you, but I was not so constituted; I cannot help my nature." that they cannot help themselves, and therefore make no exertion so to do! I believed hypocrisy. I do not know now what | stopped me in this headlong career; perhaps it was hearing that the-the-young man to whom I How many there are in the world like Emily referred just now, and whom my coquetry and Melford, who never fail to drown the still small ill-usage had compelled to exchange his regiment voice of conscience by the consoling reflection, it for one going to India, was drowned on his pas-is not themselves but their constitution at fault; sage; but I awoke as from a hideous dream-all my past excitement looked like grinning shadows. I seemed to be standing on a precipice, overhanging a gulf of perdition, into which but one step more would plunge me everlastingly, and I shuddered and turned back; but with a shock so violient that I inwardly vowed never to enter such scenes again. Of course the fever of excitement ended in bodily exhaustion, and its horrible void; for I was never very strong, and then I imagined myself ill, and it was a good excuse for changing my mode of life, and so I encouraged it till I really had no power to do otherwise. And now you know my whole story, and you must see that I have more excuse for indolence and solitude than most people have." "You have indeed told me a sad story, Emily; but I cannot come to the same conclusion. Why to escape from faults of commission, do you run headlong into those of omission and neglect? Why not rather seek better and nobler sources of enjoy ment and exertion?" "Where can I find them? I do think unmarried women the most useless, miserable beings in existence! they have no call for exertion, nothing to interest them." "Have you lost all the power of affection, Emily?" 66 My dear Ida, surely now you do not speak with your usual wisdom. What can mamma or papa want with me? what can I do for them, or even feel for them, to fill up this craving void? And as for Georgiana, really she would laugh at the idea of my requiring her affection, or feeling any for her. Friend! there is no such thing in the London world." "For heaven's sake, my dear Emily, do not make such sweeping assertions. If you are bereft of common feeling, of course my arguments can have little weight; but you might have made a friend-Florence." "Do not speak of Florence, Ida-I would not have Alfred know it, because he torments me quite enough; but I will tell you that her note, though it simply thanked my intended kindness, and said she no longer needed it, caused such painful feelings that I destroyed it, for I could not bear to think of, or look at it." "And you have no remembrance at all of her address ?" "No; but I think I kept the name and address of the lady with whom she said she was going to reside; for while the stinging self-reproach lasted, I thought if I heard of anything more advantageous I would write to her; but that idea of course only lasted till conscience was silenced, two days afterwards. How you, with all your new interests and affections, can have still time and inclination to bestow a thought on one whom you knew so short a time, I cannot understand; you certainly are an extraordinary person. I wish I were more like For a wonder Emily kept her promise. The following morning came Mrs. Russell's direction, and the Countess wrote immediately, requesting to know if a young lady of the name of Florence Leslie still resided with Mrs. Russell, as governess; or if she had left, she would feel really obliged for any information concerning her which Mrs. Russell could bestow. CHAP. XXVII. Several days elapsed before Lady St. Maur redid come, it contained little satisfactory. ceived any answer to her note, and when the reply St. Maur, and begs to inform her ladyship that a "Mrs. Russell's compliments to the Countess young person of the name of Florence Leslie did reside with her a few months, as governess; but having discovered she had been grossly deceived, and that the person in question was very unfit for such a responsible situation, Mrs. Russell was compelled to dismiss her directly, and knows nothing more concerning her or her family." This was such strong confirmation of previous reports, that Lady St. Maur's secret hopes fell; yet still she was not satisfied, and while sitting in painful perplexity, Lady Mary Villiers and Alfred Melford chanced to call in. "What is the matter, Ida? Anxiety in the upper house, yclept the nursery? Any of the ladies or lords there not as well as their mamina thinks they ought to be?" was the former's lively greeting, which the Countess answered by putting Mrs. Russell's note into her hand, adding with a smile, "I am not at all the fanciful mamma you would make me, Mary; my children are all well, and I value the blessing rather too thankfully to alloy it by imagining them otherwise without just cause.' "And yet you worry yourself about such a trifle as this. My dear Ida, I shall hate the very name of Florence Leslie, if it is to annoy you in this manner! What can she be to you that you cannot dismiss her from your mind, believing her, as everybody else does, no longer worthy of your regard? This note does but confirm what you already know." "What can you possibly mean?" exclaimed Melford indignantly." Florence Leslie unworthy of Ida's regard! She is no more unworthy of it than I am, if as much. What can you mean?" They told him, but he was only the more indignant. "It is all some specious lie--I beg your pardon, Ida, for the word-I have seen Miss Leslie later than either of you, and I would stake my reputation that no more sin or shame lies on that heart than on either of those I have the honour of now addressing. Go yourself to this Mrs. | Russell, Ida; I dare say she has invented this tale to excuse her dismissal of poor Florence, because she was too good for her." "Strange then it should so exactly agree with the previous rumours," replied Lady Mary, who, without any malice or envy, had yet some secret jealousy that such an unknown person should have any part of her friend's interest or regard. "What good can Ida's taking so much trouble do, except to annoy her yet more?" "Lady Mary, you are too prejudiced for me. My cousin Ida will not give up this poor girl without sufficient cause. Go to Mrs. Russell, Ida, make her tell you more particulars; or, if you do not like to do so, authorize me, and I will get out the truth, you may depend." "Thank you, my good cousin, but I will go myself. My dear Mary, do not look so much annoyed; you know I told you, years ago, if I found Florence worthy of my regard, she should have it still." "But she is not worthy, and that is what annoys me." "How do I know that she is not? Rumour never weighs a breath with me; I must have positive proofs of guilt before I will believe it, and I care not what trouble it costs to discover the truth. Still not satisfied, Mary? You cannot be so altered as to envy that poor friendless girl the trifling happiness of my unchanged regard." "I know I am very selfish, dearest Ida, but you must forgive me; I value your love so highly that I cannot bear to see it unworthily bestowed," said Lady Mary frankly, kissing the Countess affectionately as she spoke; "and, after hearing what we have heard, I think "You think I might just as well be satisfied with the friends I have, and not seek others; is it not so? And so leave poor Florence to her fate, innocent or guilty. Such is not quite my idea of woman's friendship. No, Mary, to prove innocence and relieve suffering can never be the needless exertion you wish me to suppose it." Still Lady Mary was not quite convinced. In fact, Alfred Melford was the only one who gave the Countess encouragement in her benevolence. The Earl himself, and Lady Helen, though generally the last to entertain anything approaching to prejudice, still imagined the fancy of two persons having manners so exactly similar, and moving in the same scenes, much too romantic to be entertained a moment. They did not indeed say much; but what is there more painfully chilling than to read doubt and want of sympathy in those whose approval we long for, as robing our cherished plans with an importance which of themselves they never can attain. It so happened, just about this time, that in inquiring amongst various jewellers for a rare stone, to replace one which had fallen from Lady St. Maur's bracelet, Alice had perceived, and instantly recognized the identical cross and chain which her lady had presented to Miss Leslie. Knowing how anxious the Countess was to dis cover some trace of Florence, she asked many questions as to how and where that trinket had been obtained. Mr. Danvers could tell her little, except that he had purchased it some months ago of a young lady who was in mourning, and wore so thick a veil that he could not even discern her countenance; but, by the tone of her voice, he was sure she was a lady. Lady St. Maur without hesitation re-purchased it, satisfying herself it was the identical jewel by touching the spring (of whose existence the jeweller was unconscious), and the letters I. V. to F. L. were still distinctly visible, but the braid of hair was gone. Lady Mary was indignant that Florence could ever have sold the trinket; she could not imagine any distress so great as to demand such a sacrifice, and if she really were so distressed, why did she not do as Ida had desired her, write and ask her promised influence; that she did not was a still stronger proof of her unworthiness; besides, how could they be sure that it was not individual imprudence instead of family distress which had compelled its sale? The Earl and Lady Helen said nothing; but Ida felt that their opinions sided with Lady Mary's, and though her own heart still defended Florence, she half shrunk from pursuing her inquiries, lest the truth should indeed be such as to demand the relinquishing of all her generous plans and kindly feelings. Alfred Melford, however, persisted in his assertion of Florence's entire innocence, and the visit to Mrs. Russell, which he so urgently advised, was in consequence no longer deferred. A gentle lady stands upon the shore, Watching the vessel on its outward way: High o'er the beach the dashing billows pour : Her long fair locks are covered by the spray. Yet sadly still she lingers, to deplore The loss of one-her dearest earthly stay; And feels as though her very heart would burst, To trust him to the mercies of my first. But she is widow'd, and a helpless band Of children fill with anxious cares her breast: Gold is their portion in a distant land; But wicked men their lawful claim contest, And much they lack some kind, protecting hand, Their birthright from the spoiler's grasp to wrest. She knows it all, yet sends, in shuddering fear, Time passes on; again that lady pale Stands on the shore; the vessel homeward wends. Fondly she flies her cherish'd one to hail ; She hears of wealth secur'd, of zealous friends, Of the smooth voyage, and the favouring gale: And meekly on her knees to Him she bends, Whose power could thus the elements conticl, Through the revolving changes of my whole. DROWNE'S WOODEN IMAGE. or the Carrara; and if less durable, yet sufficiently so to correspond with any claims to permanent ex BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, AUTHOR OF "TWICE istence possessed by the boy's frozen statues. Yet TOLD TALES," ETC. One sunshiny morning, in the good old times of the town of Boston, a young carver in wood, well known by the name of Drowne, stood contemplating a large oaken log, which it was his purpose to convert into the figure-head of a vessel. And while he discussed within his own mind what sort of shape or similitude it were well to bestow upon this excellent piece of timber, there came into Drowne's workshop a certain Captain Hunnewell, owner and commander of the good brig called the Cynosure, which had just returned from her first voyage to Fayal. "Ah! that will do, Drowne, that will do !" cried the jolly captain, tapping the log with his ratan. "I bespeak this very piece of oak for the figurehead of the Cynosure. She has shown herself the sweetest craft that ever floated, and I mean to decorate her prow with the handsomest image that the skill of man can cut out of timber. And, Drowne, you are the very fellow to execute it." they won admiration from maturer judges than his schoolfellows, and were, indeed, remarkably clever, though destitute of the native warmth that might have made the snow melt beneath his hand. As he advanced in life, the young man adopted pine and oak as eligible materials for the display of his skill, which now began to bring him a return of solid silver, as well as the empty praise that had been an apt reward enough for his productions of evanescent snow. He became noted for carving ornamental pump-heads, and wooden urns for gateposts, and decorations, more grotesque than fanciful, for mantel-pieces. No apothecary would have deemed himself in the way of obtaining custom, without setting up a gilded mortar, if not a head of Galen or Hippocrates, from the skilful hand of Drowne. But the great scope of his business lay in the manufacture of figure-heads for vessels. Whether it were the monarch himself, or some famous British admiral or general, or the governor of the province, or perchance the favourite daughter of the ship-owner, there the image stood above the prow, decked out in gorgeous colours, magnificently gilded, and staring the whole world out of countenance, as if from an innate consciousness of its own superiority. These specimens of native sculpture had crossed the sea in all directions, and been not ignobly noticed among the crowded ship "You give me more credit than I deserve, Captain Hunnewell," said the carver, modestly, yet as one conscious of eminence in his art. "But, for the sake of the good brig, I stand ready to do my best. And which of these designs would you prefer? Here," pointing to a staring, half-length figure, in a white wig and a scarlet coat, "here is an excel-ping of the Thames, and wherever else the hardy lent model, the likeness of our gracious king. Here is the valiant Admiral Vernon; or, if you prefer a female figure, what say you to Britannia, with the trident ?" "All very fine, Drowne, all very fine," answered the mariner. "But as nothing like the brig ever swam the ocean, so I am determined she shall have such a figure-head as old Neptune never saw in his life. And what is more, as there is a secret in the matter, you must pledge your credit not to betray it." "Certainly," said Drowne, marvelling, however, what possible mystery there could be in reference to an affair so open, of necessity, to the inspection of all the world, as the figure-head of a vessel. "You may depend, Captain, on my being as secret as the nature of the case will permit." Captain Hunnewell then took Drowne by the button, and communicated his wishes in so low a tone, that it would be unmannerly to repeat what was evidently intended for the carver's private ear. We shall, therefore, take the opportunity to give the reader a few desirable particulars about Drowne himself. He was the first American who is known to have attempted-in a very humble line, it is true-that art in which we can now reckon so many names already distinguished, or rising to distinction. From his earliest boyhood he had exhibited a knack for it would be too proud a word to call it genius-a knack, therefore, for the imitation of the human figure, in whatever material came most readily to hand. The snows of a New England winter had often supplied him with a species of marble as dazzlingly white, at least, as the Parian mariners of New England had pushed their adventures. It must be confessed that a family likeness pervaded these respectable progeny of Drowne's skill; that the benign countenance of the king resembled those of his subjects, and that Miss Peggy Hobart, the merchant's daughter, bore a remarkable similitude to Britannia, Victory, and other ladies of the allegoric sisterhood; and, finally, that they all had a kind of wooden aspect, which proved an intimate relationship with the unshaped blocks of timber in the carver's workshop. But, at least, there was no inconsiderable skill of hand, nor a deficiency of any attribute to render them really works of art, except that deep quality, be it of soul or intellect, which bestows life upon the lifeless, and warmth upon the cold, and which, had it been present, would have made Drowne's wooden workmanship instinct with spirit. The captain of the Cynosure had now finished his instructions. "And Drowne," said he, impressively, "you must lay aside all other business, and set about this forthwith. And as to the price, only do the job in first-rate style, and you shall settle that point yourself." "Very well, captain," answered the carver, who looked grave and somewhat perplexed, yet had a sort of smile upon his visage. "Depend upon I'll do my utmost to satisfy you." it From that morning the men of taste about Long Wharf and the Tower Dock, who were wont to show their love for the arts by frequent visits to Drowne's workshop, and admiration of his wooden images, began to be sensible of a mystery in the carver's conduct. Often he was absent in the day "This is strange !" cried Copley, looking him in the face, which now, as the painter fancied, bad a singular depth of intelligence, though hitherto it had not given him greatly the advantage over his own family of wooden images. "What has come over you? How is it that, possessing the idea which you have now uttered, you should produce only such works as these?" The carver smiled, but made no reply. Copley turned again to the images, conceiving that the sense of deficiency, so rare in a merely mechanical character, must surely imply a genius, the tokens of which had been overlooked; but no, there was not a trace of it. He was about to withdraw, when his eyes chanced to fall upon a half-developed figure which lay in a corner of the workshop, surrounded by scattered chips of oak. It arrested him at once. "What is here? Who has done this?" he broke time. Sometimes, as might be judged by gleams | between a sign-post daub and one of your best of light from the shop windows, he was at work pictures." until a late hour of the evening; although neither knock nor voice, on such occasions, could gain admittance for a visitor, or elicit any word of response. Nothing remarkable, however, was observed in the shop at those hours when it was thrown open. A fine piece of timber, indeed, which Drowne was known to have reserved for some work of especial dignity, was seen to be gradually assuming shape; what shape it was destined ultimately to take, was a problem to his friends, and a point on which the carver himself preserved a rigid silence. But day after day, though Drowne was seldom noticed in the fact of working upon it, this rude form began to be developed, until it became evident to all observers, that a female figure was growing into mimic life. At each new visit they beheld a larger pile of wooden chips, and a nearer approximation to something beautiful. It seemed as if the hamadryad of the oak had shel-out, after contemplating it in speechless astonishtered itself from the unimaginative world within the heart of her native tree, and that it was only necessary to remove the strange shapelessness that had incrusted her, and reveal the grace and loveliness of a divinity. Imperfect as the design, the attitude, the costume, and especially the face of the image, still remained, there was already an effect that drew the eye from the wooden cleverness of Drowne's earlier productions, and fixed it upon the tantalizing mystery of this new project. ment for an instant. "Here is the divine, the lifegiving touch! What inspired hand is beckoning this wood to arise and live! Whose work is this?" "No man's work," replied Drowne. "The figure lies within that block of oak, and it is my business to find it." 66 Drowne," said the true artist, grasping the carver fervently by the hand, "you are a man of genius!" oak. "Strange enough !" said the artist to himself. "Who would have looked for a modern Pygmalion in the person of a Yankee mechanic!" As Copley departed, happening to glance backCopley, the celebrated painter, then a young ward from the threshold, he beheld Drowne bendman, and a resident of Boston, came one day to ing over the half-created shape, and stretching forth visit Drowne; for he had recognized so much of his arms as if he would have embraced and drawn moderate ability in the carver, as to induce him, in it to his heart; while, had such a miracle been posthe dearth of any professional sympathy, to culti-sible, his countenance expressed passion enough to vate his acquaintance. On entering the shop, the communicate warmth and sensibility to the lifeless artist glanced at the inflexible images of king, commander, dame, and allegory, that stood around; on the best of which might have been bestowed the questionable praise, that it looked as if a living man had here been changed to wood, and that not only the physical, but the intellectual and spiritual part, partook of the stolid transformation. But in not a single instance did it seem as if the wood were imbibing the ethereal essence of humanity. What a wide distinction is here, and how far would the slightest portion of the latter merit have outvalued the utmost degree of the former ! As yet, the image was but vague in its outward presentiment; so that, as in the cloud-shapes around the western sun, the observer rather felt, or was led to imagine, than really saw what was intended by it. Day by day, however, the work assumed greater precision, and settled its irregular and misty outline into distincter grace and beauty. The general design was now obvious to the common eye. It was a female figure, in what appeared to be a foreign dress; the gown being laced over the bosom, and opening in front, so as to disclose a skirt or petticoat, the folds and inequalities of which were admirably represented in the oaken substance. She wore a hat of singular graceful "My friend Drowne," said Copley, smiling to bimself, but alluding to the mechanical and wooden cleverness that so invariably distinguished the images, “you are really a remarkable person! I have seldom met with a man, in your line of business, that could do so much; for one other touch might make this figure of General Wolfe, for in-ness, and abundantly laden with flowers, such as stance, a breathing and intelligent human creature." "You would have me think that you are praising me highly, Mr. Copley," answered Drowne, turning his back upon Wolfe's image in apparent disgust. "But there has come a light into my mind. I know, what you know as well, that the one touch, which you speak of as deficient, is the only one that would be truly valuable; and that, without it, these works of mine are no better than worthless abortions. There is the same difference between them and the works of an inspired artist, as never grew in the rude soil of New England, but which, with all their fanciful luxuriance, had a natural truth that it seemed impossible for the most fertile imagination to have attained without copying from real prototypes. There were several little appendages to this dress, such as a fan, a pair of ear-rings, a chain about the neck, a watch in the bosom, and a ring upon the finger-all of which would have been deemed beneath the dignity of sculpture. They were put on, however, with as much taste as a lovely woman might have shown |