less to pay back. Very well, Mr. Chattels, four hun. | coffee-room he jumped up, exclaiming,-"I have it! "Of course, I include the picture I spoke of at Yes, at that moment, the tea-pot-crammed with twentieth part of the riches contained in her tea-pot: "A fortunate escape for me, that Mrs. Anodyne," in that valuable "tea-pot brought from Canton by observed Titus. "Hah! sir,” replied Chattels—“I'd have been bound for that woman; but there's no trusting any of 'em You leave the subject of the picture quite to me?" "Quite: only let it be something handsome," answered Titus. "Depend upon me, Mr. Trumps," said Chattels, and squeezing his customer's hand, the patron of the fine arts departed. uncle Robert, who had been carried up the country aunt. Titus broke the seal, and read the letter, in which Miss Virginia Trumps in the briefest manner simply inquired of her nephew, “if he was only playing a or if he was really mad?" The next day Tapetight appeared with the neces-joke sary documents. Titus signed and held forth his hand for the balance: on which, Mr. Tapetight presented his bill of expenses, making Titus Trumps, Esq his debtor to the amount of fifty pounds. "Oh! yes, it's all perfectly right," said Tapetight, in his own pleasant way. "You see, one hundred advanced, three hundred the bond to Mrs. Ano dyne" "She doesn't mean it-no, she can't mean it," said Titus-she'll write again; yes, or if not, something will happen." "And in this belief Titus was justified, for three days afterwards, he was in the Marshalsea, at the suit of Paul Tapetight, attorney-at-law. “Hadn't you better look out for your bed?" asked a fellow-prisoner of Titus. "I've secured the Fortunatus,'" thought Trumps. "You're very good-but-I shall not be here an "That makes four hundred-thirty for a picture"-hour-I've written to a friend-this is rather an un"A parcel for you, sir, from Mr. Chattels," said the pleasant calamity-but something will be sure to servant, presenting it. "That's it, no doubt," said Tapetight. "Four bundred and thirty-and my bill seventy, leaves just a balance of fifty pounds. You'll find it quite right, good morning," and the legal man departed. "No matter-I've secured the ointment," repeated Trumps, as he inspected the parcel. "And here-here's the picture for auntey." For a minute, Titus stared at the likeness of a gentleman in a military dress, and looking at the back of the frame, to his astonishment, read-" Portrait of General Wolfe." CHAPTER XI. Titus he had made several handsome presents to Mrs. Anodyne-was left with about fifteen shillings in his pocket, a debtor to a lawyer, and the proprietor of the Flower Pot. "Never mind-something will happen. I have," he mused, "the prescript on of 'the Fortunatus Ointment,' and something must turn up." Mr. Tapetight sent a very polite letter, and the keeper of the Flower Pot presented the bill. Titus was at his wit's end. He sat, in a deep study of ways and means, when to the extreme astonishment of a gentleman in the turn up." CHAPTER XII. "Is there no letter to-day?" asked Titus for upwards of the thousandth time, having been three years in the gaol. "Not to day." "Ha! there will be to-morrow. Oh, yes! sure to be something to-morrow." For once, Titus was a true prophet. On the morrow, a letter, announcing the death of his aunt, with the bequest of her property to himself, enabled him again to breathe the free air, a free man. Titus went to Gloucestershire, and married a thrifty soul, who suffered him to hope for the best, whilst she did for the best. Hence, Titus spent his days in competence and peace; though, as a proof that his old failing still clung to him, it has been stated, that a neighbor once overheard him advise his little girl, whose canary had flown away, "to take the open cage into the garden-for, perhaps the bird would fly back again." “Well, Titus, I never heard such a man as you,” said Mrs. Trumps, the third cow having died-poisoned, as it was suspected, by some malicious villain— don't I tell you the last cow is dead ?” "Never mind, my dear, I think the children are tired of milk. Besides, something will turn up. Why, my love, won't you always look at things on the bright side?" "Then, make one, my dear-make one," answered Titus. "To make a bright side" is after all, not the worst philosophy, and such was ever the matured purpose Bright side!" cried Mrs. Trumps, "but suppose of our last of men,-TITUS TRUMPS: THE MAN OF they have no bright side?" "MANY HOPES." ¡II. TO THE GREEKS. I. ARISE to the strife of the sword! Advance like the rush of the flood! Nor e'er be one brand to the scabbard restored, Your chains have been galling and keen; Yet awake for the glories of days that have been, For a spell that should rouse you is there. II. Long ages of sorrow and shame Have rolled o'er the land of your birth; Tho' once without peer in the bright page of Fame, 'Tis the taunt and the by word of Earth. The wrongs which your Fathers have borne, There is a drop more dear, O'er others' curse or crime;It is the life-blood of the free, When nobly shed for liberty! III. There is a voice more sweet It is the death-sigh of the free, IV. And there's a deeper sound Than earth asunder riven; A voice that rises from the ground, And will be heard in heaven: O your souls are subdued by the bonds ye have worn, It is the death-shout of the free, Or a spell that must rouse you is there! III. The Lion is tame and debased While chained in the dwellings of men; But restore the Wood King to his own native waste, And his fury will kindle again: And thus, though degraded are ye, The yoke of the Mussulman spurn; Who dares and dies for liberty! THE DYING CHIEFTAIN. I. He sets in the noon of his fame; And the faith and the courage that dwell with the free, He falls in the hour of his pride; To you shall with Freedom return. IV. Then awake to the strife of the sword! Nor e'er be one brand to its scabbard restored, Till your tyrants have bathed it in blood. Till they rouse you to do and to dare; O think on your bondage, so galling, so keenA spell that MUST wake you is there! But myriads lamenting shall hallow his name, He died for the land of his birth! He died that her sons might be free! And long shall his memory be hallowed on earth, Most honored, fair Hellas! by thee. II.. Though ties might have chained him to life The strongest affection can bind; He fled from them all to the scene of the strife, And his love to his honor resigned. He paused not to wipe the big tear That fell from a mother's fond eye; He turned not to look on a mourner more dear; Unshrinking he left them-to die. THE PALATINE, THE PAINTER, THE PRINCESS, AND THE PAGE. AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF RUBENS. THE sun shone gloriously through the painted window. Its glad light poured in, mellowed with the thousand shades of the rainbow's wreath. Like a stream of molten gold, it seemed to deluge the inmost recesses of the chamber with its splendor; and, passing through the robes of the saints that unfolded themselves on crystal tablets, lending life and animation to the lineaments, and halos of glory to the brows, came gaily in to lighten fairer features and lovelier forms than stained glass or human limning could ever pic ture. It was a chamber in the palace of the Sovereign. Its oaken panels were richly carved, and its ceiling was gorgeously painted with an assemblage of divinities. The laughing Hours seemed to be scattering smiles and roses down on the inlaid floor beneath which, rich in its own embellishments, had never been concealed by the modern luxury of a carpet. The splendid velvet hangings were encrusted with flowers; and the crimsoned seats, corniced with gold, though without the indolence of a support behind, were ranged round the apartment in the stiff formal rows which, down to this day, impose their restrictions on the ease and vivacity of society. Not one of these seats had forsaken its post, as sentinel, against the wall; and there was but one which deviated in form, and seemed, therefore, licensed to deviate in position. This was a chair of state, covered with crimson velvet, fluted with gold, and bearing the Royal Arms of England richly embroidered on its back. It was stationed near a table; on which lay a few cumbrous books, in their heavy though costly binding, a vase of flowers, and a small embroidered glove. On that chair, surrounded by two or three attendant ladies, sat the princess Elizabeth. Youth, which is so like beauty as almost to make us believe them identical, lent its bloom to her cheek, its brightness to her eye, its elasticity to her person. The princess seemed thoughtful-almost pensive. She was leaning back in her chair, with half-closed eyes, which threw the shadow of their long lashes on her cheek-her lengthened ringlets flowing 'over her shoulders, softly undulated by the breeze that entered through the aperture of a half-open casement-while the flickering and alternate light and shadow of the gently agitated foliage without, cast over her youthful countenance its ceaseless play of brightness and of gloom. The princess was in court costume-her satin robe looped up with roses, her stomacher laced with diamonds, her fair neck loaded, and her long curls en erusted with jewels: her very gloves and shoes embroidered with seed pearl. Thus sat the princess, serious, thoughtful, sad. There was a general silence; for, in those days, it was the prerogative of royalty to impose its own nood on all within its sphere. Elizabeth broke the silence: by means of some of those mysterious linkings of the thoughts, which hind together the far off and the near, hers passed from royalty and splendor, from state and gems down to liberty and flowers. She stooped over the flowers that were breathing out their perfume from the vase before her; and with a restrained caress, that seemed to fear impairing their living beauty, drew them towards her, and inhaled their fragrance. "What think you, Margaret," she said, " is it better to dwell in the eagle's nest, or to share with the swallow the lowly cottage thatchbetter to dwell in courts or bowers-to twine our hair with coronets or flowers?" "I was never ambitious, my dear princess!" Margaret replied: "I content myself with my father's hall, or your highness' service, and court not the thatch and the linsey-wolsey of the cottage maiden. And for my hair," and the laughing girl shook back the redundant curls, "flowers may be beautiful, but they fade; our diamonds are always bright." "But liberty," said the princess, "liberty, Margaret." Is as much the princess's as the peasant's-nay, more; you command-she obeys." "I knew not that I was so free," said Elizabeth, with a faint smile; "I cannot move beyond the length of my chain, a golden one though it be-while the peasant girl flies over hills as free as air, and knows no restriction but her own will." "I would rather my palfrey bore me than my feet," Margaret replied. My liberty would have a narrow range, were I limited to the primitive simplicity of their conveyance." "Again," said the princess, and a light blush rose to her brow," the peasant girl may choose her mate for life, without restriction; we must needs abide by the dry statesman's, the cold politician's choice." "Ay, my dear princess! we must wait till we are chosen; that is the true state of the case-and in it princess and peasant are alike. The vaunted liberty of the cottage girl extends no farther than a curtsey and a thank you,' to the swain who condescends a " will you ?" " 46 Ay, Margaret!" replied the princess, while the proud blood mounted to her very brow, "ay, Marga ret! and that degree of humility reaches not to the amount of degradation of her who, with the blood of kings within her veins, sits in her father's palace, tricked out in robes and jewels, waiting for an idle limner to spread out her charms on paint and canvas, to see if haply they may please the lordly eye of some foreign potentate. No, Margaret, no! the cottage girl is free from such a shame as this!" 46 Nay, my princess, nay!" said Margaret, startled at Elizabeth's vehement tone, and touched by the sight of a tear that glittered from her eye, but was speedily dried up by the indignant fire that burned upon her cheek. "Good sooth," she said, again attempting to be gay, " 'tis well that Rubens hears you not call him an idle limner; or he might dare, despite the king, to leave your highness' beauty for more vulgar hands, to portray more vulgar eyes to gaze on." talent, and higher in the elevation of intellect, than the princess, in her father's palace, with the purple tide of a long line of kings swelling proudly through her veins. There stood Rubens, easy and self-collected, with the plumed hat within his hand, his short cloak thrown negligently aside, the glittering hilt of his sword protruding, waiting the first intimation of the princess's notice. There was yet another person in the circle, apparently too humble to deserve mention, but evidently absorbed in the interest of the passing scene. It was the painter's page; who stood, with a pair of deep, rich, burning eyes, sealed on the princess. At length Elizabeth spoke. "It is the king's good pleasure, sir," she said, "that I should give you an unworthy occasion for the exercise of your noble art. I—” The duchess, the painter, the princess, the ladies, all stood aghast. Whence came the impetuous interruption! From the page! The unfinished exclamation seemed suddenly A slight bustle in the anti-room prevented the prin. cess's reply; and then sailed in the rustling satin, the enormous hoop, and the waving plumes, of an old dowager duchess, who came to sit as lady president over the painter's labors. Behind her followed closely that illustrious man, whose name is, and will be, un-checked, by the remembrance of the atrocity of this forgotten, while men have heart and memory; and breach of court etiquette. All eyes were directed to bringing up the rear, came an attendant, bearing in the page; who, retiring a step backwards, seemed to the artist's implements. desire to shrink into himself. "You are too bold, master Warrenne!" said the painter. "Do you forget this presence? What mean you by such unseemly daring?" The princess rose, on the entrance of the duchess; she curtseyed to her greetings, (in those days ladies did not bow,) in silence, and again resumed her seat. The painter then approached, and was presented. "I crave your highness' pardon," said the page, Elizabeth's cheek was crimson, and her manner, al-without replying to his master. “I was indignant though hurried, was proud and cold. But the artist's eye quailed not beneath her repulsive aspect; and its penetrating gaze ran over her feature and her figure, with that licensed liberty which belongs to his pro fession. It was rather scrutiny than boldness--ob servation rather than admiration-necessary to the practice of his art, but not the less displeasing to the pride of the princess. We have so high a veneration for that glorious art of which Rubens was a disciple, that we please our selves with thinking that we, too, however humbly, are painting, with this stunted quill and this sombre fluid, in the stead of the wonder-working pencils, and the rainbow-coloring of the painter's palette. We paint in words, cold and inert as they stand ranged in the columns of a dictionary, but capable of raising to the mind's eye, instead of to the gaze of the corpo real member, visions of glory and spectacles of beauty; ay, even such as the glowing canvas spreads-even such as the artist's mind originates. Our picture presented the magnificent, though some what heavy chamber-its painted roof, its carved panels, and its oaken floor. The mellowed light streamed in, tinged with the thousand bright hues of the rich coloring of the stained window; and there sat Elizabeth, with a glowing cheek, surrounded by her ladies, the duchess on her right hand, in all the panoply of pride, enduring the calm quiet gaze of the painter's penetrating eye-who stood in her presence, himself prouder of the godlike distinction of conscious that you should so wrong yourself. Could painter's eye desire a fairer study? Could poet's soul indulge a higher dream? Yet your highness spoke of an unworthy occasion. What a foul treason would that have been, had other lips asserted it!" Unmannered!" exclaimed the painter-who, if truth must be told, was quite as much outraged by the page's disrespect to himself as to the princess ; for, in addition to the favor of kings, he was proud of higher dignity than that of birth or station. “Unmannered! Think you to escape unpunished? Think you again to enter within these walls? Think you even to be retained in my poor service!" Nay, chide him not," said the princess, whose womanly love of admiration was more gratified by the page's unguarded warmth, than by ihe more measured adulation of the whole train of courtiers among whom she moved. Nay, chide him not. Let his freedom of speech, for this time, pass uncensured. It is seldom that we hear an honest tongue, and we would not have its liberty curtailed, for the sake of its very rarity. We make it our request to you, good master painter, and we trust that you are not used to denying a lady's wishes." "You command," replied the painter-" I obey." Not so," replied Elizabeth; "we ask it of your courtesy, not of your humility. We ask it as a lady may ask of a gentleman. We are willing to be your debtor for this small act of grace." |