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A xAMihl ■3MMAIi t . t ... wt M WSiB TO UTEMTBMS, Til UTS MB jjg TO 6MMIL MELLISEHCE.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
THE ANCIENT SUITOR.
I.
Old Time was an ancient suitor,
Who, heedless of fashion and youth,
Still kept to the saws of his tutor,
Aiid held that all change was untruth ;
He never kept terms with the Tailors,
The aid if the iiarber he scorn’d,
And, with person as huge as a whaler’s,
Ilis person he never adorn’d.
Sing—Out on that ancient suitor !
11.
What chance could he have with a maiden,
i When, round her, the gallant and guy,
(’ame flocking, their bravest array’d in,
Still leading her fancies astray ?
lie raved for awhile, but grew wiser,
And showing the whites of his eyne,
Sung— I Now for a game to surprise her,
With charms that shall make her see mine!”
Sing—lley, for that ancient suitor!
111.
| His beard had grown whiter than ever,
lie still made no change in his dress,
I And, as for his manners, you never
Would think he could dream of success!
but the ladies now smiled at his presence,
I And sigh’d, while each play’d out her trumps,
inu his coming now conjured up pWasance,
Where, before, it but conjured up dumps.
Sing—Ho! for that ancient suitor !
And what were the arts of our suitor 1—
Why, the simplest of all, to be sure:
i- Plutus he turn’d, as his tutor —
Grew older—and ceased to be poor.
He gave up all sentiment-gammon,
And found that, whene'er he could prove
That his worship found favor with Mammon,
Hi* Worship found favor with Love!
Hurrah! for that ancient suitor !
BURTON.
——
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
MADELEINE—IMPROMPTU.
but hear me, Madeleine!
I complain, since in vain,
1 implore thee, Madeleine !
‘Aot a bird that cheers our tree,
Witk his gong of melody,
But receives an answer free,
Such as vainly, Madeleine,
1 implore of thee:—
‘•ailing hopeless—hapless pleading—heartless
Madeleine!
bo but hear me, Madeleine,
i hough in vain, Madeleine,
i implore thee to m} r pain !
Be, I pray thee, unto me,
Hike (he bird that cheers our tree—
Bet thy song, with answer free,
Though it. answers, Madeleine,
I here s no hope for thee !
f answer, to my pleading—only answer,
Madileine!
e b bethink thee, Madeleine,
bra the strain, sung in vain,
Hies away in sighs again.
1 fckc thy counsel from the bird.
ho will surely, one prefer’d,
Answer to some wooings heard
T iud sonic mate, my Madeleine—
-1 hough it bo not me,
■' Solne brother, happier pleading, for thy fa
vor Madeleine !
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
TRUST IN GOD.
MRS. C. W • DUBOSE.
1 rust in God—he will uphold thee,
’ * ien Hie billows o’er thee roll—
HU the waters angry raging—
M liiaper peaoe unto thy soul;
ompest shall not overwhelm thee,
Held within his strong control!
* ““hh B d, despairing, doubting,
( otneto Him with every grief;
_ My thy sorrows all before Him,
l lu will give thee sweet relief
1 I T'st thee safely in the shadow
I 1 wing beneath!
I* hi God—lie will sustain thee,
Neath the might of human woe—
(eer thy soul with living waters,
liich from heavenly fountains flow :
AH the treasures of His mercy,
1 0 thy tainting spirit show.
* “id in God—His hand will guide thee
Hely through the snakes of life—
a 0 sting from every sorrow—
.j thy way with blessings rife;
11 “ u gh the tempests rage within thee,
* l ‘ will calm thy spirit's strife !
* r,, 't hi God—no power shall harm thee,
bile thy Savior proves thy friend ;
ben the cares of earth assail thee,
, ‘dp and comfort He will send ;
I j l ' l a ®L*tion’s keenest unguish,
e Bus taining grace will blend!
| rUdt h* Uod—the world may fail thee—
Friends prove faithless, and forsake ;
On thy head, in wrathful vengeance,
storms of sorrow often break ;
Hut thy God will still be faithful—
Trust him for His mercies sake !
I rust in God—lfis boundless mercy
Will thy sinking soul sustain,
When affliction’s hand is on thee,
And thy body rack'd with pain !
J o 11 is throne, from hearts believing,
Prayer was never made in vain !
f rust in God, and He will keep thee
In His own especial care,
And in His eternal kingdom,
Make for thee a mansion fair;
In that hour of glory endless,
Thou a crown of lifeshalt wear!
Tranquilla, Ga ., 1849.
■rasSSIMIHISiSIS.
1 ~ n.--..-. . .j
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
SUCCESS DEFEATED.
bp “la georgif.nne.”
PART SECOND.
Revelling in uncaged liberty, the Lars
den party never tired of roving. If a
horse only neighed within hearing, they
were up for a ride; and woe betide the
luckless wight who should object to their
doing as they pleased. Amid them all, ivas
poor Ella, wearied with the constant effort
to seem gay. Her father had rightly judged
that her duties as hostess, would compel
her to exertion ; hut cold and indifferent in
his own nature he little dreamed that to a
soul like her’s, exertion would but hasten
decay. Alas, he had yet to learn, that
affection built upon esteem cannot be
shaken, even by the hand that reared it.
He thought it would crumble with time,
but did not know that when one lies in
ruins, the other looked on, a wreck. He
was distressed at the change; to do him
justice, whatever of maternal affection he
had, had been lavished on this child. She
alone had lightened the weight of his own
selfishness, by rousing up feelings of a
kindlier nature. And now that he saw
her fading by his side, he felt almost in
clined to yield to her weakness, and pur
chase his own happiness and hers, by the
sacrifice of his pride. But he still thought
“it will wear away soonand he daily
expected to see her becoming, as she was
wont to be. “ the light of his eyes” and
“the pride of his heart.” Not so Larsden.
He saw too plainly, the sure, steady pro
gress of grief; and he knew its workings
too well, to fancy that a saddened heart
could ever be renewed. He shuddered at
the change which must come over her,
while he felt that even could he remove
the blight, it would but settle as a curse on
himself. His intercourse with her, was as
constant and affectionate as ever. She
seemed, now that all other support was
withdrawn, to look to him for advice and
hope; and although he felt that every day
made separation still harder, he could not
bear that she should think his affection
withdrawn, when most needed. Fortu
nately, he was one who had always pos
sessed great self-control, and now his calm
ness and unchanged manner surprised even
himself. Often when he saw her sur
rounded by her gay companions, with her
feelings vainly trying to rise uppermost,
would he spring from some petty occupa
tion, and declaring that there was some
thing to be seen, lead her off to become
calm in the cool evening air, or laughingly
send her on some errand, which gave her
time for one free gush of tears. Such
was the slate of things, when the party
determined upon returning. Ella, with two
other young ladies, was to have ridden in
a barouche, driven by Larsden, but this,
his nephew, Henry, would not hear of.
So Ella, to cut the matter short, sprang
into his buggy, and kissing her hand to
the rest, drove off, amid the ironic congra
tulations of her friends. It was the im
pulse of the moment, and she forgot en
tirely the long tete a tete before them, until
she was wonderfully awakened by the
deep sighs and olt-repealed “ah ! me’s” of
her companion. Amazed at her thought
lessness, and anxious to prevent a regular
‘ scene,’ she tried to keep it off by a grace
ful play of small wit, suiting her ideas to
the capacity of her listener; and at last
succeeded so well, that he joined her mer
riment and laughed heartily, declaring that
she had not been so agreeable all the week.
“Just hear that, girls,” she exclaimed, turn
ing suddenly to the barouche, as it came
driving up, “ Henry says”—but at this
instant, she was almost thrown from her
seat, by a sudden start of the horse; and
before Henry had time to rein in, they
were racing through the woods at a speed
which threatened their lives. The ladies
almost sprang from the carriage in their
terror, calling aloud, “oh stop them! save
them.” The gentleman seemed no less
excited, and Larsden alone retained any
presence of mind. “To the right,” he ex
claimed, and giving the rein to his horses,
they dashed into an obscure road which
led in the same direction. The others
were soon lost sight of, for Larsden’s
horses seemed borne by their master’s
spirit. Suddenly, he reined in on an open
plain. “Good God!” he exclaimed, “who
is that I” The buggy had been stopped,
and Henry, with a coarse looking man,
was raising a lifeless body. Ella was not
there. Larsden knelt over the bleeding
man—“ Howard, Howard,” he murmured
in agony. Every thought was forgotten.
He did not groan, hut he seemed almost
lifeless beside him.
“Oh, your honor, your honor, he’s kill- j
ed,” sobbed Pat, “and the young laydic
she’ll throw herself into the river,” he
cried, imploringly.
“ The young lady ! where ?” exclaimed
Larsden, not stopping for an answer. He
found that she had fallen on the river’s j
bank, in an attempt to go for water. Has
tily bathing her face, he left her to the care
of others, and returned to Howard, who
was lying, slightly raised, with the blood
gushing from his head. One look sufficed
to show that no time was to be lost. He
bound the wound, and taking him up like
a child in his arms, bore him to the carri- j
age, calling to the Irishman to follow him. I
“That will 1, your honor,” exclaimed
Pat. jumping in after him. “Oh, the dar
lint young ginthleman to he killed for the
young laydie.”
“ How did it happen ?” asked Larsden,
bending over his senseless friend.
“Oh, your honor, the cratur was going
straight for the river.” Pat stopped to cry
afresh. “I was sitting, convarsing with
the ginthleman so pleasant, and lie was
laughing and calling me a regular Irish
man, when all at once he screeched out,
‘Ella;’ and when I jumped up to see what
was the matter, he was half way to the
horse, or else he niver should have been
murthered in this way.” Here the poor
man could not control his feelings, and
sobbed aloud. Larsden was not given to
weakness, but as Pat ceased, a tear fell
upon the face of his friend. “My poor
Howard,” he murmured, “there is more
than one who would have given his life to
save yours.” A call from one of the car
riages roused him, and he learned that
Ella still remained senseless. The curtain
fell from his hand, he leaned backward,
and shook his head as if in agony. “Hea
vens! heavens!” he groaned, “this is
God’s work, but it works destruction to
us all.”
The tone of his voice startled the Irish
man, who looked up with the tears stand
ing in his eyes. Larsden saw that he was
observed, and his face returned to its
wonted calmness.
When Ella returned to her senses, she
found herself in her own room. Her
father stood over, weeping like a child.
Alas! what availed contrition now. The
victims were before him, but where the
power to give happiness? In the remorse
of that moment, he could have sacrificed
every thing. Every thing sank into in
significance, in comparison with the misery
which he had wrought. Ella’s eyes were
turned on him. He thought they looked
reproachfully, and buried his face to avoid
their glance. “Dear father,” she mur
mured, her arm twined around his neck,
and his head sank on her pillow. Neither
spoke. Would that they had. While the
hand of remorse was upon him the heart
relaimed its sovereignty, but that hour
passed and pride commenced its struggle.
Larsden was at Howard’s. Ella’s fever
raged high, but the wretched father could
not stand it. He put on his hat, and rush
ed from the house. Night had set in, and
the streets but dimly lighted, scarce served
to show him his way. But he hurried on.
In other days, he had. in a fit of admira
tion, payed Howard a visit; and now he
turned his steps towards the same dwell
ing. He was surprised to find it shut up
and dark. Bewildered, he was going away,
when two well known surgeons passed
him hurriedly.
“ That noble fellow ” exclaimed one, “ I
hope he is not killed.” He waited to hear
no more, but trembling in every joint, fol
lowed. They entered a large hotel. “ Al-
most dead, sir,” said a servant girl, wiping
her eyes, as the surgeons passed up. The
old gentleman leaned against the stair.
Life seemed giving way beneath him. The
girl thinking that he would faint, caught
his arm and called for some water. They
brought it, but he motioned it away, and
begged her to lead on. The next moment
he stood beside the dying man. Larsden
| did not notice him as he entered. His
attention seemed absorbed in the groans of
his friend. The surgeons were consulting
over him.
“ Gentlemen, whatever is to be done,
must be done quickly,” said Larsden, al
most sternly.
“ We can do nothing, sir, it isa hopeless
case,” said the surgeon.
“Something must be done,” exclaimed
Larsden.
“We shall only add to his sufferings,
sir.”
“ He cannot suffer more than he does,”
exclaimed Larsden, springing up. The
surgeons saw that resistance was useless,
and turned their sleeves for the bloody
operation.
“ Do you think he is conscious of his
sufferings?” asked the old gentleman, in a
weak voice.
“f am afraid so, sir,” answered the sur
geon.
A deep piteous groan seemed meant to
answer him, and no longer able to stand
it, he sprang up and rushed from the room.
“ Lock the door!” said Larsden. They
locked it, and the head was re-wound.
“ 1 am afraid there is some internal in
jury,” said one of the surgeons, feeling
about his chest.
Larsden shook his’ head and sighed, i
All night long they watched, expecting
that every moment would be his last; but
as morning approached, his breathing be
came easier, and Larsden, for the first time,
began to hope that he would not die. He i
immediately wrote to Ella, telling her how
matters stood, and promising to write con
stantly through the day.
Days passed away. Howard seemed
slowly returning to consciousness: but it
was hard to recognize in that wasted form
the spirited youth of former days. Even
the disappointment of his early hopes had
done but little towards saddening his brow.
So unchanged had the man been, that
Larsden was at times inclined almost to
think him incapable of lasting attachment,
and in his own mind blamed him for not
feeling it more. Not sanguine in his own
nature, he knew nothing of that buoyancy
which wells over all obstacles, and looks
to hope beyond. Exclusive in his own
attachment, he could not comprehend that
love which centres on one , but is boundless
as the world. But if ever thoughts like
these had raised a doubt, or led him to re
gard coldly one whom he began to dis
trust, it was all forgotten in the present
agonies of his friend. And, as he bent
over the silent sufferer, he thought he
could trace many a care-worn line, which
had escaped detection yvhen obscured by
the youth’s glad smile.
Time wore on. Many had offered their
services, and many had insisted that Lars
den was fatigued and needed rest. But for
Larsden there was no rest. His friend’s
fate seemed upon him, and whether sleep
ing or waking, anxiety hung over him,
not weighing him down, but urging him
to greater watchfulness. Pat was his con
stant companion, and spite of the coarse
ness, and sometimes noisiness of the un
lettered Irishman, he could not help being
pleased with his warm hearted sincerity
and disinterested affection. He was sur
prised to find himself bestowing confidence
and even affection, on one who was so far
his inferior. And Pat, on the other hand,
began to believe that gentlemen were a
great deal better than he took them for.
“ Arrah,” your honor, he’d say, “ I’ll go
away with quite a rispict for the ginthle
man.”
“But why go away, Pat ? 1 was think
ing of employing you as my coachman, or
if you like it better, to clean my boots.”
“Oh, your honor, if he dies,” he said,
pointing to the bed, “I’ll lave the coun
thrie.”
Larsden stopped. “It he lives?” he
asked.
“I’ll never sarve any body else, your
honor.”
Larsden turned away. “A friend, a
friend,” he thought, “ what would I not
give for one friend.” And, as the memory
of one who might have been his friend
came upon him, his soul turned shuddering
upon itself. “Were I where Howard is,”
he thought, “whose life would hang upon
mine ?” But his lips closed, and his heart
was forced into stillness. It was moments
before even a sigh attested to the inward
struggle.
The old gentleman, meanwhile, was con
stant in his visits. His anxiety was in
tense; and all that money could procure,
or interest suggest, was iavished upon the
sufferer. But none cherished a hope of
ultimate recovery; and when left alone
with Larsden, neither broached the future.
Had Larsden urged his suit then, he could
have done as he pleased ; but he was too
honorable, to force consent from an almost
frantic man. And he could not but be
lieve that should Howard he restored, no
farther obstacles would meet him. Alas,
with all hm penetration, he knew not the
depth of a selfish heart, and little thought
that remorse once removed, would leave it
harder than before. But he was not al
ways to be blind. As was often the case,
they were one evening together seated by
the invalid’s bed. Larsden held the thin
cold hand in his, and in a deep reverie
was watching the still face, when the eyes
opened full on him. while a confused mur
mur seemed meant to ask a question. It
was the first time he had spoken, and they
both hailed the change. Larsden spoke to
him, and hung anxiously awaiting an an
swer; but a slight pressure of the hand
was the only sign of recognition. This,
however, was enough for the old gentle
man. His fears vanished, and from this
moment pride stood uppermost. Larsden’s
quick eye caught the change, and a pang
shot through him as he saw that his hour
was lost. A consciousness that he had been
restrained only by a sense of honor, pre
vented self-reproach ; but he determined to
seize the very first recurrence of his uncle’s
better feelings. Those feelings never came.
As Howard’s recovery slowly progressed,
he gradually absented himself, until at
length, day after day would puss, and
bring only a polite message, or trifling
present. Larsden was enraged. He could
hardly realize such inconceivable folly;
and his displeasure, which had hitherto
kept within bounds, was hardly concealed
from the eye of his uncle. Fortunately,
the invalid, I >r a long time, seemed to have
no distinct th night of either past or future,
and had never indulged the hopes which
now depressc I his friend. Otherwise, the
disappointim it might have proved fatal.
Now he was conscious of the old gentle
man’s presen. e, and sometimes smiled as he
saw him approaching. Larsden knew not
how to ward off’ the blow. He dared not
build him up on false hopes, as he knew
that in a very short time they must be
destroyed ; and he dreaded the time when
restored recollection should excite him with
anxiety about the future. Troubled with
these thoughts, he watched closely every
passing expression of sadness, but the face
was placid as if it had never known trou
ble once. He was startled. The old gen
tleman took Howard's hand, to bid him
good bye. He looked up, and hope and
anxiety seemed struggling for an instant.
Larsden’s heart sank within him. His
uncle saw it 100, and turned away. Lars
den closed the door on him, and then anx
ious to ascertain the truth, leant over his
friend and brushed the hair from his fore
head. The same expression was lurking
there, but it cleared away as their eyes
met, and he said in a low voice,
“Your uncle, Larsden?”
“ Has gone.”
“ And Ella?”
“Will not be perfectly well until you
are,” replied Larsden.
Howard smiled, but turned away with a
sigh.
And now Larsden had to watch over
both mind and body. It was impossible to
conceal the truth, and yet its immediate
disclosure was not to be thought of. In
his anxiety to avoid one extreme, he ap
proached the other ; and his over careful
ness roused Howard to a consciousness of
what was passing in his friend’s mind.
“ I am not altogether the baby you take
me for, Edward,” he said, smiling, as his
friend hesitated. “ I know as well as you
do that your uncle is no more inclined to
make me his son, than he was at first.
Now, you see I know as much as you do.
So don’t be racking your brain, to find out
how to cheat me out of my senses.”
The remark had its desired effect. From
that hour all evasion was thrown aside,
and Larsden spoke as freely as he would
have done months before.
But there was a third person who seem
ed to have a voice in the matter. To be
sure he never alluded to the “young lay
die,” but he was most annoying in his
conduct to the old gentleman. Pat had
pretty well guessed the cause of what he
called the “breaking off,” and when he
saw the old gentleman so constant in his
visits, his warm heart glowed at the
thought, that if ever “the young ginthle
man was spared to the world, he and the
young laydie would go through it toge-
ther.” Accordingly, poor Pat was most
obsequious to the old gentleman, always
bowing and scraping him into the room.
But now, as the visits came “few and far
between,” the case was very different, and
Pat could hardly be restrained from grumb
ling at him the moment lie appeared. In
deed, so obstinately persevering had he
become, that Larsden usually managed to
get him out of the room. This evening
there was no doing any thing with him.
Unfortunately, the old gentleman called
for a glass of water.
“ I’m not your sarvant,” grumbled Pat
between his teeth.
Larsden saw that a storm was coming,
and got the water himself, taking occasion
at the same time to send Pat to the apo
thecaries. But Pat stood stock still. A
moment after, he commenced grumbling
at the object of his wrath again.
“ Pat, what are you waiting for? I want
the soda.”
“ Soda on the ’able, your honor.”
Larsden got up and spoke to him. Pat
now consented to be quiet, hut he seated
himself on a low stool, and kept watching
the visitor like an old bull dog.
“ An insolent fellow,” said the old gen
tleman.
Howard began to suspect the cause of
the disturbance, and called to him. In a
moment, the faithful fellow was at his
bedside.
“ Pat,” he said. “ I had a bill at Roberts
the tailors. 1 want you to go and pay it,
and get a better suit of clothes for yourself.
Those are not fit for you to wear here.”
“Your honor! it isn’t yourself would
despise a frind, for the coat on his back,”
sail Pat, growling, in conclusion, at the
old gentlemen.
“Nonsense, Pat! Edward, you’ll find a
fifty dollar bill in my purse. Do send him
off,” he said, in a low voice. But low as
it was, Pat heard it, and tears started into
his eyes. “No! your honor,” he said,
“I’ll go without the money. Howard
looked pained, and Larsden followed Pat
to settle matters. The poor fellow was
half angry, but more sorry, and it was a
long time before he could be convinced
that Howard only wanted him not to
offend the old gentleman.
“Oh! it’s for the young laydie, then,”
said Pat, brightening up.
Larsden laughed, and Pat was satisfied.
[Concluded next week.]
If a & Pa II & IB
[From “ The
MISERIES OF A HUNDRED THOU
SAND POUNDS A-YEAR.
[Sir Sedley Beaudesert, a fine gentleman,
with a reasonable fortune—a true man of
pleasure—suddenly becomes, by the death
of a near relative, at an age when his easy
habits of living are confirmed, a Marquis,
with an immense estate. The following
conversation will show that exalted rank
and fortune are not always without their
peculiar cares and troubles, in cases where
the possessor of them is the least conscien
tious :]
“ A sad affliction has befallen me,” said
the Marquis, “ and none sympathize with
me!”
“ Yet all, even unacquainted with the
late lord, must have felt shocked at the
death of one so young, and so full of pro
mise.”
“ So fitted in evety way to bear the bur
then of the great Castleton name and prop
erty, and yet you see it killed him ! Ah !
if he had been but a simple gentleman, or
if he had had a less conscientious desire to
do his duties, he would have lived to a
good old age. I know what it is already.
Oh, if you saw the piles of letters on my
table! I positively dread the post. Such
colossal improvements on the property
which the poor boy had begun, for me to
finish. What do you think now takes me
to Fudge and Fidget’s? Sir, they are the
agents for an infernal coal mine which my
cousin had re-opened in Durham, to plague
my life out with another thirty thousand
pounds a-year! How am I to spend the
money ?—how am Ito spend it! There’s a
cold blooded head steward, who says that
charity is the greatest crime a man in high
station can commit; it demoralises the poor.
Then, because some half a dozen farmers
sent me a round-robin, to the effect that
their rents were too high, and I wrote them
word the rents should be lowered, there
was such a hullabaloo—you would have
thought heaven and earth were coming to
gether. ‘lf a man in the position of the
Marquis of Caallelon set the example of
letting land below its value, how could the
poorer squires in the country exist ?—or,
if they did exist, what injustice to expose
them to the charge that they were grasping
landlords, vampires, and bloodsuckers. —
Clearly, if Lord Castleton lowered his rents,
(they were too low already,) he struck a
mortal blow at the property of his neigh
bors, if they followed his example ; or at
their character, if they did not.’ No man
can tell how hard it is to do good, unless
fortune gives him a hundred thousand
pounds a-year, and says,—‘Now, do good
with it! Sedley Beaudesert might follow
his whims, and all that would be said a
gainst him would be, ‘ Good-natured, sim
ple fellow !’ But if Lord Castleton follow
his whims, you would think he was a sec
ond Catiline —unsettling the peace, and un
dermining the prosperity, of the entire na
tion!” Here the wretched man paused,
and sighed heavily ; then, as his thoughts
wandered in a ne\v channel of woe, he re
sumed, —“Ah, if you could but see the for
lorn great house I am expected to inhabit,
cooped up between dead walls, instead of
my pretty rooms, with the windowsfull on
the park : and the balls I am expected to
give, and ibe parliamentary interest I am
to keep up; and the villainous proposal
made to me to become a lord steward, or
lord chamberlain, because it suits my rank
to be a sort of a servant. Oh, Pisistratus !
you lucky dog—not twenty-one, and with,
I dare say, not two hundred pounds a-year
in the world !”
Thus bemoaning and bewailing his sad
fortunes, the poor Marquis ran on, till at
last he exclaimed, in a tone of yet deeper
despair,—
“And every body says I must marry,
too!—that the Castleton line must not be
extinct! The Beaudeserts are a good old
family eno’—as old, for what I know, as
the Castletons; but the British empire
would suffer no loss if they sank into the
tomb of the Capulets. But that the Cas
tleton peerage should expire, is a thought
of crime and woe, at which all the moth
ers of England rise in a phalanx ! And so,
instead of visiting the sins of the fathers
on the sons, it is the father that is to be
sacrificed for the benefit of the third and
fourth generation!”
Despite my causes for seriousness, 1
could not help laughing ; my companion
turned on me a look of reproach.
“At least,” said I, composing my coun
tenance, “ Lord Castleton has one comfort
in his afflictions—if he mustmarry,he may
choose as he pleases ”
“ That is precisely what Sedley Beau
desert could, and Lord Castleton cannot do,”
said the Marquis gravely. “ The rank of
Sir Sedly Beaudesert was a quiet and com
fortable rank—he might marry a curate’s
daugter, or a duke's—and please hiseyeor
grieve his heart as the caprice took him.
But Lord Castleton must marry, not for a
wife, but for a marchioness, —marry some
one who will wear his rank for him, —take
the trouble of splendor off his hands, and
allow him to retire into a corner, a id dream
that he is Sedley Beaudesert once more !
Yes, it must be so—the crowning sacrifice
must be completed at the altar.”
[From “(>ld Portrait* and Modern .Sketches,” by
J. G. Whittier.]
THE MS. OF PARADISE LOST.
“ ‘Wherefore, some little time before I
went to Aylesbury jail, I was desired by
my quondam Master Milton to take an
house for him in the neighborhood where
I dwelt, that he might go out of the city for
the safety of himself and his family, the
pestilence then growing hot in London. I
took a pretty box for him in Giles Chalfont,
a mile from me, of which I gave him no
tice, and intended to ha'’e waited on him
and seen him well settled, but was prevent
ed by that imprisonment. But now being
released and returned home, 1 soon made a
visit to him, to welcome him into the coun
try. After some common discourse had
passed between us, he called for a manu
script of his, which having brought, he de
livered to me, bidding me take it home with
me and read it at my leisure, and when 1
had so done, return it to him with my judg
ment thereupon.’
“Now, what does the reader think young
Ellwood carried in his grey coat pocket a
cross the dikes and hedges and through the
green lanes of Giles Chalfont that autumn
day? Let us look further: ‘When I came
home, and had set myself to read it, I found