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smoothing the golden curls with a caress
ing hand. “You may not be so unhap
py. You picture too dark a future for
y ourself—too bright a one for us.”
“ 1 think not. Have you not every
hope of happiness—a kind old Uncle,
and two generous, lively Cousins to love
you ? Oh! I wish I could go with you.
1 have uo one to love me—l have no
friend.”
“You are wrong to say you have no
friend, Ellie; but, why do you fear your
Aunt so much ? is she unkind ?”
“ Not absolutely unkind, Emily; but,
oh ! if you could see her cruel eyes ! No
one dare oppose her. I dislike # and fear
her, and yet, do you know, when I am
with her I cau scarcely tear myself away,
and when away, I would prefer almost
any punishment to that of being forced
into her presence.”
“ Strange,” said Emily, musingly. “I
have heard of such a species of fascina
tion, but I have never believed in it. I
would like to see her. I don’t believe she
would influence me any.”
“Oh, no! Emily; she could have no
power over you. flow Ido wish I had
your courage.”
“ Take courage, dear. I wish I could
impart a little of my firmness to you.
And you are going to Italy ? It is a long
way; but, never mind, Ellie, we will meet
again.”
“ l)o you think so, Emily?” asked
Ellie, hopefully; “do you really think
we will meet again ? 1 did hope that my
Aunt had forgotten me. I had not heard
from her for more than a year, and have
never seen her since Uncle’s death.”
“ Lady Montague is your Uncle’s
second wife, isn’t she ?” asked Eugenie,
who had been listening to their conver
sation.
“Yes. Oh! if it were Aunt Lucy, I
would be very happy, but she has been
dead a long time.”
At this moment a bell rang loudly in
the entry, and bidding each other good
night, the girls separated.
# * * *
When Reginald and Arthur found
themselves alone in their room at the
hotel, they found time to think over the
day, and now, for the first time, a cloud
shadowed Regie’s face.
“ What is the matter ?” asked Arthur,
noticing the shadow on his brother’s brow.
“ I)o you remember, Arthur, what we
were speaking about in the carriage when
we first left home? That mysterious
horror which spreads a gloom over all
in the house except ourselves, and I be
lieve that we only are exempt because
we do not know what it is. That is one
reason why I have never tried to trace
nil f tho origin of’ tLo inyetovioUH sounds
we have heard. 1 know Father does not
wish us to know anything about it, and
I think it has something to do with the
general avoidance shown towards us,
Now, if we take these girls to our home,
iuay they not hear the same sounds that
have disturbed us ? and how do we know
that we can rely upon their discretion ?
They may—almost certainly will—men
tion it to Father. I fear that we have
done wrong, and Father will be displeased
with us.”
“ Say with me, Regie, for it is my fault
—if fault there is. I will give my
cousins a warning, and I am sure all will
go well. Don’t look so sad, Regie. I
am sure it will be much pleasanter at
home with those merry girls there. Why
l wouldn’t give them up for any thing in
the world I But, let us to bed; we must
finish our purchases in the morning, and
be ready to start in the afternoon for
home.” * * *
We will relate one little bit of conver
sation between Arthur and Emily, and
pass on. As they were passing a large
and handsome Church, Arthur confiden
tially informed his Cousin that he had not
been to Church for six years.
“Six years!” replied Emily. “Not
been to church for six years! How is
that, cousin—doesn’t Uncle Hugh go to
church ?”
“No; none of us go,” answered Ar
thur. “ The last time we went, nearly
six years ago, Father came home in a
violent state of excitement, seemingly
caused by some remarks which he had
overheard. He immediately had the coat
of arms on our carriage, with the motto,
‘ Haul et sans tasche ,’ (“elevated and
without stain,”) erased, and a simple cross
with ‘ Dicu Ayde' substituted. Siuce
that time, my Father has never been in
town, and we never go, unless compelled
by some special business. We have
worship though, every Sunday, in the
Chapel.”
“ You never go to Exeter —why, don’t
you visit any one ?”
“No one ! In truth, dear Cousin, ’tis
but a gloomy abode I am taking you to.
Selfish that I am, I have never even
thought how would miss all the com
pany you have been accustomed to.
Never have I seen a visitor at the Hall.
Wc boys were educated at home, and we
had no play-fellows, except each other.
Don’t go, Emily.”
Arthur-looked wofully at Emily as he
uttered the last words—rather faintly it
must be confessed.
“ Not go, Arthur ! Come now; you
ask ine to give up too much. I expect to
enjoy myself very much, when I onoe
more find myself in a place that 1 can call
home. You aon’t know what a lonely
life we lead at boarding school, even
though surrounded by companions. I
am willing to endure the solitude of
Sutherland Hall, if you can call it soli
tude with two such companions as your
brother and yourself ”
Arthur’s face brightened up wonder
fully while Emily was speaking, but he
answered, still in a rather doubtful tone:
“We are but a parcel of rude men,
Cousin; there are but two women on the
place—old Dora and her daughter, Mary;
all of Father’s servants are old- -they are
the same that he has had in the house for
the last twenty years.”
“Well, then, you need a house-keeper,
and I will try to supply the need. So say
no more about it.”
“ But that isu’t all, Cousin,” replied
Arthur, hesitatingly.
“ What, more horrors yet?” asked
Emily, laughingly.
“ Nav, don’t laugh. Cousin ; this is
something serious. There is a something,
I know not what—felt, but not seen—that
throws a gloom over the whole family;
and this same thing it is, I believe, that
has made us the recluses that we are—for
I will not hide from you, that we are
avoided by every one. There is, in short,
a mystery at the Hall, of which Regie
and myself know nothing.”
“ A mystery, Arthur! Perhaps it ex
ists only in your imagination ?”
“Oh ! no. It is a sad reality,” an
swered Arthur. “Promise me, Cousin,
that whatever you may hear, or see, that
you will mention it to no one but me.”
“ I promise,” replied Emily, unhesi
tatingly. And she kept her promise.
Before closing this chapter, we will
say a few words regarding the old Hall,
which we have heretofore neglected.
On the western coast of England, not
many miles from the town of Exeter,
there is a beautiful little bay, known by
the name of Lea Harbor. It is a fine
harbor for vessels, being very deep, and
well protected, on three sides, by high
chalky cliff’s, known as Lea Headlands.
There is a somewhat narrow 7 passage
through the cliffs, leading from the bay
to the road, which winds around the
base. This road passes through a narrow
valley, and then winding away from the
cliffs, and gradually ascending, terfninates
at the Park gates of Sutherland Hall.
The Hall, as we have said before, was an
almost indescribable mass of various
styles of architecture. Standing iD front
of the Hall, you saw before you to the
right, a large square building of freestone,
with a broad piazza in front. In this por
tion of the Hall lived the family.-
Joining this was the portion which had
formerly been called “Sutherland Hall.”
It was built of dark stone, with heavy
mouldings, and lofty towers. The doors
and windows were firmly fastened, and
the dust of years lay thick upon them.
The Castle was never used, and decay
was making rapid strides over the old
grey stones. The flower gardens, the or
chards, and conservatories were all kept
in the most perfect order, and the grapes
and flowers of Sutherland Hall were of
the rarest kind. Hid away in the Castle
was furniture of costly material and
workmanship, but this was never used,
for the Earl and his sons lived in the
simplest manner.
This was the future home of the sisters.
We will pass over their journey, and
open our second chapter with an account
of their arrival.
[to be continued.]
Tiie Tiger to Show his Claws.— An
officer of the Northern army, who knows
Grant well, says that the people of the
United States little understand the pe
culiar mental making up of this taciturn,
glum individual, who has no more senti
ment than he has intellectuality, and was
born a brutal despot, He may be cor
rectly read by the great world, if it will
o-hmee at his inhuman slaughter of his
soldiers when he traveled his terrible
bloody path along the banks of the
Rapidan, and on to Richmond. He is
said to have not the slightest degree of
“gentleness” in his blood. He is cold,
stolid, heartless; and was as hated by
the rank and file of flic army, in conse
quence of his lack of soul, as he was de
spised by his officers for his ignorance and
clownishness. This gentleman, who was
an associate of Grant during a great por
tion of the late war, declares that, if
elected President ol the United States,
he will proclaim himself Dictator in less
than twelve months, and play the despot
over the North, as well as the South, the
balance of his life. The country does
not know the man. Democrats, keep
Grant where he belongs.
MfTSI® ©f Ell B®Dm.l
[Selected.]
How the Raven became Black*
A LESSON TO TALE BEARERS.
BY JOHN G. SAXE.
There’s a clever classic story,
Such as poets used to write, *
(You may fiml the tale ia Ovid,)
That the Raven once was white,
White as yonder swan a sailiog
At this moment in the moat,
Till the bird, for misbehavior,
Lost, one day, his snowy coat.
“ Raven white,” was once the saying,
Till an accident, alack !
Spoiled its meaning, and thereafter
It was changed to 44 Raven black.”
Shall I tell you how it happened
That the change was brought about ?
List the story of the Cronis,
And j ou’ll find the secret out.
Young Cronis, fairest maiden,
Os Thessalia’s girlish train,
■Whom Apollo loved and courted,
Loved and courted not in vain,
Flirted with another lover,
(So at least the story goes,)
And was wont to meet him slily
Underneath the blushing rose.
Whereupon the bird of Phoebus,
Who their meeting chanced to view,
Went in haste and told his master—
Went and told him all he knew :
Told him how his dear Cronis,
False and faithless as could be.
Plainly loved another fellow—
If he doubted, come and see!
Whereupon, Apollo, angry
Thus to find himself betrayed,
With his silver bow and arrow
Went and shot the wretched maid!
Now, when he perceived her dying,
He was stricken to the heart,
And to stop her mortal bleeding, .
Tried his famous healing art!
But in vain ! the god of physic
Had no antidote; alack!
He took her off so deftly,
Couldn’t bring the maiden back!
Angry with himself, Apollo,
Yet more angry with his bird,
For a moment stood in silence—
Impotent to speak a word.
Them he turned upon the Raven,
44 Wanton babbler, see thy fatb ;
Messenger of mine no longer,
Go to Hades with thy prate—
-44 Weary Pluto with thy tattle ;
Hither, monster, come not back ;
And—to match thy disposition—
Henceforth be thy plumage black!”
MORAL.
When you’re tempted to make mischief,
It is wisest to refuse ;
People are not apt to fancy
Bearers of unwelcome news.
\
SECOND MODAL.
Something of the pitch you handle
On your fingers will remain ;
As the Raven’s tale of darkness
Gave the bird a lasting stain !
# «
THE PERFORMANCE OF “THE CREA
TION.”
josEni haydn’s “let there be light,’ 5
Every one wished to participate in this
festival, which was to render homage to
the veteran German composer, the great
Joseph Haydn, on the occasion of the
twenty T -fifth performance of the Maestro’s
great work, “The Creation.” Ten years
had elapsed since the first performance of
“The Creation,” at Vienna, and already
the sublime composition had made the
tour of Europe, and had been performed
amidst the most enthusiastic applause in
London and Paris, in Amsterdam and
St. Pctcrsburgh, in Berlin, and all the
large and small cities of Germany. * *
To-day, the twelfth performance of “The
Creation” was to take place at Vienna,
and Joseph Haydn himself was to be
present at the Concert. The Committee
of Arrangements had invited him, and he
had accepted the invitation. Although
his seventy-seven years were resting
heavily on his head, and had paralyzed
his strength, he could not withstand the
honorable request of his friends and ad
mirers, and lie replied, with a touching
smile, to the Committee of Arrangements,
whose delegates had conveyed the invita
tion to him : “I shall come to take leave
of the world with my ‘Creation,’ and bid
a last farewell to my fair Viennese.
You, will often yet sing my‘Creation,’
but / shall hear it for the last time!”
“For the last time !” These were the
words which had thrilled all the friends
and admirers of the Maestro, and filled
them with a desire to greet him once
more, and render him homage for the
last time. For all felt and knew that
Haydn had spoken the truth, and tljat his
end was drawing near. All, therefore,
longed to take part in this last triumph of
the composer of ‘‘The Creation,” whom
Death had already touched with its inex
orable finger.
Hence, there was a perfect jam in
front of the University building. * *
As they could not be admitted into the
Hall, they lemained in the street in front
of the building; as they could uot hear
Haydn’s music, they wished, at least, to
see his face, and cheer him on his arrival
at the door.
But there was a surging crowd, also, in
the festively decorated University Hall.
All had come in their holiday attire, and
joy and profound emotion beamed from
all faces. * * *
And now the hour was at band when
the Concert was to commence. The
audience had taken their seats, the Or
chestra ceased tuning their instruments,
the singers were in readiness, and the»
Committee of Arrangements had gone
down to the street door to await Haydn’s
arrival.
He had been expected already for some
time, and the audience began to whisper,
anxiously : “Will lie, perhaps, not come
after all ?” “Will his Physician not per
mit him to go to the Concert, because the
excitement might be injurious to him ?”
# # * *
Now the door opened, and a beautiful,
though strange, group appeared in it. In
its midst, on the shoulders of eight strong
men, arose an easy chair, festooned with
flowers, and in this chair sat the small, bent
form of an old man. His face was pale
and wan, and on his forehead the seventy
seven years had drawn deep furrows;
but, from his large, blue eyes beamed the
eternal fire of youth, and there was some
thing child-like and touching in the smile
of his mouth. On the right side of his
easy-chair was seen the imposing form of
a gentleman, plainly dressed, but with a
head full of majestic dignity, his face
gloomy and wild, his high forehead, sur
rounded by dense, disheveled hair, his
eyes now gleaming with sombre fires,
now glancing mildly and amiably. It
was Louis Yon Beethoven (a Masonic
brother), whom Haydn liked to call his
pupil, and whose fame had, at that time,
already penetrated far beyond the fron
tiers of Austria. On the left side of the
easy-chair, was seen the fine, expressive
face of Salieri, who liked to call himself
Gluck’s pupil; and, side by side with
these two, walked Kreutzer and de
menti, and the other members of the
Committee of Arrangements.
Thundering cheers greeted their ap
pearance ; the whole audience rose. * *
In effect, the exultation of the audience
increased at every step which the proces
sion advanced.
Here two beautiful ladies ot high rank
came to greet him, and presented to him,
on cushions of gold-embroidered velvet,
poems written by Collin and Cnrpani,
and printed on silken ribbons. At the
same time, many hundred copies flitted
through the Hall, and all shouted, joyous
ly, “Long live Joseph Haydn, the Ger
man Maestro!”
Joseph Haydn, quite overcome, his
eyes filled with tears, leaned his head
against the back of his chair. A mortal
pallor overspread his cheeks, and his
hands trembled as though he had the
fever.
“Maastro, dear, dear Maestro!” said the
Princess Esterhazy, bending over him
tenderly, “are you unwell ? You trem
ble, and are so pale ! Are you unwell ?”
“Oh, no, no,” said Haydn, with a gen
tle smile, “my soul is in ecstacies at this
hour, which is a precious reward for a
long life of arduous toils. My soul is in
ecstacies, but it lives in such a weak and
wretched shell; and because the soul is
all ablaze with the fires of rapturous de
light, the whole warmth has entered it,
and the poor mortal shell is cold and
trembling.”
The Princess Esterhazy took impetu
ously from her shoulders the costly
Turkish shawl in which her form was
enveloped; she spread it out before
Haydn, and wrapped it carefully around
his feet. Her example was followed im
mediately by the Princess Lichenstein
and Kinsky, and the Countesses Kaunits
and Spielmann. They doffed their
beautiful ermine furs, and their Turkish
and Persian shawls, and wrapped them
around the old composer, and transformed
them into cushions which they placed
under his head and his arms, and blankets
with which they covered him.
Haydn allowed them smilingly to do
so, and thanked, with glances of joyful
emotion, the beautiful ladies who mani
fested so much tender solicitude for him.
“Why can I not die now ?” he said to
himself, in a low voice. “Why does not
Death kiss my lips at this glorious hour
of my triumph ? Oh, come, Death !
waft me blissfully into the other world,
for, in this world, I am useless henceforth;
my strength is gone, and my head has no
more ideas. I live only in and on the
past !”
“And yet you live for all time to
come,” said the Princess Esterhazy, en
thusiastically, “and while German art
and German music are loved and honor
el, Joseph Haydn will never die, and
never be forgotten.”
Hushed now was every sound. Sa
lieri had taken his seat as Conductor 0 f
the Concert, and signed now t 0 the
Orchestral.
The audience listened in breathless
silence to the tumultuous notes depicting
in so masterly a manner the struggle nf
light and darkness, the chaos of the de
ments. The struggle of the elements be
comes more and more furious, and the
music depicts it in sombre, violent notes,
when suddenly the horizon brightens, the
clouds are rent, the dissonant sounds pass
into a sublime harmony, and in glorious
notes of the most blissful exultation, re
sounds through the Universe the grand,
redeeming words, “Let there be light P
And all join in the rapturous chorus, and
repeat, in blissful concord, “Let there be
light!”
Haydn took no notice of it; he heard
only his music ; his soul was entirely ab
sorbed in it, and, lifting both of his eyes
to Heaven, he said, devoutly and humbly.
“It comes from above !”
The audience bad heard these loud
and enthusiastic words ; it applauded no
longer, but looked in reverent silence
toward the aged composer, who, in the
midst of his most glorious triumph, ren
dered honor to God alone, and lowed
piously and modestly to the work of his
own genius.
The performance proceeded; hut Haydn
hardly heard much of the music. His
head leaned against the back of the chair;
his face, lit up by a blissful smile, was
deathly 7 pale ; his eyes cast fervent glance."
of gratitude toward Heaven, and seemed,
in their ecstatic gaze, to see the whole
Heavens opened.
“Maestro,” said the Princess Esterhazv
when the first part of the performance was
ended, “y T ou must no longer remain
here, but return to your quiet home.”
“Yes, I shall return to the quiet home
which awaits us all,” said Haydn, mildly,
“and I feel sensibly that I shall remain
no longer among men. A sweet dream
seems to steal over me. Let the per
formers commence the second part; and
my soul will be wafted to Heaven on the
wings of my music.”
But the Princess Esterliazy beckoned
to his friends. “Take him away,” she
said; “the excitement will kill him, if he
stay T s any longer.”
They approached his chair, and begged
permission to escort him home. Haydn
nodded his assent silently and smilingly,
and his eyes glanced dreamily” around the
Hall.
Suddenly he gave a start as if in great
terror, and rose so impetuously that the
furs and Turkish shawls, which had been
wrapped around him, fell to the floor.
His face crimsoned, as if in the light of
the setting sun; his eyes looked up with a
radiant expression to the box yonder— to
his Emperor, whom he had loved so long
and ardently, for whom he had wept in
the days of his adversity, for whom he
had prayed and sung at all times. Now
he saw him who, in his eyes, represented
fatherland, home, and human justice ; he
felt that it was the last time -his eyes
would behold him, and he wished to bid
farewell, at this hour, to the world, his
fatherland, and his Emperor.
With a vigorous hand he pushed back
the friends who would have held him and
replaced him in his chair. Now lie was
no longer a weak and decrepit old man:
he felt strong and active, and he hastened
forward with a rapid step through the
Orchestra to the Conductor’s seat and the
piano in front of it. lie laid his hands,
which trembled no longer, on the keys,
and struck a full concord lie turned his
face toward the imperial box ; his eyes
beamed with love and exultation, and he
began to play his favorite hymn with im
pressive enthusiasm—the hymn which he
had composed ten years ago, in the days
of Austria’s adversity, and which lie had
sung every day since then—the hymn.
l 'Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser, unsern
gate a Kaiser Franz /” And the audi
ence rose and gazed with profound cur •
tion upon Joseph Haydn’s gleaming face,
and then up to the Emperor, who was
standing smilingly in his box, and tin
Empress, from whose eyes two largo
tears rolled down her pale cheeks; an".
with one accord, the vast crowd com
menced singing :
“God preserve the Emperor,” etc.
Haydn’s hands dropped exhauste'j
from the key’s ; his form rocked to
fro, and, half fainting, lie sank back i’d'
the arms of Salieri and Krutzer.
The audience paused; all forgot
imperial hymn, and looked only at -
veuerable Maestro, whom Saliori 1
Kreutzer lowered now softly iu to
easy-chair, which had been brought t •
them.
“Take me home, dear ones,’ he
faintly; “sing on, my ‘Creation
soul will remain with you, but iny •
can no longer stay. Old age has luoy •*
its strength. Farewell, farewell,