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been so—that game of chess had sealed her fate! | collected as usual, his embarrassment soon wore Such was the train of thought that accompanied away, and his visit, instead of being one of a few her tumultuous and compunctious feelings. Her minutes, was lengthened to a couple of hours. peace, her happiness, her self-respect were gone; “You need no new invitation to favor us with and the most bitter drop in her cup of sorrow, was frequent visits, Mr. Chauncey,” said Mrs. Atkins, the full consciousness that she had brought on her as he was taking leave; "those you formerly reown misery—that she deserved her wretchedness! ceived were for life.”
From this period, all enjoyment of her visit to Notwithstanding the kindness and delicacy of Mrs. Atkins was at an end. She dragged out a this remark, Mr. Chauncey for awhile was less week or two, every solitary moment of which was frequently to be seen at his friend's than formerly. spent in bitter self-upbraiding, and then took an He was not a pining lover ; but he had received a abrupt departure for home. Miss Eustace would shock fronı which he could not at once recover. have accompanied her, but to this Mrs. Atkins His was not a heart that could long continue to would not listen for a moment. “No, no, Abby," love, after the beloved object had ceased to comsaid she ; " it must not be! I cannot part with you mand his respect. To marry Miss Leigh, to look both at once; and one day must not be taken from to her to make his home the abode of peace, sethe time that your mother allotted for your visit, renity, and joy, was impossible ; and after this full unless by providential appointment.
conviction of his judgment, to spend his time in sighing for her loss would be puerile.
Yet apart “Whom suppose you I saw alighting from the from every selfish consideration, he did mourn, stage-coach just now?” said Mr. Atkins with that a woman possessing such qualities as she posmuch animation, as he came in to tea one evening, sessed, and who might be all that the heart or the about a fortnight after Miss Leigh's departure.
judgment could require, should be spoiled by the “Horace Chauncey,” said Mrs. Atkins.
indulgence of one baneful passion. “Horace Chauncey !" repeated Mr. Atkins
Even at the time when he yielded himself most “How came you to think of him?"
completely to Miss Leigh's attractions, the con“ Because there is no one likely to arrive here, trast between her temper and that of Miss Euswhom I should be so glad to see,” Mrs. Atkins tace would force itself upon him. At the moment replied.
of the destruction of the pyramid, the feather Well, you are correct in your conjecture,” screen came fully before his memory; and the difsaid Mr. Atkins. “It was Horace, and he has ferent expressions of the two young ladies' faces, promised to look in upon us for a few minutes in when Mr. Atkins ventured to propose some imthe course of the evening. But you need not look provement in the mode of wearing their ridingso much moved, Abby; for I dare say nothing
caps, were vividly painted to his imagination. will happen to drive him away to-night.”
He strove, however, to persuade himself, that it “ There is nothing pleasant in the recollection
was unreasonable to expect in one person a comof the last time I saw him," said Miss Eustace. bination of all the excellent and lovely qualities She blushed as she was speaking at the disingen- that are divided among the sex ; and he endeavored uousness which led her to permit Mr. Atkins to to believe, that that candor which was so ready to ascribe her emotion to a wrong cause. She felt
acknowledge a fault, was even more desirable than as if
uniform sweetness of temper. But the veil had " L'art le plus innocent, tient de la perfidie."
been rudely torn from his eyes; his sophistry had But it was not art-it was nature. The love in a all been overthrown—and after one struggle, he woman's heart likes not to be looked upon, at was himself again-restored to the full conviction, least not until it may with propriety be expressed. that one great defect will spoil a character. It is a little treasure which she feels to be all her It was not long, however, before Mr. Chaunown-a treasure she has a right to conceal from cey's visits at his friend's house were as frequent all eyes. Timidity, delicacy, natural female re as ever, though the character of his enjoy ment was serve, are the causes of this concealment, rather changed. He was no longer engrossed by one exthan want of ingenuousness. In the most perfect citing object, and there was a new quietness solitude she would blush to clothe in sound the breathing about his friend's fire-side, that renwords“ I love,” though she might constantly be dered their rich moral and intellectual pleasures conscious of the fact-constantly have her eye fixed truly delightful. Formerly his visits had had all on the image of the beloved object engraven on the excitement of pleasure; on returning home he her heart. The woman who can, to a third per- had needed repose ; now they had the soothing son, speak freely of her love, loves not as woman effect of happiness, and if he went weary, he reis capable of loving!
turned home refreshed. As expected, Mr. Chauncey came in before the During several of his earlier visits, Miss Eusevening was far advanced, and though on his first tace was as silent as she had formerly been ; but appearance, his manner was not quite as calm and I gradually her friends were drawing her out by
addressing themselves to her, or asking her opin- | to read !” She raised her face towards him while ion; and Mr. Chauncey himself was becoming speaking, beaming with the inspiration of the interested in eliciting her remarks. She did not soul. awaken his admiration, like Miss Leigh; but he “ Who is it! what is it! that you are perpetusoon became sensible, that if what she said was ally bringing athwart my imagination—my meless sbining, it was generally better digested; and mory?" said Mr. Chauncey, abruptly. “I seem if she had less wit herself, she more heartily en- to have had a pre-existence, in which you were joyed the wit of others. If he did not leave her known to me!" society dazzled by her brilliancy, he found that Miss' Eustace made no reply. The suddenness what she said called forth thought and reflection ; of the question made her heart beat tumultuouslyand if her observations had less force and fire than painfully; and the intensity of her feeling produced her friend's, they would better bear examination. a sensation of faintness ; but she supported herself Her lustre was mild, not overpowering; and her against the window-frame, and her agitation was influence upon the heart and mind, like the dews unnoticed. of a summer's evening descending on the flowers, “ I have it that must be it !” exclaimed Mr noiseless, gentle, insensible—but invigorating and Chauncey, after a moment's abstraction—"Gen. refreshing
Gardner !-Years ago, when quite a boy, I spent a That dreamy recollection, too—that strange as- week at his house. He had a lovely little daughsociation of certain expressions of her countenance ter-her name, too, was Abby-I have neither with some bygone pleasure, which he had expe- seen nor heard from her since; but she strongly rienced on their first acquaintance, but which had resembled you! The same lovely expression anibeen lost sight of while he was engrossed by Miss mated her features! Am I not right?" Leigh, was returning with increased force upon Scarcely able to command voice enough to him, and awakened a peculiar interest. It was speak, Miss Eustace replied—“I believe Gen. something undefinable, untangible; but still some-Gardner never had a daughter.” thing that gave a throb to the heart whenever it « O, you must be mistaken !” said Mr. Chauncrossed him. Yet so quiet was Miss Eustace's cey. “It has all come as fresh to my memory as influence; so different the feelings she awakened the events of yesterday. My father went a long from those excited by Miss Leigh, that his heart journey, took me with him as far as the General's, was a captive while he yet suspected not his loss of and left me until his return. I was with his lovely freedom.
little daughter, daily, for a week; and remember One evening on entering his friend's parlor, he asking her before I came away, if she would not found Miss Eustace alone, Mr. and Mrs. Atkins be my wife when she became a woman!” having gone out for an hour. She was standing “Most true !" thought Miss Eustace, trembling at a window, partially screened from view by the from head to foot, "and you followed the question heavy folds of the window-curtain. She took no by a kiss." notice of his entrance, supposing it one of the “You are acquainted with the General's family,” family who came in ; but he immediately joined continued Mr. Chauncey," and yet you say he her, remarking
never bad a daughter! But you must be mista“ You seem lost in thought, Miss Eustace. ken! He certainly had one then, if he has one no Will you permit me to participate in your reflec- longer!" tions?"
“ I cannot be mistaken, sir," said Miss Eustace, “I was looking forth on the beauties of the even- in tones that were scarcely audible, "as I have ing,” said Miss Eustace.
passed much of my time there from infancy.” It was a glorious night. The moon, clear as a “ Then it was yourself,” cried Mr. Chauncey, pearl, was riding high in the heavens, and looking s your own self that I saw there! Am I not right? down on the earth, which seemed hushed to perfect Do you not remember it?" peace-and every star that could make itself visi “I do,” Miss Eustace had just voice enough to ble in the presence of the queen of night, was utter. sparkling like a diamond.
“ And did you remember me when we first met “ It is indeed a night to awaken admiration, and here?” inquired Mr. Chauncey, with eagerness. inspire poetry,” said Mr. Chauncey. “Has not “I did," said Miss Eustace. the muse visited you?”
“And why," he cried, "why did you never “I believe not,” said Miss Eustace. “ The speak of our former acquaintance? Why could influence of such a night on my heart is like that you not kindly recall my early enjoyment of your ' of music; I think it is feeling, not thought, that it society?" inspires. O, could one communicate feelings with Miss Eustace could make no answer. She felt out the intervention of words—could they throw as if about to betray her heart's most hidden sethem on paper without the mechanical drudgery cret; as if Mr. Chauncey would read her whole of expressing them, what a volume would there bel soul, should she attempt to utter another syllable.
Her trembling limbs could no longer support her, a woman combine in her own character all the and with an unsteady motion she crossed the room, valuable qualities in the world, she could not and seated herself on the sofa.
secure happiness to her husband, were they allied The attachment of Miss Eustace to Mr. Chaun- to a temper like hers." cey was rather an instinct than a passion. She “ Is not that going too far, Horace?" asked Mr. was but eight years old when she met him at Gen. Atkins—“ Is it not laying too much stress on Gardner's, and she had never seen him since, until temper?" they met at Mr. Atkins'; yet the little attentions “I think not," answered Mr. Chauncey. he then paid her, which were the very first she “Early in life my mother often spoke to me of had received from one of the other sex, and which the importance of good temper. Her remarks, had a peculiar delicacy for the attentions of a youth which made a deep impression, led me to careful of sixteen, made an indelible impression on her observation-and I am convinced, that could we feelings. The strange question he asked her was accurately learn the detailed history of any one, ever awake in her heart—the kiss he imprinted from the cradle of his infancy, to the grave in ever warm on her cheek! She would have felt it which he was laid at threescore years and ten, we profanation to have had it displaced by one from should find that temper, his own, or that of others, any other lips. But though she had never since had occasioned three-fourths of the unhappiness he seen, she had very frequently heard of him; and the had endured. Neither poverty nor toil, pain nor sound of his name, a name she herself never utter- sickness, disappointment nor the loss of friends,ed, was ever music to her ear; and for the ten long neither, nor all of these together, have caused so years during which they had been separated, his many hours of bitterness in this sorrow ing world, image had filled her whole soul. For Abby Eus- as ill-temper. It is the scorpion among the pastace to have loved another would have been im- sions—its stings the deepest, the most enrenomed possible! Her love for Horace Chauncey was a wounds that are inflicted on human happiness!" part of her very being !
“I rather think you are right, Horace,” said Mr. Chauncey did not instantly follow Miss Mr. Atkins, after sitting for a few minutes in Eustace to the sofa. He wished to look at his silent abstraction—“I rather think you are right; heart-to still its emotions ere he went further. and if so,” he playfully added, “ I really sympaBut one look showed him that he loved her wholly, thize with you on account of Abby's unhappy entirely, undividedly; the sight of her agitation temper!” encouraged his hope-and advancing to the back “Abby's unhappy temper!" repeated Mr. of the sofa, and leaning over it, he said, in the Chauncey, while his eyes beamed with unutterable softest tone
complacency and love as they rested upon her. “ Now that you are a woman, may I repeat the “ Look at her, Charles. Picture to yourself that request of my boyhood ?-Will you be my wife?" face inflamed and distorted by passion! Imagine
Miss Eustace spoke not a word, but her eyes your own wife so disfigured! Is not the picture met those of her lover ;-language on either side horrible? Who ever imagined a woman as she was unnecessary—both felt that they loved and should be, without investing her with meekness, were beloved—that they were one forever! gentleness, patience, forbearance, as the genuine
characteristics of her sex? When destitute of Something more than a year after this eventful these, she denies her naturencounteracts the very moment, Mr. and Mrs. Chauncey were spending design of her creation !" a social evening with their friends, in the same “But you will grant,” said Mr. Atkins, “ that pleasant parlor in which their hearts had first been some women are born with much stronger pasopened to each other. In the course of conversa- sions than others : will you make no allowance for tion, Mrs. Atkins made known the fact, that her these?” cousin, Miss Leigh, was on the verge of matri “ Not the least,” said Mr. Chauncey. “I have mony.
no belief in ungovernable passions. I would as “I pity her husband,” said Mr. Chauncey. soon excuse a thief for his stealing, or a drunkard
“ Pity him!” exclaimed Mr. Atkins; “for for his intemperance, as a sensible woman for inwhat? I dare say he considers himself one of the dulging a bad temper, on the score of natural most fortunate fellows alive!"
infirmity. At the point of danger, a double guard “ Undoubtedly he does," said Mr. Chauncey; must be placed. Every woman owes this, not “but it will be a miracle if he ever enjoys domes- only to herself, but to her friends. She was
made tic happiness."
to lighten care; to soothe corroded feelings; to “Why?” demanded Mrs. Atkins. 'Surely console the afflicted; to sympathize with the sufAugusta has many valuable and attractive quali- fering; and, by her gentle influence, to allay the ties.”
stormy and conflicting elements that agitate the “I grant it,” said Mr. Chauncey, “and ac- more rugged nature of man! Instead of this
, shall knowledge that I once felt their force. But should she permit her own angry passions to be the whirl
wind that shall raise the storm ? The woman who And wilt thou marvel if, thus left alone,
Thy every step my earnest eye has view'd,
Well pleased, as thus intently it survey'd,
And now, as memory folds her placid wing,
The sweets all shower'd which it was charged to bring,
And to hope's vision yields thee as thou art,
Though metaphysics might have spared thy brow,
If view'd directly, or by sense reflex,
Thou shalt be ever dear to me as now.
Down woman's spirit, to plum-pies and tarts,
And by her skill in culinary arts,
These mighty masters of this terrene world,
Fear lest their Dagon from its pride be hurled, Its quiet sports, when days serenely spent,
And her meek statue lifted on its base. To sleep, at night, a ready pinion lent;
Spirit of her, whose harp so lately rung When time flew on as laughing streamlets flow, Its lofty symphonies through Albion's isle, Their waters making music as they go;
By honor'd breezes wafted here the while,
Where did thy mantle fall, mother of song !
To the sweet solace of man's rayless hour,
I am ashamed that man's elated sense I hear thee still in modest accents plead,
Of his weak might and vain omnipotence, So early couldst thou prove a friend in need, Should spurn the contact of a meeker mind, "If mother pass this one transgression by,
Not less exalted, though far more refined. Brother, indeed, will be a better boy;"
It shames me that these self-styled kings of earth, The answer too, that oft thy tears beguiled,
These demi-gods by boast, if not by birth, "If mother spares the rod, 'twill spoil the child." Should need, to fortify their vaunted crown, All this and more-within the flying hour,
The fulminating virtues of a frown.
But 'tis not thus my heart would have thee shine, Freshly, as one eternal yesterday.
Nor treasures Fame one wreath it wishes thine;
Her temple keys too oft the vulgar hoard,
Its glowing graces to the quicken'd heart;
While yet one sorrow lingers to be soothed, Withers each rose, but sharpens every thorn.
Or care has thorny pillows to be smoothed; A stranger's fire is kindled on the hearth,
While nobler toils present a nobler prize, Where, with the hours, kept pace our infant mirth.
And hope through faith points upward to the skies, He who our father was while life was his,
Let holier zeal inspire a loftier aim,
The Book of Life--and not the scroll of Fame.
Much do I owe thy love; thou ne'er hast known His honored relic lingers to alloy
What spells have bound me 'neath thy gentle tone; Her children's grief, and double all their joy; The soft subduings of thy tender eye, And they, in turn, to soothe her widow'd mind,
When passion's tumult drown'd thy meek reply. While he has gone before, are left behind :
Born to be ever hardened by a frown, So aptly Heaven, to each afflicted state,
'Twas love could melt my iron nature down, A double blessing doth accommodate.
And love's own quiver, to her silken string,
Would oft, unconscious, lend a double sting; *A detached passage of this article, under a somewhat different form, is in private circulation among a few friends of the Passion might veil and pride belie the dart, author. Should it meet their eye, it may, perhaps, be recognised. But could not still its motions in the heart.
These arts can draw the soul, and such as these,
MORE OLD POETRY
Oh what were we, if when our waywardness
THE PURPLE ISLAND. Had left no work for time, upon the brow
How many bards gild the lapses of time! Of one, whose frailty was too oft to bless,
A few of them have ever been the food But who no more shall bless or grieve for, now;
of my delighted fancy. I will brood If, when the watch-light of a mother's fears
Over their beauties, earthly or sublime !
John Keats. Had warn'd unheeded and gone out in tears, The quenching of that unrequited flame
“Something about Sonnets” led me into a pleasant Left love no fountain for the heart to claim;
search among the old poets, and the paper I now offer If not one tendril linger'd to entwine
you is the result of that search. In sending you these The wayward oak with some devoted vine,
articles, I claim the humble merit, only, of a diligento Whose gentle foliage might, at least, conceal
though I would hope for the award, also, of a tasteful, The harsher features which it could not heal;
compiler,-offering little or nothing of my own, but the If o'er our steps, to pray for their return,
simple thread that ties together the rare flowers, plucked No sister's tenderness were left to yearn,
elsewhere. And, with the patriarch's earnestness, to wield
In these days, when magazine poetry is a drug, and The only blade that forces heaven to yield ?
a drug, too, of the cheapest and most purchasable kind, Who but would hug the shadows of the tomb, it operates as a relief to the reader to turn over the If life were such an emphasis of gloom?
pages of those “many bards, gilding the lapses of time," Oh! who could deem himself outcast of heaven, and to cull from them forgotten extracts, -the germ, If such the plea that he might be forgiven ?
quite often, of many a full-famed modern poet: and I
cannot but recommend it as a plan to be adopted in And now, farewell; may all that God can give
conducting a literary work, to devote a certain portion To glad thy spirit, mingle with thy cup.
of every number to this special purpose. I wander sadly; not unbless'd of hope,
Among the English poets of "the olden time." Yet not upheld ;-my heart doth love to grieve;
Phinehas Fletcher has ever been a favorite with me, There is a sadness which itself doch weave
and his “Purple Island," of all his works, prized most Bright presage of the future, and whose dart
highly. This poet was born in 1584, graduated at Brings oil, to soothe its passage through the heart,
King's College, Cambridge, in 1604, entered the church, At once a blessing and a wound to leave.
and held a living therein for twenty-nine years. He is Thus, when the present seems a thankless waste,
often confounded, when spoken of at this day, with I water with a tear the flowery past;
JOHN FLETCHER, the collaborator of Francis Beau. And every bud of promise childhood knew,
MONT, in the composition of dramatic works, and the Resumes its foliage with a freshened hue;
contemporary of our bard. To my judgment the Above their graves my favorite flowers lie spread,
genius of Phinehas seems immeasurably superior to Their only thorn-the thought that they are dead.
that of John Fletcher. His brother, Giles FLETCHER, How strangely doth our stream of being flow!
was also a poet of equal celebrity, though few of his Joy starts the tear at morn—at evening, woe;
works are preserved. Phinehas died about the year On the same-stem despair gives hope the lie;
1650, not far from the age of 66. One certainty is man's—that man must die;
“The Purple Island” is an allegorical description of A transient star-his cradle and his grave,
Man, who is therein personified. The first five Canlos The two great transits which his glories have.
contain an account of the structure of the human frame, A few short days,-at most, a few brief years, with all its functions. Therein are described all the The grave will hide our joys, and heaven our tears ;- physical faculties of man, their several and collective If, haply, when life's billows beat no more,
uses, their fitness, order, and exquisite workmanship. Our barks be haven'd on that cloudless shore.
This portion of the poem has been objected to by some Bul toils await us ere the course be run,
critics, as entering with too much minuteness into a And conflicts must precede the victory won. Thou know'st the hopes, thou knowest the armor given anatomist, than of the poet, to describe. I do not ad.
subject, which it is the more appropriate task of the To them who fight on earth for crowns in heaven:
mit this objection, however, as being of sufficient force Then be these hopes, and be this armor thine,
to deter any lover of fine poetry from a perusal of these And as thy conflict, thy reward, divine.
five Cantos. Camden, S. C.
The poet next proceeds to a fine personification of the Passions, and the Mental, or Intellectual qualities of Man. This is both the work and the worker of inspiration. The soul kindles and flames as the eye and
mind peruse it. It is a test, this poem, of a capacity, HISTORICAL WRITERS.
in the reader, for the enjoyment of true poetry. The
two last Cantos are superlatively grand. Eclecta, or M. Le Long, in his historical catalogue, has produced the Intellect, as the leader of the Virtues, or better the names of more than twenty thousand writers of Passions, defends “ The Island” against the attacks of French history. Bundu mentions thirty thousand the Vices. The latter are conquered by the interfer"Scriptores rerum Germanicarum.”
ence of an angel, who comes to the aid of Eclecla, at
B. W. H.