House of Laudersdale. The result was that that gentleman secured one passage more than he had intended in the spring; and if you ever watch the shipping-list, the arrival of the Spray-Plough at Calcutta, with Mr. and Mrs. Raleigh among the passengers, will be seen by you as soon as me. Later in the evening of this same eventful day, as Mr. Raleigh and Marguerite sat together in the moonlight that flooded the great window, Mrs. Laudersdale passed them and went down the garden to the lake. She wore some white garment, as in her youth, and there was a dreamy sweetness in her eye and an unspoken joy about her lips. Mr. Raleigh could not help thinking it was a singular happiness, this that opened before her; it seemed to be like a fruit plucked from the stem and left to mature in the sunshine by itself, late and lingering, never sound at heart. She floated on, with the light in her dusky eyes and the seldom rose on her cheek,-floated on from moonbeam to moonbeam, -- and the lovers brought back their glances and gave them to each other. For one, life opened a labyrinth of warmth and light and joy; for the other, youth was passed, destiny not to be appeased: if his affection enriched her, the best he could do was to bestow it; in his love there would yet be silent reservations. "Mr. Raleigh," said Marguerite, "did you ever love my mother?" "Once I thought I did." "Whereas I was blind, now I see." "Listen! Mrs. Purcell is singing in the drawing-room." "Through lonely summers, where the roses blow Unsought, and shed their tangled sweets, I sit and hark, or in the starry dark, Or when the night-rain on the hill-side Alone! But when the eternal summers flow "What a voice she sings with to-night!" said Marguerite. "It is stripped of all its ornamental disguises, so slender, yet piercing!" "A needle can pain like a sword-blade. There goes the moon in clouds. Hark! What was that? A cry?" And he started to his feet. "No," she said, "it is only the wild music of the lake, the voices of shadows calling to shadows." "There it is again, but fainter; the wind carries it the other way." "It is a desolating wind." "And the light on the land is like that of eclipse !" He stooped and raised her and folded her in his arms. "I have a strange, terrible sense of calamity, Mignonne!" he said. "Let it strike, so it spare you!" 66 'Nothing can harm us," she replied, clinging to him. "Even death cannot come between us!" "Marguerite!" said Mr. Laudersdale, entering, "where is your mother?" "She went down to the lake, Sir." "She cannot possibly have gone out upon it!" "Oh, she frequently does; and so do we all." "But this high wind has risen since. The flaws" And he went out hastily. There flashed on Mr. Raleigh's mental sight a vision of the moonlit lake, one instant. A boat, upon its side, bending its white sail down the depths; a lifted arm wound in the fatal rope; a woman's form, hanging by that arm, sustained in the dark transparent tide of death; the wild wind blowing over, the moonlight glazing all. For that instant he remained still as stone; the next, he strode away, and dashed down to the lake-shore. It seemed as if his vision yet continued. They had already put out in boats; he was too late. He waited in ghastly suspense till they rowed home with their slow freight. And then his arm supported the head with its long, uncoiling, heavy hair, and lifted the limbs, round which the drapery flowed To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead And seeming to whisper, " All is well!" Of the place and the hour, the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; A line of black, that bends and floats Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height, A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. It was twelve by the village-clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. It was one by the village-clock, Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village-clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And one was safe and asleep in his bed You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British regulars fired and fled, How the farmers gave them ball for ball, So through the night rode Paul Revere ; A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore ! In the hour of darkness and peril and need, A NIGHT UNDER GROUND. My dear Laura Matilda, have you ever worked your way under ground, like the ghost Hamlet, Senior? On the contrary, you confess, but a dim idea of that peculiar mode of progression abides in the well-ordered mansion of your mind? Well, I do not wonder at it; you are civilized beyond the common herd; your mamma, careful of her own comfort and the beauty of her child, guards both. Your sunny summer-times go by in the shade of sylvan groves, or amid the whirl of Saratoga or Newport ball-rooms. I accept your ignorance; it is a pretty blossom in your maiden chaplet. For myself, I blush for my own familiarity with rough scenes chanced upon in wayward wanderings. Let me tell you of a path among the "untrodden ways." Transport yourself with me. Fancy a low, level, drowsy point of land, stretching out into the unbroken emerald green of Lake Superior, at the point where a narrow, yellowish river offers its tribute. The King of Lakes is exclusive; he disdains to blend his brilliant waters with those of the muddy river; a wavy line, distinctly and clearly defined, but seeming as if drawn by a trembling hand, undulates at their junction,‚—no democratic, union-seeking boundary, but the arbitrary line of division that separates the Sultan from the slave, the peer from the peasant. Along this shore are scattered various buildings that seem to nod in the indolent sunshine of the bright, clear, quiet air of midsummer. One of these, differing from the rest in its more modern construction, is a spacious hotel that holds itself proudly erect, and from its summit the gay flag of my country floats flauntingly. We must pass this by, and go down a plank-covered walk to reach the sandygolden beach where the green waves dash with silent dignity, in these long calms of July. Before the hotel the river flows also sleepily; but both shores are vocal with ladies' laughter and the singing of young girls, the lively chatter of a party of pleasure-tourists. The fine steamer that brought us to this point has gone, 66 Sailing out into the west, Out into the west, as the sun went down"; but no "weeping and wringing of hands" was there; we knew it must "come back to the town," that we are merely transient waifs cast upon this quiet beach, flitting birds of passage who have alighted in the porticos of the "Bigelow House," Ontonagon, Michigan. A long, low flat-boat, without visible sails, steam-pipes, or oars, -a narrow river-craft, with a box-like cabin at one end, the whole rude in its ensemble, and uncivilized in its details, is the object that meets the gaze of those who would curiously inspect the means by which the adventurous novelty-seeking portion of our party are to be conveyed up this Ontonagon river to the great coppermines that form the inestimable wealth of that region. For the metallic attraction has proved magnetic to the fancies of a few. A mine is a mystery; and mysteries, to the female mind, are delights. What is the boat to us but a means? If it seem prosaic, what care we? Have we escaped the French fashions of à-lamode watering-places, to be fastidious amid wigwams and unpeopled shores? We all know what it is to embark for a day's travel, but we do not all understand the charm of being stowed away like freight in a boat such as the one here faintly sketched; how seats are improvised; how umbrellas are converted into stationary screens, and awnings grow out of inspiration; how baskets are hidden carefully among carpet-bags, and camp-stools, and water-jugs, and stowed |