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378
Ist, between 80 and 100 feet; 2d, 328 foet; 3d
from 570 to 590 feet: 4th. from 090 to 710 feet;
sth, 820 feet; 6th, 940 feet; 7 th, 1090 feet;
and the occasional foice of each source was very
great Similar occurrences are frequent in the
neighborhood of London, and are familiar to all
miners. But it is not enough that the structure
of the country is such that water can percolate
between different strata ; the phenomena of Ar
tesian fountains could not be explained without
supposing it to be collected in large quantities
and forming subterraneous reservoirs es immense
extent That such reservoirs exist no doubt
can be entertained. The celebrated fountain of
Vauciuse sends forth at all times a stream of
water sufficient to form a considerable river.—
Even in the driest seasons, when the water is
the least plentiful, it produces 4780 cubic feet
per minute. After great rains, its product is
thrice as great The mean quanity emitted is
8360 cubic feet per minute, or about 5030. mil
lions of cubic feet in a year. Many other ex
amples of the same kind might be cited, show
ing that water must not only be collected in sub
terraneous cavities in immense quantities, but
that it also passes freely from one place to an
other. In fact the disposition of the rocks in
strata permits the water to be collected under
the surface, and to be conveyed without waste,
as if in close pipes.
According to the view winch has now been
taken of the manner in which subterranean
water is collected, its elevation to the sur
face through a natural fissure or artificial
perforation is a simple result of hydrostatic
pressure. Generally speaking, it is only on the
acclivities of hills, or on elevated places, that
the edges of the strata are exposed, and where,
consequently, the rain water can be renewed
under beds oflmpermeable materials. Conceive
two strata of clay or rocks having a bed of sand
or other matter permeable to water, interposed.
At the place where the edges of the strata crop
out, or where a fissure exists, there is a free en
trance of the water to the permeable stratum.
The water at first descends through the effect of
gravity, and still continues to flow on over a
level, or even ascending, in consequence of the
pressure exercised by the superior part of the
column of water extending from the place of
entrance. Now, if at a distance of fifty, a hun
dred, or even more miles from the place at
which the water entered the permeable
stratum, a perforation be made through the su
perior stratum, the water will naturally rise
through the perforation till it gains the same
altitude as the point at which it entered, or at
least till it reaches the surface, if the surface be
below that altitude. The water, in fact, between
the two impermeable strata, is in the same cir
cumstances as in an artificial pipe; and if the
surface of the ground, at the point of perforation
be considerably lower than at the point of en
trance, the ascensional force may be sufficient to
cause a considerable jet. •
Some Artesian fountains, for example, that at
Lillers in Artois, are situated in the middle of
immense plains, where not the most insignificant
hill is to be seen on any side. In such cases
it may be inquired where are we to look for
those hydrostatic columns whose pressure
causes the rise of the subterraneous water to the
level of the lowest points ? The answer is ob
vious: we must suppose them placed beyond
the limits of view; at the distance of fifty, one
hundred, or two hundred miles, or even at a
greater distance. The necessity of supposing
the existence of a subterraneous liquid column
of two or three hnndred miles of extent cannot
appear a serious objection, when it is consider
ed that the asmo g>enln#ical structure has been
found to prevail sometimes over even a much
greater extent of country. An interesting paper
on this subject is given by Arago in the “An
nuaire du Bureau des Longtitudes,” for 1835.
[Brande.
There is an Artesian well in Charleston, S. G\,
tubed to the depth of thirteen hundred and
twehty (1320) feet, and supplying 100,000 gal
lons of water every twenty-four hours.
The Artesian well ( puits artesien de GreneUe)
in Paris, France, ia seventeen hundred and nine
ty-eight (1798) English feet deep, and yields, at
the surface, 606 gallons of water per minute,
which is equivalent to 728,912 gallons every
twenty-four hours. At an elevation of 68 feet
above the surface the jet gives 427,680 gallons
every twenty-four hours. Its jet is 111 feet, 6
inches (English) above the surface. It supplies
the neighborhood with water; and from the
well the water is conveyed in pipes to a large
reservoir near the Pantheon (the distance of
about a mile), whence it is distributed for the
use of one of the quartiers of the French capi
tal. On issuing at the surface its temperature
is 82 , » Fahrenheit.
The Artesian well at Louisville, Ky., is two
thousand and eighty-seven (2087).feet deep, and
discharges 330,000 gallons of water every twen
ty-four hours, at an elevation of 170 feet above
the surface. This water possesses medical qual
ities, said to be similar to those of the Kissen
gen water iu Bavaria (Germany), and of the
Blue Lick Springs in Kentucky.
, But tne Artesian well, probably the deepest
in the world, is that at Columbus, Ohio. It is
not yet finished, but has already reached a depth
of two thousand three hundred and thirty-nine
(2339) feet ten inches. The progress of the work
is stopped for the present, the appropriation
having been expanded. Its actual depth is 300
feet and 1 inch less than a mile. At the depth
of 2062 feet the water rose in this well to with
in 27 feet of the surface of the earth.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
LOVE COVERETH ALL SINS.
Prov. X, 12.
Love me—oh love me! This is all I crave.
I have no other wish, nor hope, nor prayer;
For I am now thy score than happy slave,
Nor envy Jove, because thy chains I wear.
Love me—love me, and I will gladly brave
Sickness and want, and cold, relentless care,
Pestilence and darkness, dungeons and the grave,
And, with thy love, will think them sweet and fair.
Love me—love me, howe'er the world may be
In censure hard, or low, Insidious sneer,
Or do, or say—oh, let it not change thee!
For, love me not, and life grows lone and drear.
And darkness spreads o'er earth and sky and sea,
For therc'd be none to ask, to pray, love me!
W. C. W.
Pagxerre, the Republican Paris publisher,
has brought out a fifth volume of the French
translation of Shakspeare,' by Francois-Victor
Hugo, a son of the celebrated novelist, drama
tist. and poet, and who was the first translator
of Shakspeare’s Sonnets into French. As ex
plained in a former publication, M. Hugo classi
fies Shakspeare’s plays on a new principle. Thus,
VoL 111. was entitled ‘LesTyrans,’ and com’-
prised ‘Macbeth,’ ‘King John,’ and ‘Richard
Hl.;’ Vol. VI., the first section of ‘Les Jaloux.’
contained ‘ Troilus and Gressida,’ ' Much Ado
about Nothing,’ and the ‘ Winter Tale.’ Vol. VI
will bo published in the course of April.
Bomtni wmm m wmmEtm.
[Fur the B«>uthern Field and Fireside.]
THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE.
BY MRS. R. JACOBUS.
“ No, no, Charley, two for a penny, that is the
law, not a farthing more, you young scamp.”
“ A penny a piece, Papa, or I will go to Uncle
John: he has more gray hairs than you."
The young villain actually shook liis curly
head at me, and scampered over to his uncle,
who lay on the sofa dozing over a newspaper.
Just then, the door opened, and my eldest
daughter entered the room. She held a letter
half concealed in her hand, and I noticed a shade
of annoyance pass over her face, as her eye fell
on the form of her Uncle John. My daughter
is very like her mother, proud, beautiful, and
haughty to a fault As I watched her stand
ing in the doorway, with some hidden feeling
flushing her check, my mind painfully reverted
to the day. when with her beautiful mother on
my arm, I stoo*l at the marriage altar, and
plighted the vow which I knew at the time
would never be kept—of love to her.
Again she glanced furtively at her unsuspect
ing uncle, and muttering something in a disap
pointed tone, left the room. A few moments
after this her maid entered, saying:
‘‘Master, Miss Emily says, will you please
come into the library; she wishes to speak with
you.”
I arose, straightened my rheumatic limb, and
creeping up to Charley, found ho had divested
his uncle’s head of as many gray and black
hairs as would serve to fill a moderately-sized
cushion. On seeing me look over his shoulder,
he exclaimed tr imphantly:
“Hurrah for Jncle John’s head! I like it
better than Papa’s; and won’t Ibe sorry when
he grows bald 1”
I shook my finger at the saucy fellow, and
passed on to the library. My daughter seemed
busy, arranging some books when I entered,
but I know that was a mere pretext. After a
moment’s hesitation she approached and hauded
me an open letter. There was something in
her face and manner that assured me of its char
acter. A glance at the sheet sufficed to con
vince me that I was right. It was a proposal—
a most eloquent epistle from the son of my
friend, Hon. Judge Rushton, a young, dark-eyed,
wealthy gallant, capable, in all respects, of win
ning a woman’s heart; and just the man to
break the heart after winning it. I had kept
surveillance over the young gentleman’s pro
ceedings without his knowledge. Fashion,
frivolity, excitement, change, seemed the chief
enjoyments and aims of bis life. He possessed
the superficial art of pleasing the young, vain,
and unsuspecting; but evidently, to my expe
rienced eye, lacked the qualities which alone in
sure permanent happiness in domestic life. The
letter was very finely written; its spirit of ado
ration was complete, every line breathing re
spect and tenderness. No doubt, a reasonable
portion of the said worship was sincere, for
Emily is very beautiful; but I knew that life
would not always be to them the world of sun
shine that it then was, and I felt that when
sorrow came, my Emily would be left to weep
alone. I perused the letter carefully, then fold
ing it, asked gently and seriously:
“Well, my deaf daughter, why have you
shown me this letter 7”
“ I would like to hear what you think of Mr.
Rushton, sir. I—l—like him very much."
I looked at her very attentively. Her moth
er’s look shone in her flushed face. I saw in it
no love, no softness, no tender, maidenly mod
esty, and beautiful, womanly affection, hope,
and confidence. Pride was there, and in her
eye, and on her finely-chiseled and slightly
compressed lips, pride and gratified vanity, and
consciousness of power, ana the joy of triumph.
She had evidently taken counsel of other advis
er than the heart, and was contemplating with
hardly doubting satisfaction and confidence the
brilliant material and social advantages which
the proposal of Rushton had placed within her
reach. I saw all this and my heart sank. But
assuming an air of indifference and just percep
tible sarcasm, I replied:
“Rushton is a fine fellow; quite a favorite
with your sex, Emily. I dare swear half the
women in town can display similar evidences
of affection from him (pointing to the letter). I
would marry him, by all means; Emmerson can
not compare with Rushton.”
Emily started very slightly. Then, with a
• sudden and strong effort of self-control she com
manded her flashing face into statue-like calm
ness. Her lips were parting as if to speak,
when I asked, looking her steadily and search
ingly in the eye:
“ Has Emmerson so lightly left the field to
Rushton?”
She quailed beneath my glance; her lip quiv
ered, and the next moment, bowing her head as
she stood, she covered her beautiful face, and
tears fell rapidly through her white fingers.
“Come here, my darling." I said, drawing her
close to my side. “Come, and I will relate for
your benefit upon this, to you, so interesting oc
casion, the story of a sad error of my own life.
May it teach you a wholesome lesson, and spare
to you the bitterness of my own experience.
Listen, Emily:
At the age of two and twenty I passed a
brilliant examination at the bar of . That
night my father clasped my hand with fervor,
saying, ‘I have laid the corner stone of your
future, my son; I have given you what can never
be taken from you—an education, which it now
lies with you to improve and profit of for the
making of fortune and an honorable reputation.
My son, I have nothing more to bestow; your
father’s blessing follows you, and his fervent
God speed!’ And so, I started in life on my own
account. A few days after this interview with
my father, my friend Lennox and I received an
invitation to a large party at Mrs. Morgan’s, the
old lady who died a few monthg ago, next door.
We accepted, and being intimate friends, it was
agreed we would go together.
“Come, Lennox,” said I, as we glanced around
the brilliant apartments, after making our bows
to Mrs. Morgan, “come, Lennox, let us sit apart
from the crowd, watch for, and worship the star
of the evening.”
“ The star has not yet risen; but it will soon
beautify the horizon.”
“Os whom do you speak, Lennox? You appear
quite decided.”
Lennox smiled.
“ See there,” I cried, with admiration, direct
ing his attention to the queenly sweep of a
majestic beauty.
“Not at all beautiful,” said Lennox, drily. “I
do not like the expression of her face; see how
haughty and conscious she looks 1 That is too
1 magnificent,’ Delmar.”
“Aye, but she is magnificent 1 See now, with
what queenly air she bows off her too numer
ous suiters. On my life! Leunox,l would choose
just such a woman to preside over my domain,
to dazzle and adorn, with her resplendeut pres
ence, the sphere in which I would so proudly
place her ”
“She might dazzle,but she could uot charm—
at least not me. We will never be rivals, Delmar.
But see!”
He pressed my arm suddenly, and looking to
wards the door, I beheld a beautiful, white rob
ed figure enter, returning, with a sweet uncon
scious grace, the cordial salutations offered her
on all sides.' Slowly she drew near, her sweet
face brightening at every step.
“Lovelier than all!” murmured Lennox, as
his eye followed the lithe form, shrouded in
misty drapery, pure and light as snow.
“ Lovelier than all!" echoed a small voice in
my heart, as gazing on the sunny face of Helen
Maurice, memory flew back to the grassy lawns
of childhood—but my dream was interrupted
by the satin dress of Miss Martinau again flash
i ing past me, and I thought again that its rich
folds robed a form radiantly splendid. Already
in fancy I had become the Hon. J. Delmar. the
wealthy master of a splendid mansion in our
beautiful “ cresent city,” and a summer palace
on the Hudson, with the fashionable Mrs. Del
mar, sustaining in queenly dignity the honorable
position of her husband. The bright vision of
future aggrandisement was too tempting and
brilliant to be withstood, and 1 bowed cold
ly to Helen as I passed her to receive an intro
duction to Miss Martinau. (A little water, Em
ily—thank you, daughter.)
I was well received. She was a brilliant talk
er, and an hour’s conversation found us well ad
vanced in each other's good graces. I felt flat
tered by her evident favor. Yet all the while,
could I distinctly hear the voice of my inner
spirit whispering, “ Lovelier than all,” applied to
another, and whenever I turned to Lennox,with
a white robed figure at his side, he was smiling
happily. As the evening advanced I watched
Lennox’s proceedings with uneasiness. Doubts,
fears, and discontent would, in spite of me, min
gle, discoloring and distortiug the most beautiful
and dazzling dreams of which my new acquain
tance was the queen. The fact was, I uncon
sciously grew jealous of Lennox. I loved Hel
en Maurice, and I knew it. I had loved her
when,a rollicking boy, I jumped old farmer Mur
ray’s fence, to get for her the first May apples—
when I explored the furrowed fields for May
pops, and in autumn climbed the loaded haw
trees and strung the berries in strans of crimson
beads around her little neck. I was thus think
ing of Helen, leaning upon a pillar, when my
attention was drawn by the sound of my name,
pronounced in a party of three elderly gentle
men, engaged in conversation behind, but quite
near to me.
“ Who? Delmar?" said one.
“ Yes. He is a young man of decided parts,
and if he conducts himself prudently, will run
a very brilliant and useful career.”
“ But,” said the third, “ he must not keep on
in the course he seems to be sailing this eve
ning. Miss Martinau is not die wife for a man
whose fortune and reputation are to be made ;
no matter how brilliant his talents. The expec
tations of the community, his father’s hopes,
and his own honorable ambition are now, I
think, in imminent danger of wreck.”
Wreck my father's hopes! The idea stung
me like an adder.
I hastily left the party. They have said true,
said I. I will abandon this life of enervating
fashion, frivolity, and pleasure. I will abandon
for some years all thought of marriage, even
with Miss Martinau. I will devote myself to
study and busisess, with my eye steadily and
singly fixed upon the height tc-which my own am
bition aspires, to which my father’s hopes point
and inspirit mo. So I went to sleep, with the
resolution to forget Helen, to forget Miss Marti
nau, and to keep ray gaze steadily bent upon the
towering State-house, from all whose windows,
methought, I saw the venerable figures of the
old and honored, with their monitorial hands
pointing upwards, and beckoning me to come
among them.
That night I dreamed of Helen. We played
together under the crimson haw-trees; I again
climbed their thorny boughs, and shook the red
haws down in a red shower, while her sweet,
uplifted face smiled on me. It was a sweet
dream, full of love and hope, beautiful in its
tender truth as once had been my boyish heart.
I speak thus, my darling, of my love for Helen
Maurice, not in disparagement to your beautiful
mother, but merely to illustrate how utterly we
mistake the strength of our hearts when we wil
fully thwart the early, honest, strong, unselfish
instincts and purpose of our hearts and better
judgment in the matter of love.
My plans were formed. The morrow’s sun
should rise upon me an ardent and bold seeker
of fame. Need I say, Emily, that in my visions
of the future, there always figured the form of
the brilliant woman who 1 knew could ably sus
tain the position which I felt sure would be
honorably attained.
Three years of toil and study passed, at the
end of which period I was appointed Secretary
of Legation at the Court of London. The Min
ister was the father of Miss Martinau; his wife
and daughter were to accompany him. I will
pass over the excitement of our preparation,
and the story of my first meeting with Miss
M ; for having absolutely retired frem fash
ionable life, I had not met with her since the
party I spoke of.
During the voyage, we were now surrounded
with all the luxury, pomp, and splendor that
wealth and station could procure. Miss Mar
tinau, cold and proud to others, threw around
me continually the fascination of her favor and
smiles. As I listened to her voice, gazed on
her peerless beauty, the spell was completed—
not the thrilling fascination of love, but of pride,
of social distinction and influence. But often
during the passage to England, as the shades
of evening gathered o’er the deep, and the re
flected stars danced on the briny sea, I turned
away, and watching the silvery foam sparkle in
the snowy track behind us, I thought of Helen,
the white-robed figure that, in my mind, ever
more stood by the side of Lennox.
Arrived in England, we promptly became ac
cepted members of several charming private
coteries. The society of eminent, talented, and
elegant men, of brilliant and fascinating women,
“ gilded the moments as they flew.”
When I revert, now, to this residence in Eng
land during my early life, it all seems to me like
a dream of iairy enchantment. Many suitors,
and some of them*of high nobility, bowed with
me at Miss Martinau's shrine; for she was seen
to be beautiful, and was reported to be fabu
lously wealthy. As with proud eye and queen
ly dignity she received their homage, I felt
elated at my influence, and in the joy of my
conquest I ceased to regret, and quite forgot my
first love, the pure and gentle Helen Maurice.
I will now pass over the brilliant perioff that
followed.
Do uot shudder, Emily; your mother did not
love me. Her pride as an American, and that
alone, interfered with her choice. She would
not desert her native home, even for the fair
land of England. With your mother and me,
it was pride mating pride. We looked into each
other’s-eyes, and well understood the path we
were to tread together. Miss Martinau had
loved ; but her heart’s choice was humble, and
her selfish, aspiring spirit scorned it.
At the expiration of our diplomatic service,
we returned to America, and in six months
after our return, I was affianced to Miss Mar
tinau. And now, Emily, begins the sorrow
caused by that sad error. Do you remember,
Emily, the evening of one bright day in last
June, you came to seek me amid the rich foliage
near the entrance to the park? Just such a
day, and just there, my child, with the sun
dying away in soft-colored clouds, the air fraught
with fragrance from a thousand wild flowers,
and the wind blowing fresh from the blue bay—
just such a day, and just there, I resolved
to tear the image of Helen Maurice from my
heart forever. The park trees were not so old
then; young and slender, they gracefully bent
to the wind sweeping over them. I was unwell,
discontented, and unhappy. And well I might
be. The fever of excitement, and a heart ill at
ease, preyed upon me, and as the fresh birch
leaves stirred and fanned my hot brow, I
thought more sorrowfully and tenderly of Helen
than I had done for years. The entangling
branches moved; I looked up, and thought I
saw her coming towards me with her apron full
of haws, and her young face smiling in love and
beauty. I started—a serpent seemed coiling in
her path. I felt paralyzed, and made no effort
to save her. I distinctly heard her cry of ter
ror. The branches moved again, and Lennox,
springing to her side, seemed to bear her away,
with the crimson haws she was bringing to me
falling to the ground, as they sped along. I
strained my burning eyes, and at a small dis
tance saw Miss Martinau smiling superbly
and wonderingly upon me, and looking more ra
diantly splendid than I had ever beheld her. I
passed my feverish hand slowly across my
aching brow, and the next moment bowed to the
queenly woman, who, on the morrow, was to
become my wife. We promenaded, arm in arm,
through the scented grove, but it was ho prom
enade of love. The young birch leaves trembled
to the wind, and between the slim trunks the
blue waters of the bay spread like a broad
cloud; but it was not the calm hour, nor the
leaves, nor the bay, nor each other—it was our
selves, our contemptible little selves, that en
tranced our thoughts. I had acquired an envi
able position in political life, and professionally.
Women coveted my attentions, not for myself,
but for the social distinction that alliance with
me would assure them. Miss Martinau thus
became doubly contented with her choice, and I
looked upon our union as a certain guaranty of
continued success. So, each revolving in mind
brilliant and selfish images of the destiny that
awaited us, we heard not nor cared for the rip
pling waves, the quivering leaves, nor the low
song of the tiny birds, nor noted the soft twi
light fast dotting the skies with beaming stars.
We talked of anything and everything but our
love for each other, and of the happiness we
were thenceforth to enjoy in each other’s soci
ety.
The next morning, at eleven, we were mar
riedr A few friends only were present. The
evening of the same day our marriage was cel
ebrated in all the pomp and splendor of over
flowing wealth. As I looked then upon my
splendidly beautiful and charming bride, and
compared her brilliant, womanly presence to
Helen’s little girlish form, I felt a degree of
pride which brought even transitory content
ment with it. Two months of frivolity and
pleasure, which I tried to call happiness, follow
ed, and then, slowly and painfully, began the
dawn of a truth which was to have so sad a
morning, mid-day, and evening.
Forgive me, darling, if in relating this story
I expose the errors of those whom you should
love and revere. The exposure is more painful
to me, and must be accepted by me as a part of
my punishment.
In the lapse of time I became painfully
aware that your mother's qualities might suit
well enough the interested or unimpassioned
lover, but not the husband. I could not always
live in the heartless society of pleasure-seekers.
Ball-rooms and entertainments, and the excite
ment, equally demoralizing, of public life, could'
not satisfy the crying wants of my nature. I
longed for the comforts and enjoyments, and for
the love of wife and home; and although the
error was partly of my own making, I did not
attempt to smooth away the rough path with
love and gentleness—how could I, barren and
loveless as I was ? As I grew accustomed to
the beauty of her face, and the cold tenor of her
musioal voice, I was loosed from the gentlest
tie that had ever bound us—admiration. And
I felt that henceforth we must ever remain divi
ded in heart and soul, each pursuing, alone, a
separate course. I will not dwell here upon the
many bitter trials we met at every turn, ren
dered the harder to bear by the want of gentle
ness and forbearance towards each other. Had
our circumstances in life been less favorable,
God knows what might have been the ending of
it all. The only happy moments of my married
life were those spent with my children. Yes,
Emily, you first taught me the deep joy of pa
rental love, and from the day that you were
born, I began to feel the dawning of a partial
contentment. Yet my man’s heart craved some
thing more. Ambition ceased to charm me,
and I turned with “ honors thick upon me”
yearningly towards my home, seeking that
which, alas, I could never find. Then I would
leave the splendors that surrounded we, and si
lently walk beneath the starry heavens, think
ing of Helen Maurice. Her young face haunted
me in my misery, and my eyes, unused to weep,
grew blinded with tears of mingled love, regret
and indignation. As years advanced, and age
prematurely furrowed "our brows, our hearts be
came more divided than ever; the walls of my
home echoed to the sounds of the false-hearted,
and though the boastful pageantry of pride and
fashion was scrupulously upheld in public, the
cold sneers, the loveless looks, and silent hours,
betrayed the canker which could not be hidden.
Thus, ehild, passed the years of my wedded
life—a union of wealth and talent only, and
hence the misery it hath entailed.
“ No, Emily, though the gray hairs are fast
mingling with the black, I do not, like most el
derly people, rail at the “ folly of love." I have
too bitterly yearned for its possession to under
rate its value. It is, indeed, the very leaven of
life.
And now, darling. I have finished ray story.
Kiss your father, dear, and when you reply to
this letter, let your pen but trace the answer of
your heart. Is it Rushton, with only his father’s
name, and his worldly inheritance to recom
mend him; or brave young Emmereon with an
honorable reputation already won, and a true,
strong heart to love and shield you from the
trials and sorrows of life ?
Emily’s beautiful head drooped on my breast.
Tremblingly drawing a golden locket from her
bosom, she placed it in ray hands, saying, as she
gave it to me, “ May Heaven forgive me, dear
father! dazzled fqr a moment by Rushton’s
wealth and position, I was about to prove false
to one whom I love, and who tenderly loves
me!” It was Emmerson’s portrait the locket con
tained. *• And father," said she softly, looking
up into my face, “ what became of Helen Mau
rice?”
“ She married Lennox. Her spirit is as gentle,
and her smile as beautiful as ever, even as on
the night Lennox whispered. ‘Lovelier than aUP
And, as to Lennox, there is not a gray hair in his
head. But what have we here, Nelly with a
card ?”
“For Miss Emily, sir, with Mr. Emmorson’s
compliments.”
“Invite the gentleman to the library, Nelly.
I think I may leave you now, Emily ? What!
blushing? So—sol”
“ How like her mother in beauty; yet, softer
now. far sweeter—almost like the glow on Hel
en’s face,” he muttered to himself, as he left
the libraiy.
“Come, Fred, and win Charley’s two pen
nies 1”
Mr. Delmar stretched himself upon the sofa.
In about half an hour he sat up, saying with a
yawn:
“How drowsy the manoeuvering of these little
fingers through my hair makes me feel! lam
growing sleepy. I wonder what Emmerson
and Emily are talking about in the library all
this time! But, bless my soul 1 here they come,
hand in hand! Well, young folks! what is the
meaning of this?”
“We come to thank you, my kind friend, for
the dearest of all earthly treasures to me, your
Emily—now mine /”
“Faith 1 but my eyes are getting dim; I must
buy me an eye-glass. I cannot well see your
face just now, Emmerson, but I know it is true in
its love for my Emily, by the firm, brave clasp
of your hand. Take her, Emmerson; amend her
faults with kindness; forbear wffien she pro
vokes you; never withold your love! Take her
my son, and God bless you both!
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE WHITTINGTON CLUB.
No. 4.
(Concluded from Page 372.)
Whittington. —Ah! The Reminiscences of Ru
fus Choate ! It has just been brought in. It is
from the press of the Messrs. Mason Brothers
—written by Mr. Ed. G. Parker.
Bishop. —l find it on your table. Have you
read it?
Whittington. —l have merely dipped into it
here and there. What I saw did not tempt me
to go further.
Bishop. —No wonder! Even my penchant
for biographies scarcely sufficed to carry me
through this pretentious, shallow, egotistical
performance. For every word vouchsafed to us
by the author in reference to Choate, there are
a dozen in reference to himself! Then, the style
alternates between rhodojpontade and vulgarity
—upon one page Mr. Parker is slip-shod, fami
liar, full of cant expressions; on the next, he
attempts with very bad grace, the stately and
the grandiose. As for his estimate of Rufus
Choate’s intellectual and forensic powers, any
thing more absurdly fulsome it would be hard
to conceive of! In Mr. Parker’s estimation,
Choate was the greatest “ advocate” this coun
try has ever produced. Webster and Pinckney
sink into the proportions of common men when
compared with him. More than this, Mr. Park
er quotes with evident satisfaction, and a hearty
endorsement, the opinion of somebody else, to
the effect, that in one of his grand oratorical
displays, Choate “equalled, if he did not surpass
Dqmosther, - in his famous oration on ‘the
crown!’ ” Now, everybody knows that Choate
really i a freat man. an able lawyer, and a
profound scholar. But this work of his soi-dis
sant student. ;Tor Mr. Farker tells us that he
studied in the great man’s office), will do a great
deal to disgust the public with everything bear
ing upon the subject of Choate’s life, labors, and
genius. A thoroughly flippant and superficial
author is a disagreeable creature nnder any cir
cumstances; but ifj as in the present instance,
he has to deal with a truly grave and noble topic,
he becomes “tolerable, and not to be endured!”
As a few choice specimens of Mr. Parker’a style,
listen to the following phrases, already, with
proper severity, commented upon by the Atlan
tic Monthly, (even the Boston Maga, somewhat
too lenient, generally, to persons born within a
certain degree of latitude), can’t endure such
lapses in modesty and English—“ With me, as
with every young man of a taste that way, Mr.
Choate talked, 4a,” “He was always hooked
up on all the fresh topics, 4c.,” “ newspaper
topics of erudition and magnificence, 4c.”—“se
verity sweetening all the Courts through which
he revolved, 4c.”—“ two names, chiefs at the
bar, facile princeps / 4c., 4c.” A single illustra
tion, amongst many at hand, will suffice to show
the author's ridiculous vanity; excuse me for a
moment! let me findit; ah! here it is: “Mr.
Choate said, some one should write a history of
the ancient orators. There is no book in all my
library, where (f /) I can find all there is extant
about any ancient orator.” He earnestly ad
vised the author (i. e. Mr. Parker), to undertake
it. In pursuance of the idea, an article on
“ Hortensius," appeared in a Review, as a be
ginning. He spoke with enthusiasm of the satis
faction it gave him, saying it was a new revela- •
turn to him, for he never knew Hortensius be
fore!!"
Whittington, —That will do, Hal! If nothing
better can be procured from the book, please
oblige me by putting my copy immediately into
the fire.
Bishop. —A little patience, if you please!
Among a mass of irrelevant and impertinent
matter, stale anecdotes and staler jests, I have
just happened upon a really good thing.
“ There was,” says Mr. Parker, “ at the Suffolk
Bar, one cool, imperturbable lawyer, who was,
I always thought, a goad in his (Choate’s) side,
when they were hostile. He was as cool and
smooth as marble; he could not be put down,
and his whole manner was as superciliously self
conceited, (by tho way, Mr. Parker himself
ought to sympathize with that man,) as it was
possible to be and not be impertinent. He lac
erated Choate, for he would rise deliberately in
the midst o£one of his torrid climaxes, and,
with a manner sublimely certain, stop this ex
press-train of fervid splendor, stating his objec
tion exactly, and adjusting his eye-glasses all
the while, with a satirical half-sneer on his hard
and arrogant lip. It was like the spear of the
hunter in the sides of the plunging beast of the
forest. Sometimes, Choate would shake him
off, but generally he had to grapple with him,
and then the fire would flash into his eyes and
he would come down with some scathing re
partee, or do some queer thing, which set the
whole house in a roar.
“It was in allusion to this appearance of ab
solute self-satisfaction in the lawyer of whom
we have spoken, that a story was long current
at the Bar, whose wit was attributed to Choate.
“ It was said that some one met Mr. Choate,
late one afternoon, revolving about the Boston
Common; crossing it diagonally, at the same
time, was the aforesaid counselor, moving with
placid satisfaction.
‘What dd you suppose our friend there is
thinking of?’ said a companion of Mr. Choate to
him.