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SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME XXIX, NUMBER 3.1
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Ixatrg.
Trinitas
I=
At morn I prayed: "I fain would see
How Three are One, and One is Three;
Rend the dark riddle unto me."
I wandered forth; the suit and flit
I saw bestowed with equal care
On good and evil, foul and fair.
No partial favor dropped the rain;
Alike the ogliteoui nod profane
Rejoiced above the heading grain
And my heart murmured: 9+ it meet
That blindfold Nature Mita phould treat
With equal hand the tare , ' and villeatr,
A presence melted through my mood,
A warmth. a light, a sCII9C di' good,
Like BULIISiIIIIC through a winter wood
saw that presence, twilled complete
In her white innocence. pause to greet
A fallen sinter of the street.
"Beware' I said,' In this I see
No gain to her. but losi to thee:
Wao touches pitch defiled must be.,
I passed the haunts of shame nt.d sin,
And a voice whispered: "Who therein
Shall these lost souls to Heaven's pence win!
"Who there shall hope and strength dispense,
And lift the ladder up front thence,
SVhose rounds arc prayers of penitence?"
I said: *No higher life they know;
These earth•wonns love to have it so.
Who stoops to raise them sinks as low•
That night with painful care I read
'What Hippo's saint and Cahn,' said—
The living . 'inking to the dead!
In vain I turned in weary quest
.01d page;, where (God give them re•t')
Te poor creed•mongers, dreamed nail guessed
And still f prayed: 'Lord let MI: see
how Three are One. and One is Three;
Read the dark riddle unto me!"
Then something whispered: "Dag thou pray
For what thou bast'. This very day,
, The Holy Three have crowed thy way.
'•Did not the gifts of sun and air
'to good and ill alike declare
The all-compassionate Father's care?
the white soul that stooped to raise
The lost one from her evil ways,
Thou saw'at the Christ, whom angels praise!
-"A bodiless Divinity,
The still, stnull Voice that spoke to thee
Was the Holy Spirit's mystery!
"On, blind or right. of faith how small:
Father and Solt and Holy Cull—
This day thou hast denied them alg
Revealed in love and sacrifice,
The Hofie.t passed between thine eye.,
One and the same, in threefold guise.
.The equal (other in rain and sun,
His Christ in the good to evil done,
His Voice in thy soul and the Three are One"
I shut my grave Aquinas fast,
The monkish gloss of ages gait,
The schoolmates creed aside I cast
And my heart answered: "Loud, I see
How Three are One, and One is Three
Thy riddle bath been read to me!"
geirttivto.
From Household Words
Years and Years Ago.
Touter ees chows soot passees
Comore Pombre et comme in vent l—Vietor Hugo
These things have passed upon their mournful way
Like the wild wind, and like the shadows gray.
Suzanne was not sixteen, and I was barely
nineteen, when we first met. She was the
daughter, the only child, of a poor Protes
tant pastor near La Rochelle, one of the
chief and oldest strongholds of the French
Reformed Church.
At that time I was about as wild a scape
grace as you would see in any place I could
,name at this moment. I had been expelled
: from school for heading an insurrection
; against the proper authorities; I had got
ii,nto endless scrapes in every position in
which my poor father had tried to establish
,nie; and finished when I was eighteen by
"throwing off all restraint, crossing the water,
and with knapsack on my back started on
a pedestrian tour through some of the
French provinces, not with any definite aim
or object, or in pursuance of any settled
plan, but to exercise my usurped liberty,
and to got rid of some of the superfluous
life that would not let me rest. Of adven
tures I had plenty; but the relation of these
is little to the point now. At La Rochelle,
chance, as I called it than, threw Suzanne
in my way. Whether she was beautiful or
not, I hardly knew. She was utterly unlike
any one I ever saw before or since; a little
thing with a pair of eyes that prevented
your seeing anything else when they were
before you; a pair of eyes which, like those
.of the German fairy, were not only one bar
leycorn bigger (I think they were two bar
:ley-corns bigger) than any body else's in the
vrorld; but which loved you, repulsed you,
and pitied and scorned you, and laughed
with you, and cried with you, and made you
wild with delight, and desperate with de
spair twenty times a day.
From the first time I saw her, I pursued
her without ceasing; and we often met by
those accidents that occur when two people
do their best to aid fate in her arrangements.
At the back of the presbytery was a garden
full of roses, and lilies, and jessamines, and
all sorts of beautiful flowers that grow any
place you may plant them, but that can no
more get common or worthless for all their
bounteous blooming, than if they required
to be watered champaign. Beyond the gar
den is what is called a chataigneraie; a lit
tle wood, carpeted with the close turf, moss,
and wild flowers, overshadowed with mag
nificent chestnut trees, each of which might
form a study for a landscape painter. Only
a paling and a wicket separated the gar
den and the wood; and the latter being un
closed, any one had a right to wander there
at will—a privilege of which the peasants
in the neighborhood, having other means of
employing their time, seldom availed them
selves; and it was, except at the chestnut
gathering, generally deserted.
So there I used to repair in the glowing
July days, with a sketch-book, to•look busi
ness-like; and, lying on the grass, or leaning
against a tree, myself half hidden, watch for
Suzanne.
Hew it si all before me now—before me
now, and in me, good Heaven, how clearly
—after all these years.
The broad, rugged trunks of the trees; the
sunlight streaming with a soft, green light,
through the leaves; the warm, ripe, still heat
that quivered before my half closed eyes;
and there, there beyond, through a narrow
vista, an opening, as it were into Heaven,
in the guise of a little bit of the pastor's
garden, blazing in sunshine and flowers.—
On this my eyes would fix until the angel
should come to give it a holier light. Some
times I waited through the long hours in
El 50
vain; sometimes I saw her pass and repass,
coming and going like alternate sun and
shadow as the place seemed brightened and
darkened with her presence and departure.
Then, how my heart beat; how I watched,
how I listened!—did she guess I was there?
—did she wish to come?—was it timidity or
indifference that prevented her turning her
steps this way? Useless. She would not
come to-day; and cross and sick at heart, I
left the wood, and wandered homeward to
mine inn—the bare, hot chambers of which,
with the old fumes of stale tobacco, were
little calculated to soothe the nerves that
had been stung and fretted and ruffed in
the green, cool, perfumed chestnut wood.
Next day would be all joy and hope again.
Back once more to the sylvan temple, where
I hoped to meet the shy goddess. An hour
—two would pass, and then she floated to
and fro across the bit of sunshine, gathering
a flower here—tying one up there—watering,
trimming, dipping further on—wondering,
as she has since told me, and as I little
guessed then, if I were then in the wood
watching her. Presently, with a basket on
her arm, she would turn into the shady walk;
nearer and nearer came her footsteps, fuller
and fuller throbbed my heart; then,
with her hand on the wicket, she would
pause; had she changed her mind? would
she go back? and at that thought my soul
yearned for her, that it seemed the influence
must act to draw her towards me; and some
times I almost thought it did so, as, opening
the gate, she stepped into the wood, and
slowly, with downcast eyes, roved to and fro,
in search, as I believed, of the yellow mush
rooms that grow in the chestnut woods of
France.
A few moments more, and we were together
she still pursuing her search, though many
a mushroom was passed, many another
trodden on; I, pacing by her side, speaking
low, and at intervals, while she sometimes
answered without looking up, sometimes
gave me a glance of her miraculous eyes in
lieu of other answer; till at last youth and
love, and the solitude encouraging, the hand
that at first dare not touch hers, wound
round her waist, the lips that trembled to
pronounce her name, pressed hers unfor
bidden.
And now. shall I tell the truth?—a truth
that many and many a time since has not
only stung me with remorse, but with the
thought, that perhaps—well, well, that may
or may not have been. But to my confes
sion:—
[National Era
Young as I was, Suzanne was not the
first woman I fancied I had loved; and
though the feeling I had for her was widely
different from that with which I had re
garded others, still it was then pure, and
deep and fervent as it ought to have been.
At first much as I loved her, much as I de
sired to obtain her love, I had no thought of
indissolubly uniting my destiny to hers; I
had no idea of marriage. I contented my
self with letting things run their course
whatever they might tend to; with taking
no thought, and making no engagement for
the future.
At last our meetings in the chataigneraie
became things of daily occurrence; and we
needed no subterfuges of sketch-book and
mushroom-baskets to color them. Sweet,
pure. darling Suzanne! Who, in her posi
tion, at her age, could have withstood the
dangers of the situation as she did? She
loved me with all the depth and warmth of
a profound and passionate nature; yet in
the midst of her abandon, there was a pu
rity, a startling, instinctive shyness—a turn
ing of the flank of danger as it were, while
appearing unconscious of its vicinity—that
"NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 24, 1858.
at once caftivated and repelled me. And
day's drew on to weeks, and still our posi
tion remained unaltered.
One day we were in the chataigneraie to
gether, strolling side by side, her hand in
mine, when the unusual sound of footsteps
rustling 'mid the last year's leaves, startled
us. We turned round, and at a little dis
tance beheld her father.
lle was a man still in the prime of life.
But indifferent health, and a ceaseless ac
tivity in the arduous duties of his calling,
gave to his spare figure and fine face a worn
and prematurely aged look. I shall never
forget him, as after a moment's pause he
advanced and confronted us, the veins in
his bare temples swollen and throbbing
with the emotion ho sought to control, his
face pressed and rigid, and his lips com
pressed.
There was a dead silence for some sec
onds. Then his kindling eye flashed on his
daughter, and pointing to the house he said
in a low, stern voice: "Go in Suzanne."—
She went without a word.
"And thus, young man," he said, when
she was out of hearing, "thus for the grati
fication of a passing fancy, to kill the time
you know not how to dispose of, you blot
an honest and hitherto spotless name. You
break a father's heart; you turn from her
God—you destroy body and soul—a mere
child, motherless and unprotected. I will
not tell you what Suzanne has been to me;
how I have reared her. All these things
are doubtlesss, tame and commonplace, and
contemptible to you. But if you had no
fear of God or consideration for man before
your eyes, could you not have had a little
feeling, a little pity, an atom of respect for
a father and daughter situated as you know
us to be? Knowing, morever, that it is not
in the heart or in the hand of the minister
of God to avenge the wrong and shame
done him, by the means other dishonored
fathers adopt?
Utterly abashed and conscience stricken,
I strove to explain; but my emotion, and
the sudden difficulty that came over me in
expressing myself adequately in a foreign
language—fluently as, under ordinary cir
cumstances, I spoke it—were little calcula
ted to re-assure him.
"No," he said, "I know all. Your daily
meetings, your prolonged interviews, a cer
tain embarrassment I have lately noticedin
my child, hitherto so frank and fearless; her
altered looks and manner—even note the
demeanor of both when I surprised you—
what can I conclude from such indication?"
"I swear to you," I at length found words
to explain, "that your daughter is wholly
and perfectly innocent. Think of me as
you. will, but at least believe in this, and
assure yourself that your child is sinless."
He looked at me scrutingizingly for some
seconds: then his face and voice relaxed.
"I believe you! There is but one thing
you can now do, if you are sincere in your
wish to repair this evil. Promise me you
will never see Suzanne again, and that you
will, as soon as possible, quit this neigh
borhood."
I promised, and we parted.
How I passed that night it needs not now to
tell, nor all the revolution the thoughts it
brought worked in my heart and in my
ideas. The immediate result was, thnt
next morning at dawn I ruse from my sleep
less bed, and wrote to the pastor, asking his
daughter's hand; not concealing the diffi
culties of my position, but adding that if
he would overlook present and material dis
advantages he might trust that no sin of
omission or commission on my part should
ever cause him to regret his having ac
corded. his sanction to our marriage, and
that I feared not but that with time, yet ,
reverence, and patience, I should be able
to secure a means of existence.
At nineteen it is so easy to dispose of
tho . se questions of ways and means; to ob
tain everything and dispense with every
thing.
The answer came quickly, brought by
the pastor in person.
"You are an honest lad," he said. I will
not now enterinto the question of your youth
and that of Suzanne:—my child's reputa
tion it at stake, and she is deeply attached
to you. That of your prospects is one we
have yet to discuss; but the first subject to
be entered upon and finally explained is the
one of your "times consent to the marriage.
In the first place, by the law of Prance,
which is, I believe, different to that of En
gland, no man or woman, even if of age,
can marry without producing proof of their
parents' acquieseerice. In the second, even
were the law otherwise,l should hold myself
bound for conscience sake, not to take ad
vantage of the most desirable proposal, if it
were made against the wishes and without
the sanction of yours. Are you likely to
obtain this!"
Here was difficulty I had neither antici
pated nor provided fur. I had thrown off
all authority, deeming my own sufficient for
my governance, and here, at the first im
portant crisis of my life, I found its ineffi
ciency to get me through my earliest diffi
culty. Supposing I made up my mind
tacitly to admit my mistake, and ask my
father's consent to my marriage, was it in
the least likely that he would, under all the
circumstances, accord it!
Never mind, I must make the atterppt,
and so admitting to tho pastor that I had
not as yet provided fur such a contingency,
ho left me to write to my father.
A week of agonizing suspense passed,
during which I, in accordance with a prom-
Ise made to Suzanne's father, never sought
to meet her,—nay to avoid a shadow of
suspicion, never went to our chesnut wood
to get a peep of her in the garden.
At last the letter came, and sick with agi
tation, I tore it open. It was brief, grave,
somewhat stern, but yet notdifferent to what
deserved, and what I expected.
My father said he had reflected much on
my demand:—that he saw many reasons
why he should refuse it, yet he was so anx
ious to meet my wishes when they pointed
to any course that was not likely to leadme
into moral mischief, and that afforded me a
chance of obtaining steadiness of conduct,
that if I could provide hint proofs of my
intended bride's character and position be
ing such as I represented them, ho could
not withhold his perini , sion.
This was easily done; proud and elate, I
boldly pro tented myself at the presbytery,
and with la a month, we were married,
despite ail the delays and difficulties that
the French laws, which seems especially
framed to throw every possible obstacle,
hindrance, and petty vexation in the way of
the impatient lover, could find to circumvent
us.
I look back now to the time, and see
through my spectacles—though a little dim
med, now and then—not myself, and my
Suzanne, the wife of my youth, as I saw her
in;those days; but a boy and girl as I remem
ber to have known them. A hopeful, hap
py, foolish pair; brimful of youth and life
and love; seeing all things, each other in
cluded, quite other than they were; yet so
confident in themselves, in their experience,
their ideas, their impressions:—living from
day to day, like the birds on the branch, as
if all the world were their storehouse, and
no to-morrow were before them. Quarrell
ing and making sweet friends again; fret
ting about a look or a word, jesting at ques
tions involving the most important =Aerial
interests; averted looks and murmured re
proaches over a flower presented and lost;
not a thought or a care fur gold squandered.
The place was so endeared to me, and
Sauzanue and her father felt so reluctant to
part, that I resolved—my father, who made
us a small, through respectable allowance,
not objecting—to settle, fur a time, at all
events, in the neighborhood of La Rochelle.
So we took a little house in the midst of a
garden within five minutes walk of the
presbytery, and there set up a household,
served by a plump Rochellaise damsel, whose
clear starched capot and gold earrings,
heart and cross, were on Sundays, the ad
mirntion of the place; and a lad emancipat
ed from sabots, to work in the garden, and
help Nannie in the rougher occupations of
the house. lie fell in love with her, I re
member, and he being some years her junior,
and she being rather a belle and virtuous
withal, she was moved, by all these united
considerations, to box his cars on his at
tempting to demonstrate the state of his
feelings by trying to kiss her, when attired
as above recorded, her beauty shone forth
too resplendent for him to succeed in con
trolling his youthful passion.
Before a year was out the two children
had a doll to put in the baby house, and to
play with from morning till night. They
nursed it alternately; and worshipped it,
and had moments of jealousy about it, and
wondered over it, and found it a miracle of
genius and intellect, when to stranger eyes
it was capable of nothing but sleeping and
sucking and stretching its toes before the
fire
When it should walk! 0 when it should
walk, and when it shonlds.peak its mother's
name! When it did, the child mother lay
in her grave in the Protestant cemetery at
La Rochelle, and theboy fathertook it there
to strew flowers on the turf.
When I first awoke from the stunning ef
fect of the blow, I was like a ship that,
struck full by a tremendous breaker, stand
for a moment paralyzed, grieving, then
staggers blindly on, without rudder or com
pass, both swept away in the general ruin.
The wild spirit within me, which the
peaceful and innocent happiness of the last
two years had soothed and stilled, broke
forth again, and my first impulse was to
rush from the scene of my lost felicity, and
in a life of reckless adventure seek to lose
myself and the recollection ofall I had won,
all I had been bereft of in that short space.
Thank God! I Lad the child that saved
me.
And now at twenty-one, when most men
hare hardly made their first start in life, I
a father and a widower, had passed :the
first stages of my manhood's career, and
was about to gather up the shattered frag
ments of my youth's hopes and prospect.,
and try to patch them together to carry me
through the rest of it.
At first my father, now all affection and
sympathy, since the change, my marriage
had brought, urged my returning with the
child to England. But this a strange feel
ing, partaking perhaps more of jealousy
than anything else, made me decling doing.
On Mabel—"3la belle," as Suzanne used
to call her, half-believing that was really
the translation of the name—had now con
centrated all the love, the time or the at
tention of either, so as to distract it from
the other. No one could exert influence or
authority over either, to the exclusion or
prejudice, in however slight a degree, of the
other.
My child had no mother; no one else.
therefore, however near or dear, should, in
any degree, supply her place but myself. I
would be all and everything to her; and if
she never missed her mother, to alone
should she owe it. A foolish tho't, perhaps
a selfish one—yet who shall say, seeing from
what it doubtless saved me?
Happily the child was healthy, sweet
tempered, and really, all paternal illusions
apart, singularly beautiful and intelligent.
My baby, my little Queen Mab! I see her
now, as in her black frock and straw hat I
used to carry her forth at first in the still
warm evenings, when the glow and the
glare of the day had passed by, and the
sea-breeze stirred the roses in the garden.
With her I did not feel quite so fright
fully alone: her signs, her attempts atspecch,
her little wilfulnesses, hercaress, her cease
less claims on my aid and attention with
drew me as nothing else could from constant
brooding over my Loss. Later, when I
could bear it—l couid not, for a long time
—I used to take her to the chataigneraic,
where I was wont to watch Suzanne, and
sitting there as of old leave her to play on
the grass beside me, while with half-shut
eyes, I gazed on the glowing spot at amend
of the green walk, dreaming, dreaming with
a gnawing at my heart, of the shadow that
used to cross it, of the footstep that used to
come along that shaded alley, of the pause
with the hand on the wicket. Then I re
membered that now not all the yearning
and craving of my soul could, as I fancied
it did of old, bring her one step nearer to
me: and then my grief and desolation would
find vent in passionate tears, and the child,
who was too well used to see me weep to be
alarmed, as children mostly are, would
climb up on my breast, and draw my hands
from before toy face, and kiss and soothe
me with her sweet baby caress.
It was a great, though secret joy to me
that though gentle and tractable to all, she
could be said to love no one but me. I
think the excellent pastor guessed the exis
tence of this feeling; for fond as he was of
the child, and strong and natural as were
his claims to her affection, he ever avoided
to put them conspicuously forward, or to at
tempt, in any way, to interfere with her
management. For this, even more than his
many other proofs of regard and kindness,
I was deeply grateful. I encouraged the
child to be familiar with him. But though
she showed deference and duty, and even
returned his caresses, I could see with
secret triumph thather heart was not in her
acts, and that as soon as she thought she
ought, without offence, return to me, she
would glide from his knee, and stealing to
mine, nestle on my breast, content to rest
there till we were alone again. Then the
repressed spirits would break forth, and she
was once more gleeful and joyous.
Early in the morning I would awake, and
behind the half drawn curtain, watch her
playing, silently, lest she would be disturbed
by me in the dewy garden. Wandering to
and fro, with her hands crossed behind her,
now pausing before this or that flower, smell
ing it, sucking the pearled drops in its cup;
then racing away suddenly, wild with strong
young life, prancing and plunging in imita
tion of a high mettled steed, or chasing the
kitten that was not more graceful or litheof
limbs than she.
And so on, till the opening of my lattice
announced that I was astir. 0, the sun
shine of the radiant face! She had her
mother's wondrous eyes, but with a fine
fair English complexion, and warm light
brown English hair. Then pit-a pat up the
narrow staircase came the quick step, the
door was flung open, and in two bounds she
was on my bed, hugging and kiQsing me,
laughing, patting my cheeks, laying her
sweet cool face against mine, chattering the
strange mingled dialect between French
and English, that was sweeter to my ears
than the purest Tuscan.
Then off again, like a butterfly, opening
my books, putting mywatch to her ear, and
looking solemnly curious at the sound; turn
ing over my clothes, scribbling wild flourishes
on my raper with pen and pencil; and,
quick as flight of bird away again to an
nounce to Nannie that "le grand chere"
the great darling, was awake andso hungry,
so hungry for his breakfast.
And so through the day, however . ' might
be occupied, she was never away from sue
for an hour. Light and restless, like some
winged thing, she was to and fro, up and
down in the house and garden, all the live
long day; dancing, singing, talking to her
self when I was too occupied to attend to
her; no more disturbing me in the busiest
hours than the sunshine that streamed in at
my window, or the swallows that built and
chirped in the caves above nse.
Long walks we used to take together, she
bounding by my side, now clinging to my
hand, now springing off after a wild-flower or
berry, till lap and arms were full; all beam
ing and joyous until a beggar came in sight:
then the bright face would lengthen, the
step slacken, and the small money I always
carried in my pocketto provide against such
emergencies was brouglit into requisition,
and given with willing hand and gentle
words of pity and condolence, and for some
paces further the little heart and brain were
yet oppressed with the impression of the
sight of suffering. In the evenings, by the
flying sunlight or the winter fire, she would
climb to my knee, claiming a story; and
while I related souse remembered histury,
pr improvised some original one, she sat,
with raptured face, gazing, in mine, those
eyes so full of wondering interest, those
ruby lips apart, showing the glistening
teeth, putting in now and then some earnest
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANC
question, pausing long at the close of the
narrative to muse over it, and digest fully
certain points that had made a deeper i.mm
pression than the rest of the tale. Then, as
the light fell and thestillness of the evening
deepened into night; tho head drooped on
my breast, and, like a folded flower, the
blossom that brightened and perfumed my
lonely life slept quietly, while I, sad and
silent, wandered mournfully over the past.
I look back now to that period of my life,
and again it is not I whom I sco sittingthere
before me. It is one I knew, whose affec
tions, cares and troubles were as my own
to me; but whose thoughts, opinions and
aspirations were quite other than those
now had, and on which I now act. The
child seems hardly real, distinctly as I re
member every—the slightest —detail con
cerning her; she comes before me in my
lonely hours like the remembrance of some
vivid dream dreamed long ago; some vision
sent to cheer and brighten my pathway
through some long past stage of existence
that then seemed drawing on to its close:
We know solittle what we can livethrough
and over, till the present is emerged in the
things that have been; till the pages on
which arc inscribed in black letters the
great griefs of our lives arc turned, and
those that contain pleasanter pas: ages are
laid over them.
Mabel had achieved her tenth year before
I had reached my thirtieth birth-day, and
all that time we had never been separated:
had never lived any other life than the life
I have been describing.
I had taught her to read and Is rite; Nam
nie had taught her to sew; but other ac
complishment she had none. Partly that
strange jealousy of other interference,partly
a horror I could not control of suljecting
my fairy to the drudgery of learning, made
me shrink from calling in other aid to ad
vance her education. It was better that it
should be so. I am always glad now to
think that I did as I have done.
My child had been lent me, not given.—
For ten years her blessed and soothing. pur
ifying and holy influence was granted to
tame and save me. For ten years God
spared one of his angels to lead me thro'
the first stages to Heaven!
The task eccomplished, Ire saw fit to re
call the loan.
It is thirty years, and upwards now, since
Mabel died.
I have buried another wife since then,
and two fair children; and four more vet
remain to me.
They are good, dear children to me, none
better, and handsome boys and girls, too.—
But they are none of them like my Mob,
my little fairy queen—and I am not sorry;
it is as well as it is.
From Black Magazutc
A Woman's Perversity
The following story has been published
in different forms, but in none so good as the
original:—
Sir Hugo had reached Isis fiftieth year un
molested by passion, save an ardent one fur
a flowing goblet. Instead of love passages,
his delight was in tournament, whence he
always returned victorious. At length he
was flung from the saddle of his indifference
by the beardless tilter, love! lie saw An
gelica—the fairest maiden of theland—tor
got his gray hairs, and, unmindful of the in
congruity of a union between May and De
cember, led her to the nuptial altar. For
tunately, Angelica was as modest as she was
fair, and her firm virtue repulsed the numer
ous butterflies that swarmed round the open
ing flowers of her beauty. Sir frug,o knew
the tried virtue of his consort, and. therefore
she was to him dear and precious as the ap
ple of his eye.
One morning he rode to pay a visit to a
neighboring baron in arms, his honest squire
Conrade trotting after him. Scarcely had
they proceeded half way, when the knight
suddenly stopped, and cried :
"Come here, Conrade; a most tormenting
thought has just occurred to me. This is
the very day that Father Nicholas conies to
the castle to say mass for my dear wife and
myself, and I am not at all inclined to have
him its my abode during my absence, E.O
gallop back, and desire your lady, its my
name, not to admit the priest."
Conrade paused and shook his head as if
in doubt, and replied, " Excuse me, noble
sir; but perhaps Um lady Angelica. if left
to her own discretion, will do what you wish."
"A curse on your perhaps l' exclaimed
the knight ; "I make all sure by giving the
order."
Do you think so ?" replied the squire;
"now I, in my simplicity, believe exactly the
contrary. Take the advice of your faithful
servant for once in your life: let things take
their course, and give no order upon so deli
cate a point."
"A fig for your delicacy?" cried Sir Hog,,
angrily; "what absurd fancies you have got
into your head to-day ! Do you think an
hour's ride a task so very tediouq ?"
" Oh : if it comes to that, sir," rejoined
Conrade, " I have no more to say."
lie put spurs to his horse, and rode back
to the castle.
Angelica saw him galloping up, and cried
in terror, from the window, "What has
brought you back in such haste Has any
accident happened to my lord 2"
" None whstever, gracious lady," answer
ed Conrade, " but the noble knight was ap
prehensive that some accident might happen
you if, by any chance, you took a fancy to
ride Sultan."
[WHOLE NUMBER, 1,460
" I ride—ride the lar7o gr.:yhound :•'
claimed Angelica, in utter astonishment.
believe you are drunk or mad. It is
ssiblo that your master can have sent us
ridiculous a me:A.:lgo."
"Ave. but he did though," punm - al t
squire ; "and my noble master said at t
same time, that he knew Sultan wrsuld b
terribly, not being accustomed to he mad
pony of; and ho theref,re beg.t that you w
not attempt to divert you?;elf in that wa:
Having said this, he again mounted 1
horse, and galloped off to rejoin his ma- t,
" Ann I awake, er do I dream ?"
ed. Angelica. ''The folly of Sir lln4o
strange that I am almost tempted to
it all a wild dream. What does he moan
It is not enough that I have hitherto tr
to read 11i3 every will and wish, and, wi
known, obeyed them inipl:elty : and di
deservo that he should streL!li his ra;wet•
far, and play the eapriciDas,baugoty tyre
Now, I see that to t o too submis , ivo,
softly compliant, is not the way to treat hi
the worm that crawls in the dust is tramp
upon. But no, sir Knight, it is m , t
quite so far with us yet: is Tile
will ride ;Sultan ; and you :rimy ti;;;;;!.:
as but fur your me- •' o
would 110VOI: have Pv.tero 1 Inv 11.,A.1."
Her sulilogny /ICr ,
entrance of ;L. servant, I •
Father Nicholas had arrive], and ‘r.l4 i.
antechamber. "1 cannot r , cei7C! I-it
day," said the con , :ort of Sir 1111
lord is absent. Cive this as my eNease
the reverend father, and beg of Lila to
turn to-morrow. With all due re-pea
Father Nicholas," continued bho, when
to herself, "he Aran ncf, spoil my
ride. Now, if my puny were but here.
must have an easy gait, and his teeth I
not fear ; he is as quite as a lamb.—t)
how I shall delight in this two-fold pleasl
of showing the surly old follow that I c:
neither fur hint our his orders, and of tryi
a pastime that is at least a novel one
Through every corner of the house regou
ed now her cry of "Sultan." "Hare, ho
Sultan ! Sultan."
The immense but docile animal sprn
from a bone upon which he was feasting, a
was at her side in an instant. Cares,i
him till she got him into a room, the duo
which she shut.
" Now, friend Sultan," aried his fair m
tress, "no growl, no bite, and all is sat,.
With her snow white hand she cantina
stroking and patting his hugh back fw sm
minutes, and then, in the hope that, it' on
through gratitude, he would comply with h
fancy, she mounted her new steed. He sho
ed his teeth a little, in sonic doubt what th
meant, but she soothed him a7ain into
good humor and patient endurance of t
novel burthen ; but he thought this qu
enough, and did not stir from the one sp
Angelica wus naturally not much pleas
with being thus stationary; she thereto
gently goaded bins with her hog, but no tr
would Sultan condescend—he remained m
tionless as before, while something very li
a growl escaped from his immense and fe.
inspiring jaws. Out of all patience.
now exel timed :
"You shall feel the spar, then, you is
brute," and drove her heel into his side,
now growle laudibly, but stirred not an in ,
she repeated her blow. This WAS tOt) nn:
fur canine patience; he made a spring, a
as she fell full length upon the floor•, lie to
ed and bit her hand. The ditonounted
bedewed the floor with a few tedr., and tl,
sprang up to turn oat of the rosin the a
courtelas brute who hdd than rude!•r Lhot
how little lie andersto it play.
Towards evening sir Hugo returned a
inquired with suspicious haste whether
er Nicholas had been there.
" Oh, yes he R 413 here." answerei Anz ,
en, " but 1 ventured to refuse his ad.o
tance."
The knight cast a triumphant glan I•e
his squire, and whispered to him, '•Now.
Wisdom, do you see the use of my orders'
Conrade, who, as may be supposed, h
said nothing of the alteratiom ho made
the substance of his embassy, chru r rgod
shoulders with a smile, unperceked by I
ma•qer, who had turned again to his en
sort, and first perceived that she w +re
bandage open hers Ift hand ! liu Lime ,
ately inquired the cause.
"Sultan bit me," said Ange'lea, •'and is
all your fault, sir ling.'," elle Ishe,so
"My fault," cried the kni
"Yes, your fault,and nobody'. I,: your
retorted his spouse , . "If you he I n 9:
me word by Conrade n t) na- , t
mischievous brute, such a mad trick won
never have entered my- heal."
In mute astonishment the knight horri ,
to seek an esplanation front his squire. wl
had slipped away when Angelica begun h
complaint. "What message .did you Lt.::
your lady ?" demanded he.
Conrade now confes9el the truth
"Were these the orders I give you. y.
scoundrel?" said the enraged sir ling.,
"Certainly not," replied the equire
you will own that I have male my p•i
good. You may now see how it would h.,
been had I given your order about tlm you,
priest. noble lady is a model for h
set, and almost an angel, but still she is
daughter of Ere, who meant to have b
queathed to all her lineal female de-can
ante her own spirit of perversene,4. A
we have only to remember the Lady A
gelica's pleasant ride upon Sultan, to
convinced that it has lost none of itS
in the desePut.
ORM