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For Richards’ Weekly Gazelle.
AUTUMN FLOWERS.
BY CLARA MORETON.
Oh graceful flowers, fading flowers,
1 love ye but too well,
And I sigh to see vc dying
In forest and in and 11.
I grieve that so much lovlincss
So soon should pass away, —
That things so bright, so pure, so fair
Should have so brief a stay.
Your dying breath is floating now
Across the gra-sv lawn ;
And as 1 drink the sweet perfume,
1 dream of days agonc,—
Os phildh-toJ’s free and happy days,
When not a care I knew ;
And flowers sprang beneath my feet,
Fresh with Life's early dew.
Ah ! where are now those beauteous fluwers and
Where now their radiant bloom !
Could aught so lovely leave no trace,
Nor memories save of gloom and
I wou’d they were the only flowers
That fad and by my side !
The only ones that day by day
Low drooped their heads and died!
Oh, would they were the only ones !
My heart bents sad and slow,
When I think of forms so cherished,
In days so long ago.
For now when e’er my heart doth yearn
To all those racin'ries “Id,
I see alone the grass-grown graves,
Wher sleep those forms so cold.
Ah ‘ ever thus the beautiful
Will fade from earth away ;
And ever thus will sad hearts mourn
Above the buried clay.
And when so e’er the fair, frail flowers
Droop low their heads and die,
I cannot quell the rising thought,
Or check the rising sigh ;
And therefore in the autumn time,
When comes the cruel frost,
I think me more of other days,
Os the oarlv loved and lost.
IfSIE IB©EJM(§[![&♦
%y-y
A VERY_WOMAN.
BY S. M., THE AUTHOR OF THE MAIDEN AUNT.
‘Fertile in expedients!’ said Clara Capel
to herself, as she stood alone at the break
fast-table with a spoon filled with tea-leaves
carefully poised in her hand, on its way
from the caddy to the tea-pot. The life of
Sully lay open on the table beside her,
and was the immediate cause of her solilo
quy. 1 Fertile in expedients!’ thought she,
*it is always the same. All great men arc
so, whether statesmen, or generals, or au
thors. They don’t make a handsome, tidy,
Comfortable theory in their own minds, and
then throw away everything they meet
kvith because it does not exactly suit the
hlace they have got ready’ for it; but they
take the world as they find it, and having
got their materials they improve here and
correct there, they invent this and beautify
that and combine all, till at last they have
built up a great edifice to the glory of God ;
and the irregularity and variety, the dreamy
lights and doubtful shadows, are, in tact,
the beauty of it.’ (Clara was pleased with
her illustration, and so paused to polish it
a little ere she proceeded.) ‘To give up
laboring because the persons, or the sys
tems, by whom and Under which you have
to labor, are not ideally perfect, is very
much as if an artist were to give up paint
ing because his oil-colors did n’t smell of
otto of roses, and were apt to soil his fingers.
‘Make the best of it!’—that is the motto
of all practical greatness—and what a best
it is sometimes! How infinitely and won
derfully the result transcends the means !
Well, and the bainc sort of mind which,
when the proportions are large, is fit to
rule the world must be necessary, though
with small proportions, for the guidance of
a iamily, or a course of every-day duties.
Gs that I atn quite sure. And this is a
woman’s business, not to sit down as I do
and grieve inwardly because she cannot do
what she would, but to do what she can,
and that cheerfully. Goethe says, <lt is
well for a woman when no work seems too
hard for her or too small, when she is able
to forget herself and to live entirely in
others.’ Why am I not thus? I can be,
and by God’s help I will be. Unselfishness
and energy, these are the great secrets, and
these are within everybody’s reach. I may
i i ii choose, the life and centre of this
home ol mine—the one who helps all, the
| one to whom all appeal. I may bring or-
J der and even elegance out of all this con
j fusion, by descending to details and going
\to work heartily. Why should I be
ashamed to do so ? The heroine of a
‘ Swedish novel goes into the kitchen to
j dress beef-steaks for her husband’s dinner,
j and yet is capable of discussing aesthetics
I in a manner that few English women could
equal. One would not be less liked and
admired—(here it must be confessed that a
particular person was in Clara’s thoughts,
though she gave mental utterance to no
name) —for such exertions, but rather more.
| Men, especially, never think so highly of
j a woman as when she contributes to the
| comfort of others; and how can she con
| tribute, to the comfort of others, if her most
I active bodily exertion is to dance the polka?
But this must be all real. It must be done, !
not thought aboutand the disagreeables !
and the failures, which one must needs en
counter, must be laughed at and overcome.
Then how charming it will be when 1 see
my work, and feel that I hold the family
together, and that they all look to me and
have recourse to me; and that by sacrific
ing my own particular wishes and tastes I
am able to sustain them all, and to make J
tnem all happy!”
Clara closed her hands together in the
enthusiasm awakened by this idea, and the
contents of the teaspoon went fluttering
over the white table-cloth, not omitting to
sprinkle the open butter-dish which stood
near.
‘lsn't my mistress’ breakfast rcaJy yet,
Miss Clara?’ asked a somewhat untidy
looking maid, as she entered the room, car
rying an empty tray, and followed by the
the master of the house and sundry other
members of the family ; ‘ she has been
waiting for it this quarter of an hour.’
Clara looked bewildered at this sudden
summons from her castle in the air.
‘ Why, the tea isn't even made!” cried
Mr. Capel, indignantly. ‘ Really, Clara,
it is very tiresome. Books,’ with a wrath
ful glance at the volume of Sully, ‘are
exceedingly well in their way; but it is
one of the worst characteristics of a regular
blue-stocking to be dreaming over a book
when she ought to be making hetseif use
ful. Half-past nine o'clock, too, and the
children’s breakfast not ready yet. If this
goes on I shall have Julia installed as
housekeeper in future; she may, perhaps
be better, and it’s quite certain she couldn’t
be worse!’
‘ lam very sorry, papa,’ said Clara, meek
ly, the ready tears gathering in her eyes.
‘O! it’s easy to be very sorry,’ returned
her father, as he sat down and began cut
ting bread and butter with great vehemence:
‘ but the fact is, you don’t care for such
things—ycu never think about them—
your head is full of other matters; and as
long as you have your German and your
music it’s nothing to you that your mother
has to wait for her breakfast. If you gave
one twentieth part of the thought which
you bestow on u sonata by Beethoven to
the comfort of your family, it would be
better for all of us!’
How unjust we are to each other! and
yet scarcely to be condemned, for the action
is all we can see; and when the action
belies the thought how can we form a right
judgment? And who is there so perfectly
disciplined that his habitual actions do in
deed represent his inward aspirations?
Clara was naturally timid ; she attempt
ed no self-defence, but hurriedly and ner
vously proceeded with the business of
breakfast. She made tea, conscious that
the water had ceased to boil, but afraid to
expose the fact by ringing the bell for a
fresh supply. Quietly and silently she
provided tile children with their bread and
milk, distributed the steaming cups to her
older brother and sister, and finally placed
the strongest beside her father, who vouch
safed no acknowledgment of the attention,
his temper not being improved by’ the dis
coverey that he was spreading tea-leaves
upon the bread with his butter. Then,
while the servant and tray still waited, she
was hurrying out into the garden, leaving
her own meal untasted, when her brother
stopped her : ‘ Where, in the name of won
der, arc you going, Clara ?’
‘Only to gather a nosegay, to send up
with mamma’s breakfast,’ replied she,
apologetically, as she paused on the
threshold.
‘A nosegay!’ cried Mr. Capel, with an
indescribable mixture of wrath and con
tempt, while George and Julia could not
restrain their laughter, and the younger
members of the fami y observed that re
strained and awkward silence natural to
children, when a disturbance is going on
among their elders. ‘A nosegay! upon
my word and honoi, Clara, you are too
provoking. Just come back and sit down,
will you? I hate this confused uncomfort
able way of having one’s breakfast—it is
wretched—it puts me out for the whole
day. And your mother waiting all this
while! She would much rather have a
cup of tea, than all the nosegays in the
world. It will be time enough to think of
the graces of life when you have learned a
little better to fulfil the commonest duties.’
I This closing sarcasm was quite too much
i tor poor Clara ; and as she resumed her
seat and her occupation, her tears fell fast.
She tried hard to restrain them, and cau
tiously screened them from her father's ob
servation behind the urn. Then followed
sundry of those small, quiet kindnesses,
which are always forthcoming when any
member of an aliectionate family is in
trouble, however deserved. George an 1
Julia exerted themselves to maintain a
forced conversation, and the former kep; j
vigilant watch over the sugaring an I cream- -
ingof his father’s cup, in order to repait any
oversight, without drawing attention to it;
Emily silently supplied her sister’s plate
with bread and butter; and little Annie,
who understood nothing except that Clara
was crying about flowers, stole round to
her side with a rosebud, just gathered from ;
her own garden, soft and fresh as her own 1
smiling lips, and quietly slipped the offering j
into Clara’s hand.
Mr. Capel was angry enough to feel his
indignation rather increased than abated
by the evident distress of the culprit; it
seemed to reproach him for a severity
which justice had entirely’ demanded, and
by aggravating his discomfort, aggravated
(also bis ire. He pushed his plate fioin
him, saying, in a kind of finale tone of in
tense disgust, ‘A wietched breakfast, in
deed !’ then sharply rebuked Emily for
spilling her bread and milk on the carpet,
and trod hard on the toes of the family
spaniel, who spent his life in an abortive
attempt to commit suicide by thrusting him
self under the the feet of each member of
the household in succession, but who being
a favorite, was generally praised and petted
for this, as though the natural place of
dogs was wherever human feet were about
to be planted; and if the dog escaped being
trampled on, and the human being escaped
a full, it was a wonderful exercise of skill
and affection on the part of the former, and
he deserved high commendation for it.—
I’onto howled aloud ; and Emily, who was
very tender-hearted, and whose nerves
were somewhat affected by the preceding
scene, burst into a violent flood of tears;
little Annie, as a matter of course, roaring,
with all her might, for sympathy.
The Capels were universally pronounced
a very happy family; nevertheless, this
specimen of their domestic felicity was by
no means solitary of its kind.
Mr. Capel could scarcely be blamed for
seizing his hat, and rushing forth to his
office in a passion; however, he was by
no means a fundamentally ill-natured man,
only a little hot-tempered and fussy; so
he came back again in five minutes, and
made, his peace with Clara, kissing her,
and telling her ‘only to be a little more
thoughtful in future, and these unpleasant
scenes would n’t happen.’ He then patted
Emily’s head, and bade her not be such a
little goose; neither did he oinit to stroke
l’onto, as he passed out for the second time,
l’oor Clara, with swollen eyes and aching
forehead, betook herself, work in hand, to
her mother’s bedside, there to reflect upon
this first specimen of her powers as leader
and life of a family.
I suppose it will be thought that my
heroine was a very weak, inconsistent, self
indulgent young lady, whose good resolu
tions evaporated in soliloquies, or had just
solidity enough for the construction of a
castle in the air. We must, theiefore, en
deavor to give an idea of her character and
position, which, as generally happens,
were, in the first instance, peculiarly un
suited to each other; whether she ever
succeeded in solving ihegreat problem how
bring them into harmony, remains to be
seen. She was nineteen years old, and
the eldest of seven children; her mother
was a confirmed invalid, who never left
her bed till noon, and then only to be
moved to a sofa; a gentle, uncoinjilaining
sufferer she was, somewhat weak both in
will and intellect, but full of tenderness,
and beloved by all who knew her. Mr.
Capel was, as we have seen, a good kind
of man, hot-headed and warm-hearted, de-
licient in cultivation, but not in natural
capacity, a rigid disciplinarian by fits and
j starts, and consequently, the man, of all
j others, to produce utter conftsion in his
I household. Seven children and a sickly
j wile taxed to the utmost the moderate in
come which he made as a lawyer in a
country town, and the perpttual struggle
of a naturally liberal disposition, compelled
to live and make live upon insufficient
means, was qnite enough, when not con
verted by self-discipline in:o a means of
improvement, to account for the growing
irritability of his character George, a
j promising youth of eighteen, and the delight
I of his elder sister’s heart, was intended for
j holy orders; he was amiable and clever,
i even elegant in mind, but somewhat ine-o-,
j lute; there was about him a feminine want
j of self-dependence, combined with an oc-1
j casional obstinacy of purpose, so sudden j
j and disproportionate that it seemed to uiise j
I from a secret suspicion of his particular,
j L 1 feet and a desire to prove to himself that
,it had no real existence. As it often hap
‘ pens in such cases, he was apt to overdo |
| the cure, and to apply it at wrong times; j
j lie was like a person who coddles himself
i ail the summer when he is quite well, and j
I goes out without a bat on the first frosty j
| morning. Os course, he catches so violent!
a cold that he must needs stay in-doors for
he next six months. Julia was a pretty
good-humored cornu on-place girl of sixteen,
very ready with small-ta k, and passionate
ly fond of partners. She was popular ;
wherever she went, and was just the sort j
of person to be habitually quoted by gen- j
tieintn as an example, to prove that it was ,
quilt unnecessary for a woman to have a
mind.
i The two little boys, Frank and Hugh,
j haJ rosy, smiling faces, hands never clean,
; and shoe-strings never tied. They got on
j very well at the day-school, thought it was
| great fun to call their master ‘Dick,’ when
he was quite out of hearing; invariably
slammed the doors in summer, and left
them wide open in winter; and always
had in their pockets a knife, a piece of
string, six marbles, two broken slips of
wood, a rusty nail, the leaf of a Latin
grammar, an ounce of toffy, some crumbs
of bread and cheese, a hai 1 ball, and an
‘apple. Emily was a rather self-sufficient
lady of nine years, who thought it great
j promotion to put back her hair with combs
and wear worked coilars. She was a vig
orous stickler for the rights of woman,
i which she not unfrequently attempted to
obtain from her brothers by personal vio
lence, being always ready with the true
English sentiment, ‘ How cowardly to
touch a girl!’ if the smallest retort were
attempted. To say the truth, the two
schoolboys suflered many; an instance of
grievous tyranny at her hands, which they
; bore the better because they had not opened
; their eyes to the fact. Little Annie, with
her earnest bine eyes, sweet shy, maimers,
and pretty loving ways, was the pet, the
plaything, and the sunshine of the whole
household. Clara herself was the genius
of the family, and as inoffensive a genius
as it would be possible to find auywheie.
i She bad been a precocious child, having
learned all her letters before she was two
years old, and composed a decided rhyme
before she was four; neither had her tal
ents evaporated as she grew up. She play
ed very well, and sang with much feeling;
she had a great aptitude for languages, was
fond of reading, fonder of thinking, fondest
of dreaming. She was very shy, and did
not please in general society ; she was un
comfortably conscious that her abilities
were overrated, and believed lieiself to be
destitute of those attractions which perhaps
\ most women covet more than ability. In
person she was interesting rather than
pretty, having much intelligence and sweet
. ness of countenance without regularity of
feature, so she believed herself ugly, and
tried to persuade herself that she was care
i less of admiration : yet she had much grace
of manlier, a musical voice, and a euplival
! ing smile, and if she had not often made
herself repulsive out of the fear of being
so, she might have been as popular as her
I sister. She had a most warm, loving, ten
i der heart, a gentle, timid temper, a strong
though quiet will, great natural reserve,
great anxiety to he luveJ, boundless aspira
tions after excellence. She was at once
enthusiastic and indolent, sadly deficient
in continuous energy, yet never slothful.
She felt herself useless, and despised her
self for being so, and was almost ashamed
to set about curing herself of the faults
j peculiar to what is called a ■ woman of geni
us,’ because she was not certain that she
was one. She had ail kinls of ideal pic
tures before her eyes which she was im
patient to realize ; but she was obliged to
be architect and mason in one, and she did
not know the simplest rules of construction.
She was the person of all others most like
ly to be misjudged by those who did not
J thoroughly understand her; for, with an
| original and striking character, keen
j thoughts and decided opinions, she had so
| little natural presence of mind that she of
j ten appeared to have no character at all,
j and she was so self distrustful that she
| sometimes disclaimed an opinion almost in
j the moment of uttering it, lest it shoulJ
j turn out to be wrong. She saw all the
! evils around her with a perception almost
i morbidly acute; anJ she was too busy
| with self-contempt for the sorry part she
1 had played in the family drama, to think
tor a moment of criticizing her fellow-act*
I ors. SuJJculy she had waked up to the
consciousness of all this, having hitherto
jived, ha.f-studiously, half-dreatnily, indul- j
ged in all her inclinations, both by the love I
ol her parents and the pride which they fell
in her talents; and while frequently re
gretting and feeling teased by the civil liis
orJets of the little commonwealth, content
ing herself with the notion that she never
could amend them, as it was useless for
her to try to be practical. This, however,
was but a vague half-expressed thought,
although it was decidedly acted upon, and
the evils were perpetually growing, and at
last her eyes opened. Sorrowfully and
earnestly her heart accused it.-ell before
God, and then took refuge from its own re
proaches in the intensity of a fresh resolu
tion. No one suspected what was going
on in her mind, and numberless were the
little difficulties unconsciously thrown in
her way; not a lew, also, were the helps
lent to her as unconsciously. Indeed, shel
began to think that it only depended upon
herself to turn every difficulty into a help, |
the steeper the path the sooner you reach 1
Hie summit, if only you have strength and
breath for the ascent. Clara thought she
had strength and breath, and should they
fail her she knew where and how to renew
them. Her purpose burned within her
with a fervor, almost a passion, which those
only can understand who are in the habit
of feeling much which they never betray,
and who, believing with all their hearts
that the will has jiower over life and cir
cumstance, and soul, are yet conscious,
even to agony, of its practical impotence.
The words, ‘conquer self!’ were ringing l
in her ears, throbbing in her heart and j
brain, blinding and deafening her for the |
time to all outward sights and sounds.—
With an almost terrified hope that she
should ensure their fulfilment, she repeated
them inwardly as she knelt at the altar on
the following Sunday, her whole spirit be
ing (so to speak) in the attitude of a vow
though her lips pronounced no deliberate
pledge. And afterwards during the even
ing luxury of a walk with the children,
w hen they, bounding away in all directions,
left her to solitary meditation, she calmly
reviewed and sealed her resolution. How
strange and how happy is the effect of even
the most transient intercourse with nature!
upon a heart, wounded and erring, and yet;
desirous of good. How it soothes agita
tion, and softens pain, and creates life a
fresh, and in a nobler inuuld ! And this
work is done not merely by gorgeous skies
or lovely moonlights, by bright waleis
looking up. like children into the solemn
faces of mountains, or sleeping under the
shadowy guardianship of overhanging
wooJs, by the glory and the beauty ol
earth; it is done likewise by her simplest
and quietest pictures, by her cheapest and
most unpretending gifts. The sight of one
dark-leaved tree rocking slowly against uj
dim heaven; the mere aspect of one gieen j
field is often enough to change and subdue I
the whole course of thought. Is it not,
perhaps, because these creations are fresh;
and uumarred from Cod’s hands that they
so spec lily affect us; because in this they j
transcend man, in whom there is so much!
of personal and of evil that the workman- \
ship of Cod is, as it were, disguised, and j
only to be discovers I by careful search ! j
The blade of grass which we pluck is what;
its Creator intended it to be ; who shall \
dare say so much as this of himself, or 01,
any other ?
Clara was very happy, so long as she
was busy with reveries of the future, ami!
generalizations of duty; but she was far
too mucli in earnest to rest in these, and on
the Monday morning she determined lobe
gin her new work heartily. She asked
herself the question, ‘how !’ and the sub
lime of thought instantly became the ridic
ulous of action. She would superintend
their very indifferent cook in the prepara
tion of dinner, and she would make herselt
a gown ! Her mother had presented her
with one on her last birthday, which lay
useless in a drawer because she had not
yet been able to save enough out of her
scanty allowance to pay the dressmaker.
How easy it is to look upon life as a whole
j —how very i.iificulttoencoun;,r tsdetails!
j Clara got upthree hours earlier than usual :
. and when the housemaid descendei to her
morning toils, she found the field preoccu
pied with shapeless segments of calico and
unmeaning strips of silk, and a va„t array
of variously contorted wisps of paper which
were afflicted with a mental hallucination.
; and believed themselves to be patterns. —
Her young mistress stood in the miJst,
; considerably flushed and somewhat despon
dent, having as yet achieved no visibleeml
j but the scattering of an immense multitude
| of minute pieces of thread and sewing-silk
! upon the surface of the drugget. She now
’ submitted, with rather an ill-grace, to be
; hunted from room to room by the mu h
1 worried domestic, being finally di-possess
j ed of the parlor only just in time to gather
| up her museum of materials with all haste,
and tlmiat them at random into a closet, to
make way for breakfast. Af.er that mea:
she resumed her labors, varying them by
an occasional excursion into the kitchen,
which so amazed the cook th it she ha .
not self-possession enough to organize any
immediate j>!an of resistance. The coufu
! sion of the apartment was at its height,
when a knock at the door announced a
visitor, and Mr. Archer entered. This
was a gentleman who had been known to
the Capel family for some years. He was
good, clever, agreeable, and slightly satiri
cal ;at thirty-six a confirmed old baclieloi
in all his v ays and thoughts; everywhere
much liked, and everywhere a little fear
ed; a great admirer of Julia, with w hom
lie flirted in the easy, frank, comfortable
way peculiar to his class, but by no means
so fond of Clara, who was afraid of him,
and whom be hal never taken the trouble
jto know. In person he was gentlemanlike
and pleasing, without being handsome ; but
he was afflicted with lameness, the conse
quence of a fall from his horse in college
days. He assumed complete indifference
to this defect, spoke of it openly, nay, even
jesteJ upon it, but in reality, and in. secret,
he was conscious of it, even to painfuluess.
believed himself (absurdly enough) unac
cejitable to any woman by reason of it.
and, though he never betrayed, by look oi
manner, the slightest sensitiveness when
any allusion was ma le to it, and, though
his own freedom of expression ralher en
couraged such allusions in persons ol
coarse feeling, yet there can be no doubt
that all such words inflicted their wounds,
and that the delicacy w hich avoided them
was among the surest claims to his regard.
When a man speaks of himself—except it
be in the clo.-e and holy confidence of a
true friendship, wherein falsehood is im
possible and disguise absurd—disirust him !
Either consciously or unconsciously, be
sure that he is throwing a-.d a veil to put
on a mask.
‘Well, Sappho !’ cried Mr. Archer, as he
entered the room, and came tu a dead halt,
in front of a mysterious coil of pink lib
bon, upon which C ara had some vague,
undeveloped designs; ‘in the name of
wonder, what does this portend ? Private
theatricals, of course?—and you are mis
tress of the robes! What costume will
you provide for me V
There is no saying how much good Mr.
Archer might have done Clara if he had
discarded that objectionable habilof calling
her Sappho. As it was, in every conver-j
sation which took place between them,
there was an unhappy little basis of irrita
tion on her part to begin with, which caus
ed her to consider his most innocent re
marks sarcastic, and, not unnaturally-, dis
posed him to think unfavorably o! her
temper. She now answeied hint as grave
ly as if no joke had ever been ma le since
the deluge : ‘Mamma does not approve of
private theatricals. Tam only making a
dress.’
He assumed a demure expression of
countenance ‘ I beg your ladyship's pardon.*
said he, with a profound bow, and tbeu
turned to Julia, who came forward with
laughing cordiality, holding a hook up be
fore his eyes, and assuring him that she
had ‘read it all through—every word oi
it!’
Mr. Archer was in the habit of lending
Julia books, which she real, or professed
to read, chiefly with the object of discus
sing them afterwards with him. To say
| die truth, her reading was a very desultory
j kind of skimming; but, as C ara alway
-tudie l them in good earnest, her sistei
! generally contrived to pick up enough
knowledge about them, to carry her efl'.-c
----i tively through a conversation,as readers ol
! reviews aie often known to pass for profi
] cients in the literature of the day. Tilt*
present volume had not, however, taxed
j her powers of endurance very heavily—it
i was Tennyson’s poems.
He took it from her hand, and turned
j the leaves: 11 And which is your favorite ?”
a-ked he ; “ Lock ley Ha 1, of cour-e—•ev
erybody chooses Locksley Hall, on a first
reading. What a colorist he isi The Ve
netian of poets.’’
“ But I like this, very much,’’ said Julia,
looking over his shoulder, and laying her
finger upon the name “Love and Duty.”
He read it—at first carelessly, and as if
about to /pass fiorn it again: but the pas
sionate music laid strong hold upon him,
and he could not leave it unfinished.
Fur furrowing i to light ibe mounded rack
1 eyon l the fair g ecu Held aui eaiteru ten.
lie closed the book, uttering the two last
lines aloud as he did so, with a prolonged
emphasis, just a little exagerated, in or ler
to save himself from being laughed at by
making it look as if he were half in joke.
“Just a glimpse of light at the end,” said
he; “a promise of dawn—giving one a
faint hope that this most unlucky couple
might, perhaps, he happy afiur all Dry
you know, Miss Julia, I should not have
expecteJ you to choose this poem for a
favorite.”
“ Why not?” inquired the young lady.
He looked doubtfully at her. “It is so
very sentimental,’’ said he with a half smile.
“ 1 think I am very-sentimental,” an
swered Julia, a little aflronted.
“Besides,” pursued Mr. Archer, “don’t
you th nk the verses ate wrongly named
• Love anJ Duty?’ Would it not have been
more in accordance with duty if ihe young
man hal held Ins tongue about bis love,
seeing that, for some reason or other, the
obstacles to its prevailing were insurmount
able (”
Julia di I not very well know what to
say, so she gave him a bright look and a
smile, which implied that she hal a vast
deal in her mind on the subject, but thought
it better not to express it. Clara remarked,
bluntly, “That is a masculine view of du
ly, and therefore, of course, selfish.”
“How so?” a-ked Mr. Archer. Some
special interference of his gooJ genius pre
vented him from saying Sappho, and con
sequelly Clara, forgetting her shyness in
her feeing for the poem, replied without
hesita“on. “Because she con’d feel no
serurty that she was beloved till she was
actualy told so; no woman could; and
not to give her that security would be to
deprive her of her only comfort in the after
desolation.”
Julia lookel up once more with her ex
pressive smile: “that is exactly what 1
think,” sai l she. Mr. Archer answered
her , not —Clara, thinking the smile a great
deal more eloquent than the speech, and
giving it sud ciedit for the substance of all
that it shadowed forth. “You ate per
fectly right,” said he, “but it is anew view
to me.” Then he opened the book once
more and read the lines hall unconscious
ly—
Wa- it not woll
Once to h ivo rpokei ?—it cu J i.o but be well?
“Come, 1 shall retort upon you; isn’t
this a feminine view of duty, an I there
fore, of course, loquacious ? All women
think that it cannot hut he well to speak,
under any circumstances.”
“What a shame!” exclaimed Julia—
Clara went quietly back to her work with
a look of contempt. She had not the gift
of trilling. Presently, however, she looked
up with a brightening sac visitor
had arrived —Mr. D.icre. (We will in
form the reader in confidence that we have
-ome reason for supposing D.icre to be the
name which was left blank in Claia'sopcn*
ing soliloquy.) lie was also one among
the family intimates, and moreover Clara's
especial friend, though there was nothing
between them partaking of the nature of a
flirtation. They had the same tasie.-,gen
erally the same opinions; he had consid
erable genius, which she indisputably
overrated, he was elegant in his inodes of
thinking, feeling, and l.ked
few things better than a conversation with
her. As to his character , that is, the com
bination of will, temper, heart, and habits,
which are somewhat more important than
tneie intellect, it lacked stability, and was
without that nameless ascendency which
seems to be the special mark of a high
manly nature, and by virtue of which it
stands elect, guiding and subduing tfco.se
I whose merely intellectual gifts may per
haps he superior to its own. T >is ueli
ciency, however, C'aia did not feel; per
haps she was scarcely aware of it: v. >
not criticize most strictly those to ■■
we stau I the nearest. Clara could spc>.
and speak freely-, to Mr. of s'ib;t
in which, in her own family circle .
j unong her other acquainlancc, s.!enc>*
practical, y enforced upon her, not by want
of comprehension, perhaps, but by vant of
sympathy. The shyest and most veseiveJ
nature is precisely that which most enjoy ■*
the rare privilege of speaking —rare to it
because it needs so peculiar a combinaiiow