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242 she looked with the eyes of a mother's love rather‘than with those of a mother's ambi tion ; and somehow came to the conclusion Mrs. Jones wasnot so bad, and that, per haps, Charles might not do wrong in marry ing her. It is possible, too, that slie thought she might not live very long, she looked so thin and pale, and felt so weak. At night the widow’s carriage conveyed them home. “ What a nice carriage this is !” she ex claimed. “I wonder, my dear Charles, will you ever have a carriage of your own V ’ “I am sure, dear mother, I do not care, as long as 1 can walk ; though, for your sake, l wish I had one,” was his reply. “Really, Mrs. Jones is very kind ; I won der is it quite true that she has fifteen hun dred a year ? I fear, my dear son, it will be a long time before ijou make fifteen hundred a year.” *1 am sure it will; but what then ?” “Very true, my dear; we have lived on much less for a long time.” Charles Brandon smiled at the simplicity of his mother's observation ; but latterly he had hardly been able to smile when he looked in her clear, placid face: she seemed fading away like a phantom before him ; her voice and her kind smile were unchanged, but sbe was drooping; and he had not the means to procure her those necessaries, those comforts, which her declining years and increasing in firmities required. Os a weak and feeble frame, she had nevertheless struggled against more black and stormy sorrow than women in general encounter; and, though she had not sunk under it, it had shaken and torn her constitution. The decay, however, had been so gradual that she herself was insensi ble of it; her thoughts and feelings were wrapped up in her son ; her child was her world; she knew and wished to know no other. It is foolish to say we do not perceive the change that takes place from day to day du ring the sickness of a beloved object: those who say so know not what the watchfulness of love is. If absent for some time from a cherished person, we may be shocked at the change sickness occasions in the appearance ; but watchful affection observes each little al teration as if seen through microscopic glass, that magnifies evil. Charles Brandon loved his mother too tenderly to be blind to her suf ferings, and he often gazed on her until obli ged to turn away to conceal his emotion. “We have certainly,” she repeated, in the half-patient, half-grateful tone that is so touching, “lived long on the diflerence be tween fifteen hundred pounds and fifteen hun dred guineas; but what does that matter now, my dear ? The past is past; it was, is over. Whatever we may have to encounter to-mor row, the suffering of yesterday is gone; that is a great comfort, Charles. God has been very good to us; given you fine abilities: to be sure it was a great struggle to get them forward. Do you remember how often we walked to the print-shop with those beauti ful sketches ? and how, one night—oh, dear boy! do you remember that particular night, when 1 was obliged to leave you with your poor sprained ancle in the dark, because we had neither candles nor credit, and run down to the same shop, where the man had so of ten insulted our poverty by his neglect, to ask if anything of yours had been sold; and how astonished l was at his new civility; and then he told me down gold, pure glittering gold ? A great sculptor had purchased two pictures, and taken your name down; and af ter I had been home, and told you of it, do you remember how you sent me out to buy myself anew cap, in case the great man should call—never thinking how many things you wanted? And then, when he did call, and turned over the sketches and designs which were in the great brown paper-case, I could only listen to his praise and his advice, and w r eep.” “I hope,” said the young painter, “I hope, dear mother—to use a common phrase—that the corner is turned.” ” “ Well, I hope it is; but corners are hard to turn, Charles—hard to turn in all things— even in the hemming of a pocket-handker chief.” And having so said, they descended at their own door; the artist having bestowed his last half-crown on the footman, while the footman thought it should have been five shillings. But Mrs. Brandon had not said half she intended to say, and was only re strained from saying more by seeing her son gazing on a portrait he had lavished all his skill upon—of a gentle blue-eyed girl, which he intended for one of the exhibitions; and well she knew he loved the very shadow of that girl, though, perhaps, he knew it not himself. And she could not help contrasting the rich brown hair, the intelligent yet win _ ning smile, the hope, and life, and loveliness % a IT SI SIE S3 Db a T&1 AS&TTIS* of that beautiful being, with what they had just left. Perhaps his thoughts ran in the same channel, for he turned away and sigh ed; but then fifteen hundred a year!—how very long before Charles could make fifteen hundred a year! It so happened that poor Mrs. Brandon caught cold that night—how, no one could tell; yet, catching cold is a universal topic of small conversation ; and Mrs. Jones flew to her relief with jelly, and marmalade, and honey, and all the hundred and one things that are prescribed for colds. Young Bran don’s heart was more touched by Mrs. Jones’s kindness to his mother than ever it had been with her wealth; though, indeed, it is need less to say that, for what lofty heart was ev er touched by gold ? Mrs. Brandon’s health was rapidly declining; and, to the excitement produced by the dismissal of old and the arri val of new lovers, was added that of anxiety about “ poor dear Mrs. Brandon ; such a mother! such a son! such a prodigy! such sentiment! such devotion! exquisite beauti ful being !"—until the hints and observations, the remarks and plain speaking, of all who knew the young painter, compelled him to ask himself what he meant to do. Unfortunately, at this particular crisis, Dr. Darling said that the warm air and bright sun of Italy might revive the drooping woman; might, in fact, (for Dr. Darling loved to make people happy,) make her better than evershe had been ; and visions of Rome, and Venice, and Naples, mingled with his mother’s im age, restored to health, as his first memory of her was, (for painters have fervent minds ;) and he read over in Byron all that has thrill ed so many hearts, descriptive of the coun try and its magic. He read it by the light of a single candle, as he sat by his mother's bed side; and when he raised his eyes from the inspired page, her mild blue orbs were fixed upon him : they looked to him at that mo ment as if pressed back by the fingers of death into their sockets. And he could save her by a sacrifice. He smiled in bitter mockery, when he thought how many would deem him fortunate in securing the widow and the widow's gold. The next day she came, and said how much, how very much she, too, should like to visit Rome; she had a pretty mosaic that was bought in Rome; and Genoa—she would like, above all things, to go with dear Mrs. Brandon to Genoa, to tend her as a daughter, and to buy crimson velvet on the spot; but, , if she did, people would talk—nay, she was sure they would, the world was so unkind; and then she should be injured by her feel ings. And while she so spoke she looked down, and seemed modest, asif anxious to re call her words. The youth’s feelings were sadly harrowed, for he assured himself, for the first time, that there was someone he loved even as dearly as his mother, and he fancied she loved him. To be sure it was a hopeless affection; but who ever believed in the hopelessness of a passion, when both loved and both were young ? There was another and a higher principle tugging at his heart and flushing his pale check: he despised himself for truckling with a feeling so high, so holy as love. It had hitherto been to him a thing above the world; exalted as the stars of heaven; pure as the mountain air of a free unfettered coun try; glorious as the mid-day sun; beautiful as that fairest of all painter’s dreams, a young and lovely woman ; and yet he had been calculating on the advantages likely to arise from the semblance of it—summing up the pounds, shillings, and pence, that were to outweigh Mrs. Jones’s age and Mrs. Jones’s folly. He shuddered at this new sensation, and turned from it in disgust; but then his eyes fell upon his listless mother— listless for the first time; and though she re turned his glance, yet it was in such a fash ion that his heart heaved with agony. And then came Dr. Darling and talked to him again, saying that his mother’s only chance of life was in removal; and, when he clench ed his hand and shook his head, the doctor laughed, and replied that the fault was all his owm, for that a certain fair lady had said so and so. And well, indeed, did the doctor fulfil the mission which doubtless had been entrusted to him by the widow; and at last the painter resolved that, for her sake, who had done so much for him. for her sake, he would do what would save his mother. That night he sat by her bed-side a chang ed man. He seemed determined not to think; he talked wildly and recklessly of the future, but would permit no allusion to the past. He had wound up all the energies of his strong young spirit to a determined point, and flung himself upon the troubled waters, reck less of the consequences. He told his moth er he should be very happy; they all would be happy-; and she would recover—he knew it—felt it. He would not suffer her to speak of Mrs. Jones; this was the last time, the last evening, he should be unfettered; for he had written to request the lady to fix an hour when he might see her on a subject involv ing (alas! how truly!) the happiness of his future life, and she had replied, on rose-tinted paper, that she would see him at nine, “ too happy if she could contribute to that happi ness.” He tore the billet into a thousand atoms, and ground it into the thread-bare carpet with the heel of his boot, even while he held his mother’s clammy hand in his, and while he talked to her of happiness. She did not un derstand the feelings that sent the hectic burning to his cheek : but she thought of the blue Italian sky, the property, the kindness , of Mrs. Jones—little knowing that the kind ness of fools is as evanescent, as uncertain, as the northern light, that shoots athwart the sky, and then is seen no more. He arranged her pillow, steeped her temples in eau-de- Cologne, the gift of her new friend, read her a few verses of one of her favorite chapters, lit her thinly-burning lamp, and having kissed her as he never kissed her before, left her for the night. He then went into his painting room, and steadily gazed upon the picture he had once joyed to paint with a determination of purpose that seemed immoveable. He drew his pen-knife, and attempted to destroy the work he so loved. It was in vain; his hand trembled; the instrument of destruction fell from his fingers; and he turned from it in all the bitterness of self-reproach, feeling he had not strength to perform what lie con sidered his duty. “It is for the last time—the first and last time,” he murmured. And, falling on his | knees before the copy of her he loved, he i kissed the lips that were all but warm with i life. He then took it from the wall, packed it carefully up, and directed it to the original, to w r hom he had once promised it. He threw himself upon the sofa, in the same room where he always slept: but sleep will not bid the wearied and fevered spirit rest; he could not even close his eyes. At last tears relieved his heated brow, and he clasped his hands upon his throbbing temples. Sudden ly, he might, perhaps, have slumbered, but, if he had, he awoke with an indistinct idea that he heard a noise in his mother’s room, the little chamber he had quitted. He listened, with his heart upon his lips, but it was not repeated. Again he tried to sleep; no, he could not. He crept noiselessly to her bed room door; all was silent—silent, he fancied, as the grave, where the writhing of the red worm is noiseless as the progress of that time which gives it food. The silence w r as oppressive; he knew his mother’s slumbers were light as childhood’s sighs, and he feared to disturb her. Still, if he could but hear her speak: he thought the least sound of her sweet, gentle voice, would relieve the weight his heart trembled under. He listened till the intensity of his attention deprived him almost of the power of breath ing. For the second time that night his hand trembled; still it was on the lock of the door, and he opened it. The light that streamed from within told him the lamp was burning; though he did not perceive it immediately, as the grey morning was already in his painting room. There was no sound; but, as he had entered, he thought he would just peep at his mother; it had always calmed him to do so ; he was sure she would look happy in her sleep; she had seemed so tranquil, so cheer ful, so full of hope both for here and hereaf ter, when he left her last. He approached the bed, and withdrew the thin curtain; ago nized at once by what he saw, he pushed back the hair from his brow. Could it be real, or a disordered vision of his imagina tion ? There she lay—her long thin fingers, having grasped the clothes, were clenched in the convulsions of death; her head had fallen on her shoulder, and blood was filtering from her lips. It was evident she had burst a blood-vessel, and that the slight noise which had at first roused him proceeded from her ef forts to call for assistance, He saw he was recognized; one hand moved towards him; frantic as he almost instantly became with grief, still lie felt that she wanted to bless him. He sank by her side : with the strong effort of purpose urged by the deep affection which only a mother feels, she raised herself for a moment, and, suffocating as she was, she placed her hand upon his brow, and the words, “Bless—good son!” came forth, with the last bubble of her life-blood. Assistance was useless: Darling came— kind as ever; kinder, indeed, where 6uch feelings as Charles Brandon’s for a time took away all power to think or act. It was to such persons, and at such times, that the doc tor’s sympathies, fairly awake, showed their benevolence and humanity: he was then truly, as children frequently and expressively say, “ his own self.” True to all noble feel ings, which the conventional forms of socie ty so frequently paralyze, he felt deeply for the high soul that was prostrated bv the bn liest grief which stirs within us: 'he Wer ’ t with him—real unaffected tears, he would not have shown to the mob for worlds How blessed are such springs! How clear should they be kept from the rubbish of earth ! A few words convinced Dr. Darlino- that the young man would have sacrificed” him self for his mother; and, with ready tact, he undertook to arrange a matter which he knew Charles Brandon could not even think of then. When all was over, and the g ree n turf pressed upon his mother’s grave in the most beautiful churchyard the immediate neighborhood of London can boast— Old Brompton—then, indeed, Dr. Darling conver sed with him as a friend, almost as a father, about what it was right to do. The conse quence was, that Mrs. Cavendish Jones had a fit of passion, a fit of hysterics, and a deter mined aversion to painters. The incipient attorney almost fancied he had a chance: and several military men returned, as they ought, to the charge. But the lady seemed resolved to do something that was remarkable—some thing quite out of the way—something won derful; that is, after declaring for a week and two days that she would never marry— once or twice she thought of becoming a nun and endowing a convent; but she was easily dissuaded from that; then she talked of go', ing abroad, but that would not do; for sever al intelligent and communicative persons in the loquacious neighborhood where she resi ded assured her that Dr. Darling had been seen to drive with Charles Brandon early one morning to the Boulogne steamer, and that his trunk was directed to Rome, via Paris— and that, except his trunk and a folio, he had no other luggage, except, indeed, a square, flat deal case, neither large nor small, that looked very like a picture. Some even as serted that it was the portrait of a lady—a young, handsome lady—and others declared that an officer in the neighborhood, who had a very lovely blue-eyed daughter, had a pic ture of Charles Brandon in the little back par lour. To be sure, though the officer’s daugh ter was very pretty, it was a satisfaction to the gossips of Sloane-strcet to know that she was a fool—which, they repeated, she cer tainly was, as she had refused two such good offers! Positively two! The daughter of a half-pay major to refuse two good offers—of course she must be a fool! Now’, it was hinted to the widow by many whose interest it was she should remain at home, that, if she went abroad, everybody would say she went after the artist —and Mrs. Jones’s delicacy and pride of course assumed a befitting digni ty at the idea of entertaining a predilection for “such fellows!” Sclcctci) Poctrn. I LOVE YOU. J lore you—’tis the simplest way The thing I feel to tell; Yet if I told it all the day, You'd never guess how well. You are my comfort and my light— My very life you seem ; I think of you nil day ; all night ’Tis but of you 1 dream. There’s pleasure in the lightest word That you can speak to me ; My soul is like the Aolian chord, And vibrates Still to thee. I never read the love-song yet, So thrilling, fond, or true, But in my own heart I have met Somo kinder thought for you. I bless the shadows on your face, The light upon j-our hair — 1 like for hours to sit and trace 1 he passing changes there. I love to hear 3 T our voice’s tone, Although you should not say A single word to dream upon, When that has died away. Oh ! you are kindly as the beam That warms where’er it plays ; And you are gentle as a dream Os happy, future days. And you are strong to do the right, And swift the wrong to flee ; And if you were not half so bright, You’re all the world to mel i i RECIPE FOR A MODERN DUEL- Two fools, with each an empty head, Or, like their pistols, lined with lead! T wo minor fools to measure distance, A surgeon, to afford assistance; A paragraph to catch the fair, And tell tho world how brave the]/ ere !