^ ' /^^y ^>ii^.:i^■:-. -4'^'-' . • s \ ' <. o > . •n^o^ .0' xv^-^-. ^^-^^^ .40^ ^^ .^ ' /^^f5'//k^ ''^^. c?^"^ * o o •"^ 't- A> ^ V « - "^ Ov IV. ^^ .-^-^ VOL. I. PRICE 75 CENTS ^ )} ^»r^^-?^"^'"'^^^ ^a^>--;^^-^^---^^>.--^-- ^-—--JN-xi^-.--..^-^^.-^-- I' I SI ffiiSQelliPiesus 1XJ8f^s OF SIGNOR A. A. NOBILE. NOVELS ^ TRANSLATIONS LECTURES SAN FRANCISCO : R. R. Patterson, 429 Montgomery St. 1894. 'vr.sSi?vs^-k^^-^v>5<^^,-^S^;^.^s^s^S^^^ PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON, Speoialita per le malattie d.i dotine, OflBce and Residence, Office Hours 1308 STOCKTON STREET, 8 to 9 a. m. and 2 to 4 p. m Bet. Broadway and Vallejo. LA PIU' VECCHIA CAS A. lACCHERi &BACICALUPI 627 BROADWAY 627 CBT-TEL-EIFONO 893. 'Vd Sola casa italiana che On accetta fanerali chinesi. Prezzi modici e massima pulizia. Si eseguiscono e forniscon casse di qualsiasi quality. OF , SIGNOR A."A. NOBILE. fl NOVELS ^ TRANSLATIONS LECTURES O .1 > '•-■ "^ VVAv'. //f^"!?- SAN FRANCISCO : R. R. Patterson, 429 Montgomery St. 1894. .n>^ Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 18!>1, l)y A. Alexander Nobile, in the office of the Librarian of Congi-ess. at Washington fl. fl. HOBIUE. Achilles Alexander Nobile. the author, and publisher of this book was born in Is'aples on the 13th day of July 1838. His father was named Alexander Nobile, and the maiden name of his mother was Fortunata Nanso. His father dying of Cholera in the epidemic of the year 1834, his mother intermarried with Frederic Sorvillo. He received his primary education in the Institute Moccellini at Naples. In 1843 he entered the college of St. Frediaiio in Lucca, and remained in that institution for eighteen months. He then entered the college of St. Catherine in Pisa. At the conclusion of his course, in this college the University of Pisa conferred on him the degree of Bachelor of Philosophy. This was in 1849. After this he studied law in the said University of Pisa. At 19 years of age, being spurred on by the ambition common to spirited young men he closed his books, bade good bye to his mother, and started on his travels to see the world. He traveled around to different parts until the breaking out of the Crimean war. He made a campaign in that under the Britiish flag, along with the Swiss Legion. On the close of that war, he went to South America, and served under the order of Mayor Von Eherenkeutz as Under Lieutenant of Artillery, in the service of the Argentine Kep- nblic. Upon the breaking of the war of the Italian Independance in 1859, he returned to Italy, and volunteered as a private in the service of his country. He passed the grades, and was nominated Staff Under- Lieutenant, September 20, I860. When the Franco-Prussian war broke out, he volunteered again, and served through that war under General FrapoUi. When not soldiering, he was in turn teacher, reader and lecturer. He arrived in San Francisco in 1889, where he has since remained, captivated by the charms of the city. Here he has learned the printer's art, and established a VV^eekly Italian newspaper, entitled the "Vespa." Signor Nobile is also the type setter of this book. Besides this volume now in press, he is engaged on and will publish a memoir of his life and traysla which must be very entertaining. An Anonymous Letter. THE PUBLIC WRITER. Fifteen or sixteen years ago, the courtyard of the Holy Chapel presented quite a difierent aspect from that which it now presents. It is not because many changes have been made, or because the streets leading to it have been improved or widened. No. Everything has remained in nearly its primitive state. The wooden wall which once enclosed the staircase by which the people ascended to the corridor communicating whith the public Hall of \\\Qpas perdus, though a little elevated, till encircles the old monument; but with the increasing activity which took place in the locality, many of the characteristic marks of old Paris have gradually disappeared. Before the opening of this new thoroughfare the court of the Holy Chapel was almost a suburb cf the city where every trace of Parisian society was lost, one after another. This courtyard formed a little world by itself, which had its own invariable customs; now noisy, noAV silent and always frequented by the same people; early in the morning by the ushers of the Supreme Court who r3mained till the hour at which the referendaires were used to arrive, by G the clerks of a lawyer's office situated upon the treshold of the den of sophistry, and by the housekeepers of the neighborhood, who mingled with the water carriers at the corner of the little street of St. Ann. At twelve o'clock, when all was quiet, the honorable members of public saf- ety, whose barracks were not far off, and who, without any effort of imagination, could have been compared to the paltoniers of old times, v/ere used to come to warm themselves in the sunshine. Every day at about the same time the courtyard resounded with the noise of heavy vans whose stables were at the northern corner of the Corte det Conti. At this place, in a recess behind the staircase and precisely under the hall of the first chamber of the Supremo Court had lived for fifteen or twenty years a man called Duverrier, a contractor of the pris- oners' conveyance, an industry advantageous enough to allow him the gratification of the luxury of rare flowers^ which was his strongest passion. The entrance to the dark cavern which he inhabited, greatly resembled a florist's stall, and the grass which was growing through the pavement prolonged the verdure a few feet further the narrow space which he used as a garden. At twilight, when the monotonous silence was only broken by the steps of the sentinel beneath the gas burning before the palace, this dimly lighted and almost deserted place was the rendezvous of the lovers from the sorrounding streets. Each morning resembled the preceding, always the same events, and, we may say, almost the same conversations exchanged by the same people. On account of the increasing activity many offices of public writers had been opened around the walls of the Holy Chapel, but at the time when our narrative begins only one of these offices had remained, and it was situat- ed at the right hand of the covered passage leading ta the Rue de la Barilerie, Every morning the tenant of this hole as big as a sentinel's box used to hang in the most c'onspicous place a frame containing many specimens of different kinds of writing, which, profusely decorated with flourishes, were hardly intelligible. It was almost impossible for the owner to look at those testimonials of his calligraphic ability without raising his eyes to Heaven, and without heaving a deep sigh, as if they awakened in him the memories of better times, and sorrows at the unjust contempt into which he had fallen. On the four opaques and dirty panes of glass, through which light penetrated into this box was written in yellow letters: Editorials, Memorials, Petitions, Letters of Compliments for Christmas and New Years," and on the other side: " A. C. Ternisien, Ex-Professor of Penmanship in the University." Notwithstanding the above high qualification and the complete absence of competition, one would infer by the dress of the poor writer that the sign produced very little effect. In winter as in summer his suit was always the same. A black silk scull-cap on which rested continually a hat, made water- proof by a thick coat of grease, while as his ouly suit he always carried a thin alpaca coat, the original color of which, together with its lining, had ceased :to be discern- ible and whose torn and opened pockets, always emi)ty, yawned at pleasure, a waistcoat with metal buttons, a worn-out pair of black trousers, shrunken and scarcely reaching to his ankles, a very coarse pair of felt stockings and wooden shoes filled with straw, complete the dress; and yet, with all these rags, Ternisien appeared in no way disgusting or repulsive, because in his countenance beamed an honesty and kindness which were not feigned. In him every one could recognize a gentleman fallen from a better condition neither brutalized by misery nor 8 degraded by druukness, the vice belonging to those who suffer hunger. His face and hands were always cleaner than his dress; his voice was very melodious; his features expressed resignation, even when, as he daily did, he was compla- ining to his neigbor Duverrier: and often his complaint would have lasted all day but for the arrival of some customers, who would happen to come and interrupt them. In spite of his excessive economy, his work would not have been sufficient for his daily wants, if he had not been the possessor of a little capital acquired with great pain in better times, which was destined to buy for him abed in some hospital, when old age, which was approa- ching with hurried steps, should deprive him of his sight. For this reason, these savings were sacred to him. He considered them as a deposit which the old professor of penmanship had entrusted to the hands of the public writer. It was very painful to him not to be able to add the interest to the capital. Even if his office had been richly furnished, or in a better location, it is most prob- able that the upright Ternisien would not have realized profits in proportion to his labors. The poor man possessed one fault, the drawbacks of which were increased by an exagerated honesty. He suf- fered from absent-mindedness, and whether he wrote from dictation or he copied, the orthographical mistakes, the repeated words which neededto be erased, multiplied themselves under his pen. Always mistrusting himself and his want of attention, he used to read over accurately what he wrote, making the necessary corrections, and when these were too numerous, he again began his work, without adding a cent to the stipulated price, not wishing to deceive about the quality of h is work, nor that customers should pay for his absent-mindedness. 9 Scruples of this kind in commercial transactions, which ranged from five to twelve cents, made him a real loser each time, as unfortunately for him, his distraction had spoiled a few sheets of ministerial paper. '' Well, sir, what news ? " was the question Ternisien used to address his neighbor Duverrier every time he passed his office, while Duverrier never failed to answer : "May I ask the same of you ? " In this way the conversation, begun with almost always the same preamble, lasted some time. Of course, as every •one could easily understand, the first topic was the politi- cal situation, which proceeded to the satisfaction of neither. These considerations of high importance being ended, they passed to personal facts. Duverrier, whose business was a prosperous one, avowed himself an optimist, while on the other hand, Ternisien looked at the dark side of everything. " I am going to give you a piece of good and re- assur- ing news." ^' AVhat is it ? " " Nothing of importance. While I was watering the flowers, Mr. B., the referendaire who is in the good graces f-aa<|aillity of that family was completely changed. J^kis^ fearing his mother's tears and prayers, avoided her presence as much as possible, an«l, when with her, kept a cold silence. VtUnly Adele De Launay endeavored t© enliven the conversation. She showed herself more tha^ usually good, thoughtful and amiable, but no explanation had ever taken place in her presence; neither had she been admitted into confidence, so that, granted that she did not know the cause of this coldness, yke was in no way authorized to provoke a decisive explanation. Julius, on the other hand, had completely concealed from l^'anny the opposition he experienced from his mother, whose mouth-piece was SaintGilles. He strengthened himself in the resistance, always fearing the moment when in a irrevocable manner he would be obliged to signify his firm resolve. He hoped that Saint- G-illes, acknowledging the inutility of his attempt and tired of the struggle, would cease his annoyance. In this false situation many days 2>assed, but the catastrophe was destined to come. One morning Mrs. Valabfrt's house took on the appearance of festivity; the servants were going and coming with a busy air. Julius, on returning home at noon, noticed all this stir, and was at a loss to know how to account for it. Just as he was going to e^sk the reason of it, the door of the parlor m which he was, opened. Mrs. Valabert was coming from her apartments, dressed and in the act of going out. Stopping before her son, she said to him: " I am very glad to meet you. I hope that you will have no engagement for this afternoon, and if you had intended to go out, I beg you to sacrifice this evening to me, as I am expecting a numerous companv." " Whom? " '• Many friends ajuong whom will be the Countess of 41 Septeuil and lier daughter. "— " Madam ! " interrupt- ed Julius. But his mother, who had spoken these words almost hurriedly, jis c*ne wlio could see no reason for objection, had already crossed tlie parlor. A servant came to tell her that the carriage was ready. In his first emotion of surprise, Julius had let her go. Immediately he understood that, by disposing of him in such a way, his affectionate mother had made the last effort. Thus he would have been under the necessity of letting others believe in his silent approval, or by refusing to be present to break all the negotiations, which could V)e considered bad manners, and would have comproniis- ed even his mother. And yet this was the only course left to him. This elaborate snare, so easily to be avoided, in which they were trying to entrap him, was more unbearable than serious and strong obstacles. He had seated himself, pondering how to act. Julius thought himself alone, and was amazed to feel a hand laid on the back of his easy chair, while a sweet voice thus spoke: "You are sad, cousin; is it not true?" Julius turned and saw Mrs. De Launay gazing at him with interest. " How long have you been there? " he asked. " I do not remember have seen you come in. " " I was in your mother's room. I arrived just when she left the drawing-room, but lovers have neither ears nor eyes, and 1 am not offended at your absentmindedness. All your attention must be given to Her. " " Then you know all? " "Yes; this evening party had already been arranged four days ago. It is a little plot prepared by Mr. Saint. Gilles, to which my cousin has given her consent. Neither the former nor the latter will believe that your love is deeo and sincere. " 42 '* And you believe it to be so? " "I? I ought to have been a diviner, as neither you nor your mother ever spoke to me of it. All that I do know I have learned from your sadness and from some few words heard by chance or willingly listen to. " " If they had consulted you, what would have been your answer? " "I should have refused to enter this plot. " " Why? " " Because one cannot betray one's allies. " "Then you pity me^" " If I had not, would you see me here? " " Kind Adele, I am suffering; yes, I am unhappy. '* " And, nevertheless, you love and are loved? " " Without a shadow of doubt." " What else do you want? A happiness which only depends upon yourself! Listen to me: I always thought that women, better than men, know how to love, because when they feel a strong passion, they do not look at the difficulties and are ready to defy death, while you men do not know how to bear a moment of embarrassment or of shame." "You are right; 1 am feeble, and I fear to bring afflic- tion on my mother. " " Or, perhaps, to repent yourself some day? " " Oh! never, never! if you know her!" " Speak to me, then, with open heart. I fear that all that I am now to do or to say may be wrong. I ought to remain neutral. But a friend will be allowed to ask for your confidence, when another has taken upon himself the right of torturing you without consulting you. Answer me, then. Is she beautiful?". " Without her I cannot live." " She is beautiful, yes, without doubt, but I meant to 43 say remarkably beautiful -." • " More so than yourself, my cousin; " but he soon added, " at least I believe so " '* Are you sure of it? and do you not deceive me? Has she spirit? " " Very much indeed and, joined with simplicity, that spirit which comes from the heart, like yours, cousin. " " Pray do not use me as a comparison, " answered Adele smiling, " and I am not questioning you to hear her praises. After all, you love her, and this is the main point. Are you sure that she also loves you, and that she never loved another? Is she virtuous? " " He who would try to say the contrary must prove his word or I should have his life. " " Oh friend! if your heart would be completely free and you would be the absolute master in choosing a wife could you dare to hope to have in her united, talents spirit, virtue? and because you have been so fortunate as to find such a woman and to possess such a treasure, you spurn it! And what for? Julius search your heart. Have you never reproached her with the love you have inspir- ed in her?" " Can you judge me so unjust? No; Fanny, in my eyes, is the most virtuous woman in all the world. " " Marry her, then, and do not ask me for advice. " " I shall take advice only by myself, my good cousin. My present embarassment lies in finding a way to break this projected marriage." " It is your own fault. Why have you not spoken a month ago? " I am well decided not to appear this evening, but how shall I avoid a scandal?" " I do not see any way. The rupture ought to come from the Countess, not from you. Were I you, I would not worry myself until to-night. Yes, on my word. Who knows but some good angel will watch over you? Often, just when we feel very unhappy, we find ourselves near to happiness. Hope! these moments of tranquillity will be so many stolen from future grief, and perhaps even these last will not come. " Before Julius, who shared not this confidence, could ask her what cause inspired her with it, the drawing- room door opened and Mrs. Valabert came in. She had a serious and preoccupied mien, and was crumpling in her hand a letter which had arrived in her absence and which had been given her by tlie porter on h^r return. " My son," she said, in a voice which hardly concealed her emotion, " you are free and master of your evening. Lady Septeuil writes me that she ijs not able to accept my invitation. Send a servant to Mr. Saint- (tIIIcs, and, if he is at home, tell him to call as soon as possible," and she departed, murmuring a few words that her son was not able to understand. This second apparition, so different from the first, amazed Julius. Glancing at his cousin, he said: " Adele, what were you saying a little while ago; that the rupture ought to come from Mrs. de Septeuil? But this seems a true rupture; you, perhaps, were cognizant otit?" " I had hoped for it. " '* The angel wlio was wa,tching over me was then you? " " Hush! " said she, " be silent! " He replied in a low voice: '• But how it happened all this? Please explain yoursef, that I may be able to thank you. " *' What I have done is of little importance. 1 will tell you about it later, if you will be so good as not to reproach me with having guessed what you had not told me. Now 45 let us part — not a word more, not a, sign nor a look of intelligence. I saw you so unhappy, here is the excuse and explanation of my conduct; to morrow, or in a few- days, you will entreat your mother, and she, perhaps, will be moved by your prayer. Do not vaste your time with me, go to Her; go, friend, and love her always because she is worthy of you. Good bye. " Mrs. Valabert's pride had been offended by the action of the Countess; and the latter was too proud to retract. All the diplomacy of Mr. Saint-Gilles failed to bring about a renewal of the negotiations. Mrs. De Launay fearing sooner or later she might be involved in these family discussions, went into the country for a few days, to the residence of a friend of Julius' mother. Julius was not able immediately to obtain the consent he asked for. Every time Mrs. Valabert was moved by her son's prayers, Saint-Gilles, who had considered as his own business the rupture of this marriage, reproached her with her feebleness. Saint-Gilles had not been able to put in execution his first scheme of addressing himself to Fanny, because Julius was continually with her. Fi. nally frightened at the anxiety and agitation of her son, Mrs. Valabert yielded on condition that she should not see her daughter-in-law. Julius at about twenty leagues from Paris, owned a villa which was comprised in his father's estate. The interesting condition of Fanny not permitting him to present her in society, he had resolved to take her to this little country residence. In order to announce her the day fixed for the marriage and make known to her his last arrangements, he went, as usual, to the house in Furstemberg street. Occupied with his thoughts, he was walking rapidly Just as he was nearing the door of Fanny's house, he encountered upon a youn^ man issuing from it. While 46 ringing the bell, his heart was trobbing. He reproached himself for the injurious suspicions continually torturing him in spite of his love. On entering, it seemed to him that Marion was confused and that Fanny blushed when he narrated his encounter, but he ended by being asham- ed of his jealous suspicions, and soon restored by Fanny's tender and affectionate looks, he forgot all to think only of the near future which promised to be so calm and happy. The villa to which he intended to take his wife had not been inhabited for three years. It was necessary to put it in order. It was agreed that Julius should go alone and remain absent from Paris for eight days, the time to complete the preparations. From the moment when they had begun to love each other, this was their first separation, and although it would last no long, the parting was as painful as if they were never to meet again. On his return to Paris, Julius Valabert received the anonymous letter copied by Ternisien, the address of which, as stated in the first chapter, had been written by a different person. 47 IV. THE TRIAL. Seated in the same room where we saw her before, Fanny let her eyes sadly wander from the wdndow to the door, listening to every noise and showing in her features fear rather than hope. Do you remember with what joy she had been animated when Julius brought her the announcement of his resolve? Why, instead, we do find her so sad to-day? Because the nearer the time appoint- ed for her nuptials approached, the more she felt her heart oppressed by a fatal presentiment. Eight days had already passed since Julius' departure, and this absence, the first she experienced, had left her alone with the fears of her heart without defense, and at the same time expos- ed her to some intrigues which had poisoned her solitude. The day following the departure of Julius, a gentleman whom she remembered to have seen previously at the house of her young pupil, Miss Saint-Gilles, had called on her and without preamble or formality had spoken to her of the schemes of Julius' family, of the brilliant hopes destroyed by his love for her, of the grief that every one had felt and the pain with which they had consented to this union, and finally he mentioned a last hope founded on Far.ny's generosity, that she might persuade Julius himself to consent to what was wished from him. Saint- Gilles did not forget to adorn his speech with flattering words and praises: Fanny would be esteemed by every- body; no one would be surprised to hear that she herself learning of the existing difficulties, had sacrificed her own love to the future happiness of Julius; that all knew her to be so unselfish as not to hesitate before such a sacrifice. They knew also that she was so sincere in her love that she would prefer the interests of Julius to her own. All these things had been spoken cautiously but with a tune in which one could easily perceive the skepticim of a wordly man, ready to deny every kind of true and sublime affection. There still remained the last alternative, that of pecuniary compensation in exchange for so many destroyed hopes. Although Saint-Gilles had relied very much upon the slrenght of this argument, he dare not speak of it. Fanny's demeanor had made such an im- pression on him as to prevent him from uttering the words, ^'■pecuniary compensation. " Saint-Gilles took his leave without receiving a positive answer, but obtained from her a promise to let him know her decision. The following day, after a night of wakefulness and fever, she sent him a note containing these simple words: " Address yourself to Julius. " Thus the negotiations were sent again to the same field on which he had always been beaten. These attempts, this appeal to her generosity and this exaggerated picture of Mrs. Valabert's grief destroyed Fanny's confidence by showing the present full of struggles and dangers, the future dark and un- certain For the first tim3 she paused to ponder on the intrigues and plots of every kind which a powerful and also ambitious family might organize against her. She had been unable to give a very clear answer to Mr. Saint- Gilles, because she dare not to reveal to this railer the sacred motive which made it a duty for her to resist his insinuations. " If instead of this man, " she said to herself, "Julius' mother, with eyes full of tears, had come in person to me> I would have thrown mj^self to her feet and spoken thus: * Pity, and do not despise me. If it were only a question 49 of iwy happiiies, I would sacrifice it without hesi-tatitf^, if I had only to renounce Julius, although I love him with all the strenght of my soul, I would depart, I would hide myself, and neither you, nor he, nor any living person would hear of me again. Perhaps finally- he wouh'l be able to forget me and might some day be happy, and you enjoying his happiness, would think of me absent,, and in your heart thank me, and this thought will bring consolation. But, alas! if I should act in such a manner; another voice would rise to accuse me, a being dear to ]ne whom I must love iis you, madam, love your son., would ask of me an account of a sacrifice which would deprive him of a name, of a family, of a future, and yoy^ yourself, who are so good, would you advise me to beconife, a bad mother?' " Carried away by hor grief for an instant, she thought of going to Mrs. Valabert, to declare all to her and place herself under her protection, but was prevented by shame. If she had been acquainted with Mrs. De Launay^ that friend so sincere and indulgent, whose generous act Jiilins had narrated to her, she would have confided in her and thought herself safe. Timidity detained her. Thus for eight mortal days, alone, a prey to her fears,- she saw no other help than Julius, who was absent, and whose weakness of character she dreaded. How many varied tortures aftlicted her mind, always disposed to exaggerate evill The humiliation she expected and^ the repentance that Julius would perhaps experience wheii his passion had abated, would leave him under the ascendancy of his mother. Perhaps, also, that jealousy, which he was unable to control, would, some day, bring him to suspect her who had not known how to resist hi^ seductions because, strange as it is, ladies are alway-s punished for their sins by the same persons for whose 5^0. sake they sin, and who gather in the fruit of their crini3. " -rii this'manner, after the infatuation of her passion, Panuy was experiencing the first trial of life, and, instead of peace and happiness in her soul, she met doubts and f^ars at every step. As a last refuge, there remained to her the remem- hrance and thought of Julius. She plunged so deep into it' as to forget everything else. Had she been possessed of cooler blood, or, better, had she a more complete knowledge of evil and of the advantage that slander takes of every circumstances even the most trivial, she would have anticipated by her explanation the unhappy cir- cumstances which might cloud her reputation. She Vv^ould have felt the necessity of giving an account and explaining another mysterious visit she had received after that of Saint-Gilles. Her love made her forget all this, her only thoughts being of her Julius. At last, as we have said, the eight days of Julius' ab- sence were past. She was waiting for him, when she was aroused by a sharp pull at the door-bell. ' " Here he comes! " she cried and ran to the door, Julius entered. Fanny's joy was of short duration; Julius seemed not the same man. His face was fearful pale, his eyes glaring, his lips trembling. She tried to speak, but courage failed, and in silence she stood gazing at him. Without utter- ing a single word, he shut the door and hurriedly crossed the room. Fanny followed him. Julius cast at her a dreadful glance, which seemed to penetrate her heart. One of his hands, placed under his coat, was agitated by a convulsive movement. With the other he seized Fanny by the arm, forcing lier to remain at his side. " What ails you? Julius you frighten me. "' 51- ■ "Sit- down " he answereil with a gloomy ' and threaten- ing -voice. She sat down mechanically, subdued by that command and the gesture by which it was accompanied. ' "' ■/ Julius had made an unspeakable effort to overcome the emotion which oppressed him. He was no longer able to restrain himself. For a few moments he was silent, as if collecting himself to enjoy at his leisure the con- tinually increasing agitation of the unfortunate Fanny. Then, without even ceasing to stare at her, as if he wished to test her, he coldly and briefly said : ." So then you have deceived me? " > . ' The poor girl, dumb with amazement, threw herself back. In her turn she felt the words dying on her jips> and her voice strangled in her throat. .Julius, who yet held her by the hand, and who saw her cast down by such unexpected accusation, shook her fiercely, and with a tune full of rage, continued: " Answer, answer me! " Vainly he endeavored to awaken her out of that dread- ful dream. She answered no more, inasmuch as the thought of being adjudged guilty had never occurred to her mind. All her preceding fears were justified; the intrigues, the plots she dreaded came to attack her. Fear- ful suspicion! Julius, perhaps loved her no more; Julius, conquered by the prayers of his family and in compact with them was now searching for a pretest for a rupture. A fearful abyss had opened at her feet, and she had fallen into it. Julius afraid of such an easy triumph, repressing himself, thus continued: "I shall try to be calm. Listen to me. This inter- view, perhaps, will be the last one between us; if you cannot justify yourself, it will be an everlasting rupture, l3ut I shall not judge without having first heard you. If 52 you have deceived mr?, you were very guilty, })ecause I had perfect confidence in you; I would have been asham- ed of watching your conduct. I loved you and to you I would have sacrificed all, — friends, fortune, mother — " Fanny made a movement. Finally she understood that she was accused of infamy and baseness. Blushes suffused her face and her cheeks, and when Julius asked her for an answer, she, this time purposely remained silent because she felt wounded in her virtue. Another pause followed, and Julius began: " Speak to me frankly, Fanny. Am I the only person who has put the feet iu this apartment? Think well. Have you received any other? " Ah! if that is the question," she replied, " yes; an- other person has been here whom you know, one of your friends, Mr. Saint-Gilles. " *' Saint-Gilles! " said Julius, completely astonished. " By his remarks he prepared me for this altercation. "' *' He? He must explain to me his way of acting. It is not of him that I am speaking; you do not speak to me of another man whose mysterious call has been revealed to me. " "Ah! " answered Fanny, "what has been reported to you? " •'This is what I have heard, " cried Julius, rumpling a paper which he took from his breast: It has been nar- rated to me that during my absence, the day before yesterday, in the evening, a young man wrapped in a cloak had entered your house, secretly introduced by Marion; that he had left two hours after; that this young gentleman had called often, though you had never spoken tome of it; lastly that he had known you before me, that he loved you, and that you were to marry him. Is all this true? It is necessary that I should tell you his name ?'* *' It is needless, " replied Fanny with dignity: " wlui gave you these particulars? " " This letter, " said Julius, "can you contradict it?" '• Wlio signed it?" " Signed it is not, but what care I if it tells the truth?" '■ An anonymous letter! " said she with contempt; and you trust it? A vily denunciation has in your heart a stronger influence than tlie thousand proof's of love which I gave you? You have for me so much esteem that the first comer can slander and calumniate me without being forced to answer for his saying? Ah! sir, what future are you preparing for both of us? " " Instead of accusing, defend yourself If the author of this letter has stated a falsehood, I will discovar him, and I swear by heaven T will punish him. But if, instead he has opened my eyes in regard to you and to a perfidy of which I would have been the victim, then he is a friend and it is my duty to thank him. Hear what he writes, and afterward tell me which name he deserves. " Opening the paper, with a chocking voice he read : ^^ Sir: — A person who takes an interest in you, but who '' wishes not to expose himself to the hatred of any one, " thinks it his duty to take the veil of the anonymous to "enligthen you about a woman who is on the point of '' receiving your name. I do not know whether you " were the first in her affection, but I do know that you are " not the first that ought to have led her to the altar. A young man of her own place, unite;] to hei- by a fiiendship of long standing, was deeply in love witli her and he "ought to marry her. This union cannot be compared ^' with the one you offer her. She had to renounce him, but "in doing so she has not ceasf^d to see him. At the ■''beginning of your acquaintance, he pi-csented himself ^' at her house. Afterward he called again; once you met 54 "li,ini before the door, and now that he is obliged to " depart, she has received his farewell. Your absence " from Paris favored this last meeting. Yesterday evening, "Mr. Ernest Gairal, with many precautions, entered her "house, and after two hours he left. " " Forever," exclaimed Fanny, rising, " forever!" " You then confess that he has come?" . , " Yes, please now listen to me. " " No, nothing! nothing!" replied Julius, raging. " Listen. One condemns a person, then, without allowing her to answer? laminnocent. I waswrongiu keeping it a secret because, of your jealousy, which I feared. This young man had been choosen for my husband by my father. For him I did not experience either hatred or love. 1 left my birthplace without even telling him. He came here once to remind me of the intentions of our respective families, and I did not give him any hope, although I did not then know you. He loved me, it is true; that he returned to visit me is also- true; and the day before yesterday he again returned. I did not conceal from him ni}^ love for you, or your gen- erous conduct, nor the destiny which awaits me. He left me resigned, and, as T told you, forever. For me, dear, this visit had no importance; it came unexpectedly, and if I have not spokento you before, it is only because it passed away from my mind. " This defence, so simple, had destroyed, little by little, almost all the suspicions of Julius. In proportion as she spoke, the confusion and agitation of his heart faded away to give place to the shame of having shown himself so cruel. Moved by the sincere tone of these explanations, he was already prepared to fall at the feet of that woman who had once more become his idol, when his eyes rested on the end of the letter, which he had not yet read. He wished for a final trial. , ' 55 " Forgive n'le, Fanny. I ask you a thousand pardoi:w5v. if I have wronged you or suspected you unjustly. My excessive love made me unjust. Be not provoked at iny anger. The secrets hidden by you may serve as an excuse for this moment of rage. Do you forgive me?" She placed one of her hands on her heart, and offering the other, which he covered with kisses, said: " Ah! Julius, what pain you have given me! I should never have thought I could suffer so much without dying.'' " Now, "he added; "as a guarantee of thisreconciliatioii^ give me the token which till now you have refused — the ring, the only souvenir of your mother. The more dear it is to your heart the more acceptable to me will tlie sacrifice be. " Fanny answered, smiling: " Have you forgotten what I have already told you? "Why this so earnest desire? And what high value could it have to you? " " Does it not contain the hair of my Fanny — hair taken Irom her head when a child? Do not refuse it to me, I entreat you. I know where you keep it. It is in a little casket at the bottom of the first drawer of this secretaire. Please give me the key. " His looks were always sweet and affectionate, but his voice trembled and had a strange tone of rage. Fanny perceived it. " Oh! " she said, "you are asking for your pardon. " She hid the key in her bosom and withdrew a few steps. "I do wish it, " cried Julius, giving free course to the anger he had restrained with so much difliculty. "I do wish this key, I need it, even if I must wring it from you. " " Always suspicions. " " Always some mystery! " " Well, then, I shall disclose you everything. If tjil now I have refused to you to open my secretaire, j.z \7*3 .50 only'because in it you would find some accouiits, some documents which would have revealed to you that instead of living upon an income bequeatod fo me, as I always told you, I lived by my labor. I did not confess the truth to you,'biecause I was too proud to accept your gifts. Have . I committed a crime? and those who have written to you ' will they yet maintain that I am a woman moved by interest? " . ''Then you could deceive me for so long a time, and you could repeat to me this falsehood so many times without my dectecting it, so great was the sincerity which shone in your face, so innocent was your mouth, as it is at this very moment, in which you are again deceiving me. " So saying, he wrong the key from her hands. Amazed by such violence, Fanny fell senseless into the arm-chair. Julius opened the secretaire^ then the drawer and the casket — but the ring was not there, " Ah! " he exclaimed, '' I was quite sure of it. " At these words, Fanny recovered her consciousness, s'a.n to the secretaire and also began to search. " My ring! my ring! " " Disappeared! " "Stolen!" " X'es, stolen, " repeated Julius, and violently seizing the gitd by the arm, he thrust the letter before her eyes and finished reading it aloud: "The proof, sir, that all the relations between that <■'• woman and her first love are not ended, the proof that 'Hhey loved each other and that Gairal's departure had '*i*or its purpose only to facilitate an advantageous marr- "'iage, is in the fact that before they parted, she wished *'"*him to accept a family ring which had belonged to her "mother, which she jealously kept, and in which was "*'■ enclosed her hair. " .57 " Well pursued Julius, '' Will you. deny it n^^^?■ 'Tlii« ring you had refused me; the key, too, you were refusing not^loiig ago. Knavery on knavery! Falsehood on false- hood! Treachery on treachery! " Marion, " cried Fanny. '■' Ah,' you well know that she is not at iiome. I alone will answer you. I curse you and hate the day in which r was acquainted with you. Farewell! farewell! Say to your lover that he can return. " In departing, he cast a last look at Fanny. She was lying on the floor immovable, pale in a state near to death He made a few steps to help her, but his feelings of anger and contempt returning, he called an old woman, her neighbor, and after pointing out to her the fainted Fanny: "Take care of that woman! "he said, and, throwing her a purse filled with gold, disappeared. ^(^>^r3^^^ '58 V. THE AUTOGRAPH. At the moment in which Romeo receives from the servant, Balthazar, the news of Juliet's death, he pronoun- ces these simple words: " Indeed! Now, enemies star-?, I challenge you! " and afterwards buys the poison. This deep grief, so parcimonious of complaint, impresses more than any exciting paraphrase. In fact, our nature usually takes interest in the doings of our fellows, whatever they aim at, and sometimes even when their sentiments and feelings are not in harmony with ours. This interest lasts while hope supports it and uncertainty delays the result, but from the moment in which his destiny is accomplish- ed, it is necessary that he in whom we were interested spare us his Joy or grief. A settled matter excites our attention no longer. We, too, will spare our readers the description of Julius Valabert's mental sufferings. After the dreadful scene we have narrated, we will pass over an interval of eighteen months, and we shall find him one year married, and at the moment in which the wife opening the door of his office, with a sweet and timid voice says to him: " Excuse me if I am intruding, but the person you send for has arrived. Do you wish to receive him now, or do you prefer he should wait. " Julius had married his kind cousin Adele De Launay Very few words are necessary to explain the change which had taken place in the respective position of these two persons. As a result of the rupture with Fanny, a violent fever had endangered the life of Julius. He would certainly have died without the constant care of his mother and Adele. Friendship and love had restored him to life. A deep sadness and protracted languor followed his de- lirium; without opposition he allowed himself to be car- ried to the country, where, according to the doctor's opi- nion, the pure, fresh air would restore his energy, and where the sight of new objects would cancel, little by little the remembrance of the sad event. In company with his mother and cousin, he went to the neighborhood of Lyons. There was a moment when they thought to have the company of Saint-Gilles, but the presence of this gentle- man was obnoxious to Julius, who did not doubt tliat the anonymous letter was his work, although inwardly he sincerely thanked him for having enlightened him. All that reminded him of the infamous treachery, caused painful and grievous emotion. Perhaps in his heart, he had flattered himself with the expectation of receiving a letter from Fanny, in which she should try to justify herself. However, he had not heard from her; all those who approached him kept silent, and Julius, blushing and ashamed of his weakness, dare not to confide in any one of his friends. Thus he left Pnris hiding in himself the duml) grief which gnawed within, too offended to think of a recon- ciliation and to deeply in love to unbosom his gr'ef to others. But every hour which passes pours a drop of balm into the most painful wound, and every day which dies takes away one of the thorns which make the heart bleed. During the first few months passed in the country, Julius felt no sensible improvement. The days were excessively hot and the sultry nights were too oppressive for his feeble constitution. The flowers, which were in all their 00 beauty, their perfumes, the golden fruits of the earth, tlie plains covered with verdure, Uio tliick foliage of tlie woods, that powerful genu of life which abundantly circulated in nature, all these beauties of the sky and the earth, oppressed him as a stinging irony, as a coniplete contrast with the desolation and the dryness of his soul, in which nothing grew except a bitter agony which he persisted in keeping hidden. However, little by little, flowers withered, autumn appeared with its train of shadows and air filled with dew, with its pale sun shin- ing through fogs as a smile through tears .Julius felt his intense grief partially dispelled. The sadness and mourn- ing of the objects which sorrounded him harmonized with his own sadness and invited liim to confidences. His solitary walks Avere replaced by others with his mother and Adele De Launay, and between the latter and himself a greater intimacy began. The woman who had once foreseen his desires, who had shared his hopes, ought she not naturally to be the first to console him? Only with her he dared to speak of Fanny. In these long- private conversations, which became of daily occurrence, in those prolonged communings by the fire in the even- ings, she narrated by what means she had caused the rupture of his marriage with Miss de Septeuil; how without anyone knowing it, an act justified by her int- ention, she had in her hand the thread of that intrigue; how by means of suspicions dexterously insinuated she had prepared the Countess for the first refusal; how, at the same time, having learned that Miss Septeuil, with no love for Julius, only obeyed her mother, taking ad- vantage of that first moment of spite, she had advised a prior suitor to renew his courtship. From confidence to confidence she ended by revealing to him a secret that she had concealed from all in order not to add her own 61 griefB to those which Julius already suffered. She had not wished to take for herself any of the consolations due to him. Mr. De Launay had died, and that sad intelli- gence had been received by Adele a little before the time when Julius had thought he was betrayed in his love. Julius was never tired of admiring such inexhaustible kindness, always ready to sacrifice for others. This treasure at this moment belonged to no one. Their in- terviews becoming longer and more frequent, and without having lost any of their intimacy and pleasure, were sometimes timid and embarassing, bolh for him and for lier. Fanny's name was no longer so frequently spoken, and, one evening Julius holding liis cousin's hands and fixing on her glances which troubled her, asked her if she would finish the work begun, and reconcile him com- pletely to life, granting the happiness he had never known. " We have both suffered, " said he. " Married to a man who was not able to appreciate you, you had patience and resignation: I, on the contrary, experienced violent and strong passions. To day, both free, — you from an im- posed chain, I from my error, — we feel the need of a quiet and sincere affection. Be mine, if not from love at least from pity, and I will be grateful to you for it. " Without answer on her part two months later Adele had married her cousin. The year following their marriage was spent in the country. Mrs. Valabert's death strengthened these ties. At the beginning of the winter, they returned to Paris. Julius resumed his occupation, for a long time int3rrupt- ed, and searched for relief from those sorrows of which the stings had not yet disappeared, in work rather than in the i)leasures of luxury and of the world. Saint-Gilles, during; this lono; absence of Julius, had resumed his old habits. He rarely called en him, and obedient to Adele's G2 prayers, had- alvvays avoided spealciiig of^ the doleful past. i-To the work which had usually kept Valabert busy, had been added others, viz: the putting in order of family ]>apers, the examination of the titles: of succession, the copying of letters and other papers. ■ He had, therefore, given orders to search for an honest and reliable man to whom could be entrusted a little work, and as we have said at the beginning of this chapter, his wife had an- nounced to him the arrival of that man. ■■ To the question, " Do you wish to receive him? " Va- labert had answered with an affirmative nod. " Dear, " added his wife, " would you permit me to remain present? " ** Without doubt; but what inspire you with this desire? It. is only a question of figures and documents, and in idl probability the conversation will be very wearisome. " " I spoke for a moment to the person introduced to you, ^nd, if I do not mistake, he is an original lull of many pleasant fancies. " " Wery well ; judge him for yourself. Let him come in. " An old man presented himself, and his entrance justified the words of Mrs. Valabert. Arrived on the threshold of the room, he saluted them in an awkward way and with an exaggerated politeness. With both hands he removed an old hat, the edges of which were broken, and by a hasty movement of his head in bending it to the knees, he had caused to descend over his forehead the torn eilge of a dirty silken skull-cap. As if this ridi- culeous salutation were not enough, he repeated it three times at intervals, each time advancing two steps, without ])erceiving that Mrs. Valabert and her husband were mak- ing useless eff'orts to restrain their laughter. As soon as the poor man had ended his genuflexions, he raised him- self up, casting around timid and humble glances. Suddenly liiri face assumedane-cpression of astonishment, and he stood before Valabert with open mouth and dis- tended eyes. Adele watched this inexplicable pantomime, when her husband, his thoughts returnin,:^- to by-gone times, exclaimed: ; "Ternisien!" " Mr. Valabert! " answered the ex- professor. "How! you have had the kindness to remember my face? Have yet not entirely forgotten him who taught you the prin- ciples of an art which is now spurned, and of which perhaps I am the last representative? The times were very different when I used to come to give you lessons in St. Honore street, where your father lived. It is now eighteen years since I saw j'ou last, and I remember you always because you were kind and affectionate to your professor. I beg pardon, madam, for thus speaking in your presence, instead of waiting the permission of your husband, but thinking of that time, I seem to become younger. Look here, madam, you must not pay attention to my dress. This morning, in order to come to you, I have brushed and darned these rags as best as I could, but they, I know very well, are old and in bad shape. On entering I felt ashamed, and if you had not been present, I am almost sure your servants would have thrown me out like a beggar. Then I become confused and made very humble salutations that I might be forgiven my presence and intrusion into these rich, splendid apartments. Once I, too, knew how to present myself properly, madam, and I have punished many young ladies, rich and bsautiful like yourself. " Adele smiled kindly, Avhich finally put Ternisien at Ills easy. " Truly," replied Julius, " I am happy and glad to meet you again. 64^ *• And 1, too," aiis\yered Ternisien. " Well I can H«e you are not changed; always good and without pride. As you take away all iny embarrassment, I shall ask per- mission to sit near the fire while you explain how I may serve you. It is long since I have seen a fire in my room excepting the blaze of the candle, and that only when, on account of economy, I do not go to bed at twilight. " So saying Ternisien took a chair and seating himself without ceremony, totally forgetful of manners, extended his feet on the fender, while, with his two elbows resting on his knees, he stretched out his meagre aud wrinkled hands toward the fii-e, Julius Valabert, who found his professor as he had left him, simple and fall of kindness, was gazing at him with true pleasure. '' Poor Ternisien ! "he said to him. *'I see that you have not been happy, but as you remember me, why have you not called on me? In every case, you Avould have been kindly received. " " Yes, perhaps I was wrong; but you, used to riches, know one side of almsgiving. To give when one wishes it and can afford it, is very easy, but to ask is more difficult. " "After all, I thank chance that has at last united us again. Here is some work for a few weeks, and I hope you will not refuse that I shall fix the price myself. " " We will fix it together. The little talent w^hich I have is completely at your disposal. " " You, perhaps, live near here, as I had ordered that before looking elsewhere they should search in our ward. " " Yes, I live in alittle room at No. 4 Fursteraberg street." Ternisien did not perceive the profound impression his answer produced on Julius and his wife. A pause of a few minutes followed, taking advantage of which Vala- 65 "bert and Adele, in whom these words had awakened the same remembrances, exchange between themselves furtive glances. " Let us see, Mr. Julius, how I can serve you. " Valabert placed before the eyes of Ternisien a file of papers which were to be copied. Having agreed upon the price, Ternisien was ready to depart, but Julius de- tained him. He feared to question him, and at the same time he wished that he would speak. These two words " Furstemberg street, " resounded in his ears. If his wife had been absent, lie would have directly questioned his old professor, who lodging in' the same house where he had ceased to go, would perhaps been able to explain what to him had remained a mystery. The presence of Adele, who seemed very little disposed to leave, obliged him to take a roun(l-al)out turn of words. " What have you followed during the last few years?" " A trade which did not suit me, " answered Ternisien. " I had lost my professorship at the University, my pupils had left me, although I was still capable of teaching. Certainly my hand was heavier, but the principles, you know well, were good, and experience supplies the lack of the happy liveliness of youth. However, all this was of no use; I was obliged to resign and become a public writer. For some years I worked dissatisfiedly with my vocation. Often I had the intention of giving it up. A circumstance which, in spite of myself, poisoned my conscience: a letter that I had the weekness to copy for a miserable recompense, decided me. " " A letter? " asked Julius with indifference. " Yes, an anonymous letter which contained very heavy accusations. First of all, you must know that I always nourished a profound contempt for all denunciations of that kind which one has not the courage to sign, and it 66 seemed to me that trutli ought not to have any fear of expressing itself openly. Is not this your opinion also, Mr. Julius? " " Yes, " answered lie, who, entirely absorbed in Tern- isien's narration, no longer observed his wife, and continued: " How could that letter have made such an impression on your mind as to put in execution such a resolve?,' " Because that letter might compromise very much and perhaps even kill an innocent person as well, as it denounced a great perfidy." " Why, then, " interrupted Mrs. Valabert, who from the face of her husband had guessed what kind of feelings he was endeavoring to conceal, "why did you not accept the second supposition, which was as probable as the first one?" Ternisien raised his eyes to the sky and heaved a deep sigh " You are right, madam, f/ien T could, but to day " '* To-day?" repeated Julius. " I cannot any more. My fear Avas a presentiment. Alas! it was soon realized in the most painful and cruel manner. " " Of whom did that letter speak? " " Of a young lady. " " And to whom it was addressed?" "■ I was never able to learn. The boy who brought the letter to be copied had orders to have the address written by another hand, iind was unwilling to tell me whether he had received the^e orders from a gentleman or a lady. Such a great mystery troubled me. This was not the first time that I had felt scruples about letters of that sort, but they had never made such an impression upon me, and I reproached myself continually with an action so simple 07 and natural belonging to my vocation, as if I had com- mitted a crime. At that time they were making objec- tions to my remaining any longer in tlie court of the Holy Chapel. I left the shop and renteid, at No. 4 Furs- temberg street, a little room vacated by an old woman. The first two nights passed in this, my new lodging, were calm and silent, but in tlie midst of the third one I was awakened by sighs and smotliered moans, and from time to time by distressful cries, the effects of pain. The fol- lowing day it was said to me that the little apartment near the room I occupied was inhabited by a young lady at the point of death. ■ " iV few days had passed when one day, returning koine at about three o'clock, I was surprised to see the door of tlie same apartment wide open. I looked. into the first room, — nobody was there, — lio one in the second, — everj''- where the same dreadful silence. I entered the last room, and there, lying insen^-sible ou her bed, I saw a young woman whose features, altliough altered by protracted illness, showed that slie must have been beautiful when she was happy. " I followed the first impulse of pitj. I replaced on the pillow the head which liang off tlio bed. I caused her to inhale from a smelling bottle whicli I found on the mantel and tried to restore her to consciousness. When she opened her eyes, ashamed to be alone in a room with a young woman, I apologized and hurriedly retired. The porter, whom I questioned, told me that on the same day her servant had left her. Without in going near to her, took her liand saying: ''Adele, my tears, which were flowing withc^t my own'^ will, are no offense to you. Please retire to j^our apart- ments, I entreat you and forgive me. " She lowered her head and went away, saying in a low voice, but with an- energetic tone of despair: " Well, I know that you yet love her. " Ternisien had risen completely dumfounded and wlien,- af'ter the scene which had taken place, he found himself alone with Julius, he not longer knew whether he ought to remain silent or to continue. Valabert, now free from restraint, came to him and inquired: ''Is she dead? Is it true?" > ''Yes." ,[■ "And her child?" i- ' " Dead also, before the mother. But how do you know?" % '^'I know; wliat matters the rest to yau? And tell me, was she calumniated?" " Yes. " ''Who told you?" " Herself, and then T have other irrefutable proof. " "What is it? ".. '•Listen. Often, in day lime, I used to inquire about her lieaUh. Her agony lasted long and I had lime to win her confidence. J. used to pass days and nights at her bedside, and cared foi- her as if I had been her father. She narrated to me her story. She told me how, on the day preceding ker^iyiarriage, her lover had come like a raging maniac; how, crediting an anonymous letter, he had accused her. i Fancy my surprise and consternation when handing me that letter, I recognized the one I liad m copied. She swore that notwithstandiug a-ppearances' which seemed to condemn lier, she was innocent; and I, who had a wrong to repair, hastened to ask the name of him who had heen deceived hy such infamons denuncia- tion, and who would pvobahly have time to acknowledge and repair his fault. She obstinately refused to tell it. 'I wish,' she said, ' that this fearful misfortune might have been delayed a few raonihs, that my cliiM could have been borne alive, and then I would have forced myself to beg in his behalf the })ity of the father; bvit now I am alone and near to death, of what use it will be to impor- tune him? Although for me, who loved him so much, his forgetfulness may be p;iinful, 1 prefer lot him forget, rather than perhaps to awaken in him a useless remorse by letting him know how lam dying.' Her strenght visibly left her. One evening the nurse and I were at her bedside awaiting the fatal moment. For more than an hour she had not spoken. I have always retained the minutest details of that last evening, and a common and childish fact, to which death has imparted a lugubrious and dreadful character, will never be blotted from my memory. Near the head of the table a candle was burn- ing. I tried to increase the light, but as my eyes were darkened with tears and my handtrembled, I extinguished the candle and we were plunged into darkness. ' It is perhaps, the eternal night, ' she uttered witli feeble voice. These were the last words she pronounced. " Julius had hidden his face in his hands and tears flowed through his fingers. Suddenly, as if he would have kept a doubt for his only excuse, he approached X^rnisien and said to him: '• You told me that they had calumniated, her, but you did not give me the proof, which you say is irrefutable, " '' She had already justified herself of luivi^g, received a 70 young man. Wliat condemned her was a ring which she was accused of having given as a love token to her suitor. HTow it had disappeared she was not able to explain. Well, it had been stolen by her servant, a certain Marion, bribed with gold to steal this ring from the secretaire. The same day that for the first time, I entered Fanny's room, Marion, owerpowored by remorse, had gone, after having made a confession of the crime witl^out naming the per- son who had induced her to commit it. She had placed such a written confession on the bed of her mistress while she was asleep, not having had the courage to accuse herself or to aslc forgiveness. Fanny refused to search for her. Reading this letter, she had fainted, alone, without help, and chance brought me there and happen to see that confession. " " Enough, enough! " said Julius, " I received that anonymous letter. Fanny is dead, — I murdered her. Who then, around nte, has plotted such a barbarous scheme? Did Fanny confided it to you?" , "She named no one. She only spoke to me of propo- sitions made i^f her by a friend of her lover's family. " "Saint-Gilles! Ah! him, him! — my mother's confidantf Must I believe that they acted in concert, and that after having given her consent to it? Oh! no, no! he acted alone. Now I remember wliat he used to tell me. Him him alone, I accuse." "If you were calmer, " said Ternisien, "I would give you the proof you need — the copy of the letter. " "Have you it?" '• I have' kept it. The boy who brought it to me had received the order to destroy it, i)ut as he did not know how to read, I, instead of the copy, tore up another piece of paper, witliout his noticing his substitution. This copy must be at home.'" 71 "To-morrow you will bring it to me; no, even to night — now — I need it. Let us go! " Noticing the convulsive joy which spread over the features of Julius, Ternisien repented of having confided such a thing to him. "It is difficult to find it immediately, it is necessary that I should search for it. Perhaps it exist no longer. However, by no means will I give it to you unless you first tell me for what purpose you intend to use it. " " I would have a proof, nothing else. " replied Julius, " a proof which would give to me the right to spurn the author of that letter. " " All right; I shall leave you now, and to morrow will bring it to you. T hope to find it. " Evening had arrived. Ternisien took leave of Julius and returned to his room very much confused. He had no trouble in finding the letter. He thought it right to take precautions against the youth's anger, and his peace- ful character made him believe contempt to be a sufficient vengeance. Valabert, who could not believe in such simplicity, exclaimed: " He will not give me this proof, but do I really need it." An hour afterward, a servant went out from his palace with three letters. Two of them were addressed to friends of Julius, the third to Saint-Gilles. 72 VI. THE REVERSE OF THE CARDS. Nearly twenty minutes after Ternisien had entered his room, lie heard a knock at his door. This noise inter- rupted the search he was already making among a bundle of papers to find the autograph he had promised to Julius the following day. As he did not expect visitors, and es iu his pre-occupation he had not heard the front door shut, so at first he thought the noise was caused by the wind swinging an open window in the stairway, and, therefore, without further notice, hd pursued his work. After a moment, bethought he heard a friction which ascended and descended along the door as if produced by a hand which searched in the darkness for the string of a bell, a thing completely unknown among Ternisien's furniture. The knocking was repeated a little stronger and with greater energy. " Who is there and what do you want? "asked Ternisien. He received no answer, but the knocking was re|>eated. " Come again to-morrow, " said the good man, alarmed at such persistency, and fearing to be the victim of some snare. " Come again to-morrow; I am already in bed and have no light. " Unhappily, the candle, the light of which was seen through the cracks of^his door, belied his words. " Open the door, please, " asked a sweet and trembling voice; "you have nothing to fear from the person speak- ing to you. " Ternisien decided to open the door. 73 A veiled woman quickly entered the room. She seemed a victim of the greatest agitation, and when slie raised her veil to hreathe at ease, the old professor uttered an exclamation of surprise on observing the change which a few hours had produced in her features. " Close the door" said she. Before obeying, Ternisien cast a glance at the staircase. "Alone? you are alone, madam! " " Nobody knows nor ought to know of my visit to your house. Swear to me, sir, that if you should be questioned, you will not reveal that I came her' . " " Madam," replied Ternisien, still more amazed by the visit and by the mystery that this lady put in it, "madam it is not customary for me to pledge myself so easily to such oaths, which sometimes be;ome painful and difficult to keep. When you will have the kindness to explain the causes which brought you here, I will try to make you the promise you ask. " " I understand your prudence, but have no fears, the secret I ask is more necessary to me than (o you. Be yourself the j udge. " She cast her eyes around the room, and, after a few minutes, added: "Here we must talk low, must we not? Others can hear what is said. " " Yes, madam, it was in this same room that, without caring for it, I heard the smothered moans of the unhappy Fanny. You were not in the parlor when I finished the narration of that very sad story?" "Yes, yes," interrupted Adele with an abrupt and agitated tone of voice, " I know that t/tat Fanny is dead." "After my departure M. Valabert had the time to tell you?" '' I have not seen him since. " 74 " Yet he is ignorant that you have come to see me? " "He is." " But, madam, if this evening he should discover your absence? " "This evening? — 0, this evening he will not think of Avhatmay I have done. Now he does not think of me any more. " In spite of his want of penetration and his absolute ignorance of passion, Ternisien began to guess the secret grief which thus changed the features of Mrs. Valabert, and gave to her eyes that insane expression and to her voice that strange inflection. He recollected the tears Valabert had not been able to hide from her, and with what words he had entreated her to retire. Jealousy was gnawing her heart, but he could not yet guess the motive which had brought her to his lodgings. She motioned him to sit down beside her. ''Have you kept the copy of that anonymous letter?" Ternisien stared at her with astonishement, not know- ing whether she was questioning, or affirming a fact well known to her. " You have kept it " she continued; to morrow you are going to give it to my husband. Do not try to deny it; from the next room I heard all, I know all. Even when your voice or his had not reached me, my gaze would have pierced through the thickness of the walls and guess- ed your words from the simple movement of your lips. You must give me the copy of that letter. " " Madam, 1 promised to give it to your husband. " " To him or to me, what matters it to you?" " If you are here with his consent. " •* To-morrow you will write him that you have lost that paper, and he will believe it. Have you not already made its existence doubtful ?" " Indeed, I fear I have told the truth. " /D '' No; at the beginning ycu quite assented that it was yet in your hands, and you have begun the search. I will have that copy. Give it to me, sir; sell it to me, ask for it whatever price you will; you are poor and I can enrich you. " Speaking so rapidly as not to leave him time to answer she had opened her satchel. Then she added: "Here are four bills of a thousand francs each; these are not enough? — I know it — this is what i had in the casket. I will give you more, much more; I will treble the sum — twenty thousands francs — and 1 have jewels — here, take." Her color, before pale, had returned, her hands with a movement so rapid as hardly to be followed by the eyes, emptied the satchel. A pearl necklace, precious stones, diamonds, rings, her own ear-rings, in a twinkling of an eye, were thrown upon the knees of Ternisien. The poor man, astounded, contemplated her. On the flaps of his ragged coat was a sum tenfold larger than he had before possessed in all his life-time, and this unex- pected fortune was given him without reckoning; yes it was his own. It was enough that he should extend his arm and shut his hands to become the master of it. But such were not the thoughts in Ternisien's mind. Between the wealth he had never known and the misery which was shortening his life, in that honest heart was no place for speculation, however excusable it may be. With trembling voice and tears in his eyes, he addressed Mrs. Valabert. "Are you then very unhappy?" "Yes. very unhappy," she answered, "and it is in your power that 1 mny be so no longer; you can give me peace and insure my happiness. Do you accept it then? " " The recital of that st(.ry has awakened in your husband 76 the remembrance of a former love. Is it not true? I ought to have perceived this and broken it off when he entreat- ed you to go out of the room; I ouglit not to have re-opened a wound yet unhealed. Ypu must forgive me, madam, the evil that I have unwittingly done you. I had pres3ut in my memory the death of that poor woman, who was an angel of virtue — [ could swear it, — and who has been so basely calumniated. If you had know her as I did, if you had heard her protest her innocence, you would not have required this irrefutable proof to have been con- vinced of it. But forgive me, madam, if I again afflict you in speaking of her, and forget what I learned but a few minutes ago, namely, that love is jealous of a rival who does not even exist any more. You are afraid that your husband would become attached to that souvenir, and that at your side he would remember her whom he loved. How the possession of that letter could make you happy is what I am not able to understand. What in- terest causes you to wish so nrdently for it as to be ready to purchase it with you own fortune? " Whether Adele had not a satisfactory answer ready or whether the emotion by which she was agitated was too strong, she remained silent. Ternisien continued: "When I saw that Mr. Julius wished for that letter, I immediately told him that perhaps it would be impos- sible for me to find it, because I was afraid that, recog- nizing the handwriting, he would have gone to ask satis- faction of him who had written it. He has re-assured me. What ought I to suppose, now that I see you troubled by such a fear? " " Well, yes, I fear that he may expose his life," an- swered Adele, as if the last words of Ternisien had given her the excuse she had been searching for. "Your 77 friendship for him has siii'mised the misfortune which my love tries to prevent. That is why I come here at this late hour, and why I beg you not to speak to any one of my visit. [ know, — do not ask how I know, — the person who wrote that letter; my husband, too, will recog- nize tlie handwriting; they will fight, be suy'j of it; perhaps he will be killed. — Twice I will lose him on account of that unhappy woman. Give me that letter — let me destroy that proof — and when he has only suspicions; when the guilty one is able to deny, and, therefore, to refuse to fight, then I wi^l be happy or at least at ease abont my husband's life. This letter, I ask for it upon jny knees. " " Rise, madam, " said Ternisien. " I am too sorry for what has happened not to give you back your tranquillity. The oath you ask from me, I give you willingly. I will hide your visit from Mr. Valabert, but take this money again, take back these jewels; I will not accept them. In returning you this letter, I intend only to repair a wrong- done and not to give you back a proof. " In so speaking, Ternisien returned to Mrs. Valabert the bills and jewels she had handed him. He went to the table on which some papers were scattered, searched a little and afterward returned towards Adele. Seeing the yello\v i)^iper he had in his hands, she sprang and seized it with a convulsive movement. While she was reading^ a strange change was taking place in her, a change which only the wish to prevent a challenge by destroying that proof could not justify to eyes more expert than those of Ternisien. In her joy was something of frenz3^ One would have said that of the two opposite natures existing in her, the most violent — for a long time briddled by an iron will — had finally burst forth and removed all obstacles rerflowed by her violent passions. Her features, the 78 mirror of a new soul, seemed to have assumed another character. She was no more the timid, submitting re- signed, suppliant woman, but a lioness which roared while devouring her prey. As if her hands were not sufficient, she tore the sheet with her teeth, and then, gathering up the pieces, burned them in the flame of the candle, one by one. In proportion as they were consumed, her eyes shone and followed the writhings of the flame as if they were the sufferings of an agonized victim. As soon as the fire had devoured all, she dispersed the blackened ashes which flew around her with a puff. " Nothing more" she cried. "Behold every trace has disappeared! This letter never existed. I am saved!" In her delirious joy, she twisted her hands, laughing and crying at same time. She threw herself upon the neck of Teroisieu before he was able to express his wonder at such unaccountable exuberance. "To you I owe my happiness, "she replied; "I will never forget it. You refuse my gifts but come to see me, sir; as I have told you, my fortune is yours. I have your own word that you will be discreet: is it not so? Good-bye. Do not accompany me; I will find my way. The important thing is that I do not stay here any longer. " She openetl the door, rushed to the staircase, and despite the darkness, so nimble were her steps that Ternisien scarcely heard the noise. The sti-eet door was shut,, Ternisien placed himself at, the window and by the un- certain light of a street lamp saw her turning a corner through the snow. For some time the old j»rofessor remained thunder- struck at what had happened. A thousand different ideas, whirled in his poor head. The thought of evil was the last one which could enter his mind, but, upon thinking of the ofFeis he had refused, it seemed to him that if he 79 liad accepted them it would have been a heavy burden on his conscience, and that he would have been oblio'ed to return the gifts. He wrote to Mr. Valabert that all his researches had been useless; that for a long time he had kept that paper, but that it existed no longer. Then he went to bed, but was unable to sleep or to banish the suspicions which incessantly presented themselves to his mind. Mrs. Valabert had returned home without having been even inquired for by her husband in her absence. Durino the night, no noise troubled the quietness of the house. At dawn the following morning, Julius aroused from the table where he had spent the whole night in writing. He re- read and sealed some letters. A very long one was addressed to his wife; another also of several pages con- tained his last dispositions, and was to be given to the notary who had his fortune. His wife's room was separated from his own by a smaller one, the door of which opened between the two divisions of the library. He directed his steps to that sile, and listened for a few minutes. All around was still " She is asleep, " he said; " I can go out, and if Heaven is just I shall return here without troubling her rest. In two hours all will be ended. He or I. Let me go. " He wrapped himself in a cloak, took the box which contained his pistols, and softy turned the key in the lock. At the same time, the door opened from the outside and Julius found himself face lo face with his wife who was pale, troubled and with a countenance which testified that she, too, had been awake all night. Surprise nuule Julius draw back. Adele entered, shut the cabinet door violently and, without asking or giving explanations, took away the cloak and snatched the pistol box froua her husband' s hands. " You were going out to fight," she said. ythe productive force of the universe, I banish you from my memory, remains of an insensate love; mysterious and dark history which sleeps with the past — and thou who formerly hast borne the fame and sweet name of ]ny beloved, the instant I forgot thee for- ever ought also to be the moment of forgiveness. Let us pardon one another, I break the chain which united us before God. With my last tear receive an eternal adieu; 101 and now, fair dreamer, now, IMusc, to our own love — sing me some joyous song as in the first tinus of our bright days. Already tlie fragrant lawn feels the approach of the morning. Come to walk my dearest, and to smell the flowers of the garden; come to see immortal nature rise from the veil of sleep, we shall revive with her, at the first ray of the sun. A . Dt' Mnsset. 102 III. THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER. TO MY J)J:A11 sister JOSEPHINE CALLIGE, (nEE SOKVILLO.) At the time I was a school-boy one evening I remain- ed sitting up in the lonely hall; there came to sit at my table a poor child all dressed in black, who resembled me as a brother. His face was beautiful and sad; by the light of my lamp he came to read in my open book, leaned his forehead on my hand, and smiling, remained thoughtful until the morrow. When I was fifteen j^ears old I was walking one day with slow steps in a wood. At the foot of a tree a young man dressed in black came to sit, who resembled me as a brother. I asked him my way; in one hand he had a lute, in the other a bunch of roses; he gave me a friendly greet- ing, and, turning away, with his finger pointed to the hilL I had reached the age when we believe in love. One day 1 was alone in my room with the tears of a first sor- row. At my fireside came to sit a stranger, all dressed in black, w^ho resembled me as a brother. He was sad and thoughtful; with one hand he pointed me to heaven, and with the other he held a poniard. It seemed that he suffered from my pains, but he did not sigh, and vanish- ed like a dream. At the age when man is licentious, one day I raised my glass to drink a toast at a feast; opposite to me come to sit a guest, all dressed in black, who resembled me like a brother. Under his mantle he shook a rag of purple torn to pieces, on his head lie had a wild myrtle, his thin arm tried to press mine, and the drinking glass in my feeble hand broke as soon as it touched his. io;3 A year after in the night I was on my krees at the be^l where my father had first died, there, at tlie bedside camo and sat an orphan all dressed in bhick, wlio resembled me as a brother. His eyes were moistened with tears; like the angel of sorrow lie was crowned with thorns, his lute w^as lying on the ground, his purple was the color of the blood, and his poniard was in his breast. I recollect him so well that always in every moment of my life I recognized him. It was a strange vision, and, yet, angel or devil, I have seen everywhere his friendly shade. When later, tired of suffering, I tried to exile myself from France to be born again or to die, when impatient of moving I went in search of the vestige of a hope, at Pisa, to the feet of the Apenines — at Cologne, opposite to Ehine — at Nice, to the declivity of the valley — at Floren- ce, in the midst of palaces— atBrigues, in those old castles in the midst of the desolate Alps — at Geneva, under the cedars — at Vevey under the green apple trees — at Havre, in front of the Atlantic — at Venice, on the arid Lido, where on the grass of a grave has just died the pale Ad- riatic; everywhere over this immense earth I have wan- dered, my eyes bleeding from everlasting. wounds; every- where limping weariness, dragging my fatigue after it, has dragged me in a hurdle; everywhere always thirsting for the knowledge of an unknown, I wentafter the shadow of my dreams; everywhere, without having lived, I have seen what I had already seen, the human face and its illusions; everywhere I wished to live; everywhere I wish- ed to die; everywhere I touched the land, always there came across my path a wretched man, all dressed in black, who resembled me as a brother. Who art thou, whom in this. life I have met in my way? Seeing thee so sad, I cannot believe thee to be my evV 104 genius; tliy sweet smile is full of infinite j^atience, and thy tears show so great pity. In looking at thee, thy sor- row seems brother to my pain, and resembles friendship. Who art thou? Surely thou art not my good angel. Never thou comest to advise me. Thou seest my mis- fortunes, and strange to say, thou indifferently dost let me suffer. For twenty years thou hast walked on my road, and until now I should not know how T ought to call thee. Thou smilest, without partaking of my joy. Thou pitiest me, without bringing me any consolation. This evening also thou hast appeared to me. The night was chilly. Alone bending on my bed I was looking at a place, yet warm with burning kisses, and was think- ing how soon a woman forgets, and feeling a part of my life pine away. I collected letters of past days, and tresses remains of our love. All this past repeated the eternal oaths of a day. I was looking at these holy relics which made my hand tremble. Tears of my heart, devoured by the heart, and which to-morrow will not be known, even from the eyes which have shed them. I wrapped in a coarse covering the remains of happier days. Methought that here below what lasts longest is a lock of hair. Like the diver who goes down in a deep sea I lose myself in such forgetfulness. On every side I revolved the probe, and alone far from the eyes of theworld I mourned o'er my poor burisd love. Already I was prepared to seal in black those frail and dear treasures. Already I was to restore it, and not being able to believe it, I doubt it. Ah! feeble woman, proud^ senseless, in thy spite thou wilt remember me. Why, why liest thou to thy own mind? To what purpose all this weeping, this heaving bosom, these sobs if thou dost not love me? 105 Yes thou lunguishest, tliou sufferest, thou weepest, but a dark shadow is between us. Well, then, good bye, adieu. Thou wilt count the hours which separate thee from me. Go, go, and in thy cold heart satisfy thy pride. I feel my heart yet young and strong, and many evils could yet find a place among the evils that you have caused me. Go! go! immortal nature had not endowed thee with all virtues. Ah! poor woman, who would be beautiful and not forgive. Depart, depart, follow thy destiny. I who love thee have not yet lost all. Throw to the winds our exstinguished love. Is it possible? Thou whom I loved so much? If thou wilt go, why lovest thou me? But suddenly in the darkness of night I see a form cross the room without making any noise. I see a shadow appear on my curtains; it comes and sits on my bed. Who art thou, pale face, sad portrait of myself dressed in black? What wilt thou, wicked bird of passage? Is it a dream? Is it my own image that I see in the glass? Who art thou, ghost of my youth, pilgrim whom nothing could tire. Tell me why I find thee on the shadow everywhere I go. Who art thou solitary visitor, assiduous host of my pains? What hast thou done to be condemned to follow me through the world? Who art thou, who art thou, my brother who appears to me only on the days of sorrow? THE VISION Friend, my father is also thine. I am not a guardian augel, neither the evil genius of men. I do not know where are directed the ste[)S which I love in this little world in which we are. I am not God, neither devil, and thou hast called me by my name when thou calledst me brother. Where thou wilt go I will always follow till the last day in which I ] 00 will go to sit on tliy grave. Heaven Jiatli entrusted thy lieartto me. When thou sufferest, come to me without uneasiness; I will come after thee on the road, but I can- not touch thy hand, friend; I am THE SOLITUDE. A. De Musset. 107 IV. INFAMY. TO REV. HARTLEY CARMICHAEL,(//«^;/z//^'^ Ontario.) Three families, hungry, naked, shelterless, twelve starved children, learning early in life how much pity exists in human hearts, wandering on every road, with- out finding shelter, stopped one day on that corner which once was called Switzerland the hospitahle. At the sight of them anger is suddenly shown. Rascals, vagabonds, beggars away with you! Let us cast this ti- resome burden qw our neighbors! Moneyless tourists, come, out of way! Off with you!! But our neighbors, thank God, have police like us for such visitors. You may sometimes have seen panting sheep, ceaseles- sly worried by butchers' dogs with hungry jaws, bleating in despair, hurrying and pushing, finding no place to run to, to fly to, to escape this horrible torture, since on every side they are ready to bite them. And the butcher's boy gleefully chuckles and hounds them on, " Bite him, there's a little one for you. " It is blood, it is flesh that the dog tears. It is an eye torn out that hangs on the jowl. It is a life in tatters; but close to the shambles it is quicker work; and one gets through his business all the sooner. So the poor wretches cast out on the frontier, twenty times are roughly repulsed. Driven on and back, over marshes, down ravines, through forests, caught, let go, caught again, from twilight to dawn, from dawn to eve, they go on again. Oh, horror! in vain w^ith tears and cries the little ones shew the tormentors their bleeding feet; in vain the rain drenches them, freezes them; no christian offers them a place under his roof; no hearth for a moment 108 warms the pule and flesliless bodies of these wretched creatures. Exhausted, they complain in a voice scarcely audible, " Mother, I am hungry, cold; mother my feet are bleeding; oh, mother, wait a little. " But the orders are stern . Living or dead, they must leave the country without delay. They must tramp, still tramp; and the police have many other cares, besides these cries and tears. Drag them, beat them, if their spirits break down. No doubt the rod wall restore their strength. Let us see how orders are carried out, and if to excel in this noble com- petition the zeal of different districts is unequal, so that we may give the prize to the most brutal. When there comes to us, dragging on a useless life, some worn-out millionaire, well taught the respect due to money, we sniff him and require nothing more; we pass him by as respectable, and humoring his whims, w^e find a virtue in his every vice. Scruples and morality we keep for the poor. Let us be proud of our hospitality; it is like a tavern dog wdio humbly fawns on his master's customers, loves good clothes, hates tramps, and always bites rags and licks velvet. Poverty, poverty, how bitter is thy wrath, and what a crushing burden is thy load of misery! Oh, mother of insults, what gall, w'hat hatred, what fear, dost thou pour during thy long embraces, on those whom thou choosest, cleaving to them like a hideous leprosy, more deadly every day. Never gaining a step, the poor man iramps day by day, wearing out his whole life in a fight with famine, to add to the cares of to-day more racking than yesterday's, those of to-morrow, which wake him at night; unless, indeed, he spend the night in ruining his (-yes in order that an- other may be amused, or glitter for an hour or two; to see 109 his dear ones hopelessly hmguish in want; to suffer in their suffering; to have less rest than the cattle; and yet to dread losing a thankless labour, and in order to keep it, to endure everything, contempt, hard words, from him who flings him a scrap of work. That is his fate, and his mildest fate, too; that is what he is when he has food, when he is to be envied. Ah! now I understand knavery and cunning; the selling of soul and body to avoid such misery; every means I'oing good to heap up money; for all is forgiven except the crime of an empty purse. I feel myself shuddering with profound fear, for those who have bread, for the world's lucky men, when I see them teach the hideous lesson that there is no room in the sunshine except for them, that for them grow the flowers of this human life, for others the thorns and end. less woe. Ye rich! open your eyes, it is now or never! There are noble hearts among you, I know there are, and pride has always saved me from envy, but most of you have only seen one aspect of life, only the laughing side of this two- fold world; ah! you would tremble to see the other! Find a quick remedy for this gnawing evil. In pru- dence or in pity, come to help so many wretches whose groans becoming every moment more distinct, are chang- ing into shrieks which, deaf though you be, the noise of your feasts cannot drown. At least let fear loosen your fingers. Sometimes after ball or concert, you throw in this bottomless pit alms which men applaud, and which fall like a drop of water in a huge conflagration; then, fools, you think you have satisfied this hungry crowd who gnash their teeth. Apportion, then your balm to the horror of the wound. The workman, aghast at the future, must have a labor 110 less thankless, so tliat he may think of his children, of his old age, without turning pale; he must live and must have some joy, some little of the happiness which Heaven sends you. Make haste to weep for every moment! Some day death will come, an unbidden guest, to sit at your banquet Then for the evil, which you have permitted, having been able to prevent it, on earth, you, oh, ye rich, shall answer for it tooth for tooth, eye for eye, bod}'' for body. For him whom poverty drags into crime, for the maiden whom poverty defiles and throws into the street, for the cheat, the groveler, the covetous, for all those whom fa- mine ruins, the anger of God, taking shape before your eyes, will ask of each of you, " Cain, what hast thou done with thy brother?" In the name of earth and heaven help the poor. Keep a little money for his cup of wormwood. In your feasts, your balls, your games, let the memory rise that elsewhere some are desolate! Give, before it is taken away from you, for fear lest the flock who bleat to-day, may roar to morrow. A. RicJiard. HI V. SAINT-SYLVESTER. TO I'llOF. DANIEL WILSON, LL. D. {President of University College, Toronto.) The year is departing. When a mere boy, ignorint of life, these days to lue were so beautiful, and such holidays. Gaily, with my soul full of hope, I ascended those hard ste[)3 built uj) with tombs. The pride of being, and of growing, shone on my face; under my golden hair, I showed myself a fair flowering shrub of which the living sap drinks and overflows in the sunlight. If I counted the days, it was not for complaining of the days, already past, which had fallen as dead branches; without fear 1 could contemplate the future, and without remorse I could enjoy the })resent. Far, very far from the ancestral hearth with empty heart, mournful spirit and broken body, forsaken amidst the swarming city, sad, depressed, martyrized, to-day the future frigthens me. To me it is like a dream, in which the pains of the day come back in turn to persecute us with human face, and, without rest, scourge us with love. A. RicJiard. 112 VI. TPIE TWO MOTHERS. TO HON. ciiras. s. i'Atterson. {Judge of the Court of Appeal. ) " I must go, and must take away from thy arms, oh, poor -wretch, this my darling, who has made thee so hapi)y. " I. On the river Loire which, like a silver thread, runs over a hundred miles of happy land, proud and gay, the citadel of Saumur raises its head. Like fresh beauties bathing themselves in the sea, her white houses extend along the river, half naked and half masked by vineyards and roses. Neither heat nor frost. It is an eternal spring. Oh, yes! beautiful and cheerful is the citadel of Saumur. And there near the walls, like a soft pillow, is a gentle declivity with his mantle of verdure and the shadows of its avenues. But this verdure, and these flowers are not a complete paradise, and, mixed v/ith such a celestial smile, is a house of sorrows. Yes, a mad-house is at the extremity of the avenue. Amidst the silence of the night, amidst the gloomy wail- ing of the wind, are heard, interrupted, plaintive and deep sounds of lament, merry songs or strange voices, blasphemies and atrocious laughs. And a strong feeling, of which nobody dares to ask the reason, forces every person to pay a visit to this living churchyard. 113 II. Oil the last hour of u splendid sunset a beautiful young lady, giving her hand to her little daughter, ascends the hill. How cdiarniing was tlie little angel of five years, dressed in white, fresh, smiling, handsome and nimble. The shinino; fair hair descends on her shoulders like waves, and, with her provoking looks, call for kisses. ''Mother, can you tell me how those poor madmen live? Oh! how anxious I am to see them; mother, come. " The door is open, they ascend two stairs, they are in the asylum court. It was the time of the daily walk, the hour of the gaiety. One walks heavily, another recites, and another sings. Some jump up and down, some sit on the ground and others laugh, A woman with loose hair and a dark petticoat, alone, far away in the corner, sits on a bench as if tired by long work. On her pale cheeks there is an old trace of tears. She turns around her stupid and dull glazed eyes. God had given her as a token of a first love a girl whose face was as beautiful as that of a cherub. How she did love her dear daughter, how she watched her white cradle! Holy and deep affection! For this happy mo- ther her girl was the world. A cruel illness had stolen this gem of her life, and heartbroken from the great sorrow she became mad, and for five years the poor wretch waited for her darling, and asked of all, if they had seen the lost one. Everybody who saw her with this intense pain engraved on her squalid forehead feels in his own soul a charm forcing him to tears. The kind lady ap- proached near the unhappy mother, probibly moved by such great sorrow. Clinging to the skirt of her dress her little daughter thrusts forward her head, and with her eyes filled with 114 tears, she said: " Poor thing! " Then softly approached the mad woman and with her little hand caressed her dark hair. Shaken at this touch the unhappy one turns a look to the little angel, and a strange light shines in her eyes; then fixedly looking at her, she uttered a cry, opened her arms, and with an impetuosity of affection pressed the little one to his breast. " (3h, my daughter, my dear daughter, how strong is this joy which overflows my heart! Almighty God, let me die in such happiness! Die? Who speaks of death? To live, I say, yes, I will live now that I have found the e and I will live always near my child. " Come, sit here on my knees; let me kiss thy beautiful ey9s, let me forget these few years of horrid anguish. From the very first day I lost thee, my eyes had no more tears, but the excessive ecstasy of this hour makes me weep anew. " Tell me, where, where thou hast been all these years I was in search of thee? Hast thou perhaps been in the joy of the othf^r life? But even in heaven in vain thou hast asked my sweet kisses, and now thou comest back to the loving embraces of thy mother. Thou comest now and wilt fly no more from these arms. I would rather die. Oh, yes, I feel that surely I would die, if again thou wert taken away from me." III. In such a way she spoke and convulsively pressed the gill to her panting bosom, and, in the intoxication of her deluded affection, kisses witliout number came from the burning lips. It was a fever of infinite love that sweetly melted her heart. The dear girl with her little hand caressed the dark hair, and, in return, kissed the unhappy 115 woman and smiled at her M'ith love's smile, the younfr mother not daring to trouble the joy of such a brief enchantment. In the meantime the falling evening's twilight was shedding its pale light, and the dread band of guards opened the door of the inner staircase, the clock of the asylum calling the family of the lunatics to their respect- ive cells. The kind stranger who feared to destroy the joy of this holy mistake approached near the poor mad woman, telling her in a pitiful voice of love, " I must go and I must take away from thy arms, poor wretch this my darling, who has made thee so happy!" Jumping up the mad woman with ferocious fear pressing the girl to her breast, " Who art thou," she cried to her with harsh voice, "who comest to trouble my motherly affection?" "Knowest thou not that neither Satan nor God could ravish me of my little angel? Away, far from me. Woe to him who will dare to touch only a hem of her dress. Bather that permit her to be taken from my arms, I would rather she should die, oh, yes, I will kill her rather than lose her again. " Neither prayer nor threat could subdue the delusion of her mind, and with her lean arm raising the little g'rl, if anyone came forward, only a step, she meant to throw her on the ground, and such was the strong resolution gleam- ing from her gesture and from her accents, that it was thought better to leave her alone, and to await the events of the night. Therefore all retired, and she with the girl ran into her cell, and there, in haste ])utting in order the bed, laid her child in it, and, arranging with care the folds of the rough sheets, joyfully sits at the bedside looking at her, smiling and kissing her. Under the pressure of the hand which softly caresses the girl, she shut her hirge eyes, and, yielding to weariness and sleep, fell into a sweet slumber, whilst the mad woman who was near her, soothed her repose with this song: " Sleep, girl, my jealous eye as a guardian angel watches at thy pillow, and the interminable kiss like music soothes thy slumbers. '' Sleep, darling, and let me see thy moist brow, let me in the pure ecstasy of superhuman delirium intoxicate myself with thy warm breath. " Beautiful thou art! thy cheek is rosy, thy head rests upon thy snow-white arm, and the halo of thy fair hair in a gentle disorder sorrounds thy forehead. " Beautiful thou art! in the quiet rest of thy face I seem to see a ray of paradise, and in the celestial joy which shines in thy looks, I see the image of happy dreams. " Dream, and in thy sleeping may the rainbow pour its colors, the stars their rays, the flowers their perfumes, and may the Holy Virgin* send from the paradise a com- pany of angels to hover around thee. " IV. There the voice become faint as the sound of a distant harp, and her tired forehead fell on the pillow of the little one. Once again the calm sleep of the happy days re- turned to her tired eyes. The young mother absorbed in that fear which surpas- ses all fears, from the wicket of the iron door peeped into the darkroom, where every movement, every kiss, every noise was a stroke of a poniard which pierced her heart. But when all was silent, and there was only heard the cadence of two respirations, softly and gently a keeper crept into the room, advanced silently and without awak- ening the little one, who was sleeping, took her with him and shut the door. 117 The mother uttered a cry of joy, which echoed in the wide sonorous vaults, and kissing her dear lost angel > pressed her to her heart, and ran through the dark cor- ridor with her tightly clasped in her motherly arms. The mad woman awakened at the sound of the strange cry, perceived herself to be alone, looked around, and from the hole in the door, by the light of a dying lamp, she saw the white dress of the fugitive girl. A horrible cry of rage was heard, her eyes were suffused with blood, and with a foam on her livid lips she stretced forth her arms and rushed forward. Thrice she shook the unyield- ing door, then fell backwards a corpse. Fusinato, lis THE PllOGRESS. TO MRS. MILBURN, {Bltffalo, N. Y.) Vainly do we mingle arts and sciences, never, Oh! Na- ture, shall be able to reach thy magnificence so great and at the same time so simple. Always we shall be out- done by thy specimens, all our temples, all our palaces, all our immortal works are not comparable to the immense dome of the forests. The most beautiful colors prepared by mankind become pale beside the pearly depth of four drops of water reflect- ing the pure sky. Color-changing mohair, fine laces, gauze, nor satin doth equal the wings of a beautiful but- terfly fluttering into space. The steamer which we see hurling itself on his fiery course, throwing into the air its thrilling voice, still nurtur- ed the flames, and tamed by a gesture cannot follow the bird, whose towering flight, without l)reaking the harm- onious silence, soars through the expanse of blue. Then thousand torches of serene light which electricity, this new queen, has sent to human genius to fight with darkness, are these worth a single ray of the sun which glancing from a stream, gilds the branches; or the moon on a beautiful evening, or a glittering star? All the bold dogmas, the dark systems invented at random by men, and which one sees dominating by turn here below, cannot equal that sublime belief in a God who must punish because He is just and holy, and Who at the same time well knows how to forgive because He is Love. A. de CJiavibrler. 11.) VIII. THE STORM AT THE SAINT- BERNARD. TO J. PESCiA M. i).,{San Francisco, Cal.) But it i.s done, — all words are idle. KYKON. Come, little ones, do not cry! Soon yon shall see your father. Thou the eldest say thy prayer! Come, children, do not cr^^ "Mother, Avhen will he return? "-r" My son this time surely he has set off later. A business is discussed which ends at the table, and afterward one leaves it hardly able to see. At the table one has always something more to say." '' Mother it is dark "— " Child it is a cloud. The sky is bright at the village. Besides thy father is a prudent man; more than once he has made this journey. May Saint-Bernard make calm the wind. " Thus the mother, in her poor cottage, tries to hide the fear to which she is a prey: and many times, in cruel anxiety, stretches the ear, and thinking that som-ebody is walking, says to herself: why does he delay so long?" Why does he delay so long? Look at the valley Avoman! Look at these whirlwinds and at the she-goat running towards thy solitary hut, and at the ol)SCuriiy darkening the forests before the time. Cross thyself, and listen to these creaking squalls whose doleful notes seem to speak of death: and to the fall far off which roars at intervals; and hear the voice of the torrents now swelling, now decreasing. Dost thou not hear moaning the shivering leaves and the wind ingulfed in the deep woods, and the hurricane, carried on its powerful wings, plunging from the top of the mountains in the gloomy valley? 1-20 Poor woman! — In spite of so many signs of storm a jDoasant at the fall of the day, was marching over the fearful Saint-Bernard. In the vigor of the age, and in order to see sooner again his rustic abode, he has despised many wise advices. He had left Aosta; alas! and the im- j)rudent had passed before the hospice without entering it. Cheerful he was going on through the mountain. Some- times sinking waist-deep in the snow, he was saying, so little was he frightened, "It is nothing! " and laughed in getting out of the snow, then without fear, courageous, as he was in the middle of the country, he, careless of the weather, lighted his pipe and whistled an old tune loved by his children. May God keep you friend. May the propitious Virgin drive back the storm to the extremity of the horizon and avert thy foot from the precipice! But better, if thou wishest to see again thy house, without delaying a moment go, return to the hospice! There are the guardian angels of the travelers; at the risk of their own they will save thy life. The air became brisk. The sky covered. The clouds before scattered which one had seen shine enflamed, now lie close, black and full of havoc, like batallions formed for an attack. The avalanche soon will hinder the road. Do not go, do not go! Already the snow whirls around him. He hears sounds which usually render men pale, and that nameless voice which continually resounds, now seeming to cry, now to roar. It is the wind of the desert! It is the voice which in this place of woe nobody hears without trembling, which no other voice could resemble. In the plain when the storm comes, the waters with their roars answers to its voice. The tree of which in its rage it tries to bend the head, stirs and stands erect hiss- 121 ing. In the mountains instead nothing answers to the storm, there nothing stops it. No rival roaring has ever moderated there the horrible majesty of this dreaded voice. The unfortunate insists. He marches. At the end of an hour he begins to feel his leg dull. " Pshaw! it is the wind. Let us reach home! But I do notknow why I am growing cold. " Wretch! What hast thou done? Who is able to pre- serve thee to thy wife who cries, to thy children? Do not hope for an}^ help here below: (xod only can save thee. He goes, goes. He feels the great allurement of a sleepiness which oppresses him and which he vainly tries to drive back. " I wish to sleep a while to acquire strength," says he, "in order to pursue my journey. " Go, go on imprudent! Thou must endeavor not to yield to the spell which lulls thee to sleep. Go on. To sleep here, it is death. He sits. His eyes soon close to the light. Confused but attractive objects deceive him. He believes he sees afar his hut, and hears walk his wife and his children. *' Well," says he opening his eyelids "I must go. I see them. The}'- come. I am better. " Then he gets up, and falls, closing the eyes. Later, in the savage little valley, a traveler, passing, met, at the edge of the road, a pale-faced mother, whose young children were tendering the hands for alms, saying, "God may help you in your journey!" He wished to know their story. "Our father died," they answered. A. RicJiard. 122 IX. THE UNKNOWN LIGHT. TO MISS FANNY LEE, {C/ucagO, ILL.) When darkness comes, be the niglit cloudy or clear, suddenly on the distant heights I see shining a light which may be taken for a golden star. Every evening without fail it glistens at the hour when the hills are vanishing into the gloom, which slowly veils the world as it goes to rest. Often I contemplate this solitary ray, which reaches me fall of vague mysteries. Sometimes it seems to me that it lures me towards it, and a thousand stransie desires thrill my being. I should like to turn aside from beaten tracks and direjt my steps to this light which beams and gleams. I let my heart wander at my fancy's pleasure, and by turn a thousand visions pass before my eyes, soon to vanish. First it is a young golden-tressed maiden, with large blue eyes filled with brightness so serene and pure that they make one dream of heaven. Thoughtful and diligent she sews unceasingly; she wishes to finish her task this very evening, but often her sweet sparkling eyes turn towards the easy chair where her grandfather is slumbering, while the lamp sheds a reddish glow ou the forehead of this noble white-haired old riian. Or it is a young shepherd who to rest himself from his weary labor comes to meet his betrothed and sits down beside her; he is strong and manly, she beautiful and active, and near both, a mastiff their faithful companion sleeps with his head resting on the ground. In low tune they murmur sweet things to each other, 123 tliey expect to wed in the time of roses when birds make their nests, and — what peals of laughter! The dog pricks up his ears, and with his big, sleepy eyes half open watches them like an old and trusted iriend. Perhaps it is a learned man, a thinker, an artist, who seeks the calm, who is sad in the crowd, and who gives the watches of the night to toil. He thinks himself for- gotten in his severe retreat, not guessing that my heart piercing earth's fogs, understands him, and that my eyes follow him. Or again in the depths of my memory, stumbling over the remains of ancient history, 1 think of some gnome seated near a tomb where sleeps a princess with long raven black hair, her pale face strangely serene, waiting to be awakened by a young and beautiful prince. Alas! And it is thus that I preserve my dreams! 1 remember them always without fatigue and without rest. More than once I have said to myself: *' To-morrow at dawn I will go in person to search fol* the last word of this problem. ..." but the following day never finds jne on the road. I am afraid of seeing my palace of chimeras crumble; the sweet illusions of my heart are dear to me. I love so much to dream alone in the darkness. Seeing thee near, thou, modest lamp, surely I should say: " Alas! poor poet, thy dreams are better than reality! " yi. de Chambrier. 124 X. MONOLOGUE of CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. TO THE CONSUL OF ITALY, CAV. G. M. GIANNP]LLI. I am dying, old and wretched, and it was right that I should die in such away! My life, toiled through suffer- ing, ends with grief; but amidst all, God granted so great and infinite a joy, that every pain compared to it causes a smile. God, who, when He pours on the world a ray of eternal light, recommends it to Italy, His beautiful Italy thus spnke to me: " Daring Genoese, try the sun's path! " And I turned my eyes to the West, and I saw a new world, as it were, rise from the waves; immense forests of unknown trees, immense rivers, immense I'lains, There were the softs fruits which distant India ripens, which Europe envies and desires; birds nameless with us, dif- ferent wild beasts, seas filled with pearls, and mountains of gold — and the voice said: " Go; come back and tell the stor3^ " But I am poor; sails do not spread at my command. I have nothing but a thought! Audi brought my thought to the crowned heads of the world and asked a little gold for recompense. Alas! I was derided. For three long lustres I v/as scorned and went wandering about, and no- body understood me. I heard not, I saw not! Here, bring me nearer to the balcony; for pity's sake do not take away from me the sight of the sea! The sea! the sea! my kingdom, the friend of my youth and of my glory! let me greet it a last time, and let me depart on that yourney from which nobody returns. 125 I was so glad, so serene when, for the first time, I challenged it. Courageous, I pushed myself on its open bosom where man's eye never yet reached. Foolish coward- ice imagined it to be filled with monsters and terrors. I was not afraid. Fly my ship; if my heart beats it is not for fear of the waves but of my followers. Fly, fly my ship, let not mi- schievous omens arrest thy swift course. A new land is there. Gaily and speedily let us make sail for the foreign shore; let us follow. God protects the bold undertaking. The wind is propitious, and the waves are gentle. But already days go by, months have passed away, and no trace of new countries is perceived. Our life is always between heaven and sea, and confidence has disappeared from every face. What more can I do to encourage these men who only understand the vily sound of gold? I see other stars and other poles! " Three days more, and if our hopes are vain, I surrender myself to you. " Here we see flocks of birds rapidly fly from the West; sea-weeds and cleft from lands not distant. Land! land! A panting cry breaks the eternal silence of the sky. It is the land! it is the land! Who could now describe my noy? Alight seen from afar in the dark air gives strength to the assured heart and to the tired hand. Forward! forward! Here is the dawn. Perhaps is my dream? No, no, this is the longed-for land, virgin, beautiful, dewy — beautiful like a bride given as a reward to valour, fair and flowery like the hope courted by me for so many years. See the sun advances; see the land smiles with proud life! Furls the sails, lower the boat. Oh, beloved land, at last I kiss thee. The great work is accomplished! Am I not now the master of my land and of my sea? Where is my roy^l palace? Where are my councillors, my jewels, my crown? Ferdinand where is thy faith? 126 Thou wast sitting proud iu the conquer 3d Alhambra. ■Granada lay vanquished at thy feet. A wandering Italian, l^urdened by thought, whom anguish had made old before his time, leading by the hand a little boy, came to thy throne. Around it were princes, lords, captains, and all Spain's ancient splendor- What, jiowerful king, on that day said the unknown Genoese? '• Sire, " said he, and he spoke without trembling, " for- tune made thee sovereign of Aragon, love made thee master of Castille, war gave thee the beautiful kingdom of the Moors. Well I will do for thee more than fortune, love and war already have done, I will give thee a world. " And then Oh, king, when from the far ocean unexepected I returned and brought thee gold and jewels of thy new kingdom, thine without a drop of bloodshed, and to thy dumfounded sages and proud councillors haughtily I an- swered with facts, showing the proofs of the glorious achievement; what saidst thou. Oh king? " Genius is the S2)arkle of an eternal idea, and is superior to every crown. Grandees of Spain off with your hats! " Now, I am the same Columbus. In the gold, the distant springs of which I opened, Europe floats, and Spain is plunged up to the neck. Poor and forgotten, I beg my living, crust by crust, and the discoverer of a new world has not a roof, nor a house where he may die in peace. Oh, do not tell my grand- children such an infamy! Oh, do not say that these arms even yet keep the marks of chains, and that, in the place of my triumph, I lived a prisoner! Cruel story! If it was fated that such a re- compense should follow the benefit, God be thanked, that I have not done it for Italy. It was right, it was right; see the beautiful country streaming with blood and with massacre. Of the people who butcher, and the people who suffer, which is the 127 savage? Crime! crime! The sword is plunged into the breast of innocent brethren, but this was not my intention wlien I undertook to guide you, ye wicked! It is not gold that tempts wickedness, but vice is followed by useless offenses; these faithless men have made the Cross a pretext for butchery, the Cross, law of eternal pily. Cease, ye cruel ones, what rage maddens you? Is gold not enough, that you wish even fur blood? And cannot blood quench your horrible thirst? If this is valor what cowardice be? Shut out from niy last moments this fatal scene! Let me not see these horrors. Already high vengeance is moved, is awakened — it roars — it falls — and first on me. It was right! it was right! I bow my head. Oh sea! The sight of thee is remorse to me. Though innocent, we are accomplices to great disasters! The time will come when on blood and crime will rest the forgetfulness of centuries, and when from this new partnership will come to the universe as much good as formerly evil was produced, then amidst far posterity my name nniy be blessed, and a reward of honor more glorious, because longer delayed, may comfort my weury bones. Now cover my face — I die in peace. Gazaoletti. '^ o f^ 12S XI. THE PIRATE'S SONG. TO A. NAKDINI,(5c?« FvaUcisCO^ CAL.) With ten gans on each side, the wind right aft, and all sails set, a brig does not plow the sea, but flies. The pirate vessel, for her bravery called the " Feared, " well known in. the water from one shore to the other. The moon shines on the sea, amongst the sails sighs the wind, and by a slight movement raises waves of silver and blue. And the pirate captain, gaily singing on the poop beholds Asia on one side, Europe on the other and there before him Stambouh " Sail on my ship without fear, inasmuch as no un- friendly sail, nor storm, nor calm is able to overtake thy stern or to conquer thy valor. In spite of the English I have taken twenty prizes and a hundred nations have lowered their flags at my feet. "That my ship is my treasure, liberty my God, the force and the winds are my laws, and the sea my only fatherland. " Let blind kings move fiery wars beiA^eeu themselves for the sake of a span of land, whilst here I have for mine, all that is grasped by the wide sea to whom nobody has dictated laws. And now, there is no shore, wherever it be, nor a flag of renown which has not felt my right hand and proclaimed my bravery, ''That my ship is my treasure, etc. *' At the cry of ' Sail, oh! ' it is something to see how it turns and takes measures to avoid every snare, inasmuch I am the king of the sea, and my anger is to be feared. In the prizes, I divide the booty equally, keeping for my- 129 self only a wealth, beauty without rivals. "That my ship is my treasure, etc. "I am sentenced to death; I laugh at it. Let fortune not forsake me and regarding the one who condemns me, perhaps I shall hang him to the yard-arm of his own ship. And if I fall? What is life I gave it up the same day, when, like a brave man, I threw away from me the yoke of a slave. " That my ship is my treasure, etc. " My best music is the northern wind, the trembling and noise of grating cables, the roar of the blackened sea and the thunder of my guns, and amid the violent dim of the thunderbolts, mid the howling wind, I slee[) calm, lulled by the sea. " Don Jose de Espronceda. 130 XII. CHARITY. TO EEV. I). J. MACDONELL. When the pining flower that summer causes to fade leans toward the burning soil to die, and to quench the fire by which it is devoured, ask« and begs only a drop of water; without rain or dew this dying complaint falls with the wind's breath. So when the unhappy being drags himself along, bent from the cradle undsr troubles, oppressed by his burden, if the arm of his brother does not support his misery, if some sweet voice does not speak a word which raises and comforts him, he must fall under its weight. Oh, sublime charity, balm of grief, thou whose sight inspires courage, thou who driest tears; beloved daughter of God! Pain and bitter complaint are silent before thee; peace is in thy mouth, and those touched by thy hand suddenly lose their fears. He who lost in doubt and in despair has long ago stray- ed from the right path, by thee is brought repentant to God whom he had forgotten, and thou restorest hope in him who hope no more. Oh, Supreme Majesty, thy sovereign order has said: " Love thy neigbor as thyself. " The man only to whom misery never is troublesome is just in thine eyes. If in heart he is poor, by the good actions he has done, he will become rich in heaven. A, RicJiard. 131 XTII. WHY LOVEST THOU ME? TO C. BARSOTTI, M. 1). I. Why lovest thou me 3^oung girl? Dost thou know who I am? A young i>oet who always runs in the same road amongst thorns and flowers, and never arrives at the goal. The poor poet is a butterfly, and, like tliis one, loves the pictured flower beds, and now rising up, then down, plays with the breeze and search the sun and the flowers. The little butterfly is happy with a few drops and with a little fragrance; a drop of dew quenches its thirst, arose leaf is its room. Often foreign to what it hears or sees, it is pleased with its golden wings and flowers, contented with the virtue God gave it, thus passing its life in peace. The lion passes, the king of the forest, and seeing it going from flower to flower, ''This is the happiest one," says he, "that flying, passes the time in making love. " The fox passes, busy with its cunning, and scoffs at the sincere butterfly, which without any snare or any offence, goes flying alone, always alone. The magpie passes, deafening the valley, the magpie always slanderous and brating. The screech-owl passes, found of ruins, enemy of love and peace. . But the butterfly, which is born for other purf)Oses, passing, does not look at them, and does not care for them, and always flies, and it is always in love, such as nature made it. 132 IT. With a few drops, with few perfumes, the poor poet also nourishes himself. Amongst the flowers of his hopes, he too is a happy and nimble butterfly. He opens the little window at the first dawn, and sing- ing, he salutes the rising sun. The breeze repeats his verses of love and the heart of any who listen to him trembles. Near the setting of the sun he moans and cries, and he recites the verses thou singest; they are the songs of his mountains, those songs which he never forgets. The note of that sweet song trembles as the flower of the land which gave him birth. There is the word, there is the laugh, the weep, there are the eyes and the lips of his girl. III. Like prophetic birds his verses go from sea to sea, from land to land. Different people repeat them in the time of peace and war. The poet is poor, and every one says so; but he has a lieart as great and as deep as the sea, and to look at him he seems the happiest and the richest man in this world. So very poor',' and so very rich, he passes among the people humble and proud, and through his fatal journey he tires the light of free thought. And he who nie^ts him looks at him and greets him with the most beautiful name that resounds in the world, and that name which the world gives him is the prettiest ornanient of his wreath. Glarues, smiles and courteous receptions are not denied to him, and he smiles to all; but believe me, my Lina, these are his only joy, these his only fruits. And these fruits will not te envied by the animals -of shrewd and doubtful faith, screech-owls, foxes and li6ns,because they know, too well they know, that the little butterfly, does not desire anything else. IV. Yes, I too, oh! Lina, am like the butterfly, I that in every road am searching for flowers: my amorous soul runs after that desire which drags it. It runs from morning to evening, and itself, poor thin?, does not know why it runs, and the more it pricks itselt' the more approaches to those roses which desire colors. And believes to suck in the lap of all the flowers drops of ambrosia to sweeten the song; but often, my Lina, tho.-je sweet humors are only drops of his own weeping. Yes, butterfly I am, my Lina, aud the native clod is generous of a hundred flowers; but these are perfumf-s, and the wind wafts them, the favors of my native land. Now thou knowest who I am, and I do not understand how thou, my girl, lovest me so much. Is it my poor name that is dear to thee, or perhaps is ray plaintive song? But name and song shall pass; my poor verses are flowers, and thou well knowest it, that the sweetest odor of the prettiest flower does not live longer than a day. And then dost thou not see how much harmony of life and love there is around us? Dost thou not see how in the same day this universe almost is born and dies? And perhaps there where now life dances, death shall raise her black tents, and the people of free hope may be a heap of bones and bands. And those roses, where now the nightingales warble perhaps shall be turned into sprigs and amongst them 134 there sliall only be heard the sharp hissing of savage snakes. And perhaps here where I am singing of affection, and where so many others also will sing, this thy little blessed village, which completely enraptures me with its beauties, shall be changed into wood, and every thicket will give a volume of doubtful stories, and the crow's song shall be heard, the old sybil of the desert. VI. All falls and rises again, and everybody perceives this, but love, love, Lina, does not die; his seat is in our soul- Everlasting as the soul is love. And thy love shall never change its intensity; that is what I only wish from thee. Of love, only of love, speak always to me, inasmuch as he who speaks of love speaks of God. With the elegance of a nod and a smile, thou awakest in me sweet and new poetry. Through thy pretty blue eyes, truly it seems to me, I see Paradise. G. A. CostansQ. 135 XIV. POOR BARD! TO L. STECCHETTI. As a child in thy presence I lower- ed my eyes, I cowered at thy knees as fawningly as u whipped spaniel. With my proud forehead bent I kissed the hem of thy garment. I suffered, I cursed, I cried and thou laughedest. Now I rise from my cowardly ba- seness, and break my chains, I feel ashamed of me and my love , I rise, and 1 despise thee. STECCHETTI, (Anger.) Poor poet! in what proud remorse of past cowardice con- sumest thou thyself? Thou risest and insultest, and I hardly say, if thou wert more coward then, or less proud now. Thou risest and insultest. Ah! do not repeat the insult which so imprudently came out from thy heart! This is not pride, it is not courage, it is not freedom .... on my word it is love! Behold with what pain and blind rage thou thro west mud on the once worshipped idol! How bleeds the heart which IS cursing! Cease thy scoffing. Woe if she hear the sound of thy scoffs, woe if she sees ihee! To-morrow on going again to kiss her foot, perhaps thou shall pay dear for her forgiveness. If thou art a poet do not insult the sacred flame which lightened thy heart if it dictated to thy dust a single poem and gave a single spark to thy grief. Do not insult her, do not cry out that the desire for 136 " vile mud " enflamed thee. Wretched one, how shalt thou say to the world " of that mud 1 had made a God. " Ah ! do not speak of this dream Avhich is fixed in thy heart, Oh, do not soil that shadow. In order to possess that right thou oughtest have never placed her on the altar. Until from thine eye and from thy suffering spirit shall come but a single tear, respect the dream which opened an heaven for thee, respect the mud which inspired thee with a song. If truly thou art now strong and free, if thy insults are born from a redeemed heart, I offer thee another trial. Go to her, gaze on her face, without moving an eye. Defy the old power of her eyes without experiencing a chill in thy veins. Look at her face without desire or anger, without scorn or hope. And try to breathe without shock in the wake of her hidden perfumes. Approach her, touch one of her hands without feeling a shudder in thy bones. And when the heart shall no more give thee a shudder, a tear or an oath, poor poet, oh, then, only then, thou canst boast of having conquered love. No! this roar of rage is not the comfort thou are search- ing for. Poor poet! Thou shalt not be cured except on the day thou shalt forgive. F. Cavallotti. lo7 XV. HOPE IN GOD. TO J. DUNFIELD, M. D. {Canada.) As long as my feeble heart, yet full of youth, shall not have bid farewell to his last illusions, I would abide by the old wisdom which has made a demi-god of the sober Epicurus. I would live, love, accustom myself to my equals, go in search of joy without relying upon it, do what has been done, be what I am, and carelessly lift my eyes to heaven. It is impossible. Infinity torments me. In spite of myself I cannot think of it without fear or hope, and not- "withstanding all what has been said, my reason is fright- ened at seeing it, and not being capable of understanding it. What is this world? and what we come to do in it, if to live in peace, it is necessary to veil heaven? To pass like sheep with our eyes fixed on the ground and to for- sake all else, can that be called happiness? No, it is to cease to be a man, and degrades the soul. Chance has put me in the world. Happy or unhappy, I am born of a woman, and I cannot throw of humanity. What can I do then? "Be merry," says paganism, "be merry and die." "Hope" answers Christianity, heaven alw^ays watches, and thou canst not die. " Between these two roads I hesitate. I would wish to follow a more easy path, but a secret voice tells me that with regard to heaven one must believe or deny. This is my opinion too. Tortured souls cast themselves, some- times into one, sometiuies into the other, of these two extremes. The indifferent are atheists, — if they would .doubt only for a day, they could not sleep. I yield, and as the matter leaves in my heart a desire full of dread, I 138 will bend my knees, I wish to believe and to liope. Here I am in the hands of a God more dreadful than all evils of this world put together. Plere I am alone a wandering, weak and miserable creature beneath the eye of a witness who leaves me not. He watches me, lie follows me. If my heart beats too quick I offend his dignity and his divinity. A precipice is opened under my steps. If I fall into it to expiate an hour, an eternity is needed. My judge is a tyrant who d3ceives his victim. For me everything becomes a snare and changes its name. Love becomes a sin, happiness a crime, and all the world is for me a continuous temptation. I liave nothing more of humanity about me. I await the recompense, I try to avoid the punishment; fear is my guide, and death is my only aim. Nevertheless, it is said that an infinite joy will be the share of some elect. Who are those happy beings? If thou hast deceived me, wilt thou again give me life? If thou hast told me the truth, wilt thou open the heavens? Alas! this beautiful country, promised by thy prophets, if it really exists, must be a desert. Thou requirest those choosen ones to be too pure, and when this happiness arrives they already have suffered too much. I am a man, and I will not be less, nor attempt more. Where should I stop? If I cannot believe in the priest's promises shall I consult those who are indifferent? If my heart, wearied by the dream which troubles it, returns again to reality for consolation, at the bottom of the vain pleasures called into my aid I find a disgust that kiUs me. In the same day in which my thoughts are im- pious, in which to end my doubts I wish to deny, even though I possessed all that a man could desire, power health, wealth, love, the only blessingof this world, though the fair Astart^ worshipped by Greece should come from 130 the azure islands, and should open lit-r arms, though I could come into possession of the secret of the earth's fertility, and thus changing at my fancy living matter, create a beauty for myself alone, though Horace, Lucre- tius and old Epicurus seated near me, should call me happy, and those great lovers of nature should sing the praises of pleasures, and the contempt of the gods, I would say to all, "In spite of our efforts I suffer, it is too late, the world has become old, an infinite hope has crossed the earth, and against our will, we must raise our eyes to heaven." What else remains to me to try. Vainly my reason tries to believe, and my heart to doubt. The christian jiffrights me, and in spite of my senses I cannot listen to what the atheist says to me. True religious people will cull me an impious, the indiflferent will call me a fool. To whom shall I address myself, and what friendly voice will comfort my heart wounded by doubt? It is said that there exists a philosophy which can explain everything without revelation. Granted. Where are those makers of systems who, without faith know how to find the truth? Weak sojthists, who believe only in themselves, what are their arguments, what th^ir autho- rities? One shows me, here below, two principles at war, which alternatively conquered, are both everlasting. (1) Another, far away in the desert heaven discovers a useless God Who will have no altar. (2) I see Plato dreaming, and Aristotle thinking. I hear them, I praise them, but I pursue my way. Under absolute kings I find a despot God, now they spoke to us of a republican God; Pythagoras and Leibnitz transfigure my being. Descartes leaves me perplexed. Montaigne, after great examination cannot understand himself. Pascal trembling tries to escape his (.1.) Manicheans. (2) Theism. 140 own visions. I'yrro blinds nie unci Zeno makes me in- sensible. Voltaire tlirows down all he sees standing. Spinosa tired of trying the impossible, vainly searching for his God, ends by seeing him everywhere. With the English sophist, (1) man is a machine, finally, out of the fogs comes a German rhetorician, (2) who, finishing tlie ruin of philosophy, declares Heaven empty and proves that there is nothing. Here are the wrecks of liuman science! and after five thousand years continually - proach Thee, Thou oughtest let nature veil and hide Thee. Thy power would have been left to Thee, and wo should have felt its blows; but quiet and ignorance would have lessened our griefs. If our afflictions ar.d pain:5 reach not to Thy 7najesty, keep Thy solitary grandeur, shut forever Thy immensity; but if our mortal griefs can reaeh to Thee, and from the eternal plains, Thou hearest our sighs, break the deep vaults which covers creation, lift this world's veil, and show thyself a just and good God. Tliou wilt see all over this earth an ardent love of faith, and the whole mankind will fall down before Thee. The tears which flow from men's eyes as a light dew will disappear in heaven. Thou shalt hear only Thy praises, and a concert of joy and love like that with which the Angels gladden Thy everlasting kingdom, and in this supreme hosanna. Thou shalt see at the sound of our songs, doubt and blasphemy fly away, whilst death itself Avill join its last accents to them. A. de Musset. 143 XVI. THE COAT. iO ANGELO iJlCCO-LAl,( Lucca.) Thou reproachest me, Francis, and thou sayest that I forget my old friends. If, as before, poetry gives sweet food to thy beautiful soul, read my coat, aui XIX. PHANTOMS. TO WM. OLDRIGHT, M. A., M. D. I. How many beautiful maidens have I seen die! It is destiny. A prey is necessary to death. As the grass must fall under the scythe, so, in therball, the quadrille must tramp rosy youth under its steps. The fountain by irrigating the valleys must diminish its waters. The lightning must shiae, but only for a moment. Envious April with its frosts must blight the apple tree, too proud of its odoriferous flowers, white as tlie snow of the spring. Yes, such is life. The darkness of the night follows the daylight, and to all will come the eternal awaking in heaven, or the aby.^s. A covetous crowd sits at the great banquet, but many of the guests leave their places emptv and depart before the end. II. How many have I seen die! One was fair and bloom- ing. Another seemed enraptured in a celestial music. Another with her arms uphold her bended head — and as the bird, which in taking flight, breaks the branch on which it rests — her soul had broken her bodv. One pale, lost, oppressed by sad delirium, prontmnced in a low voice a name forgotten by all, another dies away as a sound of a lyre, and another, expiring has on her lips the sweet smile of a young angel, returning tohea\^en. All frail flowers — dead as soon as born — halcyons drown- ed with their floating nests; doves sent from heaven to earth, who, crowned with grace, youth and love, numbered their years by the springs. 152 Dead! What? Already lying under the cold stone! Ho many charming beings deprived of voice and life! So many lights extinguished! So many flowers faded away! Oh, let me trample the dried leaves and lose myself in the depth of the woods. Lovely phantoms! It is there in the woods, when in the dark I am thinking, it is there that by turn they come to listen and to speak to me. The twilight at the same time, shows and veils their number, but across the branches I perceive their glitterirg eyes. My soul is a true sister to these beautiful shadows. For me and for them life and death have no laws — some- times I help their steps — sometimes I take their wings. Ineffable vision in which I am dead and they alive like me. They lend their forms to my thoughts. I see, oh, yes I see them. They beckon me to come, and then, hand in hand, they dance around a grave, and, by degree disappearing softly, draw away, and then after I think and I remember. III. One especially — an angel — a young Spanish girl! White hands, her breast swelled by innocent sighs. Black eyes in which shone the looks of a Creole; and that in- definite charm, that fresh halo, which generally crowns a head of fifteen. She died not for love. No, love had not yet brought her joy nor sorrow; nothing yet had made her rebel heart beat, and, when everyone, in looking at her, could not repress the words, *' How beautiful she is! " none had yet uttered secretly the word of love. Poor girl! She loved dance too much — it was that which killed her. The charming ball! The ball full of delight! Her ashes still tremble with a gentle movement, if, by chance, in a fair 153 night a, white cloud dances around the crescent of the sky. She loved dance too much! At the approach of a festi- val — three days before, she was continually thinking and dreaming of it — and for three nights ladies, music, dancers never tired, troubled her mind in her sleep, and laughed, and shouted at her pillows. Jewels, necklaces, silk girdles of waving reflections, tissues lighter than bee's wings, festoons and ribbons to buy a palace, all those things occupied her fancy. Once the festival begun — full of gladness she comes with her joyful sisters, furling and unfurling the fan in her fingers, — then sits amongst the silk dresses, and her heart bursts into glad strains with the many-voiced orchestra. AVhat a true delight was it to look at her when she was dancing! Her garment tossed its blue spangles; her great dark eyes sparkled under the black mantle like a pair of stars under a dark cloud. She was all dance and laughter and mad joy. Child! We admire her in our sad leisure moments, sad, because never at the ball our hearts were open, and in these balls, as the dust flies on the silk dress, weariness is mixed with pleasure. She, instead, carried by the waltzes or the polkas, was going up and down, hardly breathing, excit- ing herself with the sound of the renowned flute, with the flowers, with the golden candlesticks, with the attract- ive feast, with the music of the voices, with the noise of the steps. What happiness for her to move, lost in the crowd, to fee] her own senses multiply in the dance, so as not to be able to know is she were being conveyed by a cloud, or flying leaving the earth, or treading upon a waving sea. At the approach of the dawn, she was obliged to depart, and to wait on the treshold till ths silken mantle was thrown over her shoulders. Only then, this innocent dancer, cliillecl, felt the morning breeze play over her bare neck. Sad morrow those following a ball! Farewell dances and dresses, and child-like laughter. In her, the obsti- nate cough succeeded the songs; the fever with its hectic color followed the rosy and lively delights, and the bright eyes were changed into lack lustre eyes. IV. She is dead! Fifteen years old, beautiful, happy, ador- ed! Dead corning out from a ball which immersed all of us in mourning, dead, alas! And death, with chilly hands wrested her yet dressed from the arms of a mother mad with anguish, to lay her to sleep in the grave. To dance at other balls she was ready, death was in haste to take possession of such a beautiful body, and the same ephemeral roses which had crowned her head and which blossomed yesterday at a feast faded in a tomb. V. The unhappy mother, ignorant of her fate, had placed so deep love on this frail stalk; to have watched her suf- fering babyhood so long, and to have wasted so many nights in lulling her when she cried, a tiny baby in her cradle. To what purpose? Now the girl sleeps under the coffin lid and, if in the grave where w^e have left her, some beautiful winter's night a festival of the dead should awaken her cold corpse, a ghost, with dreadful smile, in- stead of his mother, will preside at her toilette, and will tell her, "Now is the time," and with a kiss freezing her blue lips, will pass through her hair the knotted fingers, of his skeleton hand, and will lead her trembling to the ethereal chorus, flitting in darkness, and, at the same time on the gray horizon the moon will shine pale and full and the rainbow of the night will color, with an opal re- flection, the silver clouds. VL Young maidens who are invited by the gay ball, with its seductive pleasures, think of this Spanish girl. She was gay, and with a merry hand was gathering the roses of life, pleasure, youth and love! Poor girl! Hurried from feast to feast she was sorting the colors of this beautiful nosegay. How soon all vanished! Like Ophe- lia, carried away by the river, she died gathering flowers. V. Hugo. 156 XX. DAVID. TO MISS SUSIE. E. WITHFORD, (CHICAGO, ILL.) To contend with tha giant Goliath, David had only his sling, but at the bottom of his boyish heart he had also a strong faith. He was perfectly aware that in order to save Israel, God would figth for him. Calm and easy in mind, he set forth against the power- ful Philistine who, with haughty and insolent look, smil- ed at his youthful appearance, at the same time scoffing at the Lord who had chosen David to save his people. But the boy whom God directed, with a steady hand and by a simple throw, inflicted on the colossus a deadly wound, and thus the Lord was pleased to deliver Israel. In the same manner as David, Thou, oh, Lord, callest us to great battles. To succeed in them in a way credit- able to Thee, make us faithful as David, and then every one would perceive that the Lord is with us as He was with Israel. And if evil sorrounds us, and if it become stronger than ourselves, then, kneeling, we shall implore Thee, Who rejectest none, and then in answer to our prayers. Thou shalt fight for us. A. de Chambrier. 157 XXI. THE TWIN SPIRITS. TO MISS NORA HILLARY, TEACHER OF MUSIC. I. The sun was near the end of his journey, — the air was filled with mystery, — the violets send their odor to God the murmur of the stream was more lively, — all creation seemed to repeat the words of love, and my heart was seized by a pious feeling which sweetly suggested prayer. Prostrating myself before the rustic altar of the queen of heaven, a divine pity moved my soul and I wept and prayed. 11. Whilst to the throne of the Almighty, Jike a cloud of incense, joined to the sublime austere voice of the organ rose the prayer of the worshippers so dear to Him, sud- denly I heard a sweet, strong, harmonious voice which troubled my heart and forced me to weep. Raising my eyes there appeared before me a young orator, beautiful and divine in appearance who struck my heart. III. For many and many days already the fair young man had turned and returned around my house, looked at me and smiled, and every day I saw his sweet image; blush- ing, I too had answered his salute, — and each time he came I lost my peace. God grant that he may understand me as I understand him! And if he understands me and will give me his heart I will adore him with an intense love. ir)8 IV. He loves, yes,- he loves me! Oh, celestial delight! — In- effable joy! — Supreme gladness! No, this, is not a dream, he has told me and his words are words of divine consent. Yes, my beloved, I will love thee, — to tliee I will open the most hidden recesses of my heart, — entirely thine will be this my living soul. Sweetly, sweetly a breath of love slighty touches my face. He has looked at me and placed on my finger a ring, — a glittering circle of gold. V. See, see how the torches shine! How beautiful is the altar festally adorned! How many garlands! How much incense, and how many lights! Oh, what a. solemn funct- ion is this one! How bright a day, and how the lieaven smiles! I will adorn my head with the nuptial crown. I will appear beautiful under my veil. Already the harmonious trumpet tunes joyful songs. Oh, my faithful one! dost thou not hear the people's shouts. — "Hurrah! for the bride! " VI. " Thou art married. " So said the priest, — the old man, thou knowest, who loves me so much! Art thou then mine? Wilt thou be always at my side? Is then ac- complished the hope of my heart? But tell me, dear, why so sadly lookest thou at the ground, and sighest? What thought comes to abate the course of our joy? Thinkest thou perhaps of thy mother whom thou hast left alone? We will go to her, but do not weep any more. YII. Three days are passed, and he has not returned! Al- ready three days, three eternal days! and I am dying! My 159 treasure has told me nothing. At dawn he kissed me and quickly went away. Has he been to console his mother? But then he ought to return without delay! Pray, bright stars, bring him back to me. WiUiout my beloved I am failing, and I will preserve alive for him the only prifie of my life, with whom I fell in so great a love. VIII. Alas! What are these melancholy voices, — this sad sound of bells, — this grief which invades all the passers by? What wants this yet distant crowd? Somebody is dead. . . .and is accompanied to his home by weeping faces! Alas! is it true this my horrid vision? No, it cannot be! Eternal God, Thou art not an unjust punisher! My mind is raving, and my thoughts are food for my sorrows. IX. Yes, my love is dead! The colored cheeks are now pale and the heart is silent. The refulgent pujjil which before used to shine with divine ardor is now closed. God, why hast now taken him, when scarcely thou hadst grant- ed me his sublime love? Like a little flower, which in the winter appears waving, and soon after is leafless and dies, thou, my sweet-heart, hast passed away. X. I am wretched, sad and alone, because they have taken away my treasure, burying him under the green sod not far from thy altar, Virgin Mary. They have laid on the cofhn a few flowers, singing pious songs. Prepare for me in the same place the nuptial bed. I come to thee, my beloved, only comfort of my heart. United we shall spread our wings on the celestial shore,- the everlasting love. At the last tollijig of the sad bell, well known to the 160 village people, when the night has come, and the honest prayer of the peasant singing to the Virgin, ascends to the spheres, when in the heaven raises the placid moon, when the breezes become milder, and all around the uni- verse is silent, adoring the Creator, when, on the branches the feathered birds tranquilly hide their harmonious throaths in their winged arms, and in the sky the most distant worlds reappear, amidst the light vapors of the churchyard, a flame towers alone and trembling for a while, finally rests and waits. Not long after, a sad and harmonious song is heard, and in the meanwhile one can see alike flame coming toward the first, and both mingled in one embrace, sweetly diss- appear, like twins, destined to the same fate, who felt intense joy in meeting each other. The firm belief of the people is that the apparition is the souls of the two unhappy ones who prematurely died in such great grief, and, on account of this, the believer pained for so great amisfortune, bows, and weeping, says AVE MARIA. C. A. Morpurgo. DOTTOR T. ROSSINI, MEIDICO-OHIRURGO. Uffleio; 603 WAMkHINOTON »TKX:£T. Ore Hi Ufficio : Dalle ore 8, alle 9 a. m. Dalle ore 2 alle 4 p. m. A. PRIANI QUILICI, Levatriee. liAIJBBATA nell'auno 187S dalla Ra UIVIVERSITA' di 6E1VOTA. Consultazioni suUe Malattie Uterine, GURB5 SPEOIALI deU'Itterizia e Febbri Terzane DomiCiliO 732, VIA VALLEJO, fra Powelle Stockton, Ore d'Ufficio dalle 1.30, alle 3 p. in. N. 1600 VIA STOCKTON, opposta alia Sala Bersaglieri. aboratorio in preparazioni Chimiche. Specialta' Italiane, Americane « Francesi. Unico preparatore dell' Elixir di Wiqgers per tutte le affezioni catarrali. 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