more.
Marion stood the second operation quite bravely, only
biting her lip a little to keep in an exclamation of pain,
and then she bounded away, followed by her favourite,
to seek papa, and receive a birthday kiss from him.
When Lady Marion was safely stowed in her bed that
night, Aunt Isabel stole softly into the nursery, and dis-
missing the maid, who nodded beside the dying embers,
drew the white dimity curtains, and talked to her pet
for a long half hour. She often did this lulled the
wakeful lady to her rest, with long interesting stories, of
which she seemed to possess an endless store, and to-
night she had a legend to relate about her birthday gift
those ear-rings.
The diamonds of which they were composed, she said,
had been many long years in their ancient family, and
her story ran something like this :
Many years ago they had been worn by a proud
STORY OP AN EAR-RING. 209
beauty, who was wooed and won by a gentleman equally
proud, and that when they were betrothed, she took from
her delicate " pearl round ear" one of these costly orna-
ments, and gave it to her knight as a gage d' amour, tell-
ing him that she would keep the other, true and safe
as her marriage vows ; but, that if, before the wedding
day came round, either should chance to lose their ring,
then all should be at an end between them. The cava-
lier took the gem joyfully, and swore never to part
with it; but when the eve of the day which was to
witness their vows came round, the lady came down
richly dressed, and wearing her ring, and called upon
her knight as a true man, to fasten again in her ear the
other. The knight stammered and faltered, and turning
away from the dark cloud upon the brow of his lady-
love, confessed that he had lost the token. Then the red
blood rushed up into the brow of the proud lady, and
sparks shot forth from her large black eyes.
" Thou knowest thou speakest falsely," she said, in
stern, low tones. " It was but to-day I saw the gem hid-
den in the bodice of Mary Glenn, the keeper's daugh-
ter ! It had slipped through to the folds of her muslin
kerchief, and I knew the sparkle, even if she had not
blushed like the red rose, when I demanded how she
came by that pretty bauble."
" And what said she ?" muttered the knight, with
fallen brow and compressed lip.
210 THE SNOW FLAKE.
a That thou, false knight, hadst given it to her, and
bade her keep it for thy sake !" replied the lady, sternly.
" And did she never marry him, Aunt Isabel ?" said
Marion, in breathless tones ; for that lady had stopped
short in her narrative, and with head upon her hand,
she seemed lost in revery.
" Never! do you think you would have done so?"
was the reply, in lofty tones.
" No, indeed V said Marion, " but I think I should
have cried very much indeed, not to have been married
after all ! It must be so nice to have a dressing-room
like mamma's ! / should like to be married. But,
aunt, did every lady who has worn these diamonds
since, make their lovers take the same pledge?"
" I never heard that they did," said Aunt Isabel,
with a smile. " Shut your eyes now, and go to
sleep."
" One word, aunt !" said Marion, reaching up her
head for a good-night kiss ; " what was the proud
lady's name ?"
" Marion," said Aunt Isabel, softly.
A SEQUEL.
In a large and luxuriantly furnished apartment, which
looked out upon a noble park, and lordly woods beyond,
STORY OF AN EAR-RING. 211
sat a beautiful young girl. A window with deep, old-
fashioned casements, was thrown open to the skies of
June, and the flower-scented air which stole in, mingled
at intervals with a low-breathed sigh.
The slight figure of the girl mentioned was half buried
in the rich, silken cushions of the couch upon which she
reclined. A shower of bright curls shaded a face which,
though delicate in outline, and slightly marked in its
features, was, from its mobility, capable of strong ex-
pression. Just now the lashes of her white, drooping
lids, cast a deep shadow upon the pale cheek, and the
flexible mouth wore a relaxed but sad expression. A
casket of jewels stood upon a small inlaid table beside
her, and her white fingers toyed carelessly with the
costly gems, glittering coldly there, in half mockery at
her apparent distress.
a Aunt Isabel, I blame you for this/ 7 she muttered to
herself. " Why did you plant my youthful imagination
with the germ of so much unhappiness ? To stake
my peace upon the safe keeping of an ear-ring ! How
foolish I have been ! That story, which she told me
in the dim nursery returns as vividly as when first I
heard it, and determined, in my childish dreams,
that if ever I had a lover, I would try his faith in
the same way as my ancestor did Tier knight. How
Edward laughed when we plighted our troth, and
I took the fellow of this ring from my ear, and bade
212 THE SNOW FLAKE.
him keep it, telling him the tale I had heard, and how
I regarded it. To be sure, I was only sixteen then, which
makes some excuse for my childish nonsense ; but Ed-
ward grew so serious when f insisted, and took it from
me so gravely I wonder why ! And now he has been
gone three years, and I feel that he has lost it ! How
could he keep it through so long a time, while wander-
ing about so much, and meeting with so many accidents.
And though it is very silly indeed, yet I know when he
comes to me, and says ' I have lost your ring, Marion/
I shall feel a thousand doubts and jealousies I feel
them now in anticipation."
" What is it, Lucy ?" said Marion, raising her head
abruptly, as her maid entered the room.
" Mr. Carroll is in the library, and wished me to tell "
" My Edward ! Lucy ! are you sure ? how what
shall I do ? I almost dread to see him I" cried the lady,
rising quickly, and striving with nervous fingers to re-
duce her hair to order.
" Here, Lucy quick ! no, you need not hurry either !
yes there, never mind, I do not care," and all her
longing affection, rushing up to her heart and fairly
forcing suspicion and dread away for the moment, she
flew down the wide oaken stairs, with feet which mocked
for swiftness the dallying wind, that caught her disor-
dered tresses as she passed.
We will not enter to witness the meeting of the lovers.
STORY OF AN EAR-RING. 213
They are proverbially such a loitering set, that you and
I, dear reader, would both get tired and impatient, before
the numberless greetings were said. Pass we quickly
to the denouement; that certainly is the cream of a
love story, unless you would chance to intimate, that we
have had nought but milk and water before !
It was the evening before the wedding day of Lady
Marion Gray and the Hon. Edward Carroll. Long,
sunny shadows from the retreating day-god stole silently
in at the library windows, and kissed the hem of the
maiden's white dress, and lovingly lingered in the rich
folds of her dark, bright hair. And with a touch almost
as stealthy, the arm of her lover stole round her waist,
and drew her closer, closer, till her head rested upon
his shoulder then upon his deep, broad chest. Yet
the lady looked not happy ; now there came up that
provoking gage d' amour, which she must require at the
hands of her lover. She would not think of it before,
but now she must reclaim it, for Aunt Isabel, who had
grown old, and rather childish withal, had made it an
especial request that she should wear her first ear-rings
once more upon her wedding day. No one knew of the
little lady's foolishness, as she termed it now, save her
lover, and she dreaded the scene which might ensue, if
the old family jewels were not forthcoming.
Meanwhile her lover chid her for her sadness, and
questioned her as to the cause. Still the girl shrank from
214 THE SNOW FLAKE.
telling it as yet, and thinking to divert her from her
melancholy mood, Carroll drew from his bosom a minute
box, richly wrought, and holding it in his fingers, looked
at her with a smile which awakened her curiosity.
u I believe you have forgotten all about the ear-ring,
Marion ! but I assure you I have not ! Come, confess that
while I have kept mine safe, you have been the false
lady, and given yours away."
"What a scream of joyful surprise Marion gave. How
she stretched out her hand for the box which Carroll
kept at a tantalizing distance, still calling on her to pro-
duce hers, or be banned as a faithless love.
" Oh, Edward, you know I have kept mine ! how can
you talk so ? Oh, I am so completely happy ! It was
that made me wretched ! I feared to ask you !"
"And yet, Marion, if you had lost yours ten times
over, I should not have suspected you I"
" Ah, yes, you would ! you do not know how that hate-
ful story affected me ! Thank fortune ! After to-morrow
I shall put them both out of sight for ever ! No one will
be wanting me to wear them then, and no one else shall
ever be made such a miserable, jealous creature as I have
been through them. !"
" Foolish girl !" said Carroll, in a tone of kind chid-
ing. " And yet/' he said, laughing once more, "I ap-
plaud your resolution of having them put out of sight
and mind j for of all love tokens, I never heard of one
STORY OP AN EAR-RING. 215
so outre and inconvenient. What in the world could I
do with an ear-ring but box it up, so that confounded
little liook should not be for ever running into me ! Then
I had no temptation to give it away, Marion," he continued
teasingly ; " for unfortunately, maidens now care more to
wear the tokens of their triumphs, than to hide them
in their kerchiefs ! Now do not pout ! I assure you I
treated the jewel very tenderly for the dear sake of the
giver, but the symbol of affection which to-morrow will
replace it, will be to me a thousand times more precious
and can you blame me ?"
18
A BALLAD.
BY CHARLES SWAIN.
A SINGLE horn at the warder's gate
Was sounding at eventide :
Now who art thou, quoth the warder bold,
Who so late and lone dost ride ?
Oh ! an aged warrior-knight am I,
From the distant battle-plain ;
Where the bravest troops of Normandy
In their gory mail lie slain.
Now Heaven forefend, the warder said,
That thy tale it true should be ;
Or that ever the Norman arms should yield
To the Saxon chivalry !
But hie thee within, thou aged man,
And the cup we'll fill with wine ;
And thou of the good old wars shalt speak,
That were fought in Palestine.
A BALLAD. 217
When the midnight hour was rung and past,
From the warder's grated door
A youthful knight with his lady bright
Fast galloped o'er the moor !
No aged man, but a courtly youth,
To the gate so late did ride ;
And his love-won lives in his castle now,
A fair and honoured bride !
THE MAN IN RED.
BY A MODERN PYTHAGOREAN.
IT was at the hour of nine, in an August evening,
that a solitary horseman arrived at the Black Swan, a
country inn about nine miles from the town of Leicester.
He was mounted on a large fiery charger, as black as
jet, and had behind him a portmanteau attached to the
croup of his saddle. A black travelling cloak, which
not only covered his own person, but the greater part
of his steed, was thrown around him. On his head he
wore a broad-brimmed hat, with an uncommonly low
crown. His legs were cased in top-boots, to which
were attached spurs of an extraordinary length ; and in
his hands he carried a whip, with a thong three yards
long, and a handle which might have levelled Goliath
himself.
On arriving at the inn, he calmly dismounted, and
called upon the ostler by name.
" Frank V said he, a take my horse to the stable ;
rub him down thoroughly; and, when he is well cooled,
step in and let me know." And, taking hold of his
portmanteau, he entered the kitchen, followed by the
THE MAN IN RED. 219
obsequious landlord, who had come out a minute be-
fore, on hearing of his arrival. There were several per-
sons present, engaged in nearly the same occupation.
At one side of the fire sat the village schoolmaster a
thin, pale, peak-nosed little man, with a powdered peri-
wig, terminating behind in a long queue, and an expres-
sion of self-conceit strongly depicted upon his counte-
nance. He was amusing himself with a pipe, from
which he threw forth volumes of smoke with an air of
great satisfaction. Opposite to him sat the parson of
the parish a fat, bald-headed personage, dressed in a
rusty suit of black, and having his shoes adorned with
immense silver buckles. Between these two characters
sat the exciseman, with a pipe in one hand, and a tan-
kard in the other. To complete the group, nothing is
wanted but to mention the landlady, a plump, rosy
dame of thirty-five, who was seated by the schoolmas-
ter's side, apparently listening to some sage remarks
which that little gentleman was throwing out for her
edification.
But to return to the stranger. No sooner had he
entered the kitchen, followed by the landlord, than the
eyes of the company were directed upon him. His hat
was so broad in the brim, his spurs were so long, his
stature so great, and his face so totally hid by the collar
of his immense black cloak, that he instantly attracted
IS*
220 THE SNOW FLAKE.
the attention of every person present. His voice, when
he desired the master of the house to help him off with
his mantle, was likewise so harsh that they all heard it
with sudden curiosity. Nor did this abate when the
cloak was removed, and his hat laid aside. A tall,
athletic, red-haired man, of the middle age, was then
made manifest. He had on a red frock coat, a red vest,
and a red neckcloth ; nay, his gloves were red ! What
was more extraordinary, when the overalls which covered
his thighs were unbuttoned, it was discovered that his
small-clothes were red likewise.
"All red I" ejaculated the parson, almost involun-
tarily.
" As you say, the gentleman is all red !" added the
schoolmaster, with his characteristic flippancy. He was
checked by a look from the landlady. His remark,
however, caught the stranger's ear, and he turned round
upon him with a penetrating glance. The schoolmaster
tried to smoke it off bravely. It would not do : he felt
the power of that look, and was reduced to almost im-
mediate silence.
"Now, bring me your boot-jack/' said the horseman.
The boot-jack was brought, and the boots pulled off.
To the astonishment of the company, a pair of red
stockings were brought into view. The landlord shrugged
his shoulders, the exciseman did the same, the landlady
shook her head, the parson exclaimed, " All red !" as
THE MAN IN RED. 221
before, and the schoolmaster would have repeated it, but
he had not yet recovered from his rebuke.
" Faith, this is odd !" observed the host.
" Rather odd," said the stranger, seating himself be-
tween the parson and the exciseman. The landlord
was confounded, and did not know what to think of the
matter.
After sitting for a few moments, the new-comer re-
quested the host to hand him a nightcap, which he
would find in his hat. He did so : it was a red worsted
one; and he put it upon his head.
Here the exciseman broke silence, by ejaculating,
" Red again !" The landlady gave him an admonitory
knock on the elbow : it was too late. The stranger
heard his remark, and regarded him with one of those
piercing glances for which his fiery eye seemed so re-
markable.
"All red I" murmured the parson once more.
" Yes, Doctor Poundtext, the gentleman, as you say,
is all red," re-echoed the schoolmaster, who by this time
had recovered his self-possession. He would have gone
on, but the landlady gave him a fresh admonition, by
tramping upon his toes; and her husband winked in
token of silence. As in the case of the exciseman, the
warnings were too late.
"Now, landlord," said the stranger, after he had been
seated a minute, " may I trouble you to get me a pipe
THE SNOW FLAKE.
and a can of your best Burton ? But, first of all, open
my portmanteau, and give me out my slippers."
The host did as he was desired, and produced a pair
of red morocco slippers. Here an involuntary exclama-
tion broke out from the company. It began with the
parson, and was taken up by the schoolmaster, the ex-
ciseman, the landlady, and the landlord, in succession.
" More red I" proceeded from every lip, with different
degrees of loudness. The landlord's was the least loud,
the schoolmaster's the loudest of all.
"I suppose, gentlemen," said the stranger, "you
were remarking upon my slippers."
"Eh yes ! we were just saying that they were red,"
replied the schoolmaster.
"And, pray," demanded the other, as he raised the
pipe to his mouth, " did you never before see a pair of
red slippers?"
This question staggered the respondent : he said no-
thing, but looked to the parson for assistance.
" But you are all red," observed the latter, taking a
full draught from a foaming tankard which he held in
his hand.
" And you are all black," said the other, as he with-
drew the pipe from his mouth, and emitted a copious
puff of tobacco smoke. " The hat that covers your
numskull is black, your beard is black, your coat is
black, your vest is black ; your smallclothes, your stock-
THE MAN IN RED. 223
ings, your shoes, all are black. In a word, Doctor
Poundtext, you are "
"What am I, sir?" said the parson, bursting with
rage.
"Ay, what is he, sir?" rejoined the schoolmaster.
"He is a black-coat/ 7 said the stranger, with a con-
temptuous sneer, a and you are a pedagogue." This
sentence was followed by a profound calm. Not a word
was spoken by any of the company, but each gazed upon
his neighbour in silence. In the faces of the parson
and schoolmaster anger was principally depicted : the
exciseman's mouth was turned down in disdain, the
landlady's was curled into a sarcastic smile; and as for
the landlord, it would be difficult to say whether asto-
nishment, anger, or fear, most predominated in his
mind. During this ominous tranquillity the stranger
looked on unmoved, drinking and smoking alternately
with total indifference. The schoolmaster would have
said something had he dared, and so would the parson ;
but both were yet smarting too bitterly under their re-
buff to hazard another observation.
In the midst of this mental tumult, the little bandy-
legged ostler made his appearance, and announced to
the rider that his horse had been rubbed down accord-
ing to orders. On hearing this, the Red Man got up
from his seat, and walked out to the stable. His de-
parture seemed to act as a sudden relief to those who
224 THE SNOW FLAKE.
were left behind. Their tongues, which his presence
had bound by a talismanic influence, were loosened, and
a storm of words broke forth proportioned to the fearful
calm which preceded it.
"Who is that man in red?" said the parson, first
breaking silence.
" Ay, who is he ?" re-echoed the schoolmaster.
" He is a bit of a conjuror, I warrant," quoth the ex-
ciseman.
" I should not wonder," said the landlord, " if he be
a spy from France."
" Or a travelling packman," added the landlady.
" I am certain he is no better than he should be,"
spoke the parson again.
i( That is clear," exclaimed the whole of the company,
beginning with the pedagogue, and terminating as usual
with the host. Here was a pause : at last Doctor Pound-
text resumed " I shall question him tightly when he
returns ; and if his answers are impertinent or unsatis-
factory, something must be done."
"Ay, something must be done," said the school-
master.
"Whatever you do," said the landlady, "let it be
done civilly. I should not like to anger him."
" A fig for his anger !" roared her husband, snapping
his fingers j "I shall give him the back of the door in
the twinkling of an eye, if he so much as chirps."
THE MAN IN RED. 225
" Anger, indeed !" observed the exciseman ; u leave
that to me and my cudgel."
" To you and your cudgel !" said the stranger, who
at this moment entered, and resumed his place at the
fireside, after casting a look of ineffable contempt upon
the exciseman. The latter did not dare to say a word,
his countenance fell, and his stick, which he was bran-
dishing a moment before, dropped between his legs.
There was another pause in the conversation. The
appearance of the Red Man again acted like a spell on
the voices of the company. The parson was silent, and
by a natural consequence his echo, the schoolmaster, was
silent also : none of the others felt disposed to say any-
thing. The meeting was like an assemblage of Quakers.
At one side of the fire sat the plump parson, with the
tankard in one hand, and the other placed upon his
forehead, as in deep meditation. At the opposite side
sat the schoolmaster, puffing vehemently from a tobacco-
pipe. In the centre was the exciseman, having at his
right hand the jolly form of the landlady, and at his
left the Man in Red ; the landlord stood at some dis-
tance behind. For a time the whole, with the exception
of the stranger, were engaged in anxious thought. The
one looked to the other with wondering glances, but,
though all equally wished to speak, no one liked to be
the first to open the conversation. "Who can this man
be?" "What does he want here?" "Where is he
226 THE SNOW FLAKE.
from, and whither is lie bound ?" Such were the in-
quiries which occupied every mind. Had the object of
their curiosity been a brown man, a black man, or even
a green man, there would have been nothing extraordi-
nary ; and he might have entered the inn and departed
from it as unquestioned as before he came. But to be a
Red Man ! There was in this something so startling
that the lookers-on were beside themselves with amaze-
ment. The first to break this strange silence was the
parson.
"Sir," said he, "we have been thinking that you
are 77
" That I am a conjuror, a French spy, a travelling
packman, or something of the sort," observed the
stranger. Doctor Poundtext started back on his chair,
and well he might ; for these words, which the Man in
Red had spoken, were the very ones he himself was
about to utter.
" Who are you, sir ?" resumed he, in manifest pertur-
bation. " What is your name ?"
" My name," replied the other, " is Reid."
" And where, in heaven's name, were you born ?" de-
manded the astonished parson.
" I was born on the borders of the Red Sea." Doctor
Poundtext had not another word to say. The school-
master was equally astounded, and withdrew the pipe
from his mouth : that of the exciseman dropped to the
THE MAN IN RED. 227
ground : the landlord groaned aloud, and his spouse held
up her hands in mingled astonishment and awe.
After giving them this last piece of information, the
strange man arose from his seat, broke his pipe in
pieces, and pitched the fragments into the fire; then,
throwing his long cloak carelessly over his shoulders,
putting his hat upon his head, and loading himself with
his boots, his whip, and his portmanteau, he desired
the landlord to show him to his bed, and left the
kitchen, after smiling sarcastically to its inmates, and
giving them a familiar and unceremonious nod.
His disappearance was the signal for fresh alarm in
the minds of those left behind. Not a word was said
till the return of the innkeeper, who in a short time
descended from the bedroom overhead, to which he
had conducted his guest. On re-entering the kitchen,
he was encountered by a volley of interrogations. The
parson, the schoolmaster, the exciseman, and his own
wife, questioned him over and over again. " Who was
the man in red ? he must have seen him before he
must have heard of him in a word, he must know
something about him." The host protested "that he
never beheld the stranger till that hour: it was the
first time he had made his appearance at the Black
Swan, and, so help him God, it should be the last !"
"Why don't you turn him out?" exclaimed the ex-
ciseman.
19
228 THE SNOW FLAKE.
" If you think you are able to do it, you are heartily
welcome/' replied the landlord. " For my part, I have
no notion of coming to close quarters with the shank of
his whip, or his great, red, sledge-hammer fist." This
was an irresistible argument, and the proposer of forcible
ejectment said no more upon the subject.
At this time the party could hear the noise of heavy
footsteps above them. They were those of the Red
Man, and sounded with slow and measured tread.
They listened for a quarter of an hour longer, in ex-
pectation that they would cease. There was no pause :
the steps continued, and seemed to indicate that the
person was amusing himself by walking up and down
the room.
It would be impossible to describe the multiplicity
of feelings which agitated the minds of the company.
Fear, surprise, anger, and curiosity, ruled them by
turns, and kept them incessantly upon the rack. There
was something mysterious in the visiter who had just
left them something which they could not fathom
something unaccountable. " Who could he be ?" This
was the question that each put to the other, but no one
could give anything like a rational answer.
Meanwhile the evening wore on apace, and though
the bell of the parish church hard by sounded the tenth
hour, no one* seemed inclined to take the hint to de-
part. Even the parson heard it without regard, to
THE MAN IN RED. 229
sucli a pitch was his curiosity excited. About this
time also the sky, which had hitherto been tolerably
clear, began to be overclouded. Distant peals of thun-
der were heard ; and thick sultry drops of rain pattered
at intervals against the casement of the inn : every-
thing seemed to indicate a tempestuous evening. But
the storm which threatened to rage without was un-
noticed. Though the drops fell heavily; though gleams
of lightning flashed by, followed by the report of dis-
tant thunder, and the winds began to hiss and whistle
among the trees of the neighbouring cemetery, yet all
these external signs of elementary tumult were as no-
thing to the deep, solemn footsteps of the Red Man.
There seemed to be no end to his walking. An hour
had he paced up and down the chamber without the
least interval of repose, and he was still engaged in
this occupation as at first. In this there was some-
thing incredibly mysterious; and the party below, not-
withstanding their numbers, felt a vague and inde-
scribable dread beginning to creep over them. The
more they reflected upon the character of the stranger,
the more unnatural did it appear. The redness of his
hair and complexion, and, still more, the fiery hue of his
garments, struck them with astonishment. But this was
little to the freezing and benumbing glance of his eye,
the strange tones of his voice, and his miraculous birth
on the borders of the Red Sea. There was now no
230 THE SNOW FLAKE.
longer any smoking in the kitchen. The subjects which
occupied their minds were of too engrossing a nature to
be treated with levity; and they drew their chairs
closer, with a sort of irresistible and instinctive attrac-
tion.
While these things were going on, the bandy-legged
ostler entered, in manifest alarm. He came to inform
his master that the stranger's horse had gone mad, and
was kicking and tearing at everything around, as if he
would break his manger in pieces. Here a loud neigh-
ing and rushing were heard in the stable. " Ay, there
he goes/' continued he. " I believe the devil is in the
beast, if he is not the old enemy himself. Ods, master,
if you saw his eyes : they are like "
" What are they like ?" demanded the landlord.
" Ay, what are they like ?" exclaimed the rest with
equal impatience.
" Ods, if they a' n't like burning coals I" ejaculated
the ostler, trembling from head to foot, and squeezing
himself in among the others, on a chair which stood
hard by. His information threw fresh alarm over the
company, and they were more agitated and confused
than ever.
During the whole of this time the sound of walking
overhead never ceased for one moment. The heavy
tread was unabated : there was not the least interval
of repose, nor could a pendulum have been more re-
THE MAN IN RED. 231
gular in its motions. Had there been any relaxation,
any pause, any increase, or any diminution, of rapidity
in the footsteps, they would have been endurable ; but
there was no such thing. The same deadening, mo-
notonous, stupifying sound continued, like clockwork,
to operate incessantly above their heads. Nor was
there any abatement of the storm without; the wind
blowing among the trees of the cemetery in a sepulchral
moan ; the rain beating against the panes of glass with
the impetuous loudnesuof hail; and lightning and thun-
der flashing and pealing at brief intervals through the
murky firmament. The noise of the elements was in-
deed frightful, and it was heightened by the voice of the
sable steed like that of a spirit of darkness ; but the
whole, as we have just hinted, was as nothing to the
deep, solemn, mysterious treading of the Red Man.
Innumerable were their conjectures concerning the
character of this personage. It has been mentioned
that the landlady conceived him at first to be a travel-
ling packman, the landlord a French spy, and the ex-
ciseman a conjuror. Now their opinions were wholly
changed, and they looked upon him as something a
great deal worse. The parson, in the height of his
learning, regarded him as an emanation of the tempter
himself; and in this he was confirmed by the erudite
opinion of the schoolmaster. As to the ostler he could
19*
232 THE SNOW FLAKE.
say nothing about the man, but he was willing to stake
his professional knowledge that his horse was kith and
kin to the evil one. Such were the various doctrines
promulgated in the kitchen of the Black Swan.
"If he be like other men, how could he anticipate
me, as he did, in what I was going to say ?" observed
the parson.
" Born on the borders of the Red Sea !" ejaculated
the landlord.
"Heard ye how he repeated 'to us what we were
talking about during his absence in the stable ?" re-
marked the exciseman.
" And how he knew that I was a pedagogue ?" added
the schoolmaster.
"And how he called on me by my name, although he
never saw nor heard of me before ?" said the ostler in
conclusion. Such a mass of evidence was irresistible.
It was impossible to overlook the result to which it
naturally led.
"If more proof is wanting," resumed the parson
after a pause, " only look at his dress. What Christian
would think of travelling about the country in red ? It
is a type of the hell-fire from which he is sprung/'
"Did you observe his hair hanging down his back
like a bunch of carrots ?" asked the exciseman.
" Such a diabolical glance in his eye I" said the
schoolmaster.
THE MAN IN RED.
"Such a voice I" added the landlord. "It is like the
sound of a cracked clarionet."
" His feet are not cloven/' observed the landlady.
" No matter/' exclaimed the landlord ; " the devil,
when he chooses, can have as good legs as his neigh-
bours."
"Better than some of them/' quoth the lady, looking
peevishly at the lower limbs of her husband.
Meanwhile the incessant treading continued unabated,
although two long hours had passed since its commence-
ment. There was not the slightest cessation to the
sound, while out of doors the storm raged with violence,
and in the midst of it the hideous neighing and stamp-
ing of the black horse were heard with pre-eminent
loudness. At this time the fire of the kitchen began to
burn low. The sparkling blaze was gone, and in its
stead nothing but a dead red lustre emanated from the
grate. One candle had just expired, having burned
down to the socket. Of the one which remained the
unsnuffed wick was nearly three inches in length, black
and crooked at the point, and standing like a ruined
tower amid an envelopment of sickly yellow flame;
while around the fire's equally decaying lustre sat the
frightened coterie, narrowing their circle as its brilliancy
faded away, and eyeing each other like apparitions
amidst the increasing gloom.
At this time the clock of the steeple struck the hour
234 THE SNOW FLAKE.
of midnight, and the tread of the stranger suddenly ceased.
There was a pause for some minutes afterwards a rus-
tling then a noise as of something drawn along the floor
of his room. In a moment thereafter his door opened ;
then it shut with violence, and heavy footsteps were
heard trampling down the stair. The inmates of the
kitchen shook with alarm as the tread came nearer.
They expected every moment to behold the Red Man
enter, and stand before them in his native character.
The landlady fainted outright : the exciseman followed
her example : the landlord gasped in an agony of ter-
ror : and the schoolmaster uttered a pious ejaculation for
the behoof of his soul. Doctor Poundtext was the only
one who preserved any degree of composure. He ma-
naged, in a trembling voice, to call out " Avaunt, Satan !
I exorcise thee from hence to the bottom of the Red
Sea !"
" I am going as fast as I can," said the stranger, as he
passed the kitchen-door on his way to the open air.
His voice aroused the whole conclave from their stupor.
They started up, and by a simultaneous effort rushed
to the window. There they beheld the tall figure of a
man, enveloped in a black cloak, walking across the yard
on his way to the stable. He had on a broad-brimmed,
low-crowned hat, top-boots, with enormous spurs, and
carried a gigantic whip in one hand, and a portmanteau
in the other. He entered the stable, remained there
THE MAN IN RED. 235
about three minutes, and carne out leading forth his
fiery steed thoroughly accoutred. In the twinkling of
an eye he got upon his back, waved his hand to the com-
pany, who were surveying him through the window, and
clapping spurs to his charger, galloped off furiously,
with a hideous and unnatural laugh, through the midst
of the storm.
On going up stairs to the room which the devil had
honoured with his presence, the landlord found that his
infernal majesty had helped himself to everything he
could lay his hands upon, having broken into his desk
and carried off twenty-five guineas of king's money, a
ten pound Bank of England note, and sundry articles,
such as seals, snuff-boxes, &c. Since that time he has
not been seen in these quarters, and if he should, he
will do well to beware of Doctor Poundtext, who is a
civil magistrate as well as a minister, and who, instead
of exorcising him to the bottom of the Red Sea, may
exorcise him to the interior of the county gaol, to await
his trial before the judges at the next circuit.
THINE FOR EVER.
BY CAROLINE EUSTIS.
THINE for ever ! Thine for ever !
What to me is chance or change ?
Can the love I once have plighted,
Ever to my heart be strange ?
Thine for ever ! So I whispered,
When thy lips first spoke of love ;
Thine for ever ! though now severed,
I on earth and thou above.
Thine for ever ! was thy promise,
Not " till death us part " was mine ;
Through this life, and still for ever,
Thou art mine and I am thine.
Thine for ever ! what though anguish,
Oh most deep, did rend my heart;
When on earth our bliss was severed,
And I saw thy life depart ;
THINE FOR EVER. 237
Saw thine eyes (most tender gazers !)
Fade in death while fixed on mine ;
Felt my life were first departing,
While I trembling watched for thine ;
Saw thy form borne sadly from me,
Laid beneath the grassy sod;
Knew my eyes no more would greet me,
Till we meet before our God :
What though many suns have lingered,
O'er thy lonely grass-clad bed,
What though nights and days have found me,
Weeping o'er my blessed dead
Thine for ever ! still for ever !
Oh no death can part us twain ;
Thine on earth and thine in heaven,
Blessed thought we meet again !
Meet ? we never yet have parted,
Thy dear form is lost to sight ;
But the hearts which God united,
Death can never disunite.
Thine for ever ! others whisper
Words of love into my ear j
THE SNOW FLAKE.
Know they not the deathless feeling
Which will ever linger here?
Know they not that love as ours,
On through life and death the same,
Knows no change that earthly sorrows
Cannot quench the sacred flame ?
Thine for ever ! soon I meet thee,
Still thine own as thou art mine ;
Meet thee ! never more to sever,
Still thine own for ever thine !
CHILDREN.
BY MRS. E. C. K INN BY.
LITTLE children are the flowers
By life's thorny wayside springing
Ever to this world of ours
Something fresh and guileless bringing.
They are birds, in whose glad voices
All the dreary winter long
The imprisoned heart rejoices,
As in summer's woodland song.
They are stars, that brightly shining
Through the inner night of sorrow,
Aid the spirit in divining
Something hopeful for the morrow.
They are precious jewels, gleaming
'Mid the cares of manhood's brow
Woman's bosom more beseeming
Than the diamond's costly glow.
20
240 THE SNOW FLAKE.
They are wreaths of green, entwining
Hoary grandsires' withered brows
Spring with autumn thus combining
Verdure with life's winter snows.
They are fortune's richest treasure
Honour's most ennobling fame;
Sources of a truer pleasure,
Than what beareth pleasure's name.
For their meed of soft caressing,
Hardy labour toils with joy;
" Children are the poor man's blessing"-
They his heart and hands employ.
They our only gifts immortal
Live, when dies their earthly name ;
Though we leave them at death's portal-
We our children shall reclaim.
CUPID TAUGHT BY THE GKACES.
BY LEILA.
(See Engraving.)
IT is their summer haunt; a giant oak
Stretches its sheltering arm above their heads,
And midst the twilight of depending boughs
They ply their eager task. Between them sits
A bright-haired child, whose softly-glistening wings
Quiver with joy, as ever and anon
He, at their bidding, sweeps a chorded shell,
And draws its music forth. Wondering, he looks
For their approving smile, and quickly drinks
(Apt pupil !) from their lips instruction sweet,
Divine encouragement ! And this is " Love
Taught by the Graces" how to point his darts
With milder mercy and discreeter aim ;
To stir the bosom's lyre to harmony,
And waken strains of music from its chords
They never gave before !
GILBERT GRIMES.
BY W. H. HARRISON.
View his whole life, 'tis nothing but a cunning contexture of dark arts
and unequitable subterfuges, basely to defeat the true intent of all laws.
STERNE.
IN the cranium of Gilbert Grimes the organ of ap-
propriation was very early and prominently developed.
His infancy, even, was fruitful in evidences of this
fact. Among his brothers and sisters he was constantly
effecting transfers of property, chiefly invested in sugar-
plums and gingerbread, from the elder by stratagem,
and from the younger by force. His incursions on the
larder and the store-closet were also truly formidable :
many a currant-tart, which had been designed to solace
the stomachs and besmear the faces of some five or six
expectant urchins, was prematurely diverted to his sole
use and adornment.
His genius continued to unfold itself as he grew into
boyhood; and, accordingly, we find him, at the early
age of seven, the ringleader of a conspiracy for the ab-
GILBERT GRIMES. 245
straction of certain apples from the al fresco bazaar of
a female fruit-merchant, who, having been ground into
forgetfulness by an itinerant professor of the organ,
afforded to the juvenile depredators their opportunity,
and to the world an example of the disastrous con-
sequences of taking Morpheus as a sleeping partner in
the concerns of trade.
In order to dissolve certain associations in which
feats of a similar kind had involved him, his parents
determined on sending him to a boarding-school in a re-
mote county; a measure, however, which rather tended
to foster the talents it was designed to discourage. He
early distinguished himself by sallying forth from the
window of his dormitory, one moonlight night, with his
pillowcase as a succedaneum for a sack, and returning
loaded with the spoils of a neighbouring garden. This
notable foray was followed by complaints from the
proprietor for the spoiling of his orchard, and from the
schoolmistress for the spoiling of the pillowcase. He
was mulcted of six weeks' pocket-money to indemnify
the one, and soundly flogged for the satisfaction of the
other. The flogging was, of course, set down to the
fortune of war, for which there was no remedy but
patience and beef brine. Not so the mulcture; for a
second and undiscovered attack upon the apple orchard
reduced the cost of his former booty fifty per cent.
At this period of his life he was a tall, but ill-pro-
20*
246 TH.E SNOW FLAKE.
portioned and ungainly boy; and, although he bore his
head as uprightly as most persons, he had a remarkable
dislike to looking any one full in the face, but requited
the glance of another by the instant aversion of his
own. His very limbs appeared to be rather acquired
than natural property, and to have belonged originally
to some one else.
As he could not be kept at school all his life, it be-
came necessary for his friends to determine on his
future path in the world. The very confused and in-
distinct notions which he entertained of meum and tuutn
were formidable objections to his embarking in trade.
The profession of arms was repugnant alike to his views
and his taste, inasmuch as little was to be gained from
it but laurels, which he well knew bore no fruit. The
organ of destructiveness was not powerfully enough de-
veloped in his phrenological system to insure success
to him in physic ; and it would have been stark mad-
ness to consign his peculiar abilities to so contracted a
sphere of action as the church. It was therefore at last
resolved that, in order to secure him against a prema-
ture acquaintance with the practice of the law, he
should devote a few years to the study of the theory ;
and he was accordingly articled to Nicholas Nightshade,
a pettifogging attorney in his native town.
Nicholas had slidden, I will not say risen, into con-
siderable practice and comparative wealth, by under-
GILBERT GRIMES. 247
taking business with which no respectable member of
the profession would pollute his hands. He was a
short, rotund figure, of a dark complexion, with an
overhanging forehead, bushy brows, small but piercing
eyes, a nose somewhat hooked, and a nether lip, which,
projecting considerably beyond the upper, imparted a
singularly shrewd, but sinister, expression to his coun-
tenance. He was of rather frugal habits; wine he
never tasted it had indeed been too generous a liquor
for him ; in vino veritas. Porter was his nectar ; but,
though he quaffed it freely, it never muddled his brain ;
the narcotic and deleterious ingredients of his potations
appearing to have been absorbed by his heart, for it was
poisoned to its very core.
Gilbert Grimes' s friends, who were a worldly and
far-casting set, in placing him with such a man, had
speculated upon his discovering, in his new profession,
a field for legalized depredation so extensive, as to leave
him little inducement for exploring any other. But
they calculated not upon the force of genius ; for, before
the term of his probation had expired, he eloped with
his master's only daughter ; and it was doubtless in the
hurry and confusion attendant upon their flight, that he
happened to pack up in his portmanteau a few more of
the alchemised rags of Threadneedle Street than, in
strictness, belonged to him. Nightshade could have
well spared his daughter; but the loss of his money
248 THE SNOW FLAKE.
touched him, and he vowed revenge. The newspaper
which announced the marriage of Gilbert Grimes con-
tained an advertisement offering a reward for his appre-
hension. Gilbert, who had no notion of so much
money passing out of the family, quietly surrendered
himself before his father-in-law the following morning
at breakfast-time, and claimed the reward. This piece
of assurance would have astounded any other than
Nightshade, who was a wholesale dealer in the article.
" Grimes," said he, " you are a villain I"
"I know it," was the reply; "you have kept your
news until it is somewhat stale."
"Give me back the money you have purloined from
me," rejoined Nightshade.
"I may scarcely do that," answered Grimes, " seeing
that a portion of it is already spent, and, if you with-
draw your countenance, I shall have the greater need
of the remainder. But why this fruitless anger ? The
evil, if such it be, is done, and past remedy : there," he
added, flinging down a certificate of his marriage, " the
noose is tied as tightly as you can desire."
" Not quite," said the other, " and, therefore, with
the hangman for priest, we will draw it somewhat
closer."
" What ! hang a man in his honeymoon ?"
"I would gibbet thee at the very altar, thou mea-
sureless knave !" said Nightshade.
GILBERT GRIMES. 249
" Nay," replied Gilbert, " that were poor requital for
the forbearance of one who has long had the power of
elevating you to the distinction which your kindness
proposes for him. Remember the forged deed !"
" I am not likely to forget it," said Nightshade }
"but who, think you, will now believe you on your
oath?"
"Doubtless," was Grimes's answer, "it were worse
than folly to do so, but the deed itself were good evi-
dence, methinks."
"And that is safe in yonder iron chest," said the
other, exultingly.
"Are you well advised of that?" was the cool re-
joinder.
Nightshade, alarmed for the first time, hurried across
the room, applied a key to the spring lock of the chest,
gazed in it for an instant, then flinging down the lid,
snatched a pistol from the mantelpiece, and presented
it at Grimes, exclaiming, in a voice expressive of rage
and determination, " Villain ! give me back the deed
this instant, or I will blow out your brains, though I
swing for it to-morrow."
Gilbert eyed him a while with that hardihood which I
will not dignify by the name of courage, and which
nothing but the most determined villany could supply j
then, putting aside the muzzle of the weapon, he said,
with a smile of scorn, " I were, indeed, but a dull pupil
250 THE SNOW FLAKE.
of so bright a master, did I learn no safer policy from
your instructions than to put the evidence of your guilt,
as well as my person, in your power."
" Scoundrel I" thundered the other, " where is the
deed ?"
" Be assured, in good keeping/' said Gilbert, " whence,
if I revoke not my instructions, it will be transferred to
those, who, for their own sakes, will make such use of
it as will scarcely consist with your safety. And now,
my honoured father-in-law, call in your constable, and
away with me to prison, 'an it please you."
The countenance of Nightshade fell when he found
himself completely in the power of the man whom he
so lately proposed to crush. He regarded his hopeful
son-in-law, for a few seconds, with a fixed and searching
look, and then said, in a tone and manner considerably
softened, " Gibby, you have done that which I had not
expected from your years you have outwitted me. I
am in my dotage, it is plain, or you had not thus wea-
thered upon me. But no matter, I forgive you. With
regard to that same halter, which has somewhat super-
fluously embellished our conversation, it would seem
that our claims to it are nearly equal ; let it, therefore,
instead of tying us up, tie us together. You are my
partner from this hour. I am growing old ; my labours
are heavy, and you have given me convincing evidence
of your ability to share the burden. As for your wife,
GILBERT GRIMES. 251
if she be the daughter of her mother, you will repent
your bargain ere your honeymoon be on the wane. The
lot was of your own choosing, and you must make the
best of it. Now, go to your office, and let this morning's
conversation be forgotten as speedily as may be."
From that day the circumstance was never even al-
luded to by either party, and Grilbert became an active
and useful partner of his late master. There was but
one lawyer besides themselves in the town, and he,
being an honest one, could not, of course, interfere with
their practice. They might well be termed the friends
of the unfortunate. Did any man, mistaking, in the
darkness of the night, a gentleman's house for his own,
and unwilling to disturb the family, find his way into it
without knocking; did he, entering the fold, relieve the
sleeping shepherd at once of his duty and his charge ;
or, without an act of Parliament to back him, did he
raise a loan upon the highway, and any of the little per-
sonal inconveniencies consequent upon detection overtake
him, he had the comfortable assurance that, if there
were a loop-hole, either in the law or in his prison,
through which he might escape, Messieurs Nightshade
and Grimes were the men who, for a consideration, were
sure to find it out. Indeed, so successful were their ex-
ertions to such laudable ends, that had their course been
as protracted as it was brilliant, the tread-wheel had
rusted upon its axis, and the hangman, without his per-
quisites, had starved upon his pay.
252 THE SNOW FLAKE.
They prospered indeed, but theirs was the uncoveted
prosperity of the wicked, who have been truly said to
" flourish as a green bay tree/ 7 for it hath poison and
bitterness in its leaves. The career of Nightshade was
arrested by a sudden and short illness, and the God
whom he had abandoned in his youth forsook him in his
age. Hardened and profligate he was, it is true, bu*
he was not that fabled monster, an infidel; like the
devils, he believed and trembled, and the aspen con-
science was ever restless in his bosom. To use his own
fearful expression in his parting moments, he felt the
cold grasp of the demon he had worshipped upon his
heart-strings, dragging him down to that hell which he
had purchased by so many ruthless deeds and wasted
years. The vengeance of Heaven is sometimes slow,
often sudden, but always sure ; a truth which received
an awful confirmation in the death-scene of this godless,
graceless man.
The death of Nightshade left Gilbert in undivided
possession of the practice and the secret of the forged
deed. Grimes continued to take care of the main chance,
that is, to have one hand in his own pocket, and the
other in his neighbour's. Genius, however, like his
could not remain long without its reward. It at length
attracted the notice of twelve honest gentlemen, who re-
lieved him from all necessity of future exertion by pro-
viding for his support during the rest of his days in that
most secure of all earthly abodes, the Penitentiary.
THE PEASANT'S SONG.
BY CHARLES SWAIN.
SAY not man's faith is a flower,
That lives but a day, and is past ;
A star which gives light but an hour,
A sky that is soon overcast :
There may be such men, it is true,
And ladies, perhaps, much the same ;
But these are these like me and you ?
Oh, no ! our love's more than a name.
1 know that thy beauty may gain
The wealthiest lord of the isle ;
I know he hath sued, and in vain,
To win the sweet bliss of thy smile.
For me that reward wilt thou keep,
For me to adore whilst I live !
When I think of thy truth, I could weep,
To find I've so little to give !
21
254 THE SNOW FLAKE.
Yet amidst splendid banquets and show,
Gay dances, with roses and light,
Affection thou never couldst know
So fond as I plight thee to-night !
The soul of a husband is lost
In pleasure's enchanting career;
And oh ! thou mightst find, to thy cost,
That riches bring many a tear !
My cottage, though small, is my own,
'Tis shaded by woodbine and tree j
I wish for thy sake 'twere a throne,
O proudly Fd share it with thee !
'Tis humble, yet not very poor,
And wouldst thou but yield thy consent,
Thou wilt feel if thou lov'st me I'm sure,
The gold of the earth is content.
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN.
BY MISS JEWSBURY.
HOWEVER knowledge may have dispersed superstition,
so that in these our days the Hartz country itself is con-
sidered as free from witches and warlocks as the fens of
Lincolnshire, it is sufficient for my purpose that a con-
trary opinion was once held, and that Etto the boor was
born during its reign. The blocks of granite, scattered
on the summit of the Brocken, were then veritably es-
teemed the altar and pulpit of sorcerers ; the spring of
clear water was believed to be, what it was called, the
magic fountain; and even the beautiful anemone that
grew thereabouts was placed under a ban, and called the
sorcerer's flower. Etto's father lived in an ancient
wirthehaus on the Brocken, which offered to the chance
traveller scanty accommodation in the shape of bed,
board, and kirschwasser, but the most voluble of guides
in his own person, and in the person of his wife the
most accomplished narrator of legends that ever made
an auditor's hair stand on end. Accompanying his
256 THE SNOW FLAKE.
father in his expeditions as guide, hunting when not so
employed, and when not hunting, dreaming and droning
over legends wilder even than the country that gave
rise to them, Etto grew up to manhood, but not by any
means the brave romantic vagabond that might have
been expected. His prominent characteristic was a
mean, lazy, wishing-cap kind of ambition, that led him
to despise the lot to which he was born ; made him long
to eat dainties, sleep softly, dress sumptuously, and es-
cape, in a word, the boor's life. The boor's mind never
troubled him ; that he did not desire changed. Frequent
visits to the neighbouring town of Groslar, and an occa-
sional opportunity of tasting its seven different kinds of
beer, invariably made Etto return home more discon-
tented than he left it. After gazing on the emperor's
state chair, preserved in the cathedral of Groslar, and on
the imperial portraits that adorned the windows of that
structure, he would soliloquize much in the following
manner : " Ah ! it was worth their while to be men !
but what is life to a poor wretch like myself? only a dull
something to be had and lost ! It were brave sport to
be a king, and go a-hunnng for pleasure ; men, horses,
and even dogs owning me as lord ; then to have the pea-
sants bowing and blessing every time I turned my head,
and even the Count Winplingerstrasse proud of my
presence in his castle : the dais-table covered with all
manner of dainties, my crown and sceptre laid beside
THE BOOR OP THE BROCKEN. 257
me, a canopy over my head, drums and trumpets sound-
ing at every mouthful, and ever and anon the Count
saying to me with cap in hand 'Will your imperial
highness try another slice of the venison ? or will your
princely majesty honour the wine by taking another
goblet ? or may it please your gracious mightiness to
condescend to a flagon of ale ?' Then should I, with a
gracious wave of my hand, say ' Noble vassal ! I have
done exceedingly well, make yourself welcome to what
remains !' Ah, if anything short of selling myself to
the Evil One, short of spending May-day night with Sir
Urian or Mother Baubo, would make a great man of me
Saint Martin, Saint Maximin, St. Hildebrand what
am I talking about" and here Etto would cross him.
self (but more from cowardice than Christianity) to pre-
vent the possible appearance of any member of the witch
and wizard club. Nevertheless, the half-uttered wish
was only driven from the lip to the heart, if it were but
possible, without sin and scathe, to obtain supernatural
aid ; for without it, small chance did there appear of his
becoming other than Etto the boor.
The combined workings of discontent and envy made
his life like the bread he ate somewhat black and
bitter; more especially when chance threw him in the
way of the great man of the neighbourhood, Count
Winplingerstrasse, who scowled like a dragon, inhabited
21*
258 THE SNOW FLAKE.
a castle that looked like a prison, and occasionally hung
a vassal to prove his love of justice. One day, Etto
was sitting on a crag beside his father's door, more dis-
contented than usual, for the puissant Count Winplin-
gerstrasse had that morning speared his dog, for having
presumed to take by the ear a boar which he, the said
Count, had intended to kill with his own unassisted
hand. Whilst Etto sat musing on the chance that
made one man rich and another poor, he was roused
from his revery by observing that an individual stood
beside him, who did not stand there the instant before.
Etto was therefore reduced to the sagacious conclusion,
that the intruder had either dropped from the clouds, or
grown out of the earth. The dress of the stranger
puzzled him also, for it was framed according to divers
fashions ; the hat being English, the ruff Flemish, the
doublet and hose German, whilst the mantle had been
cut in the country of long cloaks, though which that
was I am unable to say with antiquarian certainty. It
was equally impossible, from his face, to assign him a
birthplace, for he had a look of all nations. In spite,
however, of his odd garb and features, Etto felt himself
in the presence of a much greater personage than Count
Winplingerstrasse, and he rose and made a suitable
reverence.
" What makes you look so sulky, friend ?" asked the
stranger.
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN. 259
" Please your unknown worship, I'm a poor man/'
said Etto.
"I always understood that content dwelt in a cot-
tage," said the odd-looking man.
"Please your noble worship/' replied Etto, "I only
live in a wood hut, where the wind whistles in at the
window, and the rain pours down the chimney. /
always understood that content dwelt in a castle."
" I will make a great man of you," said the stranger
with a remarkably grim smile.
" And without any unlawful conditions ?" inquired
Etto, bowing within an inch of the ground.
" Without any other condition than that of continuing
what you are, in mind and spirit. Now, what great
man will you be ?"
" Could your very gracious reverend highness con-
trive to make me Count Winplingerstrasse ? said Etto,
his eyes ready to fall out of his head with amazement.
" With all the pleasure in life," rejoined the stranger,
taking a pinch of snuff with extraordinary coolness.
Etto could hardly refrain from shouting his rapture
to the hills. "And will your imperial highness change
the Count into me ? make him just as poor and misera-
ble as I was five minutes ago?"
" Thou art a malicious dog ; but that also will I do.
The Count has a few sins to atone for as well as thyself
so then, presto ! look yonder there he comes, Etto
260 THE SNOW FLAKE.
the boor to all intents and purposes, and there art
thou, Count Winplingerstrasse. Ha, ha ! most mortal
fool, adieu ! a week hence, and "
"And what?" inquired Etto but the stranger was
gone gone as he had arrived, though the proof of his
appearance remained behind; for Etto now held up his
head, wore a brave hunting suit, and looked as if he
had been born what he seemed Count Winplinger-
strasse. Without more delay he took the road to the
castle, where he was received with all imaginable defe-
rence, the servants conceiving him to be the identical
master who sallied from it in the morning. The only
observable difference was, that he did not bear himself
near so much like a dragon, and that he was carried to
rest much more intoxicated than was esteemed usual.
The next day, and the next, and the next, passed off
gloriously : hunting, feasting, and receiving homage,
diversified the time most charmingly ; and Etto was
never weary of congratulating himself on his change
of rank. On the fourth morning he was doomed to
understand the cares as well as the pleasures of great-
ness. He had just arranged the sports for the day, and
with hound and horn, bow, baldric, and spear, hunts-
man and woodman, horse and foot, was on the point of
leaving the court-yard for the chase, when a messenger
made his appearance, reined up his horse, and, without
ceremony, presented a letter on the point of his sword.
THE BOOR Or THE BROCKEN. 261
" Fetch Father Zick here/' said Etto. Counts were
not expected to read in those days; therefore no dis-
grace attached to Etto on the score of ignorance. Fa-
ther Zick made his appearance, deciphered and read the
letter. It contained remonstrances, demands, charges,
and threats, on the part of the noble Baron Seiden-
sticker; spoke of laying waste the domain of Winplin-
gerstrasse, in default of instant redress for all and sun-
dry offences committed by the Count and his vassals
during the last few weeks.
"What does all this mean?" said Etto; for his
countship's consciousness only went back to the mo-
ment of his receiving the dignity.
The attendants answered by bewildered looks, for
they could only account for their lord's ignorance of
the matter in hand from his having become suddenly
crazed.
"I wait your answer, Count," said the messenger;
" am I to tell my noble lord that the butts of wine, the
vests, armour, and household gear, stolen by your lord-
ship's followers when on their way to my noble lord's
castle, shall be instantly restored, together with a full
and suitable apology, and a promise that justice shall
be done to the ringleaders in the offence, and that fur-
thermore "
Etto obeyed the first impulse of his boorish nature,
and raising his fist struck the speaker such a violent
262 THE SNOW FLAKE.
blow on the face, that, being unprepared for its force,
he was nearly thrown from his horse. The messenger
did not wait any further answer, but wheeling his horse
round, rode off homewards at no gentle rate.
The old seneschal now appeared, threading his way
through the throng, puffing and talking at every step :
" He is gone inad mad, of a surety ! Did he not
arrange the foray himself? and the wine did he not
make merry upon it last night, and the night before,
and the night before that ? Grood my lord (he had by
this reached Etto's side), good my lord, be pleased to
recollect yourself; and, since we are found out, let jus-
tice take its course. Ah ! it was a pity we meddled
with Seidensticker, seeing he can revenge himself.
Good my lord, let us even send the gear back ; I can
fill the empty butts with beer instead of wine and
two or three idle varlets we can well afford to hang.
Mercy upon us ! if Seidensticker conies against us, how
shall we stand a siege, with only half a score of hogs in
salt, two oxen, and some small meats for the dais-table?
Good my lord, have reason, and we'll have all ready in
a trice the gear, the apologies, and the varlets that
must be hanged."
Here each of the head domestics put in a word of
recommendation touching some very particular rascal,
and the heart of many an underling throbbed with fear.
The seneschal had spoken under the idea that he ad-
THE BOOR OF THE BROOKEN. 263
dressed his old fiery master, prone to plunge himself
into broils, and over-apt to take charge of his neigh-
bour's goods. Etto listened in stupid amazement, and
in conclusion began to wish that he had made a few in-
quiries before he jumped so readily into the shoes of
Count Winplingerstrasse.
" Do as ye list/' said he, throwing himself from his
horse. And having so said, and so done, he paced dog-
gedly into the castle, leaving his attendants in great
surprise.
" Markebrunn has quenched the firebrand," muttered
the seneschal. " Well, Saint Caspar be praised ! we
shall lead the quieter life. Howsoever, they shall be a
few flagons lower before they travel homewards those
said wine-butts that are yet full."
By the close of the day, the pacificatory arrange-
ments, as regarded restitution and apology, were in
tolerable forwardness. The selection of the vassals
who were to officiate as culprits, in other words, be
made the scape-goats in this affair of foray, gave both
the seneschal and Father Zick considerable trouble;
insomuch that it was at last agreed, that, if before they
reached the gallows, the rogues could contrive to make
their escape, the castle of Winplingerstrasse should not
shut its gates against them.
Etto, meanwhile, made, according to his own appre-
hension, the best use of his time, by emptying flagon
264 THE SNOW FLAKE.
after flagon of Seidensticker's wine, till, unaccustomed
to such choice libations, he was soon placed by sleep
beyond the reach of fear and sorrow. The seneschal
had, in like manner, allowed himself a little extra in-
dulgence in consideration of his day's anxiety. Father
Zick kept him company out of sheer benevolence ; and
the rest of the household rendered themselves as obli-
vious to the sense of danger as their several degrees per-
mitted.
But the following morning brought cool reflection in
the guise of two score men-at-arms, accompanied by all
the known means of doing battle, and making a noise
over it. The warden was of course the first person who
perceived their approach, and, having multiplied two
score by ten, he posted down to apprise the seneschal
of the company at hand. The worthies were cabineted
together, each occupied in forming conjectures, and
giving advice, to which neither listened, when the coun-
cil was interrupted by the loud blast of a couple of
trumpets, and a prodigious knocking on the iron-studded
gate of the castle.
The seneschal looked out of a loop-hole window, with
full as much fear as curiosity ; nevertheless he de-
manded, with a bold voice, the occasion of the dis-
turbance.
The messenger of the preceding day then rode for-
ward, and having commanded silence, addressed the se-
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN. 265
neschal with true diplomatic dignity : "In consequence
of the original offence given by Count Winplingerstrasse
to my master, the mighty Baron Seidensticker, in con-
sideration of the violent reception given yesterday to
me, his accredited messenger, On behalf of baronial
rights in general, and his own insulted dignity in par-
ticular, and finally, in the hope of thereby restoring
peace and amity the mighty Baron Seidensticker does
here defy Count Winplingerstrasse to mortal combat.
But should the said Count refuse to avail himself
of this opportunity of clearing his honour, the Baron,
my master, will straightway beat, batter, and burn, this
castle of Winplingerstrasse, and all connected there-
with I" -
The above speech being finished, the trumpeter sound-
ed a flourish, which added greatly to its effect, and the
seneschal drew in his head from the loop-hole window,
declaring that he would instantly submit the alternative
to his master's most serious consideration. On turning
o
round, he found most of the household at his back for
they justly esteemed it a common cause.
" A very pretty kettle of fish is here I" said the cook
and his scullions in chorus.
a Tra-la-la-lira-la ! we are like to be hunted, instead
of hunting, to-day/ ; suggested the head ranger.
" Honesty is certainly the best policy," cried half a
dozen rapscallions, who had been foremost in the foray.
22
266 THE SNOW FLAKE.
" I would I were just now where men robe in cassocks,
and not in chain-mail," sighed Father Zick.
" Fighting is not my vocation, but I will cheer the
combatants with songs," observed the minstrel.
" And I will weep for those who fall," put in the
jester.
" Hold your several tongues, you prating blockheads !"
said the seneschal, in a tone of authority; "our noble
master will assuredly do all the fighting himself. Come
with me, Father Zick ; for we must disturb his slum-
bers, which it seems these trumpets have respected.
Some of you knaves bid the armourer follow us with the
Count's battle suit, and bid the grooms caparison his
horse. Do you, Mr. Minstrel, walk before me with a
flagon of wine, and you, Mr. Jester, follow with a pasty.
Were the Count a lion he could not fight fasting."
In a few minutes these various worthies entered the
sleeping room, where Etto lay in as sound a slumber
as if the clatter outside the castle had been only so
much silence.
"'Afterlife's fitful fever he sleeps well/ ; ' said the
jester, from whom, Shakspeare, a century afterwards,
plagiarised the idea.
" Very true ; but his lordship must nevertheless awake
like meaner men," said the seneschal. " So-ho ! my
lord !"
Etto only gave an additional snore.
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN. 267
" Humpli I" said the seneschal ; " it is a case of ne-
cessity, and therefore, Mr. Minstrel, put your flagon down,
and pinch his lordship's leg. Motley, do thou the same
by its fellow. Father Zick, shout lustily in that ear,
while I shout in this. Now, then So-ho ! my lord V
By these combined efforts Etto was at length roused
to a sense of his situation. What his feelings were on
the discovery made to him, the reader, who is in the
secret, may naturally imagine. He will also compre-
hend the discomfiture and amazement which it exceed-
ingly puzzled the attendants to account for.
" Will your lordship be pleased to break your fast,
and then proceed to arm ?" said the seneschal.
" I tell you, I never engaged in single combat since I
was born," replied Etto.
" My lord's modesty forgets that I have sung his vic-
tories in half a hundred ballads/' observed the minstrel.
" I tell you, I never killed a man in my life."
" I have given your lordship absolution for killing
at least a dozen out of the common way," said Father
Zick.
" And here comes your lordship's armour," said the
seneschal, "proof in every joint; and also a newly in-
vented 'visor a most brave defence, if your lordship
can but breathe in it."
Etto's head began to swim.
268 THE SNOW FLAKE.
"And Seidensticker himself is just arrived/' cried
the armourer, " and with him another score of rogues
in steel. As pretty a fellow that Baron as ever I saw !
black armour black steed black plumes and pennon !
the very image of a thunder-cloud on horseback I"
Etto felt his heart turning into water.
" A very worthy antagonist indeed/' said the min-
strel, going to the window, and looking carelessly out;
" Firm as a rock, tall as a tower. If it were any one
but our Count who was about to fight him, I would not
give a rhyme for his life."
By this time Etto's teeth chattered audibly.
" The day wanes may it please your lordship to rise ?
And stay ! a shirt of mail, in addition to the armour,
were not out of place to-day."
The seneschal's speech was interrupted by a loud and
martial summons without.
u Hear me/' cried Etto, wringing his hands in utter
despair. " Seneschal ! Father ! Father Zick ! I
have been bewitched ! changed ! I am only Count
Winplingerstrasse in body I am Etto the boor in soul.
I can't fight ! I won't fight ! I don't know how to
fight ! Give up the castle ! Give up "
The trumpets sounded again from without ; again the
gate was assailed with loud knocks ; and the seneschal,
the confessor, the minstrel, and the armourer, looked
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN. 269
exceedingly perplexed. The jester was the only person
who saw his way through the dilemma. " It is
plain/' said he, " that this is not our real master, or he
would fight for us. If then he be not our real master,
we are not bound to fight for him. Furthermore, if he
has been bewitched, we are not bound to keep terms with
him at all : I propose, therefore, that we instantly hang
him up in the court-yard, and so make our peace with
the Baron Seidensticker !" The jester might have
learnt logic, and his auditors have understood it, so una-
nimously was the proposal agreed to, and so quickly were
the preparations made for carrying it into effect.
" Must I die ?" said Etto, covering his face with his
hands, as the executioner approached. " Must I die,
without having done anything to deserve it, too ?"
"Think again, Count Winplingerstrasse," said the
above-named personage ; " and please to put your hands
down, that I may tie the noose round your neck. Well,
if you won't, I must."
Horror of horrors ! When his eyes were uncovered,
Etto beheld in the executioner the identical stranger
who had spoken to him on the Brocken. Yes, he wore
the selfsame Flemish ruff, the German hose and dou-
blet, the English hat, and the long cloak.
" Save, save me !" cried Etto, clinging to the last-
named article of apparel.
22*
270 THE SNOW FLAKE.
"It is a very strange thing/ ' said the mysterious
executioner, " that people should invariably repent of
their bargains with me. Ascend the ladder, Count/'
" Save me ! save me ! Change me again I"
" Into Baron Seidensticker, I suppose ! No, indeed ;
you are too modest ; I will exalt you yet higher. Mount
the ladder, I say I" and the speaker jerked the rope
attached to the culprit, in order to give emphasis to the
command.
"Life, with bread and water !" groaned Etto.
" Thou art a driveller, as well as a dolt."
" I am ! I am 1"
" Fit only for the station to which thou wert born."
" Only that only that !"
"Dost thou perceive that it is very dangerous to
change places with people without knowing their private
history ?"
" I perceive it most clearly," said Etto, glancing up
at the gallows.
" And wilt thou ever again desire to be king, prince,
baron, count, knight, or squire ?"
"Never never never more !"
" Well, then, get back to the Brocken !" And hey,
presto ! in five minutes the whole aspect and condition
of things were changed. Etto was again a boor in
person as in mind, sitting on the crag beside his father's
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN. 271
door j the executioner in the strange garb was gone ;
the gallows was gone ; and in their stead was the real,
proper, and true-born Count Winplingerstrasse arming
in hot haste.
That night, the valiant Baron Seidensticker found
himself bereft of three teeth, two fingers, and a thumb,
which, together with his wine-butts and household gear,
he found it impossible to recover.
HYMN.
BY JOHN BOWRING.
THE everlasting streams which flow
In Eden's garden, by whose side
Immortal trees and flow'rets grow
Are from that mighty fount supplied,
Which to our lowlier earth has given
Streams pure and fresh as those of heaven.
The music whose enchanting strains
Are waked by angels first was taught
By Him who to our groves and plains
The melodies of nature brought;
And those, like these, commingling blend,
And to His hallowed seat ascend.
That Grod who gave immortal breath
To million cherubs near his face,
Is He who disciplines by death
Man's here probationary race;
And sends delight, or sends distress,
Alike to benefit and bless.
AMELIA,
OR THE TWOFOLD CONFLICT.
BY MISS E. W. BARNES.
(See Engraving.)
NAY, do not doubt him lie is true to thee,
As steel of Coeur-de-lion to its aim,
When mighty Saladin, with conquering hosts,
Upheld the Paynini banner's dazzling fame.
Soldier and lover loyal unto thee,
And to his country firm, whatever betide,
Doubt not he'll come, crowned with the victor's wreath-
That thou art still the youthful hero's pride.
Close to his heart he wears a silken tress,
Dear as his life-blood to his bosom now,
Which once, in threads of braided gold, adorned
The spotless purity of that fair brow ;
And thy dear memory is his panoply,
His shield, his breastplate, in the fearful strife ;
276 THE SNOW FLAKE.
The talisman that slumbers on his heart,
Will leave him never, till he parts with life.
What though to thee he breathed no kind farewell,
When he went forth to meet his country's foes;
Deem him not faithless ; he of thee will bear
The sweet remembrance, wheresoe'er he goes.
Too well he loved, that last sad word to say :
The patriot fire had died within his breast,
Had those blue eyes in tears but met his gaze,
Quenching the soldier's hopes, while they the lover blest.
Nay, do not doubt him ! he must win a name,
And lay his dear-bought laurels at thy feet;
Ambition prompts he must not trust his heart,
But to the field, glory or death to meet.
Into the casement pours the moonlight pale,
But, to thy sad and doubting heart, appears
As darkness only, while thy drooping lids
Are richly freighted with their unshed tears :
Had he but given thee one parting glance,
Had he but said one little parting word,
Thou couldst have plumed for him the soldier's crest,
Thou couldst have buckled on his glittering sword ;
" Ah ! no ; he does not love me, faithless one !"
Such are the thoughts that fill that loving heart,
And from the festive scene thou steal' st away,
AMELIA. 277
To none thy doubts or fears canst thou impart.
" If he prove faithless, whom may woman trust I"
Without his love, thy heaven is dark and drear;
Yet- -thou canst pray for him, and thou wilt kneel,
Though every word should cost a life-drop dear.
Alas, for youth, when its first grief doth fall
A grief it may not tell upon the soul !
Alas for woman, when the first doubt springs,
Of that affection deep, without control,
Which hath been hers ! not as the changing tide
Of ocean's breast, in ceaseless ebb and flow;
But, like a changeless sea, whose deepest depths
Prison the sunlight, and retain its glow.
A little cloud on her horizon lowers,
Deeper and deeper grows the murky sky,
Till from its breast the pealing thunders roll,
And the forked lightning glimmers far on high ;
Pierced by the bolt, she sinks, nor seeks to rise;
The broken heart retains the image dear,
And to the loved ideal clingeth still,
Though doubt become sad truth truth all too clear.
Nay, as a shattered mirror multiplies
The object when reflected on its breast,
Each fragment of her broken, bleeding heart
G-ives back the image in its wild unrest :
278 THE SNOW FLAKE.
At every turn one only face she sees,
The voice she still must love yet trembles on the breeze.
:fc ijj :Jc % # 5}c
But hark ! a shout, the hour of conflict's past,
And victory wreathes the hero's plumed crest;
The flush of triumph glows upon his brow,
And warms the life-blood in his patriot breast.
He comes to lay his laurels at thy feet,
And claim the hand he hath so nobly won ;
Where now thy doubts ? As mists of morning flown
Before the advancing chariot of the sun.
Thy conflict too is past thy struggle o'er
Love's deathless crown is thine, for evermore !
CONSTANCE RIPLEY;
OR, WAS IT FRIENDSHIP, OR WAS IT LOVE?
BY R. BERNAL, ESQ.
"AND will not your ladyship allow me to assist
you ?"
" No, Kelly ; there is not any necessity for your
remaining; you can leave me. I am sure I could not
sleep; and the morning is so fine, I may perhaps re-
main in my dressing-room for some time yet/'
The obedient femme de chainbre quitted the apart-
ment where her mistress, the Lady Ripley, reclined on
her sofa in deep and sorrowful meditation.
It was a bright summer morning; and Lady Ripley
had returned from a fancy ball, at which all the prin-
cipal families in the county had attended. The contrast
between the artificial glare and splendour within doors,
and the sober light of heaven without, had painfully
affected her as she stept into her carriage. Recollections
23
280 THE SNOW FLAKE.
of other and distant days crowded upon her mind
thoughts, in which the most poignant grief was blended
with the tortures of self-accusation, abstracted all atten-
tion from outward objects; and on the arrival of the
carriage at the gates of Ripley Hall, its fair and weep-
ing occupant was, in imagination, many miles removed
from that spot. The reflections in which her wakeful
mind was absorbed, were too exciting to admit of any
wish for, or chance of repose. Lady Ripley, with pro-
longed and resolute efforts, at last roused herself from
the languor which mental fatigue had induced, and she
sought the refreshment and relief which the pure morn-
ing air might afford. Her apartment opened upon a
spacious balcony, built in the Italian style, and com-
manding an extensive view over the park, and the sur-
rounding country. Seating herself at one of the spacious
arches of the same, and without having taken off the
rich attire in which she was arrayed, as if entirely care-
less of herself and of present circumstances, she drew
back the curtains of the balcony, and silently gazed on
the prospect beneath her.
Fields, woods, and waters were tinged with the rosy
and enlivening beams of an early sun. The fresh and
pure breeze of heaven, as it wafted the healthful, yet
simple perfumes from nature's stores, played gratefully
through the dark hair, and cooled the heated and aching
temples of the lady. Even the agitated current of her
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 281
thoughts acknowledged the kindly influence, and derived
comparative ease and tranquillity from the contemplation
of the beautiful and peaceful scene displayed before her
view.
A wild and varied park, bearing all the features of
the genuine old English character, encircled the man-
sion of Ripley Hall. The hand of art had added little
to its own native and delightful advantages. Oaks and
beeches, of great and uncertain age, were studded thickly
over grounds sloping into gentle declivities, and covered
with that soft, rich turf, which always recalls to the
mind the images of old times and ancient sports. A
clear and rapid stream, that had never been disturbed
nor diverted by the busy spirit of modern skill and in-
dustry, ran cheerfully beneath the spreading foliage of
the trees scattered irregularly along its course. Here
the timid and graceful deer were once wont to resort as
they left the still and close covert of the woods ; but
these antlered flocks were no longer to be seen bounding
through the glades and copses of the wide domain.
Traces, and continued traces, too, of the woodman's de-
vastating axe, were easily to be discerned in the long
line of plantations that covered the more distant parts
of the park ; and amongst the noble groups of trees
serving as ornaments to the home grounds of the man-
sion, many were selected and marked as fit timber to be
felled at a future opportunity. The structure of Ripley
282 THE SNOW FLAKE.
Hall was imposing in its appearance, and of a size and
an importance in its architecture well suited to the ex-
tensive park and estate attached to it; but there was an
air of neglect, nay, almost of desertion, about the build-
ing and the surrounding grounds, which told truly that
their days of prosperity were past.
Constance Ripley sighed heavily, as she beheld these
marks of neglect. She too well knew and regretted the
cause; and with sentiments of shame and sorrow she
turned from the balcony, to seek in her bed-room, re-
tirement, if not repose. The train of thought in which
her imagination had been wandering, was in itself suffi-
ciently oppressive, and needed not the addition of other
painful feelings engendered by different events and re-
collections.
The entertainment from which Lady Ripley had
returned, had been splendid and attractive. It had
been graced by an assemblage of the most distinguished
rank and fashion, and by the presence of some very
beautiful women. Yet, on that night, it was univer-
sally allowed, that Lady Ripley easily bore off the palm
for her personal charms and elegance, although many of
her competitors enjoyed the advantage of being consi-
derably younger. And Lady Ripley had too much dis-
cernment, and too experienced a knowledge of the world,
not to have been conscious of this nattering pre-emi-
nence; and she was still too much attached to the
CONSTANCE RIPLEY.
notice and homage of the world, to feel indifferent to
the acknowledgment or consciousness of her superiority.
Why, then, had she on her departure from the festivities
of the night, found any subject, within the circle of her
mental reflections, that partook of so much pain, regret,
and dissatisfaction? How was it that a lady of her
rank and position in society, who had at that ball re-
ceived the most flattering acknowledgments of her
beauty and influence, and in which she so generally
delighted, could have quitted the sphere wherein she
shone unrivalled, disturbed by melancholy and sorrow-
ful feelings ? The solution is plain and easy. She had
on that night suddenly heard of the death in India of
one whom she had not seen for many years ; but the
recollection of whom was as vivid, as the feeling which
that recollection created was powerful. Had he been a
friend a lover ? The latter character was improbable.
Lady Ripley, it was generally known or believed, had
married her husband, Sir Frederic, from her own free
and unbiassed choice. She had always borne the repu-
tation (whatever foibles might lie to her charge) of
being an attached wife and affectionate mother. What-
ever the precise nature of her sentiments towards the
party whose death had been announced to her, might
have been, Lady Ripley, though a woman fond of gaiety
and fashion, and by no means insensible to admiration,
still possessed that glorious attribute of the female sex
23*
284 THE SNOW FLAKE.
in all its perfection, a tender and compassionate
heart.
More than twelve years had passed away since Con-
stance Evans first became the bride of the gay, hand-
some, and wealthy baronet, Sir Frederic Bipley. She
was the daughter of a country gentleman of slender
fortune; her beauty and accomplishments had, at an
early period of her life, obtained for her a celebrity un-
usual, but not unmerited. Henry Arnold, the son of
the clergyman of the parish, had been the playmate of
her infancy the companion of her childhood the
anxious friend the devoted lover of her advancing
youth. The parents of both parties had viewed the
progress of this attachment from its commencement
with pleasure and satisfaction ; and had looked forward
to what might have been considered its natural result
with complacency. Constance had, from her earliest
recollections, been so accustomed to regard Henry as
her destined partner in life, that if he had not possessed
the merits and recommendations which really belonged
to him, the most unqualified sense of honour perfect
integrity of purpose combined with unsullied disinterest-
edness a noble heart, overflowing with affection to a
degree almost romantic she would by her general con-
duct have encouraged the attachment and hopes of
Arnold. Moreover, he was neither deficient in the
qualities of mind, nor in the advantages of person. But
CONSTANCE EIPLEY. 285
his prospects were very limited; his father's income
being merely a life one, and derived from the moderate
preferment which he held in the church.
Increase of years brought increase of reputation and
admiration to Constance Evans. Unfortunately, it did
not bring an increase of happiness to all parties. It is
strange it is lamentable but it is too true ; we have
all witnessed it in our own experience how many
young women, who have been naturally kind, amiable
yes, even affectionate in disposition, intention, and
conduct, have proved weak, irresolute, and culpable,
when the epoch of their perilous ordeal, their entrance
into the world, has arrived; and when sincerity and
generosity, and all the innocent and better sentiments
of their bosoms, have been fatally merged in the love of
admiration and in the detestable pride of conquest.
Thus it had proved with Constance. Her family was
of high respectability, though its possessions were
scanty. Her grace, her beauty, were in themselves
sufficient, without other auxiliaries, to attract a host of
eager admirers of every grade and pretension. Con-
stance was highly pleased; and it must be confessed
that her parents, at the same time, were no less grati-
fied. Arnold became restless, and at times mortified;
still the intensity and purity of his devotion to his be-
loved Constance, would not permit him to suspect the
sincerity and eventual determination of her heart, nor
286 THE SNOW FLAKE.
the truth of an attachment which had grown with her
growth (as he believed), and which formed part (as he
fondly thought) of their mutual existence. The young,
elegant, and rich Sir Frederic Ripley, was a daily visitor
at the house of Mr. Evans, an open and avowed ad-
mirer of his daughter; and all the world, including
Arnold's own parents, felt convinced that a gentleman,
straitened in his means as Mr. Evans was, would not
look upon the baronet as an unworthy substitute for a
poor vicar's son. Nevertheless, Arnold was blind and
deaf to all he saw or heard ; and was, without any plot
or subterfuge, deceived.
The result proved what everybody expected. Con-
stance became the wife, the willing wife, of a baronet
of old family, considerable county interest, and with a
rent-roll of twelve thousand pounds a year : and Con-
stance left a plain and unpretending residence, where
the enjoyments of life had been curtailed by disagree-
able economy, for a splendid mansion, in which luxury
and magnificence were alone consulted. If conscience
whispered to the lady's heart, that she had trifled with
the affections and happiness of one who adored her, the
pang was blunted by the conviction that she had escaped
from a state of continual privations, and worldly mor-
tifications, in which her father's narrow fortune una-
voidably placed her ; and the internal self-reproach was
atoned for, by the belief the specious argument that
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 287
she could still preserve in Henry Arnold a lasting and
devoted friend. Poor Arnold ! lie could not, in the bit-
terness and severity of his disappointment, fly for refuge
to such vague and imperfect consolation ! As his blind-
ness to passing events and future consequences had
been excessive as his love had been fervent and un-
bounded so in proportion had the wound, inflicted in
the innermost recesses of his heart, proved deep and
agonizing. Still it was remarkable, that his lips never
breathed the slightest accusation against the conduct of
the lovely deceiver of his hopes ; and even more remark-
able, that his breast never conceived the least revenge-
ful sentiment against the destroyer of its repose and
happiness. It is difficult to analyze the complicated
mass of feelings and passions that sway the human
heart, or to pursue their intricate windings to their real
source ; but it is probable that the almost holy fervour,
the intense affection, which still burned with undimi-
nished warmth in the bosom of Arnold, had, by its own
overpowering force, mastered every meaner passion, and
had purified, while it inflamed, the hidden regions in
which it had been kindled.
It was not in the nature of things that Arnold could
remain at ease, or inactive, in the country where Lady
Kipley resided. Circumstances, to which it is only
necessary to allude, would have probably often brought
them into society j and a volcano, as it were, was in full
288 THE SNOW FLAKE.
action within the breast of Arnold, which, however sub-
dued to outward appearance, would, if they had met
frequently, have been the means of utterly destroying
his vital energies, his health, and tranquillity. He there-
fore at once wisely determined upon a total and immedi-
ate change of his former plans and destination. Through
the kindness of an old friend of his father, he obtained
a commission in a regiment of the line, stationed in the
East Indies ; and his preparations for the voyage were
speedily completed.
Before he left the home of his infancy, and the scene
of his early felicity, with the secret intention of pro-
longing his absence to an indefinite period perhaps for
the remainder of his life he had by letter solicited a
last and parting interview with Lady Ripley. The
request was granted; and the meeting took place un-
known to her husband, or to any other person. To
Arnold it proved the source of sensations contradictory
and indefinable, of concealed agony and despair, of un-
disguised and melancholy gratification. As he pressed
her cold and trembling hand in his own, he calmly, but
with humid and downcast eyes, expressed to her his
intention of leaving England for ever. He prayed fer-
vently and piously for her happiness ; and no reproach,
or allusion to past events, escaped from him. Con-
stance was stricken to the heart ; and the tears gushed
in torrents unheeded and unrepressed by her. Arnold,
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 289
as he bade his last adieu, begged and entreated, as a
parting favour and remembrance, that she would pre-
serve an antique gold ring which he placed upon her
finger, and which she had formerly admired in the days
of his delusion and enjoyment. He sadly and emphati-
cally exclaimed, " Constance ! I ask I solicit nothing
that the world can condemn or censure. Do not entirely
forget me ! My only remaining consolation will arise
from the conviction that you will believe and regard me
as your friend, your faithful friend. While I live, I
will pray to the Grod of all mercy to bless and protect
you ! When I die, may it be permitted to my spirit to
watch over, and guard you from evil and danger I"
" Yes ! Arnold," she answered, in a voice rendered
nearly inarticulate by sobs, " dear Arnold ! do not say
that you quit England for ever ! You will return to
us you have ever been you are you must be my
true, my long-tried friend ! Oh, may Heaven preserve
you !"
Arnold turned his pallid countenance towards the
destroyer of his happiness : in the tearful expression of
his kindling eye, and in the tremulous working of the
muscles of his face, there might have been observed the
faint impression of a smile of pleasure or gratitude, but
like the fugitive ray of a wintry sun, it was sickly and
cheerless, and it quickly passed away. He did not dare
to trust himself longer in the presence of one, who he
290 THE SNOW FLAKE.
still felt was his mistress, the undoubted mistress of the
heart she had so cruelly blighted for ever. He tore
himself, in a paroxysm of grief and despair, from the
interview he had so eagerly desired, and in a few days
afterwards embarked for the shores of India.
"We do not presume to be nice casuists, or, in a nar-
rative like this, to pronounce upon the conduct of Lady
Ripley, whether she acted with propriety or not, in
having consented to the meeting with her first lover,
and in having concealed it from her husband. Suffice
it to say, that it would have been difficult to explain
the feelings which agitated her breast when she parted
from him, whose sincerity she had betrayed, and who,
to the last, had evinced an affection a devotion as
valuable from its fervour as from its unaffected delicacy.
If he had reproached her if he had even reminded her
of her broken vows, of the plighted faith of childhood,
and of the treachery of more mature age she, from
the spirit of anger which such reproaches, when accom-
panied with the consciousness of having merited them,
naturally excites, would not have been half so much
agitated. But no. Arnold had not uttered one single
remonstrance, he had not ventured even to allude to
what was hopeless, remediless. It was evident that his
was the same, generous, confiding, and adoring heart,
whose every pulse she had known and influenced in
earlier days. No woman, unless an exception and a
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 291
disgrace to her sex, could have been insensible to such
devotion, generosity, and tenderness; and Constance
Ripley was painfully grieved, and seriously and deeply
affected. Long was that parting remembered by her;
and though she subsequently moved the gayest amongst
the gay, that parting was never wholly forgotten.
We have said that Sir Frederic Ripley was young
and wealthy : he had married his lady from affection,
and certainly she had preferred him to Henry Arnold.
The false lustre of rank, riches, and fashion, might per-
haps have somewhat " blinded her ; still, she had con-
sented to the union from the impulse of ardent and
requited affection, and the Baronet, when he received
her willing hand, became at the same time the possessor
of her heart and of her faithful love. Sir Frederic
had from his youth been the frequenter of a set addicted
to play and dissipation. His habits had been formed
in expense and carelessness, and had been matured in
extravagance and imprudence. On attaining his majo-
rity, he became the master of a fine and productive
estate, which in two or three years he had contrived to
encumber greatly. When he proposed to Constance,
she, in her love and mistaking confidence, treated the
rumours of his irregularities lightly, as those which
often attended the outset of every young man of rank
and fortune. Her husband was always most kind, indul-
gent, and affectionate ; every request, every wish was
24
292 THE SNOW FLAKE.
complied with and gratified; jewels, carriages, horses,
and presents of every description, were presented to
her in profusion. Sir Frederic was proud of the
beauty of his wife. He gloried in the admiration it
commanded, though, at the same time, however anoma-
lous, he every now and then yielded to a feeling of
jealousy, as he perceived that Constance triumphed in
the reign which she had established in the circles of
fashion and notoriety. Constance might be weak and
thoughtless, but she loved, and dearly loved her hus-
band; and two children, the issue of their marriage, to
whom she proved a fond and doting parent, confirmed
her in the paths of love and duty.
Bickerings and differences frequently occurred be-
tween the Baronet and his lady, when in some moment
of jealous suspicion, he openly expressed his displeasure
at her giddy conduct; while on the other hand, she
could then readily retort or defend herself, by reminding
him that he had always pressed her to accept of every
invitation, and, in turn, to render the parties at Ripley
Hall as agreeable and attractive as possible. It was
very unfortunate that Constance had not that strength
of principle, or resolution of inind, which would of
itself have served to check the increasing extravagance
of her husband's habits. From example she had ac-
quired a taste for everything that, under the name or
disguise of fashion and elegance, led to the most incon-
CONSTANCE RIPLEY.
293
siderate prodigality, and to consequent inconvenience
and trouble. Her milliner's and jeweller's bills were
enormous ; accounts soon became in arrear, neglected,
and unpaid. Sir Frederic had since his marriage, in
addition to his former imprudent habits, acquired a more
decided inclination to play. He had lost very consi-
derable sums from time to time ; Newmarket and Doncas-
ter were with him neverfailing and dangerous attractions ;
and as the little differences between him and his lady
became more frequent, his absence from home was more
continually prolonged, and his embarrassments increased
to a fearful extent. Debts of honour were so pressing,
tradesmen and other creditors so clamorous, that, at the
period when this narrative commences, not only had Sir
Frederic entangled himself by every species of engage-
ment, but he had been reduced to cut down a large
quantity of the fine old timber on his estate, to sell off
the deer in his park, and to suffer the domain to fall into
a state of miserable decay. Still both parties pursued their
same heedless course Sir Frederic, now a certain guest
at the hazard table ; and his wife, the most courted and
admired beauty of every ball or entertainment, over
which rank and fashion presided. By temporary and
distressing expedients and shifts, an establishment was
contrived to be kept up, and appearances were main-
tained, in the interior of Ripley Hall ; although its in-
habitants lived in the daily fear of writs, and executions
294 THE SNOW FLAKE.
on their equipages and furniture, which were only avert-
ed by ruinous compromises and additional encumbrances.
Hence it was that Lady Ripley, as she surveyed the
thinned woods and neglected park from her balcony,
felt shame, mortification, and sorrow. The feelings
of grief, the recollections, in which pain and bitterness
had mingled with departed pleasure, on her return from
the fancy ball, had been created (as we have already
hinted) by the information she had then unexpectedly
received. It was told to her that a ship had lately ar-
rived from Calcutta, which brought the intelligence of
Arnold having, with several other officers of his regi-
ment, fallen victims to a malignant disease which had
been ravaging the Presidency. Twelve years had elapsed
since Arnold sailed from England ; some correspondence
had been carried on between him and Lady Ripley,
which was, in the first instance, totally unsuspected by
Sir Frederic, but which, when accidentally discovered
by him, had proved the cause of ungenerous remarks,
and subsequently of harsh reproofs on his part. The
ring, the parting gift which Constance had received from
Arnold, and which she persisted in always wearing,
formed a subject on which her husband often vented his
jealous and angered spirit. In the course of those twelve
years Arnold had attained the rank of lieutenant-colonel,
and the possession of some little competence ; and we
should remark, that Lady Ripley, who from her position
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 295
and claims in society had acquired influence and interest,
had exercised her power worthily, though secretly, in as-
sisting materially the advancement of her former lover.
Arnold had by chance discovered this, though it was
studiously concealed by Lady Ripley; and we need not
say, that the knowledge of this fact tended to augment
the tenderness and eloquence of a letter of gratitude,
which he had written in language of the most pure, yet
devoted, friendship to her.
Lady Bipley rose from her bed at a late hour in the
following day, with an aching head, and a still more
aching heart. Sir Frederic had been for a week or more
absent from home, and his wife, from certain previous
intimations, had every reason to apprehend that business
of an unpleasant nature, connected with his embarrassed
situation, detained him in London. While Lady Kipley
still wept over the death of Arnold, her conscience
warned her that her conduct towards him had been one
of unexampled cruelty and perfidy. And as her eyes
looked upon, and her thoughts recurred to, the various
proofs and instances collected around her of her own
imprudences, of her husband's embarrassments, and of
their mutual faults and follies, she upbraided herself
bitterly as the cause of the ruin of a husband she really
loved, and of the death of one whom she had regarded
as the best, the truest, and the dearest of friends.
When she listened to the artless language of her chil-
24*
296 THE SNOW FLAKE.
dren, who fondly embracing her, inquired the reasons of
her grief and of her tears, those tears fell faster, that grief
was redoubled, and its poignancy became intolerable. A
letter from Sir Frederic had arrived by the post ; it was
written in a hurried and obscure manner, and alluded to
the urgent demand of a considerable debt, which, he
added, " would drive him mad if not provided for."
Constance replied to the letter, immediately offering,
in the most sincere and passionate manner, to make
every sacrifice in her power that affection and tenderness
could dictate ; and she, at the same time, communicated
the intelligence of the death of Colonel Arnold in India.
When she was preparing to close the letter with a seal
she wore on her finger, she, for the first time, perceived
that the gold ring, the parting gift of the unfortunate
Arnold, was missing. In much alarm, she commenced
a careful search in every part of her dressing and bed-
rooms, and, indeed, in every quarter of the mansion;
but in vain. It was a matter of astonishment to her;
for she well remembered having had the ring upon her
left hand on the preceding night. A messenger was
despatched to the house at which she had been; but he
returned without any tidings of the lost ornament. Con-
stance was not superstitious; but when she called to
mind the parting and solemn words of Arnold, and
mentally combined the disappearance of the ring with
the period of the announcement of his death, a sudden
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 297
chill benumbed her blood, while visions indefinite in
their character, and awful in their nature, floated before
her troubled imagination. Weary and wretched were
the days that followed : and abandoning herself to soli-
tude, she never quitted the precincts of the domain.
A week had lingered on, when Constance received
another letter from her husband, the contents of which
were so appalling and unexpected, that as she perused it
she could hardly believe in the truth of what it dis-
closed. Sir Frederic, in language and with expressions
denoting the most violent agitation and despair, had
written to inform her, that harassed with the threats of
personal arrest, in consequence of the debt before al-
luded to, and amounting to 8000?., he had in a transport
of madness forged the acceptance and signature of an
acquaintance to that amount, to avert the consequences
then impending, trusting that before the acceptance
would come due, he should be enabled to raise the
money by other means, and get back the acceptance;
but that his credit had been so entirely lost, and the
impossibility of obtaining money in any way so appa-
rent, that it was now evident the forgery must be dis-
covered in a short time, and the only chance of security
remaining for him was an immediate flight from, the
country. The letter added, that he would be at Ripley
in the night of the same day on which it would be re-
298 THE SNOW FLAKE.
ceived, to take leave of his wife, and to make some hasty
arrangements prior to his departure.
The horror and alarm of Constance at this dreadful
disclosure were so excessive, that the sources of sorrow
were dried up, and she no longer sighed or wept. As
she pictured to herself the fate to which her husband
was exposed, as she turned her anxious eyes towards her
innocent offspring, and remembered that ruin, poverty,
and, worse than all, disgrace and degradation in the
most appalling shape, were near at hand, Constance felt
as if the tide of life was ebbing fast from. her. In vain
she caught at every distant hope of relief at every de-
lusive idea of security no comfort, no consolation,
no prospect of an escape from misery could be dis-
covered; and Constance sank into gloom and despon-
dency.
In the course of the day, a note addressed to Lady
Ripley was brought by a country lad, who did not ask
for any answer, and went away directly. Constance was
so susceptible of the slightest excitement, and so alive
to real or fancied dangers, that she shook like an aspen
leaf, as she broke the seal of the note. It did not bear
any signature, and the character of the handwriting was
not recognised by her. The note ran thus :
"A ring which belongs to Lady E-ipley, and which
no doubt has been lost by her, has been found, and will
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 299
readily be restored to her, if she will be at the Warren
House, this night, at nine o'clock."
It was some relief, however trifling, to Constance, to
have her thoughts diverted, if even momentarily, into
any other channel. The note surprised and perplexed
her ; there was an air or affectation of mystery about it,
for which she could not in any way account ; and dread
fancies, and wandering delusions, were again conjured up
in her mind. From whom could the note have come?
Inquiries of the servants, as to the person who had
brought it, threw no light whatever on the subject. She
would have sent to the Warren House, to endeavour to
obtain some elucidation of this singular circumstance,
but she was loath to make any of her servants acquainted
with the purport of the communication she had received.
She decided upon visiting the place herself at the time
appointed; there could not be any risk, nor danger of
harm or evil Sir Frederic had written that he should
not reach Ripley before a late hour, and there would be
sufficient time for her return to the Hall.
At the farthest extremity of the park, and in the
shelter of a woody dell, there stood a long low building,
built in that style of architecture which prevailed in the
latter time of Henry VIII. It was in parts in good pre-
servation, and there was something in its general appear-
ance very picturesque though solitary. It had, no doubt,
in former days served as a hunting lodge ; and it had for
300 THE SNOW FLAKE.
many years, gone by the name of the Warren House.
The building was the property of Sir Frederic Ripley,
and stood within the limits of his park. The present
tenants of the lodge were an old man and his wife,
formerly servants for a long period in the family of the
father of Lady Ripley; and they had been placed there
at her request, as the means of affording them a com-
fortable retirement. Constance was often in the habit
of resorting to the Warren House ; and one of the rooms
was set apart for her, and writing materials, books, and
other matters, were kept therein for her use. This
apartment remained nearly in the same state, as to its
internal arrangement and furniture, as when the lodge
had been first erected. It extended the whole length of
the building, and was lighted by several narrow case-
ment windows. The sides were panelled with oak of
the darkest colour ; a lofty and wide fire-place occupied
the centre of the room. High-backed chairs, with seats
of faded tapestry, some heavily framed and carved wain-
scot tables, with a large Venetian mirror, formed the
whole of the original furniture ; while no modern inno-
vation, save a small cabinet of books, was to be seen in
the spacious chamber. In the daytime, when the rays
of a powerful sun, streaming through the diamond-paned
casements, diffused light and cheerfulness over the po-
lished inlaid flooring, and over the deep-brown panels of
the walls, there was something not unpleasing in the
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 301
general tone and appearance of the room ; but at night,
especially when the trifling light which a lamp or can-
dles afforded, only tended to throw parts of the exten-
sive area into more palpable obscurity the whole wore
an air of gloominess and desertion singularly oppressive
and chilling. Indeed, amongst the surrounding pea-
santry, tales were current of unaccountable sights and
sounds connected with this old building.
The night was dark, but the sky was calm, and the
air inviting, as Constance thoughtfully pursued her way
through the park to the Warren House. Strange fan-
cies mysterious presentiments, took possession of her
mind, as . she walked through the thick and embowered
glade. Anxiety, amounting to torture, for the peri-
lous situation of her husband the anticipation of his
speedy arrival, in itself a subject of mixed apprehension
and pleasure, by turns harassed and excited her feel-
ings. When she reached the porch of the lodge, she
was in such a state of agitation, that some minutes
passed before she could venture to raise the latch.
Luckily, by that time she had so far mastered her emo-
tions, that they were concealed from, or little observed
by the old couple who inhabited the house ; and Con-
stance, asking for a light, went up to the room we have
already described. No question was proffered, no ob-
servations made; and she, without considering how the
communication was to be effected, which had induced
302 THE SNOW FLAKE.
her to visit the "Warren House at that unusual hour,
took her seat at a table, determined to await the result.
Constance attempted to repress her anxiety, and to still
her vigilant thoughts by reading; but her attention
could not be commanded, and as she looked through the
desolate and spacious apartment, her feelings responded
to the gloom that prevailed in every part of it. A
sense of awe of coming evil, oppressed her she re-
clined her head upon her arm, and closing her eyes,
strove, as it were, to stifle, for a time, her visual and
mental faculties. A slight noise or rustling, in the
farther part of the chamber, disturbed her. Alarmed,
agitated, and confused, she started up from her chair,
and cast a hurried and timid glance around her; but
she could not discern anything, nor could her sight
penetrate into the darkness that shrouded either end of
the long apartment. Again she tried to turn the pages
of the volume she had cast aside; when, raising her
eyes upon the wide, antique mirror that faced her, she
beheld, or fancied she beheld, reflected in its dull and
hazy surface, the shadow of a human figure. Constance
was unable to utter a word her whole frame was per-
vaded by a cold and clammy tremor. She would have
given worlds to have escaped from the chamber, but she
was powerless. A spell seemed to have come over her
and she remained fixed immovably to her chair. She did
not dare to turn her head to look behind her still,
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 303
under an indescribable and insurmountable impulse,
which she could not resist, she raised her eyes slowly
and cautiously upon the mirror, prepared to encounter
some still more horrible vision ! Was it a delusion of
her agitated and heated mind ? or were the secrets of
the grave permitted, for some solemn and inscrutable
purpose, to be disclosed to her ? for in that mirror, Con-
stance clearly saw and traced the image of Henry Arnold
she could not mistake she could not forget those
well-known features the lineaments were too deeply
impressed upon her memory. The face looked deadly
pale and careworn the glassy eyes were fixed with an
expression of sorrow and kindness upon her. Were her
senses leaving her? Her reason was disturbed her
respiration became thick and short she tried to make
herself heard by the servants below but no sound
issued from her lips. She was perfectly conscious of
some movement near to her, and in the next moment
her name was distinctly pronounced, and repeated in a
low but audible tone. This was too much for the power
of endurance. Subdued by terror and previous anxiety,
Constance could no longer see or hear, but uttering a
shrill and wild scream, she fainted and fell heavily on
the floor !
Her cry and the sound of her fall were heard by the
old couple below, who quickly came to her assistance.
They raised her from the floor, and by the means of
25
304 THE SNOW FLAKE.
proper restoratives, succeeded in recalling her to con-
sciousness ; and to comparative tranquillity, sooner than
could have been anticipated, under the excitement she
had sustained. When she came to herself, she had
nearly relapsed again, upon beholding a third person in
the group, now eagerly employed about her. But it
was no dream no vision of the imagination no super-
natural revelation. There stood Henry Arnold, leaning
over her trembling form with impatient solicitude his
hand, cold as an icicle, had touched her own, and in
imploring and sorrowful accents, he said :
"Lady Ripley for Heaven's sake! forgive me for
the alarm I unintentionally caused you."
When Constance was convinced that she really heard
the voice of the living Arnold, however altered and
fearfully altered he was by years, climate, and sickness,
she gradually became composed, and enabled to listen
to the explanation of his extraordinary appearance.
The account was brief and simple. It was true that
a malignant and epidemic disease had reached that part
of the province of Bengal where Arnold's regiment was
stationed, and that a considerable proportion of its offi-
cers and men had fallen under the fatal influence of the
widespreading malady. Arnold had been attacked by
it, and had escaped almost by a miracle from the jaws
of death. But the state of weakness in which he was
left, and his entire incapacity to discharge his military
CONSTANCE RIPLEY.
305
duties, compelled him to apply for leave of absence;
and he embarked for England in the vessel which con-
veyed the false report of his death. This rumour had
originated in the tendency, so common to all persons,
to exaggerate the amount of misfortune or calamity
where it really exists. Arnold, after visiting his family,
could not restrain or resist a restlessness an eagerness,
which, feeble as he was, drove him to the neighbour-
hood of Ripley Hall. He had, since his return to Eng-
land, inquired into, and informed himself minutely
upon, every matter connected with Lady Ripley and
her family. He had, with sincere grief and sympathy,
heard of the distressing state to which the Baronet and
Constance had been reduced by folly and extravagance ;
of the mortgages, bonds, and other encumbrances which
were in everybody's knowledge, and of the consequent
ruin that was threatening the family and property of
Eipley. He had determined upon going himself to the
Hall, and upon offering his counsel and assistance, and
the humble and limited efforts that his friendship could
supply ; but when he drew near to the spot where his
beloved Constance resided, his courage failed him.
Reason good sense propriety, suggested to him, that
this was a line of conduct he ought not in prudence to
follow. He was in a state of doubt and disquietude
he would write and express his intentions so openly and
kindly, that even Sir Frederic must be convinced of the
306 THE SNOW FLAKE.
candour and good faith of his feelings. But Arnold
proved irresolute when so near to Constance ; and he
lingered in a village close to Ripley Hall for two or
three days, without taking any step whatever. He had
often, in the course of that period, traversed the park
and domain of Ripley, at all hours, without being
observed; for, since the change in the fortunes of its
proprietor, the keepers and out-door servants had been
mostly discharged. Arnold had actually stood under
the balcony, on the very morning when Lady Ripley
had, on her return from the fancy-ball, seated herself
upon it. He had, silently and secretly gazed with pain
and delight upon her; and when she, in drawing the
curtain of the window, unknowingly dropped the ring,
the parting pledge from her finger, Arnold had seen it
fall, and had recovered it before he retreated from the
lawn beneath the balcony. In former days, he had well
known and had been a great favourite of the old couple
at the Warren House, when they lived in the service of
Constance's father. He now asked for and received
temporary accommodation at the lodge ; and it was
thence he wrote, and sent the note to Ripley Hall.
u Yes, Constance ! dear Constance I" Arnold repeated ;
" if I may be allowed so to call you, receive back this
simple ring the pledge of true and unalterable friend-
ship/'
The old servants had left the apartment. Lady Rip-
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 307
ley's feelings found relief in tears ; she wept bitterly as
she listened to the voice of other and youthful days;
and, as her brimming eyes rested upon Arnold's face
and figure, now sadly wasted by illness, years, and an
Indian sun, the wreck caused by blighted affection and
by faded hopes, was to her also too visible ; but neither
time, disease, nor absence, had aught changed or dimi-
nished the faith and truth, or the generous purity, of
his noble heart.
" Oh, Arnold !" exclaimed Constance, wildly, and in
a tone of deep affliction; " these are not times for cere-
mony, disguise, or hypocrisy. Call me Constance ! call
me anything ! I am wretched miserable beyond be-
lief!"
" Calm yourself moderate this unnecessary agita-
tion ! Dearest Constance I" continued Arnold, though
nearly as agitated as the sorrowing woman he was
addressing, " you take too desponding a view of affairs :
I am not a stranger to Sir Frederic's embarrassments
to his and your misfortunes, I mean; much may still
be effected by prudence and good management my
humble but zealous services can be useful they will be
sincere and active."
" No, Arnold ! You do not you cannot you must
not, know the extent of our misery !" the lady replied.
" Merciful God ! that I should have lived to suffer this
disgrace ! Kind and generous friend ! you must not,
25*
308 THE SNOW FLAKE.
from my lips, learn the full extent of our heart-break-
ing calamities I"
" Constance! I implore you, confide in me. What
can you mean ? what terrible secret remains untold ?"
" Ask not seek not further, Arnold !" Lady Ripley
answered her accents faint from sobs and weeping.
" Ruin, degradation, and misery, will be the inevitable
fate of my husband and myself, and the bitter portion
of my dear children."
Lady Ripley strongly and earnestly at first refused
to impart to her friend the causes of the calamity she
had so feelingly alluded to ; but Arnold entreated her
with so much respectful perseverance, that he finally
succeeded in extracting from her reluctant lips the ac-
count of all that had befallen the unfortunate family
of Sir Frederic's criminal act of the dreadful peril
hanging over him. Arnold, though thunderstruck at a
communication which he had so little expected, and
though fully aware of the difficulties and dangers by
which his adored Constance was surrounded, had, on the
instant, mentally decided on the course he would pursue,
when he might be better enabled to act, by the help of
more complete information, which it was not in Lady
Ripley 'a power as yet to supply.
Time flew on ; and it was so late before Lady Ripley
felt herself able to leave the lodge, that a new cause of
alarm and perplexity arose from the apprehension that
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 309
her husband would arrive at the Hall before she could
return there. She would not permit Arnold to accom-
pany her across the park ; but, hurrying on her cloak,
she told him to call on the following morning, at the
Hall. Fear and anxiety gave her almost unnatural
strength and speed as she ran over lawn and glade, and
through the woody paths, to the mansion. The Baronet
had arrived, and was impatient to meet her ; he was too
much excited and occupied by his own calamitous situ-
ation to ask for an explanation of her absence. Little
time remained for the necessary arrangements he had to
make previous to his quitting the country. Lady Ripley
learned from him that the forged acceptance would not
be due until the day after the next ; and that at present
it was in the hands of a well-known money-lender,
whose name and residence he mentioned : that, until
the acceptance was presented for payment, the forgery
might remain undiscovered ; and, by extraordinary de-
spatch, in the interval, he, Sir Frederic, might be ena-
bled to quit England in safety.
When the next morning dawned, the parting the
miserable parting between the guilty husband and his
fond, though weak wife, and his innocent children, had
already taken place ; and Sir Frederic was on his way
to the sea-port from which he proposed to embark for
the continent.
Arnold, when he arrived at Ripley Hall early on that
310 THE SNOW FLAKE.
morning, found Constance very ill, and in a state of
misery and suffering that made his heart bleed. She
now, without hesitation, voluntarily confided to him
every particular of the information she had received
from her husband. Arnold listened attentively; his
mind was made up ; a smile of satisfaction lighted up
his wan and sickly countenance as he said, with more
animation than he had yet displayed, " Farewell, Con-
stance ! for a short time, take courage hope for the
best. I do not despair yet of being able to bring you
good news."
Arnold had, in the course of his residence in India,
been enabled through a staff appointment he held, to
accumulate a little fortune, amounting to 12,000?. He
had been lucky enough to succeed in securing remit-
tances of the same, in good and unexceptionable bills,
upon established houses in London. His father had
died, leaving a widow and daughter in very humble cir-
cumstances; and Arnold's first and fondest wish, and
long-conceived intention was, to place his mother and
sister in a state of comparative comfort and indepen-
dence. This matter he, on his leaving India, knew he
could accomplish; and the thought of being able to
contribute to the happiness of his dear relatives, whether
he survived the effects of his serious illness or not, was
a source of soothing consolation to his mind during the
voyage home.
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 311
But how strange is the destiny of man ! how anoma-
lous the contradictory feelings of even a good and virtu-
ous heart ! Arnold's intentions were on a sudden com-
pletely reversed, and friendship or love diverted all his
former determined and excellent resolutions. Ill as he
really was, he journeyed rapidly, without the least
delay to London ; he called without ceremony upon the
money-lender who had possession of the forged accep-
tance given by Sir Frederic. It was due, and to be
presented within a few hours after his interview with
the party. Under the pretence of being nearly related
to the Baronet, he arranged to pay the money before the
expiration of the time, and to take up the acceptance.
The business was now easily transacted. His bankers
advanced him, on his India remittances, the sum of
S000. required, and, before the evening of the same
day, the money was paid, and the important document
delivered up, and in his possession, on which the cha-
racter, the life of the Baronet, and the misery or salva-
tion of Lady Ripley and her children, depended. Al-
though much exhausted by his exertions, and little able
to endure fatigue, Arnold did not rest till he found him-
self in the mail-coach that travelled in the nearest
direction to Ripley Hall. On the next day, Arnold was
in the presence of Constance, who was surprised to
behold her friend so soon returned; his face unnatu-
rally flushed, and his whole deportment strikingly ex-
312 THE SNOW FLAKE.
cited. " Dearest Constance ! thank Grod ! I have
succeeded ; your husband will be safe, his character pre-
served, and your children and yourself may hereafter
still enjoy peace and happiness. Here is the fatal ac-
ceptance/' Arnold continued, holding out the important
paper ; " it has been fully satisfied no evidence of
your husband's misfortune can hereafter be in exist-
ence/' he added, as he carefully destroyed the paper.
Lady Ripley's transports and gratitude were unbound-
ed she wanted power and language to express them ;
but how would her feelings have been evinced, could
she have known the extent of the sacrifice Arnold had
made ? and which he in no manner hinted to her ; for
he cautiously and dexterously avoided, though repeatedly
urged by her, to explain how he had acted and succeeded.
She detailed to Arnold all the plans and arrangements
which she had concerted with her husband. She was to
join him on the other side of the water, as soon as he
was settled in security ; and, though circumstances were
now so materially altered, it was certain, that before Sir
Frederic could be apprised of what had occurred, he
would have sailed from England.
In a few days, intelligence was received of the Baro-
net's arrival in Holland. Lady Ripley, with her chil-
dren, were already prepared to abandon their once splen-
did but now cheerless residence ; and measures had been
taken for the breaking up of their domestic establish-
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 313
ment. Arnold assisted in every arrangement of im-
portance with a steadiness of friendship, the value of
which was never before so clearly demonstrated to Lady
Ripley as now, when, under the emergency, she so
greatly stood in want of it. He escorted her and the
children to their port of embarkation ; and endeavoured,
as far as it was in his power, to soothe every little incon-
venience, and to anticipate every desire. Constance,
when she bade him adieu, felt as if she were losing for
ever a guardian genius, a being of a superior nature, on
whom her only solid hopes of peace, and protection from
danger, could rest ; while Arnold, on his part, as he
bade her a long and lingering farewell, felt as if the
dearest tie that connected him with life was rudely
snapped asunder.
When Arnold stood silently on the sea-beach, watch-
ing the receding vessel which bore far away the woman
he had loved so affectionately ; her with whom his feel-
ings were still interwoven by a spell, into the nature of
which he would not penetrate he believed himself to be a
melancholy and deserted wretch, one for whom existence
had lost its only powerful attractions. But the virtuous
principles of his mind recalled him to a sense of the duties,
the sacred duties, he had to discharge. A mother, a sister,
endeared to him by disinterested affection, had claims,
and urgent claims, upon his love and protection. He
exerted his mental courage, and shook off, for a time, the
314 THE SNOW FLAKE.
inertness and depression that illness and sorrowful regret
had occasioned. An inward monitor whispered, that by
his act of generosity towards Sir Frederic Ripley
towards his lady rather he had been guilty of cruel
injustice to his own dear relatives; that such act had
not been the fruit of pure and unmixed generosity nor
rectitude ; that motives or sentiments connected with a
passion which it was hopeless, or criminal perhaps, to
nourish, had been the inducements ; and that its result
would inevitably tend to the injury of those relatives,
by the deprivation of many comforts, nay necessaries,
which were required, and which the money would have
obtained.
Arnold was miserable under the review which his
conscience took of his past conduct ; and his doubts, his
self-accusations were only appeased by his speedy deci-
sion on his plans for the future. He was sensible that
his constitution had received a violent blow from the
illness by which he had been attacked in India, and he
knew that he never should be able to resume his mili-
tary career with the energy and activity he regarded as
indispensable. The physicians had recommended the
south of France to him ; and that country would be in
every respect a desirable residence for a family with a
very small income. He disposed of his commission,
and adding the produce 'of the sale to the surplus which
remained of his little fortune, he found that, by a judi-
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 315
cious investment of the capital, an income would be
derived, which, joined to the trifling annuity his mother
enjoyed, would secure a provision for himself, his
mother, and sister, enough to maintain them in decent
retirement. To the south of France they accordingly
removed ; and Arnold, if he had proved unfortunate in
his dreams of early youth in his golden visions of love
and felicity at least found that the tender care and
solicitude of a mother and sister, and the consciousness
on his part of contributing to their happiness, were to
him, a confirmed invalid, the source of peace and con-
tentment.
Two years had rapidly gone by, and Sir Frederic
Kipley and his lady, taught a wholesome though harsh
lesson by adversity, had, by judicious and strict economy,
and by the sales of considerable portions of his estates,
removed in some degree the load of embarrassment
which pressed upon them. They were enabled to extend
their rambles over other parts of the continent.
Sir Frederic Ripley, although he was of course fully
aware of the heavy obligation under which he was
bound to Arnold, and for which he felt (to do him jus-
tice) the most sincere and lively gratitude, still remained,
in common with his wife, ignorant of the manner in
which their benefactor and friend had performed for
them so important a service, and of the extent of his
friendship and generosity. A correspondence was al-
26
316 THE SNOW FLAKE.
ways kept up between them and Arnold; and, in the
course thereof, they continually and anxiously entreated
of him to favour them farther by the communication
of the means he had employed to avert the peril and
destruction which had threatened the Bipley family. In
vain was this request repeated over and over again : in
vain was it accompanied by professions of deep and
eternal gratitude, and by the most delicate allusions to
an anxiety to discharge any pecuniary engagement or
debt, which must have been incurred in the progress of
that important arrangement. Neither Constance nor
her husband entertained any suspicion that Arnold
could have had so large a sum as 8000?. in his own
power or disposition ; but, on this point, Arnold's letters
were always perfectly silent; and to such questions he
never returned any reply or notice.
The drooping health and strength of Arnold had
been made known to them by his letters, and they were
anxious, most anxious, to see their friend. On arriving
at Marseilles, they sought for the habitation of the
Colonel, and were directed to a bastide situated in the
environs of that city. Thither they drove in eager and
fond expectation. A neat white-fronted villa, standing
on a bold eminence, and facing the blue and sparkling
Mediterranean, was pointed out to them as the habita-
tion of which they were in search. To their inquiry,
addressed to some peasants whom they met on their
CONSTANCE RIPLEY. 317
road, the answer was, " The ladies have left for Eng-
land" " But the Colonel ?" Sir Frederic asked. The
peasants pointed to a little grove on the right of the
villa. Sir Frederic and Constance hurried or rather
ran up the hill towards the spot to which they had been
referred. Some full-grown orange-trees, rich in their
pendulous and perfumed blossoms, cast their shade and
fragrance over a marble pedestal. On the tablet of this
simple monument, this inscription was engraved :
SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
HENRY ARNOLD,
FORMERLY A LIEUTENANT-COLONEL
IN HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S SERVICE,
WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE ON THE 9lH OF MARCH, 1826,
AGED THIRTY-SIX YEARS.
HE WAS A PIOUS SON,
AN AFFECTIONATE BROTHER,
AND
A TRUE AND FAITHFUL FRIEND.
When Constance read the painful information which
this inscription conveyed, she faltered and fell back
fainting in the arms of her husband. Sir Frederic,
hardly less distressed and affected than his wife, carried
her, with the assistance of the peasants who had accom-
panied them, to the carriage. They returned to their
hotel at Marseilles. It was some hours before Con-
318 THE SNOW FLAKE.
stance was sufficiently recovered to move from the
town ' } but when she was able to bear the exertion, Sir
Frederic and Lady Eipley, in silence and affliction,
quitted Marseilles, eagerly avoiding any further resi-
dence in a place where their feelings had experienced so
rude and so severe a shock a shock, the recollection of
which was never effaced by the lapse of time, or the
course of future prosperity.
NIGHT.
BY H. C. DEAKIN, ESQ.
OH ! beauteous is the golden light
Of Morn, when first she springs
Over the mountain's rosy height
On gay and gladsome wings.
Beautiful are the clouds that break
Before her beamy tress;
Rippling like smiles, that all but speak
Their inward happiness.
But lovelier far to me is Night,
With all her solemn shades ;
For then the stars are shining bright
O'er bowers and dreamy glades.
Then nought is heard but running streams,
Or brooks that murmur by,
Or leaves that look like fairy beams
Stirred by some spirit's sigh.
26*
320 THE SNOW FLAKE.
Oh ! then the bashful Moon gives forth
Her pale and playful smiles,
Till, like a silver sea, the earth
Seems resting from its toils.
O how the clouds their bosoms turn
To that fair Queen of Night,
Who pours from her unsullied urn
One mass of golden light !
They turn to her they turn to her
Soothed into beauty, then
Each one a rival worshipper
In her triumphant train.
Her diadem is gemmed with stars,
Her sceptre jewelled too ;
The crystal air its light unbars,
And glory greets her view.
And look how courteously the sky
Salutes her loveliness;
Unnumbered planets burn on high,
To lure her coy caress.
The winds harmoniously attune
Their golden harps above :
Up ! holy, bashful, gentle Moon,
With thy bright looks of love.
NIGHT. 321
How modestly have closed the flowers,
Their vases filled with dew !
And how the night-bird charms the hours,
Charmed by their beauty too !
And how the river's diamond plain
Reflects the isles of bliss :
well may earthly man be vain
Of such a heaven as his !
And now doth Solitude unveil
Her shadowy, solemn brow;
And Silence, with her lip so pale,
Tell to the heart her vow:
And now doth .Modesty unfold
Her bosom to the breeze;
And Bashfulness herself grows bold,
For nought her beauty sees ;
Nought but the stars in heavenly camp,
Whose lustre is most holy ;
Nought but the glow-worm's tiny lamp,
Or bird of melancholy.
Oh ! all is chaste at midnight hour,
Wooing the raptured vision;
Heaven sparkles like a magic bower
A beautiful Elysian.
THE SNOW FLAKE.
Then give rue Night with her white beams,
Her lustre so ethereal,
Her dreamy woods and murmuring streams,
Her music so aerial;
For, oh ! the heart will ever then
Its deep thoughts be revealing,
And answer to the solemn strain,
With every pulse of feeling.
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
BY DAVID LESTER RICHARDSON, ESQ.
THE victory was decisive, and the whole force had
returned to Gwalioh, a distance of several miles from
the scene of action. The night was cold and gloomy ;
but, being too feeble to move, and suffering intensely
in mind and body, I remained upon the field, surrounded
by the dead. My wounds were galled by the sharp mid-
night air, and I groaned aloud. I soon, however, felt
ashamed of my idle lamentations, and, by smothering
the voice of pain, I endeavoured to fortify myself against
its power. During this silent struggle with my fate,
I was startled by the sound of a footstep, and, gazing
steadfastly towards the spot whence it proceeded, I could
just discover the dim shadow of a man. At this mo-
ment the red moon emerged from behind a cloud, and
displayed the form of one whom I had hated from my
earliest youth. He was a cold and heartless misan-
thrope. He seemed not to recognise my features,
though I had fought and received my wounds by his side.
324 THE SNOW FLAKE.
" Who art thou ?" cried he.
A soldier I"
"And doubtless, fellow/' he continued, "the trade
of blood is suited to thy spirit I" This said, he drew
his cloak around him, and glided past me like a phantom.
The moon again disappeared ; the winds became still
more piercing ; the heavy dew wetted me to the skin ;
and, notwithstanding the dullness of the atmosphere, I
was almost overpowered with the effluvia of the dead,
some of whom had been long exposed beneath a burning-
sun. At last, worn out with toil and suffering, after collect-
ing a quantity of clothing from the bodies of my silent
comrades, the touch of whose cold clay thrilled me with
horror, I wrapped myself up as warmly as I could, and
soon fell insensibly into a bewildered dream.
I thought I was wandering about upon the field of
battle, and congratulating myself that the pain of my
wounds had considerably abated, when, at the skirt of a
gloomy forest, I was surprised and shocked by the
appearance of a being whose aspect was inexpressibly
hideous and appalling. I soon found that it was the
SPIRIT oi- DEATH ! I paused awhile in speechless terror,
and at length heard him exclaim, in a voice whose tones
fell upon my ear like the echoes of a charnel vault, " Mi-
serable mortal ! thy career of murder is over thou hast
provided me with many a victim, but it is now thy turn
to be sacrificed follow me." After struggling long and
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 325
painfully through the close and thorny forest, I sank
down exhausted with fatigue and emotion. The spirit's
eye then fixed fearfully upon me, and in a moment I
was lost to every sensation. I know not how long I re-
mained in this silent trance ; but I was at last roused
by the din of clashing swords, shrieks and horrid cries,
that seemed to proceed from, an immense inclosure,
whose walls of adamant reached higher and farther than
the eye could follow. Beneath the portal of a glorious
temple which rose opposite to these interminable walls,
I beheld a form of surpassing beauty, but whose glance
was searching and severe. I mingled in the crowd which
stood before him, and discovered the faces of many of
my fellow-soldiers. The angel, for such he appeared, at
length addressed us. We listened with fear and trem-
bling, for his words were spells upon our souls. After
unveiling the secrets of our hearts with terrible preci-
sion, and scrutinizing our motives of action in the world
we had left, he smiled with divine benignity upon a
youth who had died defending his father from a party
of the enemy that had surrounded him, and upon ano-
ther, who had wielded his sword in the cause of freedom.
" These two, alone," said he, a out of this vast assem-
blage, have righteously shed human blood, and been
uninfluenced by selfish principles. The rest have made
kingdoms ring with the cries of widows and of orphans,
for no other purposes than gain and glory. I leave
326 THE SNOW FLAKE.
them to their fate." He then turned towards an immense
golden gate, which opened as he approached, and dis-
covered a flight of steps, at the summit of which we
could just discern the lower part of a throne, but it
dazzled our eyes like the sun at mid-day. He was
accompanied by the champion of freedom and the de-
fender of his father, and the gate instantly closed be-
hind them.
The air then grew darker, and a thick cloud rose
from the ground, and, as it gradually expanded, dis-
closed a shape of indescribable deformity, that regarded
us for some time with a look of demoniacal exultation.
He then commanded us to follow him, and led us
through a variety of gloomy passages into the interior
of the inclosure, whence proceeded the sounds of agony
and strife, that aroused me from the trance of death.
We here beheld an innumerable throng in dreadful
warfare, and felt a strange, but irresistible impulse to
join the combatants. " On/ 7 cried the fiend who had
brought us hither, u on to the Hell of Battle !" At
these words we were inspired with relentless rage, and
rushed to the scene of action. I suddenly recognised
the being who had cast a shade across my path in life,
and excited my deadly hatred. I now struck fiercely
at his heart. My aim did not fail ; but what was my
surprise, disappointment, and dismay, when I found
that death here relinquished his power; and that we
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 327
were condemned to feel its pangs without a prospect of
release ! My antagonist now turned on me defence
was vain. He stabbed me in the most vital parts, and,
in unutterable agony I awoke.
It was morning, and the sun's pale and level rays
just gleamed upon the ghastly faces of my dead com-
panions. I threw off their infected garments, and as I
felt my wounds less painful, I was glad to hasten from
a scene which had inspired such a dream of horror.
27
SONO.
BY F. H. BUKXET, ESQ.
THE ship that proudly leaves the shore,
And dances through the foam,
Alas ! may never visit more
Its harbour's peaceful home.
The hands that gaily furl the sails,
The feet that tread the deck,
A\\ with the gallant bark herself,
May soon become a wreck.
And so too oft in life we start,
Where every scene looks fair ;
The future seems both gay and bright,
Nor clouded o'er with care.
But from the dream of bliss we wake,
To find how sad our doom j
That all our fairest hopes must fade
In sorrow and in gloom.
THE YOUNG BRIDE'S FAREWELL.
BY THE REV. T. DALE.
FORGET me not forget me not
When, dearest ! thou art far away ;
When happier fortunes gild thy lot,
And Heaven bestows a brighter day.
Thou wilt not, then, thy faith betray ;
Thou wilt not from remembrance blot
The parting vows we pledge to-day
Forget me not forget me not 1
Think who, in hours of grief and gloom,
When friends and kindred false had proved,
Unchanging shared thy darker doom,
And linked her fate to thine unmoved,
Reckless of all, save that she loved :
Nought heeded I, in that dear cot,
Who blamed, or pitied, or reproved :
Forget me not ! forget me not !
330 THE SNOW FLAKE.
Thou goest, to raise a fallen name,
To win the wealth we long have spared :
Dearest, wilt thou return the same ?
Bring me the heart none else hath shared,
And thou shalt find me well prepared
To live, to die in that lone spot
Where all was mine I asked or cared
Forget me not forget me not !
If while with tears of love for thee
Nightly my wakeful eyes are wet ;
If while my cheek where'er I be
Is pale with ceaseless fond regret,
Thou wilt not all our love forget
Then shall I never be forgot,
Nor needs my heart to whisper yet,
Forget me not forget me not !
THE END.
C. SHERMAN, PRINTER, PHILADELPHIA.
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