TWO pale lilies and two royal roses upon a stem, would scarcely form a more beautiful or striking group than did the four maidens standing together under the stone archway of the school-room, on that gloomy day at Madam Truxton's.
The fair hair and blue eyes of Helen Le Grande and Lizzie Heartwell distinctly contrasted with the jetty locks and eyes of Bertha Levy and Leah Mordecai—the beauty of neither style being in any degree marred by such close contact.
The blonde beauty of the first two maidens bespoke their unmistakable Anglo-Norman blood and Christian descent, while the opposite cast of the others testified to their Jewish origin.
A casual observer even, would have decided that these four maidens were bound together by an unusual bond of friendship—an incongruous friendship it might have seemed, and yet it was not such.
Helen Le Grande, the eldest of the group by a few months, was scarcely eighteen years of age, as bright and gay a maiden as one could find in all the land, and the only daughter of Judge Le Grande, a lawyer of wealth and distinction.
Of immediate French descent, Judge Le Grande possessed in an eminent degree the peculiarities of his gay, volatile ancestry. Proud of his children, and ambitious for their future, in his lavish bounty he withheld nothing he deemed necessary for their advancement in life.
Thus at eighteen, Helen Le Grande looked out upon life's opening sky as thoughtlessly as she would look upon the bright waters of the blue harbor that stretched before her father's mansion, where sky and water blended in a peaceful, azure expanse, little heeding or caring whether storms came, or sunshine rested on the deep. Bertha Levy, the little darked-eyed Jewess who stood by her side under the stone archway, was nothing more or less than a piquant little maiden, just turned seventeen, of amiable disposition and affectionate heart, but by no means partial to study, and always ready to glean surreptitiously from her books, any scraps of the lesson that might be useful, either to herself or her friends, in the ordeal of recitation.
Bertha's mother was a widow, whose circumstances allowed her children all the comforts and even many luxuries of life. She had reared them most rigidly in Hebrew faith. Lizzie Girardeau Heartwell, the next in the fair tableau, was the only member of the group who was not a native of the Queen City. It is no misstatement of fact to say that she was, indeed, the ruling spirit of Madam Truxton's entire school.
Dr. Heartwell, Lizzie's father, had lived in a distant State, and died when she was but a tender child. Her mother, a descendant of the Huguenots, was herself a native of the Queen City. But far away from her native home had Mrs. Heartwell's married life been spent, and Lizzie's young days, too, had passed in their quiet uneventful home at Melrose.
But at the age of fifteen, and three years prior to the opening of this story, under the kindly guardianship of her uncle, Lizzie Heartwell entered the popular finishing school of Madam Truxton.
Possessed of noble, heroic blood, and blessed with love that instilled into her young mind the principles of a brave, devoted ancestry, it was but natural that Lizzie Heartwell should exhibit an unusual development of heart and mind at a very tender age, and give early promise of a braver, nobler womanhood, when Time should set his seal upon her brow.
Reluctantly the heart turns to read the half-written history in the sad face of Leah Mordecai, the fourth maiden standing pictured against the stone under the archway. She was of the unmistakable Jewish type, possessing the contour of face, the lustrous eye, the massive crown of hair, that so often distinguish and beautify the Hebrew maiden, wheresoever the sun may rise and set.
In the sadness that rested upon this young girl's face, one might dimly detect the half-extinguished flame of hope, that usually burns so brilliantly in the hearts of most young girls. But why this sadness no one could tell. Its cause was a mystery even to her friends. Benjamin Mordecai was an opulent banker, who for many years lived in solitary grandeur in his bachelor home. But in the process of time, he wedded the gentle Sarah David, and brought her to share with him his home and fortune.
Love had led to this marriage, and peace and happiness for a time, like sweet angels, seemed to have come to dwell evermore within the home. But time brought changes. After the lapse of a year and a half, the cherished Leah was born, and from that day the mother's health declined steadily for a twelvemonth, and then she was laid in the grave.
As the mother faded, the infant Leah thrived and flourished, filling the father's heart with anxious, tender love.
Among the inmates of the Mordecai home from the time of Mrs. Mordecai's declining health, was a young woman, Rebecca Hartz, who acted as house-keeper and general superintendent of domestic affairs. She had been employed by Mr. Mordecai for this important position, not so much on account of her competency to fill it, as to bestow a charity upon her unfortunate father, who constantly besought employment for his numerous children, among the more favored of his people.
Isaac Hartz was a butcher, whose slender income was readily exhausted by a burdensome family. Rebecca, his daughter, was a good-looking young woman of twenty at the time she entered Mr. Mordecai's family. Although coarse and ill-bred, she was also shrewd and designing, often making pretence of friendship and affection to gain her ends when in reality hatred and animosity were burning in her bosom. Such was Rebecca Hartz. Such the woman to usurp the household government, when the gentle Mrs. Mordecai had passed away.
IN Mrs. Levy's attractive drawing-room, Bertha's guests were assembled for the tea-party.
Lizzie Heartwell, the first to arrive, was ushered into the brightly lighted room, to find Mrs. Levy the only occupant.
"I welcome you gladly, Miss Heartwell," said Mrs. Levy, rising and taking Lizzie by the hand. "I have long desired your acquaintance, knowing my daughter's friendship for you. Pray be seated."
"I thank you, Mrs. Levy," replied Lizzie, "I indeed esteem it an honor to meet the mother of such a friend as Bertha."
"My daughter will be present by and by. I regret that necessity compels her non-appearance as yet. Sit nearer the fire."
Lizzie drew closer to the glowing grate, and they continued a pleasant conversation till Bertha appeared.
"What a handsome woman!" thought Lizzie, as she occasionally surveyed Mrs. Levy from head to foot during the tte- -tte.
And she was a handsome womam, dressed quietly but richly in black satin, her head adorned only by the clustering curls she had worn from her girlhood. There was little change even in their arrangement, and only an occasional thread of silver here and there bespoke the touch of time. Her eyes were still beautiful, but their lustre had been dimmed by the tears of her widowhood.
Bertha bore the same cast of beauty that distinguished her mother, yet time's developing, modelling work for her was not yet completed. When the guests were duly assembled, Bertha approached her mother, who was still entertaining Lizzie, appearing quite fascinated with her daughter's friend, and said, "Mother, won't you release your prisoner now? Helen Le Grande wishes her to join the group over there by the window, in a game of euchre."
"Certainly, my dear. I trust Miss Heartwell will pardon me if I have detained her too long."
"Come, Lizzie, come along," said Bertha; and then added, in an undertone, "you know what I promised to show you, Lizzie. Come with me; let them make up the game without you."
"Oh! yes, that album; show it to me," said Lizzie, following Bertha to a well-filled tagre, from which she took a handsomely bound album, saying, "This is from Asher. Isn't it lovely?"
"Indeed it is," replied Lizzie.
"Mamma says I do not know who sent it to me, as there is no name anywhere. She does not wish me to think it's from Asher, but I know it is. It's just like him to do such nice things," and, bending her head closer to Lizzie, Bertha continued, "you see, Lizzie, I am awfully disappointed because mamma would not allow me to invite him here to-night. I am just as vexed as I well can be."
"Won't some of these other gentlemen answer in his stead?" asked
Lizzie, smiling.
"Bosh! no; all of these, and forty more, are not equal to Asher Bernhardt, in my estimation. I love Asher, I tell you, and I mean to marry him, one of these days; do you hear me?"
"Marry! how you talk! A girl of your age presuming to say that you will marry such and such a one," said Lizzie, laughing.
"Indeed! I consider myself woman enough to decide whom I like, better than any one else, whether you call that old enough to marry, or not. But let me tell you what mamma said to-day, when she caught me kissing the album. 'Bertha Levy'—and oh! she looked so straight and solemn at me that I almost trembled—'Bertha Levy, are you going to make yourself ridiculous about that strolling player, Asher Bernhardt? Tell me.' 'You know he plays the flute superbly, and that's what I like.' Then I said meekly:
"'I know that he loves me.'
"'You know nothing of that sort, and you are a very silly girl. This is the way you regard my teachings, is it, fancying strolling players at private theatricals? What! could you promise yourself to marry such a man—a man whose chief recomendation is, that he can play the flute?'
"'Happiness,' I whispered.
"'Wretchedness, you mean! Well, I forbid you ever thinking of him again. I shall never, never, consent to such a thing, never while I am your mother. Remember my words now!'
"Oh! Lizzie, wasn't that awful, mamma is so hard on him! I—"
"Bertha, Bertha!" called a voice from the opposite side of the room, which Bertha at once recognized as her mother's and immediately turned toward Mrs. Levy, leaving Lizzie standing alone.
"For shame, my daughter!" said Mrs. Levy, in a low tone to Bertha, "to keep Miss Heartwell standing talking all the evening about your supposed present from Asher Bernhardt! I shall not allow you company again until you improve in politeness, and I will destroy that cherished book. Do you hear me? Go at once and see that Miss Heartwell is seated."
Bertha bowed her head, in token of obedience, and as she turned back to join Lizzie, Leah Mordecai was approaching the piano, accompanied by Emile Le Grande.
Leah Mordecai was a superb singer, yet it was only at the request of friends that her soul flowed forth in song. On this evening her music was delicious, and Emile Le Grande, always fond of the divine art, was bewitched with the beauty of her voice. When her singing ceased, the sadness still rested upon her face, and in Emile's heart there was a new-born sensation—that of pleasure mingled with fear.
The evening hours wore on. The hours that bore away the Jewish
Sabbath were rolling in the Christian day of rest, and Lizzie
Heartwell, in obedience to her uncle's request not to "tarry at her
pleasure too late," was the first to separate from the happy band.
An hour later, as the Citadel clock sounded the hour of midnight,
Judge Le Grande's carriage rolled rapidly toward the mansion of
Benjamin Mordecai, bearing home his beautiful daughter, escorted by
Emile Le Grande.
This night, as Lizzie Heartwell was slowly disrobing for the remaining hours of slumber after her return home, she glanced into the small mirror before her, and thought audibly—"Emile Le Grande seemed quite charmed to-night with Leah; he hung around her like a shadow, and part of the evening he seemed moody and almost miserable. How strange if he should fall in love with her! She's a grand girl. I don't think she could fancy Emile Le Grande. I wonder why Leah called herself 'the despised' yesterday. Well, we shall see."
Mrs. Levy's guests had departed, one by one, till the mother and daughter were left alone in the deserted room.
"Mamma," Bertha said at length, shrugging her dainty figure, and gazing thoughtfully into the fire, "I do believe that Emile Le Grande is in love with Leah Mordecai, and she with him."
"Be ashamed, Bertha, to think of such a thing! I believe you are insane on the subject of love. Have you forgotten that she is a Mordecai."
"Oh! Love's love, mamma, Mordecai or not Mordecai! I think Emile Le
Grande a fine fellow."
"Would you be impudent, Bertha?" said her mother, eyeing her sharply.
"Oh! not for the world, mamma. Do forgive me, if you think so, and let us retire, for I have an awful task of study awaiting me to-morrow."
"SATURDAY night—by Jove! Sunday morning, I suppose I should write it, to be strictly truthful. And I guess that orthodox people would roll their pious eyes, and declare that I had better be in bed at this hour, instead of writing in my journal. But it makes no difference. I do not know whether it's the seventh or the first day that I should observe as a day of rest. One suits me as well as the other. So here goes for my journal.
"November 29, Saturday night. Yes, I'll write Saturday night, for the looks of the thing. Just returned from Bertha Levy's tea-party—went with my sister. Would not have gone but for the hope of meeting Leah Mordecai. In the main, I hate Jews, but I must admit here, Journal, that Mrs. Levy is as elegant a woman as I have ever met; and Bertha, too, is a cunning creature, not beautiful and not my fancy exactly, but withal a taking girl.
"But of all the beautiful women that I have seen in years, Jewish or Christian, there's not one can compare with Leah Mordecai—such hair and such eyes are seldom given to woman. Helen says that her hair measures four feet in length! What a queenly poise to that elegant head!
"But I swear there's a sadness about her face that I do not comprehend. She certainly knows nothing of sorrow. It does not arise from want; for she, of all maidens in this Queen City, is farthest from that. Old Ben Mordecai has untold wealth, and there comes in the 'marrow of the nut.' Of course, he is as stingy as a Jew can be; but not with his daughter. Who has more elegant silks, velvets, and diamonds than she? Rich! rich! Ha! what a glorious thing to be said of one; but aside from old Mordecai's money, Leah is a superb woman; one need never be ashamed of such a wife. I should not be.
"I must set myself to work to ascertain the trouble that must dwell in her heart so constantly to becloud her face. I'll bribe Helen to find out for me. It may be some unfortunate love affair—who knows? I think I would like to put any fellow out of the way that might be seeking her hand. I believe I would kill him, if necessary. Perhaps, dear Journal, I should not have written that terrible monosyllable, but as you tell no tales, I'll let it stand.
"Now, I must to bed, and sleep, if I can—sleep away some of the tedious hours that lie between me and another sight of the fair Leah.
"Already the clock strikes two."
"And Mark was not there to-night, as I had hoped and expected," sighed Leah, as she stood before the elegant dressing-case of her bed-chamber, and laid aside the articles of her toilet, after the revel was done. "Only another disappointment! And yet, I know that Bertha invited him, and lie promised me to attend. I should not have worn these ear-rings and this brooch, which were my mother's, had I known Mark would have been absent. Oh, my angel mother!"
A tear stole slowly down her face, and fell upon the shining pearls that she still clasped between her fingers. "Why did not the grave cover us both? Why was I left alone and so desolate in the world? Can it be that Mark has deceived me—Mark Abrams, the only friend in the world that I implicitly trust? God only knows. I remember now, how he looked at my mother—what mockery to call that woman mother!—when I asked him if he would attend the tea-party. I remember furthermore, that she followed him to the door after he bade us adieu; and what words she may have let slip there, Heaven only knows! I have had a lurking suspicion for some time, that she was planning to win Mark's love from me, and secure it for my sister Sarah. What if she should succeed. Oh! how wretched I should be! It has been a year, nearly, since Mark and I secretly pledged our love, and he promised then that we should be married soon after I finished at Madam Truxton's. How fondly I have looked forward to that coming day! It has been the one single hope of my miserable life; and now that the time draws so near, is it possible that my dream must vanish into nothingness? Must this heart taste the bitterness of deception, among its other sorrows? Miserable girl that I am! Surely some evil star shone over the hour and place of my birth. But I'll hope on for the best, and still continue to look forward to the coming day, when my life shall be separated from the wretched woman who now so darkly overshadows my existence. I'll hope on, even though disappointment come at last." The soliloquy ended, Leah laid away the pearls in the velvet-lined case, and turned to slumber and dreams.
Mark Abrams, the early friend and lover of Leah, was the oldest son of a talented and highly-esteemed rabbi, who presided over the most flourishing and wealthy Jewish congregation in the Queen City; and Mark himself was highly esteemed, as a young man of unimpeachable integrity and unusual brilliancy of intellect.
MONDAY morning came again. The great bell in the cupola of Madam Truxton's seminary had sounded, and all the pupils, large and small, were gathered to join in the opening exercises. First, the bright-eyed little girls, in tidy aprons, with hair smoothed back in modest braids, or safely gathered under the faithful comb; then, the more advanced scholars, each bearing the impress of healthful vigor and hopeful heart; and last, the big girls, or "finishing class," as Madam Truxton significantly styled them—all were assembled once more on this bright Monday morning, to begin the duties of another week, and share again the joys and sorrows of school life. It was a lovely sight, this assembled school; for where is the heart that does not see with unspeakable pleasure the dawning beauty of innocent, careless maidenhood?
"Bertha, do you know the French lesson?" said Lizzie Heartwell, as the class of young ladies was passing from the assembly hall to Madam Cond's room.
"Oh, just well enough, Lizzie, to keep me from a scolding, I guess. Here, won't you please hold the book open at aimer, so I can get that muss a little straight, in case madam calls upon me to conjugate?"
Lizzie laughed.
"Oh, pshaw! of course you won't. Lizzie Heartwell, you are too conscientious; but Helen, you will, won't you?"
"Yes, if you will hold it open for me, too. I am not at all prepared in the lesson."
"Here, Leah," continued Bertha, laughing, and winking her roguish eyes at Lizzie, "how much do you know of the verb aimer?"
"More than I wish I did," was the laconic reply of the beautiful
Jewess.
"I suppose so, judging from what I saw on last Saturday evening. But here we are at the lion's den, and our levity had better subside."
"Bon jour, madame!"
"Bon jour, mesdemoiselles."
And the door was closed.
At this same hour, in the large, hollow square fronting the Citadel Tower in the upper part of the Queen City, many platoons of young men, dressed in the gray military suits of the cadets, were drilling, drilling, drilling, according to custom, as a part of their daily school routine.
A passer-by would have stopped for a moment, and watched with interest this pleasing spectacle. The varied and intricate evolutions made by these gray-clad figures, as they expanded into broad platoons, and then, as if by magic, fell again into groups of two, four, or six, was, to the unaccustomed beholder, a strange and attractive performance.
The bristling bayonets shining in the bright morning sun, gave evidence of the faithful care with with which their polish was preserved. And these bright polished muskets spoke loudly too, to the reflecting heart, of the wild work they might some day accomplish, when carried into the conflict by these same skilful hands that now so peacefully upheld them—demon-work, that might clothe a land and people in sackcloth and desolation!
The drilling was ended, the last evolution made, the halt commanded, and the order to disband spoken.
Like a fragile piece of potter's work, the magic ranks broke apart, and each gun fell to the ground with a heavy "thud," like an iron weight.
"I say, George, I am deuced tired of this turning and twisting, and
I'll be glad when the term ends, and I am set free from this place."
"Well, I can't say that I will, Le Grande," replied George Marshall, as handsome a cadet as wore the uniform, and one highly ambitious for promotion. "I came to this institute, because I was always fascinated by military display, and I intend to make this my lifelong profession."
"Whew! how tired I am! Well, you are welcome to it. As for me, it's the last life I should choose. I like the uniform very well, especially when I go where the girls are—they always give a cadet's suit a second glance—but as for the 'profession of arms,' as you call it, excuse me."
"What! would you like, Le Grande, always to be playing lady's man?"
"Oh! yes; and that reminds me, George, that I have a new lady-love; she is at Madam Truxton's. To-day, at intermission, let's saunter down to the seminary, and catch a glimpse of the girls. Maybe I'll see her."
"I can't; at intermission I must study my Legendre. Look at the clock now; it's late."
"Bother the Legendre! you are the strangest fellow I ever saw—care no more for the girls than a 'cat does for holidays.' Won't you go?"
"Not to-day, Le Grande. I am very busy."
The clock struck nine, and George Marshall, with the other disbanded cadets, hurried to the duties of the day—to the hard task of study that awaited them within the grim walls of the citadel.
For a moment before turning to his books, George Marshall looked out of the window, far away to the blue, misty harbor. There he saw again old Fort Defiance, standing grim, stern, and dark against the morning sky—the only object that marred the brightness of the blue heaven and the blue water, melting together in the distance.
"How beautiful the harbor is to-day! And yet how sullen the fort looks," said the young cadet as he surveyed the scene. "I see the flag of my country floating, and all is peaceful and quiet in the waters. Thank God for such a country! But I must hasten to my duties."
"LEAH, dear, what troubles you this morning? Your melancholy look distresses me. Is it any sorrow that you dare not unfold to your loving
These lines Lizzie Heartwell slipped into the leaves of a book that lay upon Leah's desk, while she was absent at a music recitation.
By and by the bell sounded for the half hour's release from study. Then Leah stepped across the room, and gently taking Lizzie by the arm, said, "Come, let's walk."
Lizzie put her arm around her friend, and the two girls walked out into the court-yard, that formed a play-ground for the younger scholars and a pleasant promenade for the older ones, and then turned aside upon the brick walk that connected the kitchen and servants' hall with the main building.
This brick walk, covered overhead by the piazza floor of the second story of the wing of the building, was securely protected in all kinds of weather. As Leah and Lizzie turned upon this promenade, Bertha Levy came skipping up to them with a merry bound, saying:
"Come girls, let's have a game of graces. Helen is willing. Here she is. What do you say?"
"Excuse me this morning, Bertha," Leah replied. "I do not feel well; my head aches, and perhaps I can walk it away!"
"Oh! yes, certainly; but you are as solemn as an owl, of late, Leah; what is the matter with you? Do you contemplate taking the veil? If so, is it the white or the black veil?"
"Our people never take the veil, Bertha. Do you forget?" replied
Leah reproachfully.
"Forgive me, dear, I meant no harm. But I am in a hurry. Dame Truxton will have that old bell sounded directly, and my game of graces not even begun. I wish the old thing was still in its native ore, and not always ready to call us into trouble;" and so saying, Bertha skipped away, calling, "Here, Mag Lawton, Mary Pinckney, come and play graces."
For a moment Lizzie and Leah stood watching the group as it formed, and admiring the graceful movements of the hoops as they flew from the fairylike wands of the girls. "That game is well called," said Lizzie, as Leah caught her arm again and said:
"Come, let's walk on." Then, after a pause, she continued, "I found your note, Lizzie, and I am sorry that I have such a telltale face; but I am unhappy, Lizzie; yes, I am miserable, and I cannot conceal it. I would not obtrude my sorrow upon others, but it is my face and not my tongue that betrays me."
"Do not think, Leah, I beg you, that I would seek to pry into the secret of your heart," responded Lizzie; "but I thought if you were in trouble, maybe I might in some way comfort you."
"I thank you, dear, dear Lizzie, for your sympathy"—and a tear fell from the lustrous lashes of the Jewess; "I thank you again and again," she continued, "but nothing you can do can alleviate my sorrow."
"Well, you can trust me for sympathy and love always, whether that will comfort you or not, Leah; be your trouble what it may."
"Mine is no sudden grief, Lizzie; it is a long, sad story, one that I have never felt at liberty to inflict upon any one's hearing, and yet, I have always found you so tender and so true, that when any additional sorrow comes to me my heart strangely turns to you for sympathy. I know not why. Can you tell me?"
"We always turn to those who love us, I think, in hours of darkness."
"Yes, Lizzie, but there is a peculiar yearning, in my heart for you, at times. I imagine it's akin to the feeling I should have for my mother, were she living. With this feeling at my heart, I long to look upon my mother's miniature which I once had, but which is now in my step-mother's possession, and to gaze upon the face that speaks such love to me, though her voice has so long been silent."
Lizzie, touched at Leah's pathetic words, turned and looked at her friend with a tender glance, and said, "Trust me, Leah, for that sympathy which you from some cause need, and unburden your aching heart to me, if you choose."
"But, there! the bell is ringing and we must go," said Leah abruptly. "Let's meet after school in the upper corridor, that overlooks the sea. I have something further to say to you."
"If you wish, dear Leah; and it's but a short two hours till dismission. Let's go."
Cloaked and hooded, the school-girls were all ready for departure after the three long, welcome strokes of the great clock; when Leah said, "It's growing chilly, Lizzie. Wrap your shawl closely around you, for it's cold out on the corridor. Come, let's go out at the rear door before it is locked."
Ascending a spiral staircase, the two girls reached the upper corridor that ran across the south side of the end wing of the building.
"Suppose Madam Truxton should come upon us, Lizzie, what would she think?" said Leah, as the two girls crouched down closer together at the end of the corridor.
"Nothing wrong, I guess, as we have our books; and perhaps we had better look over our French a minute. What do you say?"
"So we had, as it comes first in the morning," and bending their heads together the girls were silent for a time, pretending to study. At length Lizzie closed the book, and Leah began her story. LEAH'S STORY.
"I shudder, Lizzie, when I think of unfolding the sad story of my life to you; and yet, I am impelled to do so by this hunger for sympathy that is so constantly gnawing at my heart. As I have told you before, my heart strangely turns to you in sorrow. In the three years that I have known you, and we have seen each other daily, I have never known you guilty of a single act or word that was unworthy—"
"Oh! Leah—"
"Do not interrupt me, Lizzie. You must hear my story now, though it shall be briefly told; and I have one request to make, my dear. It is, that you have charity for my faults, and pity for me in my many temptations." She continued:
"As you have known before, my mother died when I was a very little child, scarcely three years old. I remember her but very indistinctly. The woman who is now my father's wife, was his housekeeper in my mother's life-time. She, of course, came from the common walks of life, her father being a very poor butcher. How she ever became my father's wife, I do not know; but my old nurse used to intimate to me that it was by no honorable means. Be that as it may, he married her when I was four years of age; and from that date my miserable story begins. The first incident of my life after this second marriage which I remember most vividly was this. A year after my father's marriage to Rebecca, business of importance called him to England, and a long-cherished desire to see his aged parents took him to Bohemia, where they lived, after the business in Liverpool was transacted. How I fared while he was gone, I dimly remember; but well enough, I suppose, as I was still partially under the care and control of my faithful nurse, a colored woman of kind and tender heart.
"Poor, dear old woman, she is dead long ago!
"This visit of my father to his parents proved to be the last, as they died a year or two afterward. Among my father's relatives in the old country, was a cousin who lived in wealth and luxury somewhere in Saxony. This cousin had been as a brother to him in his young days, and on my father's return from Bohemia, he passed through Saxony and paid this cousin a visit; He still speaks occasionally of that delightful event. I must not forget to tell you that this cousin was a baron—Baron von Rosenberg. He was not born to the title; it was conferred on him for some heroic act, the circumstance of which I do not now remember, during an insurrection.
"At parting with my father at the close of his visit, the Baron made him many costly gifts; among others, one of an elegant pipe of rare and exquisite workmanship. How distinctly I recall it now! It was in the shape of an elk's head, with spreading, delicately wrought antlers. The eyes were formed of some kind of precious stones, and on the face of the elk were the Baron's initials inlaid in gold.