better than go back again. I declare if it was possible, I'd go back to the bush to-morrow." "In search of society?" I inquired. Jack laughed, but the next instant he sighed. "Ah! you may laugh at the idea of a man who has been five years in the bush, crying out at the solitude of an old country house under bachelor rule; but I can tell you solitude is not at all the same thing there-nothing like boredom in the bush, Frank; and somehow a friend's face seems all the more worth seeing, when you have ridden over fifty miles of green slope and swell, with that sole end in view. In fact, I think a mar must go to the bush before he really understands the meaning of the word "neighbor." No offence to you, old boy." "None in the world; but, for a gentleman of passably engaging manners, decidedly handsome means, in a moderately populous, and sociably disposed neighborhood, to complain of solitude, and talk of flying to the bush for society, strikes me as a fact requiring explanation. If Charleswood and The Wild are dull, fill them with friendly faces, dear lad; they are never turned away from such as thee." But Jack-shook his head. "The dear old country seems to have grown small, Frank. I feel in the way here." We were just at the end of the shadowy avenue of limes as he spoke, and the next instant there was a faint rustle among the withered leaves on the grass, and my cousin Beaty glided into it, and faced us. We both started a little, but the little lady held out her hand to Mr. Mortimer with ever so quiet a smile, and then swept away, before we could turn and accompany her. Jack looked after her for an instant, and there was trouble in his eye. "Miss Francis is not looking well," he said; "she has grown thin and pale." CHAPTER IV. BETWEEN THE LIGHTS. There was no prettier nor cosier room in all comfortable and picturesque old Meadowsleigh than that one appropriated to its master, and called "Mr. March mont's study." It was sacred to myself, and I was chary of allowing the intrusion of my household across its threshold, feeling that the "business " in which I talked solemnly of being engaged during a quiet hour or so, when it pleased me to retire from the bosom of my family into its comfortable seclusion, might perhaps suffer in the respect of its members, if they found how often it was transacted with a cigar between my lips and in a position of recumbency on a lounge constructed with many cunning contrivances for insuring the greatest amount of comfort, with the least expenditure of effort, on the part of the indiv.dual who sought its sleepy hollow. The fire bad sunk down into a deep red glow on the wide tesselated hearth, my favorite hound was sleeping peacefully in its heat, all the room was full of brooding shadows, and that wavering glow from the fire only very dimly defined the large person of Jack Mortimer as he lay extended very much at his ease on that same lounge. A tap at the long window that opens upon the shrubbery. "If you please, sir, Jones would thank ye to walk down to the stable. Lady Betty went dead lame to-day, sir, while one of the boys had her out exercising, sir." Uttering an anathema upon boys in general, and stable boys in particular, I caught up my cap and hastened away without a word of excuse to Jack, who was, moreover, half asleep. I might, perhaps, have been absent half an hour, for I had to wait the veterinary surgeon's arrival and report upon the disaster of my favorite mare; and when I presently re-entered my sanctum, which I did by the window, as I departed, I stood still a moment surveying the sight that presented itself to my eyes. Not with surprise-no-I flatter myself I had entirely overcome any tendeney to that emotion where Jack Mortimer and my cousin Beaty were concerned ; for of course, those young people composed the tableau on which I looked. It was not otherwise than a pretty one, I am bound to confess that. There was Jack seated easily back on my favorite resting-place, and by his side-and 66 so very close, that Jack's arm could Beaty Francis, either, before I saw her," scarce have found a position anywhere answered Jack. "I remember I laughed but round her waist-nestled Miss Beaty. one day when Amy was setting forth her As far as I knew, he had hardly hitherto perfections, and said she must introduce touched the little finger-tips of my pretty me, and perhaps I might be the happy cousin, and now-lo-but I was calm, man who would win this paragon for his and advanced into the charmed circle wife. Perhaps this unlucky speech of within the firelight, as if for a lady and mine first turned my little sister's thoughts gentleman apparently on the most formal toward such a thing, though it passed enterms of acquaintanceship, to assume the tirely out of my mind; for very soon afpresent relative position of these two, terwards Amy fell into. delicate health, was among my most ordinary and fami- and before many months were over I liar experiences. knew that we should not have her long." "Wish me joy, Frank, old fellow," said Jack, jumping up then. "I wish you all possible joy," I answered meekly; "none the less sincerely, that I don't in the least know of what." "I should think it was plain enough, too," Mr. Mortimer answered, turning to draw Beaty up beside him; "but I am afraid you are vexed, old boy, that we should have had a secret from you all this time. I suppose we have each fancied it the other's; but now it can be yours, too, Frank, if Beaty will tell it. "Not I, Jack. I came here this evening meaning to tell Frank, and made a sad mess of it (here she glanced up at Jack, with the most enchanting look imaginable). You do it this time. Sit here, Frank, dear." And my little cousin, bless her loving heart! seeing that I was grave (which I was, through sheer bewilderment), and fearing that I was wounded, sat down by me on the side not next Jack, and her soft cheek lay against my shoulder while I listened. "I don't know whether you remember my sister Amy, Frank," Jack began; "I think it is likely enough you may not, for you could not have seen her many times. My home was always at Charleswood with my aunt, and after Amy left school she went to live down in Essex with her guardian. We two were pretty much alone in the world, and perhaps that was the reason we thought a great deal of one another at least I know I was very fond of my little sister. "And she thought there was no brother in all the world to compare with hers, and never tired of talking of him," murmured a voice on my left-Jack was on my right. And perhaps I never heard of Miss Jack paused here. When he resumed his voice was lower, and Beaty's face was hidden against my shoulder. "It was a sad time, and I don't care to think of it. She sank very rapidly, and one day burst a blood-vessel; after that we knew the end must come very soon. She knew it herself, too, and pined so much to see her dear little schoolfriend Beaty Francis, that her kind old guardian went up to London himself, to beg Miss Francis might be allowed to return with him to bid the poor dying child "Good-bye!" "I have never forgotten that day you came, nor how I first saw you," Jack went on, addressing himself now to Miss Beaty, with that involuntary softening of his deep voice as he did so which tells a tale to those who listen. "Often and often out in Australia, when I have been sitting quite alone in my hut, with the level sunset light streaming through the open door, I have seen it all over again. That golden light coming across the low Essex lands, and flickering on the wall above the sofa where Amy lay, her poor little wasted face propped upon pillows; and lying beside it, pressed close against it, your fresh rosy face, and your yellow hair, so bright and wavy, mixed with hers, all dark and straight. I did not think much about it at the time, but I suppose it must have made some impression. I remembered it all so often afterwards; then I thought of little, but my poor Amy. Your coming seemed to have put new life into her. She had scarcely spoken for days, now she laughed and talked so gaily, that something almost like a hope began to wake up in my heart. I looked over at you, and said, I remember, that you were the best doctor that had come near Amy yet, and that I thought a few days of your company would do all they had not been able to accomplish. And then-but you remember." "Yes," whispered Beaty. "I do not," I could not refrain from reminding these absorbed creatures. "I beg your pardon, Frank," returned Jack, with quite a start; "I had forgotten I was telling you." "So it seems. old fellow." But go on, my dear "Think of Amy, then, Frank, as a very young, very warm-hearted and loving-romantic, perhaps, and lifted, by the knowledge that she was dying, above ordinary, every-day life; very sorry for me, too, whom her death would leave but with very few to care much about methink of her so, and then perhaps you will understand how it all came about: that, holding her friend's hands in hers, she asked her to promise her something, and that Beaty answered, 'Yes-willingly-gladly-anything! Then, looking across at me, Amy asked me to do the same. How could I dream what the poor child's thoughts were fixed on? I answered, as Beaty had done. And then -then-with a light in her dying eyes, and a smile on her mouth, she told us that what she asked of us, what she had longed for, thought over, and prayed for, was, that we two would marry. That we had promised to grant her what she asked, and she asked that. "Just imagine, if you can, our awful confusion while we listened, Frank; I'm sure I can't depict it. I only dared once look towards Miss Francis, and then saw nothing of her face-only one little ear and a part of her throat, and they were flushed with deep, and, I felt sure, indignant crimson. I was unutterably pained and shocked; but could I reproach my little dying sister? I did try to laugh the matter off, awkwardly enough, I dare say; at any rate, I failed, and made matters worse. 'How could I joke on such a subject, or dream that she could do so with dying lips?" Amy said. "Be angry with her I neither could nor would; and when all was over (she died with her arms round my neck that night, Frank) it was only left me to try and make the best of the matter with Miss Francis. I told her at least I tried to that she need never think herself bound by a promise so given-that she need never fear my insulting her, by making any claim upon it." "Oh, Jack, Jack, you incorrigible old blunderer!" I could not forbear crying out here; "so you as good as told a lady you would not have her." "I suppose I did blunder horribly; I've no doubt I did," answered Jack, seriously; "for certainly Miss Francis-" "Behaved very foolishly, I am afraid,” here broke in the voice on my left. "But I was very young-only a schoolgirl-and the idea would torment me that you might think Amy had talked of of what she wished to me before, and that perhaps I knew what the promise she asked referred to, before it was given. Thinking this, I felt so horribly ashamed, I could not bear to see you. I thought I never should be able." "Only it appears to me that you have changed your mind on that point, Miss," pinching the little fingers that lay in mine. "Yes, Frank," responded the demure monkey. "Since when, pray? for deuce take me if I can understand how you and Jack, who seemed only this morning as far as the poles asunder, can have arrived, in the space of half an hour, at the-wellI think I may say without offence, "close relations," in which I found you.' "Don't, Frank, dear!" whispered Miss Beaty. "I'll tell you another time." "No time like the present. Come, Jack. I comprehend now, how the hostile attitude came about. Do clear up the mystery of the allied one." "It was arrived at very simply, too." Miss Francis and I have been under the mutual impression all this time, that we were respectively disagre able to each other. By a-a little accident this evening we found out that we were mutually mistaken, and so—. I think that will do, Frank." "By Jove! no; for I declare I'm all in the dark." "We were in the dark, cousin Frank," Miss Beaty whispered here, laughing and blushing, I dare say; certainly turning her face so that it should be invisible to Jack, who had risen by this time, and was standig before the re. "At least, no-it was 'between the lights;' and I came in here to talk to you about something that was making me very unhappy -something I heard you and--and Mr. Mortimer talking of this afternoon in the avenue-about his going away to Australia for good, I mean. I thought it was you lying on the sofa, Frank. And before I had found out it was not, I had said-I don't know what. But Mr. Mortimer knew then I did not dislike him; and so—and so-" "And so poor little Amy's wish has come about, after all; thank God! And I don't think I shall go farther for a home now than Charleswood, unless Beaty particularly prefers the bush," concluded Jack, coming to the rescue. "And my shrewd little wife's prediction is verified, also," I observed, "that if ever Jack Mortimer married, the lady would have to make the first confession of love. There, Beaty, never hide your face, my dear. Methinks a woman need scarce do that, when she owns to loving John Mortimer, no more at shining noonday than between the lights."" JUNE PROMENADERS. "How happy could I be with either, SIGHING, whispering, shouting, thundering, Rent the heavens with benediction- Stately as a twin Apollo, Easy with a victor's grace, In the spring-time and the morning- When June caught the soul of May; 'Neath a roof of young-leafed archesGreen o'erlaid with sunny goldWrought I reverie-mosaics, Fitting fancies new with old. Then my dreamy eyes a vision Saw in twofold grace to glide; For a Brightness passed before me, With a Virtue by its side. And my heart in blessings bounded To a happy voiceless tune; "Sure," it chanted, "ye are sisters Of the Morning and the June! "Sisters of the prime of Nature Free and grand and debonair Of the Light on sea and shore- How may worshiper say more? As the sun towards the darkness Ever bends his goalless race Be afar the cloads of sorrow From each sweetly different face! "So akin to grace and beauty, Will ye not to love be kind?— In my heart of hearts to cherish Art Journal. MEMOIRS OF THE AUTHORS OF THE AGE. BY S. C. HALL, F. S. A., AND MRS. S. C. HALL. THOMAS HOOD. WHEN I first knew Thomas Hood, his star was but rising; when I saw him last, he was on his death-bed; his fortysix years of life from the cradle to the grave having been passed in so weak a state of health, that day by day there was perpetual dread that at any moment might "the silver cord be loosed, and the golden bowl be broken." Continued bodily suffering was not the only trial to which this fine spirit was subjected. The world heard no wail from his lips; no appeal for sympathy ever came from his pen; his high heart endured in si that we may reap; that the knowledge of good or evil done is retained in a state after life; that death can not destroy consciousness. We learn from the Divine Word that our works do follow us! Humanity is-and will be as long as men and women can read or hear the debtor of Thomas Hood! He was born, "a cockney," on the 23rd of May, 1799, in the Poultry, close to Bow Bells. His father dwelt there as one of the partners in a firm of pub lence; and without a murmur of complaint, he died. Yet it is no secret now that for many years he had a fierce struggle with poverty; enjoying no luxuries and few comforts; his "means" derived from "daily toil for daily bread." A skeleton stood ever beside his bed, mocking his "infinite jest and a most excellent fancy;" converting into a succession of sobs those "flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table in a roar." At the time when nearly every drawingroom, attic, and kitchen-when every lishers-Verner, Hood and Sharpe.* He class and order of society-was made merry and happy by the brilliant fancies and genuine humor of Thomas Hood, he was enduring pain of body and anguish of mind. Nearly all his quaint conceits, his playful sallies, and his sparks from words, were given to the printer from the bed on which he wrote -propped up by pillows; continually, continually, it was the same, up to the day that gave him freedom from the flesh. Yet it was a genial and kindly spirit that dwelt in so frail a tenement of clay. Although his existence was a long disease rather than a life, he was singularly free from all cumbrance of bitterness and harshness. Feeling strongly for the sufferings of others, he was entirely unselfish; ever gracious, considerate, and kind. Though perpetually dealing with the burlesque, he never indulged in personal satire. We find no passage that could have injured a single living person. Never did his wit verge upon indelicacy; never did his facetious muse treat a solemn or sacred theme with levity or indifference. In old Brandenburg House there was once a bust of Comus; the pedestal, according to Lysons, bore this inscription: it comes in so aptly when writing of Hood, that I quote it: "Come, every muse, without restraint; Let genius prompt, and fancy paint; True mirth, that cheerfulness supplies was articled to his uncle, Mr. Robert Sands, an engraver, and seems to have worked awhile with the burin; but the specimens he has given us, however redolent of humor and rich in fancy, do not supply evidence that he would have excelled as an artist. It is obvious, indeed, that he did not "take" to the profession, for he deserted it early, and became a man of letters, finding his first employment in 1821, as a sort of subeditor of the London Magazine. One who knew him in his childhood described him to me as a singular child silent and retired-with much quiet humor, and apparently delicate health. I knew another friend of his youth, a Mr. Mason, a wood engraver, who told me much of the "earlier ways" of the boy-poet: that, when a mere boy, he was continually making shrewd and pointed remarks upon topics on which he was presumed to know nothing; that while he seemed a heedless listener, out would come some observation which showed he had taken in all that had been said; and that, when a very child, he would often make some pertinent remark which excited either a smile or a laugh. He married, on the 5th of May, 1824, the sister of his "friend" Reynolds. It was a happy marriage, although both Mr. Sharpe lived to be an old man, through varied changes of life, and in 1832, was a publisher at the Egyptian Hall. He published, among other works, The Anniversary, an annual, edited by Allan Cunningham. I form this opinion merely, however, from his published engravings. It is probable that the wood engravers did not do him justice. His daughter possesses some drawings in water-colors, some pen-and-ink sketches, and some etchings, that show far higher powers, and seem to indicate that he could have been an artist if he had given his mind to Art. |