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SAXITEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor,
VOLUME XXXIII, NUMBER 31.1
ratrg.
Dead.
The seasons weave their ancient dance,
The remless ocean ebbs and flow!,
The world rolls on through day and dark,
Regardless of our joys or woes!
Stilt up the breezy western slopes
The reaper girls, like ripples brown,
y llend singing to their gleeful toil,
And sweep the golden harvest down
where the slanting sunlight gilds
The bole, of cedar and of pine,
Chants the lone black-bird from the brake
With melancholy voice divine:
Still all about the mossy tracks
Hums at his derg the woodward bee;
Still faithfully the corn-crake's note
Comes to me from the upland lea:
Still round her lattice, perched aloof,
In sunny shade of thatched eaves,
The jasmine clings, with yearning pale,
And withers in its shroud of leaves:
Still round the old familiar porch
Iler cherished roes blush and peer,
And &II the runny air with balm,
And strew their petals year by year
Nor here within, one touch of change!
The lbowool—the embroidered chair—
The books—the arras on the wall—
The harp—the music—all are there.
No touch of change! I close my eyes—
It cannot be Sae comes :to more!
I hear the rustling other dress;
I hear the footstep on the floor.
1 feel her breuth upon my brow;
I fed her hiss upon my cheek:--
Down, phantoms of the burled past!
Down ; or my heavy heart must break.
[Poems by a Painter.
The Southern Cross.
Deem not the ravished glory thine;
Nor think the ft ag shall scatheless wave
\Whereon thou bidirst its presage shine,—
Land of the traitor and the Mavel
Cod never act that holy sign
In deathless light among His stars
To make its llasonry divine
A 14cuicheon for thine impious wars!
And surely as the ‘Vrong must fuil
paper the everlaNting Right,
So curely thy device cht.ll pale
And shrivel in the Northern Light!
Look where ite coming zplendors stream!
The rcd and white athwart the blue—
While far above, the unconquered gleam
Of Freedom's stars is blazing, through!
Burk to the rustle and the sweep,
Like snood of mighty wing.; unfurled,
And bearing down the sapphire steep
Mayen'. hosts to help the imperilled world!
1.14111 in Me North: Each bristling lance
Ui steely sheen a promise hears;
And an the midnight where they glance
A ro4y flush of morning wear::
Yon symbol of the Southern sky
Sl.ull urely mean but grief and TOSPq
Them I reml4e ue YC raise MI high,
lu tuerilege, the Southern Cros,:
0, brothers! we entrent in pain,
Tithe ye :lie unblested emblem down!
Or purse your rtandurd of its stain,
And join it with the N.arthern Crown.
[Atlantic Monthly
gElettiano.
Kitty Dean's Offer
"Aunt Lizzie, Aunt Lizzie, he says that
I may go!" These words burst in at the
front door of my quiet house one morning,
accommpanied by a trim little figure, a
pretty face, with laughing blue eyes and
cheeks flushed with excitement, and a show
er of brown curls escaped from the comb, a
dress of pink and white lawn, .be.
"I did'nt mean to shock you, really,
auntie; but it's so nice you know, and I was
so afraid he would never let me; and just
think, next week!" And this exceedingly
and intelligible and satisfactory speech
dosed with a vigorous hug, which was real
ly all I understood of the matter.
"Now stop, Kitty Dean," I said. "Look
me in the face one whole minute without
speaking, and then tell mo soberly and
slowly all about it."
In nn instant the blue eyes were looking
into mine as gravely as if they bad never
laughed; but before the minute was up Kit
ty began again:
"Why, this is it, aunt Lizzie—l have been
bogging father for a week to lot me go to
East Hampton with Mrs. Wood, and now
he says I may. And we aro going to spend
a month, and I shall bathe in the surf every
single day, and spend every evening on the
beach in the moonlight."
"But East Hampton is not a remarkable
place is it. Kitty? Mrs. Wood told me it
was very stupid, but a good place to fatten
babies."
"Now stop, please, Aunt Lizzie. I never
went to the seaside in my life, and I want
to go, and it won't be stupid—so!" And
Oho spoiled child looked poutingly into my
facc. Then, brightening again, she said,
'Aunt, tethyou a secret. I have set my
heart upon one thing. Now, won't you
laugh if I tell you about it 7"
"Perhaps not," I said, musingly, my
mind reverting to the sewing Kitty's advent
Lad interrupted.
"Well, I must tell you at all events. I
am going to have an offer!"
"What are you talking about, child?" I
said, impatiently.
•'I am going to have an offer! I am,
auntie. Helen Parker had one at the sea
side last summer; and she says almost all
the girls there had them--401 the pretty ones.
And I think I shall have vne.''• Kitty gave
a sly glance at lice mirror, then withdraw
ing her eyes quickly, said:
"But you must not- tell father, and I'll
give you un account of the whole affair
when I come home." • • • •
I will spare the reader what I did not
think it my duty to spare Kitty, viz: a long
lecture, disquisition or homily on the sins of
flirting, vanity and levity.
The morning of Kitty's departure for
East Hampton at length arrived, and I went
to the depot with her, to see her fairly off,
and whispered a few more words of sage ad
vice to be thought of in the cars. She need
ed all the advice I could give her, for she
had so obstinately taken into her silly little
head the idea of that offer, that she would
talk of little else. And the child's amuse
ment at my horror of the idea made her
dwell upon it all the more.
Mrs. Wood, with her children, was keep
ing watch over the luggage, and wondering
if the cars would never arrive, when Kitty
and I made our appearance. "I'm afraid
you will be disappointed, Miss Kitty," she
said, as she saw the happy face of my bliss
ful niece, "for East Hampton is a quiet
place."
"Disappointed! Oh, don't expect anything
remarkable, Mrs. Wood."
And Kitty tried to look as if she had been
to the seaside every one of her eighteen sum
mers, tl.nd considered it somewhat of a bore
to go through the annual performance.—
Then, having concealed her rapturous feel
ings as long as was possible, she gave vent
to them again by snatching 11.trs. Wood's
youngest from the arms of its nurse, and
transforming herself into a baby-jumper for
its amusement and edification. As she
danced lightly along the platform tossing
the baby aloft, and laughing her low, musi
cal laugh at the comical expression of bewil
derment and delight on its tiny features,
her graceful head thrown back, and soft
brown hair blown back from her bright face,
thought my Kitty very pleasant to look
upon; and as I was thinking so, the cars
came crushing by, and from their windows
I saw many a pleased look east at my little
niece, and among the faces turned toward
her, was ono I recognized at once as that of
a dear friend. lie saw me, and leaving his
seat was soon grasping my hand, and speak
ing warns words of greeting. Kitty danced
by us, scarcely deigning a glance at the
grave, quiet man; and he said, looking af
ter her:
"What a pretty little creature! Who is
she, ➢lrs. II—?"
"My niece, Katy Dean," I said, with a
little pardonable pride, adding, "The child
is very happy to-day, for she is going for the
first time in her life, to the seaside. Mrs.
Wood (you remember Mrs. Wood,) is to
take her under her wing to East Hampton,
down on Long Island."
"To East Hampton! Why I, too, am on
my way to that quiet little village. It is so
long since I indulged in a vacation, and the
seaside, that I feel almost like joining your
pretty niece in that very original dance of
hers. Ido so long for the sea."
And his face lighted up with almost the
same boyish smile peculiar to it years before.
when lie was nut the pale sad man of to
day.
"Let me introduce you to Kitty," I said.
"Stay one moment, Mrs. ll—. Is she a
child, or a young lady? Excuse me, but she
looks so very child-like now, and yet—"
"Oh, you must treat her as a young lady,
John, or she will never smile on you. She
is eighteen, and fully conscious of her weight
of years; Kitty, this is my friend, Mr. Mur
ray."
Kitty drew herself up, and honored Mr.
tfurray with an exceedingly stately bow,
the stateliness being assumed to make
amends for her dance with the baby, which
she knew he must have witnessed.
"Me. Murray is going to East Hampton,
Kitty, and as he has been there before, he
can tell you whether it is 'all your fancy
painted' it."
"Oh, have you been there, sir? and will
you tell me all about the surf, and the beach
and the moonlight? for Mrs. Wood does not
seem to remember anything about them, ex
cept that the bathing cured Johnny's whoop
ing-cough!'
"Yes, Miss Dean, all my knowledge and
experience aro at your service; and if you
will let me have a seat by your side in the
cars, I will paint East II imptort in glowing
colors fur your benefit."
The hell rang, and all hurried to their
seats in the cars. Kitty finding time, how
ever, to whisper as she kissed me,—"l will
write about the offer," thinking thus to de
stroy my peace of mind for the hour.
But I was thinking too busily of her seat
mate; and as I walked slowly homeward, I
said again and again to myself, "Is he hap
py? Will be ever forget?"
John Murray had always been a favorite
of mine. His mother and I were dear
friends, and I interested myself in her boy,
at first for her sake, then for his own. From
his earliest boyhood he was true and honor
able. Ttat was what first impressed me—
the high sense of honor which seemed natu
ral to him, and which so few have. lie
was very frank and unreserved—boyish in
this, even after he was a man in years.
lie used to talk to me so freely of all his
plans, his ambitions, his joys and sorrows—
looking into my face with clear gray eyes,
through which I could look right down into
his true heart. And it was the loss of this
boyish frankness which grieved me so now
since his disappointment.
Ver. John Murray was a "disappointed
man." as the world has it. But more than
that, he was deceived, bitterly wronged man.
lie had loved, as such true, earnest' men
alone can love, a young Souther° beauty,' a
"NO ENTERTAINMENTIS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MOR,NING, MARCH 1, 1862
belle and heiress. Others thought her weak
and vain, but he loved her with a blind, un
reasoning love. I shall never forget the day
be came to me with his face glowing radi
antly, and his eyes full of tears, and told me
that the lady he loved had promised to be
his; and how his voice trembled, as he said
in low, reverent tones:
"Do thank God for me, Mrs. H—; I am
not good enough to thank Him, but I will
be now,"
Ali, how happy he was, poor boy! Ile
went away with his lady-love, and some
other friends, to travel through the summer.
A. few weeks passed, and I beard a vague
rumor that the engagement was broken.—
Then it became certainty; but John did not
come home. In two months I read in a
newspaper the notice of the lady's marriage
to a wealthy foreigner.
Hew my heart bled for my boy, then! but
I could hear nothing of him. It was four
months before he came, and he was then so
changed ho was no longer a boy. 110 looked
years older; and while his trouble had not
made him bitter and cynical, as such trou
bles often do, he had lost that honest frank
ness which was once his peculiar charm.—.
lle became quiet and reserved, though more
kindly than ever before, even to women—
unlike those men who condemn the whole
se; because one bad proved faithless.
It was now five years since this happened
and John Murray was thirty years old.—
Not a very advanced age, yet every one
looked upon him as an old bachelor, and
few dreamed that lie would ever marry.
Well, the days of Kitty's absence went
by, and the time of her return drew near. I
had two or three letters from her; but they
were short, and rather unsati factory, all
agreeing upon one point, viz: that East
Hampton was not stupid. I missed the lit
tle damsel sadly, and was very glad_when,
one afternoon a note was brought me from
her, saying:
"Dear Auntie, I'm at home; came this
noon. Father is going out this evening,
and I shall be alone. Please come over
right after tea, for I want to see you dread
fully."
Of course I went, for I wanted to see Kit
ty "dreadfully" too. As I walked up the
pleasant path, lined with rose bushes, which
led to Kitty's abode. I looked up towards
the house, thinking she would come to meet
me, but I saw nothing of her. Going into
the house and not seeing her down stairs, I
went up to her room. I opened the door
softly, and came upon Kitty sitting idly
looking out of the window. She did not
hear the door open, and, as her face was
turned from me, did not see me till I came
close to her, and drawing back her head,
said laughingly:
"Well, Kitty, where's the offer?"
In a minute her face was hidden in my
bosom, and she was crying bitterly; subbing
till her little form shook convulsively, and
I was fairly frightened.
"Kitty, pot, what is it?" I asked anxious
ly. "Do look up at me and speak."
Then she lifted her head and looked into
my face. Instead of the bright, plump,
rosy face she had worn a month before, she
was pale, heavy-eyed and thin. Sitting
down, I drew her into my lap and said,
while the tears trembled in my own eyes:
"Why, Kitty, you have been ill! Why
did you nut let me know? I would have
gone and nursed you, if you had only sent
for me. But never mind now, darling, I
have you safe, and you will soon be well and
strong. SJ don't cry."
"Kitty smiled faintly, and said:
' D,) I look very thin, auntie? Father
thinks so, too, and has gone to see Mrs.
Wood about me; but, indeed, I've not been
sick."
"Not been sick! Why, what then is the
'natter? Not been sick!"
"No, auntie, I have not been sick an hour,
I wish I were sick; I wish I were deadl"—
And with another passionate burst of tears,
Kitty laid her head down on my shoulder.
I soothed and quieted her, stroking her hair,
kissing her forehead, and singing scraps of
lullaby music, just as I had comforted her
when her mother died twelve years before,
and she a little sobbing child, lay in my
arms ns now.
Presently she grew calmer; the sobs
ceased, and at last she lifted the little wet
face from my shoulder, and said:
"I'm sorry to frighten you so auntie, but
I have kept it so long, and I knew you would
let me cry. I am very miserable, Aunt
Lizzie."
This she said so mournfully, and with
such a piteous look on her pale face, that 1
bloke through my resolution not to question
her as to her trouble, and said, quickly:
"What is it, Kitty? what has happened?"
Drawing a long quivering sigh, she said
"I think I had better tell you all about
it, auntie, though I could not tell any one
else in the world; and now please don't say
anything till I have quite finished the story,
or I shall break down, and I want you to
know it all."
So she laid her head down again, hiding
her eyes on my shoulder, and began:
"You know, Aunt Lizzie, the silly speeches
I made before I went away about having an
offer. Well, though I knew it was silly, I
could not help hoping that I might have one
to tell the girls about when I came back. I
thought it would be nice to be knelt to on,
the beach in the moonlight, and some one
beg me to love him, and pity his misery.
and all that; and then I had made up what
1 thought tiro prettiest :poach in reply, toil-
ing him that I was very sorry, but I could
never love him; would always think of him
as a friend, and closing by asking if I bad
ever led him to think I would give him a
different reply. And I thought of this so
much, that when I reached East Hampton,
I looked eagerly around the table when we
came down to breakfast at Mr. J.'s to see
what young gentlemen there were. But
there was not one—not a single one. So at
last I began to think of—of Mr. Murray."
"John Murray, child! Why—"
"Auntie, auntie, please wait; I can't bear
it now. I did not think of Mr. Murray till
he began to be with me a good deal, to walk
with me, and sit under the trees with me
after dinner. And he was so pleasant and
agreeable, and there wasn't any one else,
and I liked him; so it was very easy to make
him think I liked him better than I did.—
So I never declined any of his attentions; and
I used to talk, and sing, and walk with him,
till at last we were tcgether nearly all the
time. It was so pleasant to have him like
me so much, prefer me to all the other la:
that I really forgot all about the offer
--indeed , did, and did not try to lead him
on to make it. But at last it came! Oh,
Aunt Lizzie. I had never dreamed it would
be like that. He was sent for to New York,
and the evening before be went, he made up
a party to drive down to the beach, and see
the moon rise. There was quite a wagon
load of us from J.'s, Parson's, and the other
houses. When we reached the beach, we
separated, and went off in different parties.
Some set on the benches under "the bower,''
some outside on the sand, while others
walked up the beach. Mr. Murray and I
wandered away from the rest, and soon
found ourselves quite out of sight of all the
others. Then he spread his shawl on the
sand, and we sat down to watch the moon.
I knew what he was going to say, I felt it
was coming; and I was a little frightened,
but still somewhat vain and glad. Foolish,
foolish child that I was! It seems so long
ago, as if I had grown old since then. He
began in such a low, solemn voice, and told
me about the one he loved years ago; how
she trifled with and deceived him; how,
through all the long years since then, he bad
never breathed her name, or spoken of her
till to me. Then he said he did not believe
with those who think a man who once loved
earnestly, should never love again, Ile had
given all his love to a mere dream—a boy's
vision—and it had all come back to his heat t;
now he should spend it upon a truer, worth
ier object. And then ho told me how he
loved me. Oh, Aunt Lizzie, such words as
he spoke then! HO told me how, in the
short weeks we had been together, this love
had come up in his heart, growing every
day and hour, as he saw my simple, guile
less nature opening before him. "Simple,
guileless!" when I had been so artful and
wicked. Then he stopped a minute, and,
bending forward to look into my face, he
took both my hands in his, and said:
"Will you be my wife?"
"There was my offer. 0, how I wished
in that minute that I had never met him—
that 1 bad never gone to East Hampton. I
was trembling and frightened; the story of
that other love had made me cry with pity;
and now, how could I be the one to make,
him think all women heartless? I did not
say a word. I could not. I only tried to
draw away my hands. But he held them
tightly, - and said again:
"Will you be my wife?"
"Then I tried to remember what I had
meant to say, and 1 stammered out some.
thing about feeling sorry I could not love
him, and hoping he had never thought that
I meant to encourage his intentions, and
0, I don't know what I said; it was all his
trifling nonsense. Shall I over forget hiiJ
grieved look when I had done? Ile looked
into my eyes a minute, and then said, in a
low, sad voice:
"Kitty Dean, if you do not love me, if
you will not be my wife, say so at once. I
am no boy to have my love trifled with. In
mercy soy it quickly, if at all."
Then I raid, as firmly as I could:
"I do not love you, Mr. Murray; I cannot
be your wife."
"Ile turned away, then, bowed his face
in his hands, and sat so a long time, still
and silent. I thought my heart would
break to see that strong, noble man whom I
am not worthy to think of, so bowed down
with what I had made him suffer. I crept
to him and knelt before him. I clasped my
hands and said:
"0, Mr. Murray, I am so sorry!"
"He uncovered his face, put his arms
around me, and drew me close to his breast,
held me there one little minute, whispered
"Good-bye, my child!" then put me away
and rose up. That was our parting. We
walked together to join the party, but all
the time I felt miles away from bim. We
had parted, and I shall never be near bim
again. lie put me out of his heart, just as
he put me out of his arms. This is the
story. Now you may talk, Aunt Lizzie—
now you may say all the harsh bitter things
you can think of—nothing can be too bad
for me." •
And then she fell to crying again.
"I can not scold you to-night, Kitty," I
said. "You are miserable enough as it is;
and you must not ery another tear, or we
shall have you really sick,"
So I undressed the poor little thing and
put her to bed, then left her. Down stairs
I found ray brother-inrlaw, anxiously wait
ing to hear my opinion of his pet. I quieted
hie fears. as.uring him that Kitty was not
seriously ill, only suffering from the effects
of dm sea air, to which she was not accus
tomed.
Then I want home, thinking very hard.
Notwithstanding Kitty's grief; my heart
turned away from her now to John Murray
--my poor John. Was there no one in the
world for the foolish girl to play her school
girl's pranks with but my boy? I was im
patient, and could hardly forgive my niece
in my heart. To be sure she was wretched
about it now: but it was mere childish
wretchedness, which would soon wear away,
while John would suffer on.
But days passed by, and Kitty only look
ed sadder and paler. Sho seemed to take
no interest in any one or anything. But
every day she would steal quietly into my
room as I sat at work, sit down on a cricket
at my feet, and lay her head in my lap,
scarcely ever speaking except in reply to
some question of mine. And there grew
such an expression of patient sorrow on the
little face; which had always been so bright,
that I grew sadly troubled. I had not
thought the child had such a tender heart,
and now she was really pining away from
pity for John Murray.
"You must not be so sad, Kitty," I said,
one day, as she sat in her usual place at
my feet, "it makes your father feel so bad
ly. Try to be brighter and happier."
"Happier! Aunt Lizzie, I can never be
happy again," she said mournfully.
"You must try to be, dear. It is useless
to mourn so for the past. You cannot recall
it. You cannot remedy the sorrow you
I have caused by sorrowing so yourself."
"If I could only die fur him!" she cried
passionately.
A new light dawned upon me. Perhaps
the girl loved John Murray. If so I 'elt
sure she did not yet know it. But I thought
it best that she should make the discovery,
otherwise she might possibly reject John
again, if he ever, wooed a second time.
"Kitty," said I, "what was the true rea
son for your refusing Mr. Murray's offer?"
"Reason! Wiry, I was not in love with
him."
"Not then?"
"Nelms, Aunt Lizzie!"
"Yet you would die for him?" I said,
quietly.
She started up.
"What do you mean, aunt?"
"That you care fur him, Kitty, more than
you have owned to yourself yet."
A sudden blush crimsoned her pale face,
she stood before me an instant, her bosom
heaving, her eyes like those of a frightened
child; then she darted from the house. She
must be alone with this new-found truth,
for truth I knew it was now. I sat alone,
thinking how I should help my troublesome
pets out of their trouble. Now that they
really loved each other, I felt sure it would
come out right,
But I must have a hand in it; they would
never come together without me.
Now John had for some years been my
legal adviser, having the charge of my pro
perty. I now determined to send for him,
under pretence of wishing him to examine
some papers in my possession, and thus to
contrive a meeting between him and Kitty.
So I wrote fur him. I did not tell Kitty
what I had done. Indeed, I scarcely saw
her at all for several days. Now that I
knew her secret, she avoided me, and blush
ed through her paleness every time she met
my eye.
When John Murray came he seemed just
what he had seemed for years—quiet, grave,
reserved; but no more so than when I saw
him last. He attended to my business with
the same thoughtful care ho had always
shown. I spoke of Kitty carelessly, that he
might not think by my avoiding the subject
that I knew his secret: asked him how be
enjoyed East Ilampt.m, and said my niece
had not been very well since her return. To
which he replied, absently, that he saw Miss
Dean frequently in East Hampton, and that
she seemed in good health while there.—
Ills manner, while saying this, w.'s not at
all lover-like; but then I did not expect it to
be. John Murray was no boy, to blush and
stammer when in love.
The day after his arrival Jahn went out
to walk. I was sitting in my little sewing
room at my work, when Kitty came in.—
She was pale and quiet, as usual, and after
kissing me, "Good morning," she oat down
silently at the open window. Suddenly I
was startled by her exclaiming:
"Aunt Lizzie:"
I turned, and seeing her crimsoned face,
her half-frightened, half-reproachful look, I
knew she had seen John Murray coming in.
She started towards the door, but I laid my
band on her arm.
"You shall not go, Kitty," I said, deci
dedly. "You shall not trifle with him again.
Stay!"
She stood, timid, irresolute, and be en
tered the room, As his eyes fell upon her
he started, and a faint color tinged his cheek.
but he bowed courteously, and held out his
hand to her (that was fur my benefit who
was supposed to be ignorant of the affair.)
Kitty took his offered hand without looking
at him. But now the blushes had left her
face, and it was very white. As John
glanced at her, he exclaimed, involuntary:
"I am sorry my presence distresses you,
Miss Dean. Let me assure you, if those
tears are shed from compassion for me, I do
nut require them. I need no one's pity!"
and he turned to leave the room.
Ilgre was a nituation! What should I do?
II was in despair; and growing desperate es
he opened the d. r, I whispered basal!, un
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVAJTCE; *2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE
seen by Kitty, "You foolish boy--she loves
you!"
Ile hesitated, looked incredulously at me,
then glanced at Kitty, whose face was still
covered with the little hands which bad
grown so thin since he held them in his
own on East Hampton beach. His expres
sion softened, and I rushed from the room,
leaving she two shut up together. So sure
was I now of n happy tertnniation to my
manteuvreing that I went coolly off to mar
ket, and stayed away an hour. When •I
came home, Kitty's little straw hat still
hung in the hall, and from my sewing-room
I heard low murmurs issue, which con
vinced me that the lovers were yet there.—
So, before opening the door, I thoughtfully
made a great deal of unnecessary noise with
the handle, all the time singing in the most
unconscious manner.
But when I did open it? There was John
—the grave, sad old bachelor—sitting on
the sofa with his arm encircling the waist
of my niece, Kitty Dean, who, as I entered,
looked up with a beaming, blushing face,
and glancing at the audacious arm, said,
apologetically:
"Ile won't take it away."
"I would not, indeed!" cried I, as, like a
silly old woman, I put my arm about both
of them, and fell cry;ng and laughing.
"Kitty has had offer No. 2, Mrs. ll—, to
make up for that first one which was so un
like what she expected," said John, laugh
ing.
"Ohl don't speak of that folly, please,
Mr.—well—John!" murmured Kitty.
Arid "John," delighted with the sound
of his name from those lips, vowed solemnly
never to tease her; and as ho had no bible
to kiss, to prove the sincerity of his vow, he
had to substitute for the volume what hap
pened to be nearest. So he did!
The Art of Weeping
SHEDDING TEARS AT WILL-CURIOUS EXAMPLES
An English weekly paper has these pleas
ant paragraphs:
Tears of childhood and early youth are
allowable—nay, sometimes desirable. But
the tears of grown people are more or less
objectionable. An adult who weeps extrava
gantly is either unhealthily susceptible or
bent on deceiving the bystanders. We do
not refer to tears wrung from unwilling
eyes by the pressure of some terrible calamity.
We mean tears shed for the sake of appear
ances or with a view to deceive. We mean
tears invoked by histrionic influences in
private or public life. We mean the lach
rymose sensibility to n doleful impression
so often proved to be compatible with a cold
and cruel heart.
Actors—we do not mean actors in social
circles and on public platforms, of which
there are so many, but bona fide actors on
the stage—are of course right to cultivate
the faculty of weeping. It helps both them
selves and the spectators to realize the pas
sion represented. We have read, indeed,
of an actor so thoroughly carried away by
his feelings, whilst performing in a suicide
scene, as not only to plunge a real dagger
home to the hilt in his breast; but faithfully
to support his character to the last by dying,
in a studdied attitude, according to the most
approved stage rules. We confess, however,
that the story comes from the other side of
the Atlantic, and may not be strictly true.
On the other hand, one of our foremost Eng
lish actors—Young, the tragedian—merited
severe censure when ho sobbed aloud at the
pathetic voice and gestures of Mrs. Siddons,
and was only called to a sense of his respous
sibilities, as time villain cram piece, by the
stern admonition of the great actress—utter
ed in a thrilling whisper—" Mr. Young com•
mend yourself."
A WEEPING WOMAN
Women have often an extrtu rdinary talent
for shedding tears. It ie vet!l that this
should be so. Tears are not without their
influence on the baser sex. Even bruitish
husbands—a class entering largely into the
composition of society, whether high or low
—are not insensible to tears, ,especially
when sober. But women must be careful
not to weep overmuch. The demonstration
should be reserved for special occasions.—
The more frugally tears arc shed the deeper
will be the effect produced. Madame D' Arb
lay descr:Led a young lady gifted with inex
haustible powers in this line. When re
quested, at a large social gathering, to
oblige the company by weeping, she would
cheerfully comply. The process was as fol
lows: The young lady's features first be
came composed and thoughtful. Presently
her calm blue eyes filled with tears. Then,
one by one, in endless sequence, the pearly
drops rained down her serene countenance
until the curiosity. of the spectators was sa
tiated, and each ono murmured, "Hold,
enough!" As a rule, we suppose that tears
secreted affect beholders as little as they
cost the lady shedding them.
A CASE OV DEcErriox.
We only once witnessed an exhibition of
this kind. An Irishwoman, in tattered gar
ments, with an imperfectly washed physi
ognomy, abruptly waylaid us at the back
door of our modest suburban residence.--.
Never was passionate grief so vividly por
trayed on the face of a human being as o.n
that of this excited daughter of Erin. The
tears poured down her cheeks. We stop
ped, almost awe-struck. to listen to her talc
of woe. It was this. Fier baby, an inter
esting little creature, three weeks old, MIN
lying dead in the village. and the vicar de
clined to consign it to consecrated ground
unless the customary fees were raid. "Sure
EITIIOLE NUMBER 1,64 J.
your honor will give a thritle to get the bless
ed baby put decently underground?" Now,
we were personally acquainted with tho
vicar. He was the most amiable of men.—
Rather than have witnessed those gushing
tears for the space a one minute, he would
have gladly submitted to be bulled alive
along with tho baby. A portly coachman
was therefore summoned to accompany the
Irishwoman to the vicarage and ascertain
the rights of the story. Mounted on a puny
of corresponding bulk, John started, with
rho weeping mother walking by hie side.—
In a quarter of an hour he returned, flushed
and discomfited. The weeping mother had
suddenly dashed through a gap in the hedge,
and vanished across the country. Bath
coachman and pony were too fat to follow.
and the unburied baby was a myth.
I=
Our young friend Eugenius once met with
a very unpleasant adventure in a railway
train. Bound for town to enjoy a week or
two of intellectual recreation, ho noticed on
the platform of the station from whence ho
started an affecting scene. A lady in deep
mourning, apparently young and handsome,
bade farewell with ill-concealed emotion, to
a swarthy gentleman clad in the height of
fashion, but laboring under the disadvan
tage of a flattened nose and a slight cast in
the eye. Who can account for tastes? Pity
is akin to love, and probably the la.ly bad
been touched originally by the man's ex
tremely unprepossessing appearance. The
railway whistle gives the fatal signal—there
is no time to lose—the lady tears herself
away, and lightly springs into a Crst-class
carriage, of which Eugenius chances to be
the sole occupant. Off went the train. Thu
lady waved out of the window a handker
chief moistened by her tears, and, burying
her face in her hands, wept silently and
persistently. What could Eugenius do?—
Ile could only offer the respectful tribute of
an occasional sigh or a glance of modest
sympathy. At Swindleburg, as every ono
knows, the train stops ten minutes for re
freshments. Eugenius delicately offered the
afflicted lady a cup of tea. She declined;
but in a low, musical voice, murmured the
words "A glass of stout." Eugenics flew
to procure it for her. As the train_appronch
ed London, he endeavored to sootie her
'mind by other unostentatious little civilities.
In accents of deep compassion he asked her
commonplace questions. Would she like
the window up? Might ho offer her the
loan of his railway rug? The rug was ac
cepted with silent gratitude. Presently the
train rolls into the London terminus.
• Our young friend leaps from the carriage
in order to procure n cab fir- his forlorn
companion. He has barely recovered hie
balance when a swarthy gentleman. dressed
in the height of fashion, with a flattened
nose and a slight cast in the eye, seizes him
by the throat, and communicates his inten
tion of instantly giving him into custody on
a charge of insulting the unprotected female
who had been hie fellow-traveller to London.
Eugenius remembers little more beyond a
dreadful row—his hat knocked over his eyes
amidst the plaudits of an indignant mob—
the interference °fa puzzled policeman, who
believed the asseverations of neither party—
and the final surrender of all the ready
money in his pocket to the swarthy man of
fashion with the imperfeot nose, as the
shortest mode of effecting his escape from
the clutches of a brace of conspirators.
I=l
Emotion may not be feigned, yet its
source may be very different from what
lookers-on imagine. A jail captain strove,
day after day, to awuke.n a culprit con
demned to the gallows to some sense of Lis
miserable condition. All seems in vain.—
One night, however, on taking leave, the
pri.oner's manner changed. There was
some slight exhibition of feeling; the clergy
man's hopes revived. Ile paused, spoke to
the man, and asked him what was on his
mind? The man burst into tears, and gasp
ing the other's hand, exclaimed in broken
accents, "Sir, I should like to Litre a good
belly-full of victuals afore I die!"
I=l3
Once upon a time, at a country church,
the clergyman, an earnest, excitable preach
er, chanced, in the middle of his sermon, to
throw a tenderly pathetic accent into a sen
tence that was totally devoid of anything
approaching to pathos—n plain, sensible an
nouncement of a solid feet—the distance
from Jerusalem to Jerico in English
or the number of years occupied, according
to the best authorities, in building the Sec
ond Temple of Jerusalem. The earnest, ex
citable men heard the accents of his own
voice and was much moved. His voice
trembled Inure and more, his eyes grew
moist; it was a chance that he-did not en
tirely. break. Immediately three young
ladies in the Squire's pew put their hand
kerchiefs to their eyes; the Squire blew his
nose violently; a heavy dragoon, who chanced
to be staying at the Hall, was sensibly af
fected; several females in- the back benches
sobbed audibly; an elderly spinster
groaned, nineteen charity-school chi'.
dr3n thought it prudent, on a sign from the
school-mistress, to rub their eyes with the
back of their hands, and the church war
dens nudged each other in the ribs, and en
deavored to look solemn. "What's Hecuba
to him, or he to Hecuba?" But in Hecubrie
case there was a tragic substratum; there
was really something to cry about. All
that was needed was the imaginative power
to realize the pathos of the story. In the
cnso of the earnest excitable preacher there
was nothing so to say, to go upon—it was
literally "vox et prceera nihill" A statisti
cal fact was uttered by the merest chance in
touching accents; the utterer was melted;
his audience was meltel3; action and rime
tion followed; it was a mercy that the quiet
country church was not startled Vous its
propriety by an outburst of frantic bye:eria
trout transept, nave and aisles.