"Poor!" I exclaimed, with the most innocent "Aye! poor, Fanny!-owing my bread to your father's bounty, and he is not rich, you know, my dear. It would be villanous in me to try to engage the affections of Isabella Forester under such circumstances, and yet I am sure she knows I love her." "But you are sure of nothing with regard to her?" I remarked, with assumed coldness. "Do you think so, Fanny? Do you think her altogether indifferent?" "She has been accustomed to admiration ever since she knew what it meant." 'True, true!" "And will be a great belle next winter." Aye, and forget me, Fanny; it is but right and natural." After assisting my mother in putting Walter's | wardrobe in order, and watching him and 'Bel. till | wonder. they disappeared alone among the shadows of the trees, I went up again to my cousin's room to see that his books and writing materials were all packed. The room was in confusion, and, among the light lumber that strewed the carpet, my attention was particularly attracted by several loose strips of very fine paper, and I had the curiosity to pick them up. On one was written, very carefully, My dear Miss Forester," on another, "Dear Isabella," and another address was familiarized into "Charming 'Bel.," but the writer had evidently been puzzled for words to follow. Cousin Walter had found it no easy matter to indite a lover's epistle! After enjoying these telltale scraps to my heart's content, I proceeded to the table, where, lo! I stumbled on just the neatest little parcel that ever was folded, measured, I was sure, by line and plummet, and addressed Miss Isabella Forester." So here was the mystery of the note writing all explained. But what could be in that snowy envelope? It looked like a book, it felt like one; but Walter, bold, frank, merry-hearted Cousin Walter would never be so sentimental. No! it was doubtless something else, but what? Ah! there was a whet-stone for curiosity! How my fingers sidled toward the knot, and how I felt the pupils of my eyes dilating at the thought that nothing but a thin fold of paper lay between me and the mystery of a genuine love-token! But I resisted the temptation, much as the effort cost, and put back the little package on the table? As I did so I was startled by the sound of a footsetp, and, on turning round, suddenly encountered my Cousin Walter. "My dear Miss Forester! 'Dear Isabella!' 'Charming 'Bel.,'" repeated I, with provoking volubility, and then pointed to the little package inquiringly. Walter blushed to the roots of his hair, and looked very foolish. "Now you shall tell me all about it, Walter-how you argued the case, what she said, and when you are to speak to Uncle Forester. "Nonsense, Fan! hush! You are wrong, all wrong!" "It seems she has but a glance or two to forget." "What would you have me do?" "In truth, Walter, I am not a very sage adviser, and perhaps shall, girl-like, speak more from the heart than head; but of one thing I am sure, if 'Bel. Forester had a brother he would be demanding your intentions." "Oh! it would be wrong-" "If there is wrong, Walter, it has been committed already." Cousin Walter looked troubled, and thereupon ensued one of those long, confidential communings that 'Bel's coming so entirely interrupted. It ended in unfolding the little package, though Walter blushed as though he had been detected in a crime. He had reason to blush. A full-grown boy of nineteen making a present of a copy of Lalla Rookh, and pencil-marked, too! Yes, as I live, along a certain fine stanza commencing, "There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told," there was a line drawn quite distinctly. Oh! how closely I held my fingers over my lips to prevent the laugh; but it would burst forth, and though Cousin Walter looked exceedingly mortified, he could but join it. I fancied that the country grew rather dull to 'Bel. after Walter left us, and she had really acquired quite a tinge of sentimentality when she was taken home. "And you are quite indifferent to Cousin 'Bel., eh? and she to you?-and these stealthy meetings mean nothing?" "You and I have been together so fifty times, She has since become a very great belle, as I exFanny." "Aye, because we are cousins-more, brother and sister. But keep your own counsel, Walter, if you will," and throwing down the package, and mustering as much of an air of offended dignity as I could conveniently assume, I passed on to the door. "Stop, Fanny!" and Walter drew my arm within his; "you shall not be angry with me after-after all you have done. But in truth I have nothing to tell. I have never said a word to your cousin that you, that all might not hear-there are reasons why I should not. We are both young, and I-" an expression of deep pain flashed across the countenance of Cousin Walter, and he bent his forehead for a moment upon his doubled hand; " and I am poor, Fanny!" pected, does not like to talk of her visit to the country, and is very impatient if I chance to mention to her the name of Cousin Walter. She may have forgotten him. I know not, but I do know that when she opened a little cabinet the other day, containing a few precious keepsakes, I discovered a pretty volume with an embossed morocco cover, that I had seen before. On taking it up it opened of itself, and my eyes fell upon the words, "There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told," for the pressed remains of my poor rose-bud lay carefully treasured between the leaves. Cousin Walter is to be admitted next winter, and then-ahem! THE MAGIC LUTE. BY FRANCES 8. OSGOOD. CHAPTER I. My beauty! sing to me and make me glad! Ox a low stool at the feet of the Count de Courcy sat his bride, the youthful Lady Loyaline. One delicate, dimpled hand hovered over the strings of her lute, like a snowy bird, about to take wing with a burst of melody. The other she was playfully trying to release from the clasp of his. At last, she desisted from the attempt, and said, as she gazed up into his proud "unfathomable eyes❞— "Dear De Courcy! how shall I thank you for this beautiful gift? How shall I prove to you my love, my gratitude, for all your generous devotion to my wishes?" Loyaline was startled by the sudden light that dawned in those deep eyes; but it passed away and left them calmer, and prouder than before, and there was a touch of sadness in the tone of his reply"Sing to me, sweet, and thank me so!" Loyaline sighed as she tuned the lute. It was ever thus when she alluded to her love. His face would lighten like a tempest-cloud, and then grow dark and eyes, so luminous with soul! Again the lady touched her lute For thee I braid and bind my hair With fragrant flowers, for only thee; For thee I fold my fairest gown, With simple grace, for thee, for thee! Shall look with love on me. For thee my lightsome lute I tune, Is less than thou to me. De Courcy, by nature proud, passionate, reserved and exacting, had wooed and won, with some diffi culty, the young and timid girl, whose tenderness for her noble lover was blent with a shrinking awe, which all his devotion could not for awhile overcome. At the time my story commences, he was making preparations to join the Crusaders. He was to set there were both fear and grief in his heart, when he out in a few days, and brave and chivalric as he was, still again, as if the fire of hope and joy were sud- thought of leaving his beautiful bride for years, perdenly kindled in his soul to be as suddenly extin-haps forever. Perfectly convinced of her guileless guished. What could it mean? Did he doubt her affection? A tear fell upon the lute, and she said, "I will sing THE LADY'S LAY." The deepest wrong that thou couldst do, 'T were worse than falsehood thus to meet With sweet, impassioned joy the while. When thou art noblest, bravest, best? The tones of the Lady Loyaline's voice were sweet and clear, yet so low, so daintily delicate, that the heart caught them rather than the ear. De Courcy felt his soul soften beneath those pleading accents, and his eyes, as he gazed upon her, were filled with unutterable love and sorrow. How beautiful she was! With that faint color, like the first blush of dawn, upon her cheek-with those soft, black, glossy braids, and those deep blue purity of purpose, thought and deed, he yet had, as he thought, reason to suppose that her heart was, perhaps unconsciously to herself, estranged from him, or rather that it never had been his. He remembered, with a thrill of passionate grief and indignation, her bashful reluctance to meet his gaze-her timid shrinking from his touch-and thus her very purity and modesty, the soul of true affection, were distorted by his jealous imagination into indifference for himself and fondness for another. Only two days before, upon suddenly entering her chamber, he had surprised her in tears, with a page's cap in her hand, and on hearing his step, she had started up blushing and embarrassed, and hidden it beneath her mantle, which lay upon the couch. Poor De Courcy! This was indeed astounding; but while he had perfect faith in her honor, he was too proud to let her see his suspicions. That cap! that crimson cap! It was not the last time he was destined to behold it! The hour of parting came, and De Courcy shuddered as he saw a smile-certainly an exulting smile lighten through the tears in the dark eyes of his bride, as she bade him for the last time "farewell." A twelvemonth afterward, he was languishing in the dungeons of the East-a chained and hopeless captive. CHAPTER II. "Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, Or the death they bear, The heart, which tender thought clothes, like a dove, The sultan was weary; weary of his flowers and his fountains-of his dreams and his dancing-girlsof his harem and himself. The banquet lay untouched before him. The rich chibouque was cast aside. The cooling sherbet shone in vain. The Almas tripped, with tinkling feet, Unmarked their motions light and fleet! His slaves trembled at his presence; for a dark cloud hung lowering on the brows of the great Lord of the East, and they knew, from experience, that there were both thunder and lightning to come ere it dispersed. But a sound of distant plaintive melody was heard. A sweet voice sighing to a lute. The sultan listened. "Bring hither the minstrel," he said in a subdued tone; and a lovely, fair-haired boy, in a page's dress of pale-green silk, was led blushing into the presence. "Sing to me, child," said the Lord of the East. And the youth touched his lute, with grace and wondrous skill, and sang, in accents soft as the ripple of a rill, THE VIOLET'S LOVE. Shall I tell what the violet said to the star, While she gazed through her tears on his beauty, afar? Through the stillness up, up, to the star's beaming soul. She sang-"Thou art glowing with glory and might, I ask not thy pity, I seek not thy smile; I ask but to worship thy beauty awhile; To sigh to thee, sing to thee, bloom for thine eye, Shall I tell what the star to the violet said, While ashamed, 'neath his love-look, she hung her young head? He sang-but his singing was only a ray, And none but the flower and I heard the dear lay. Ah no! love! I dare not! too tender, too pure, A smile lit the tear in the timid flower's eye; Long ere the lay had ceased, the cloud in the sultan's eye had dissolved itself in tears. Never had music so moved his soul. "The lute was enchanted! The youth was a Peri, who had lost his way! Surely it must be so!" "But sing me now a bolder strain!" And the beautiful child flung back his golden curls-and swept the strings more proudly than before, and his voice took a clarion-tone, and his dark, steel-blue eyes flashed with heroic fire as he sang THE CRIMSON PLUME. Oh! know ye the knight of the red waving plume? Like a flash through the tempest; oh! fly from that smile! His armor is black, as the blackest midnight; Oh! brave not the knight of the dark crimson plume! Tears of rapture sprung to the eyes of the minstrelboy, as the sultan spoke, and his young cheek flushed like a morning cloud. Bending over his lute to hide his emotion, he warbled once again— THE BROKEN HEART'S APPEAL. Is not worth one blush you stole- Take the cup and take the gem! Thou shouldst wind the night-shade there; Give me back my bloom of soul! "Name thy wish, fair child. But tell me first what good genius has charmed thy lute for thee, that thus it sways the soul?" "A child-angel, with large melancholy eyes and wings of lambent fire-we Franks have named him Love. He led me here and breathed upon my lute." "And where is he now?" "I have hidden him in my heart," said the boy, blushing as he replied. And what is the boon thou wouldst ask?" The youthful stranger bent his knee, and said in faltering tones-"Thou hast a captive Christian knight; let him go free and Love shall bless thy throne!" "He is thine-thou shalt thyself release him. Here, take my signet with thee." And the fair boy glided like an angel of light through the guards at the dungeon-door. Bolts and bars fell before him-for he bore the talisman of Power-and he stood in his beauty and grace at the captive's couch, and bade him rise and go forth, for he was free. De Courcy, half-awake, gazed wistfully on the benign eyes that bent over him. He had just been dreaming of his guardian angel; and when he saw the beauteous stranger boy-with his locks of light his heavenly smile-his pale, sweet face-he had no doubt that this was the celestial visitant of his dreams, and, following with love and reverence his spiritguide, he scarcely wondered at his sudden disappearance when they reached the court. CHAPTER III. "Pure as Aurora when she leaves her couch, Her cool, soft couch in Heaven, and, blushing, shakes The balmy dew-drops from her locks of light." Safely the knight arrived at his castle-gate, and as he alighted from his steed, a lovely woman sprang through the gloomy archway, and lay in tears upon his breast. "My wife! my sweet, true wife! Is it indeed thou! Thy cheek is paler than its wont. Hast mourned for me, my love?" And the knight put back the long black locks and gazed upon that sad, sweet face. Oh! the delicious joy of that dear meeting! Was it too dear, too bright to last? At a banquet, given in honor of De Courcy's return, some of the guests, flushed with wine, rashly let fall in his hearing an insinuation which awoke all his former doubts, and, upon inquiry, he found to his horror that during his absence the Lady Loyaline had left her home for months, and none knew whither of why she went, but all could guess, they hinted. De Courcy sprang up, with his hand on the heft of his sword, and rushed toward the chamber of his wife. She met him in the anteroom, and listened calmly and patiently as he gave vent to all his jealous wrath, and bade her prepare to die. Her only reply was-"Let me go to my chamber; I would say one prayer; then do with me as you will." "Begone!" The chamber door closed on the graceful form and sweeping robes of the Lady de Courcy. But in a few moments it opened again, and forth came, with meekly folded arms, a stripling in a page's dress and crimson cap!-the bold, bright boy with whom he had parted at his dungeon-gate! "Here! in her very chamber!" The knight sprang forward to cleave the daring intruder to the earth. But the stranger flung to the ground the cap and the golden locks, and De Courcy fell at the feet, not of a minstrel-boy, but of his own true-hearted wife, and begged her forgiveness, and blessed her for her heroic and beautiful devotion. OUR PRAIRIE SKETCHES-NO. II. ELK HORN PYRAMID-ON THE UPPER In carrying out the great project of making the embellishments of Graham's Magazine altogether National, and thus to advance American Art with American Literature, we endeavor, as far as possible, to avoid the beaten track, and to select such pieces of scenery as are at once grand and novel. MISSOURI. fusedly mixed together, and so wedged in, that Mr. Bodmer and his party found it difficult to separate a large one, with fourteen antlers, which they brought away with them. Some buffalo horns have been added to the heap. The purpose of this practice is said to be "a charm," to secure good luck in hunting. The drawing of this pyramid was made on the spot, by Mr. Bodmer, and it is so well engraved for us by Mr. Smillie, that we feel sure the subscribers to "Graham" will look with interest for the succeeding sketches, of which we have quite a number. These prairie and Indian scenes are peculiarly ap The Elk Horn Pyramid, on the Upper Missouri, is quite a curiosity. At the "Two Thousand Miles River" so named by Lewis and Clark-which joins the Missouri, on the north side, two thousand miles above the junction of the Missouri with the Mississippi, is an extensive prairie, covered with bushes of artemisa, filled with elk and deer paths in all direc-propriate to an American magazine, and we find they tions. The prairie extends without interruption as far as the eye can reach, and is called Prairie à la Corne de Cerf, because the wandering Indians have here erected a pyramid of elks' horns. About eight hundred paces from the river, the hunting or war parties of the Indians have gradually piled up a quantity of elks' horns, till they have formed a pyramid of sixteen or eighteen feet high, and twelve or fifteen feet in diameter. Every Indian who passes by makes a point of contributing his part, which is not difficult, as in the vicinity such horns are every where scattered about. The strength of a hunting party is often marked by the number of horns they have added to the heap, which are designated by peculiar red strokes. All these horns, of which there are certainly from twelve to fifteen hundred, are con are more popular than any other style of illustration. We have now finished a spirited and striking picture of "Indians Horse-Racing on the Prairie,” which will be ready for the January number. Also, a beautiful engraving of "The Chief's Daughter," which will probably appear in the same number, with a most beautiful engraving, furnished by Smillie, of "Monmouth Battle-Ground, N. J." A large majority of these Indian and prairie sketches-of which we have over twenty in the engravers' hands-were taken on the spot by accomplished artists, and are therefore more truthful and life-like than the ordinary pictures which are given to the world. All the pictures now in our engravers' hands are from American subjects, and we feel sure that they must give a high position to Graham's Magazine in the United States. |