« ElőzőTovább »
For the Philadelphia Visiter.
The Spirit of the Flowers.
It was a lovely eve in June—
We have furnished our readers, in the present number, with much original mat. ter. The last two acts of “The Regicide,” the tale from the French entitled “Pietro Marazini,” the poem “The Spirit of the I'lowers,” are each original. In addition to the above we have selected from the latest publications, some choice sketchaltogether, we flatter ourselves, a collection of more than ordinary interest. . i o
We return our ackowledgements to “Howard,” and solicit the future productions of his muse. - The Philadelphia Visiter, is subject only to newspaper postage, as it contains but one sheet. We give this notice, as we are informed that in some instances it is charged as containing two sheets.
The PHILADELPHIA VISITER AND PARLOUR COMPANION, is published every other Sayo, onfine white paper, each number will contain 24 large super-royal octavo pages, enveloped in a fine printed cover, forming at the end of the year a volume of nearly 600 pages, at the very low price
of $125 cts, per annum in advance. $200 will be
charged at the end of the year.
To visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds, n at .
For absent heaven—the bosom of a Friend."
will receive immediate attention.
The Dress is of pale fawn colour. The body is made nearly up to the throot, with
a collar of a new form (see plate). Tight sleeves, finished at the lower part by so ral rows of pointed ruffles, and surmoututed by a sleeve in the Spanish style, which is a large puff coming to the elbow, and divided in the length by small bands. The sleeve is ornamented with a fancy silk trimming; and a cord and tassel corresponding with the superb one that forms the belt. The cape is in the ‘pearant fashion,' of the
material of the diess, edged with a silk fringe. nnets of thick silk, of the colour
of the dress; a round and close brim, with a drawn lining of yellow crape; to
"crown is trimmed with ribbon only. n .
“My own love, I cannot bear to think of the solitary evening you will spend,” said the master of Stepney Castle, as he looked back into the room he was leaving crowded with every article of comfort and luxury that ingenuity could devise. “I do not think I can go after all,” added he, closing the door and walking back to his beautiful companion. “Now, Arnold, for shame; has it not been all settled? and you say you have not seen Mrs. Stepney for eight years; you must not be so undutiful to your rich Indian aunt: and besides, you have never left me since We were since we have been together —nearly a year! Why, you will grow weary of me at this rate.” And Jane shook back the long ringlets from her face, and fixed her fond dark eyes on his. "Weary 1 my Jane,” said her lover; and so deeply was the impossibility impressed on his own mind, that he did not even attempt to persuade her of it.
Confiding—loving—Jane neither expected that he would devote his whole time to her, nor did she imagine that, by being less in his company, she should lose har place in his heart. Alas! she forgot that while she sat alone, dreaming of the hours she had spent, or hoped to spend with her idol, other hopes other pursuits animated him: other voices engaged his attention, and the solitude of Stepney Castle was exchanged for the society of the gay, the witty and the noble. It was one bright summer's morn.
ing, when Sir Arnold was expected home, after an absence of three weeks, (the longest she could remember,) that the first flash of that light broke upon her, to which she might never close her eyes again. She was concluding her toilette, unconsciously perhaps, with more care than usual; and as she sat before the large mirror, twining those long bright curls round her fingers, she thought over all the days, weeks, and months, that had rolled so rapidly away since she came to Stepney Castle:–the mornings of study, the beautitul twilights the red sunsets on the waters, gilding the ‘sails of the little boat in which she and Arnold used to glide along; and, as she involuntarily compared his unremiting attention then, with the gradual change of habits which had stolen upon him, the sudden conviction of his belonging, as it were to another world, (a world from which a strong fascination had lured him for a time, but to which he must return,) struck on her heart. The long mass of hair she had begun to braid fell on her shoulders; and as her eyes encountered her own image in the glass, she smiled bitterly at the pale fixed horror which, for a moment, overspread her features, A ciscumstance occurred soon afterwards unimportant in itself, but increased in magnitude by the disturbance of her mind. Sir Arnold had returned; and in the evening, while he lay stretched on a sofa near the long windows that opened on
the lawn, she sat on a low stool by his side, endeavouring to amuse and interest him. Perhaps her efforts were the more unsuccessful, because she was inwardly dispirited: be that as it may, Sir Arnold suddenly raised his head, and, in the midst of one of those sweet bursts of low laughter which he had so often sworn were music to his soul, exclaimed,— “Don’t, Jane; you weary me.” Had a thunder-bolt fallen, it could not have had a more .."; effect on her mind. For a moment she sat mute and motionless then, wildly raising and flinging herself on her knees by him, while the long curls of her bowed head floated over his breast, she said in a tone of agony, “Arnold, O Arnold, do not forsake me!”—“ Poh Jane, you are growing peevish,” said her lover, as he rose angrily, and left the apartment. Jane passed her fingers hur. riedly across her brow, as if she sought to persuade herself it was only a dream : but in vain—it was all over: the fearful consciousness was in her heart, that she
depended not on the esteem and respect
of the bbject of her affection, but on a feel. ing that circumstances might alter, caprice lessen, and time annihilate, the consciousness that bound her by no tie but that of love—Arnold was weary of her From that time a restless anxiety took the place of that confidence in his attachment which had made her so happy. could she have "read Arnold's thoughts better, she might have retained her influence, at least for a time; but even her love injured her. Timid in expressing her feelings and ideas to one whose mighty mind seemed to her to have the
ower of comprehending all things, she always felt, and forced her lover to remember, that they were not equals; and often did Arnold decide, with a feeling of disappointment; that she was cold or dull, when, could she but have given utterance to all that died upon her tongue, his heart and imagination would equally have decided in her favour. His vague hopes of educating her as the being he could love, of imbuing her with his own principles, and teaching her to seize with readi.
mess his favourite theories, were crushed
from the belief that he had over-rated the powers of her mind. Perhaps, had she o instead to play the harp, and
sing his favourite Italian airs, he might
Arnold Stepney entered the library at the Castle one morning, and paused for a few minutes when he had closed the door. IIe looked to the farther end of the room, as if to assure himself that the object of his search was there, and then advanced. There was a hesitation in his naturally firm and proud step, of which he himself was perhaps unconscious, but which caught the quick ear of his companion instantly; and as she turned and rose from the little reading table, there was an illconcealed expression of fear on her countenance Sir Arnold's manner had, for some time past, been so cold, that it had increased her natural timidity and reserve and she allowed him to sit down by her without daring to ask what had vexed or agitated him. The long silence which followed alarmed her : she raised her eyes, and encountered those of her lover fixed sadly upon her. He turned away and opened the book she had been reading. It was one of those he had given her at Marsden. and the sudden recol. lection nearly unmanned him. With a strong effort he broke silence: “Jane, I have something to communicate which I fear will give you pain—something I thought it wiser, kinder, to tell you than to write; will you hear it patiently " She did not answer: her gaze was riveted on his face with an expression of wild inquiry, and her parted lips stiffened and grew pale. “ To write ” thought she, “does he already image to himself our eternal separation ? God help me! God forgive me !” Sir Arnold paused, and shrunk from the expression of her eyes: she saw this, and, suddenly flinging herself on his neck and burying her face on his shoulders, she murmured “JWow, Arnold—now, dear Arnold, tell me—I will bear it, whatever it is.” With a grasp that trembled even in its strength' Sir Arnold unclasped the hands that clung around him, and stood up. “Jane, I–I am going to be married. I am going to be married. I am going to be married and we must part. I have provided for you to the best of my ability; and, I trust if ever you want aid, of any sort, you will write to me. I will always befriend you Jane; I will always—Jane—Jane" interrupted he in a tone half soothing, half reproachful, as the unhappy girl sunk at
his feet, and kneeling, with her clasped hands pressed hard upon her bosom, vainly endeavored to utter some words of entreaty. Could she have poured forth the wild appeal that rose and swelled in her heart, its passionate eloquence might have made Sir Arnold pause before he for ever relinquished his claim on her love; but even then, even in that moment of overwhelming agony, she felt the spell that bound her in his presence, and remained mutely kneeling, fill her limbs slackened, and her pulse grew cold, and Sir Arnold listed her unconscious form and placed it on the sofa. It was from the old clergyman whom we have already mentioned, that Sir Arnold Stepney received the last farewell of his once beloved Jane. It was very short. “In refusing the provision you have generously assigned me, I am actuated by no motive of pride; but by the conviction that, while I am young, I should seek to support myself, rather than de. pend on one to whom I no longer belong. I am now glad that I could not say all I wished the day you told me of your marriage: it would have given pain, without altering a re-olution which must have been formed long before you broke it to me. “Farewell, dear Arnold! I am sensible that, in all the past, I have only myself to blame; and that God may bless you for ever, and that she you have chosen may love you as I have loved you, is the earnest prayer of your unhappy Jane.” For more tha: six weeks Jane remained at Stepney, in the house of the kind old rector, confined to her bed with a low fever. At the end of that time, feeling herself gradually getting better, she renewed her solicitations that he would endeavor to procure for her the situation of governess, or bonne, in some respectable family. This he promised to do; and after some trouble, and many inquiries after situations, for which Jane was peculiarly disqualified, from her ignorance of the usual accomplishments, it was decided that she should accept the charge of two little boys, from four to six years old who had just returned with their father from the Continent. The last evening she