forsaken quiet, quaint, easy-going Old Virginia, to seek solitude and repose in Paris. To execute wise resolves in Paris! Flying from the temptations and pleasures of the world to Paris! I feared that he was lost. I feared that he who had yielded in Virginia, could hardly escape in Paris. I feared that he was ashamed to write. Robert began to grow restless at his long silence, Louise painfully silent, uncle Joe fidgety, and Mrs. Barbara exultant. The man at the postoffice saw no peace for uncle Joe, who was distracted for a letter. On fair, unrheumatic days, he would ride over to our house, ask for Louise, look earnestly at her, kiss her, and then pace off upon his easy-going animal, in a low, sad state. Mamma's eyes followed Louise, and marked the shadow on her clear pale brow. There were cares and troubles in this world, from which no mother's love could shield her. And though fair, and beautiful, and beloved, she was yet mortal and must suffer. Papa, too, felt that his regal, petted child was enduring silently and uncomplainingly. His heart yearned for her. Dashwood's name was seldom mentioned. Tom Farren came and went daily, and the imperious object of his adoration never turned her eye upon him. Cold and fair as ice, and unapproachable in her grief, she brooked no compassion from those whose hearts were bleeding for her. Too proud to acknowledge her weakness, too haughty to heed our sympathy, she held aloof from us, impregnable in the sanctity of her sorrow. Papa, who had never harshly reproved her in his life, longed to speak with her. He felt it his duty, however painful it might be to him, to remonstrate seriously with her on her stern obstinacy and unswerving constancy to one he deemed so unworthy. "My daughter," said papa gently to her, "I have suffered for you more than you are aware of. I have endeavored to convince you that your happiness is all I ask. I tremble for you, my dear, when I see you rejecting all advice, and throwing away all happiness, for a man whose wonderful gifts only unfit him for usefulness in life." "Papa," said Louise, unmoved, "we will not talk about this, if you please." "But, Louise, I must; I am in duty bound to advise and direct you. I must show you the right, when I see you so perverse, and so wilfully blind." "Not so blind as you think, papa." "Not so blind, that I cannot see faults in the most gifted. Not so blind, that I cannot see the dangers you would point VOL. I.-27 out to me. Not so perverse, that I wilfully shut my eyes to the truth. Believe me, I have suffered too; and your daughter, sir, knows her duty to you, and also to herself." "Your duty to me is to heed my counsels, and obey my voice." "Both of which I shall ever proudly do, sir, when conscientiously I can." Very well, my dear, go your way, but when you bring trouble upon yourself, and all who love you, do not look to me." "I will never bring you trouble, sir, or cause you one moment's unhappiness, by any folly or waywardness on my part." "Louise!" "I shall never forget," said Louise, proudly, "the high dignity which I inherit. I shall never forget my duty; I shall never forget that I am your daughter, sir." "Then go, my child. Go, shielded by your own pride and high sense of the right. I place all faith and confidence in you. Go, Louise, as free, my girl, as you have ever been. No longer will I doubt you, my own noble child. I am secure, for I rely upon your own moral strength, and your respect for yourself." "And on my love for you, papa," said Louise, with moist eyes. "God bless you, child of my heart. Remember-I say no more. But all faith and all confidence I repose in you." "Thank you, papa; you have made me proud and happy from this hour." Thus wisely papa dealt with his favored child. She was left to herself to do that which seemed right unto her. This was the only way to guide the spoiled, imperious beauty. Feeling her own dignity, proud of her strength and of the confidence reposed in her, she would have died before she would have compromised the one or betrayed the other. But, under all this, lay the woman's faithful heart-hoping, praying, trusting. She believed him true; she believed him great and good. Had he been other than this; had he lost, by any misconduct, the high place he had gained in her estimation, or forfeited the apotheosis with which she had endowed him, the spell would have been broken at once. Her love, high, and pure, and spiritual as it was, would have fallen with him. Founded on respect, it would have tottered with its base. Founded on respect, it must be retained by respect. He must be worthy of her love, and continue worthy of her love, or he was lost, and the beautiful creation of her heart shattered for ever. I trembled for Dashwood. I trembled for Louise. I knew his easy, pliant disposition, and I knew her stern, unyielding pride. I knew her heroic capability of endurance, her high sense of propriety, and I feared the result. For my own part, I had always been in favor of Dashwood, but, like uncle Joe, I almost feared to avow my predilection. That good man almost betrayed himself daily. When Mesdames Barbara and Phoebe would be railing against his favorite, his contortions of visage were ludicrous in the extreme. Sometimes, he would limp about the room, and whistle, to moderate himself. Then, he would smoke furiously, and thus let off an enormous amount of steam. Again, he would handle his crutch in a manner which convinced me that he was almost tempted to do something very rash indeed. He lost no opportunity to pet and fondle Louise, and to drop a sly word for her ear in praise of his favorite. He resorted to various expedients to amuse her in her trouble, and wooden punch-bowls, ladles, baskets neatly cut of cherry-stones, and hearts fantastically fashioned from the sameall the handiwork of that once rash man, were presented to her. Tales of his youth were conjured up and remodelled, and revarnished, to beguile her ear. All the particulars of his love scrape with the broken-hearted young lady, who sought the southern breezes, were, for the first time, confessed by uncle Joe, in order triumphantly to prove that absence could not conquer love. My valiant brother was not idle during Dashwood's appalling and inexplicable silence. He was voluble and argumentative, and made a speech for his friend every day at table. A rumor reached us that some publishing house had, rather pompously, announced a book of poems as about to appear, which, some persons hinted, were from Dashwood's pen. Mr. Farren mentioned the rumor at dinner one day, and said he presumed it was true. "Not our Dashwood, surely," said Mrs. Barbara, rather pointedly. "And why not our Dashwood?" exclaimed Robert, wheeling around as though about to charge the most implacable enemy he had in the world. "Show me a man more capable of writing than he. On whom has nature so lavished her gifts? Where is a better heart, or a more godlike man?" "My son, you always run away with that subject," said mamma gently. "I acknowledge that I am not myself when Dashwood is remotely slandered. I acknowledge that I am incensed against those persons who cannot excuse one fault in a fellow-creature. Suppose I were eminently handsome, would I not be at times proud of my person? Certainly I would, and so would all of us. Suppose I excelled in dancing, would I not delight to dance? Suppose all the world sought me, and applauded me, would I not seek the world? Suppose I had a talent for music, drawing, oratory, conversation, poetry, satire, polite learning, and were of an enthusiastic, ambitious temperament, would I not exult in exhibiting my gifts? Would I not turn from one to the other, uncertain which to prefer? Would I not delight to astonish with my brilliancy and versatility? Surely I would, and so would every one of us. It is very easy to say we would not do thus and so, until we are tempted. It is easy for the poor to rail against the rich; but let the wheel of fortune turn, and the question alters. It is easy for a lady to say she will not marry, until she has a beau; then she begs to change her mind. An ill-used servant makes the worst master. Nobody knows how he would act until he is tried, and then he is often astonished at himself." "You had better have a temporary pulpit erected," said Mrs. Barbara, "before proceeding further with your sermon." "I am obliged to you, madam," said Robert, sarcastically;" but I should think such a piece of furniture a necessary permanency in any house you honored with your presence.' "Robert!" said papa gravely, while a smile went around the festive board. "You had better say champagne," cried Mrs. Barbara. "No!" cried Robert, "better still to remark calmly and dispassionately, that evil communications will corrupt the best manners." "And pray, do not forget, in summing up your brilliant apothegms, that you can't squeeze blood out of a turnip; neither does any reasonable person expect to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear," retorted the dowager. "Most remarkable and irrefragable truths, madam. Allow me " said my brother, raising his glass respectfully, and bowing gravely to the heroine of the theatrical conflagration. The stately heroine tipped her glass at him, and during this ludicrous ceremony we all laughed. Even Mr. Farren's risibles were excited. The grandmamma and grandson were remotely alike. They had hot heads and nimble tongues, and were often sparring at each other in this way; indeed, they had never been known to agree on any subject. It really seemed that my brother's temper was visibly changing. He, who had always been so gay and facetious, so fond of jokes and so careless of the morrow, was now morose at times, and, like grandma, seemed in a state of perpetual warfare with all mankind. His favorite pursuits had lost their charms. His horses, fat and sleek, were no longer exercised and trained. His dogs, when they came jumping and frisking around him, were sternly rebuked. Even Byron's harmonious despair no longer diverted him, or soothed his captious mind. His whole soul was absorbed in Dashwood, Louise, and Therese. The cruelty and coquetry of the fair Alabamian had well-nigh brought on a typhoid fever. Still time passed on, and still Dashwood remained silent, and Therese cruel. Just about the time my brother's spirits were as low as they could be, and just before uncle Joe had fully made up his mind to be very rash indeed, Robert returned from the post-office with a very bright face, rushed into mamma's room, slammed the door, and then held up two letters, and fairly danced around the room. My brother was himself again, important, mysterious, tantalizing, and somewhat inclined to talk. "Remember," he cried, "it never rains but it pours. Bear that in mind, girls, before I can give you the news." "My son, what is the use of tantalizing people so?" said mamma. Well, prepare yourselves. Are you ready? No fainting now, no hysterics; and with your permission I will read letter number one." "Pray, take your time," said Louise, coolly; "you seem nearer hysterics than any one else, I think." "You are right; perhaps to-morrow will do as well." "Provided Mr. Robert Rushton does not explode," said Louise, laughing. "Ha! ha!-no, upon my word, I must out with it. To begin with DashwoodGod bless him; here is his veritable old fist once more. First he writes that in London he advertised for his great-aunt, Miss Ellen McGregor Dashwood (which was exactly what I advised him to do), and that, sure enough, the old lady responded from away in Kent, and invited the bold advertiser to hunt her up in that direction. Accordingly, Dashwood started off to Kent, and found the old lady, who, fortunately, notwithstanding tabby cats, and pink-eyed dogs, had yet a warm, snug place in her heart for him. Here he remained, treated like a prince, for a month, the old lady growing fonder of him every day. Finally, she begged him to resign his office, and live with her; 'but,' says Dashwood, though strongly inclined to consent, yet remembering uncle Joe's predictions, viz., that, if our government thought to attach me to any point of the compass, our government was vastly mistaken, I respectfully declined. Still the old lady urged me daily, and still I would not consent. She offered me a thousand pounds per annum, and though my pockets were as light as feathers, I again, to my immortal honor, declined. Still the old lady held on to me with might and main, and I finally tore myself away, promising to see her again. The next week found me in Paris, engaged in my official duties-mem-tell uncle Joe to cut a notch for me there. In the midst of my avocations, and at the height of the carnival, I was attacked with a brain fever, which nearly finished me. I was the sickest man in the world. To lie all day long upon a small bed, with French gabbling around you in every direction, while your brain is whirling and reeling, is enough to drive any reasonable person mad. I had foreign nurses, foreign doctors, the oddest potions to take, the greenest attendants, was civilly requested to do the strangest things, and politely harassed within an inch of my life, until I concluded that I had rather die then and there, and break off in the middle of my life, as it were, without waiting for the sequel of so perplexing a tragedy. Thus I lay for six weeks, and finally arose from my sick bed to find my purse in a very low state; indeed, I may say completely collapsed. Fortunately, I had a package of letters from my guardian angel in Kent, in which she had inclosed a draft. This I kept by me for some weeks in case of accidents, but finally had the good fortune to return it to her untouched. Again the dear old lady wrote me, advising me to go to Italy for my health, and for her sake to resign my office. She was particularly anxious that I should go, she said; she would defray all expenses, and go I must. In a very feeble and dilapidated condition, I tendered my resignation, which was graciously accepted by the department, and behold me next en route for Italy. "You remember, my beloved Robert, how I vowed to forget the muses; how I railed against those inconstant ladies, who have led so many lovers astray; how I determined to turn my back upon them, and, indeed, had quite cut their acquaintance before I left old Virginia's shore. And you know I left my native land with a head brimful of common sense. Every poetical avenue was jealously closed, every crack in my brain rigidly guarded. I was determined that nothing, however poetical, should mislead me. No landscape, no water view, no love of home (the most poetical feeling in I was the world) should woo me back to my old habits. Right bravely I battled against these nine ladies-God forgive them-until I found myself convalescing, drinking in new life beneath the glorious skies of Italy. Italy, steeped to the very heaven in poetry! Here the old feelings were stirred up; here the old dreams came back; here fairy land was opened; here I yielded, knowing that the nine ladies had me upon their own ground, and they seized me. Behold, I dreamed again—I was intoxicated—I was expanded-I was lifted up-I staggered beneath the weight of so much poetry! Poesy sailed on the deep blue air, and glided on every stately panorama of this magnificent land. Still my MSS. remained untouched in the bottom of my box. Oh! I thirsted for these MSS. I felt like an old toper deprived of his drink. I was pining for my manuscripts. Sickness had cleared me, had refined me, had purified me for this. I paced my room. full of thoughts. Something was heavy upon me. It was my undigested poetry. I seized the pen. I dashed, I scampered, I revelled in the blissful regions of imagination. I was pressed on by thought, rushing, coming, accumulating thought. I wrote on all day and all night. Quick my glad pen winged its way across the snowy page. The wee small hours found me drunk with poetry. During this paroxysm, which I have but feebly described, I finished off that unfortunate manuscript which has so long been my bête noire. After this, when the reaction had taken place, and the sober second thought came upon me, I wrote a long letter to my dear aunt Ellen, in which I made a full confession, and sent her the manuscript, requesting her to do with it as she chose. She chose to submit it to the inspection of the most high-minded and generous litterateur in England, and to return me ten thousand thanks for the gift. She wrote me, further, that she had made inquiries concerning me of a friend in Virginia, and that this friend had advised her of my poetical predilections, and had given so flattering an account of me, (!) my standing in society, (!!) my talents, and all that (worse and worse), that she was thereby induced to insist upon my travelling at least twelve months, and hoped some day to see me reaping the honors I so richly deserved. My dear Robert, excuse this egotism. Do you know, that when I received that dear letter from my aunt-when I thus became convinced that I actually had a friend in the world, who took a deep and abiding interest in me, I knelt beside the open window, and looking up to the rose tinted sky above me, prayed fervently and long. I was thankful, I was humble, I was a better man. Never had the deep waters of my heart been so moved. Now, Robert, who was this friend in Virginia, who induced my aunt to act so generous ly towards me? To whom am I indebted for all the benefits she has showered upon me?' "Does any body know?" inquired Robert. "I suspect it was Jenny," said Louise, her face lighting up. "And why do you suspect me?" I asked. "She looks guilty. Bravo! sly-boots!" cried Robert, catching me in his arms, and caressing me violently. I had to confess it all. I confessed that Miss Dashwood had done me the honor to write me a few months after Dashwood's departure-while he was her guest, in fact and that she inquired strictly and confidentially of me concerning him. That I immediately returned her an answer, so highly satisfactory, that the good lady was charmed. That I had received a second letter from her, in which she spoke most affectionately of her nephew, thanked me for the information I had given her, and said she would act accordingly. How nobly she had performed her part, I had learned, for the first time, from Dashwood's letter. "My dear, dear Jenny!" cried Louise, with tears in her eyes. "Angel of mercy!" cried Robert, catching me again to his heart. And I had to submit to some of the most unmerciful hugs, and remorseless squeezes, that ever fell to mortal lot; Robert clearly forgetting that I was flesh and blood, and going on with me as one would expect an anaconda to proceed with a delicious ox. But my brother had yet something in reserve for us. His looks were fraught with meaning. He stepped into the hall, and returned with rather a large package, which he handed to me. They clustered around me while I opened it. It was Dashwood's book of poems, with Miss Ellen McGregor Dashwood's compliments! She had had it published in London, and edited by the distinguished litterateur to whose inspection she submitted the manuscript. A magnificent volume it was, most beautifully and elaborately illustrated. The frontispiece was a superb specimen of the engraver's art. A youth, remotely resembling Dashwood, sat leaning against a rock in a sombre valley. On the sun-tipped hills around him, tripped the tuneful nine, weaving wreaths for him, beckoning him up the airy peaks, pointing to the burnished hill-tops, and to the laurel crown on high, while one beam from the glowing heavens pierced the valley, and illuminated the rippling, careless locks of the dreaming poet. Gems of the mind lay enshrined in this magnificent casket. Bursts of inspiration, and mellow harmonies were linked in musical rhyme. Light cadences, mingled with gigantic thoughts, which loomed into eternity. Echoes from the heart, reverberations from spirit-land, music of the spheres, revealings of wonder-land, liftings of the spirit, longings of the soul, murmurs from the far-off shores, and lighthearted songs of earth, floated on, in sweetest melody, and mingled in one harmonious whole. Read, Jenny, read," said Robert, leaning back upon the cushions of his chair; "I want a tone from his grand, deep heart." I turned the leaves listlessly, and read: Sweeping, sweeping ever o'er me, Light bounding on the summer air, Thy memory cometh, ever fair- Enhaloed like the evening star, Stealing near in saddened hours, Dreams of home and summer bowers. "Ah, that is very sweet," said mamma, imprinting a kiss upon the softly glowing cheek of the poet's beloved. "There we have Dashwood! he speaks in every line you have read," said Robert; "may God bless him, and prosper him, and prove through him, that to love the things He has made, is but to love Him." "My son," said mamma, "you are going too far, both Dashwood and yourself. When you have learned the frailty and insecurity of earth, you will turn from the fleeting things He has made to Him." “Still, mamma, it is not right to scowl upon the earth. I detest those persons who are continually railing against all earthly pleasures. Believe me, we are made for the world, and the world for us. It is folly for us to be fitting ourselves for a place of which we know nothing, and thereby unfitting ourselves for the very pleasant and delightful abode He, in His wisdom, has given us. Now we are of the earth, earthy; when we shall have put on immortality, we shall be clad and fashioned for eternity. In the mean time, it is religion, religion of the highest order, to be contented and happy here, and not to turn with contempt from the beauties and pleasures by which He has graciously surrounded us. For my own part, my motto is, dum vivimus vivamus, and, I may say, it is also my religion." "But years gradually change us—sorrows cause us to turn away from earth. The heart points elsewhere. Instinctively we reach up until we find a better place," said mamma, sadly. "I know, I know," said Robert, putting his arm around her. "There are some, even here, who are more of heaven than of earth. There are scattered, here and there, gentle spirits to lead us on. There are some, whom to follow, is but to go to the home from which they have been sent to guide us." 66 May you follow one of these!" said mamma. "I have two of them to follow," said Robert, "two who go unconsciously together; two whose hearts direct them ever aright; two angels with hidden wings, who beck me beautifully on. They are my mother and Therese!" "Therese!" cried Louise and I. "Yes, Therese-gay, dashing, coquettish, heart-breaking Therese. She is ever coyly fluttering in the right path! She, with her giddy, chameleon-like nature, is obeying her good, true heart, and coming into measures at last!" and Robert drew from his vest pocket a little perfumed billet, which any physiognomist would have said could only be written by Therese. He said he would read a few choice extracts from this precious document, as a particular favor to mamma, Louise, and me. From these extracts, selected with great care by Robert, we gathered that Therese was in trouble. She wrote a doleful, naïve letter, in which she said she wanted to take back every thing she had ever said, or written, which could possibly give dear Mr. Rushton any pain. She said somebody (Mr. Blanton, Robert informed us) had treated her very unkindly-that she was almost as much afraid of him as his own badly used dog-that she wanted to go away from his houseand here she appealed so beautifully and artlessly to her lover, that Robert had actually to seize us all, and kiss us, before he could proceed any further. After this delightful ceremony, he returned to the delicious little letter, wherein Therese went on to say, that Mr. Blanton had gotten angry with her about something. She could not tell, to save her life, she said, what had happened to put him |