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VOLUME 11. |
HY C. R. HANLEITER.
[p ® E T KY.
“ Much yet remains unsung .”
For the “ Southern Miscellany.”
MAN’S DESTINY.
Fast onward flows the stream of time —
Blighting all it doth not bless —
Hurrying men of every clime
Into dark forgetfulness.
Tike the dew-drop on the rose,
; That glitters in the morning sun,
And falling ns the zephyr blows,
Never more its race to run ;
So it is with living men—
They are passing fast away—
Going where the angels spend,
A bright, and eternal day.
CUYt.F.R W. YOUNG.
Paris, Srriven county, July, 1843.
wmzmm mmmmma niM
THE PROUD LADYE.
BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.
CHAPTER I.
Leave, if thou would’st be lonely,
Leave nature for the crowd ;
There seek for one, one only.
With kindred mind endowed.—Hoffman.
The world is coming to an end. Os this
there can be no doubt. A close observer
of life utid human events cannot fail to ar
rive tit such a conclusion. Let him not go
to the prophecies of Daniel, nor attempt to
lift the veil of the dread Apocalypse in con
firmation of this faith—a stranger is before
him, even like unto the handwriting upon
the wall at the fest of Belshazzar. Men
have been weighed in the balance, and love
has been found wanting. Love has ceased
to be.
Indeed, how could it he otherwise ?
Love becomes a puny weakling in the midst
<>f luxury and sloth, and the bantling dies
outright, when consigned to the hands of
the pains-taking. He is a robust child,
nourished by mountain airs, and strong in
the -wild haunts of wood and water. What
is there now to foster his growth 1 lie is
rocked in the whirlwind, vigorous in peril,
dauntless where peals the shrill clarion of
battle, and unshrinking amid pestilence and
death. How shall we seek now the test of
his faith, the proof of his constancy? Where
is the knight to put spear in rest for “ La
dye love,” —whete the “ Ladye” to keep
her “troth plight” “seven twelvemonths
and a day V’
Such things must have existed—there is
the argument of tradition in their favor ;
and yet they seem like creations of the fan
cy. Times have changed. The love of
the olden time, the tried and true, has ceas
ed to be. Women divide their affections
now between pleasure, fashion and dress,
and love comes in the shape of a fine estab
lishment, with a retinue of dangling cox
combs, and artificial comtnonplaceisms.—
Men pull a love letter and price current tit
the same moment from their pockets, and
read each with equal interest, and one serves
as well as the other to light a cigar, there
being no difference in their combustibility.
The god who gave inspiration to the poet,
who nerved the soildier, and folded his
wings in lady’s bower, whispering of faith
and valor, and thus wiling the long, long
days of exile, has ceased to be—and what
have wc in his stead ? What is the divini
ty of modern limes 1 Alas for the little
burly imp, with twinkling eyes and tinselled
wings, wings too small to he of any earthly
service either for approach or escape, and
alas for the votaries of such a divinity ! Cu
pid and the divine Psyche, love wedded to
the soul, seek in vain for a human shrine.—
They have taken their departure. Woe is
us ; for the etui of all things must be at
band. Love is the bond that holds the
Very tiniverse in harmony. It binds the
material together, atom by atom, and to the
spiritual it is the spark snatched from the
altar of the Eternal —it is the one principle
of conversation —it is the light in the midst
darkness —it is the ark upon the deluge
-of life. Woe to the heart from whence it
bath taken its departure.
It is the separation of holy writ. It is the
being consigned from the right to the left
Land in judgment. It is the removed of the
seeming good, leaving the blackness of des
pair. It is to put out the candle of the Lord
in his own temple of the human soul.
Let us, while the memory of Love’s ex
istence is yet spared us, recall a legend of
the olden times, those times of robust and
manly attachment, of earnest constancy and
knightly faith—those days of womanly ten
derness, of womanly devotion, and proud
womanly self-respect, when falsehood was
dishonor, and fickleness a crime.
It was a marvel to the gallants of the
time that Lady Blanch, with wealth, beauty,
and sole mistress both of her fortune and
herself, should adhere to a life of entire
maidenly seclusion. Rarely was she seen
either at tilt or tournament, though when
there, no maiden won more admiring eyes
than Blanch of Instetten. She was an or
phan, her mother having died at the moment
that made her such, and from that time the
little Blanch became the one sole object of
attachment to the Leroaved father.
She became bis pet, his companion, the
motive for existence. He directed her stu
'lies, shared her sports, and himself induct-
£1 jpamfls JLcto.wwv : DffcatcSr to mteratuve, &or(cultm*c, Sttrcfiantcs, Etmratton, jForetßH antr domestic KutrlUarnce, Kc.
ed her into the accomplishments of hawk
and hound, careful always to infuse a noble
reserve, that made the fair girl receive
knightly service from himself only. Thence
it was that the Lady Blanch was early call
ed “ proud ladye;” and when it was ru
mored that the inheritor of broad lands
and ancestral beauty disdained the gentle
passion, many were the admirers who sought
to awaken the latent tenderness believed to
be lurking in her heart.
Blanch received them with proud courte
sy, and it may be that her lively wit, her
goodness of heart, her gentle yet noble
bearing, deepened the veiy passion she car
ed not to inspire. Many were the lances
broken in her honor, and many the gallant
knight who coveted death, but found re
nown upon the battle field, in his vain ef
forts to forget the haughty smile of Blanch
of Instetten.
If Lady. Blanch’s was a ptoud, hers was
by no means a cold nature. Her voice
breathed the very soul of tenderness, and
there were times when her dark eyes be
came liquid with its concealed wealth of
womanly sensibility. She was ever alive
to all gentle appeals, and her soul dwelt
amid all that was pure and beautiful.
It may be that she received admiration
as a right, homage as her due, and thus fail
ed to perceive the obligation—but then one
smile from Blanch was worth a thousand of
those lightly bestowed, and one gentle word
of sympathy from one so full of truth and
earnestness was a thing never to be for
gotten.
Blanch was not too proud for love, but
then she had never loved. The gallant
and the gay knelt at her shrine, but their
offerings were calmly rejected, not because
they were unworthy, but because she had
never felt the want of art oblation. She
sat in her maidenly bower, j erhaps the on
ly one content with its seclusion ; for, sooth
to say, her maidens yawned and wished
their lady less of a saint that they might
join in other devotions.
At length the Baron of Instetten* was ga
thered to his fathers, leaving Blanch sole in
heritor of his title and estates : and leaving
her also with no protector save her own in
nocence and womanly discretion. Blanch
wept long and fervently the loss of her on
ly friend, and her hitherto haughty hearing
became touched with a grace of gentle ten
derness, a half appealing softness blending
with her pride, that made her beauty far
more dangerous than in the days of her
untouched gladness of heart. It may he
that new yearning were born of this, her
first grief, anew perception of the worth of
the affections, and anew and strange loneli
ness pressed heavily upon her heait.
Her palfrey neighed in his stall, her
hounds crouched listlessly at her feet, and
the keert eye of the falcon grew tame as he
pecked the silken jesses that held hitn from
the blue sky ; yet Blancb hummed art idle
lay, touched her harp with careless fingers,
or looked sadly from the battlements
where her broad lands lay beneath her, sol
itary, and with tro stirring signs of life.
How she wished she had a brother, who
might share and direct her amusements.—
Never was maiden so isolated and forlorn.
Her very freedom became an annoyance,
fettered as it was by a pride that admitted
of no compromise. Then the prosy and
puzzling accounts of the old steward—sat
isfactory to the last degree, for he [would
have periled life sooner than his fair mis
tress should he defrauded of her patrimony;
—these and other details of her estate be
came exceedingly irksome to her.
Another maiden might have bethought
herself of a lover, hut Blanch thought of a
secretary. Lovers were to be had in abun
dance, the more now that the Baron of In
stetten could no longer usurp knightly priv
ileges ; but on this subject Blanch was
proud as ever, scarcely deigning to allow
iter admirers the privilege of holding her
stirrup while she mounted, or even to fasten
the jesses of her hawk on her slender wrist.
Sooth to say, the decorum of the castle was
severe to the last degree. The old priest
had a holiday in shriving, for never were
maidens with less upon their consciences,
and never was lady better content so to he.
No sooner did Lady Blanch think of a
secretary than she wondered she had not
sooner thought of the same thing. She
wondered she could so long have lived with
out one. She accordingly wrote a letter to
Sir Ralph, an old friend of her father’s, ex
plaining her views, and craving his assis
tance.
In a marvellously short space of time,
the messenger returned, bearing an epistle
from the worthy knight, in which he fully
approved her plat), and most fortunately it
was in his power immediately to second her.
The son of his gamekeeper, having been
an invalid in early life bail imbided a fond
ness for books, and other gentle accomplish
ments unsuited to bis condition. This he
had heretofore been led to regret, but now
that he could be of service to so estimable
a lady, he rejoiced in the circumstance. On
the morrow he would appear ready for all
honorable service.
CHAPTER It.
Far better one ttnpurchased heart,
Than glory’s prudest name. — Tcckerman.
Lady Blanch, with a woman’s ready fan
cy, completed the picture slightly sketched
by Sir Ralph. (She imagined a pale, slen
der youth, tim'd and distrustful, shrieking
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 15, 1843.
from observation, and nervously alive to
even the slightest appearance of neglect or
ridicule. He was of course a little awk
ward, hut then he was quiet and respectful,
and she thought how sad, how miserable it
must be, to live on with a soul and body at
odds, a mind adapted to loftiest aims and a
condition debased to the meanest.
Blanch’s sympathies wore all enlisted.
She even read a homily to the ladies of her
household, ir. which she cautioned them to
observe the greatest courtesy with regatd
to the young secretary; to treat him as far as
possible as one of gentle blood, for nobility
was after all but the external symbol of an
inward grace, and woman, of all othets,
should be real y to recognise the sentiment.
Blanch was seated in the midst of her
maidens; a favorite hound, Solway, crouch
ed at her feet, and her fingers were playing
amid the cords of her harp, when the secre
tary was announced. She did not raise her
eyes till he had advanced nearly to the cen
tre of the room, when she arose courteous
ly to greet him.
One glance, however, revealed what sad
antics the fancy will play, and how unlike
were her illusions to the reality. Blanch
hesitated—colored slightly at first, and
then more deeply as her proud eye detect
ed the smile lurking about the lips of her
maidens—and then the homily flashed upon
her recollection, yet she received him with
gentle breeding, and motioned him to a seat.
Instead of the pale, abashed youth she
had anticipated, she beheld a tall, almost
athletic stranger, of quiet but assured bear
ing, his short curly hair and abundant motis
tache looking more suited to the knightly
beaver than the light, graceful cap of vel
vet which he now held in his hand, together
with a scroll of parchment as the insignia
of his profession. The closely fitting gar
ments revealed limbs little in accordance
with those of an invalid, and the small horn
of ink, with its silver chain and mountings,
looked half incongruous upon the broad
chest that seemed betteY adapted to shield
and cuirass.
Notwithstanding the wave of Blanch, the
Bti anger preserved his standing attitude,
firm and manly, with his eyes bent upon the
floor, and not till a slight movement of the
lady’s, revealing that she had finished read
ing a letter he had brought from his patron,
did he alter his position, and then as he met
her smile of approval, he knelt gracefully
upon one knee, saying he was most happy
to be in tbe service of so fair a lady.
Blancb was abashed, her fair color rose
to her cheek, and yet the subdued fire of
those strange eyes, the respectful manner,
and more than all, the rich, manly voice, had
in them nothing to offend.
“ Sir Secretary,” said the lady, willing to
relieve the embarrassment, “a string lias
just snapped from my harp, let me beg you
to teplace it.”
“ 1 will, lady, attd then if it please thee,
vvjll sing thee a song, at) humble one of
mine own making.”
Blanch smiled assent ; the stranger sank
upon one knee, adjusted the harp, and then
sang the following song, in a voice of thrill
ing melody :
SONG.
Distrust trir not, mine own,
My sill's are nil for tiiee—
On thee I think alone,
Whate’er my fate may be.
Then smile, beloved smile,
Dispel these maiden fears,
1 would not thus beguile
Tiiy tenderness to tears.
If others be as fair,
What arc their charms to me,
I neither know nor care.
For thou art all to me !
The words were exceedingly simple, yet
their import did not in the least promote
the interest of the secretary in the eyes of
his fair auditors. They seemed to imply
that his troth was plighted, and that he was
most chivalrously faithful to his fair ladye.
Now though either maiden would have
spurned the imputation of being willing to
appropriate the stranger, yet wlien he came
among them, and thus eatly announced his
preference elsewhere, a decided prejudice
grew up against him ; a determination to
be chary of smiles and courtesies so little
likely to he appreciated; for every woman
knows, that although she may he entirely
indifferent to a man herself, yet her vanity
is always slightly piqued when she finds an
other is about to win him from her. A broad
avowal of a preference she regards all but
equivalent to an insult—as half cautioning
Iter to beware of tbe hazards of his own
seductiveness, and a hint that it is all over
so far as she is concerned.
Had the stranger been a knight of birth
or renown, the whole artillery of female
coquetry and rivalry might have been
brought to bear against ltim ; but a poor
secretary, tbe son of a gamekeeper, and he
presume to be in love, and to be constant too
—the idea was preposterous. How they
would like to see the Dulcinea—see her
“ winnowing grain,” a rank country wench,
no doubt, and then came the pretty toss of
the head anil curling of the lip, and the
bridling air which women only use.
Even Blanch scrutinized the stranger
with new interest, not displeased certainly
at the probable state of his affections, yet
she could not help canvassing his claims to
so much fidelity and so much devotion.—
Her sympathy was undoubtedly lessened
by the circumstance j but then she half
blushed that she should have given the sub
ject a thought, and then raised her eyes, and
encountered those of the secretary fixed
earnestly but respectfully upon her face.
They were instantly withdrawn, hut not till
she felt the blood rush tumultuously to her
temples.
******
Never was secretary more assiduous in
his duties, and never was one more versatile
in his accomplishments. Hawking or hunt
ing, feats of arms or trials of strength, in
all he was equally at home, and never did
gentle minstrel sing sweerer madrigals in
lady's bower, or beneath her casement pour
forth more impassioned love-notes than did
Roland the secretary to the ears of the fair
Lady Blanch. Yet they were not for her ;
his allusions were to one away, who possess
ed the very soul of tenderness, and w ho w as
worthy the devotion of a tried and true
heart. If passion dwelt upon his lips, or
‘spoke in flashes of his eye, it was for the
absent, tbe beloved. If his voice sank to the
low tones of earnest and soul-breathing ten
derness, it was still for the fond heart from
which his fate had exiled him.
Blanch listened and sighed, and smiled
her approval of his constancy. She even
furgot her pride, anil heard him describe
charms such as exist only in the fancy of a
lover. Always thoughtful and higlrtoned
in her feelings, she grew grave. She won
dered at the strange fascination that now
grew about tliat simple word, lore, hitherto
disregatded by her. She wondered at the
crowd of pleasant fancies that now gather
ed around it, and the sweet, tender images
it suggested, and then she glanced at the
handsome secretary, and thought that had
she been lowly born, Roland were indeed
a being to be loved. She would beg the
history of his love, she would take the fair
girl into her ow n service, and be a gentle
sister to her.
She hinted herplan to Roland. A strange
light beamed from bis eyes, and he knelt to
kiss the fair hand she had extended towards
him. Blanch trembled and withdrew it,
but then bis eyes met hers, and surely they
expressed but grateful homage, aud she
half repented her coldness.
“ The lady of his love was proud, even
as herself. lie was doomed to perpetual
banishment.”
His voice was low, and the color for
sook his cheek.
“ But she loves thee.”
“It may be, lady, but she lias exiled me,
and forever; she would not debase her an
estry by wedding the base born.”
Blancb drew herself up, as at tbe con
scious blood of her own veins. Roland be
held the movement, and one slight shade of
sadness crossed his brow; and then his
manner was cold, even proud, notwitstand
ing its gentle courtesy.
Blanch’s eyes were fixed upon the green
lawn that sloped beneath them, and the se
cretary slightly apart, looked down upon
her clear brow, and tbe ringlets that swept
her neck and bosom, and read thoughts that
even pride may not express.
“ Shall I sing a madrigal, lady, one to
which gentle ears have before deigned to
listen ?”
” An it please tiiee, but I hope it may
prove grave and thoughtful, for meseems
thy songs are wont to dwell too much upon
the vain conceits of lovers.”
After a few preluding notes upon the
harp, he sung the song of
THE LOVE OF LADY ANN.
In Her boner tlic Lady Ann
Wept her love apart,
“ Why so much of pride, ladye,
With a loving heart !
Broad and fertile are thy lands,
Siately is thy hall,
But a faithful heart, ladye,
Far outweighs them all.
Thou may’s) choose tliy gilded bower,
Nursing grief within,
Aud thy lover will forget
Love he fa k'd to win.
Tiiou moy’slsit in gilded tiower,
I the free woods roam ;
Never should a lingering bride
Share with me a home.
Truth of heart and strength of urm,
These bring 1 to thee ;
But thy pride hath spurned the gift—
Fare-thee-wcll, ladye.”
On the la (diet is his glaive,
Scarce he deigns a sigh;
But the maiden's gushing tears
Tremble in her eye.
In the stirrup is hit fool—
Thus do lovers part—
lie to hear his pride alone,
She a breaking heart.
Trembling, doubtful, Lady Ann,
Half in tear arose.
Then with beating heart she sped,
And her arms she throws,
Clasping him with wild embrace.
Pride and home forgot.
She hath left her stately toweis
For a lowly lot.
Blanch listened with a slight curl of the
lip, and spite of herself the color went and
came upon her cheek, as thought after
thought crossed through her mind.
“ 1 fear nty poor song hath failed to please
thee,” murmured the secretary in a low
voice.
“ I will commend the manner most wil
lingly, Sir Secietary, but as to the matter,
it is that of a bold and reckless damsel, witli
a taste ill befitting ber gentle breeding.”
“ Tbe accident of birth either in hall or
hovel. Lady, cannot effect the soul—that
may he noble, though the muscles and sin
ews be base born.”
“ It may be so, but it is unseemly for a
maiden to debase ber gentle birth by un al
liance therewith.”
A shatp expression of pain crossed the
face of Roland—he went on—
“ Love, Lady, levelleth all distinctions.
There is neither base nor noble there—tbe
strong arm, tbe true heart; ay. Lady, the
heart enuidtled by one pure passion, is more
truly gentle than that which heats beneath
the proudest blazonry, and is yet incapable
of the sentiment.’’
The eye of Blanch fell, she turned aside,
attd then her proud heai t kindling at its own
consciousness, she bent her head slightly
and withdrew.
Reaching tbe library, site gave one look
around the large quaint room with its rude
ornaments and strange devices; the light
streaming through the stained glass fell in
softened shadows upon the tessellated floor,
mellowing all things to a soft and tender
melancholy. A sense of loneliness, a wild
and undefined yearning grew upon the heart
of the proud girl, and she threw herself in
to a chair, and leaning ber bead upon both
hands, and these upon tbe table, she wept
abundantly.
Raising her eyes, she perceived the glove
of the secretary lying upon the table beside
her; scarcely conscious of what she did, site
pressed it to her lips.
“ Blanch,” exclaimed the secretary, and
he was at her feet.
One moment he showered kisses upon
her unresisting hand, she even murmured
his name in one low whisper, then she drew
herself up, and motioned him to rise.
“ Nay, Blanch, you love me. I have long
felt it, and yon, you are the idol of nty idol
atry.”
“ You have the secret of a weak maiden’s
heart, Sir Secretary, but little will it avail
you,” sbe added almost bitterly, as her na
tive pride returned.
“ I can bear your scorn, T.ndy,” said the
secretary, rising respectfully to bis feet,
“ but vvberevet 1 may go, the memory of
this one moment of bliss will he more than
a reward for years of exile, years of suffer
ing. The base born secretary bath won
the heart of the proud Lady Blanch.”
She would have recalled him, she would
have uttered one word of kindness, hut it
was too late—he was gone.
CHATTER in.
No one is so accursed by fate.
No one so i\ holly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.—LoifDFEJXow.
Two j-ears were past. The haughty
Blanch hud became tbe gentle, sympathiz
ing, meek-hearted woman. A touching
sadness lingered about ber air, almost hal
lowing her singular beauty. The duties of
her high-born station were duly performed,
and she shared the amusements of the time
with a quiet grace that told neither hope
nor fear were at variance in her heart. No
tinublous nor discordant motion disturbed
her serene composure.
At first she shrank to confess even to her
self the love she bore tbe noble-minded se
cretary. But as time wore on, and all the
many proofs of bis magnanimity, his gen
tleness and manliness of character came
home to her memory, sbe grew even proud
of her love ; proud that sho had that with
in herself to perceive and appreciate such
qualities in whatsoever station, and then she
grew proudly grateful even for tbe love of
the poor secretary, she who had hitherto
slighted that of knight and liaron bold.
Love, in whatsoever shape, is allied to
religion. Most fervently did she kneel at
the shrine of the Virgin, and bless her for
these beautiful emotions that carried her nut
of self, and gave an elevation and freedom
to her existence. The consciousness of ha
ving awakened the holiest emotions in one
high and manly heart, from henceforth in
vested her with anew and almost religious
dignity. A beautiful enthusiasm mingled
with the sentiment. She would devote her
self to this one ideal. She would hazard
no other attachment, but in maidenly seclu
sion live upon the images tbe tenderness of
this presented. Indeed her proud heart re
coiled from all other associations.
The love of a gentle and confiding wo
man, with its perpetual appeals to tender
ness and protection, must he dear, veiy dear
to a manly heart; but then it too often laek
eth that exclusive anil earnest devotion
which imparts a last touch of value, its sym
pathies arc too readily excited, and the im
ages of others, faint and shadowy it may be,
yet still images, too often sit side by side
with the beloved.
But the love of a proud woman with its
depth of untold tenderness, rarely stirred,
yet when once awakened, welling up a per
petual fountain of freshness and beauty, its
concentred and earnest faith, its unmingled
sympathies, its pure shrine, taised to the be
loved, burning no incense upon strange al
tars, and admitting no strange oblations, the
love of such an one should invest manhood
with tenfold dignity—should make him feel
as a priest in the very presence of the di
vinity. *
Blanch had no one to whom she might
appeal either for counsel or aid in her soli-
j number i.
WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR,
tary life. Sir Ralph was engaged in the
wars of that unsettled period, and his per
tinacious silence in regard to Roland annoy
ed and surprised her. His communica
tions wete brief, and she felt with pain that
an air of coldness pervaded them. He had
been her father’s friend, and though bluff
and somewhat stern, he was brave as a lion,
and upright even to romance.
Occasional!}’ he spoke of a nephew of his,
who shared with him the perils of war, and
touched upon his gentle qualities with a sad
and yet earnest interest. Inreplytoanepistle
from Blanch, in which she gently hinted the
pain she felt at his estrangement, the baron
replied in a vein of half playful severity :
“ I am an old soldier, Blanch. I never
knew what fear or dishonor meant. In
battle nr in principle there is but one way
with Ralph, and that is, advance, but when
it comes to a woman, by all the saints in the
calendar, I never know what is the way.—
Heie is the proud daughter of my best be
loved friend, never deigning a smile upon
the gallants of the age, and yet deprecating
the coldness of an old man like me. Blanch,
Blanch, I am no carpet knight, or I might
have wild dreams. But I know better.—
My noble, my generous, my brave nephew,
you must Bee him, Blanch, and yet no, he
shall never endure the scorn of any woman.
I would have him shun the cold, haughty
Blanch, as lie would the evil eye.
“ I give thee my blessing, child of my
friend, and only regret that when beauty
was given thee, a heart was withholden. I
shall visit thee shortly, and Roland, thy
whilom secretary, will be with me, unless
his shyness should prevent it, in which case
my nephew claims the gentle privilege of
seeing thee.”
The last paragraph drove the blood from
the face of Blanch. A thousand thoughts
rushed upon her brain. She would see
him only once—she could control her emo
tions—he would feel that the illusion was
over—he might not come—she would for
bid him her presence. Then came the wild
thrill of pleasure at the thought she should
once more hear the tones of his voice, meet
the glance of those dark, love-lit-eyes. Her
reverie closed by a flood of tears.
Not many days after, the warder announ
ced the approach of Sir Ralph and his train.
Blanch and her maidens descended to the
great hall to welcome her old and faithful
friend. One glance amid his retianent
showed that the secretary had refrained his
visit, and she moved onward with a sense of
relief.
The greeting of the baron was as cordial
as his age and long friendship would seem
to justify, and then he begged her courtesy
in behalf of his nephew. The stranger
raised his visor, and Blanch suppresses a
a cry of surprise. But the cold self-posses
sion of the quondam secretary called into
action her maidenly pride, and spite of fier
varying color she ushered the way to the
audience room with ber ordinary composed
grace.
Sir Ralph was puzzled—he was convin
ced that each was absorbed in the love of
the other, and be could not understand so
much of the stately punctilio.
After the first ceremony of reception was
over, Blanch stepped upon the terrace that
she might find relief from her almost suffo
cating emotions. Roland approached her,
hut she did not lift her eyes, or betray to
kens of consciousness.
“ Blanch, 1 have had dreams, wild and ro
mantic dreams of womanly tenderness and
devotion, such as I may never hope to real
ize. A mere boy I put spear in rest for you,
and was rewarded with your coldness and
scorn. I loved you still wildly, passionately
Asa base-born dependent I won the love of
thy proud heart, and yet was an exile. —
And now.” he had taken her passive hand
in bis, “ I come not again to encounter scorn
fitr I feel that I am dear to tiiee.”
Blanch bent her head, and tears gushed
to her eyes-—she would have retired, but he
gently detained her.
“ Blanch, I may have been wrong. It
may be that tby high-born pride, that spurn
ed a base alliance, was worthy thy high-soul
ed taste. It may be that I exacted too
much for love, and would have debased thee
in thine own eyes by my selfish romance.
It may.”
Blanch buried her face in his bosom.
****••
But why detail more. He who had won
the proud maiden’s love as an humble secre
tary could not fail to retain it as a brave
knight and true. And the legend saith Sir
Ralph retracted his reproach that the fates
that gave Blanch beauty denied her a heart.
The first Gray Hair. —A gray hair was
espied among the ravan locks of a fair friend
of ours, a few days since. “ O pray pull it
our,” she exclaimed. “If I pull it out
ten will come to the funeral,” replied the
lady who had made the unwelcome discov
ery. “ Pluck it out, nevertheless,” said tbe
dark headed damsel, “ it is no sort of conse
quence how many come if they rnly come
iu black.”
A Hint. —Girls, remember that the man
who bows, smiles, and says many soft things
to. you, has no-genuine love, while be who
loves most sincerely, struggles to hide the
weakness of bis heart, and frequently ap
pears decidedly awkward.