An old woman received Royer Collard. "I am Marion," whispered she. "You are going to see our dear little Elise-she is very sick!" "And her mother?" 66 They told her not to remain-you will see Mademoiselle alone-there is the chamber." Royer Collard's legs trembled under him. Finally, he summoned resolution to enter. It was night-the mysterious glimmer of a lamp alone gave light to the chamber. The silence of death reigned around Royer Collard, interrupted only by the steady monotonous tick of a clock. Elise de Clebigny, clothed in a white robe, reclined upon a sofa. Her long dishevelled hair concealed her features. She was motionless as a statue, and but for sighs that occasionally escaped from her, you would have thought that she was dead. The roué approached her trembling, and kneeled-and when he took the hand of the poor foolish girl, and carried it to his lips, it seemed to him that this hand was cold as marble. "Elise!" said he, at length, in a low voice. "Who speaks of Elise ?" replied the young girl. “Why speak of the dead? Elise is dead!— and it is very fortunate, look ye, for she suffered much! Did you know her? She was sick there and there!" added she, putting her hand to her heart and to her head. "Poor Elise! why do we weep for her? It is so good to die! Ah!" cried she, suddenly, "what is your name?" 66 "I am he—I am indeed!" exclaimed Royer Collard, weeping. "Thou weepest-men weep, then?" and saying this, her head sank upon the shoulder of Royer Collard, and she also wept. After a few moments she looked up; but Royer Collard could not distinguish her features, for it was dark. "Ah, yes! I am he that loves thee!" murmured the roué, passing his arm around the waist of Elise. The young girl escaped from him, and began to un about the room. "Wilt thou dance?" cried she; "'tis such a pretty thing, dancing! Elise will not dance any more-will she?" and she began to sing in a voice altered by sickness "Now you are tied, Madam the bride! Which unties when you're dead!" "Wretch that I am!" exclaimed the rake, and he followed Elise, who still ran on singing. The lamp suddenly fell. Royer Collard heard the sound of a door opened quickly and immediately shut again, and he found himself alone in the darkness. Feeling around, he perceived a ray of light, which came through a keyhole. He approached and imagined that he heard a whispering. At length he opened the door, and found himself- -in the midst of all his friends of the Infernal Box, who received him with an immense shout of laughter. The viscount had played the part of Elise de Clebigny. Royer Collard had been the victim of a horrible mystification, the chief magazine of which was at Brest, with ramifications at Paris and Rennes. Since this occurrence, he has written no more love-letters. HAINS B STANZAS. I MAY sing; but minstrel's singing I may smile; but time is bringing When no song of mine comes near thee, When my looks the darkness boundeth, Will thine own be lighted after? The watchman watcheth wearily, And the sleeper grasps his sword, For great is the name, and wide is the fame Of the wandering desert-horde! O'er earth hath the conquering eagle flown And flapped his wings in pride; But the Arab's lowly tent alone Hath his iron grasp defied. O'er the arid sands A moaning blast is sailing, And a voice as of spirits wailing, And a shadow blacker than midnight flings Its shroud o'er the night-watch drear. Hail to the dread sirocco, The leaguered Arab's friend! And his voice doth the desert rend; There's death in his eye, and its glancing light Doth wither where it falls, And he shroudeth the sky in his whirling flight, Like demons in his wake, And the strong-limbed men and the sinewy steed Joy! joy! joy! Raise the shout of triumph high! To the land of the roving Arab race His grave is in the sand, And his conqueror is the wind; And the might of that dauntless warrior-band And their souls have shrunk from his grasp of fire, And his hot breath hath lit their funeral pyre; For low lie her sons with the silent dead, Hail to the wind, to the mighty wind, The globe he wandereth round and round, Wide as his desert wastes his soul; O'er the plains of his own loved Araby, bless The guardian Power of the wilderness. RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS OF A HOME HOME TRAVELLER. BY JAMES F. OTIS. No. II. A TRIP TO THE WHITE HILLS, AND ASCENT OF MOUNT WASHINGTON IN A STORM. But I must drink the vision while it lasts; CHAPTER III. THE DEPARTURE. THE RIDE UP THE GORGE. OLD CRAWFORD's. THE WILLEY TRAGEDY. It was a lowering, drizzling, uncomfortable morning, that, on which we awoke for our third day's enjoyment. The idea of a whole wet day in a country inn, with nothing visible around us but the near prospect of a hay-rick, a barn-yard, and a flock of half-drowned sheep-with nothing looking comfortable within doors, excepting the contented denizens of the simple homestead-and, out of doors, excepting some half dozen ducks revelling in a large yellow mud-pool, which the rain was momentarily swelling to a respectable pond, in the middle of the road before our windows—was insupportable; and, accordingly, we soon came to the determination to proceed forthwith upon our journey, rain or shine. Our coach soon came up to the door, and, as speedily as we could, we despatched our breakfasts, bundled in our luggage, bestowed ourselves cosily inside the roomy vehicle, drew up the glasses, and proceeded up the gorge. The general aspect of the country varied but little from that presented during our yesterday's ride. We neared the mountains, and were conscious of climbing the ascent towards "The Notch," although we could see nothing but the near fields and forests, which looked sombre enough, in the midst of the pelting rain. But we were a merry party within, and cared little for the storm, as we were whirled onward by the well-driven team, in which our driver (its proprietor) seemed to take especial pride. We had proceeded about a dozen or fifteen miles, as it seemed to us, (we did not travel, as the manner of some is, by guide-book,) when we pulled up at the door of a low farm-house, by the roadside, which the driver told us was "Old Crawford's. As this stop was to water the horses, and not ourselves, we preferred remaining in the coach while that operation was performed, the very intelligent driver telling us, meanwhile, all about " Old Crawford," the Patriarch of the Mountain Valley. He was yet living, and his two sons, Ethan Allen and Tom, were settled down among these hill passes, within short distances of the paternal roof. This was the first family, and for a long time it had been the only one, to take up an abode among these mountains; and the tie which had bound the old man for so many years to this rude and desolate spot was growing stronger and stronger, as life left him less and less to anticipate, and more and more to remember. The wild denizens of the forest had been his only neighbors, long and long before the foot of the curious and prying traveller had beaten a broader track than the trail of the red man, or the path of the wild beast, before his door. Then came the gainful devotees of trade, the hardy sons of the Green Mountain valleys, who had discovered a practical path along these hill sides to the Atlantic towns, for the transfer of their produce to market. By and by, a broader road was laid out, something like a township was organized in the neighborhood, and, of course, there were soon mails and post offices, and stage coaches, and abundant travel, all along that road. All this the old man had witnessed from out the loop-holes of his quiet retreat, and it was not long before he, too, had become possessed of the marchof-mind mania, and must see his sons afloat upon the wide sea of speculation, before he died. So he sent them forth from beneath his quiet roof, to make money, as publicans, out of the curiosity of others; and they were now located up the valley, at two different points-themselves, as we were told, being curiosities, in their way, sufficient to attract almost as many visiters to the mountains as the other accessories of this wild country. By the time the coachman had imparted to us these facts, (sitting with us in the coach all the while, most familiarly, while a boy was watering the horses,) the time for delaying at this point had elapsed; our Jehu returned to the reins, and we were once more en route. As we approached "The Notch," the rain gradually abated, and we were enabled to observe more minutely the different features of the glorious scenery around us. We were winding our way among the bases of high mountains, springing upwards from the level on which we stood, and burying their lofty peaks in the clouds, that still hung in dark and heavy masses above them. The mist, thinner than the dense clouds that filled the upper air, was curling upwards and downwards, along the lower levels of the many hill sides, in wreaths of fantastic shape; displaying, in succession, a series of the most picturesque landscapes, like the shiftings of scenery on the stage. In the midst of the general admiration which this scene of varied beauty excited, we were conscious of our near approach to a point which we had been told at Conway, we should find one of the most interesting in the whole journey. We had come to a sudden turn among the hills we had been all the morning traversing, and found ourselves entering a broad circular valley, at the base of a wide range of mountains, which rose, amphitheatrically, all around us, as far as the eye, looking on either side, could teach. Green meadows, with here and there a few trees, and some attempts at cultivation, were visible in the valley, as the eye took in the landscape that lay stretched out before us; and, in the midst of the whole, there ran a shallow and noisy stream, which however struck us as being singularly broad and rapid in its flow. We had listened at Conway to the tale of that swift torrent, and we gazed upon it with silent awe. The dark hill-sides which bounded our view on either hand were deeply indented with the paths that many mighty avalanches had traversed. At the base of one of these mountains, and standing close upon the road-side, our guide pointed out to us the dwelling of the unfortunate Willey family; and the scene of that wonderful and appalling catastrophe, the memory of which throws such a deep melancholy over this devoted valley, was full before us. An everlasting hill was torn As the tremendous pageant moved! The mountain forsook his perpetual throne, Came down from his rock, and his path was shown, In barrenness and ruin, where The secret of his power lies bare; His rocks in nakedness arise! His desolations mock the skies! "The Willey House" stands at the foot of one of the loftiest of the White Mountains, with a small knoll thrown up, naturally, directly in its rear, In the summer of 1826, a young woman and her four children were sitting in that cottage, awaiting the return of her husband and their father, from the plain above "The Notch." It was just after night-fall, and the supper table was spread in readiness for the arrival of the master of that simple family. It was a chilly evening, and a bright fire burned merrily on the hearth, and aided the beams of the candle, that stood on the table, in giving the little cabin a cheerful and comfortable look. Suddenly, a loud rumbling noise, like the muttering of distant thunder, but shorter and more abrupt, was heard. As the cottage trembled with the concussion of air occasioned by the report, the good woman (who was represented to us as having been singularly fair and beautiful) doubtlessly remembered that such noises had not been unu sual that season, and, moreover, that they had always accompanied the numerous slides which were constantly occurring among those mountains. She put her sleeping babe into her bed in the adjoining room, and sat down, once more, to await her husband's return. It was about an hour after this, that a single horseman was taking his solitary way down this mountain pass. Feeling somewhat chilled as he came in sight of the ruddy glow that was thrown from the windows of the Willey cottage, he abandoned his intention of pushing on to the lower Crawford's that night, and dismounted at the door of the house, which he observed was standing wide open. No one answering his call for attendance, as he held his bridle in his hand, before the cottage, he determined to put up his horse himself, and for this purpose he crossed the narrow road, in the direction, as he well remembered, of the stable belonging to the house. But no such building was there! Perplexed with doubts as to the cause of this strange mistake in his recollection, the traveller tied his horse to a corner of the fence beside the cottage, and went in. There stood the table in the middle of the floor, the candle burning brightly, and the fire blazing cheerily upon the hearth, just as has already been described. But nothing living met the eye, nor greeted the ear of the stranger, excepting a cat, which was sleeping quietly upon the hearth-stone! A feeling of horror, he could not tell wherefore, crept over the wayfarer, as he gazed upon the scene. Where were the members of that family for whom all these comforts were prepared-nay, some of whom had, as was most plainly perceptible, within a few short moments, been enjoying them ?— There was no human habitation, he well knew, within many miles, and the nearest of these by more than one half was that he had left more than an hour before, in "The Notch." He had come the only road between the two points, and had met no one. He went into the sleeping room, adjoining the apartment he had first entered. There was a bed, the coverings of which were thrown down to the foot, and he observed that the bedding had been pressed but slightly, and, as he thought he could surely perceive, by no other form than that of an infant. There were two other rooms in the cottage, into both of which he went, but no sign of human inhabitant was visible ! He returned to the open air. The night was clear and star-lit. The air was cold and bracing, though it was midsummer. The stranger walked forth into the road a few paces. He had been in the habit, regularly, once a year, of travelling this road, but remembered only its more prominent features; yet he thought that the little river which ran through the valley was noisier then than he had ever known it before, and as he had met with some more obstruction in the road, when on foot, than he had seemed to do before he dismounted from his horse, he thought that there was some change in the level of the highway since he was there last. But these changes, if, indeed, they were not imaginary, he found quite insufficient to afford him the least clue to the solution of the mystery that was every moment becoming more and more intolerable to him. He threw himself once more upon his saddle, and rode rapidly back to the younger Crawford's, in "The Notch;" to whom he told the story of his inexplicable adventure. The son of the forest instantly called up his men, and with them and the stranger, took horse, and went down to the valley with all speed. "Had you heard any noises, like the fall of a slide from the hills, as you rode along?" asked Crawford, of the stranger. "Only one since that which I heard when with you, at your house," replied the other. "When did you hear the second report?" said Tom Crawford. "About twenty minutes before I came to Willey's," said the traveller. "It was far louder than the other, and continued longer-like thunder echoing among the mountains." The hardy denizen of the mountain passes was puzzled. Suppose it were a slide-the people gone, and nothing destroyed! It was all inexplicable. Reaching the entrance to the valley, it became evident to the practised eye of the mountaineer that an avalanche of unusual extent had fallen from the hill-side directly in the rear of the Willey cottage. It was dark, and he could not see minute objects, but a huge heap of gravel lay directly in the road, as the travellers neared the house, and it became obvious that the barn had been carried away by the slide. Going a few steps below the house, it was perceptible to Crawford that a portion of the mass of earth had fallen on the lower, as well as on the upper side of the cottage, and that both the masses had united their tremendous forces nearly in front of the unharmed habitation! The party entered the house. Every thing, even to the quiet slumbering of the unconscious animal that lay upon the hearth, was just as it was left by the stranger, and still no human life was there! They have fled from the avalanche, to seek shelter in the valley," suggested the traveller. "They have gone down to the tent," said his companion; "I know where it is-let us on, and find them! They set up the tent on purpose; for these slides are happening, at this time of year, every day; and this summer they have been more common than ever. So Willey had a tent put up, down by the brook." But no tent could be found! The brook was now a swift and turbulent flood, and was flowing, in a broad and resistless stream, over the site of the camp of refuge; while the cottage, whence the lost ones had fled, was standing in the still clear night, safe and unharmed! How "past finding out" are all the ways of over-ruling Providence! Yet, as I gazed It were profanity to dwell upon the scene which was presented in that wild and quiet valley when the tidings of this disaster had reached the home of the lost wife's early childhood. The husband's, father's, mother's, brother's griefs are sacred. I forbear the attempt to paint them. upon the scene, I have fancied the lament which, on that morning, must have burst from the heart of each, as each looked, through gushing tears, upon that fearfully quiet scene. |