Graham's Magazine, Vol XXXIII, No. 6, December 1848

"Why are we here alone?" she asked, seeming to realize, and be startled at the idea, for the first time; "where is the friend who introduced you – where is Master Granby?"

"He will be here anon, pretty Margaret," replied the king, "his own affairs have called him hence for a time. Heed him not, though, my sweet trembler, my Peri of perfection, my Houri of Paradise! thou art safe with me, and with me thou shalt hie away to regions where love will smile upon thee, and gold will pour in perpetual showers in thy lap."

The monarch became so inexpressibly tender that the maiden, in her own defence, was compelled to scream. After a moment's lapse an approaching step upon the stairs warned the precipitate lover to defer the prosecution of his suit to a more auspicious occasion. He hastened to the door, but, to his astonishment, found it fastened, and on trying the window, that, too, had been externally cared for.

"De Grammont has betrayed me!" he exclaimed, as he drew a concealed pistol from his belt and prepared to confront the coming danger.

His apprehensions, were, however, groundless, for the only person who entered the room was a tall, athletic looking old woman, in her night dress, wearing a remarkably heavy pair of shoes. She placed her candle upon the table and walked deliberately up to where the young girl was sitting. Seeing her she started back in astonishment.

"Are you here, Margaret?" she exclaimed; "beshrew me, I thought thee asleep two good hours ago, instead of throwing thy company away upon a young man, and a stranger. Away with you, mistress, to your bed! You are unworthy to be called your father's daughter."

"Nay, good dame, be not so hard with pretty Margaret," said Charles, as he saw the young girl leaving the room with her handkerchief to her eyes.

"Out upon thee, sirrah, for a knave!" retorted the old woman; "I'll see directly who thou art, sir jack-a-napes. To thy chamber, Miss, and thank Heaven for thy father's misfortune, which prevented his being here this night."

When the girl had gone, she took up the light, and approaching the king, scrutinized him closely from head to foot.

"Well, mother," he said, as he suffered her to proceed with the examination, "find you aught here to fear?"

She was gazing at the moment at his face, and she started back as she spoke.

"Much, much to fear!" she replied, "for I see here the features of a king! When we find the wolf in the sheepfold we may slay him, but who dare approach the 'lion!'

The king was filled with amazement at being recognised; but without suffering his surprise to be evident, he endeavored to ridicule the assertion.

"True, dame," he remarked, "they call me the king of good fellows; but as for a lion, the comparison is somewhat strained; it would be more apt with a longer-eared animal, for suffering myself to be trapped thus sillily."

The old woman seized his hand, and after pointing to the royal signet, dropped it.

"Charles Stuart, King of England, thou canst not deceive me!"

"Faith," said the king, laughing, "methinks this is another astrologer in petticoats!"

"And is it to his king," exclaimed the old woman, reproachfully, "that the unfortunate Colonel Boynton is indebted for a base attempt upon his daughter's honor, at the very moment when he himself is the tenant of a prison for having, by his loyalty, impoverished himself! Is this the reward for the blood he has shed, and the honorable wounds he has received in fighting your battles, and for hastening to offer you his last penny in a foreign land, even when his own family was persecuted and destitute at home!"

"Colonel Boynton!" cried Charles, as the old woman concluded; "surely not the brave Boynton who served so nobly at Edge Hill, Naseby, and Worcester, and who came to relieve his royal master's wants when he was a wanderer and an outcast among strangers? This cannot be his child, nor can he be living. They told me years since, when I caused inquiry to be made for him, that he was dead."

"He knew not that his king had ever sought for him," the old woman said; "he thought his services and his sacrifices in the past had been willfully forgotten, and his proud spirit scorned to thrust unpleasant recollections upon you."

"Poor Boynton! poor Boynton!" exclaimed Charles, "this has, indeed, been ingratitude to one of the most deserving and faithful of my subjects. Said you, my good woman, that he is now in a prison, and for debt?"

"Ay, my good lord."

"There, there!" said Charles, hastily handing her a weighty purse, "see that he is relieved at once – this night, if it be possible – and bid him in the morning wait upon his king, whose greatest regret is that he has not met with him sooner."

"Will your majesty write your request for him to come to the palace? he may be somewhat skeptical of your royal solicitude."

"Assuredly," replied the king, as he took up a pen from the table and drew a sheet of paper toward him; "and do you also bear him company."

"Add, then, if your majesty pleases, that you desire the bearer also to appear."

The king looked at her an instant, then did as she suggested.

"And now, dame," said he, "relieve me from my durance, and allow me to depart."

She hastily unfastened the door, and the king passed out. "Be sure," said he, as he lingered a moment at the threshold, "that you bring my pretty Margaret with you; her fortunes, too, must be advanced at court."

The old woman, after carefully fastening the door, threw herself into a chair, and gave vent to a hearty burst of laughter.

"There, Nancy, you can come down," exclaimed the familiar voice of Rochester, as the figure of the quondam Margaret appeared again upon the stairs. "Thou art a good girl, and I will make thee a capital actress yet. Old Rowley has again been outwitted!"

CHAPTER VII

The next morning three strangers – two old men and a young girl – were admitted to the palace of Whitehall, on showing the king's order to that effect, but only one of the men was immediately conducted to the king's presence.

The Count de Grammont, (who had made his peace for his seeming desertion of the previous evening,) Lord Arlington, and Sir Charles Sedly, were with the king when Colonel Boynton was announced.

The old man knelt at the monarch's feet, and taking his hand, kissed it fervently.

"Rise, my gallant old friend, rise!" said Charles, assisting him as he spoke; "it gives us joy to see one so faithful, and so long neglected, once more near our person. Our greatest grief is that so tried a servant, and so brave an officer as Colonel Boynton should have been in adversity and we not know even of his existence; but you shall be cared for, my old friend, and the future shall prove to you that Charles knows how to be grateful to those who have served him when he most needed services."

"Your majesty is over bountiful to one who wronged you by supposing you capable of injustice. For this I crave your royal pardon, and also for another and more heinous offence."

"Thou hast it," replied the king, "even if the offence be treason against ourself."

"It is the offence of having imposed upon my sovereign," exclaimed a voice that made the king start, while Rochester, ridding himself of his disguise, knelt before him.

"By my life, it is Rochester!" cried the king, starting back from the prostrate earl, while every one present, except De Grammont, was filled with amazement at the sudden transformation of Colonel Boynton.

Charles was at first disposed to laugh, but recollecting his outraged dignity, he restrained himself, and addressed his banished courtier in terms of considerable severity.

"This presumption, my Lord Rochester," said he, "ill becomes you; nor can the insult to your king be easily atoned for."

"Pardon me, my liege – " Rochester commenced.

"By what authority," said the king, interrupting him, "have you ventured to intrude yourself upon our presence, contrary to our express commands?"

"Simply by this, my gracious liege," replied the earl, handing the paper he had received the previous evening, and pointing to the word bearer.

"That, sir, was given to another, and a worthier person than the Earl of Rochester."

"I might, your majesty," said Rochester, lowering his voice, and approaching nearer to the king, "defend myself from the insinuation, but I am prevented by a powerful reason, for, when we find the wolf in the sheepfold, we may slay him, but who dare approach the lion."

Charles was astonished at hearing the old woman's words repeated, but the fear of his own exposure somewhat mollified his anger.

"So, then, thou wert thyself in masquerade?" he said; "and with whom hast thou dealt to put this cheat upon me."

"I deal with the stars," replied the earl, assuming as nearly as possible the tone of the astrologer, "and they are unerring guides."

"Odd-fish, my lord," exclaimed Charles, now laughing heartily, "and were you the necromancer, too?"

"And Colonel Boynton, too, my liege; and all for the purpose of inducing your majesty to keep your royal word, which said, 'When Rochester's wit is seductive enough to induce his king, personally, to wait upon him three several times, or to command his presence at court, then he may return.'"

"I think, my lords, I have been fairly caught," said the king, smiling, and speaking to those around him, "and to keep my word inviolate, must permit Rochester's return."

"To prove that I am not ungrateful for your majesty's goodness," observed the earl, "I am prepared to produce the objects of your solicitude – Colonel Boynton and his fair daughter – they wait your royal pleasure."

On the introduction of the venerable colonel and the pretty Margaret, the king whispered to Rochester, "Surely, my lord, this is not the girl I saw last night?"

"No, your majesty," replied the earl, "she was a pupil of my own."

Charles, in a few words, satisfied Colonel Boynton that the neglect of his faithful services had been owing entirely to misapprehension. He gave him at once a position which secured him against future reverses; nor was it long before his interesting daughter found a husband worthy of her choice.

Rochester's Protean exploits afforded amusement to the court for some time. Charles bore the raillery he heard around him philosophically, and good humoredly admitted that he had been completely outwitted.

LOVE THY MOTHER, LITTLE ONE

BY RICHARD COE, JR

Love thy mother, little one,Love her tenderly;Clasp thy little arms around her,For a holy tie hath bound her —Bound her close to thee!Love thy mother, little one,Love her tenderly!Love thy mother, little one,Love her earnestly;Gaze into her eyes, and see there —All that thou couldst hope to be there —Warmest love for thee!Love thy mother, little one,Love her earnestly!Love thy mother, little one,Love her fervently;By thy couch she kneeleth nightly,And, with hands enclaspéd tightly,Prayeth, love, for thee!Love thy mother, little one,Love her fervently!Love thy mother, little one,Love her tenderly;Clasp thy little arms around her,For a holy tie hath bound her —Bound her close to thee!Love thy mother, little one,Love her tenderly!

THE EARLY CALLED

A SKETCH

BY MRS. FRANCES B. M. BROTHERSON

And were not these high words to flowFrom woman's breaking heart?Through all that night of bitterest woShe bore her lofty part;But, oh! with such a glazing eye,With such a curdling cheek —Love, love! of mortal agonyThou – only thou shouldst speak. Mrs. Hemans.As their hearts – their way was one,And cannot be divided. Joanna Baillie.

A child of seven summers reclined upon a couch. Suffering and disease had so enfeebled his naturally fragile frame, that his thin hand could scarcely sustain a bunch of roses, which his young sister Lillias had culled for him, from his own rose-tree; the tree that it had been his joy and pride to attend to, when in health. He hard marked, delighted, the first green leaf that in the spring-time burst from its wintry repose, and very joyously he clapped his little hands when a streak of crimson peered out from the first bud. He dreamed not, amid his happiness, that the Angel of Death should steal around him before its bright hue faded, nor that others should bud and blossom – to wither upon his grave. Even thus it was.

Willie M – was a child of unusual feeling and sensibility, his young face often shadowing forth strange, sad feelings – feelings that seldom exist, save in the heart of maturer years. I have seen him gaze upward to the bright blue sky with delight, as though his childish ken could pierce the clouds, and commune with the intelligences of Heaven; and a flower – a murmuring rill – a boundless flow of water – silvery stars – and gentle winds – failed not to arouse enthusiastic emotions in his young heart, at which many marveled. "None knew him but to love him," and in his walks with "dear papa, sweet mamma, and darling Lillias," many an eye followed him with blessings. "Ah," said an aged one, whom he had cheered with sunny smiles and artless conversation, "few will be the years of Willie M – ; he is one of God's angels lent to earth!" and her tears fell at the prophetic thought that even she would live to see his winsome wee face hid beneath the coffin's lid.

A group of young children stood around his bed, gazing with fearful wonder on the change that had been wrought in their loved playmate. He had begged of his mamma to send for them, that he might see them once more; and his large, spiritual eye had looked its welcome on each of that little band. Once he had hunted with them the early violet in the glade and dingle; once the echoes of his voice rang merrily out as they bounded over the greensward in chase of the bright, illusive butterfly – and his heart grew sad as he felt that he should be with them no more. A little hand was laid caressingly upon his head – it was Gary Lincoln, and as he turned around to look upon her he saw that her eyes were full of tears. "Why do you cry, Gary?" said he. "Because mamma says that you are going away to Heaven," she replied, "and I cannot bear to think of it – don't go, Willie, don't go!" and the tears streamed down her young face like rain. It was her first sorrow.

Willie spoke not, but a grieved, yet tender expression rested on his countenance, and his mamma, taking a hand of each within her own, told her that if she were good, if they all were good children, they should go to Willie – although he might not stay with them. She told them of the glorious home to which he was hastening – how happy he would be – never to suffer more – of the white robe – the starry crown and the tiny golden harp that should be his – and how he would be their guardian angel, through day and hush of night, and how joyfully he would welcome each one to his happy home.

That mother's heart was bursting, and yet her absorbing love for her child nerved her to this, and as she told of that clime where "the soul wears its mantle of glory," the little sufferer's eye grew so intensely bright that it seemed unearthly. Visions of Heaven seemed opened to his view, and with a face radiant with delight he clasped his hands, and said, "Dear mamma, let me go now." "We must wait, my child, till God sends his angels for you." "Yes," he murmured, "till the angels come," and sunk exhausted into a slumber. Slowly and quietly the children departed – and when next they looked upon him he was shrouded for the grave. In a few moments he awoke, and as he missed the little faces that had been around him, a sad look rested for a moment upon his face – but in an instant, as his eye rested on his young sister, he smiled feebly, and exclaimed – "They are all gone – yet my sweet Lillias is with me still."

That night the angels kept vigil around his couch, and ere morn arose upon the earth the unsullied spirit was wafted to its native Heaven. Never – never can that night of Death be effaced from the tablets of memory – marked as it was by such holy, heavenly heroism on the part of that fond and devoted mother. Burning tears were on the father's cheek, and the young Lillias had sobbed herself into a feverish slumber, but until life was over the mother sat by the side of her child, breathing sweet, low whispers of the Better Land, so soon to be his home. She faltered not, and although her heart seemed consuming itself, she would still trace, with an eye of faith, new rays of comfort for the dying one. She could not bear to think that his childish heart should shrink from the grave – nor think of it – invested as it is so often – with dread and gloom. Thus she sustained him to the very portals of Heaven, until he needed earthly consolation no more, until the sheltering arms of Him received him, who hath said – "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven." As peacefully as a child sinks to rest on a mother's bosom, sunk he into Death's embrace.

The agony of the hour, when it is said of a beloved one, "he is dead," has never – nor can it be justly portrayed. Then it is that Hope plumes her wing and soars afar – then it is the even, the clear eye of Faith seems dimmed. When the truth burst upon the mother's heart that her child was no more – when she felt that her grief had now no power to afflict the childish heart that had idolized her – then did the pent up torrents of agony rush forth, crushing every barrier, and threatening to overwhelm her soul in their mighty depth. Yet was she comforted – the glorious imaginings that she had so faithfully and forcibly portrayed to the dying one had fastened upon her soul – and when the first wild burst of grief was over, she turned from the coffined face to the upper world, as though she would say, "not here – but there."

Once more a childish group gathered around Willie M – . His eye smiled no welcome, his hand returned no pressure, but as he lay enshrouded in the garments of the grave, methought he was even more lovely than when his face was glowing with life. A smile still wreathed the parted lips, as though the happy spirit had returned to the tenement of clay, breathing of the blessedness of its glorious home. Each imprinted a kiss on the placid brow, and as the icy chill of death met their lips, so full of life and warmth, the reality of their loss was felt by all. Gary Lincoln lingered until she placed within those little hands a cluster of white rose-buds – "Flowers, pale flowers" – they were love's last gift.

Now came the hopeless anguish of the last look – the suspension of almost life, as the dear remains are lowered to their resting-place – and, worse than all, the hollow, maddening sound of the falling earth upon the coffin, sealing the doom of the bereaved, making complete their misery. They laid him to rest amid the bloom and shade of Mount Auburn, and his grave is a shrine around which those who loved him come, bringing ever with them the offering of gentle thoughts and pleasant memories of him who sleeps below. Little hands deck it with garlands, and sweet Cary Lincoln has placed a tuft of early violets above the sacred spot – for, said she, "Willie loved violets so well."

For months after his death, during the "long bright summer hours," a child was seen almost daily to visit his grave, lingering when all had gone. It was Lillias – and I thought if the departed spirit were hovering near, how often it would echo those words, "They are all gone, yet thou, my sweet Lillias, art with me still."

One year had elapsed, and a funeral train wound again through Mount Auburn, pausing at the grave of Willie. Lillias was no more. She ceased not to mourn for her brother, and during her last illness she spoke of little, save that she should find him in heaven. Once more that angel-mother sat by a dying child, breathing words of holy hope and trust, and her eye grew bright, and her heart was warm, as she spoke of a joyful reunion in heaven.

"Mamma," said the child, "we will keep a place for you and dear papa, and will you come soon?"

Years have since passed, but often at the holy twilight hour those gentle children are with me still; and when my rapt soul pierces the azure vault, I seem to see Willie in angel robes, and listen, entranced, to the tones of spirit-melody from his tiny golden harp – a form as radiant as his own is ever near him, and I fancy, as I mark the delighted look that ever greets a seraph strain from the beloved lips, that I hear in sweet tones, "thou, my sweet Lilias, art with me still."

THE CHRISTIAN HERO'S EPITAPH

Say, doth the sculptor's ready tool engraveA mournful stanza o'er a conqueror's grave?Or bid the willow bend, or cypress twine?Or doleful tokens to his fame combine?Then trace no saddening sentence o'er the placeWhere rests the victor in a heavenward race;Meeter the laurel and the trumpet-strainFor one who fought a fadeless crown to gain!Bring the memorials of a warrior true,The "sword," the "helmet," and the "breast-plate" too;Write on the marble that by these he won,And bid the gazer do as he hath done!Write of his faith; how humble, yet how bright,Diffusing round a clear and heavenly light;Write of his zeal; how quenchlessly it burned,How many a wanderer to the skies it turned!And, mourner, when thou comest with a tear,Love's costless tribute to remembrance dear,Bend there thy trembling knee upon the sod,And lift thy homage to the conqueror's God!

THE LADY OF FERNHEATH

BY MARY SPENCER PEASE

CHAPTER I

ISOLETH

How shall I describe her? Who ever described the sun, or one of the glorious stars, or the white, witching moon; or who, even the least and simplest of the exquisitely, perfectly fashioned wild-flowers, that grow upon the humblest road-side? If these are indescribable, how much more so, in its highest perfection, is the most beautiful, most perfect of all God's beautiful, perfect creations – woman? Who ever depicted her one half as lovely and loving as she is? Who ever, amid all the wild, rapturous praise that has been so profusely lavished upon her, said one half that is her due for her truth and gentleness and beauty, her untiring devotion, her unwearying patience, her ever unselfish forgetfulness of self, her – ,but what has been so many times vainly attempted, I cannot accomplish. How, then, shall I describe thee, beautiful Isoleth? Loveliest, lovingest, glowing, glorious Lady Isoleth! Bright Lady Isoleth! – wild as a hawk, and beautiful as Love. Thy every motion was grace, thine every look was truth. Bewitching little Isoleth! Her form was as lithe and flexible as a willow bough, and light and graceful as a young fawn's. Her queenly little head sat most proudly upon the daintiest, softest, whitest neck and bosom you ever saw. Two deep wells of light and love were her eyes, revealing every feeling of her beautiful soul. When she was sad, they looked out, half shut, through their long shining lashes, dewy, dark and tender; and when her mood grew merry, they danced in very joy. None yet agreed on their color. One would have sworn they were the softest, warmest brown – he saw them only when they were looking love, and he was – but of him anon. Another would have told you they were pure, clear blue – but he was the Lady Isoleth's confessor, with her when her thoughts dwelt upon things holy. By turns were they violet and gray, and all imaginable colors, in fact, except, indeed, green, or any other such unrighteous shade that eyes sometimes take upon themselves. Then her little, ripe, tempting mouth – ah! was it not just the mouth one loves to kiss? small, dimpled, with soft, rose-red lips; and tremulous ever – trembling with the love and gladness that filled her young heart. Most beautiful was the Lady Isoleth of Fernheath.

CHAPTER II

THE BIRTH-DAY

"My lady!" exclaimed a bustling, good-natured little old body, entering the room, which Wilhelm Gottfried, Baron of Arnhiem – the Lady Isoleth's uncle and guardian – ever pleased himself with calling the Lady Isoleth's menagerie, because, forsooth, the little lady delighted herself with feeding and taming countless birds that had been brought from all the known quarters of the globe. "My lady," spoke she, "do you know that this is your ladyship's birth-day, that you this day have arrived at an age which behooves you to put away childish things, and take upon yourself the cares that belong – "