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For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
FONTHILL.
BY WM. GILMORE SIMMS.
Author of‘The Yemassee,’ ‘Guy Rivers,’ Ate.
‘‘Fonthill” is the name of the beautiful ] lace
upon the Hudson River, where Mr. Edwin
Forrest, the great American actor, is erecting
his stately gothic mansion. The ver es which
follow, were written on the occasion of a visit
to the place in company with its distinguished
proprietor. It is possible that the writer would
not have cared to publish them, but that the
name of Mr. Forrest has be n recently eoupl and
in the public mind with a painful notoriety, in
which he has suffered much inoro censure than
he deserved Mr. Forrest is a g nth man ot
very great powers, and of passionate impulses,
which correspond in strength and volume with
those powers. Laboring—whether correctly or
not—under the sense of an injustice suffered
abroad, he has permitted his impulses to speak
in a language of warm h and violence, which,
it is probable tint, in calmer moods and mo
ments, he will himself be as likely to regret as
his friends. Rut his impulses are all m tgnani
mous aid generous, and they must bes t oil
against his errors. At least, we must remem
ber, that one never more stands in need of
friendship, than in the moments of his
The verses which follow need no fa*, th r exiTi
nation. The powers of Mr. Forrest are un
questionable. It is not ncecssjuiv to say to the
reader that they arc of a sort <™y to find their
just exhibition in the wilder and more passion
ate parts of tragedy. We must not complain
of the giant who can upheave mountains, that
he has not the dexterity to pitch \ eas through
the eye of a needle.
I.
A single day finds food for years,—
And thus, from memory’s store,
We glean the pleasant thought which cheers,
When pleasant days are o’er ;
Mcthinks, when Manhood's pride is gone,
And age, in mere oblivion,
And dream, begins to poro—
If then allow’d, 1 still shall gaze,
Rack, on these bright October days.
11.
llow gay the sun that wajnn'd our skies —
llow softly cool the air ;
While groves, in bright Autumnal dyes,
Made all the landscaj c fair ;
With rustic homes at every view,
And willows great, an avenue,
Magnificent as rare,
By meadowy slopes, and o’er the plain,
That gradual sweli'd, to slope again!
111.
We leave this noble route, and wind
Through sinuous paths, until
A wider realm of view wo find—
A forest-keeping hill:
Broad spreads the various picture round,
Ben*ifch the sun, without a bound,
And nature, O! how still,
As if, from all the world apart,
She brooded o'er her own wild heart.
IV.
Far ns the eye may stretch, the heights,
With villas white are crown’d ;
Great terraces, where Prije delights
The humblo to confound ;
And quiet vales, where Peace secure,
Keeps ever low, with open door,
As willing to be found ;
While sunny tracts the fields unfold,
Whore Labor turns his turf to gold.
V.
Sonorous murmurs from below,
Persuade the eager eye,
And bright, in ever-lapsing flow,
The Hudson wanders by ;
A thousand gay whifco vessels gleam,
Mor vex his proud paternal stream,
That, still, in majesty,
Sweeps by each guardian palisade
As murmuring at its gloomy shade.
VI.
Down, ns to seek his waves, we glide,
And lo ! the grouping towers,
Where, emulous of Norman pride,
Our host his home embowers:—
Well-ehosen home—well-plaun'd design—
Significant, in every line,
Os his own Norman powers ;
Mighty and fearless—strong and high—
If lone, because of majesty !
VII.
Even at the glance, my thought recall'd
His struggles from the first;
By adverse Fortune long enthrall’d,
By care, for conquest, nurs’d ;
Then, with a manhood all his own,
A genius rare, to manhood grown,
Through all its bonds he burst,
And, with a will to match his pow’rs,
Rose firm, and greatly, like his tow’rs.
VIII.
Thus triumphs, ay, the unyielding will—.
Thus glorions soars the soul of might;
A sleepless throb, a secret thrill,
Still warning, arming, for the fight!
What’s toil but sfcrcngt h—what hope but aim-
What poverty !—if sworn for fame,
The wing still spreads in flight!
This truth confess’d, that they who own
The sov'ran soul, can reach the throne !
IX.
We scaled the castled heights, and stood
Vpon its eagle crest;
llow sweet below spread vale and wood,
llow calm old Hudson’s breast!
Rut prouder thoughts and wilder druams,
Even such as make the Pout’s themes,
When most his muse is blest,
Rose in our soul', as we survey’d
The drama's realm of light and shade.
X.
Its feudal chief—its Roman sire,
Ry him who sliow’d them best, arose :
Lear’s phrenzied pride, Othdlo’s ire.
And Damon’s love, and Hamlet’s woes ;
Companions these —of the-e we sj ake ;
The actor's pasdon, nil awake,
Each true ideal shows, —
As deeply studud, secret thought,
V itli love, made clenr the shape he sought.
XL
Endow’d, the souls of men to know',
Each,hidden motive home to tra- e ;
Hope’s dawning light, joy’s overflow,
And passions wild art! m&d’ning race, —
With man the same in every age ;
We i miglit’st thou, Forrest, con the page
Which pictures human guilt or gra e ;
With powers to imp the f. aturts shown,
And make the hero’s and eds thine own.
XII
Thy stately Norman turrets sq eak
The strength and bold.e-s of thy aim ;
Rut all their eloquence were weak,
To show thy upward toll for fame;
What cares beset thy youthful | ower? —
How hard thy task—how lone thine hours—
I low near thy grie. so shame !
Could these but sj eak. thy tow'riug dome
Were monument as w 11 as home!
’ • -I'rrja .
‘M
Vi/’ _ V Jr"'*.'*. -
-'W • •• , ■ V
THE SMUGGLER'S LEAP.
A STORY OF THE PYRENEES.
“Oh! there's not in this wide world,” I
exclaimed, quite unintentlAtally quoting
Tom Moore ; “ there never has been, nor I
; can be again, so charming a creature. No
j nymph, or sylph, or winged Ariel, or sy- j
rcn with song and mirror, was ever so fas
] cinating—no daughter of Eve so pretty and ]
provoking!”
This apostrophe, which certainly ap
pear.*, now that in cooler moments 1 recall
I it, rather rhapsodical, was not uttered viva .
] voce , nor even sotto voce, seeing that its ob- ]
ject, Miss Dora McDermot, was rid ing along
i only three paces in front of me, whilst her j
! brother walked by my side. It was a mere j
mental ejaculation, elicited by the surpass- j
ing perfection of the aforesaid Dora, who
assuredly was the most charming girl I had
ever beheld. But for the Pyrenean scene
ry around us, and the rough, ill-condition
ed mule, with its clumsy side-saddle of dis
colored feather, on which she was mount
ed, instead of the Spanish jennet or well
bred English palfrey that would best have
suited so fair an equestrian, I could, with
out any great exertion of fancy, have
dreamed myself back to the days of the
McGregor, and fancied that it was Die Ver
non riding up the mountain side, gaily
chattering as she went with the handsome
cavalier who walked by'her stirrup, and
i who might have been Frank Osbaldistone,
only that he was too manly-looking lor
; Scott's somewhat effeminate hero. How
! beautifully moulded was the form which
; her dark green habit set oil to such advan
tage; how fairy-like the-foot that pressed
i the clumsy stirrup; how slender the fin
| gers that grasped the rein! She had dis
] carded the heavy riding-hat and senseless
• bonnet—those graceless inventions of some
I cunning milliner, and had adopted a head
dress not unusual in the country in which
she then was. This was a beret or fiat
cap, woven of snow white wool, and sur
: mounted by a crimson tassel spread out
over the top. From beneath this elegant
i coiffure her dark eyes flashed and sparkled,
j while her luxuriant chestnut curls fell over
I her neck, the alabaster fairness of which
made her white head-dress look almost
tawny. Either because the air, although
we were still in the month of September,
was fresh upon the mountains, oi else be
cause she was pretty and a woman, and
i therefore not sorry to show herself to the
best advantage, she had twisted round her
waist a very long cashmere shawl, pre
viously pa fling it over one shoulder in the
- ! manner of a sword-belt, the ends hanging
down nearly to her stirrup; and this gave
something peculiarly picturesque, almost
fantastical, to her whole appearance.
’ Upon the second day of my arrival at
the baths of St. Sauveur, in the Pyrenees,
I had fallen in with my old friend and col
i lege chum, Jack McDenriot, who was tak
ing his sister the round of the French wa
itering-places. Dora’s health had been del-,
ieale; the faculty had recommended the
; excursion ; and Jack, who doted upon his
] only sister, had dragged her away from the
gaieties of London, and biought her off to
the Pyrenees. M’Dermot was an excel
] lent fellow —neither a wit, ngr a Solomon i
—but a good-heart*! dog, who had been
much liked at Trill. Coll., Dublin, where
i he had thought very little of his studies,
and a good deal of his horses and dogs.—
An Irishman, to he sure, occasionally a ;
slight touch of the brogue was perceptible
in his talk ; but from this, his sister, who
had been brought up in England, was per- ,
fectly free. Jack had a snug estate of
three thousand a year; Miss Dora had
twenty thousand pounds from her mother, j
She had passed two seasons in London;
and if she was not already married, it was ;
because not one of the fifty aspirants to her J
hand had found favor in her blight eyes, j
Lively and high-spirited, with a slight turn
for the satirical, she loved her indepen-1
dence, and was difficult to please.
I had been absent from England for j
| nearly two years, on a continental tour;
| and although I had heard much of Miss
McDermot, I had never seen her till her!
brother introduced me to her at .St. Sau- j
i veur. I had not known her an hour, be-[
! fore I found myself in a fair way to add
another to the list of the poor moths who
had singed their wings at the perilous light
;of her beauty. When McDermot, learn
; ing that, like themselves, 1 was on a de
sultory sort of a ramble, and bad not mark
ed out any particular route, offered me a
seat in their canine, and urged me to ac-1
company them, instead of prud.ently flying
from the danger, I foolishly exposed my
self to it, and lo! what might have been]
anticipated, came to pass. Before l bad !
been two days in Dora's society, my doom ;
was sealed : I was her slave, the slave of ]
her sunny smile and bright eyes—talisman ,
more potent than any lamp or ring that i
djinn or fairy ever obeyed.
A foitnight had passed, and we were at j
B . During that time, the spell that
! bound me had been each day gaining
strength. As an intimate friend of her]
brother, I was already with Dora on the |
footing of an old acquaintance ; she seem-;
; od well enough pleased with my society,!
and chatted with me willingly and famil-1
larly ; but in vain did.! watch for some;
] slight indication, a glance or an intonation, j
! whence to derive hope. None such were |
1 perceptible ; nor could the most egregious ,
! coxcomb have fancied that they were.— ]
| We once or twice fell in with other ac-!
| quainlances of her’s and her brother's, and !
j with them she had just the same frank, j
friendly manner, as with me. I had not]
sufficient vanity, however, to expect a wo
man, especially one so much admired ass
Miss McDermot, to fall in love at first ]
sight with my humble personality, and 1
patiently waited, trusting to time and assi
duity to advance my cause.
Things were in this state, when one j
morning, whilst taking an early walk to j
the springs, I ran up against an English ]
friend, by name Walter Ashley. He was |
the son of a country gentleman, of mode- i
rate fortune, at whose house 1 had more
than once passed a week in the shooting
season. Walter was an excellent fellow. 1
and a perfect model of the class to which j
he belonged. By no means unpolished in
his manners, he had yet a sort of plain bon
hommie, which was peculiarly agreeable
and prepossessing. He was not a univer
sity man, nor had he received an educa- j
tion of the highest order—spoke no lan- ]
gunge but his own with any degree of cor
rectness —neither played the fiddle, painted
pictures, nor wrote poetry. On the other
hand, in all manly exercises, he was a pro-1
ficient; shot, rode, walked and danced, to
perfection ; and the fresh originality, and
pleasant tone of his conversation, redeem
ed any deficiency of reading or accomplish- ]
ment. In personal appearance he was a |
splendid fellow, nearly six feet in his boots,
strongly, hut, at the same time, symmetri- ]
cally built; although his size of limb and I
width of shoulder rendered him, at six and
twenty, rather what is called a fine man,
: than a slender or elegant one. He had the
i true Anglo-Saxon physiognomy, blue eyes,
and light brown hair, that waved rather
than curled round his broad, handsome
’ forehead. And then, what a mustache the
• fellow had! [He was an officer in a crack
1 yeomanry corps.] Not one of the com
; posite order, made up of pomatum and
1 lampblack, such as may be seen saunter
; ing down St. James’ street on a spring as-j
ternoon, with incipient guardsmen behind
1 them—but worthy of an Italian painter or
■ Hungarian hussar —full, well-grown, and
glossy. Who was the idiot who first set
1 afloat the notion—now become an estab
] lished prejudice in England—that mus
] taches were unseemly ! To nine faces out
of ten, they are a most becoming addition,
increasing physiognomical character, al
most giving it where there is none, reliev
ing the monotony of broad, fiat cheeks,;
and abridging the abomination of a long
; upper lip. Uncleanly, say you I Not a
] bit of it, if judiciously trimmed and train-1
ed. What, sir! are they not at least as
j proper-looking as those foxy thickets ex
] tending from jaw-bone to temple, which
j you yourself, each morning of your life, 1
take such pains to comb and curl into ]
;shape 1
i Delighted lo meet Ashley, I dragged him I
] of! to the hotel, to introdace him to McDer- 1
mot and his sister. Asa filend of mine, j
they gave him a cordial welcome, and we
passed that day and the following ones to- i
; gether. I soon, however. I must confess, ,
j began to repents little having brought my ]
j handsome friend into the society of Dora.
She seemed better pleased with him 1
altogether liked—nor coub! I wonder at it.
Walter Ashley was exactly the man to
i please a woman of Dora's character. She |
was rather of a romantic turn, and about j
I him there was a dash of the chivalrous, ]
well calculated to captivate her imagina
i tion. Although perfectly feminine, she was
r an excellent horsewoman, and an ardent ]
: admirer of feats of address and courage, j
and she had heard me tell her brother of
Ashley’s perfection, in such matters. On]
his part, Ashley, like every one else who ]
saw her, was evidently greatly struck with i
her beauty and fascination of manner. 1
I cannot say that I was jealous; 1 had no]
right to be so, for Dora had never given me j
encouragement; but I certainly more than ;
once regretted having introduced a third j
person into what—honest Jack McDermot
i counting, of course, for npthing—had pre-;
viously been a sort of tete-a-ietc society.—
i began to fear that, thanks to myself, my ]
j occupation was gone, anJ Ashley had i
j got it.
It was the fifth day after our meeting I
j with Walter, and we had started early in !
the morning upon an excursion to a neigh
j boring lake, the scenery around which, we
i were told, was particularly wild and beau- j
, tiful. It was situated on a piece of table ;
j land on the top of a mountain, which we j
j could see from the hotel window. The j
] distance was barely ten miles, and the road j
; being rough and precipitous, McDermot, j
Ashley and myself,- had chosen to walk :
rather than to risk our necks by riding the !
j broken-kneed ponies that were ollered to ]
us. A sure-footed mule, and indifferent |
1 side-saddle, had been procured for Miss I
; McDermot, and was attended by a wild-!
] looking Bearnese boy, or gossoon, as her ]
brother called him—a creature like a grass
hopper, all legs and arms, with a scared
I'countenance, and long, lank, black hair,
[ hanging in irregiflar shreds about his face.
There is no season more agreeable in the
] Pyrenees than the month of September. —
People are very apt to expatiate on the de
, lights of autumn, its mellow beauty, pen
j sive charms, and such like. I confess that,
i in a general way, 1 like the youth of the
j year better than its decline, and prefer the
] bright green tints of spring, with the sum
j mer in prospective, to the melancholy au
] tumn —its russet hues and falling leaves—
-1 its regrets for fine weather past, and anti-
I cipations of bad to come. But if there be
any place where I should he tempted to
reverse my judgment, it would he in South
ern France, and especially its Western and
central portion. The clear, cloudless sky,
j the moderate heat succeeding to the sultri
: ness, often overpowering, of the summer
months, the magnificent vineyards and mer
ry vintage time, the noble groves of chest-
I nut, clothing the lower slopes of themoun
] tains, the bright streams and flower-span
gled meadows of Bearn and Languedoc,
render no part of the year mpre delightful
in those countries, than the months of Sep
j tember and October.
As before mentioned, Dora rode a little
in front, with Ashley beside her, pointing
i out the beauties of the wild scenery through
i which we passed, and occasionally laying
| a hand upon her bridle to guide the mule
over some unusually rugged portion of the
almost trackless’ mountain. McDermot
and I were walking behind, a little puffed
;by the steepness of the ascent; our guide,
j whose name was Cadet—a name answered
to by every second man one meets in that
part of France—strode along beside us,
, like a pair of compasses with leathern
lungs. Presently the last named indivadu
| al turned to me—
“ Ccs messieurs veulent-ils vour le Sautde
lou ConlrebanJtstc /” said he, in the barba
j rous dialect of the district, half French,
half Patois, with a small dash of Spanish.
“Lo Saul du Contrebandicr, the Smng-,
gler’s Leap—what is that!” asked Dora,
who had overheard the question, turning
round her graceful head, and dazzling us
—me, at feast—l y a sudden view of her
lovely face, now glowing with exercise
and the mountain air.
The Smuggler’s Leap, so Cadet informed
us, was a narrow cleft in the rock, of vast
depth, and extending for a considerable
distance across a flank of the mountain.—
Ft owed its name to the following incident:
Some five years previously, a smuggler,
known by the name of Juan le Negre, or
Black Juan, had, for a considerable period,
set the custom-house officers at defiance, j
and brought great discredit on them by his
success hi passing contraband goods from
Spain. In vain did they lie iuambushand
set snares for him ; they could never come
] near him, or if they did, it was when he
was hacked by such a force of the hardy I
! desperadoes, carrying on the same lawless |
] traffic, that thedouaniers were eilher forced I
I to beat a retreat or got fearfully mauled in j
the contest that ensued. One day, ho.wev- ]
er, three of these green-coated guardians of
j the French revenue caught a sight of Juan j
alone and unarmed. They pursued him. I
j and a rare race he led them, over cliff and [
j crag, across rock and ravine, until at last
they saw with exultation that lie made
j right for the chasm in question, and there
i ihey made sure of securing him. It seem
, ed as if he had forgotten the position of the
cleft, and only remembered it when he got
] within a hundred yards or thereabouts, for
j then he slackened his pace. The doua
niers gained on him, and expected him to
• desist from h s flight, and surrender.—
1 What was their surprise and consternation
when they saw him, on reaching the edge
of the chasm, spring from the ground with
lizard-like agility, and by one bold leap
I clear the yawning abyss. The douaniers
. uttered a shout of rage and disappointment.
] and two of them ceased running ; but the
] third, a man of great activity and courage,
j and who had frequently sworn to earn the j
j reward set on the head of Juan, dared the |
j perilous leap. He fell short; his head was j
; dashed against the opposite rock, and his
horror-struck companions, gazing down in- i
to the dark depth beneath, saw his body ]
I strike against the crags, on its way to the
I bottom of the abyss. The smuggler cs
] caped, and the spot where the tragical in-
I cident occurred, was thenceforward known
] us “Le Sant (hi Contrebandicr .”
Before our guide had finished his narra
] tive, we were unanimous in our wish to
; visit the scene, which we reached by the
time he had brought the tale to a conclu
i sion. It was certainly a most remarkable
] chasm, whose existence was only to be ac
i counted for bv reference to the volcanic
agency, of which abundant traces exist in
| Southern France. The whole side of the
mountain was cracked and rent asunder,
] forming a narrow.ravine of vast depth, in
] the manner of the famous Mexican barran- ]
] errs. In some places might be traced a sort ;
; of correspondence on the opposite sides; a ]
recess on one side, into which a projection j
on the other would have nearly fitted, I
could some Antaeus have closed the fissure. ]
This, however, was only here and there ; j
generally speaking, the rocky brink was
worn by the action of time and water, and
the rock composing it sloped slightly down
wards. The chasm was of various width,
but was narrowest at the spot at which we
reached it, and really did not appear so
very terrible a leap as Cadet made it out to
be. On looking down, a confusion of j
] bush-covered crags was visible, and now ;
] that the sun was high, a narrow stream j
1 was to bn seen, flowing like a line of sil- j
• ] ver, at the bottom—the ripple and rush of
the water, repeated Wb the echoes of the
ravine, ascending to our ears with a noise
like that of a cataract. On a large’ frag
ment of rock, a few yards from the brink, (
was rudely carved a date, and below it two j
letters. They were the initials, so our
guide informed us, of the unfortunate dou
j anier who had there met his death.
We had remained for half a minute or ;
; so, gazing down into the ravine, when Ash
j ley, who was on the right of the party,
; I broke silence.
“Pshaw!” said he, stepping back from
■ the edge, “that's no leap. Why, I'll jump
across it myself.”
1 “For heaven's sake,” cr ed Dora.
“Ashley!” I exclaimed, “don’t be a
1 fool.”
But it was too late. What mad impulse
possessed him, 1 cannot say; but Certain 1
am, from my knowledge of his character.
• that it was no foolish bravado or school
boy desire to show off, that seduced him to
■ so wild a freak. The fact was, but for the
depth below, the leap did not look at all
, formidable —not above four or five feet—
; but in reality it was a deal wider. It was
■j probably this deceitful appearance, and
perhaps the feeling which Englishmen are
apt to entertain, that for feats of strength
and agility, no men suipass them, that con
vinced Walter of the ease with which he
could jump across. Before we could stop
him, he took a short run, and jumped.
A scream from Dora was echoed by an
exclamation of horror from McDermot and
myself. Ashley had cleared the chasm,
and alighted on the opposite edge, but it j
was shelving and slippery, and his feet,
slid from under him. For one moment it
appeared as if he would instantly be dash
ed to pieces; but in falling, he managed to !
catch the elge of the rock, which at that ]
place formed an angle. There he hung by 1
his hands, his whole body in the air, with- ]
out a possibility of raising himself, for be
low the edge the rock was smooth and re-’
ceding, and even could he have reached it, !
he would have found no foot-hold. One j
desperate effort he made to giasp a stunted j
and leafless sapling that grew in a crevice j
at not more than a foot from the edge, but !
it failed, and nearly caused his instant de-’
struction. Desisting from further effort. ,
he hung motionless, his hands convulsive- ]
ly cramped to the ledge of rock, which af- j
forded so slippery and difficult a hold, that
his sustaining himself by it at all seemed a j
miracle, and could only be the result of
uncommon muscular power. It was evi- j
dent that no human strength could possibly I
maintain him for more than a minute or two j
in that position; below was an abyss, a
hundred or more feet deep ; to all appear- j
ance, hfe last hour was come.
McDermot an I I stood aghast and help-1
less, gazing with open months and strained ]
eyeballs at our unhappy friend. Wha’
could we do ? Were we to dare the leap, j
which one far more active and vigorous;
than ourselves had unsuccessfully attempt- ]
ed ! It would have been courting destruc- i
tion, without a chance of saving Ashley, j
But Dora put us to shame. One scream, i
and only one, she uttered, and then, gath- ]
ering up her habit, she sprang unaided from j
her mule. Her cheek was pale as the
whitest marble, but her presence of mind I
was unimpaired, and she seemed to gain
courage and decision in the moment of
peril.
“Your cravats, your handkerchiefs!” |
cried she, unfastening as she spoke, her ■
long scarf. Mechanically Mc-
Dermot and myself obeyed. With the
speed of light and a woman's dexterity,
she knotted together her scarf, a long silk
cravat which I gave her, McDermot's hand
kerchief and mine, and securing—how, 1
know not--a stone at eilher extremity of
the rope thus formed, she threw one end of
it with sure aim and steady hand, across
the ravine and round the sapling already j
referred to. Then learyng forward, till 1 j
feared she would fall into the chasm, and j
sprang forward to hold her hack, she let go j
of the other end. Ashley's hold was al- j
ready growing feeble, his fingers were torn ]
’ by the rock, the blood started from under ]
j his nails, and he turned his face towards ]
us with a mute prayer for succor. At that j
j moment the two ends of the shawl fell 1
against him, and he instinctively grasped j
itliem. It was a moment of fearful sus
| pensc. Would the knots so hastily made
resist the tension of his v^eight! They
did so; he raised himself by strength of
wrist. The sapling bent and bowed, but
his hand was now close to it. He grasped
it; another powerful effort, the last effort;
of despair, and he lay exhausted and al
most senseless upon the rocky brink. At
] the same moment, with a cry of joy, Dora
j fell fainting into her brother's arms.
I Os that day’s adventures, little remains
]to tell. A walk of a mile brought Ashley
! to a place where a bridge, thrown over the
ravine, enabled him to cross it. I omit his
thanks to Dora, his apologies for the alarm
he had caused her, and his admiring eulo
my of her presence of mind. Her manner
[of receiving them, and the look she gave
him when, on rejoining fcs he took her
hand, and with a natural and grateful cour
tesy that prevented the action from appear
l ing theatrical or unusual, pressed it to his
lips—were anything but gratifying to me,
whatever they may have been to him.—
She seemed no way displeased at the free
dom. I was, most confoundedly, but that
Walter did not seem to observe.
The incident that had occurred, and Do
ra's request, brought our excursion to an
abrupt termination, and we returned home
wards. It appeared as if this were doom
ed lo he a day of disagreeables. On reach
ing the inn, 1 found a letter, which, thanks
to my frequent change of place, and to the
dilatoriness of continental post-offices, had
been chasing me from town to town during
the previous three weeks. It was from a
lawyer, informing me of the death of a rel
ative, and compelling me instantly to re
turn to Jgland, to arrange some impor
tant concerning a disputed will. —
The sum at stake was too considerable for
inc to neglect the summons; and with the
worst possible grace I prepared to depart
I made some violent attempts to induce
Ashley to accompany me, talked myself
hoarse about fox-hunting and pheasant
shooting, and other delights of the ap
proaching season; b*it all in vain. His
passion for field sports seemed entirely
cooled; he sneered at foxes, treated pheas
ants with contempt, and professed to be a-1
much in love with the Pyrenees as I began
to fear he was with Dora. There was no
thing for it but to set out alone, which 1
accordingly did, having previously obtain
ed from McDermot the plan of their route
and the name of the place where he and
his sister thought of wintering. I was de
termined, so soon as I had settled my af
fairs, to return to the continent and pro
pose for Dora.
Man proposes and God disposes, says
the proverb. In my case, I am prepared
to prove that the former part of the proverb
lied abominably. Instead of a fortnight in
London being, as 1 had too sanguinely
hoped, sufficient for the settlement of the
business that took me thither, I was de
tained several months, and compelled to
make several journeys to the North of Eng
land. 1 wrote several times to McDermot
and had one letter from him, but no more
Jack was a notoriously bad correspondent,
and I scarcely wondered at his silence.
Summer came—my lawsuit was decided,
and sick to death of briefs and barristers,
parchments and attornics, I once more
found myself my own master. An appli
cation to McDermot’s London banker pro
cured me his address. He was then in
Switzerland, but was expected down t he
Rhine, and letters to Wiesbaden would find
him. That was enough for me ; my head
and heart were still full of Doca McDer
mot ; and two days after I had obtained in
formation. the Antwerpen steamer deposit
ed me on Belgian ground.
“McDermot is stopping here'?” I enqui
red of, or rather affirmed to, the head wait
er of the Four Seasons Hotel at Wiesbaden.
If the fellow had told me he was not, I be
lieve I should have knocked him down.
“He is, sir. You will find him in tho
Cursaal gardens, with Madame sazur.”
Oil I started to the gardens. They were
in full bloom and beauty, crowded with
flowers and frauliens and foreigner* of all
nations. The little lake sparkled in the
sunshine, and the water-fowl skimmed over
it in all directions. But it’s little I cared
for such matters. I was looking for Dora,
sweet Dora—Dora McDermot.
At the corner of a walk, I met her bro
ther. .
“Jack 1” I exclaimed, grasping his ban,’
with the most vehement affection, - I am
delighted to see you.”
“And I’m glad to see you, my boy,”
was the rejoinder. “I was wondering you
did not answer my last letter, but I suppose
you thought to join us sooner.”
“Your last letter!” 1 exclaimed. “ 1
have written three times since L heard from
you.”
“The devil you have!” cried Jack.—■
“Do you mean to say that you did not get
the letter I wrote you from Paris a month
ago, announcing—”
1 did not hear another word, for, just
then, round a corner of the shrubbery, came
Dora herself, more charming than ever, all
grace, and smiles, and beauty. But 1 saw
neither beauty, nor smiles, nor grace ; all
1 saw was, that she was leaning on the
arm of that provokingly handsome dog,
Walter Ashley. For a moment I stood
petrified, and then, extending my hand—
“ Miss McDermot! ’ l exclaimed,
i She drew back a little, with a spiile and
1 a blush. Her companion stepped forward
“My dear fellow,” said he, “ there is no
such person. roe to introduce you
to Mrs. Ashley.”
If any of my friends wish to be present
ed to pretty girls with twenty thousand
pounds, they had. better apply elsewhere
than to me. Since that day, l have for-
I sworn the practice.
News from California.— The Crescent
City arrived last evening from Chagres,
bringing us one month’s later intelligence
from California.
The news is not very encouraging to
the seeker after gold; but in a political
point of view, it is of consi lerable impqr
tance. It appears that the Hon. Thomas
Butler King, of Georgia, is in SanFraircis
co, making efforts to organise a State Gov
■ ernmer.t, in order to be ready next winter
to have that territory admitted at once as a
State into this Union, and thus avoiding a
vast deal of trouble on the slaved que;
tion. On the 19th ulf. he made a great
speech at a meeting held in Por snouth
i Square, on the subject.
