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JOHN H, SEALS, Editor and Proprietor.
ivies’ gcprtatftti
MARY K. BRYAy, Editress.
FLOWERS.
We scarcely expected to enjoy the luxury of
flowers when we first saw the rather bare appear
ance of the yard around our temporary home;
but our new friends are lavish in their kind re
membrances, and we have received, through
them, a share of Flora’s firstlings. Our thanks
v a>e due Mrs. A. for the lovely bouquet that is
now upon our table.
Another—a most superb one —was sent to our
room during our absence, and the servant gave
the name of the donor as “Miss Smith.” Who
*Miss Smith may be, we do not know, but that
she is a lady of taste and refinement, her beauti
fully arranged flowers fully attest, and wc only
wish we had an opportunity of thanking her in
propria persona.
Our dear little friend, Mary McNapght, who
sent us the pretty handful of wild violets, shall
be privately kissed for remembering that, coun
try-bred as we are, and a native, as well as her
self, of the “Land of Flowers,” we would natur
ally long for a sight of spring’s blue-eyed dar-
Kngs, as soon as we saw the hill-sides growing
green in the distance, and heard the voice of “ro
bin red breast” prophecying ofthecoming spring.
GRIFFIN FEMALE COLLEGE.
hear frequent mention made of the Female
College at Griffin, which has begun its present
Session under new and brilliant auspices, and bids
lair to compete with any similar institution in the
State. It is under the direction of Prof. W. A.
Rogers, whose well known ability, long experi
ence and tried integrity eminently qualify him
for the post he occupies. His untiring energy,
his enthusiastic love for his vocation, and the
popularity he enjoys, argue well for the future
prosperity of the College of which he has recent
ly accepted the Presidency. We see, by the cir
cular letter lying before us, that he intends car
rying out his usual strict rules, prohibiting ex
travagant dress, gallantries from young men, and
the reading of romances among his pupils.
We extract a paragraph from this circular, to
show how deeply he feels the responsibility of
his position:
. L To us, by you, has been committed the intel
lectual and moral training of your children. We
feel the weight of the responsibility which there
by devolves upon us. We would not —we dare
not prove recreant to the duties this high trust
imposes; but, on the contrary, we would dis
charge them fully, faithfully and efficiently.
Yet, another, to prove his contempt for the su
perficial smattering of learning taught at so many
female seminaries, and his earnest desire that
women, as well as men, should receive a strong,
thorough, practical education, to fit them for the
serious business of life :
We honor and admire woman. We earnestly
long for her complete mental disenthrallment—
we anxiously hope she will yet attain that high
position, intellectual, moral and social, which
God designed she should occupy, and for which
her peculiar talents eminently qualify her; yet,
we confidently believe she never will enjoy that
disenthrallment—she never will attain that high
elevation, Fhe never will fulfill her high mission,
until she is educated — educated thoroughly, ap
propriately, completely—educated in the fullest
and highest sense of the term.
Parents need have no fear in entrusting their
daughters to such a man as this. *
A.
THE BALMORAL SKIRT.
We wonder that the ladies of our alternately
muddy and dusty city have never adopted the
Balmoral skirt
Surely, in the winter, when the streets are lit
* tie better than the bog of Kilkenry, ladies (who
can not stay at home forever, especially when
new goods are being opened,) would find the
Balmoral petticoat more appropriate for the
weather and bad walking than white under gar
ments, whose very questionable purity they are
often obliged to display while picking their way
over muddy crossings.
The Balmoral has a very picturesque effect
under black or dark silks, merinos, alpacas or
delaines, and we see, by consulting the oracles of
fashion, that it “gains in favor rapidly,” and is
quite a favorite in “ high places.” We hope,
next winter, that a fashion, so pretty and conve
nient, will be more generally adopted here,
. Bright, warm colors suit the seasons of autumn
and fall, and a color that will bear contact with
mud and dust better than the usual white, em
phatically suits such cities as Atlanta. For light
colored dresses, or for summer wear, white cam
. brie underskirts with broad hems should take
the place of the Balmoral. Embroidered skirts
are only worn in door with morning dresses.
*
FAMILY PRAYER.
We had stolen away from our city home, leav
ing behind us pen and portfolio, and all remin
ders of daily toil, and, following the pilotship of a
dear little friend of ours who had come by for us
on her way from school, we had gone a breezy,
delightful walk, two miles out into the country,
to visit the pleasant home of a friend.
It was joy to be away where we could hear the
free winds sweep unrestrained through the pines,
r see the budding of delicate foliage and catch the
lispings of the infant Spring. It was very pleas
ant t# have the children run out and meet us,
holding up their red lips to be kissed, ‘and to
* know, by their mother’s warm embrace, how
heartily welcomed we were. It was delight
ful to set by a fireside so cheerful, in the midst
of so well ordered a household, and *alk and lis
ten. glancing often at the group of attentive little
faces around us. But it was a deeper, holier
pleasure still, when, after tea, the family Bible
was unclasped and the children, with one accord,
put aside slates, books and toys and all, even to
“baby Willie,” composed themselves in their
little chairs, while their father read aloud a chap
ter from the open book, and bowing in the midst
of his kneeling household, repeated the prayer of
prayers; the one wo have all murmured at our
mother’s knee; the one we first recall when
death seems suddenly near and the grave yawns
before us; the prayer the sinless Saviour taught
to sinful man.
Our Father who art in Heaven,” and then a
pause, followed by the soft responses — the sweet
< voice of the mother, the children’s silvery ac
esnts, the lisping voice of the baby, all murmur
ingly, low and reverently, “Our Father who art
in Heaven.”
v.- Could there be any sight sweeter, holier, more
worthy for angels to lean from their bright homes
and look upon, than a household united in prayer
—father, mother, children servants, kneeling to
gether and sending up their blended praise to
Will not the skeptic’s proud head bow
in reverence before a picture so divinely beauti
ful f Will not philanthropists—whether Chris
tians or not —rejoice that there exists so purifying
harmonizing a principle aB religion ?
The Family Altar is the firm basis upon which
rests our country’s prosperity. Washington
himself bowed his noble head at tlje household
shrine, and the wisest and best of his successors
have done the same.
May the Family Altar be forever held sacred
as the tabernacle of old. Let the French (since
they must) dictale to us in matters of fashion;
let them mold the forms of our daughters, modify
/sour manners and invade our drawing rooms, bul
*t orfathing be kept wared from their sacreligious
touch—let their skepticism and false philosophy
never sweep away the old-fashioned Family Al
tar. *
A PEEP INTO MY NEIGHBOR'S WINDOW.
The day is fading gloomily enough without;
the ruthless March winds strip from the trees
every lingering souvenir of last summer’s wealth
of foliage, and the rain beats the sear leaves into
the wet ground ; bnt a ruddy light streams from
the window of the cottage over the way.
A cheery fire upon the hearthstone is the polar
star ol home, and since the snowy curtains are
swept aside, there can be no harm in looking
upon the pleasant picture within. lam wearied
with following Shelly’s muse in its reckless wan
derings upon the lonely heights of Fancy, and
through the labyrinths of speculation. lam be
wildered with his misty philosophy, and I long
to come down to the broad, level path of every
day actualities and common feelings. The voice
of the wi#d, the impotent struggling of those
clinging leaves, the drifts of gray clouds, the mo
notonous music of the rain, are eerie as Shelly’s
song itself; but nothing could be more human
than yonder sweet picture of domestic happiness.
How cosy and cheerful is the room, with its
polished furniture, its vase of early hyacinths
upon the little table, and its sparkling fire upon
the hearth! Yet, it is not uncomfortably precise
in its neatness. The bright faced children turn,
bled, like so many rosy apples upon the rug, give
it essentially a home-like appearance, like the
German pictures of peasant life, whose simple
faithfulness of delineation brings tears totheeyes
that look upon them.
The little mistress of yonder domain, whom I
have been watching as she bustled about, hand
ling the broom and the duster with such graceful
dexterity, re-appears now, metamorphosed by a
pretty head-dress and a dainty silk apron, her
pleasant face beaming with quiet content. She
re-adjusts the flowers in the vase, she stirs the
glowing coals, she puts an arm chair to the fire,
and hangs a crimson dressing gown upon it.
Then, she comes to the window and looks out
into the rain and the gathering twilight. She is
watching for somebody. Ah! there he is—that
handsome man in the gray overcoat, who passes
me and smiles as he catches sight of the face
looking for him from the window of his home.
She has gone to the door to meet him, and they
enter now with his arm about her waist. She
helps him remove the wet overcoat, and substi
tutes the well warmed dressing gown and the
comfortable slippers. Then, she stands and looks
smilingly on as he sinks into the arm chair and
gives himself up to be kissed and pulled at by the
happy children. A pleasant home, a loving wife
and a nosegay of rosy faces clustering around
him ! is he not now realizing the
“Only bliss of Paradise
Thac has survived the fall V
Ah ! the sight is worth all the gloomy reason
ings of a poet philosopher. It warms the heart
with the genial glow of sympathy, and fills it
with gratitude to God, who blesses His creatures
with the rich boon of human love.
What, if my own hearth is solitary, save the
lonely figure sitting here, and looking out into
the misty twilight; what, if domestic happiness
is but a dream and a memory to me ; if my life
shall never more be crowned by love’s “sweet
fulfillment,” shall this prevent me from rejoicing
in the happiness of my more fortunate sisters ?
Shall I not look upon them,sittingserenely under
the shelter of protecting love, without one feeling
of envy, one word of murmuring at fate, and only
a sigh for what might have been ?
“God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb;”
the destiny of all cannot be alike, and we, who
now see through a glass darkly, shall acknowl
edge the wisdom ot the Divine decrees, when the
veil of mortality shall be withdrawn from our
souls, and with unclouded vision, we shall read
the solution of all earthly mysteries in the great
book of life.
Ah ! the white curtain has fallen upon the fair
picture that smiled upon me through the dreary
darkness. Nevermind; it has done me good. I
am calmer and happier now. It was like a sweet
hymn sung by one we love, and it is worth all
the wild, melancholy music which Shelly pours
from his haunted soul. It has given me more
hopeful and cheering views of life, and though
the twilight deepens, and the w’inds rise higher
and wilder, I can thank God for the sunshine
that lies, calm and sweet, in the hearts of so many
of His creatures to-night. *
For the Crusader.
RANDOM THOUGHTS.
Did you ever go out under the open sky one of
these calm, bright days that come to us in the
early spring: when the great white clouds sail
so noiselessly by, and the chatter of the gay
birds, and the whirr of the droning fly, and the
noise of the street wagons, and the shout of the
distant driver, and the rush of the fiery engine,
and the melody of distant bells all swell and sub
side, and rise and fall in a billowy anthem around
you; when existence itself seems ecstacy; when
the rustle of the leaves sends a thrill of happi
ness to your heart: when the far-off sound of
wandering winds float dreamily past, through
the blue ether, and you wish your material part
could dissolve and leave you free to soar away
—on through the dim distance from whence so
many voices of love and forms of beauty seem
continually rising—on and on, away from this
world’s petty cares and disheartening trials, to
bathe forever in the sea of loveliness spread out
before you ; to plume your wings and fly to Hea
ven’s gate and catch a glimpse of our Father’s
throne, or rove to other bright worlds, wheeling
on through the dim immensity? This must be
Heaven, indeed ! Purified from sin, freed from
sorrow and human infirmities, clothed in robes
of immortal beauty and glory, methinks the cher
ubim and seraphim could ask no greater. For,
would not the wisdom, power and glory of the
Creator shine forth in his works, and the love of
our Father fill the hearts of all his Creatures?
MYRA.
THE VALUE OF STORIES.
A gentleman who acted as private secretary
and amanuensis for Prescott, the historian, gives
some extremely interesting particulars in rela
tion to the daily habits of that remarkable man.
He was as regular in his movements as clock
work, and among his invariable habits was that
of listening every day of his life, for the space of
an hour, to some story or tale read to him by his
wife or his secretary. He needed this kind ot
mental refreshment ns a relief from hisgravestu
dyofthe matter-of-fact histories in which he
worked, as much as he needed sleep or exercise
in the open sir. And what he required every
mind requires. Stories, therefore, are as neces
sary to the preservation and improvement of the
human intellect as any other kind of literary ex
ercise. It is only the thoughtless and unphilo
sophical who speak of stories with contempt.
They are to the sober realities of earth what
flowers are in the vegetable world. Roses and
violets are as important in the economy of the
universe as are oaks and cedars. The story-wri
ter, therefore, is not to be held in less esteem than
the author of ponderous volumes of history or
dissertations on philosophy and political economy.
Each has his sphere, and is entitled to respect
according to the degree of ability with which he
fulfills the duty which his talents qualify him to
discharge.— Ex.
Os all thieves, fools are the worst; they rob
you of time and temper.— Gostht.
FOR THE CULTURE OF TRUTH, MORALITY AND LITERARY EXCELLENCE.
ATLANTA.
BY MBS. SUE P. FRANKLIN.
Atlanta! at that name what varied memories
start,
Like phantom shapes from out the recess of my
heart!
Some strike the wildly echoing chords of grief,
To which the joyous tones of others give relief.
I love thee, fair young city, for the memories you
recall;
Love thy railroads, churches, citizens and all,
For around them all are thrown cherished mem
ories of a time
When I dwelt within your precincts, and heard
your sweet bells chime.
I love thee for thy many pure hearts and true,
Whose love revived my drooping soul like dew
That falls upon the Earth at twilight’s hour,
Giving new life and vigor to the flower.
I loved thee long ago, for the sake of one who
died;
I’ve loved thee since I left thee, ablest and hap
py bride;
Far better that thou wert the birthplace of my
love,
That there I found whai now makes Earth almost
like Heaven above.
Young city of the South, I hope, like the fair
maid,
Whose father reigned in the sweet valley of Ar
cade,
You may for courage and for beauty be renowed,
And soon the Empire City of the South be
crowned.
Yes, like that fair Atalanta for whom thou wast
named,
May you for matchless swiftness and daring
strength be famed,
And no Meilanion, with his golden lure.
Outstrip thee in the race tor honors which en
dure.
May you all cities of the South excell;
May it be sweeter in your homes to dwell,
Than in the fair Arcadian vale or wood,
Whence sprang thy namesake beautiful and good.
Monti cello, Ga.
PAUL DESMOND.
A STORY OF SOUTHERN LIFE.
BY MARY K. BRYAX.
(Continued from last week.)
CHAPTER VIII.
Those were merry days that followed. We
hunted and fished to our heart’s content in the
cool morning twilights, read and dreamed in the
sultry noontides, as we swung in our hammocks,
under the shade of the magnolias, and then the
nights—those glorious, tropic nights, with their
brilliant, constellated heavens, their perfume,
their music and their beauty—we passed hours of
those magnificent nights, talking and idly smok
ing our Havannas, among the Oleanders that
had overgrown the ruins of the Old Castle.
Petranelio seemed another being. Harry’s ex
uberant spirits were the very tonic he needed,
and the pure air, the horseback exercise, the ex
citing outdoor amusements, and, more than all,
the scenes of rich natural beauty—amid which
he reveled with all a poet’s delight—wrought in
him a complete metamorphosis. But he, as well
as I, knew that this idle life must not continue.
We had begun the ascent of a weary steep, whose
summit was veiled by the mists of uncertainty,
and we must not pause to pluck the roses along
the wayside. So, notwithstanding Harry’s vehe
ment protestations against it, I engaged rooms
for Petranelio and myself, at a pleasantf private
boarding house in Havanna, and we took posses
sion of them soon afterwards. The apartments
were on the second floor, and one of them—a
cool room, looking to the West—was fitted up
with easel, pallets, pencils, etc. for Petranello’s
studio, while I occupied the two adjoining rooms.
For the first few days, we had nothing to employ
our time, and spent a great portion of it in stroll
ing over the town, and in the evening, taking our
station upon the balcony to w atch the singular
looking volantes passing along with their pictu
resquely attired occupants.
In the absence of better occupation, I became
curious to know something of my fellow lodgers,
especially the occupants of the first floor, who,
my talkative little landlady informed me, were
an English family of good descent, comprising
Mr. Atheling, his wife and little son. Mr. Athe
ling was an invalid, who had left his bleak island
home and sought the mild climate of Cuba,
hoping that its genial atmosphere might arrest
the destroying hand of consumption. His fair,
girlish looking wife I frequently saw, reading in
the piazza or watering her geraniums andEnglish
flowers, or oftener reclining on the settee with
roses on her bosom and in her fair curls, playing
with a little milk-white Spaniel, while her own
beautiful boy sat on a low stool at her feet, with
his large eyes lifted to his mother’s face, coveting
the caresses she was bestowing upon the pam
pered pet. I felt drawn towards this lovely child,
and it was not long before we were the best of
friends. His grave gentleness, his sweet replies
and his manner, full of childhood’s intuitive
grace, yet, with a quiet thoughtfulness beyond
his years, pleased and interested me. I made
his acquaintance th-ough his admiration for my
horse—a fine, half breed Arab—a present from
Harry Roysdan. He came out on the piazza
every day to watch me drive away. I saw him
gazing wistfully at me one evening as I was tak
ing the reins in my hand, and, going back to
him, I asked if he would not like to ride.
A glow of pleasure overspread his countenance.
“ Ask mama,” he whispered, eagerly, grasping
the hand of his child mother, and looking into her
face.
“ Mama will consent, I know, when I assure
her that there is not the slightest danger ; that
my horse is perfectly safe, and I will take as good
care of her boy as she could do herself.”
Mama smiled and twisted the bracelets on her
pretty arms. “Certainly,” she said. “ You are
quite welcome to him, if you are willing to trou
ble yourself with him, Sir. But Charlie is a sad
bore. He has been teasing me all the evening
with his strange, silly questions.”
And so we rode away together, I and my little
chaige, and Charlie at first held his breath with
delight, mingled with a slight feeling of terror, as
the horse swept rapidly along; but this soon
wore away and he became quite sociable, asking
sage questions, neither pert nor silly, about the
trees, the birds, the cloud-sprinkled sky and
every thing that pleased him.
“ Can you read any, Charlie ?” I asked, after
he had called to my mind the touching story of
“Robin Red Breast” covering with leaves the
dead “Babes in the Wood,’’ suggested by seeing
a pretty Red Breast in a hedge as we passed.
“A little; but I mean to learn very fast.
Mima has a pretty book with pictures, that she
is going to give me when I learn. Oh ! Ido so
want to read stories, like Mima tells me. You
don’t know how nice—one about a little girl
with a red cloak, that a wolf eat up, and one about
a poor old lady that had a dog, and nothing but
one bone in her cupboard. I will ask Mima to
tell them to you.”
“I shall be glad to have her do so,” I said,
gravely. “ And Mima is your mama, I sup
pose?”
“No, no; my mama’s name is Susie. She
made me this and this,” pointing to his embroi
dered sacque and dress; “but Susie don’t know
any stories. Did you never gee Mima, that live.
Atlanta, Greorgia, March. 11, 1859.
in the same house we do, and is always painting
pictures? She wears black dresses all the time )
and has white hands and shiny hair like her own
pictures.”
I now knew that “Mima” must be the “myste
rious artist” whom Petrart dlo had several times
spoken of as his rival, though it appeared that
she painted landscapes and fancy sketches only,
while his forte was portrait painting. Petranelio
praised the specimens exhibited in the window
of her studio, and was curious to see the lady;
but although occupying rooms on the same floor
with the Athelings, she kept herself in such se
clusion that neither of us had yet obtained a
glimpse of her face. I had seen her figure a few
times upon the street—always enveloped in folds
of black crape, and with the Spanish mantilla
shading her features.
She had a class of young ladies who came every
evening to Like lessons in drawing, and some
times she went out with these, but not often. I
questioned Charlie as to her name, but he knew
nothing except “Mima,” and that the lady “was
sweet and pretty,” which opinion might have
been owing to her faculty of telling “nice sto
ries.”
When we returned that evening, Charlie had
an enormous bouquet for his mama—so large
that she declared she could not hold it in both
her hands, and she spread them before us to show
how much too small they were for that.
I was passing on in search of Petranelio, when
I saw him in front of the “Mima’s” studio, which,
as the house was situated on a corner of the
square, opened upon the next street. He beck
oned me to him and bade me look at a picture,
which had recently been hung there. It was a
strange, fanciful conception, looking as though
it had been dreamed on some mid-summer night.
It represented a lake, with a back-ground of
shadowy mountains and forests, stretching away
into seeming infinity. A gray old ruin was dimly
seen, crowning a wooded height in the distance,
and the halo of moonlight lay over it all, flooding
the silent waters and touching the misty moun
tain tops with chastened glory. From the lotus
flowers and leaves that imbedded the lake, rose
the head and half-uncovered bust of a female
figure with a face beautiful as that of Venus,
when she rose from the Egean foam, with fair,
long ringlets, damp (as could be seen) with dew,
and crowned with the half-opened buds of the
lotus. The face was serene as the moonlight that
fell upon it, the eyes partly closed and the lips
half parted in something that was not a smilei
but an expression of dreamy tranquility, removed
from positive sorrow or happiness.
Beneath the picture was written “ Lethe.”
It was well conceived. Nothing could have
better conveyed the idea of forgetfulness—of
serene oblivion, than that scene of unearthly still
ness and calmness, the unruffled waters, the
silent moonlight, the stirless leaves, and that face,
placid and emotionless as a babe’s, sinking into
sweet slumber on its mother’s bosom. But the
face had another charm for me. Although greatly
changed, spiritualized and etherialized by the
artist’s fancy, the features of the face were Net
tie Griswold’s own. The resemblance might be
purely accidental, but it seemed to me rather re
markable.
“Petranelio,” I said, “I admire this picture so
much, that I believe I will become a purchaser,
if the artist is willing to dispose of it. Stay a
moment, and I will see,” and I left him and
knocked at the door of the studio. It was opened
by a little cherry-lipped, Creole child—just such
an attendant as I would have fancied the con
conceiver of a picture, like that I had just seen,
would have chosen. She left the room and I
turned to examine some unfinished sketches upon
the table. ,
“ Paul Desmond ! can it be possible?” exclaim
ed a voice I should have recognised among a
thousand. I sprang to my feet and found myself
face to face with Myra Allingham.
I have not a very distinct remembrance of what
I said or did during that interview. I believe
I must have acted very foolishly, for I could not
command my feelings sufficiently to converse
upon ordinary topics. It seemed as though she
must know how constantly her image had been
present to my mind; how often I had pictured to
myself this meeting, hoping, almost unconsciously,
that the happiness it would bring to me would
be shared by her. But after the first surprise
was over, her old calm, self-possessed manner
returned. She was kind, affable, entertaining,
but as unapproachable as ever—as completely
folded in a delicate but impenetrable reserve.
Perhaps I had expected too much. I had, it is
true, one claim upon her friendship, but nothing
more. I had been thinking too much of her part
ing words on that memorable night, when grati
tude melted away the reserve of her nature, and
for one brief moment unveiled the warm heart
that was hidden beneath her cold exterior. What
a simpleton I had been, to fancy that she had
ever thought of me during that long absence,
while I was connecting her with all my hopes
and dreams of the future ! My baseless cloud
castles dissolved into empty air, as I watched
her. She was as calm as I was agitated and
restless, and there was no heightening of the
faint color on her cheek ; no tremor of the hand,
that played with the flowers strewn over the
table.
We spoke of the changes that had taken place
since we last met, and unthinkingly, I recalled
some by-gone in which her father bore a part.
“You knew,” she said, looking down at her
black dress, “ that the chief object of my life was
gone. I had begun to hope that, to make his
life happy was my mission. I sometimes think
that I have nothing to live for now.”
Her lip quivered as she spoke, and I regretted
having awakened such sad memories.
“ You have other friends,” I said, to change
the current of her thoughts. “ Was it not cruel
to leave them without informing them of the
place of your destination ? Your disappearance
was a profound mystery, and is so still.”
“My friends !” she replied, in surprise. “If I
have any that regretted my absence, they could
not surely be ignorant of where I intended going.
My step-mother knew of it.”
“Mrs. Allingham?”
“Yes; I left without taking any precautions
to conceal my departure, and gave the driver, who
carried me to the wharf, a note for Mrs. Alling
ham, informing her that I was going to Cuba
with the Athelings, whose acquaintance I had
formed during their short stay in New Orleans.
I left in Mrs. Allingham’s own carriage.”
“ At night, I suppose ?”
“No; about four o’clock in the morning. No
one was up on the place, I believe. I was obliged
to leave then, as the vessel was advertised to sail
at half past four. The old coachman slept al
ways in the carriage house; so I had nothing to
do but awake him, order the carriage and leave
Allingham Place forever. I never thought of
concealment. The impulse was a sudden one,
and having no one to consult, I acted upon it im
mediately. Did Mrs. Allingham really inform
you that I left clandestinely ?”
“ She did, indeed, and, as the driver was the
only one besides herself who knew where you
had gone, he was probably ordered to keep it a
secret.”
Nothing more was said, but we looked in each
other’s faces for a moment and each, I think, un
derstood what was passing in the other’s mind,
relative to Mrs. Allingham’s misrepresentation.
“ I could not bear the idea of dependance,” she
at length resumed. “ The very air of my former
home stifled me, when I remembered that it was
my home no longer. Happiness is the aim of
all, and I felt that I could never again be happy
at Allingham Place. Fortunately, I had one re
source. Drawing had been a passion with me
ever since my childhood, and I had careftilly cul
tivated this natural talent. It was well that I
did so, for I am now dependant upon it for a sup
port.”
She said this with her usual quiet dignity.
There was no false pride—no repining against
fortune—no complaints against those who had
robbed her of her birthright. She spoke with a
frank, cheerful independence that commanded
respect and admiration. And this was the girl
who had been educated in ignorance of toil or
privation—brought up to think heiself an inde
pendent heiress ! I looked down at the delicate,
white hands lying in snowy contrast to the sable
of her dress, and thought how unfit they were
for labor. She must have interpreted uiy look
of sympathy ; for she said, smiling pleasantly:
“ It was the best thing for me that ever hap
pened. It has called forth powers of which I
should have remained unconscious, and contact
with the world has worn away the too delicate
edge of sensitiveness; the unhealthy spirt of over
refinement and of romance, that my secluded
life had fostered. I think an occasional mingling
with the busy, bustling, commonplace world is
a kind of necessary shower bath to a tempera
ment like mine. At any rate, I feel the better
and stronger for it. I was becoming a mere
dreamer, dreading contact with every day things
—living in a fanciful realm of my own creation.
I have awakened now to a sense of life’s reality.”
We were conversing in a small apartment ad
joining her studio—a kind of sitting room, in
which she had asked me to be seated. While
she was speaking, her little Creole attendant
came in to announce that her class in oil paint
ing was waiting for their lesson.
“ Then you must excuse me,” she said, rising
and turning to me. “ Pleasure, you know, must
yield to duty.”
“But is not this monotonous routine of duty
very irksome and wearying to one so little accus
tomed to forced tasks as you have been?”
“Not often. Ido not suffer myself to think of
it as taskwork. I like to feel myself no longer a
drone, but a co-worker in the great hive of hu
manity. It is better, as one has said, to wear
out than to rust out.”
Her words and manner puzzled me. Was this
cheerfulness real, or only assumed to repel any
feeling of sympathy or pity on my part ? My
knowledge of her perfect truthfulness prevented
my admitting the latter. Doubtless, she was en
joying the calm satisfaction which self-reliance
and a consciousness of powers, well employed,
never fail to bring. She had emerged from her
dreamy, purposeless girlhood, into an active,
thinking, earnest womanhood.
OHAPTER IX.
After this, scarcely a day passed without my
seeing Myra Allingham; though often, it was
only for a few moments at a time. She received
me always with the same easy friendliness that
she did Petranelio, and I looked in vain for any
indications of a warmer feeling. If I came in
while she was occupied, my presence did not in
the least retard her employment. She went on
mixing her colors, touching and re-touching her
pictures, and leading me on to converse by an
occasional suggestive word or question. If I
chanced to come in while she was engaged with
her class, she handed me a book with which to
amusfc myself, and quietly kept on with the les
son she was giving.
I wondered if there was no deeper and warmer
under-current concealed beneath this placid sur
face.
I found her one evening bending over her easel,
so absorbed that she did not at first notice my
entrance.
The hair was pushed back from her temples—a
sure indication of lassitude or fatigue—but when
she turned her face to ms, I saw a flush of fever
ish excitement upon either cheek. I bent over
to examine the picture. It represented a desert
—a sea of yellow sand, stretching away until it
met the fiery and cloudless sky. In the centre
was a small oasis, with a solitary cluster of date
trees drooping towards the green spot below>
whose fresh grass and flowering shrubs seemed
to indicate the presence of water. A wild, hag
gard looking wretch had thrown himself upon
his knees beside this greenest spot of the oasis,
and tearing aside the shrubs, revealed only the
damp traces of the dried up spring. The picture
told its own story —a man, lost from his caravan
in the pathless desert, or spared by the dread
Simoom for a fate more horrible and more lin
gering than that of his comrades : wandering
about over hot sands and under burning skies; at
last espying the little green island in this fiery
sea, with its leafy promise of water to quench his
consuming thirst; falling down half fainting be
neath the friendly shade of the palms ; tearing
the shrubs frantically away that he might plunge
his black, baked lips in the cooling fountain and
finding no water there —only the mockery of damp,
smooth sand.
The blank despair in the hollow eyes of the
famished man was so strongly depicted, that I
shuddered as I looked at it.
“What do you think of the picture V’ asked
Myra, looking up; “or arc you thinking of it at
all?”
“ 1 was wondering if it were not a symbol, as
well as a representation; if, beyond its plainly
apparent meaning, it had not another typical one.
Women become poets through the necessity of
giving expression to feelings which they dare not
utter except in song. Do artists never symbol
ize their own moods and personal experiences by
the poems they paint upon canvass? This pic
mro, for instance—is it merely a man famishing
among the sands of Sahara, or does it typify the
desert of human life, with its solitary hope bloom
ing in its midst like this oaiis; the delirious
eagerness with which the thirsting pilgrim pre
pares to partake the joy he believes within his
reach, and his deep despair at the overwhel ning
disappointment that follows? I wish I knew
what led you to conceive that picture. How
could you paint despair so strongly?”
“ I am not satisfied with the expression of the
face,” sho said, evasively. “ I think I shall re
touch those lines around the mouth.”
“Never mind it now ; you look tired and fever
ish. You confine yourself too closely, and study
too hard. See what a lovely evening! Come,
let us go where we can breathe fresh air and see
green fields and the open sea. My buggy is at
the door, and while you are. getting ready, I will
examine your picture more thoroughly. Y ou see
I am prepared to accept no refusal.”
Old Series, Volume UV, —New Series, Volume IV. No. 10
“Then I have nothing to do but obey,” she
said, smiling, as she laid down her brush and
quitted the room. She re-appeared soon after,
in a delicate white dress, with a black scarf
thrown across her graceful shoulders and float
ing around her like a cloud.
Our course lay away from the bustle and heat
of the city, among quiet, country scenes, and
past rich fields and little cottages, where black
eyed peasant girls, with bright colored boddices
and bare, brown arms and ankles, were feeding
poultry under the trees.
On our return, we paused upon one of the
beautiful hills that command a view of the city.
Dome and spire, rich groves and picturesque
houses rose indistinctly beautiful as a dream in
the distance. The voices of busy life could not
be distinguished, and the city lay under its thin
mantle of mist, seemingly calm and fair as a
kneeling nun beneath the white veil of her novi
tiate.
“Who,” I said, looking on the quiet beauty of
that scene, “ would realize that through it flowed
the turbulent tide of human life, dark with
wretchedness and want; with shame and sin ?”
“It but typifies the life of mortals,” said Myra,
with her dreamy gaze fixed upon it. “ Out
wardly, calm and still; within, a den of unrest,
haunted by goading memories, by vain regrets,
by passions that, though fettered by the iron
Will, still bound in the radii of their chains. We
cannot judge of the inner life by its outward
seeming.”
She looked up, met my searching eyes and
colored beneath the earnestness of their gaze.
“ You speak feelingly,” I said. “ Can it be that
what you have said is applicable to myself?
Your ‘outward seeming’ is the perfection of
tranquility.”
“ Every heart knoweth its own bitterness,” she
replied, and lapsed back into her dreamy mood.
Was she thinking of Herman Rodenstein? Was
the memory of his love one of the memories of
which she had spoken ? Did this beautiful even
ing remind her of the many she had passed in
listening to his musical voice—in watching the
dawning of the young love in his blue eyes ? I
longed to know, but I dared not ask. Roden
stein’s name had never been mentioned; for I re
frained, through delicacy, from speaking of him
myself, and she gave no outward token of still
remembering her “young Love’s dream.” I al
luded to it afterwards in a manner I regretted
very much, but I was prompted by a jealousy
which I had not, for the moment, power to resist.
I had been standing unperceived, watching
Myra, as she sat in the dusky twilight upon one
ot the rustic seats in the pretty garden summer
house, unconsciously caressing the curls of the
sleeping Charlie, who had drawn his stool to her
side and laid his head upon her knee. She had
sung nursery lullabys to him until he slept, but
now she substituted for these the German words
of a song, whose first verse is rendered thus, in
English :
“ 1 My heart, I bid thee answer—
How are Love’s marvels wrought?
Two hearts to one pulse beating,
Two spirits to one thought.’ ”
I had heard Rodenstei n sing it a dozen times.
He had learned it to her, I knew, and by her
plaintive lingering upon the tender words; by
the sadness of her tones and the yet deeper sad
ness of her eyes, I knew that Rodenstein was not
forgotten. I came out from among the shrubbery
and stood by her side..
“ How strangely partial you are to that guttural
language!” I said, “and to every thing pertain
ing to 1 vater land,’ its beer swilling and fiddle
playing not excepted.”
1 emphasized the last clause of my sentence,
and fixed my eyes meaningly upon her. I saw
her oheek flush and her eyes darken, but the
next moment she raised them haughtily.
“You are right,” she said; “I do admire the
strong, terse German language—the language of
Schiller and Goethe. I acknowledge, too, that I
like the national characteristics of the Germans—
their genial kindness of heart; their calm impnr
turbiiity, so different from the volatility and
cynicism of the French, or the cold selfishness of
the English; and yet, they are not wanting in re
finement of feeling, as their love for music and
poetry attests.”
I had probed her heart, to see if it still retained
a love it had once cherished, and she had quietly
given me an analysis of German character. Her
coolness and reserve baffled me. I would have
thought her almost incapable of strong feeling,
had I not seen the passionate love she lavished
on little Charlie. All the tenderness of her wo
man’s nature seemed poured out on this gentle,
loving child. Often, when wearied of his mama’s
teasing, he would come to her, throw his arms
around her and exclaim: “ Dear Mima, I love you
best in the world !” and then she would press her
lips to Ins and clasp him tightly to her heart as
though his baby love was the most precious
thing under heaven. He was with her almost
constantly; for, with her time divided between
her romances, her canaries, her guitar, needle
work and shopping, Mrs. Atheling had little leis
ure to devote to her child.
Mr. Atheling’s health did not improve, and
Harry had taken him to the Cocoas to see if
change of scene and country air would not be
beneficial. His pretty young wife, meantime, re
mained in town.
One evening she came bounding into the room
where Myra, Charlie and I were sitting, and,
holding up an ornamented envelope, waltzed
gaily around the room.
“A ball!” she said, as she threw the billet in
Myra's lap; “ a regular Fancy Ball at the resi
dence of the English Minister. Won’t it be de
lightful? Myra, you will go, of course.”
Myra glanced down at the black dress she wore.
“Oh what a pity I But you can wear white,
you know.”
“But with black trimmings? and besides, I
have no desire to go.”
“How provoking! You had best turn nun
at once, and take Dr. Paul here for a Father Con
fessor. But lam determined on going. Cousin
Elliott is coming for me, and I have decided on
my costume. I will personate the ‘ Fairy Queen.’
It will just suit me and Charlie, my pet; you
can be Robin Goodfellow. Don’t you think you
might ?”
“ Mama,” said the hoy, fixing his large eyes
upon her, “ what is a ball?”
“Oh ! a place where people go to enjoy them
selves and be happy.”
“ Like Heaven?” said the child, musingly.
“Oh you silly creature!” she cried, forcing a
laugh, but coloring deeply, as she turned away.
“ What strange fancies you have! Quit looking
so grave, like a little miniature parson, and let
us go put some water in Jenny’s cage.”
A few evenings after this, I went with Petran
elio to Myra’s studio to show her a portrait of
Charlie, he had just completed, and was on the
point of bidding her gooduight, when we were
surprised by an apparition in the doorway. It
was Mrs. Atheling’s, dressed as the “ Fairy
Queen” of*Spenser. Titania’s self, just alighted
on the unbending stalk of a lilly, could not have
been lovelier than the radiant little figure in its
cloud-like drapery of rose-colored silk and gos
samer lace, with the crown of queenly roses on
the fair brow, and flowers looping up the lace
skirt, and mixing with the curls that danced on
the dimpled, rosy shoulders.
She waved her flower-twined wand, and stood
with an air half playful, half proudly, conscious
of her beauty, enjoying our involuntary surprise
and admiration.
“I came to look in a moment upon you prosaic
mortals before my entrance into Fairy Land.
Cousin Elliott is waiting for me. He is to play
Oberon to Titania to-night. I believe Charlie de
clines being Robin Goodfellow; so I leave him
with his dear Mima until I return. I shall, after
the manner of all fairies,
1 Be back to my secret hiding-place
Ere break of day.’
Au revoir,” and she made a graceful mock obei
sance and flitted from our sight, like a suddenly
clouded sunbeam.
“Cousin Elliott,” I must mention, although a
very devoted and affectionate cousin, was only
a distant relative of Mr. Atheling—a handsome,
dashing young Lieutenant in the fortieth regi
ment. j
That night, just before the Cathedral bell tolled
the hour of eleven, I was aroused by a messenger
from Myra. Charlie was taken suddenly very
ill, and I must come down as soon as possible.
“ 111!” I repeated, in astonishment. “ Why he
was quite well this evening !”
“Oh ! Sir,” sobbed the girl, who was Charlie's
nurse, “he was caught in that quick shower of
rain this evening, while he was out in his little
garden. They sent me away on an errand, and
Mrs. Atheling said she was too busy to change
his clothes. He will die, Sir, I know he will!’
she continued, wringing*her hands in grief. “I
never saw a child so good and sensible, that ever
lived.”
We had hurried down the flight of stairs and
were now at the door of Myra’s room. I entered.
They had just taken him from a warm bath, and
he lay now in Myra’s arms, clinging to her with
that look of terror on his face which I have al
ways observed in very young children when sud
denly smitten with violent illness. It is as
though they recognise the presence of something
infinite and terrible, from which no love can shield
them. As I drew nearer, I heard the rattling in
his throatand thequick, hoarsecough, thatsound
edlike a death knell through the room. He strug
gled for breath, and his little bands clung to
Myra’s neck convulsively, as though, hitherto his
guardian angel, could shield him from the fear
ful presence of the Destroyer. I knelt down to
examine him. It was the croup, I knew, and
the very robustness of his little frame gave greater
violence to the disease always the worst enemy
of childhood.
I hastily tried several remedies in succession,
and then went, for leeches, telling Rosalia to go
for Dr. Wilson, an elderly physician, whose office
was on the adjoining street. He came, and the
moment his eyes met mine, after a brief exami
nation of the case, I knew that he, like myself,
had little hope.
We applied the leeches to his fair, white throat.
He resisted at first and threw up his hand with
an appealing look at Myra, but she put her own
grief aside, and, taking his little hand in hers,
sought to soothe him by singing the nursery
hymns he loved.
He lay perfectly quiet now, with the leeches
hanging to his throat and Dr. Wilson’s finger
upon his wrist. Myra’s voice, low, yet faltering
sometimes, sounded through the stillness; the
old in the arm chair swung to and fro
with unintelligible mutterings, while Charlie’s
young nurse knelt at the foot of the bed, with a
gleam of hope dawning in her face. He seemed
to be sleeping so peacefully. Suddenly be opened
his eyes, now startlingly large and bright. They
roved anxiously over the group of faces around
his bed.
“What is it, darling?” asked Myra, laying her
cheek to his lips.
“Mama,” he uttered, in a hoarse whisper.
“ She will come soon. We have sent for her,
and she will be with her sick boy in a little
while,” said Myra, choking hack her sobs. “Is
there any thing you want?”
He motioned feebly to a little pasteboard box
on the table. It was brought, and opening it,
Myra found a bunch of freshly gathered violets.
“God bless him!” said his weeping nurse:
“he means for you to give them to his mama,
Miss Myra. He gathered them for her this even
ing; that was why he was caught in that shower;
but she was fixing her dress, and never noticed
him. May the Lord forgive her for it!”
He was again convulsed with pain ; it was evi
dent the struggle was too severe to last much
longer. The Cathedral bell struck two.
“ She w ill come too late,” said Myra, in a whis
per, to me. “ There is such a crowd there to
night, I was fearful the messenger would not be
able to find her.”
It was soon over. Myra had stood by him to
the last, helping us administer remedies, sooth
ing him with her voice and her hand, raising him
up on her arm and keeping back her agony of
grief that she might be useful to him, who would
soon require her loving care no longer. It was
over at last. Still, she only bent her w hite face
over him and kissed his lips, his eyes, his fore
head, w r ith passionate tenderness. Then she
closed the blue veined lids over his eyes, lately
so full of affection and dawning intellect; she
folded his hands softly upon his breast and,
kneeling down beside him, buried her face in the
bedclothes.
She sprang up hurriedly, as a light step and
the rustle of a dress were heard in the passage;
but she was too late to intercept Mrs. Atheling,
who hurst into the room in her gala dress.
“ Where is he ? how is he ? Doctor, how is
my baby?” she exclaimed. “Ah!” she contin
ued, seeing the placid figure upon the bed, “he
is sleeping; he is better, then, is he not ? Has
be been very sick ?”
She laid her hand softly upon his forehead.
Heavens! how she started, as though an adder
had stung her, and what a look of fear and agony
transfigured her countenance!
“Dead!” she shrieked, as she clutched my
arm. “For God’s sake, only say he is not dead 1
Dead! dead! and I murdered him. Oh my child!
my child !”
I caught her in my arms, as she swooned, and
laid her on the bed beside the body of her child.
Oh! it was a strange, a mournful sight—the
rigid limbs and pale face of the corpse, the gay
dress, the glittering ornaments and that uncon
scious form, so soon to waken to all the agony
of remorse and despair.
[T be continued.]
Proof of a Helpless Old Bachelor.— l al
ways know a helpless old bachelor (says a clever
lady) by looking at the corners of his pocket
handkerchief. If I notice in them any little
pieces of red, blue or yellow worsted—such as
washerwomen run in to identify the property of
each separate customer—l know at once that he
has r.o one at home to mark his linen, and that
he must be a poor, pitiful, misanthropical, friend
less, helpless old Lchelor.