เ read it in alternate verses, as he used to do in almost a whisper, but none so sharp as with his mother when a child, but never since. this! At last, catching at a straw, it occurHe had never wished to do so with any one, red to me, perhaps you were not angry, perbut this evening I reminded him of his mother haps you would forgive me. Was I wrong? as she used to look on Sunday evenings in Will you forgive me?' 'I was never angry,' her white dress, and as he pictured her an but as I said the words my face grew scarlet, angel in heaven. Oh, Jane, I am ashamed feeling what I had said. Then he came closer, to repeat all this! I asked him which was and said in a tone so soft, so earnest, so his mother's favorite psalm, which we read, troubled, 'But do you know I cannot stop and then mine. Between whiles he told me here, I cannot call you Miss Woodville again? much of his mother; 'Pardon me,' he said, Must I go away, and never see you more?' but she was my bosom friend, the only one My heart beat so fast I could not speak, inI have had all my life, until- -,' he did not deed I could not! Did I terrify you? does finish his sentence, and we sat silent, yet we it grieve you so much to bid me go? I will seemed better companions than when we never pain you more. God bless you, Susan.' were talking. At last he spoke, 'How happy The unspeakable sorrow in his voice made we are, Susan!' Oh, Jane, what strange me brave against every thing. Stay,' I happiness, and yet what trouble, sprang up whispered, call me Susan, call meI did in my heart to hear him call me Susan; not say your Susan, but he understood me, you know I have been 'Miss Woodville' to and he said oh, Jane! I can tell you no every one all my life, and he said it so ten-more, but you will believe now how all trouble derly. Yet I burst into tears-did you ever seems to have gone from us forever." hear of any thing so silly? Mr. Frankland I could, indeed. But my story has run asked very gravely, Are you angry with me, such a length, that I must not linger any Miss Woodville?' I could not utter a single more on this humble, happy courtship. Mrs. syllable, but only cried the more. No won- Dashwood made no objection to the match, der he soon rose, and went away. Then all further than sneering at the "poor, romantic was worse than before, I cried twice as much simpletons." She, however, expressed her to think how unkindly I had behaved. A whole fortnight passed away, and he never once came to see me. Oh, how sick I grew, evening after evening, listening for the footsteps which never came! "At last I determined to try to do my duty and forget my hopes; it was but going back to where I was before. Ah, that weary going back! I took up the arithmetic book one evening when recollections happened to be very troublesome, and set myself to prepare some sums, for they would require all my thoughts. The door opened, I glanced up, there was Mr. Frankland! Jane, you never saw that expression of his, so grave and determined. Miss Woodville, I must have some conversation with you; will you listen to me?' My heart was in my throat, but I conquered my foolish tremors, and answered, as bold as a lion, that I was glad to see him. I have been a very unhappy man for the last fortnight, Miss Woodville; do you care to hear wherefore?' These words, so low and grave, made me tremble like an aspen leaf. Yes, if you please,' was all the reply I could frame. Do you remember that I called you Susan?' here his voice shook. You appeared offended. I believed that, by grasp ing too much for a poor lame fellow like me, I had lost the friendship that made me so happy. You wept, your gentle heart bled to give me pain, and I resolved I would never bring another tear into those dear eyes, but compelled myself to stay away from you. I have borne many bitter trials,' he went on, dislike at long engagements in her house, and the lovers were not unwilling to hasten matters. The marriage was to take place in six weeks. Mr. Frankland had a small legacy laid by, which he took to buy the furniture, though his aunt pronounced it "too ludicrous!" Miss Woodville's little savings procured her wardrobe, the house linen, and'a tea service. How she managed to get so much out of her savings, I could never understand! Certainly her trousseau (as she always called it) was plainer than some housemaids', and she had a happy art of convincing herself that whatever she had, she really liked best. Simplicity was so much more elegant than finery. Yet I suspected, had her means been different, she would have liked what was pretty as well as any little bride, so I made her an elegant wedding bonnet, instead of the much-lauded puritan straw. The present was received with sparkling eyes, and was the sole marriage gift they had, I believe, save sundry clever pincushions made by her little pupils who loved her dearly. The Miss Dashwoods were really "very sorry," but they were too poor, with all their gayeties, to afford presents. I dressed the bride (and very sweet and pretty had she grown in my eyes) in her white muslin dress, and beautiful bouquet of hot-house flowers given by Mr. Tom Dashwood, who had taken some interest in the love affair of the "poor devils," as he called them. Mrs. Frankland has made me promise to come the very first spare afternoon I should have after her marriage to drink tea in her loyed by some little care. Theirs was but new house. This was situated in a small a narrow income, and his manly, protecting row in the suburbs. I should have fixed love chafed at the fear of privation for his upon it by the new paint, the fresh muslin | Susan. But as Susan presently cheered blind and geranium in the window, had not the little bride run out herself to welcome me. She was all bright with blushes and smiles, and I seemed to have made her so happy by coming, that a sort of complacent feeling stole over me, as if I had done something very kind in coming to take my tea. With what pretty vanity and delight did she not show me over her house, the air with which she styled the little front parlor "the drawing-room," the tiny lobby the hall," and the little grass-plot and one flower-bed "our garden." Remember, she never had had a home, and this ordinary little house looked to her a palace! Blissful tears were in her eyes as she spoke of her husband, how good, how kind, how clever he was. What an exquisite joy it was both to him and her to be really loved, and find themselves of consequence to a single living crea ture. away every cloud, it was impossible to be miserable about one who was so perfectly contented herself. And then came the prospect of a possible addition to Mr. Frankland's salary. It was but ten pounds a year it must be confessed, but had you heard his wife talk of "the addition to our income" and "our excellent prospects," you would have rated it at a hundred pounds or so. However, she was an excellent manager, and every week since her marriage, besides a trifle for charity, had laid by what now amounted to a nice little sum for the new expenses. Only those who have had a narrow income can estimate the comfort of a saving like this. Mrs. Frankland expected her confinement about Christmas, so I went to her in November to lend a hand to the work. Our materials being poor, in spite of Susan's stripping off every bit of lace she possessed, we had plenty of scope for our ingenuity to give beauty to our work by dint of scalloping, stitching and satin stitching, and very proud were we of our creations. Long before we had finished our conversation, Mr. Frankland came home. He had become quite another person, even his lameness seemed lessened, he walked erect, his I promised to keep house while Susan was plaintive smile was exchanged for one as to be ill, she had such confidence in my bright as his little wife's whom he bantered" making George comfortable," and I was so fondly. Tea having been brought in by to be god-mother. Mr. Frankland had the one servant, Betsey, we had a very socia- thought it proper, in case the child should ble meal, though the cakes were of a most be a girl, to request Mrs. Dashwood to be extraordinary kind, invented by Mrs. Frank- the other god-mother. The tone of the reland, out of dough, by the help of currants fusal, more than the refusal itself, wounded and a shaping wine-glass. Her husband Mrs. Frankland for her husband's sake. thought they came from the confectioner's-"George was Mr. Dashwood's own nephew, what could she do that was not best? Ah full as well-born, and had behaved to him happy little bride, sharing the prerogative of royalty that cannot do wrong! After tea, Mr. Frankland showed me a present he said he had made himself, the manuscript of his wife's poetry prettily bound. Even the minnow-fry of poets have their vanity, as could be seen in the little woman's gratified smile. In her last sonnet upon her new home, I, who was not in love, could not repress a smile at the epithets, "rural shades," "rosy bowers," and "verdant meads," bestowed on the little pert brick house, the broken ground opposite, and the little flower court with its white-washed wall. Mr. Frankland, not liking perhaps to seem deluded before a third person, likewise demurred here a little. "Well, well!" he concluded, "it is well that a poor man's wife should be an alche mist." Two happy years passed away, and then there came on this united couple a promise of the one only blessing wanting: Mrs. Frankland was about to become a mother. Her husband's happiness was, at first, al better than his own sons." Then, for the first time she told me that Mrs. Dashwood had never been to see her, and even her dear little pupils had never been allowed to come. "I would not have done them any harm," said she; "surely I am not more vulgar now, than when with them all day." When our work was over, I had an engagement before Christmas at a village some eight miles off, where lived two families of my patrons. I was to be a fortnight away. The young ladies of the two families were to go to their first ball, and much afraid were they I should never finish in time. All my work, however, was completed, to the last stitch, before even the eventful evening arrived, and, having no more to do, I sat down to rest myself, and took up the paper with the curiosity one always has when from home. I turned to the births, deaths, and marriages; not a name I knew. Stop, there are a few more deaths over the page—what is this ?-who is dead in Lamb Street? "On Sunday, the 27th instant, at her residence, "Yes," replied he, "I never looked for that." Lamb Street, Susan, the beloved wife of George Frankland, Esq." This must be some mistake; sick and trembling I re-read How could my grief be loquacious, when the sentence: "Susan, the beloved wife "his was so quiet? I went to see him as soon those vain, fond words to spell out to the as I could. I stood on the steps; she had world how dear, how very dear the being first opened that door to me. Betsey let me that is lost! But, oh it was not my Susan, in, and took me into the parlor. I motioned my kind, healthy, happy Susan! No, it must to her to sit down. We both began to cry. be some one weary and sick of the world We sat thus crying some time, when the that Death had taken to his cold bed, not the front door was opened with a latch key, and sunny Susan who had kissed me so warmly Mr. Frankland walked in, too suddenly for a fortnight ago. And this news was a week us to check our tears. He looked from one old. But there it was, Susan, the beloved to the other, there came a quivering movewife of George Frankland, Esq." She was ment in his features, and he walked away as dead! Susan was dead! I should never see though to hang up his hat. Presently he her any more! No, never any more, that returned, and gave me a kind welcome; you kept ringing in my ears. see he was anxious to greet me as his Susan would have done. 66 But what was my loss to the husband's? What would become of him? A lonely, despised man from his birth, a Spring had suddenly burst upon him, and, when he had poured forth his soul in hymns of praise, suddenly all was taken from him! A younger, gayer, prosperous man might revive and marry again, but, poor, lame, and dejected, who would love him now that Susan was gone? How was he to be resigned? I feared to see Mr. Frankland. As I returned to Levery street, the inn-door where Susan had stood watching me off, brought her and my sorrow to my mind. The street where we stopped was busy, crowded, and steep, the east wind blew cuttingly up it. Cold and dreary, I felt keenly the being jostled by passengers, as I stood waiting for my box. Suddenly, I saw Mr. Frankland toiling wearily up the steep street among the crowd. He seemed to walk lamer, and leant heavily upon his stick against the buffeting of the wind. I shall not forget how plaintive his face looked through all the sweetness of his expression. My first impulse was to retreat; how could he bear to see me, and here? But he had observed me. "Jane," he said, and held out his hand. He looked me full in the face. Utter loneliness and patient sorrow filled that mute appeal with unspeakable pathos. Tears gushed from my eyes: he wished nothing more than tears shed for love of his Susan. At last he said gently, "We have had a great loss!" "Oh sir," cried I, passionately, "it is too great to be told!" 66 Betsey soon brought in the tea; we sat down to it, but I could not eat. "I see, I see," said he, quietly, "nothing tastes as when she made it." Thinking it my duty to divert his thoughts, I began to talk on various matters. He answered me kindly, but I saw that his thoughts were elsewhere. His eyes were fixed on the vacant place, more intent on summoning back the shade of his Susan than any thing this world could afford. At last he said abruptly, "How pretty she used to look, Jane, pouring out the tea." "Ah, yes, sir! she used to sit just here." "No," he replied, pointing to a spot a few inches lower down, "it was just here, that she might see the trees in Mr. Jones' garden; then suddenly breaking down, "Ŏh, my God! could she not have been spared me a little longer?" This was his first and last ungoverned emotion so far as I could witness. After this evening I often went to see Mr. Frankland, and his Susan was ever our favorite theme. In time he became a wealthy man, his talents gaining him a partnership. But he never left the humble house in Lamb Street, or married, though I have credibly heard that more than one handsome lady had hinted he would not be repulsed. No one who had been kind to his Susan did he ever forget, not even the cousin who had given her the wedding bouquet. After an honored life, he slept at last in her grave. I have often thought of the glad meeting awaiting that constant heart in another world! C. O. From the Saturday Review. of our own numerous and well-appointed armies struggling slowly and noisily through the tangled wilderness of South Africa in the Caffre wars. Of course the tribes of Florida have been subdued, as the strength of the Caffres has been broken; but at what cost? It is, however, consolatory to find that the difficulties of a contest between a disciplined army and savages are much the same everywhere. We regret that the American who was said to have wished to get a contract to finish the last Caffre war did not make a similar offer to his own government. THIS is a fresh and pleasant book, and we gladly welcome it as a proof that at least one American is capable of writing without any serious offences against good taste. It contains delightful descriptions of the scenery and sports of the Southern States; and if the picture which it draws of society be, as we think it is, in the main truthful, the lighthearted negroes who follow the chase and prepare the hunters' meals deserve to be set against the White Slaves and Uncle Toms whose mental and bodily sufferings have so This book is full of amusing stories, the deeply affected the British public. The ac- style of which is even more humorous than count it gives of the long war between the the incidents. Let us try to convey some United States and the Indians of Florida, idea of one called "The Panther's Cub," deserves especial praise for the candor with which is told after supper in a settler's cabin. which it discloses both the violence and Mike, who like some great sportsman of our treachery of the American officers towards own country is very taciturn, has remarked, the Indians, and the awkwardness and tardi- in an interval of smoking, "Painter is an ness of the American soldiers employed in oncommon onsartain varmint." Hereupon hunting down a wily and active enemy. It he is pressed to tell the tale of how he would have been impossible to describe in missed a panther the year before. "Wall,” more severe terms than are to be found in this he begins, "it was airly mornin' when I book the slow and cumbrous movements of started out after that air painter." He saw our own troops endeavoring to overtake the no signs all the first day, nor the second. Caffres. The writer represents himself as By nightfall the hunter had returned nearly "Yowler and I lay wandering in Florida during the war in com- to his starting-point. pany with a famous white hunter called In- down together, and were doin' some tall jun Mike, who reminds us of that favorite of sleepin." The cry of the panther waked boyhood, the Long Rifle of Cooper's tales. him, but the beast did not come near. The sagacity and beautiful shooting of this white indian make him the most prominent character of the story, and as soon as we become acquainted with him, we feel quite at ease for his companions amid the bands of artful and murderous Seminoles who are traversing the country all around them. It is a great merit of the book that the reader becomes keenly interested in the adventures, although a very small experience of this kind of novel would suffice to teach him how they will end. Mike steals into the camp of a dreaded chief called Tiger Tail, takes away from it a scalp, and cuts his well-known mark upon a canoe. Next day Mike and his companions meet, on the St. John's river, six barge-loads of soldiers bound on a foray. "Hollo!" cries Mike; "goin' a fishin'?" In answer to this satirical salutation, the of ficer in command asks Mike how soon he thinks the expedition will overtake Tiger Tail. The reply is "Never." The officer calls after him," Come and guide us, and you will be well paid." Mike answers, "No, you're too many of you: 'taint no use.' Nothing more severe than this was ever said Wild Sports in the South; or, the Camp-Fires of the Everglades. By Charles E. Whitehead, translator of Gerard the Lion-Killer." New York: Derby and Jackson. London: Sampson Low, Son, and Co. 1860. "Mornin' came on, and when it bruck 66 ence, have time, for jist then I heerd a thump in the "I was goin' on to say more, but I didn't bushes, and the she-panther cum in as ef she was flyin'. She won't tree, and she goes in a straight painter cumin' like greased lightnin'." He line to 'tother eend of creation, and now walked slowly into the ring of seated Inshe's goin' back agin." He took another dians, laid before them the cub rolled up in log and ferried back. Then he found where his coat, and sat down as far off as conventhe panther had lain down, but there was no ient. He announced a present to the chief trace of a cub. "It tuck just a minute of and— thinking, and it was all clare." The panther had littered two cubs near where she was seen in the morning. She knew the place was unsafe so she determined to carry her cubs into the swamp beyond the river. She made straight for the swamp with one of them, and hid it, returned on her track, hoping to mislead her pursuer, and at a safe time to carry her other cub into the same swamp. "Soon as I had reasoned this out, I struck for that ere swamp straight." He found the cub and tied it up in his hunting coat. "When I got all this done, I thought of the old painter, and what she would say to me when she come home with her 'tother young'un. The more I calkerlated, the more it seemed onpleasant; for though the varmint was so perlite when she was outwitting me, I reckoned she wouldn't be so much so when the boot got on 'tother leg. Fust I thought I would get out of that air windfall, and wait for the old lady on the bank of the river, whar we could have a clare field, fur I knew it was sartain she would be arter me, and I'd a leetle reether the fight wouldn't be fit out in that swamp. So I put out for the river, and when I got thar, took a clare spot and putttin' the cub down for the stakes, sat down to wait for the other party." 66 The sun had gone down. The dog grew restless and watched the swamp as if he knew what was coming. The frogs were heard, and the owls and cranes, but I couldn't hear any painter, and accordin' to my calculations there would be some howlin' when she cum home, and found her pappoose bagged." It got so dark that Mike could not see the sights on his rifle :— "I thought it all over to myself. I own up I felt kind a mean like. This stealin' young cubs out their nests is onnateral any way. . . . I'd given a bearskin to put that cub back, and then have fit it out with a clare conscience. But it could'nt be done no how. All that's left when the deal is made is to stand up to your hand." Just then he saw beyond the river the light of an Indian camp. It was part of Tiger Tail's band. They were friendly then, but "nasty varmints, worsen painters any day." However, they could help the fight, so Mike paddled over once more, looking round once or twice to see if the panther was not climbing on the log behind him. He got over all right, and yer better believe I didn't let grass grow under me." As he came up to the camp, he looked back, and "where the sandy bank lay against the water, where it was brightened by the sunset, I see the she The lousy devils rolled over like prairie dogs, the pot upsot, the coals flew around, the squaws yelled, the dogs pitched in, and afore any one could get out his knife, that painter did some tall tearin'. They rolled over and over, yellin', bitin,' swearin'. Some got hit fur the painter fur they couldn't see whar to strike, and thar was no room for shootin'. Lord, Colonel, it would hur done you good to have seen that air scrimmage. I got behind a tree, and larfed so it hurt me; and when I see they had well nigh fit out, Yowler and me, thinkin' they might blame us, stepped out, and I hain't seen them Injuns nur that air painter since." There is another and even a better story about a panther and a parson getting shut up together in a pig-pen on a dark winter night, on the coast, when, between the noise of the wind and the surf, " you couldn't a heerd a neighbor askin' you to take a drink, and I reckon that is what a man hears quickest." A hunter is outside the pen preparing to shoot the panther, and listening to the ejaculations of the divine "Just then the doctor broke out afresh, half a screechin', half a prayin'; he seemed to be kind 'o confessin' to the painter, for he was goin' over what a sinner he had been, and talking about Daniel in the lion's den, and the sword of the Lord, and somethin' about Gideon, and Samson and the young lion; and yer never did hear a critter get out so much that was pious in so short a time. I think if I wanted to convart a sinner I'd shut him up with a painter, I would." The parson hoped, as he prayed, that the panther, who was nearly as uncomfortable and as noisy in a different way as himself, would jump out of the pen by a hole in the roof, and leave him among the gentle pigs. But the panther tried the leap, and failed: and then the parson forgot his praying, and hollowed lustily to the hunter to come and help him. "He was like the old woman who said she trusted in Providence, when her horse ran away with her, till the britchen broke, and then she guv up." We rather think that this must have been the same parson of the Southern States of whose spiritual gifts we have somewhere heard a very emphatic commendation. It should be known that in the south the ruder settlers have a single coarse form of speech which supplies every variety of the uses of a superlative. |