University of Virginia Library

ORANGE BLOSSOMS.

I DOUBT whether any man, be he young or old, ever attended
the wedding of a young bride without a certain
feeling of awe. To me the service appears more impressive
than that of a funeral. The pall lies upon the poor
pale effigy; we listen to the words of hope and consolation;
the tributary tears fall as the mournful pageant
moves on; the tomb closes; night falls around it; and in
the darkness and silence we turn from the dead, dumb,
voiceless past, to seek new loves and new sympathies with
the living.

But a bride, in the morning of her days; standing upon
the threshold of a new existence; crowned like a queen
with the virgin coronal, soon to be laid aside, for ever; with
the uncertain future before her; repeating those solemn

pledges, and assuming those solemn responsibilities which
belong not to maidenhood; robed in the vestments of innocence,
and giving her young, confiding heart, into the
keeping of another; seems to me a more touching spectacle
than that denoted by the nodding plumes, the sad
procession, and the toll of the funeral bell.

There was more levity and love in Rowley's composition
than in mine; at least they were more easily excited
in him than in me. He was always beside some pretty
girl or other;—at a party he would be smiling and chatting
with, perhaps, half a dozen, while I was only too happy
if I could get into a corner with one. Once or twice I
was reproved for trifling with the affections of certain young
ladies; “I had been too particular in my attentions” they
said. Trifling with affection! I trifle! such a thing as
anybody falling in love with me never suggested itself. If
it had, a glance at the severe, homely face I was obliged to
shave every morning, sufficed to put that conceit out of my
head. Besides, the mere idea of that beautiful mystery
called “a wedding,” was enough to bewilder me. I could
no more have asked Fanny Hazleton (the most intimate
friend I had, except Rowley) to assist me in getting up
some nuptials for the benefit of our friends, than I could

have stepped upon the stage and played Romeo to Fanny
Kemble's Juliet. Yet the subject was a favorite one with
Rowley and me as we sat by the office fire; the difference
between us was, he always associated it with some pretty
girl of his acquaintance, but to me it was something illusive,
and remote; suggestive mainly of an ideal white veil,
and an imaginary chaplet of orange flowers.

One evening Rowley took some loose papers from the
table. “Listen,” said he, “and tell me who this reminds
you of—”

“Now,” said Rowley with a smile which poorly concealed
a lurking disquiet, “who did you think of while I
was reading?”

“Nobody,” I answered. “I was struck merely with
the beauty of the verses.”

“Oh cousin, cousin!” and Rowley, turning his head a
little, looked at me askance; “tell me; did not a pretty
young lady of our acquaintance come into your mind while
I was reading?”

“No,” I said, “who can you allude to?”

“A very pretty girl,” answered poor Rowley, and added
in rather a tremulous voice, “her name begins with an F.”

“Fanny Hazleton?”

Rowley nodded,—I thought he looked uncommonly
serious.

“Fanny Hazleton?” I repeated, “why Rowley, she is
the last person I would have thought of.”

“Are you serious in what you say?” Rowley was very
much in earnest when he put this question. “Tell me;
Do you mean what you say? Are you not in love with
Fanny—very much in love?”

“Well, Rowley,” I replied, “since you have brought
me to think over the matter, I am not sure but what I
am.”

My cousin sank back in the chair, thrust his hand in
his breast, which I perceived rose and fell with the tide of
emotion, and sighed heavily.

“And what if I do love her?” I continued, “there
are not many like her.”

Rowley cast a look at me of the most sorrowful acquiescence.

“But I am afraid Fanny's sentiments towards me, are
not such as would induce her to place her happiness in my
keeping.”

Here a burning stick of wood rolled from the fire almost
to Rowley's feet. He did not move, so I took the tongs
and put it back.

“Rowley, what is the matter? I was only bantering
you. Fanny does not love me; I am sure of that. With
me she is too confiding—too sisterly. Come, cousin, since
you question me I will question you. Are you not in love
with Fanny—very much in love?”

He laid his hot hand upon mine, and pressed it very
hard. Poor Rowley!

At this time the influenza was prevalent in our part
of the town, sometimes attended with all the symptoms
of a severe bilious fever. I remember crawling out
into the warm May sun, after some weeks' confinement, and
imprudently walking so far, I was obliged to get a carriage
to convey me home again. Of course this little bit of unprofessional
practice was followed by a relapse, and it was

almost the middle of June before I was again able to go
about. By the advice of two physicians (Rowley and myself),
I took that most agreeable prescription “change of
air,” and found myself much recruited after a few days'
sojourn at Saratoga Springs.

There are few places more captivating to the eye than
the breadth of greenery bounded by the spacious piazzas
of the United States Hotel at Saratoga. In the “leafy
month of June” it is peculiarly so. Leaves, sunshine, and
greensward mingle harmoniously. There is none of the
rush and excitement of fashion—that unhappy consequence
of Eve's endeavor to make herself look a little more
becoming. One loves to loiter around, drinking in the delight
placidly. It is stilly, very stilly, at night; and then,
if perchance you pace the piazza with some pensive maid,
or wander as far as the white temple of Hygeia, standing
silent and beautiful in the moonlight, ten chances to one,
you will ask her a momentous question, and the chances
are about even she will whisper “Yes”—if she love you.

One afternoon, the cars sailed into the dépôt, and soon
after a few travellers came through the broad gate at the
end of the lawn. There were three ladies and a little boy.
The young lady (for the others represented mother and
aunt) carried a shawl upon her arm, and a little Indian

basket by the handle, in the most graceful way possible;
I observed, also, she had a pair of full, dark eyes, radiant
with lashes; and a dimple that played upon her cheek like
a sunbeam upon the water.

There was something too, honest, open, and frank in
her face, which you understood at once. It was at the
same time pleasing, good-humored, and independent—I
will not say how handsome.

When the dinner bell sounded, and I took my usual seat
at the table, there were four chairs turned down opposite,
and what I hoped, came to pass—my vis-à-vis was the
young lady with the dimple. All I remember of her dress
was a very graceful line that, sweeping a little below her
white neck, curved from one polished shoulder to the other,
and in the centre of the wave was a large, a very large,
aqua-marine breastpin, holding three little rosebuds, two
white, and one pale red. Spite of all I could do, the aqua-marine
breastpin and the three little rosebuds attracted
my attention so much, I was afraid of giving offence by
looking so often that way, when I heard the small boy ask
his Ma for some champaigne. This indication of early
viciousness not being gratified by Mamma, he repeated his
request so often that, finding he was already a spoiled
chicken, by way of diverting my thoughts from rosebuds

and dimples, I whispered Andrew Jackson, who was busy
with the crumb-brush, to take my wine and fill the young
gentleman's glass quietly, when nobody was looking. This
feat being performed rather adroitly, occasioned some surprise
to Master Tom, when he looked around. “Where
did this come from?” he asked, with eyes wide open.

“I believe” said his sister, “you are indebted to the
gentleman opposite;” and then, with a degree of surpassing
grace, she raised the glass, bowed slightly to me, and
touched it with her lips.

Where the conversation began, and where it ended, I
do not now remember. Master Tom was instrumental in
bringing it on—then Mamma followed—and lastly, it was
made bewitching by dimples and rosebuds. Saratoga, Niagara,
and Trenton were the themes; the odorous breath
of June breathed through the window blinds, and at last,
with my heart full of happiness, and my lap full of lint,
I rose and bowed to the departing ladies.

“You will go to Niagara, then, early in the morning?”

I bowed again.

“I hope you will have as pleasant a journey as we have
had;” the dimple played a moment in the cheek—and I
was left solus.

I had promised myself a ride to the lake after dinner;

the horse was waiting at the door—and in another moment
he was cantering with me down the broad avenue toward
the spring. A little, black, petulant barb—prancing and
dancing sideways, wrangling with the bit—in all respects
in as good spirits as I was, on that happy afternoon. When
we came back in the twilight, and turned the street at the
side of the hotel, I happened to look up, and there, resting
her head upon her hand, with a book—in a room which was
nearly opposite to mine—was the fair rosebud wearer. At the
same moment my wicked little barb swerved aside at something,
brought me with a crash against an awning post opposite,
and started up the street toward the stable, on a
run. I believe, if it had not been for that friendly act of
pinning me against the post, I would have been unseated.
I looked again toward the window as I limped across
the street, and caught one more glance, which was the
last.

After I had packed my trunk in the evening, for my
early journey next day, I pulled it near the door, which I
left ajar to air the room, for the weather was warm.
When I returned, rather late in the evening, I found lying
upon it, a souvenir; there, as if they had been quickly and
carelessly dropped, were three little rosebuds—two white,
and one pale red!

I do not think I dreamed that night of Fanny
Hazleton.

Trenton, with its gorgeous waterfalls; its lofty buttresses
and wide arcades of natural masonry; its shadowed
lapses of waters, here spreading placidly from wall to wall,
there, washing broad levels of stone even and wide enough
for a multitude of carriages; anon, gathering into a black
volume, deep, swift, and terrible as death; and then,
springing from the sharp brink into the light, with its falling
tide of amber and sparkling crystal, induced me to
linger long and lovingly.

How often, after nightfall, did I descend the steep
staircase, alone—for the grandeur of Trenton is felt most
at night—and looking up beyond the enormous walls, hid
in deep shadow, behold the blue woof of the sky, and the
mysterious stars gazing down into the abyss. Then are
the voices of the waters most audible; even at a distance,
amid the shrill and ceaseless chirp of the cicadæ in the
trees, amid the whispering echoes, and the rustling leaves,
blending and deepening; with all, and above all, rises the
melancholy anthem; the solemn doom-tones of Trenton!

And in that solitude my thoughts turned ever homeward,
and my thoughts were of Rowley, and Fanny
Hazleton.

In past years, it was a day and night's journey from
Albany to Buffalo; passengers were apt to loiter in the
towns by the way. An old gentleman who was in the cars,
stopped, as I did, for a day, at Syracuse; we fell into conversation:
he intended to stay a day or so at Rochester.
That was my intention also. “And Buffalo as well?”
“Yes.” We agreed to travel together.

I do not know if travelling be apt to make one more
observing than usual, or whether the mind, absolved from
its daily cares, interests itself in surrounding objects for
want of its customary employment. Certain it is, as we
journeyed on, I was more attracted by seeing a white hand
holding a book in front of me, than I ever had been before
by a like object, though Fanny Hazleton's was as white as
it, or any other. The white hand raised the car window
sometimes, but the car window would slide down again.
So, as the white hand did not apply the remedy, that is,
the loop, to keep the vexatious window in its place, another
hand, less white, looped it up to save trouble. “I
was just going to do that myself,” whispered my elderly
companion.

If the glimpses I caught of the white hand while in
action were agreeable, when the book was laid aside, and it
reposed upon the back of the car seat, within reach, it was

absolutely absorbing. It was white as a blanched almond,
and as round. The fingers melted into sunset at the tips.
I felt as if I could snatch it up and run off with it. I
forgot all about Fanny Hazleton, the dimple, and the three
rosebuds. I was haunted of a white hand. And I saw my
elderly companion glistening at it through his spectacles.
At last it moved slightly, then adjusted a pretty French bonnet,
and a round, auburn ringlet, like burnt gold, fell down
and danced upon her shoulder. Patter! patter! rain against
the panes! The white hand undid the loop, and then it lay
in her lap. My elderly companion leaned forward a little
—probably to see how it looked beside the other one.

Genesee Falls is a pleasant divertisement between the
larger dramas of Trenton and Niagara. Amid these
grander outlines, any work of man, any thing but primitive
nature, would be strikingly incongruous, but I am not sure
the white torrents from numberless mill-flumes around the
falls of the Genesee do not enhance its beauty. But the
lower falls, unshackled by machinery, are dreamy and delicious;
and as I plucked a wild flower from the cliff, I
thought again of home and Fanny Hazleton.

I was seated on the porch of the hotel, in the cool evening,
with my friend, when a carriage stopped before it,
and a gentleman alighting therefrom, handed out three

ladies. The last appeared to be slightly lame. The hand
which rested rather heavily for assistance upon the arm of
the gentleman, was that which has been slightly alluded to.
“I shall want you in the morning to take us to the cars,”
said the gentleman to the coachman.

“What is the matter?” inquired my elderly friend of
the driver, after the party had gone in.

“Sprained her ankle!” promptly responded the man.

Now, a beautiful woman, meeting with an accident, is
always sure to awaken the tenderest solicitude of benevolent
old gentlemen. My companion was not an exception to this
peculiarity. He did inquire, and very anxiously too, of the
gentleman who escorted the ladies, whom he met in the
course of the evening, as to the extent of the disaster.
Fortunately, it was not a serious matter.

Three lovelier women never travelled together since the
invention of railroads, than those who were seated next
morning in the cars, on their way to Buffalo.

The smallest one of the group was married; her companions
were single. Such sweetly-brilliant eyes as the first
turned upon her husband, who sat by her side; and then
the others—tall, and moulded with all of nature's cunning,
—each setting off each—such dark lustres beamed beneath
the long lashes of the Brunette! Such tender witchery

was half hidden in the full hazels of the Blonde! and in
the lap of the latter, buried in the soft folds of a cambric
kerchief, was the hand, ungloved; like a large blanched
almond; and beside another as white.

We arrived at Buffalo in the evening, and beheld the
thin sickle of the new moon uprising from the broad expanse
of Lake Erie. Next morning, at half-past eight,
when we took the cars for the Falls, the white hand was
leaning upon the arm of the gentleman as seen aforetime.
How I wished it had been my arm! We move off; objects
of interest begin to multiply; Black Rock, and opposite
the remains of Fort Erie, famous for the sortie in the last
war. White-hand points to the place. Tonawanda and
Grand Island, which once promised to be the new Canaan
of the Israelites. Then through the forest, and emerging,
we come again upon the river, and old Fort Schlosser, and
the scene of the burning of the Caroline. “Durfee was
shot near where the post stands,” says the conductor.
White-hand points it out. Now we see Navy Island, and
the white caps uplift their crests above the rapids. Nearer
and nearer we come—house after house glides in view—the
cars stop.

Where is Niagara?

I spent the rest of the day at the Falls, and when I

returned in the evening, found my travelling companion
quietly smoking, and in conversation with the gentleman
upon whose arm had rested the white hand.

I believe young men once were more modest than they
are in these degenerate times. Certain it is, I had rather
avoided than sought the acquaintance of the gentleman to
whom I was now introduced. Not but what I desired it.
But the very idea of being intrusive there, made me shrink
and blush with shame.

“You have been studying the Falls, I presume?” said
the gentleman, who was a Virginian, as I soon after discovered;
“we missed you at dinner. Would you have
any objection to make one of our party? We propose to
pay a first visit early in the morning.”

Of course I had no objection, and frankly told him so.

“We would like to start at five o'clock.”

I bowed.

Then we discoursed of other matters until bed-time,
when I fell asleep, full of happy dreams of the morrow.

To tell of that early ride in the leafy month of June,
around Goat Island; how we ascended the Tower, and
descended the Biddle staircase; how fearlessly those beautiful
ladies ran out to the very end of the Terrapin bridge;
how, after breakfast, we visited the Church of the Tuscarora

Indians (for it was Sunday), and saw the old squaws
come in barefooted, fold themselves in their blankets, and
go to sleep just like any other christians; how we looked
down at the whirlpool, and saw the place where a soldier
had leaped two hundred feet into the trees below, and was
not killed; how we crossed to the Canada side, and went
on Table Rock, and under the Horse-shoe fall; how we
saw the gray cloud form from the mist, and slowly sailing
aloft, catch at last the beautiful tints of morning upon its
shoulders; how we visited Lundy's Lane, and Chippewa,
and the clever reply of the Irish driver, who, when he was
asked the question whether the Americans or the British
were successful at Lundy's Lane, answered, as he glanced
around the car, in which were some of Her Majesty's officers,
“there niver was such a fight since the beginning of
the wurrld, but I belave they were about aquil!” I say,
to repeat all this would probably be less interesting to the
reader than it was to me. But the white hand did sometimes
rest upon my arm, nor was the mind of the fair Virginian
less lovely than her outward adornments. So
passed the happy days and evenings beside the Thunder-Water.

Fanny Hazleton faded into the remote. Bridal veils
and orange blossoms interrupted my fancies—but they were

associated with scenes in which I appeared merely as a
spectator. I thought of a white hand, given lovingly and
confidingly to another. I saw the ring glitter between the
beautiful fingers. I pictured to myself some unworthy
representative of manhood, winning a prize whose priceless
value he could neither understand nor appreciate. As the
day of departure drew near, I felt sadder and sadder. It
came at last. The stage for Lewiston was at the door. I
simply bowed farewell to the ladies, with as much calmness
as I could muster. But the fair Virginian rose and said,
“I must shake hands with you, and say how much I am
obliged to you for your kindness.” Then—for the first
time—did I touch that beautiful hand; and then, with a
heart as heavy as lead, I climbed into the stage, and was
soon rolling over the long and weary path that led towards
home.

There is one cure for sadness; a prescription, infallible
for all but the poverty-stricken. If you are in comfortable
circumstances, and withal dissatisfied with your lot—go
among the poor. If you are neglected by those whose
society you covet, or your aspirations are beset with disappointments—go
among the poor. If your strivings to be
better only make you a mark for vulgar natures, if detraction,
envy, and malice induce you to fancy life a burthen,

still—go among the poor. See what misery is—before you
yourself claim to be miserable. Abandon fruitless sympathies,
confined only to one, and plant them where they are
most needed. My life for it, you will be wiser, nobler,
happier. See what wretchedness really is, before you consider
existence as a disease, which, but for the future,
would be happily alleviated by the pistol or the knife. See
if you can come from the abodes of helpless indigence, and
repeat, “I have nothing to live for.” And even if you
nourish a hopeless passion, if fortune, or position interpose,
or if the one you love love not you, still I repeat—go
among the poor! The visit will give you strength and
consolation; if you are rich in love, behold the means of
employing it where the returns will be still richer.

This philosophy was the result of my visit to Niagara.
And now to Rowley and Fanny Hazleton.

That my cousin was very much admired by the young
ladies was unquestionably true. His handsome face and
figure might have inspired a passion, even had he not been
possessed of better attributes. But with enough to make
almost any one vain, I never detected that element in
Rowley's composition. If he chatted familiarly with the
pretty girls around him, it was because he enjoyed their
society, and his honest, manly, straightforward nature

never suspected any harm in that, or believed it could
awaken envy in others. But Fanny Hazleton was rarely
found in this merry circle; in fact, she kept aloof from my
cousin, and much as he loved her, what with her refusing
to dance, sometimes for a whole evening, and what with
those engagements he felt bound to make with others, for
fear of giving offence, there was very little show of attention
to her on his part; and if Fanny had a secret partiality
for him, no one had been shrewd enough to discover
it. I must say, I preferred her society to that of any of the
rest; she was so noble, sensible, and womanly; there was
so much in confidence between us, and so often was I beside
her at these little evening parties, that people sometimes
hinted, “that Fanny and a certain person, one of
these days, would be sending around cards, and bride's
cake.”

But Rowley knew better than that; and Fanny only
laughed at the story, and told it to me.

My cousin's passion for Fanny was very much like the
attraction of the planetary bodies; it revolved around, but
never approached its object. To procrastinate the momentous
question, to live suspended, like Mahomet's coffin,
between heaven and earth, is a part of the history of every
one who loves. Rowley put it off from time to time; but

the arrival of a gentleman in the Havre packet brought
the affair to such a critical pass that my cousin had to
speak,—but we will come to that by and by.

Two young ladies, who figured occasionally at our coteries,
had a brother, younger than themselves, whose absence
in Europe had been the constant theme and staple of their
conversation, at all times, and in all places. First, we
were given to understand, he was brimful of talent, and
immensely literary; then, he had been bearer of dispatches
out, and his services would probably be required by the
government for something else as soon as he got back.
The accounts of his scholarship, by the Misses Bullwinkle
(his sisters), threw a shadow upon the fame of Erasmus;
and the fire of his poetry was at least equal to Lord Byron's,
if not superior. Then he had the kindest heart for
every body, he was so good, so charitable; one sewing society
had absolutely given up its meetings until his return;
besides, he could fence in a superior manner; in fact, so
fond was he of that pastime, he actually taught Miss Bullwinkle
the elder to handle the foils, that he might keep
himself in practice; and—in making a pun! “Oh,” said
the sisters in a breath, “if you could hear him make a
pun, you would laugh fit to kill yourself!”

Of course the arrival of such a prodigy caused no little

flutter. We were invited to Fanny Hazleton's on Friday
night, and every body went to meet Mr. William Bullwinkle.

I had been visiting a patient that evening, and did not
reach Mrs. Hazleton's until late. When I entered the
rooms, I was promptly carried forward, and introduced to
the man of genius without delay. He was the centre of
an admiring circle, and no doubt had just uttered something
oracular, for his hands were clasped together, and he
was peering around in the faces of his audience, as if he
would say,—that's so—isn't it?” He had a shining, bulbous
forehead, rather scantily thatched with blades of hair;
his face, small, meagre, and yet vulgar, was adorned with
a pair of short, rusty whiskers, and a rag of a moustache;
in all respects not what one would call a face eminently
prepossessing. As for his figure, it was evidently made
up. But in the rapid glance embracing all this, I had
taken in another person, whose attitude and expression put
me at my wit's end. It was Fanny Hazleton. So absorbed
was she with her guest at the moment, she scarcely
noticed me. She seemed to hang upon his words as if their
lingering sweetness still pervaded the atmosphere. I looked
around for Rowley. Pale and silent, my cousin was alone
in a corner, playing with the tassels of the sofa cushion.

“Why Rowley! what is the matter?”

“Nothing at all,” answered my cousin, “I do not feel
very well.”

If Mr. William Bullwinkle's reputation had not already
preceded him, that evening would have established it. He
had been every where, seen every thing, and met every
body. He brought meerschaums and metaphysics from
Germany; the graces and a correct pronunciation from
Paris; a consummate knowledge of art from Italy; besides
an accordion, and a watch, not larger than a Lima bean,
from Geneva on Lake Leman.

“My intercourse with the aristocracy of England never
allowed me to breathe there, what I am now about to tell
you in confidence,” said Mr. William Bullwinkle, pulling his
rag of a moustache over his under lip; but when I was
presented to the Queen, my keen eye of observance detected
a slight tremor in Her Majesty, and when I kissed
her hand I am certain it trembled a little. I also caught
her eye afterwards, at the opera, which she withdrew at
once; I am sure of this, for I saw it plain as day, through
my lorgnette. But not wishing, as an American, to be
mixed up with any scandal of the court,” he added, drumming
upon his cheek with his fingers, “I took leave of the

white cliffs of Albion sooner than perhaps I otherwise might
have desired.”

The expression upon my cousin's face, while Mr. Bullwinkle
delivered himself in this gay and festive manner,
was absolutely fiendish.

Not so with Fanny Hazleton. During the rest of the
evening, she kept close by the side of her guest, and at
parting, when the sisters Bullwinkle helped their brother on
with his coat, and tied the worsted around his neck, her
fair fingers, as if emulous of the duty, re-tied it, to keep
him comfortable.

“How did you like Mr. Bullwinkle?” said I to Rowley,
as we walked towards the office.

“He's a perfect jackass!” answered my cousin with a
burst of indignation.

“Did you hear him make a pun?”

“Oh!—him, yes; half a dozen.”

“Any of 'em good?”

“Good?—immense!” this was uttered in a tone intended
to be cool and sarcastic in the highest degree.

“What of his literary ability?”

“Chaff! chaff! a literary chiffonier, who hooks out of
the mire decayed scraps of learning, and thinks them wonderfully
fine in the new gloss he puts upon them.”

“He has written a great deal.”

“Yes, no doubt; his fecundity is astonishing; I
should call him a literary rabbit.” This was terribly
bitter.

“What is the matter, Rowley?”

“Nothing at all.”

“They say he fences beautifully.”

“I would like to try him with a small-sword.”

If Fanny Hazleton's conduct surprised me on that
Friday evening, what did I think of it when a few weeks
had rolled by, and her acquaintance with the ci-devant
Bearer of Dispatches became strengthened by time? At
every evening party, Mr. Bullwinkle was her escort; if she
danced at all, which she did but rarely, Mr. Bullwinkle
was her partner; if she went to a concert or the theatre,
there was Mr. Bullwinkle as well. Meantime, Rowley,
instead of being the gay, good-humored cavalier, the life
and soul of the social circle, he used to be in old times,
was now downeast and spiritless; following Fanny with
his eyes every where, yet searcely venturing to address her
at all; a shadow of his former self; no longer an object
of adulation, but the subject of pity, or ridicule, or both.
This will never do, my cousin!

Rowley's mother at this time issued cards of invitation
for a small party, to be given in honor of her niece Isabel

Bassett, who had just arrived from Baltimore. Bell Bassett
was a sprightly, amiable girl of about twenty; exceedingly
pretty withal, and as witty and quick as she was
good-natured. She was engaged to a gentleman of her
native city, but this was a secret known only in the family.
We had been very good friends, and soon after her arrival
I made her acquainted with the unfortunate position of my
cousin's affairs. The result was, after several consultations,
a plot, the success of which mainly depended upon my cousin
Rowley.

“Do you remember,” said I to him one day, “that
scene in Cooper's novel, where the prairie is on fire, and the
means by which the old trapper, Leather Stocking, saves
himself and his companions from the terrible fate which
threatens them?”

“Yes,”—my cousin paid little attention to what I was
saying.

“Do you remember what Leather Stocking says on that
occasion?”

“No.”

“We must make fire fight fire!”

“Well, what then?”

“Fanny Hazleton—”

“Well.”

“Pretends to like Mr. Bullwinkle.”

“More than pretence, I fancy.”

“We shall see.”

“How?”

“You must fall in love with Bell Bassett.

“Nonsense.”

“And Bell is already prepared to be dreadfully in love
with you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Something that concerns you. Listen. Fanny Hazleton
either does, or does not, love this literary chiffonier.
If she do not, then you may yet win her; but if you were
to propose at the present time you would only be certain
of one thing—”

“A refusal!”

“Prompt. If you gain her, it will not be by coming
like an abject, now. She has too much spirit herself to
overlook the want of it in you. You must stand with her
on level ground. You must once more become gay, light-hearted,
cheerful. You must convince her that such a
thing as this Mr. Bullwinkle could not, by any possibility,
give you an uneasy thought, where she is concerned. If
her apparent liking for him be serious, it is enough to
awaken all your pride and contempt. Do you think him
more worthy of her than yourself?”

“I do not think him capable of feeling as I do towards
Fanny.”

“A man made up of pretence—”

“And meanness—”

“Spoiled by those foolish sisters—”

“A milk-sop.”

“Who knows as much about poetry as a cat does of
astronomy—”

“The jackass.”

“Not a thing that is genuine about him—”

“Except his conceit.”

“And he to aspire to Fanny Hazleton? No, no, Rowley,
I do not, cannot believe she entertains a thought of
ever having such a man. Come now, do you believe
it?”

“I do not know what to believe.”

“Then we must find out what to believe. We must
get at the true state of the case. Put yourself in my hands
—show every attention to Bell Bassett—treat Fanny politely,
very politely, but as if her actions did not weigh
upon your heart a feather. Then we will soon find out
what is best to be done.”

“Impossible. I cannot be guilty of duplicity.”

“Do not make up your mind too hastily.”

“I am resolved.”

And so ended my conference with Rowley.

The party came off in due time, and there was Fanny,
accompanied by Mr. Bullwinkle, whom she had asked to
wait upon her. This was rather unexpected, as the families
did not visit. Rowley was pale with anger, his eyes
sparkled with indignation for an instant, and then he was
perfectly cool and self-possessed. He never appeared so
well as he did then, so graceful and dignified. I saw
Fanny once or twice looking at him quite intently. But
the chief object of interest that evening was cousin Bell.
She was one of those miraculous creatures who seem to
possess the power of creating as many charms as the occasion
may require. This evening she was bewitching.
Fanny Hazleton was completely eclipsed. Rowley had
given Bell a little locket which she wore in her belt, and
took good care to whisper one or two, that it was the gift
of her cousin. Then she was by his side whenever an opportunity
presented itself; she petted him; got him interested
in old stories of the times when they were children;
followed him with her eyes wherever he went; sat down
disconsolate when he danced with any other person; in
fact, acted with such consummate skill, it created just
what she wanted—and that was—a great deal of surmise.

Bell sang very prettily; her voice was of that sympathetic
kind, more admirable and rare, than those whose
chief excellence consists in having a good natural organ
skilfully cultivated. She had just finished a little Italian
air when I overheard Mr. Bullwinkle observe, in his facetious
way—

“Oh, very good, very good. I suppose she sings in
Eyetalion because she's afraid to trust herself with the
English. It is better to run the risk of mispronouncing a
language we don't understand, than to take that risk with
a language we do.”

If my thoughts were at all translated by the look I gave
Mr. Bullwinkle, when I heard this specimen of his wit, I
am sure he could not have felt much complimented. He
laughed, however, in a very silly way, and took no notice
of it. As for Fanny, she blushed deep scarlet.

It was now Rowley's turn to sing, for Bell would
take no denial; so he began that famous old song, by
George Wither:

Fanny's eyes rested on her lap—the blush deepened.

The bouquet in Fanny's hand trembled as if a little wind
stirred the flowers.

Mr. Bullwinkle's lamp flickered in the socket, and
finally went out. Fanny Hazleton saw only one person in
the rooms, and that was my cousin Rowley. But the story
is not yet told.

Bell made so many engagements for her cousin, was so
often with him at the balls, concerts, parties; that the
“surmise” grew into a general belief.

One day I received a note. It was from Fanny Hazleton.
A poor family, in great distress, had a sick child, and
she wanted me to prescribe for it. “As I do not know the
number of the house,” it said, “call for me and I will go
with you. P. S. Come yourself.”

I did prescribe for the sick child, and then walked home
with Fanny.

“Your cousin is going to be married?” she said in a
tremulous voice.

“Who says so?”

“Every body. He is engaged to Miss Bassett.”

“Every body says you are engaged to Mr. Bullwinkle.”

“What, him? I detest him! But your cousin and
Miss Bassett?”

“Miss Bassett is engaged—”

“It is true then?”

“To a gentleman in Baltimore, Mr. Savage.”

Fanny threw back her hood, and looked up at the sky,
as if a whole troop of cherubs had flocked out of the zenith.

“Now, my dear, dear cousin, go at once to Fanny
Hazleton's, and do not let the grass grow under your feet!

And Rowley did go, and six months after, I saw the
wreath of orange blossoms like a crown of glory over Fanny's
fair forehead; and Bell Bassett was the prettiest bridesmaid
that ever waited upon bride.

“And the white-hand?”

“Is a memory like the rose buds!”