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VOL. i. DEATH. mr ZBV. AB BAM J. ST AIT. Ont of the shadows of sadness, Into tlio sunshine of gladness. Into tho light of the Blest- Out of a land very dreary, Out of the world of the weary, Into tho liapturo of Beet Out of to-day’s sin and sorrow Into a blissful to-morrow, Into a day without gloom— (hit of a land filled with sighing— Lftnd of the dead and the dying— Into a land without tomb. Out of a life of commotion, Tempeot-swopt oft as the wean, Dark with tho wreck drifting o’or ; Into a land calm and quiet; Never a storm cometli nigh it; Never a wreck on its shore. Out of tho land, in whose bowors Perish and fade all the flowers— Out of the land of decay— Into the Eden wherelfairost Os flow’rets—and sweetest and rarest — Never shall wither away. Out of tho world of the wailing, Thronged with the anguished and ailing. Out of tho world of the sad ; Into the world that rejoices— World of bright visions and volcce, luto tho world of tho glad. Out of a life ever lomful, Out of a land very mournful, Where in bleak exile we roam ; Intoajoyland above us, Where there’s a Father to lovo us— Into “ ou£.«ym , -A\u.ut lioihti.” ».®.. [Translated from the Gorman.] FORGET-ME-NOT | Or, The Picture that was Never Seen. The Lord Chamberlain, who had just returned from Italy, had become the sub ject of the greatest attention with the brilliant but not extensive circle which the Queen was accustomed to assemble around her, in the King’s secluded summer residence. The narratives of the Count's travels served to shorten an unpleasant, stormy evening, which visited the shady park surrounding the castle with gusts of rain and hail, interspersed with streaks of lightning and heavy re-echoing claps of thunder. The imagination of the Queen revelled in the recollections which the stories of the Count awakened ; but the King, more interested in business of state, interrupted the speaker suddenly, with the question as to whether anything new had transpired in the capital city, which he had passed through on his return ? he Lord Chamberlain praised the quiet and elegance of the city, not neglecting to extol the wisdom of the sovereign to whom all this prosperity must be attribu ted, and closed with the assurance that, excepting the exhibition of industry and ai t, the inhabitants of the city were occu pying themselves, at present, with nothing out their own homes and amusements, flic Princess Eliza inquired interestedly concerning the success of that institution which owed its existence to her sugges lion, and the Count, passing slowly from one thing to another, ran easily into the enumeration of the articles exhibited in the tasteful gallery, lie left till the last what he considered the crowning glory oi the collection—the paintings by r the native artists—and described with the versatility oi a cicerone all the pictures oi Madonnas, pictures from every-day life, historical pictures and portraits, which ft ere worthy oi attention. Having come to the end he interrupted himself sudden ly* as it rebuking hiinseli, and said : ‘‘ 1 had almost forgotten to mention a picture, which, although anonymous, and very unfavorably placed, deserves to be named as the gem of the gallery, both in idea and execution. I have seen nothing more wonderful in my life, and even now, wnen i speak of it, all the details of the striking picture appear clear and decided before the mind, so that I can give them without omitting anything essential.” This preliminary was calculated to raise the greatest curiosity, and the queen, with the company, formed a narrow circle around the narrator. Imagine, your majesties, a medium sized tablet divided into two parts, of which each represents a single picture,” began the Lord Chamberlain ; “ the con ditions of space divide this picture in form ; the character is one and the same. In the first, the principal figure is a maid en in the full blooming freshness of youth. The flowing drapery flutters lightly in the wind. One foot already* rests upon the edge of the barge which wavers in sus pended dance, and which the stream, curl ing up into foaming waves, seems about to drive from the shore, without rudder or anchor. The eyes of the maiden look longingly into the distance : in her fea tures lies romantic enthusiasm. On the shore, which the mariner leaves, stand sympathizing friends. An old man, with silver hair, waves a farewell: a group of maidens, blooming as she, and familiarly clinging to each other, wave handker chiefs and ribbons after the departing : a youth, handsome and earnest, folds his hands together, and out of the clouds, a friendly, loving, sorrowful countenance looks down upon her. Luxuriant roses signal from the beautiful shore, and form a rare contrast to the lurking, green-haired water-lairies who swim under the mirror - • MM • ill'* * l|,in >■** ..—-nirm oFtlie water in scarcely defined outlines, and seem to pull the frail boat forward. The maiden, it is plain, goes hence on a dangerous journey ; but a tender, shim mering cloud-figure, doubtless the ever young Hegenione, hovers near her, and by solicitous glance and imploring ges ture, seems to express admonition and prayer, Whether the mariner shall he saved by the grace of this guardian angel, or fall by the wiles of the waiting fairies, is the question with which the gazer un willingly leaves the charming picture to its companion piece. “ In the picture which we now consider, the principal figure is a young man with walking-staff and traveling-bag, who pass es rapidly away from the narrow doorway of a house, and stops out boldly on the broad highway, lie breathes freely, and an earnest satisfaction speaks from his eyes. Joyfully starting out to meet life, he takes notice neither of the noble matron who would hold him back, nor of tho affec tiouate maiden who longingly extends her hands to him, nor of the faithful dog that, although fastened by the chain, nevertheless raises himself entreatingly. From the windows of an inn may be seen a waiter, standing at a counting table and swinging his hat; a Jew stands in the way and holds out a paper, which the wanderer refuses; at the well in the foreground a thoughtless maid nods sauci ly and piquantly to the youth ; and so far the picture represents a gay scene, a little saddened by the quiet grief in the background ; but, before the wanderer, who looks carelessly around, gapes an abyss, in which is suspended a frightful dead body*, with a severe but honest countenance. Its eyes are shut, but it raises the right hand warningly toward the approaching youth, while the left rests on the breast in quiet consciousness. “ And so,’* continued the narrator, “the picture is finished.” A short silence reigned in the compa ny. The King rested gloomily* in his chair; while the Queen, on whom the affectionate daughters were leaning, at length replied : “ The picture is finished, and we have an obscure allegory, to find the key to which will not be difficult. Man and woman going from the narrow home-circle to enter upon life, leaving behind them the shel tering paternal roof, and the innocent joys of childhood ; tho youthful desire to toss upon tempestuous waters, or to jour ney on the parched highway ; these are or my feeling must be very much at AUGIJSTA, GA., APRIL 25, 18G8. fault—the subjects which the poetical painter wishes to represent.” “ Your majesty’s penetration is equal to tho solution of the most obscure enig ma,” replied the count; “but in the at tractive double picture lies still more, if one leave not out of notice that it is sur rounded by a wreath of forget-me-nots ; that the mariner wears these flowers in her hair, and the wanderer on his bosom. The artist thought to give the significa tion of the harmless little llower, and how well he has succeeded in paintin r »’ its characteristics. The departing £ for those remaining behind a forget-me-not; but even those who remain on the spot which the loved one leaves, desire to im press their remembrance on the bird of passage just as firmly. 1 Forget-me-not!’ call after her the silver-haired father, the youthful friend, the play companions of the maiden. ‘Forget-me-not!’ whispers the glorified mother out of tho clouds, and the protecting spirit hovers over the waters. Well for the mariner if she fail not to hear the warning voice. Weil for the youth, if tipi forget-me-not of the mother, the bride, and the creditor, cling long to his heart: he will return, true and noble, scorning tho temptations on the way of life, and remembering tho pater nal honor, which, through the «dumb mouth of the dead body, calls to him “ Forget-me-not!” The Queen rose hastily, nodded, as it seemed, overcome by tears, to the narra tor, leaned upon the arm of her daughter, and apparently struggling to hide her emotion, left the room. The King threw a disapproving glance after her, which finally met that of the Count, who stood transfixed in the middle of the hall, with out knowidg how cr why so peculiar a circumstance had transpised. The courtiers had fallen back, and were whispering among themselves. “ Will your majesty * condescend to point out to me whether any indiscretion ot mine has caused the present event, or whether it may be attributed to an unfor tunate coincidence,” said the Count, timid ly. Instead of answering, the ruler gave those standing around the signal of de parture, and commanded the Count to remain. Being called nearer, and per mitted to sit opposite to the King, he waited impatiently for the discourse which his commander should direct to him. “ Your ignorance is excused,” com menced the latter, in his usual short manner of speaking, “ but the Queen is unpleasantly affected by the name Forget me-not. It is an old wound that has to day been opened afresh, and hence the strange scene. It is, perhaps, nineteen years since I undertook the rule of this state. The care of it called me into the field against the enemy formed by the exiled royal family. 1 was but just mar ried. In order to acquaint my aged father-in-law with the fortunate result of a battle, I sent to the capital a young ordnance officer. He returned to the camp at the time designated, but at the same time came secret dispatches from my zealous agents, who noted the dispo sition of the people and kept guard on the actions of the crown-princess, my wife. The ordnance officer, who had long loved my wife in secret, had, in special audience, received from her hands, a bouquet of forget-me-nots. My jealousy knew no bounds. In the next tourna ment, the officer found his death, and—as it is said—on his breast lay the fatal flowers. After I had returned as victor, it became clear that mv wife had intended this present for me, and that she was un acquainted witli the feelings of the un safe messenger who had retained for him self the love-gift of a Queen. But now it was too late. Mother and sister mourned on his grave, and the tender heart of my wife was so shocked by such a catastrophe that even to-day, alter so many years, her grief has again been manifested.” The King was silent, and leaned bis head on his hand. The Count, overcome by the unusual confidence of his sovereign, and feeling himself inade quate to console, did not venture to reply. The King, instead of dismissing him, re mained in troubled thought, while a bitter smile played around his mouth. “Final ly,” he continued, “my position at that time was difficult. My zealous tempera ment was bent on vanquishing the obsta cles in the way of my successful career. My motto was, 1 Onward !’ The people were dissatisfied that a man not of royal descent should have the audacity to claim the crown. 1 had, by the force of arms, held the old King on his throne, banished the pretenders, and rescued the people, the property, and the church.* I had shown that no one understood better how to readjust the disorganized affairs of state; but when the eyes of the old man closed, and I seized the sceptre, according to agreement, then arose a cry of conster nation. The fools had believed that I would give the house that I had built up to the alienated Merovingians, and myself he satisfied with the position of major domo. A conspiracy was formed. You remember that the flower forget-me-not passed for the symbol of rebellion. The faction of the refugees have not yet for gotten the day on which I gave the com mand which the times demanded. The first name which met me upon the list of those seized was Albo. The family of that officer bore this name. I knew that the Baronness had hated me irreconcil ably since the death of her son ; that her daughter hated me not less, and that a determined ally’’ of the exiles was about to offer his hand to tho latter. Now burst the bombshell. In the house of Albo were said to have been held meeting’s. The Ba roness was said to have sworn to give her daughter to the one among her countless suitors who would take the most prominent part in my overthrow. My sternness passed the sentence of death upon the women; but the entreaties of my wife—to whom it had been repre sented that the accusations which had been heaped upon the mother and daugh ter were only the work of envy and pri vate hatred—disarmed my sentence. I banished the women, and confiscated their property. The bridegroom died in prison ; and so the fate of that family was mourn fully fulfilled.” The King then continued in a monotonous tone : “ I will not deny that later I have thought of these poor women who must wander in exile, with a certain unwilling pity, and that still later I made inquiries concerning them. No trace of them could he found. But I sec that I have allowed myself to say more than is customary for me. We will pass to something else. Who is the painter who executed tho picture of which he has spoken ?” “ Sire,” replied the Count, “I. do not know. He cannot, however, be unknown to the inspector of the gallery. I know only that he is not one of your majesty’s subjects, and that he begged permission to exhibit the double picture for a few days. For the present he remains in the capital.” “ Yes, yes,” replied the King ; “ noone but Cremato can have created this picture; his power alone manifests itself in such allegorical compositions ; and the allusion to the forget-me-not—yes, yes, watchful man, we will make peace, and thy pride of art shalt melt in the sunshine of my favor. I wish to see the painter, Count. You will take pains to bring him here. He will not willingly obey, but an auto graphic command shall place all authority at your disposal. Depart as early as pos sible, and the day after to-morrow I shall expect to sec the painter. Good night, Count!” The Count departed, and the King re treated to his cabinet. After a few fruit less struggles, he overcame the melancho ly which clouded his soul, and went to the table, on which lay in great numbers the reports and dispatches just brought by the courier. lie sought impatient ly among the letters for one, which, when found, he broke with anxiously suspended breath ; but after the first line, the rest less expectation vanished from his features; cheerfulness spread over them, and with alight “Good, good!” he took up the silver candlestick, impatient to share his satisfaction, and opened the tapestry door which led into the corridor connecting his rooms with the Queen’s. As he ap proached the door, he heard voices, and upon entering found the Queen sitting in an arm-chair, and leaning, in pleasant resignation upon Eliza’s shoulder. At their feet, on an ottoman, sat Sophia, the younger Princess, resting her smiling face on the mother’s lap. The beautiful iamily picture charmed the King, and he commanded the ladies, who would have risen in his honor, to remain in their po sitions. The group remained, but the former spirit was gone; and the King himself, after a few moments’ thought, broke the restraint. “ I forgot,” he said, as he gave his daughters a sign to leave their places, “I forget that my wishes serve only to gov ern the actions of my family, but cannot charm away a grief. I cannot approve of the tears which I see in your eyes, madame. You have given to the court a spectacle, the cause of which is too anti quated to render it any longer excusable, and too unimportant to have been entrust ed to your daughters, as I must imagine has been done.” “ You err, sire !” replied the Queen, drying the last traces of tears from her eyes; “ the tenderness, not the curiosity of my daughters has comforted me.” The Princesses kissed the Queen’s hands caressingly, and the King replied : “ Bight; that I must commend ; and to prove that it pleases me to give pleas ure, I will confide to you what gladdens my heart and somewhat lightens my paternal cares. This letter from my am bassador in a neighboring kingdom makes the heavens look joyful. The dissen sions which have for so long a time thieat ened to separate that country and mine, are peacefully settled, and l hope to see soon at my court an ambassador with in structions for Eliza’s hand. So I have finally succeeded in entering fully into the band of sovereigns. The fortunate soldier is forgotten, and hereafter Kings will speak to a King, and make room in their ranks whom fortune raised to their level. My name and the remembrance of my deeds will not pass away with my body. If lam blessed with no son, my grandchildren will wear my crown, and enjoy the fruits of my labors.” The Queen gave him her hand softly, and spoke : “May fortune still further attend you, gracious sire. Your wife willingly sub | mits to your wisdom, and your daughters will fulfill tl io duties which your position imposes upon them.” “ Have you not taught me early, be loved mother, that renunciation and offer ing is our destiny ?” said Eliza calmly, but sighing softly. “ I will obey iny royal father without objection, without complaint, if—” “ If the Prince do not disappoint the j ideal that a maiden’s heart is accustomed jto create,” said the King. “Be with ,ut fear, my daughter; the Prince is renowned as a second Bayard, whose braverv goes hand in hand with the most pleasant cour tesy*. He is not remarkably beautiful, as 1 understand, but moderately so, and pos sesses all those brilliant accomplishments which pertain to a royal education. At least you will be able to boast of a better I suitor than your mother, whom I, having ! neither the advantage of beauty nor of birth, but grown up in the rough customs |of the camp, won by the power of my sword, to the astonishment of her father, j Ihe brazen age ruled in the land then, | and my sword must cut out for your grand | lather the royal robe that he had taken ; from his cousins, as the people demanded. INTo. 6.