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Vrittry.
The Night before the Mowing.
All shimmer.: in the morning shine,
And dinmondell with dew,
And quivering with the scented wind
Tiot thrills its green heart through—
The :tale field, the smiling field
'Milt all its flowers
Mow happy looks the golden field
The doy before the mowing!
And still 'neath the departing light,
Twilight—though void of 141111.,
Save where, low sveitering, Venus sinks
Fran the red eye of Mors;
Ifon peaceful sleeps the silent field,
With all its beauties glowing,
Usti Ztirring—like a eland in draw-ei—
ne nizht before the mowing.
Sharp steel. inevitable band,
Cut keen—cut knall Our field
We know full well cutest be lard low
Before its fragrance 3 ield.
Plenty and mirth. and honest gain
Its blameless death bestowing—
And yet we weep, and yet we weep,
the night before the tnowtog!
gthdinits.
My First Love
CHAPTER I.
At twenty I was considered rather a
hatasome man than otherwise; in fact,
whatever may have been the opinion of cer
taia of the envious and malignant, I had
myself no doubt whatever on the subject.
I was not rich, it is true, but my family
was as old as the conquest, my father a
laaronet, and myself a cornet of dragoons.
I have no doubt that the generality of
people would consider my position—except
ing the fact of my possessing an elder
brother—an exceedingly enviable one.—
They aro mistaken. A younger son, with
an estate strictly entailed, is no such envia:
ble personage after all, as he himself soon
discovers.
Still I was happy. It was Christmas time,
and Lady Maria Templeton was on a visit
to my mother and sisters.
I never did, and 1 never shalt again see
such beauty as hers. It shed light as she
walked. She was dazzingly fair in skin,
and yet her hair was black. She was tall,
slight, and sylph-like. and yet no man
could venture to call her any other than a
haughty beauty. But her eyes! talk of
.eyesef most unholy blue, of sapphires beam
ing with gem-like sparkles. I know not
what to compa,Ve hers to.
There was my brother Tom, the heir to
the baronetcy, Fanny and Mary, Lady Ma
ria, and myself. She was our cousin, and
an heiress.
She had five thousand a year. This I did
not know at the time, or possibly much that
followed might not have occurred. I was
not old enough to be a fortune-hunter, while
my pride would have prevented the chance
of my falling in love under circumstances
which might have made me suspected. But
I did though, and up to the very ears.
Tom was a hearty fellow, fond of his gun
,and his dogs, his horses and hounds, and
not averse to indulge in those Bacchic revels
which, even to this day, are not unpatron
,ized by some of the gentlemen of England.
lle was, I have heard, also the terror of
rural swains and the admired of every lady
within ten miles of Courtney Chase. But
even ho was struck by Lady Maria.
I met her at eventide. We had met often
before, but as mere children, when wo had
,quarreled and made it up, and been fast
) friends and bitter enemies within an hour.
Ant now she was a lovely woman and I a
Aornet of dragoons.
X never was so taken aback in my life.—
Young as I was, I had put down the imper
Ainence of one or two older men, who had
thought they had naught a green hand. I
had made a decent figure at mess, and club,
,and Alrnack's, and generally, in fact, was
supposed to know a thing or two.
I had once stared a lady out of counte
nance at the opera, but when I stepped up
to Maria to compliment her, as everybody
else was doing, I blushed, stammered„.and,
Strati it en 7 ded in my mattering iOiCkethrrig,
about "tiappy=irext dance?"
"Certainly," said Lady Maria, in the
most unaffected manner in the world, inking
my arm as 213 e,,enokq. „":tio w t don't look so
very Roe ' liegene, Mi•. Thomas, or I shall
laugh. So, Harry, you aro in the, army.
Why don't you come down in uniform, spurs
and all?"
There was something so easy, so whimsi
cal, so bantering in her tone, that I could
not help blushing up to the eyes. Was that
merry, delightful laugh with me or at me?
for the life of me 1 could not tell.
"You aro aware, Lady Maria," I began
in a somewhat stately tone, "that unless
upon state occasions, we dispense with our
uniform as much as possible."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Cornet Harcourt," she re
plied, "I am fully aware of the etiquette of
the thing; but then I thought-l—you were so
new to it—that you might like to make a
sensation for once."
$I 50
For once! I, the handsomest man in "ours"
to be talked to in this way, and by a little
girl who a year ago had been in pinafore!
I could not reply on the instant; and so pre
tended to pull my gloves on.
Mil
We danced. As we moved to the soft
cadence of the music, my heart began to
beat with unusual rapidity. In the dawn
of manhood, while the feelings are fresh and
virgin, when everything on earth appears
bright and lovely, to find one's self support
ing a beautiful woman in one's arms, the
air balmy with fragrant odors, lights daz
zling, and music intoxicating with its effem
inate sounds, is to dwell awhile in a para
dise of which we never, perhaps, again ob
tain so perfect a vision.
And then to talk with her afterwards!
She was so full of animation and life, so
really kind, with all her playful spirit of
sarcasm, that I soon found myself at my
ease, even answering some of her bantering
remarks.
I was no more carpet soldier. I longed
for some field on which to distinguish myself.
I burned for fame, fur world-wide renown.
Lady Maria soon found this out, and then
her bantering ceased altogether; her voice
sank lower, her eyes sparkled, her bosom
heaved, as in whispered accents she wished
me success nod fortune.
"You are of the favored of the earth,
Harry," she said, drawing me on one side
towards the conservatory; "poor us can do
nothing but wish you men good speed. Oh,
how I sometimes long to be a man, that I,
too, might be a soldier, a suitor, an orator
or s. statesman. It seems to me so sad a
life to be born in a station where one can
be nothing."
"Oh, Maria!" cried I, enthusiastically,
" 'tis far better as it is. If we wish to be
great as soldiers, or sailors, or statesmen,
why is it?"
"Tell me," she said, smiling.
"To win the love of such as you. Rely
upon it, that is the prize man covets. It is
the consciousness that woman will smile
which impels us to great deeds."
"Harry, Harry," she said, with something
of a sigh, "at your age I believe some such
feeling dues exist, but it soon fades away,
and man covets success for its own sake."
"Some few," I began.
"Most men—there are those choice spirits
who do great deeds from a sense of duty,
but with most men ambition is the sole
guiding impulse."
I looked at her with surprise. She spoke
warmly, and yet with secret bitterness.
"A philosopher in petticoats!" said I, in
a laughing tone.
"I have lived more in the world than you
have, Harry," continued Maria, smiling;
"but here comes your brother Tom to claim
his turn. We will continue our conversa
tion by and by."
It was my brother Tom, and looking
rather surly, too, at our long tete a tete. A
somewhat vicious glance which he cast at
me convinced me that he was deeply inter
ested in my beautiful companion. As I
resigned her arm, a feeling of despair came
over me. I knew I was in love.
I retired behind some fragrant bushes,
and reflected an instant, It was quiteclear
to me that Lady Maria was intended for the
heir to the baronetcy. He had, at all events,
made the selection, and what hope was there
fur me? He had title, position, a horns,
ands goodly income on his side, while I
was a poor adventurer, a younger son, an
encumbrance on the estate.
Arid with the law of primogeniture and
the example it sets, people aro found to
wonder at the dearth of early marriages, and
at the fact that so many never marry at all.
It is not that. they cannot afford to mar
ry, but they cannot keep up the style they
have been accustomed toat home. A wealthy
nobleman's second son, while at home, en
joys as many luxuries as the heir. . It.is
hard, then, in his eyes, .to descend to the
plebian 'villa and no carriage, even tho Ugh
happiness be the result.
The evil law of entail and the agglomer
ation of wealth in the bands of the few, is
the great cause of modern indifference to
marriage. The middle classes, unfortunate
ly, are too fond of apeing their betters.
But why moralize, when I have so much
to tell? I watched them narrowly. Tom
was grave, even sulky, while Lady Maria
was more than ordinarily gay. She fairly
laughed nt him, and presently the grave el
dest son of the house condescended to smile.
This was just as the dance ended, and as
Tom was naturally in request, I again
joined her.
"What made my brother so grave?" I
asked.
"Poor fellow!" she said, with-a burst of
merriment, "he was lamenting the hard
ships to which eldest sons are cabled,"
"What!" I cried.
"Yes, he really did, poor fellow! Ile is
obliged to dance with everybody, and there
fore cannot show me that exclusive atten
tion which, he was pleased to say, •my
beauty, accomplishments, and so forth; de
served."
"Ha %via quite right," said I, dryly.
"flow aol"
"NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, AUGUST 21, 185
"Who can see any one in the room while
you are present?"
"Et ht, Brute!" cried Lady Maria, laugh
ing; "don't be ridiculous. BecauSe we are
old friends, and like to talk of old times
don't try to flatter me. When is to be you]
first campaign?"
"There is talk of India," I said, "but
nothing is decided."
"India!" she cried, with something of
start and a blush; "indeed!"
"I have heard it said, but scarcely wisl,
it so much as I did."
"Why?"
"I have met you"
"Now, Harry, do not look so sentimental
and make such tender speeches, or I shall
laugh. I suppose you mean to dance, s,
you had better ask me, as here comes John
Powers, bent upon the same intent."
I eagerly led - her to her to her place, to
the great dissatisfaction of the Irish cap
tain, who did knovi of her fortune.
I never shall forget that evening. I had
come down to Courtney Chase a young and
happy subaltern in her majesty's service—
light-hearted, merry, full of fun and frolic,
without a care or thought of the morrow.—
I gradually found myself becoming anxious,
thoughtful—my brow was obscured'hy care
my heart beat with painful rapidity.
was in love. The boy had becoMe a man
in one evening. And yet I was happy.—
There was a delicious intoxication in the
sound of her voice, in her soft white hand
as it lay in mine. There was rapture in
the waltz as her beaming eyes met mine.
and our very hearts seemed to beat in
unison.
It is en hour of bliss when the senses
are steeped in voluptuous languor, when
nature seemes decked in wondrous' loveli
ness, when all that is in the world smiles
upon us, when emotions new and delicious
come gushing to our hearts, we cannot find
words to describe. It is as the opening of
the portals of a new existence—it is love's
young dream..
I handed her down to supper amid the
groans of one or two of the men, and not
without some spiteful look's from the dear
young creatures I had totally neglected.—:
But what eared I?
EMlaiiii3l
The next day, and one or two that suc
ceeded, were spent in riding, driving, walk
ing, or in home amusements, according to
the state of the weather. But, no matter
what the occupation which took. up our
time, I continued my assiduities to Lady
Maria, the daughter of the poor earl, but
the heiress to a distant relative's wealth
and estates.
Tom was equally attentive, but I am
bound to say his attentions were not equally
well met. My heart began to beat as I
found myself the favorite.
Wild visions of the future began to cross
my brain. I wanted a few months of being
of age, when I should become my own
master and that of a small property I held
from my mother.
No selfish reflection'on the folly of mar
rying on three hundred a year entered my
bead. That was precisely my income be
sides my pay. I thought•l could live upon
it; and even so blissful did the prospect
seem, that I actually determined to sell out
rather than delay my happiness. I was
wild with passion; I reflected on nothing.
I believed in but one thing—my love, ar
dent, devoted, and sincere, for Maria.
Men, and woman too, have the cruel
courage to laugh at these early passions,
and to cover them with ridicule. It'is pos
sible that many, perhaps the majority of
youths, are incapable of feeling love endu
rable and eternal at so early a period of
their career. On this' point lam incapable
of giving an opinion. But this Ido know,
that in my case it was the passion of life.—
I felt as keenly, as deeply, es devotedly as
ever mortal man did feel—more keenly, I
do believe, than those whose blunted feel
ings are in after life attracted by beauty
and grace.
Life bad no charm, existence no delight,
save her. Others thought so, too; and. as
I was aware of my brother's preference, I
brought the affair to an ,issue.
It was Christmas-eve. The day was
lovely, snow was hard and crisp and dry.—
Shakspeare's line would truly not have ap
plied, for no
n and wind, bent dark December."
We had walked' out. I, as usual, by the
exercise Of a little maneuvering, hrid Lady
Maria on my arm. Tom, who was sloWer
in his movements, was forced 'to content
himself with sister Fanny.
I suppose he did not wish to 'app'ear to
watch us; so as We came to Dlicor Lane Tie
turned to the right, as we turned to the left.
The paths met about a mile 1)0107. ' Our
path was downy valley with dark fir-trees
on either side—a sheltered and pieastinC
plaCe it was in summer, and not without its
attractions in winter, even if its being free
from gusty wind puffs were alone considered.
About a quarter of Ore distance was passed
ever in silence. I could not talk. Lady
Maria tried'me once or twice. I answered
in mono-yllables.
At length she began the conversation in
a tone so tender and considerate I could not
but respond.
"Dear Harry," she said, "are you not
well?"
"Well enough in body."
"What!" cried Lady Maria, in her more
joyous tone, "something preening on your
mind? ' Cin'you find no physician? Can I
Flo anything?"
"You,- and you only," I said, gravely
She looked up at me with a keen and
oenetrating glance, which I shall never
- brget. She turned pale as she did so, and
'Jent her eyes upon the ground.
"Well, Harry?" she said, sadly.
"Maria, it is no use of disguising the
truth any longer. I love you—l love you
with all my heart and soul. Nay, do not
ntcrrupt me. From the very first evening
came home my senses have left me. I
am wild with intense, earnest passion.—
\line is no buy's fancy. I have cast my
whole soul upon this one issue—you or
tothing. With you, this earth would be
he most joyous of el.rths; without you, a
lreary waste. I have not spoken without
•eficction. Maria, I have said that I wish
•o succeed in life, but I begin to fancy that
love is worth all ambition. I ant swilling to
leave the army. In a few months I shall be
f age; my fortune is small; but if I dared
to hope that you=yon—could but learn to
love me, it would be enough for both.
"Harry, is it possible," said the lovely
girl with beaming eye 4, "that you know not
of my wealth—of my fortune?"
"Fortune!" I gasped, letting go her arm,
and looking terror-stricken.
"Go on," said Maria, kindly: "that would
make no difference to me."
"Dearest, beloved girl of my heart, par
don my presumption. I had no idea that
you were' other than the portionless girl
I knew a year ago. Had I suspected this,"
I added, proudly, "I should have crushed
the dawning passion within my heart: 'tis
now too late--rich or poor, my heart is ir
revocably gone. I should have hesitated—
but I feared my brother might speak first.
Ire is tomebody—l am nobody."
'"Your brother, Harry, would have been
rejected," said Lady Maria, dryly; "and
now, dear Harry, I would not willingly of
fend you, but you must let one think this
but a burst of boyish passion."
I staggered as she spoke.
"No! I was a boy when I came here—a
happy, merry, careless boy—l am now a
man, and you have made me so. It remains
for you to decide whether my manhood shall
be one of glorious happiness, or whether I
become a desperate and hopeless wretch,
whose career upon earth Heaven in its mer
cy will shorten."
"Don't! don't!" sheeried; "don't say such
wicked things!"
"They are not wicked, Maria. It is even
so. Like the gambler, I have unwittingly
placed my whole existence on the hazard of
adie—death or life upon a woman's smile.—
You may try to deceive yourself, but you
must believe me. When once a man's eyes
have fixed themselves in love upon you, it is
forever."
"Harry Harcourt," said Lady Maria,
quickly, "I would not believe it true for all
the wealth or the Indies."
"Why?" said I, tremblingaswith the ague.
•'Because I can never be yours," she con
tinued, with a deep sigh.
"You do not love me," I gasped.
"Harry Harcourt, why press me on this
painful subject? I tell you plainly that I
can never—no, never, be yours!"
"But why?"
"I am engaged to another, and shall be
married in a month."
"Ah! I suspected it—my brother!" I
shrieked.
"No; to ono whom you do not know, and
whose name, in your present humor, I would
rather not mention."
"Heaven have merry on me! Is this
reality, or some horrid dream? Can it be
true?—another's!"
"I fun very sorry, Harry!" she said, in
her softest, tendereit tone. "I should not
have come, had I suspected—"
"Sorry! sorry!" I cried; "sorry, indeed!
Why? 'Tis but n boy's heart broken—noth
ing more. But—but—is this engagement
irrevocable?"
"I have been engaged this twelvemonth,"
falteren poor Maria, who really did feel for
"And you love him?"
"Ile is a man of noble elmmeter, a man
to respect rather than love. Ile is much
older than I am—and yet I had looked for
wrirclwith delight to our union, as of one
.wise and discreet, promisinggreathappiness
—until just now."
"Until just now," I repeated.
‘Yes, Harry—if that is any satisfaction
to you—know that I regret my precipitancy.
I should hare seen more of the world ere .1
tied myself. Do not mistake me. Your
passion takes me by surprise; buthad I been
free, gratitude, pride—fur you are a noble
fellow, Ilarrywoulil probably have led me
to return your generous, your disinterested
affection.. It is now too late. My word is
irrevocably given, and to talk even of what
might have been is a crime. .Not another
word. Harry, or I leave you. Calm your
self, or everybody will be talking aboutys.
I shall leave as soon as possible. Would
that I had not come!"
I was stunned, overwhelmed, annihilated.
felt like some guilty wretch condemned to
die. I knew that hope there was none.—
Lady Maria Templeton would not havebeen
sa hard- bet to temper her refusa I. Another's!
It was fearful to think of—it was madden
ing, and it nearly drove me mad! When I
joined my brother and sister I tried to rally.
It n•as but a faint attempt. It was no con
solation to me to know that evening Lady
Maria refused him also. I pitied him; I
pitied any one whohad to endure the torture
.of her smile, and know it was another's. I
I believe earth has nu other such pain a ,
this. How I passed over that Christmas-eve
and how I endured. that Christmas day,
I know nut. I heard the siren's' voice, bu:
I understood it not.
It was very late, and the merry party wm
about to break up. I had mado my arrenge
ments to start at daybreak.
"Lady Maria," said I, inas stately a man
ner as I could assume—it was very unkiro:
and very ungenerous, but I could not bell
it—l am come towish you good•by. I leavi
to-morrow morning to join my regiment!'
"So soon," she replied, raising her eye:
brimful of tears to mine. "Why go? The
Christmas merry-makings are not over; and
who knows, crc the new year you may be,
heart whole or happy!"
"Ncver—l must go," I said, coldly.
"Harry," she replied, meekly, "do not go.
Your father, brothers, sisters, will all blame
me. You were to stay till Twelfth day."
"I cannot endure this torture—it is too
much," I cried.
"Harry, Harry, stay for my sake—or ratb er
I will go."
"I will now allow it. My departure is ir
revocably fixed—"
"Infatuated boy!" sbe said, and turned
away to bide her tears.
Before a week I had exchanged into a
regiment on the verge of departure to India.
* * * * * *
I spare thereader my campaignsin India.
I arrived there in a desperate mood. I had
rejected the advances of the young ladies
who accompanied me on my journey. I
hated the sight of a woman. I landed a
misanthrope—disappointed, and glad to fol
low a career which promised early death.
I can safely say that during the four
years' campaign in which I served, the image
of Maria Templeton was never absent from
my mind. Despite everything, I loved her
still.
At the end of this time I was invalided
home. I was very ill—wounds and cholera
had laid races low as they well could. Dur
ing the whole time I never wrote home once,
and received no letters. I had my 'income
unspent at my banker's. I determined to
die' comfortably, so traveled overland to
Marseilles, and thence to Paris. I felt that
I had not many months to live, so took up
my quarters at the Hotel des Princes. As
an invalid, I engaged:an apartment on the
first floor—expensive, but very comfortable,
I was selfish, morbid, valetudinarian, full
of fancies and monomaniac; a tyrant to my
servants, disagreeable to all around me.—
What cared I? The world and I had no
further relation. I was dying.
On my arrival in Paris I had some spare
cash but drew on my London agents for
more, after advising them of my arrival. I
bade them transfer any balancewhich might
be due, to my banker in Paris. I received
an answer by return of post:
"The balance due to you and now in our
hands is seventeen thotisand some odd pounds.
Arc we to transfer the whole . amount to your
account, or will you draw for whatever you
may require? We shall feel highly honored
by the latter course, which will show your
intention of continuing our service."
'What on earth did they mean? The men
must have lost their senses.
I turned to the back of the letter—" Sir
Henry Ilarcourt, Bart."
"My father and brother dead?" I cried
involuntarily. I hastened to my banker's.
"Were you not aware, Sir Henry?" said
L—, the banker.
"Had not the slightest idea. Excuse me,
I will call again."
And I hurried back to my hotel in nmood
of mind which maybemorereadily imagined
than described. My father and brother had
both died believing me an undutifulson and
a bad brother, when I was but engrossed in
the web of a hopeless passion.
I had sisters, a Station to keep up. I
coldly resolved to marry some quiet English
girl, and in the peace and tranquility of n
country life to forget my sorrows. Or would
I get Fanny and Mary married, and be the
good brother and uncle? At all events, I
would do something. • Strange that I no
longer thought of flying. My head• was,
however, in a great whirl, and I felt rather
faint. Hurrying on, I' reached my hotel,
hastened up-stairs, opened the door, and
sank upon a sofa. '"I be/iovel did not faint.
but sleep soon overcame me. It was nearly
evening when I awoke, and I saw I was not
, alone. Two females sat i; conversation by
the window. It must be my two sisters.—
I started to any feet.
"Sir Henry," said a low voice.
• I shivered all over.
"Lady Maria," I replied, in cold and
freezing accents, "this is nn honor which I
little expected, and one which I must say I
cnn scarcely appreciate."
"Nay, sir," said she, a little, and only a
little haughtily, "it is I who have to demand
an explanation. These are my apartments.
I returned joist now, and you may imagine
my bewilderment on finding a gentleman
fast asleep on my sofa—my delight on find
ing it Netts you."
"Delight, madam!" I said, for I was firm
and collected now; "I can scarcely under
stand your delight at meeting with your vic
tim, and lest you should find an explanation
of your word difficult, allow me to retire."
- "Stay one moment," exclaimed Lady
Maria; though pale, she was more beautiful
than ever, there was a soft melancholy in
her eyes Which I dared not minutely examine;
"one moment, Sir henry. Have you receir
ed'no letter from Fanny!"
$1,50 PEE YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IP NOT IN ADVANCE
"Not one from living soul, madam. I
lid not give my address to any one. I bur.
:ied from place to place, and never, if
:ould help it, visited the same localit3
OEM
"Then why have you come here?"
"To die?"
"To•dic? Yon are as well as ever you
sere in your life."
"Madam, from that hour when in your
seductive society I learned the fatal art of
!ore, I have never known one moment's hap
,tiness or health. In sickness, in battle, on
- he field, in the tent—l could find no rest.
Your image was ever there. I have chased
•lie tiger and the wild elephant in the hope
')3 , such savage amusement to blunt my
..eclings, but in vain. Behold, madam! for
,nce, a man who for four years has been
lying for love—four years! During this
time what have you been doing?"
"Waiting for you, Harry," said the siren
with her soft eyes full of tears.
"Waiting for me, madam!" I cried, in a
towering passion: "are you then a widow?
Worse —worse—than a wife?"
"I never married, Harry," she continued,
meekly.
"Never married!" I gasped.
"Never married, infatuated boy! You
little know that, young as you were you
had awakened in my bosom feelings which
I dared not avow. I was an affianced wife.
Still I did not give up all hope. I deter
mined to confess all to kim, to explain frank
ly your offer and my altered sentiment.,
pledging myself, however, to fullfill my part
of the contract if be held me to my vow. I
could not even hint this to you, and yet I
did not ask you to wait—l begged you to
stay. I hinted what might happen. 1) 0
you not recollect? But you wildly disap
peared. Had you paused and reflected, we
might have been a steady old married couple!"
It was a dream of joy I could not realize
to myself. I sank on my chair half fainting.
When I came to, I found Lady Maria, and
her aunt, Mrs. Curt, bathing my temples.
"But how came I here—in your room?" I
said, after some whispered words.
"Wait," said Lady Maria, blushing, "1
read in the Morning Post of your arrival at
the Hotel des Princes, very ill. I thought
you were hurrying home, in answer to a
letter of your sister Fanny's, in which I
had allowed her to tell you all; so I thought
as you were very ill, the nurse you wanted
was—was—"
"Your future wife," said Mrs. Curt laugh
ing while Maria Templeton blushed crimson.
"Heaven bless you!" I muttered, and catch
ing her in my arms, I imprinted on her lips
the first kiss of love, though the aunt did
frown a little.
I need scarcely add that I did not die.
I am happy, very happy; perhaps all the
happier for my trials; yet I often regret the
four years of misery I endured through my
precipitancy.. Still I have great reason to
be grateful that the genuine passion of my
life should have terminated so well; and that,
unlike so manyin thisworld, my wifeshould
be "My First Love."
The Ghost of the Black Friars
It was a. dreary night in November, 18—,
when Mr. Hawthorne, a Protestant English
gentleman, rode up to the gates of the Ab
bey of St. Baruabas, fifteen miles from the
town of —, on the banks of the far-famed
river Po. lie had started from Turin early
in the morning, in company with a post
chaise, containing his brother. and three
friends; but having left the highway to in
spect a ruin at some distance across the
fields, had got bewildered and lost his road.
As nightfall came on, the lights front the
casements of the Abbey led hint, as his only
protection front exposure, and the banditti
who then infested the country, to seek hos
pitality at its gates. It was only the sheer
est necessity compelled him to do so. For
Mr. Hawthorne was the son of an Evangeli
cal minister, and his notions of monks and
their persecuting spirit, were such as may
be more easily imagined than describe).—
As the sturdy lay brother cautiously un
barred and opened the massive convent gate
the traveller's spirit was somewhat re-as.
sured by the honest good-nature which
beamed from his face; but a thrill of dis
trust ran through his veins as he swung
back thehenvy portal,still eyeing the guest,
who had dismounted, and stood bridle in
hand, at the horse's head. The corners of
the old monk's handsome mouth at that
moment assumed something of a smirk,
that seemed to speak a consciousness of
having a high-mottled Briton in his power.
The gravel creaked beneath their feet as
they approached the stable, where the horse
was duly cared for, and where his master
I left him at the invitation of the monk, to
repair to the strangers apartment and par
take of some refreshment which he stood
sadly in need of, after his solitary rambles. I
Not long after supper, the Most Rever- 1
end Father Abbott was announced, and
Mr. Hawthorne, on rising, confronted a tall, i
commanding figure, in whose veins coursed
' some of the proudest blood of northern
Italy's feudal chieftains. The mingled air
of grace and majesty which formed the
character of the Father Abbott impressed
his visitor most favorably, and the paternal
kindness with which he welcomed him to
I the convent halls, and on taking leave bade
him a cheerful "good-night, and God bless
you," tended wonderfully to dispel his
gloom and re assure his spirits. Still he
could not but think that all this friendli-
[WHOLE NUMBER, 1,464.
nese might be only apparent, while the true
end was to lull all anxiety, and put him
completely off his guard. Ho had heard
from travelers of individuals who had been
known toentersimilarinstitutions and never
left them. He knew that an English Protest
ant would seem no better than a heretic in
the eyes of the monks, whose blind zeal
might lead them to any excess, against one
whom they considered as an enemy of God
and Holy Church. Ile retired to rest with
a heavy heart, and bitterly repented having
at all entered this strange abode. Mr. Haw
thorne was, in plain truth, some w:,at super
stitious. He had been led to belies o from
early infancy that monks and friars held
communion with the evil spirits of the air.
lie believed, moreover, in presentiment,
and now, do what he would, the firm con
viction rested on his mind that some great
mishap was going to berall him. He looked
anxiously all around the room before even
approaching his bed, and longer still before
he laid his head on his pillow. Little did
lie dream of what a night he was about to
pass:
He had not been asleep more than an
hour when the wall opposite to his bed ex
hibited a streak of light. Hawthorne fazed
intently upon this unexpected 3 ision, so as
to be sure it was not the work of fancy.—
Ire was certain he did not dream, for the
dark figure of a monk in the black friar's
garb detached itself from the bright glare
furmed on the wall, and glided with noise
less tread toward his couch. For a moment
the traveler's superstition got the better of
him, his flesh crept, and his hair stood on
end at the thought that this awful cisioa
must be from below. The Ghost glided into
a corner of the room, between the bed and
the wall. Hawthorne, iu turning, made a
slight noise, when the figure turned on him,
and stood, as though shading a light which
it held in its hands. Its jaws opened as its
eyes rested upon the traveler. for a moment
it delayed, then glided to the part from
which it came, and vanished.
"Heavens:" thought the Englishman, as
he gradually recovered from his fright.—
"[lave I truly gazed upon the guilty dead
appearing again upon earth, or was this
horrid visitor some emissary who precedes
the appearance of a cowled assassin? The
more he thought the less could ho under
stand of so strange a mystery. He deemed
it prudent not to sleep any more, and in
spite of hunger, fatigue and cold, he paced
up and down the room until morning.
The room was not opened until a late
hour, when the monk who had served bins
while at supper, entered to inform him that
a post-chaise had deposited at the gate four
gentlemen, who had come expressly to in
quire if a traveler answering the descrip
tion of Mr. Hawthorne had stopped at the
Abbey that night. 'When Hawthorne met
them in the strangers' apartment, what was
his
,joy en discovering that one of the four
was the British Consul. Fearful of some
foul play, Mr.' Hawthorne's brother had re
quested that official to accompany him and
his friends, when they left Turin. Haw
thorne determined at once to have the mat
ter of the unearthly vision which had dis
turbed his slumbers probed to the bottom.—
The Consul declared that he would take a
judicial account of all the es idence. Tho
Abbot was summoned, at Mr. I lawthorne's
request, and as the Consul represented that
the presence of all the residents of the in
stitution would lead to a speedier solution
of the mystery, the whole community WaA
assembled in the convent refectory. The
circumstances of the visit of either a ghost
or an assassin, were repeated with7nervons
aceuracyby Hawthornc,whowas now roused
to a high pitch of excitement and eager de.
sire of revenge
When he had finished, the Abbot turned
a searching look upon the bystin and
charged any one present who knew of this
dreadful occurrence, to speak out, in virtue
of holy obedience. The Prior of the Con.
vent was the only one who spoke, though
what lie said gave little satisfaction; in feet,
rather rendered the explanation more dif
ficult. lie remarked that there was a door
which led to theruom where Mr. Hawthorne
had slept, from the corridor of the infirmary.
A silence ensued, when Hawthorne was
observed to grow pale and stagger back.
An old monk, who hod a partial charge
of the infirmary, stepped slowly from tin',
ranks of his brethren and walked towards
the Abbot. Hawthorne hail reeognized at
once the thin. pale features, upon which the
nocturnal lamp had glared. The old man
bared his silvery head, and bowed tremb
lingly nt his superior's feet. A dead silence
ensued as he began in a husky voice: "Most
Reverend Father Abbot, I confess that I
know something of this last night's occur
rence. I myself was the cause of the En
glishman's alarm. I know that Brother
Francis is a young and giddy lad, and after
beads, on my way to bed, I stepped into
the room to see if Brother Francis had re
membered to put water in Me pitcher! When
I got up to the corner where the washstand
is, I saw the Englishman turn around, and
for fear of waking him up, I ran again out
of the room."
The way to Cure Hatred
At the foot of tho mountain Norkin, to the
north of Pekin, and not far from the Yellow
Sea, that is, in the northern part of Chins,
there dwelt, beneath the shelter of a natu
ral grotto. a bonze, whose name WWI Linn.
lie was the eraele of the whole prey:n-7