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man lay dead in the church before the pulpit dea” in New York, and if he sees Jason in the whence his voice had often sounded in loud ut same dress he appeared in lately at Wallack's, terance of words of faith and hope, and they he will have seen Demetri. Doubtless the cosprayed, and sang, and spoke of his life of labor tumer had been in Athens, and forgotten that and his glorious death; and the crowd looked Greece is not living Greece any more. on his countenance for the last time and went Demetri received us under the shadow of his out and left him there, and then the sun had wing-that is, the corner of a modern carriage gone down on Baalbec, and the stars were look--and let me tell you, that after a year of waning down in silver sorrow on the ruined temple; dering life, and seven months of it on boat, and the boy, the wanderer, clothed in Eastern camel, and horse, without venturing into a wheelgarb and surrounded by dark-browed Arabs, ed vehicle, it makes one nervous to ride in a carsat in his tent door on the plain under the lofty riage. We were afraid for our necks all the way columns, and heard the stream beside him bab- up to Athens, and Athens is five miles from the bling its old story to the sky and the ruin. Piræus landing. Miriam longed for the chest
I worshiped God that Sunday in the ruined nut horse of Syrian memory, and I would have Temple of the Sun at Baalbec, and they were given all my future carriage-rides for Mohamburying my father that Sunday afternoon at med the bay. We reached Athens, however, home, and he was worshiping in the temple and the hotel. It was close by Otho the King's above, whose glory eye hath not seen! huge barn of a palace, in which the English
I did not know that he was dead till long and French keep him on the fat of the land, after that—when I was in the land of Minerva. while the people of Greece occupy
themselves It was with a feeling that I can not well de- in keeping the fat down, by trying the poor scribe that I awoke one morning in the steamer King's patience and scaring his soul out of him Carmel
, and hastened on deck to see the shores monthly. Then he rushes off to Austria or of Greece. It was a glorious morning - day some German Court for a quiet pipe of tobacco, was just breaking in the east. A fresh breeze and leaves the Queen to catch robbers and govcame off the land from Hymettus, and the sea ern Greeks. She is, in fact, the man of the was rolling easily. Aurora was on the eastern house. But all this is neither here nor there. horizon. As I came on the upper deck I met In the very city of Athens rises an abrupt hill the young Prince de P-, who was out before of rock. Its sides are nearly perpendicular tome, and who pointed up to the lofty crags un- ward the top, but the débris of the hill has made a der which we were running. It was “Suni- slope all around it at the bottom of the precipice. um's marble steep.” The first flush of the On one side it is accessible by a steep climb. morning lit the ruin of the temple of Minerva, The top is nearly level, and includes two or and the white columns shone far over the sea. three acres of land or rock. This is the AcroIt was my first, and a fitting sight of Grecian polis of Athens. The top is a mass of ruins. ruin. Perhaps no spot in all of Greece could Pavements, capitals, cornices, statues, columns, be found more exactly typical of Greece as it architraves, lie in hideous confusion, where once is. Standing on a noble promontory, its base the noblest works of human art were gathered. washed by the eternal murmur of the waves, It was a windy day when I climbed the Acrolooking far out toward the islands of the sea, as polis first. The gale howled and whined through if to teach the world the grandeur, the beauty, the ruins of the Parthenon; but the sunshine the glory of Athena, it is a beautiful, a mag- was clear, and the scene grand. nificent relic-grand in its ruin, beautiful in its Let him who would know the difference bedecay.
tween Egyptian and Greek Mythology compare Two hours passed swiftly by as we paced the these two temples. The one grand, gloomy, deck and talked of the shore along which we mystical, and incomprehensible; the other simwere running, every inch of which was full of ple, beautiful, compact, and complete. The one classic memorials. This mountain was Pentel- hewn out of the living rock, and dedicated to an icus, that was Hymettus. Just there lay Mara- unknown deity, but dimly shadowed forth by his thon. Yonder in the west is the citadel of Cor- attributes, which were represented as the only inth. Here is the Bay of Salamis, and there means of his intercourse with man; the other -right there—across a long, low, prairie-like finished and superb in design, and beautiful bestretch of land, grand, noble in the distance, yond praise in execution, dedicated to a godsublime in antiquity--there are the Acropolis dess of self-sufficient wisdom—an idol of beauand the Parthenon.
tiful stone. Miriam came on deck as we caught sight of In Egypt idolatry was in its infancy when it. Then all our eyes were fixed on it, and the Abou Simbal was hewn. In Athens idolatry steamer dashed on, rounding the point and run was the only worship of the nation when Mining into the little landlocked harbor of the nerva dwelt in the Parthenon. In the one, the Piræus.
obelisk pointed to the residence of the deity ; in Demetri was on board before the anchor was the other, the closed roof of the temple shut in fairly run out. Demetri is landlord of the Hô- all heavenly aspirations. tel des Etrangers, and Demetri is a trump. If But again I trespass. The guardian, a lame any one wishes to know his personal appearance, soldier, trotted closely after me as I walked let him go to the next representation of “Me- | hither and thither among the ruins, and seem
ed afraid I would pocket the Parthenon itself. with her sweet brown eyes, and her bonnie brown He talked nothing but Greek, and I almost any hair, became Mistress Amy Deane. thing else, but not a word of that. So we had After this my uncle Gerard shunned the world. no intercourse. But I knew an interpreter. I He settled down at Woolwich, where his ladybought him off with a silver coin, and he left me love continued to reside; and though his stateto my loneliness in the Parthenon. I lay down ly house and pleasant grounds were the finest in on my back, and looked up at the sky. The the whole county-though he was the best of white clouds traveled over me like angels, and neighbors, and his early grapes and ripe peaches the sky seemed fathomless in its blue. And far were freely sent to every fortunate sufferer who away into its depths my thoughts went seeking chanced to fall sick in their season of bearing, the throne of the unknown God, whose name ho yet avoided all society. He lived alone, with had been declared to the Athenians down yon- a housekeeper as reserved as himself, a maid-ofder on Mars Hill by the Apostle of the Gen- all-work, and a gardener. tiles. If never before, at least then there was My father, who was his favorite nephew, rea sincere worshiper of the God of Abraham in sided at that time in New York, and was about the Holy of Holies of the temple of Minerva. marrying. He tried vainly to persuade his un
That night came to me a terrible messenger. cle to remove to the city, or at least to settle A wandering newspaper, thrown in my way al- near him. The invariable answer expressed most by chance, wherein I read on one page that a quiet but resolute preference for Woolwich. my father had gone to the assembly of the pa- When I was born, two years after, my father triarchs and prophets, and on the opposite page wrote again, begging him to come to my christhat Miriam's brother had joined the company tening, and telling him that I was to be called that wear white robes in the land of light. for him-Gerard Sunderland. I believe my
Let him who can imagine the weight of that mother, Heaven bless her tender heart! had seblow on two lonely travelers, or how dark and | lected a lovely young girl to stand sponsor by fearful now in memory seem the Acropolis of his side, hoping, with her womanly tact, that so Athens and the ghostly Parthenon as I saw the lost Amy might be replaced, and another them from my window that night through the smile make rainbows about his lonely life. But fast tears that flooded my eyes.
in reply came the same quiet refusal to visit
New York, even for a day; and the letter also MY INHERITANCE.
stated that he had made his will, bequcathing to
his infant grand-nephew, Gerard Sunderland, My great-uncle, Mir Gerard. Sunderland, was all his property. his
I had only seen him twice. Twice, during the Second, had just stepped upon the cars to my early boy hood, I had been sent-rather with go and take possession of his estate in Woolwich, his permission than by his request-to visit him a pleasant little village not far from the Connect- at Woolwich. Once my parents wished-beicut River. He had been a strange man, in many cause of my dear mother's health, which was respects, this dead great-uncle of mine. In his then delicate-to travel without the care which early youth he was a diligent student, a man of taking me would have involved; the other time rare genius, devoting himself only to study. He New York was visited by an epidemic, before had traveled over many lands, and came back which all fled who could. Business kept my with much learning, a polished, stately gentle- father in the city; and my mother, caring no
He was over thirty when he fell in love. thing for life unless he might share it, determI use advisedly this hackneyed expression. ined to remain with him; while, to ease her was with him a desperate, unthinking plunge. mother-heart of its anxiety, I was sent again to He staked his all upon one throw. With such Woolwich. a nature as his there could be no calling back Sitting in the cars, while the quiet villages the heart-no after-growth of tenderness. through which we passed, the tall trees, and the
He loved, as such men oftenest do, a woman very fences by the wayside, seemed to fly from remarkable for nothing beyond her peers, and us with lightning speed, I recalled those two yet he made of her a goddess. She was sweet visits. I had traveled then by stage. The and blithesome rather than very beautiful. She journey had been a very fatiguing one, lasting had little fondness for study. She would rath- from the gray of the early morning until ten at er gather roses than read poems; and made pies night. oftener than periods. She was very young, too, My welcome bad been kind, but grave; and scarcely half his own age; and yet, to his fancy, the weeks I passed there had appeared strangeshe was the one stately and most perfect lady, ly solitary to a child accustomed to the restless whom no woman could ever equal, whose name bustle of New York. It seemed to me almost no man's voice must ever utter without homage. as if I were in one of the enchanted castles I He approached her, I have been told, with a had read of in my story-books, where all the reverent humility very wonderful in his proud beautiful things would vanish if one spoke above nature; and perhaps that kind of wooing was a whisper. But this very stillness had not been not the one best suited to enchain her wayward without its own exceeding charm to my childish fancy. At all events his love was not returned, imagination. It was happiness enough for me and before many months pretty Amy Mansfield, to walk through the garden when the morning
dew trembled, tear-like, in the hearts of the ly sweet was the still, dead smile into which his blossoms; to gather the magical roses, and see lips were frozen. Absorbed in these thoughts, the gardener train the climbing honey-suckle so I had not heeded the stopping of the cars or the tall that I used to wonder if there was a giant name of the station, and I roused myself with a living in wicked state at the top of it. It was sudden start when the conductor, touching my best of all to watch the wonderful panorama of arm, said, politely,
It was to me-city born and bred-as “I believe you wish to stop here. This is if the breath of God had created a new world; Woolwich, Sir." had called to quick and beautiful life wonders I got out. My memory of places was always of which I had never heard or dreamed. extremely tenacious. Much as Woolwich had
Uncle Gerard, too, was very good to me, in in many respects changed since I had visited his own stately way. He used to tell me won-it, I knew my way at once to the house which derful stories of the foreign countries he had was now minc. Leaving my baggage at the visited, and sometimes to show me paintings station, I walked onward. Before long I came which he had made—for he was no mean artist to the spot where my uncle's grounds—I had -of some of those far-off scenes.
not learned to say my grounds, as yet-comThere was one picture which hung in his menced. They lay on both sides of the road, study—the only one there—and I had never or rather drive, for it was not public property, seen it, for a crimson curtain always hung be- leading up to the mansion. The pine-trees on fore it. One day I boldly asked him if he had either side of the way were not many years old painted it, and why I might not see it, as I had when I saw them last, but they had grown so seen the rest. A look which I could not in- tall now that their branches met over my head, terpret passed over his face. His voice trem- and, looking up through their greenery, they bled, but he was not angry.
seemed to lift their odorous boughs almost to “Surely,” he said; "why not? You shall the sky. The drive itself flashed white, as if sce it, Gerard.”
strewn with snowy, glittering shells in the sumHe drew away the curtain, and a woman's mer sunshine. The grass was fresh and green, face was there. Gentle brown eyes smiled on with the long afternoon shadows trailing over it. me; brown hair of precisely the same hue rip- Soon I turned a corner, and there before me pled, in waves, over the delicate shoulders; the was the house which the trees had till now conmouth was arch and bright, yet sweet, and cealed—a stately, old-fashioned mansion, with looked as if it was just going to speak to me. an upright three-story centre, and long ramI.was too much pleased to be demonstrative. I bling wings on each side. Around these wings, think the tears even came to my eyes. They whose windows opened to the ground, were had a trick of doing so in childhood, whenever pleasant verandas. A handsome flight of stone any thing appealed strongly to my quick æsthet- steps led up to the principal front entrance. ic nature. I only said,
The whole place was tasteful, well-appointed, “Oh, Uncle Gerard, I never saw any thing beautifully kept, with a kind of hospitable face, half so beautiful!"
which roused in me a certain pride and joy of “You think so," was the gentle answer; ownership, for which I reproached myself the "but her face was ten times fairer than any moment after. painter's art could make it.”
I would have pushed open the door and gone With a long, perhaps unconscious, sigh he in, but it was fastened, and I was obliged to replaced the curtain, and during my visit I nev- have recourse to a ponderous silver knocker in er saw that face again. But its memory came the shape of a lion's head. The old houseback to me vividly as I rode on now toward keeper of eighteen years before came to the Woolwich. How those far-off childhood days door. I had sundry grateful recollections of decame back, shedding their glamour over my licious little pies and cakes with which she had spirit-came back, with their strange radiance surfeited my boyhood. I was glad to see her of sunsets and sunrises, their wonderful fra- kindly face again. She had not changed much. grance of flowers, their far hills and bright wa- Her figure was hale and buxom as ever, though ters. I was twenty-eight now. It had been years had certainly frosted her hair which used eighteen years since I last saw Uncle Gerard. I to be thick and black. I extended my hand : had not known him well enough to have his loss “How do you do, Mrs. Tabitha ?" come home to me as a real sorrow; still a sort She did not answer at first; she seemed tryof tender, poetic melancholy invested the mem- ing to recollect me. Her face wore a puzzled ory of this solitary man, grown old alone, cling- expression which presently cleared up. ing to a by-gone love which had never known ** Belike you'll be our young master ?" response; alone with his artist gifts, his genius, “ The same." his rare learning.
“Well, I'm sure we'll be heartily glad to see I had been too far away from home to be you, Sir, only if you'd just sent word you was summoned in time for his funeral, but my pa- coming, we'd been all ready for you, and Mike rents had gone; and my mother told me, with would have gone after you with the carriage." tears in her eyes, how death had seemed to still I suppose it always remained a mystery to the long sorrow of his life--to give back youth the good old lady why I should ave preferred and hope to his worn face—and how marvelous- | walking quietly over the road to my new pos
sessions, rather than coming to them with due words which dwelt upon her beauty seemed honors, drawn in state by Uncle Gerard's sleek touched with fame, and yet it was a flame as gray horses. However, I soon managed to put pure as those which lit in other days the sacriher on a right footing-to become the master in- fices offered to Heaven. To him she was not stead of the visitor, and in due time I was the pretty, light-hearted girl which only she quietly installed in my new home.
seemed to other eyes, but the elect woman, For the first day or two there was pleasure crowned, to his thought, with all that there was enough in rambling about the grounds, but the on earth of nobleness, purity, and religion-a third day was rainy, and I shut myself up in my woman such as must have inspired the poets of uncle's study. The vailed picture hung there those old classic days when they wrote of godstill. I felt almost as if I were committing desses. sacrilege when I drew away the curtain, but I His timid wooing was detailed there; the had a strong desire to see how faithfully my delicate, poetical attentions by which he sought memory had reproduced it. It was the same to make known his homage; and, at last, he face that I had carried with me all these years, told in words, every one of which seemed an only there was a look of self-abnegation about embodied agony, how he had asked her love and it, a look like a prayer which I had not remem- asked in vain. There was no reproach coupled bered, which I was puzzled to reconcile, at first, with her name. He seemed to think it nothing with what I had been told of Amy Mansfield's strange that she had not been able to love one sunny, joyous nature, her disposition to take who seemed to her youth so grave and old--his every thing at its best-to live in the present. only marvel was that he should ever have been My uncle must have painted her as she had presumptuous enough to ask her. She had not seemed to his imagination. All the lofty traits fallen, ever so slightly, from the pedestal on with which his fancy had dowered her he had which he had placed her-she was his goddess brought out upon the canvas. But, even with still. A few pages farther on her betrothal was out that expression, which seemed the look of chronicled to one Everhard Deane, the young a pitying angel, she must have been very lovely. rector of Woolwich-a man, my uncle wrote, I could imagine how a man might well have whom she could worthily love-who, God grant, worshiped her, and asked her to be nothing that might love and cherish her forever! Of her she was not. I looked at her a long time. marriage there was nothing written, but, by-and
I was not romantic. I had been engaged in by, there came a leaf from which it appeared commerce, and it had not been without its usual that he had been painting her portrait. It said: hardening effect upon me. I must marry some “I have been to church to-day. Everhard time, I took that for granted. I was equally re- Deane preached for the first time since his marsolved that the future Mrs. Gerard Sunderland riage. They have returned from their short must be a lady of fortune and position, and yet bridal tour. They are living in the rectory. I could not help thinking, as I gazed upon the I knew I should see her at church, but I could picture, that I should like very much to have her not stay away, though every moment was toreyes look at me like those eyes of bonny Amy ture. I went early. I took my seat where, if Mansfield. And then I smiled at the thought she sat in the minister's pew, I could watch of getting so enthusiastic about a woman who every expression of her face, catch every inflecmust be old and gray now, even if she were still tion of her voice. Soon they came in. She living. And here a curiosity-I wish I could was leaning on his arm, as I had once hoped, dignify it by a worthier name-took possession Heaven help me, she would lean on mine. Oh, of me to learn her after fate. All I had heard how she looked! Love made her face radiant. was that she became Amy Deane and lived in She had never seemed to me so maddeningly Woolwich. Who was this gude mon who was beautiful as now, when she had given herself her husband—this successful rival of my refined, forever to another. My portrait does not do stately great uncle? Nothing would be easier her justice. I must give to her sweet eyes a than to call Mrs. Tabitha and make the neces- tenderer light; I must paint an added noblesary inquiries, but I had a sort of romantic wish ness in the still calm of her mouth. Did I to find out in a different manner. It might be covet her? If I did, God will forgive me; God, my uncle's papers would tell her story. No- who knows I would not deprive her of one mothing more likely than for this man, reserved, ment of happiness, even to make her mine foryet painstaking and patient, who had no human ever. confidant, to write down on paper such things “Oh how her low voice thrilled me, as she as troubled the current of his life. I began a joined in the prayers ! Can Everhard Deane studions search among the papers in his desk. love her as I do? He seemed indeed very con
I was not disappointed. In a compartment tent, very proud, as who might not with her by itself I found a book which had evidently been by his side? Well, I shall learn calmness in a sort of journal. It was not dated, or kept with time. It is something to have loved her-to any attempt at regularity. It seemed as if, when have dreamed, once in life, a happy dream." he could no longer hush the cry of his soul, it Then came other pages, sometimes with inhad found vent there.
tervals of years between them. Once he had At first, however, it was joyous. He had seen her with her first-born child in her arms, just come to Woolwich-he had seen her. The a noble boy.
Then that brave boy had died, and it was getting an old man now, and since his wife died beautiful to see how every sorrow that came he seems sadly broken; but we all like him, and nigh this Amy of his love brought out the still, as long as he can say a prayer we would not deep tenderness of Uncle Gerard's nature. change him away.”
There were many such sorrows. Five chil " How long since his wife died ?” was my dren, one after another, she had followed to next question. The answer startled me. their quiet resting-places in the church-yard, un “Just one year to a day before our dead masderneath the rectory windows--the church-yard ter. He never held up his head after her death. where, all summer long, suns shone, winds blew, Some said he took it harder than her husband. and birds sang above her darlings, and round Belike you have not heard the story, but the them every spring-time went on the new birth master loved Mistress Deane when she was Amy of nature; the wondrous spring-time miracle of Mansfield. They say she was a pretty girl and earth's resurrection, typical of the mortal put- her eyes were wondrous sweet and bright, but ting on immortality-Nature's own seal to the nobody else saw such great things in her as your Divine promise, “Thy dead shall live again.” uncle. She said Nay to his suit. Mr. Deane
It seemed that, despite these many sorrows, was a younger man, and he had her heart. But the fair Amy was very happy in her husband. it darkened all Mr. Sunderland's life. He alNor was her middle age left desolate. The ways seemed to feel every trouble that came youngest of all her children, her daughter Ra- upon her as if it was his own, and when she chel, was spared to her; was growing up by her died he never got over it.” mother's side, with her mother's gentle voice, The next day was Sunday, and I went early and eyes which were Amy's own.
to church, more anxious, I must confess, to see The last page of all was stained with that the husband and child of this dead Amy than stain which from heart or paper can never be to join in the service, which I had not then effaced---a strong man's tears. Amy was dead. learned to love. That morning I saw Rachel The grave had closed upon that hair, still brown Deane for the first time. and shining-that smile which had never grown The rector seemed a quiet yet deep-feeling old to his loving eyes. She had never been old man, bowed down by sorrow. There was his, and yet, now she was gone, a light, a mu- something singularly beautiful in his benign face sic, a glory had been swept forever from earth framed in silver hair, and in the pathos of his and life. Happy Everhard Deane! He has a low yet thrilling voice. His utterance charmed right to plant roses over her grave—a right to my ear, it was so distinct and musical, despite mourn her—a blessed heritage for all his lifetime the tremulousness it had caught from age and in the memory that that dainty form has thrilled sorrow. But I did not hear his sermon. I was in his clasping arms; that those brown tresses too much absorbed in looking at the saintly face have bathed his bosom with their silken length; which was uplifted toward him from the ministhose lips pressed upon his their first kisses-ut-ter's pew. tered for him their last prayer. The grave has Rachel Deane, at sixteen, was the very imclosed over her. It wanted but this to make age of her mother's portrait in my Uncle Gerard's Uncle Gerard's lone life lonelier. It was some- study; save that the expression of holiness, of thing to see her-to watch, on Sundays and Saint self-abnegation, was even deepened in her young, days, for the chance gleam of her sad and ten- wistful face. She was, I could see, all that my der smile, or the tremulous music of her voice uncle's imagination had made of her mother. joining in prayer and psalm. Now he has Her voice—somehow I always notice voices—was watched and listened for the last time-Amy so clear that I could easily single out its low tones is dead! Happy Everhard Deane! He was whenever she joined in the service. Had I only beloved-therefore, for him, all the beauty and heard that, without looking upon her face, I glory of life are immortal. Beyond the grave could have almost divined her character. I he can claim his bride, young and fair again in should have said that it must be the utterance heaven. For him fond arms are waiting—for of a true, pure soul, strong to do and to suffer; him one heart beats lonely, even in the light of yet a cheerful, kindly soul, moreover, carrying that day which hath no end, with longings for light and blessing with it every
where. his coming; but for Gerard Sunderland there It was not long before I made her acquaintmust be solitude-so whispers his despairing ance. The Reverend Mr. Deane came to call heart—even in heaven.
upon me, and, very naturally, I returned his After this page all the leaves were blank. visit. I soon found that his daughter possessed With this record of sorrow, the journal of Uncle a vigorous, inquiring mind, already stored with Gerard's life came to a full stop. There was all the available contents of her father's library. no date–I could not tell how long ago it had But these works, for the most part books of scibeen written; but I wondered if that had not ence, history, and theology, had by no means been his death stroke-if, after this great sor- satisfied her. She had read a few volumes of row, his life had not begun to ebb.
poems, and one or two of Scott's novels, which That night, while Mrs. Tabitha poured my had been her mother's, and these had opened to tea, I took occasion to inquire who was the her vision the enchanted realm of song and fcpresent rector of Woolwich.
tion, through which she longed to wander. I had “Mr. Everhard Deane," was the reply. “He's it in my power to gratify this longing. Uncle