THE STORM. WILLIAM MELBOURNE had for many years acted as personal attendant on Everard Whittam, Esquire of Whittam-hall, a secluded mansion in the County of Bucks, and being a great favourite with his master, had grown into proportionate disfavour with that gentleman's graceless nephew and heir, who after succeeding to the estate, turned him about his business. Something in the shape of legacy was talked of, and expected for William by his acquaintances; but nothing appeared. He had luckily, however, saved some money from the earnings of former times, and with as little delay as possible, he took a moderately rented bit of ground, and a very economical wife. The world went well with them for months and years. Many a traveller may still remember how he lingered on his journey to admire the vine-clad 'cottage of Whittam border,' for so was William's dwelling denominated, from its juxta-position to the property of his old master. Two amiable daughters completed the happiness of the worthy couple. William Melbourne's generous disposition increased with his increasing 'power of gratifying it. The mean, the designing, and the needy crowded around him. He had frequent slight warnings in the way of loss, which were calculated to scare him into greater precaution. These warnings he neglected-while he delighted himself with the reflection that he had benefited so many of his fellow-creatures. One evening while he was sitting in half slumber by the fireside, his wife and daughters at their accustomed task, a loud knocking was heard at the door, and the post-boy's voice was recognized, as he presented a letter for Mr Melbourne. William hastily broke open the seal, and glanced over the contents. A slight quiver, and a growing paleness, gave signal of alarm to his anxiously watching family. "Has any thing unpleasant happened, William?” inquired his wife. He attempted to reply, but the words came chokingly and in broken syllables. “I—I—I am a—a—a ruined man,” he at last exclaimed, and held out the letter to his wife. It related to a case in which he had been surety for a person who had become insolvent, and contained a demand of instant payment. From this period it seemed that William Melbourne's energies forsook him. He grew feeble in gait, and meaningless in countenanceand poverty visited the cottage of Whittam border. Rent-time came round, and with it the inability of payment. Added to all, was the evil influence which the new squire of Whittam-hall exerted with William's landlord. Only a fortnight was allowed to make up the payment, in default of which, the Melbournes were to be cast forth upon the cold charity of mankind. Before that period expired, however, an accident occurred, which renewed the connection between the cottagers and Whittam-hall, and which, from the relief that it brought the former in the extremity of their destitution, might almost be considered as a providential interference. Melbourne's two daughters had, since their father's misfortune, been in the habit of traversing the country together with eggs and chickens, the proceeds of which now went far to support the family, for he who should have made a last and strong effort, had abandoned himself to inactive despair. Mary, the elder of the two, was about sixteen years of age, tall, and elegantly formed. Her face was beautifully regular, with a complexion which told of "sun-burnt mirth," or, at all events, of exposure to the open air, among the green fields, from whose fairest flowers it seemed to have borrowed its glowing tints. Auburn ringlets waved upon her brow, and the tout-ensemble, which baffles description, was such as delicate taste would figure in a dream. Her sister, Catharine, was a dark-haired playful urchin of eight years old. It happened, that in their peregrinations, the sisters had ventured frequently to visit Whittam-hall with their commodities, and though sometimes frowned away by the insolent servants, they had once or twice been very kindly treated by Miss Whittam, the new squire's daughter, who appeared to take an interest in their father, whose name she had often, she said, long ago, heard her late respected uncle mention with esteem. It was on a summer forenoon that they set out on their last visit to the hall. Fortunately, they found their kind friend at home, and her father absent. She detained them for an hour or two, and took leave of them with strong injunctions that they should come soon back again. We must not forget to mention that their eggs and chickens were purchased by this excellent young lady, and the double basket which contained them, filled with eatables to take home with them to their father and mother. They had cleared the straight old avenue, when they perceived a sudden blackness along the southern sky, which came gradually onward till the declining sun was altogether obscured. Anticipating, from long practice, what this appearance indicated, an approaching thunder-storm, they hurried on towards the bright sky in the direction of their own home. Just, however, before rounding an eminence which would hide the venerable pinnacles of the hall from view, the tenderhearted Mary bethought her of their benefactress, who was there without any companion to comfort her in so fearful a darkness, and she turned to look back, when a flash of lightning leaped out from the sable mass of distant cloud, and the mansion of the Whittams became, nearly all, a prostrate ruin. Forgetful of home, of parents, and self, the terrified girl threw down her load, and taking her sister's hand, hurried back in the direction which they had left. The scene which the fallen burning pile exhibited was terribly grand. Here yawned a wide-arched window, high in air, with its pictured glass, and there a pillar towered aloft, hung round with gilded shields, while the red flame went on augmenting, and unopposable. As the trembling girls approached nearer, they heard the shrieking of a female voice, and following the direction it indicated, they beheld her who had so lately smiled upon them in the midst of comfort and splendour, exposed to flames below, and flames above, on the unwalled and isolated floor of a chamber, which, without aid, she could never leave alive. "Oh run," she cried, "and see if there is a ladder among the offices," and she pointed to the detached buildings which had escaped the conflagration. They ran as directed, and soon returned, bearing with difficulty between them, a ladder which had been left providentially in an unlocked place. After great exertion, they succeeded in bringing it to bear in the desired position, and the heiress of Whittam-hall escaped unhurt from a catastrophe which had caused the death of every other being then under its roof. She was persuaded to accompany the Melbournes to their home, whither she was a short time after followed by her father, who, on his return, had traced her from the information of some peasants. The squire was deeply grateful for the deliverance of his daughter. He offered William Melbourne a farm at a merely nominal rental, which being accepted of, the lightsomeness of former days returned to the cottagers. The squire became an altered man, so that both families found themselves the better for "The Storm." B. THE TRUE ENJOYMENT OF SPLENDOUR. A CHINESE APOLOGUE. DOUBTLESS, saith the illustrious Me, he that gaineth much possession hath need of the wrists of Hong and the seriousness of Shan-Fee, since palaces are not built with a tea-spoon, nor are to be kept by one who runneth after butterflies. But above all it is necessary that he who carrieth a great burden, whether of gold or silver, should hold his head as lowly as is necessary, lest on lifting it on high he bring his treasure to nought, and lose with the spectators the glory of true gravity, which is meekness. Quo, who was the son of Quee, who was the son of Quee-Fong, who was the five hundred and fiftieth in lineal descent from the ever-to-be-remembered Fing, chief minister of the Emperor Yau, one day walked out into the streets of Pekin in all the lustre of his rank. Quo, besides the greatness of his birth and the multitude of his accomplishments, was a courtier of the first order, and his pigtail was proportionate to his merits, for it hung down to the ground, and kissed the dust as it went with its bunch of artificial roses. Ten huge and sparkling rings, which encrusted his hands with diamonds, and almost rivalled the sun that struck on them, led the ravished eyes of the beholders to the more precious enormity of his nails, which were each an inch long, and by proper nibbing might have taught the barbarians of the West to look with just scorn on their many-writing machines. But even these were nothing to the precious stones that covered him from head to foot. His bonnet, in which a peacock's feather was stuck in a most engaging manner, was surmounted by a sapphire of at least the size of a pigeon's egg; his shoulders and sides sustained a real burden of treasure; and as he was one of the handsomest men at court, being exceedingly corpulent, and, indeed, as his flatterers gave out, hardly able to walk, it may be imagined that he proceeded at no undignified pace. He would have ridden in his sedan, had he been lighter of body, but so much unaffected corpulence was not to be concealed, and he went on foot that nobody might suspect him of pretending to a dignity he did not possess. Behind him three servants attended, clad in the most gorgeous silks; the middle one held his umbrella over his head; he on the right bore a fan of ivory, whereon were carved the exploits of Whay-Quang; and he on the left sustained a purple bag on each arm, one containing opium and areca-nut, the other the ravishing preparation of GinSeng, which possesses the Five relishes. All the servants looked the same way as their master, that is to say, straight forward, with their eyes majestically half-shut, only they cried every now and then with a loud voice,-" Vanish from before the illustrious Quo, favourite of the mighty Brother of the Sun and Moon." Though the favourite looked neither to the right nor to the left, he could not but perceive the great homage that was paid him as well by the faces as the voices of the multitude. But one person, a Bonze, seemed transported beyond all the rest with an enthusiasm of admiration, and followed at a respectful distance from his side, bowing to the earth at every ten paces, and exclaiming, "Thanks to my lord for his jewels!" After repeating this for about six times, he increased the expressions of his gratitude, and said, "Thanks to my illustrious lord, from his poor servant, for his glorious jewels."—And then again, "Thanks to my illustrious lord, whose eye knoweth not degradation, from his poor servant, who is not fit to exist before him, for his jewels that make the rays of the sun look like ink." In short, the man's gratitude was so great, and its language delivered in phrases so choice, that Quo could contain his curiosity no longer, and turning aside, demanded to know his meaning: "I have not given you the jewels," said the favourite, "and why should you thank me for them?" "Refulgent Quo!" answered the Bonze, again bowing to the earth, "what you say is as true as the five maxims of Fo, who was born without a father:-but your slave repeats his thanks, and is indeed infinitely obliged. You must know, O dazzling son of Quee, that of all my sect I have perhaps the greatest taste for enjoying myself. Seeing my lord therefore go by, I could not but be transported at having so great a pleasure, and said to myself, 'The great Quo is very kind to me and my fellow-citizens: he has taken infinite labour to acquire his magnificence; he takes still greater pains to preserve it, and all the while, I, who am lying under a shed, enjoy it for nothing.'" A hundred years after, when the Emperor Whang heard this story, he diminished the expenditure of his household one half, and ordered the dead Bonze to be raised to the rank of a Colao. The Indicator. "OH! PROMISE ME TO SING, LOVE." BY G. M. FITZGERALD, ESQ.* OH! promise me to sing, love, my songs in after years, When the quiet eve shall bring, love, the hour for blissful tears: When the hearts where I would dwell, love, with a thought of me may thrill, When the eyes that knew me well, love, with silent tears may fill : I care not for the praise, love, so sweet to minstrel's ear, For the plaudit wealth can buy, love, or the wreath that fame can bring, * From The Literary Souvenir,' 1632. |