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168
eMOGLEASCHIS LIFERARZT COMPANICI Gov
Written for the Literary Companion.
THE WHISPERED ADIEU.
BY J. ALFORD.
Rite, dearest, arise from thy pillow,
And bless me with one dimpled smile;
1 soon shall be far on the billow,—
I'm destined to leave thee awhile.
I'll scarcely one moment detain thee,
‘Thou bright morning star of my soul;
In pity, then, do not refuse me,
, age my passions control.
My bark, near the shore, love, is riding, -
‘Awaiting its master on board;
Beliove not thy slumbers I'm chiding,
For, ob, thou art too much adored!
Task but one moment to greet thee,
To hear thee just whisper “ Adien ;””
Fate deigns not to place thee more near me,
~ My pledges of faith to renew.
Ah! now at the casement I see thee,
Yet oh! there are tears In thine eyes!
T'd give all the world, love, to free thee,
From anguish and heart-rending sighs.
Then dearest, forgive, oh, forgive me,
I meant not to wound thy fond heart,—
_ Grant one tender smile, "twill relieve me,
More happy I then shall depart. _
=
‘Written for the Literary Companion.
HOUSEHOLD DRAMAS.
_ NO.11 .
MY GUARDIAN,
BY MRS. M. A, DENISON:
rs °
Scene Fiast.—The parlor of acountry house, Angela,
the ward, Mr Arthur, the guardian, seat
one with a book, the othenperusing the
Ange'a—Weigho!
Arthur—Why do you sigh, Angela?
Angela—Don’t know ; got the blues, I believe.
Terribly ennuied. Biddy, bring me my work-
basket ; I'm tired of reading. J wonder what
people write books for? I suppose it’s to make
money ; I’m sure they very se:\dom make a sen-
sation or anything else, that know of. Heigho!
T’m low-spirited, decidedly, Wish I had somo-
thing to do.
Arthur—There’s your music.
Angela—Music! Ihate it! I’ve been over
sixty-one pages of Professor Slambang’s yaria-
tions, and twenty of Signor Octavorino’s waltzes,
The piano groans at this minute, for I finished
off with Von Carlo Thuimpenberg’s “ Furioso el
Noisenius,”—a very mach admired pot pourt of
the Poundemhard school, .
“Arthur—You are cross.
Anyeda,—Yes, I dare say that’s all the pity I
You men are all alike. There! I've
broken my needle, and run the point ander my
thumb nail! Just the way everything’s gone to
day, from coff:e to buttonholes, In the first
place the milk was soured ; then it rained; then
came a letter from Uncle Hal, six pages long, to
tell me th-t he had found a capital receipt for |
the rheumatism ; then my cousin called tq whis-
per to me, confidentially, (of course! As if T
would tell it again the first chance,) of her en-
gagement to the yery man I’d set my heart on;
and my thumb aches; and I’m discouraged.
The machinery of my life is “all wrong, some-
how. I wonder what’s the good of living 7
Arthur—Hadn’t you better try and build some
castles ?
Angela—In the air,eh? Well, Tl try. In
the first place, then, some tims or ather I shall
be married. You needn’t stare so; of course I
shall. I know it’s the fashion for young ladies
to decry the possibility; but I’m not a young
_lady—onty a country girl. Did you ever hear
of a woman destined for anything else but mat-
rimony or the convent? I never did; and it’s
ty private belief that that’s one of the questions
left out of the catechism—“ What is the chief
end-of woman? Answer—To be married, or
sink forever in the deep waters of obscurity, and
be stigmatized an ald maid!” You needn’t
laugh; it’s the try:h. Lowever, the matter
can’t be mended now, so I'll to my castle-
building, .
“Arthur—I am anxigus to behold your hus-
band. .
Angela8a am I, What a husband mine
shall be} Ican’t find such an one in all the
circle of my married acquaintances. But of
course thjs impossible piece of perfection will
coms along some time; if he don’t, why, I shall
just change the order of things, and go after
him. I'll tell you what he shan’t be, guardy,
Arthur—I am listenivg.
Angela—W ell, then—he shan’t be such a silent
mope as you are, there. And he shall be hand-
some—a real prince—tall, dark-eyed, a kingly
brow, a noble heart, and—and—
Arthur—Money to match, of course.
Angela—No ! you sarcastic creature ; I don’t
care a cent about money. What kindof a
house shall’I have? Listen: I see it in the
mazes of a fancy Iand—O, such a home! ‘A
garden full of strawberries, no matter if it is
January ; apple-trees, cherry-trees, plum-trees,
peach-trees, all growing together; and vegeta-
bles, from tomatoes to potatoes, ready for the
eating. I look within that white cottage cov-
ered with vines that are full of flowers. The
bees drone outside, and the long, cool entry
shows hollyhocks through the open doors. The
parlor is in beautiful taste ; my piano, with all
Professor Slambang’s variations, and Don Carlo
Thumpenberg’s pot pouris, handsomely bound
and lying in their appropriate place, stands
against the wall of my sitting-room, and the
windows look out upon the hills covered with
woods in blue and crimson distance. My, kitch-
en is simply perfect and perfectly simple in all
its arrangements, even to the new help just from
Cork, with her great goggle eyes forever asking,
“ An’ what ’Il I do next, mem ?” Now do you
see me sitting by the bow window, my husband
beside me? ‘
Arthur (quietly)—I wish you much joy, Mrs.
—Mrs— a
Angela—Any name will do—only let it be a
pretty one. Ileigho! I do believe I’ll get ready
for a walk. Now don’t you propose to go with
me; stick to your paper, I pray.
(Exit Angela.)
Arthur (looking after her)—Beautiful, wilful,
careless, lazy creature! She is unhappy because
she needs occupation. Alas !‘that such a tem-
ple should enshrine a mind so fitful—a purpose
so capricious. So, she wont marry a mope like
me—that was what she called me—but a young,
handsome fellow; and that I am not.. Some-
times I wish she had never come here; but then
—O, pshaw !—idle fancies, ide funcies! I'll to
my work. (Exit Arthur.)
Scenz Seconp.—Jnterior of a very humble cottage. A
lovely girl seated at a table, writing in a peculiar fash-
jon ; an old lady busy with household matters; a little
boy braiding baskets at a window. et:
Old Lady—Xow dark it grows! ‘rs
Poy—Is a storm coming, grandma?
O. L.—Bless you, dear, I’m afraid so.. There
—what a flash! and the big drops are falling.
If there isn’t a lady caught out! She’s coming
here for shelter, (A tap at the door.) Walk
right in, madam. It’s going to be a heavy
storm, I’m afeared. Julia, a young lady has
come in, dear, .
Julia—Vm very glad, grandmamma, Is she
wet? Wont she sit by the fire?
Angela (aside)—I think I never saw such a
glorious face—such a holy face! . (Aloud)—
Permit me to ask why you write in such a
strange manner? And you write without look-
ing on, too! .
Julia (with a sweet’ smile)—My dear young
lady, I cannot see.
O. L.—My darling is blind.
Angela—O, forgive me; I did not think it—
indeed I did not. And still you can smile.
Julia—O, yes; 1am very happy. Since dear
Mr, Arthur has taken so kind an interest in me,
J should be ungratefyl indeed not to be,
* Angela—Mr, Arthar! Why, he is my guard-
ian. Iam ona visit to him.
O. L.—Then you are privileged to see, day af-
ter day, one of God’s angels.
Julia—O, yes! He found us in sorrow and
poverty ; he has raised us up friends, educated
me and my dear little blind brother, sitting
there, and now he is kind enough to find us both
constant employment. Heaven bless him!
O, L—That is not all he has-done. You
can’t go a mile, young lady, but you find, I
might say scores, who love him and pray for
him. Truly he is eyes to the blind, feet tg tho
Jame, ears to the deaf, just as our dear Saviour
was. o
Angela—So he is everywhere beloved, is he ?
O. L.—Beloved—that isn’t the word; we al
most look up to him as something sacred. You
see, miss, he’s one of them that doesn’t live for
himself; he seems to be all the time going and
doing outside. , the storics I could tell!
Angela—The storm is blowing over, after all,
and I myst go home, or my friends will be anxe
ious. Ishall call again, for I am anxious to
become acquainted with this sweet girl.
Julia—Do come as often as you can. Any
one who is his friend is ours. (Exit Angela)
Scene Tarap.—A fashionable drawing-room. la
conversing with several ladies. Books and pictures on
tables.
Tady—I presume, as you are Mr. ‘Arthur's
ward, you have seen his works.
Angela—His works—O, yes ; he is a very fine
man, doing good all the time.
Lady—O, but, my dear, I mean his books, his
beautiful books—poems, stories, travels. Every-
body reads them.
Angela—Do you mean that he writes? I
never knew he was an author.
Lady—Then you have much pleasure in store,
my dear. Why, he is quoted everywhere—at
home, abroad, in all the reviews. Mr. Arthur is
a powerful writer; and don’t you think he is
very handsome.
Angela—I’m sure—I don’t know—I—never
thought—
Lady—O! those deep eyes of his; they are
poems of themselves. I beg you wont say I
said so, because it’s imagined, of course, that
every woman is in love with Mr. Arthur. -I
can’t say but that many of them are. OQ, yes,
he is certainly very handsome, intellectually.
Angela (aside)—And this is the man I have
ridiculed to his face—a man whom everybody
admires, and I, because I did not know him,
despised. O! what apology shall 1 make? I
am ashamed of myself.
2d Lady—My dear, have you seen your guard-
ian’s last picture 4
Angela—His—last—picture ?
* 2d Lady—Yes—“ Blind Bartimeus.” It is in
the art room—and such a wonderful production !
When you read Mr. Arthur’s books, you feel
he is perfect there ; but when you see his pic-
tures, you wonder whether mortal power could
grasp:so much.
Angela—l'1l go now and see for myself.
"(Exit Angela and ladies.)
Scens Fovrra.—A parlor in the country-house. Angela
and Arthur sitting there. -
Angela—Guardy—I mean Mr. Arthur—I—I,
am afraid of you. .
Arthur—Afraid of me, my de—Miss Angela!
And pray, why?
Angela—Because I find that you are a great
) man,
Arthur—O, no, no; far from it.
Angela—But you are. And—and—guardy—
are you—are you—that is—so very old?
Arthur (smiling)—Under fifty yet, Miss Ange-
la, Young enough, at any rate, to think of,
marrying, sometime. .
Angela (aside)—Ah! to that beautiful. blind
girl, I warrant. (Aloud) —Guardy, is it true
that you dye your hair?
Arthur—Never, my child,
thought into your mind ?
Angela—They say so.
Arthur—Have you not learned to distrust that
hydra-headed “they,” yet?—to distrust, to ut-
terly disbelieve whatever they endorse? If not,
you have lived to little purpose, my child—as,
indeed, I think you have. .
Angela—And I think you have no right to
lecture me, You are forever telling me what I
What put that
“don’t do, and can’t do. I wish you would let
mealone! I wish you would never speak to
me! (Weeps passionately. Guardian goes
silently out.) There, now, I have driven him
away, I am such a vehement, hateful thing! I
despise myself, not him.” Ife tells me the truth ;
Tam indolent—I am passionate—Lam ugly, But
I don’t care—I wont care, for he cares nothing
forme. He can’t abide me. And he thinks of
marrying, too; some one who is is sweet and
gentle, I know—not wicked and idle, like me. I
wish I had never come—I wish I had never seen
him. I’m perfectly miserable. When I first
came I thought he was old and ugly; I only
looked at him. Since then I have seen his heart,
and find myself utterly unworthy of his lightest
thought. His eyes are beautiful. I wish I had
never seen him. But I know what J will do; I
will try to make myself worthy of his friendship,
if nothing more, He shall not, at least, despise
me.
Scenx Firr#.—A pleasant arbor In the midst of a garden,
Angela seated there, reading’ Enter Mr. ur,
Arthur—I beg pardon ; I did not mean to in-
terrupt you. I thought yon were gone for a
walk,
Angela—You do not interrupt me. Pray, sit
down. Is not this view a sweet one?
Arthur—It is ; and it reminds me of that im-
possible house and garden of your imagining.
Do you remember? And that wonderful fate of
yours—have you met him yet?
Angela—O, now you are making sport of me.
Arthur—No, indeed ; that is something I nev-
erdo. But I, too, had my extravagant desires,
and as they are about to be realized, I thought I
would ask you if you weré near your goal.
Angela—You—you mean—
Arthur—That I have found the dear woman I
wish for a wife—in every respect just as I would
have her—beautiful, gentle, amiable and indus-
trious. Am [not a fortunate man?
Angela (growing pale)—Indeed you are. But
—is not the air cold? Ishiver a little. Per-
haps we had better go into the house.
Arthur—Wrap this shawl round you. You
must stay, for I wish to describe this dear woman
to you, and—
Angela (imploringly)—O, Mr. Arthur, please
let me go. Excuse my importunity. I wiil
stay now ; it was only a passing indisposition.
Arthur—I think ‘you would recognize the
young lady.
Angela (aside)—This is torture! (Aloud)—
Yes, I believe I know her—have seen her. Is
she not blind ?
Arthur—Blind! O,no. She has been; but
whereas she was blind, now she sees. Her men-
tal blindness has all passed away, leaving a soul
unclouded, and a mind lifted from its earthward
aspirations to the joys of a higher existence,
Behold, here is her miniature. Look and note
if you have ever seen her of whom it is the pic-
tured resemblance,
Angela (springs from her seat)—O, guardian,
that—that—
Arthur—Is your own lovely counterfeit. My
dear angel, have I presumed too much in loy-
ing the original ?
Angela—No._ O! this is too great happiness!
Arthur—Come, then, my bride to be ; we will
leave this chilly arbor, and seek, in our home, to
love and bless each other henceforth, (Exit.)
A DOUBLE ELOPEMENT,
A well-to-do farmer from Columbia county
went to New York not long since, to reclaim a
daughter who had run away from his domicil
with a young husband, whose throat the affec-
tionate old gentleman had threatened to cut from
ear to ear.’ It seems that the mother—the
widowed mother—of this fugacious son-in-law
was a youthful sweetheart of the suid old gentle-
man, and jilted him in a peculiarly cruel manner.
Hence his hatred of her son, and his wrath
when he found that his only daughter, whose
dying mother had confided her to his tender care,
hud married that son, and his threat to cut that
son’s throat.
‘That ireful father-in-law had bat little difficul-
ty in finding the boarding-house of the youthful
air, but was deterred from vioiting
earning that they were guarded by the widow
herself—his old and faithless betrothed. After
some skirmishing, however, he one day ventured
toring at the door, when he supposed that the
widow had gone out, and he was ushered into
the parlor where the widow herself was sitting,
With a deep frown he tarned to retire, but was
detained by a small hand laid gently upon his
It was the widow’s hand. They were
soon seated—not far apart. Explanation was
satisfactory—she always loved him. Why
was
he so rash as to- marry another before she had
time to explain ?
It was rash, he admitted ; nay, more—wrong ;
and he was not the man to let a wrong be un-
righted if he could right it; so there he was, old
‘o be sure, but tough and rich, and hay ing much
life and service in him yet. Would she help bim
to set matters right? Of course she would. She
was not the one to baulk the good intentions of
a repentant sinner, But what would the young
folks say? “No matter,” said the tough old
fellow, “ we'll elope; we have as good a right as
they had,” Capitafidea—should be carried out
immediately, . ° .
‘They packed up the widow’s trynk, called a
hack, caught an evening train, reached Colum-
bia county in safety, were Mauried, and sent
their cards to the astonished young couple in
New York, who had become greatly alarmed at
the widow’s prolonged and unaccountable ab:
sence. The old gentleman was so well pleased
with his conp of matrimony that he pardoned
is daughter and son-in-law.
Rowland Hill whep at college, was remarka-
ble for the frequent wittiness of his observa.
tions, In aconversation on the powers of the
letter“IT, in which it was contended that it was
no letter, but 2 simple aspiration or breathing,
Rowland took the opposite side of the question,
and insisted on its being, to all intents and pur-
poses, a letter; and concluded by observing
that, if it were not, it was a very serious affair
to him, as it would occasion his being ruvall
the days of his life, -
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