"Did you fall anxiously asked Geoffrey. did you hurt yourself?" | wonder we did not see you," he continued, addressing me, "since you were there. We called you-we hunted for you. You must have wandered very far." Yes- both!-I should like some tea," I added, passing to the tea-table, and sitting beside my step-mother. 66 Poor thing-I dare say it has shaken "observed she, ever compassionate to physical ailments. you, "Shaken her Bertha!" repeated my father. "Stuff! I defy any amount of tumble to ruffle Bertha's equanimity. She's a thorough Cornish woman- bred among the cliffs and rocks of our rough coast, till she 's almost rock herself. Ar'n't you, Bertha ?" Quite, sir." 66 "Not quite," said Geoffrey, seating himself beside me. "Ah, those poor little hands how terribly they have been cut by the cruel rocks! Why don't you bind them up, Bertha?" "Ah, let me let me!" cried Mary. She knelt down at my feet, and drew forth her delicate little cambric handkerchief, and gently took hold of my hand. I held my breath-I might have borne it, only I saw the look of his eyes as they were fixed on her. I snatched the hand away, and drew back iny chair from her as she leaned against it. She would have fallen forwards, but that Geoffrey's arm was quick to support her, and to raise her to her feet. "Dear Bertha, did I hurt you?" she inquired and she would persist in hovering round me, looking at me with her affectionate eyes while he watched her, and loved her more, I knew, for her care of me. "I cannot bear to be touched," I answered; "I am afraid I must forfeit my character of being perfect flint after all-for you see this casualty has somewhat disordered my nerves. "Nerves!" growled my father; "the first time I ever heard the words from your lips. Don't you take to nerves, for inercy's sake!" "There is no fear of that," cried I, laughing; "and pray don't let any one alarm themselves about me," I added, looking mockingly on the anxious faces of Geoffrey and Mary. "I am perfectly able to take care of myself, wounded though I am. I ought to apologize for occupying so much of your time and attention." "Don't talk like that, Bertha," said Geoffroy gravely; "you know what concerns you concerns us!" Us! The word stung me into fury, and I could not trust myself to speak. "I so regret," said the polite, equable tones of my step-mother, as she turned to her guests, "that we should all have been out when you came. You must have waited here some hours. Such a pity!" "We went down to the shore to look for Bertha among the rocks," said Geoffrey; "I "Yes," I replied, briefly, "I had.” I am afraid you are tired," he pursued, in a lower tone," and yet I do so wish that we may have one of our happy twilight loiterings up and down the shrubbery walk this evening. Will you, Bertha?" "No, I cannot - I am weary,' " I said. My own voice smote strangely on my ear, it was so harsh. But he did not notice it - for Mary was speaking to him. "Mrs. Warburton has no objection - she may come." 66 Ah, Bertha, will you come back with us to Fthis evening?" said Geoffrey, with great animation; "that will be better still. Will you come?" "It is impossible," said I, still quietly; "I cannot leave home." I had to meet the entreaties of Mary - the anxious remonstrances of Geoffrey. At length they left me, and talked apart together. It was about me, I knew. He was uneasy about me thought that my confinement to the house during Mrs. Warburton's illness had been too much for me. He said so, when he came up to me again. "And I have been thinking that you ought to have some one to take care of you, dear Bertha; and if you do not feel well enough to leave home, Mary shall stay here with you, and nurse you. She wishes to do so." I yet retained enough of reason to keep calm in order to prevent that plan's accomplishment. I had half anticipated it-I dreaded that I might presently encourage it and then! No, I dared not have her left with me. So I whispered to Geoffrey that he must not propose such a scheme - that it would ruffle my step-mother to have an unpremeditated guest in the house that evening that it could not be. "Ah, poor Bertha!" he said tenderly; "dear Bertha! Some day she shall be better cared for." His pity his tenderness - maddened me. I started from my seat, and went out into the cool evening air. Mary followed me. "See, the moon is rising!" cried I, merrily. "Did you ever see the moon rise over the sea from our rocks, down there? Our beautiful rocks!" "No-let us go there and watch it. Papa and mamma won't be here with the carriage for a whole hour yet, and your papa is going to carry off Mr. Latimer to look at some horses. And I love the rocks - don't you?" Ay-the happy, beautiful rocks!" 66 "Come, then, I know the way." Sho ran on before; I followed slowly, vaguely feeling that the air was pleasant and cool to my brow, and that it was easier to breathe out of the house. Before I reached the wicket, through which Mary had already disappeared, I was joined by Geoffrey. "You said you were too tired to walk with me," he said in smiling reproach; "but you are going with Mary. Well, I forgive you. And, ah! Bertha, let me tell you now "No, no, I can't wait," I cried; "besides - don't you hear my father calling you? He is impatient-you must go to him directly." "Soit!" He turned away shrugging his shoulders with an air of forced resignation. I watched him till a turn in the path hid him, and the sound of his footsteps ceased. I was quite alone in the solemn stillness of the twilight. A faint odor stole from the flowers that nodded on their stems in the evening breeze; the murmur of the waves flowing in on the shore below came hushingly to my ears; and the moon was just breaking from a great white cloud its beams lay on the sea in a long, trembling column of light. The purity, the peace of the time fell on my heart like snow upon a furnace. There was that within me which was fiercely at war with everything calm or holy. I turned away from the moonlight— from the flowers; and, with eyes bent fixedly on the ground, I trod the garden path to and fro-to and fro thinking! "Bertha Bertha! O, come!" A voice, strained to its utmost, yet still coming faintly, as from a distance, called upon my name. I know I must have heard it many times before it penetrated the chaos of my mind, and spoke to my comprehension. Then I knew it was Mary, who had long ago hastened down among the rocks, and who wondered, doubtless, that I did not join her. I paused and listened again. 64 O, come! Bertha, Bertha, help me!" The voice sunk with a despairing cadence. What could it mean- - that earnest, supplicating cry? I was bewildered, at first; and then I thought it must have been my own fancy that invested the dim sounds with such a wild and imploring tone. But I hurried through the wicket and down the path, when, midway, I was arrested by another cry, more distinct now, because nearer. "Save me! Bertha, Bertha - help!" Then I understood all. Her inexperienced steps had wandered into one of those bewildering convolutions of the rocks, and the advancing tide now barred her egress. I stood motionless as the conviction flashed upon me. Quick, shrill, despairing came the cries, now. "Come to me, O, come and save me! I shall be drowned-drowned. O, Geoffrey, Geoffrey! help me! Don't let me die come to me, Geoffrey!" Even in her desperation her voice took a tenderer tone in calling on his name. And I did not move. Shriek upon shriek smote on the stillness; but well I knew that all ears save mine were far away; that the loudest cry that could come from the young, delicate girl, would never be heard, except by me. Soon, exhausted by her own violence, her voice died away into a piteous wailing, amid which I could catch broken words words that rooted anew my stubborn feet to the ground; words that scorched and seared me, and hardened into a purpose the bad thoughts, that at first only confusedly whirled and throbbed at my heart. 66 Geoffrey! come quickly to me. I shall die. O, Geoffrey! it is so hard to die now! Where are you, that you do not come to save me? O, Geoffrey! my Geoffrey!" "He will never hear, he is far away," I said to myself; "there is no help for her, none." "I felt myself smiling at the thought. "I am drowning! O, the cruel sea- -the dreadful, dreadful rocks!" shrieked the voice. "The beautiful rocks," I muttered; " you said you loved them, but a little while ago. It was there that you and he Ay, shriek on!" The advancing tide was not more cruel, the hard rocks more immovable, than I, as I stood listening, till again the cries subsided into a moaning that blended with the rush of the waves. "O, my mother! my mother! Heaven help me have mercy on me!" The voice was suddenly quite hushed. I shivered, and a strange, awful, deadly feeling stole over me. In that minute what an age passed! I know how murderers feel. But God is merciful-most merciful. Again the supplicating voice rose to my ears, this time like music. I sprang from the ground where the moment before I had crouched, and dashed down the cliff. My mind was perfectly clear. It has been a blessed thought to me, since, that it was no delirious impulse now turned me on my way to save her. I might have been mad before; I was not now. I had full command of my reason, and, as I clambered along, I at once decided on the only plan by which I could rescue her. I knew every turn and twist of the rocks, and very soon I gained a high peak, above where she stood, at the farthest corner of a little creek, into which the tide was driving rapidly. There was no time to lose. I slid down the steep, smooth rock to her side. She was nearly unconscious with terror, yet when she saw me she uttered a glad cry, and wound her arms round my neck in her old caressing way. I let them stay there. I tried to arouse her courage. I told her I would save her, or we would die together. I A sound of voices came confusedly from the bade her cling fast to me, and fear nothing; cliff. I answered with all the power I could, and then, with one arm strongly holding her and I was heard. Ere I gained the foot of slender, childish form, and with the other the cliff, I saw, in the clear moonlight, a grasping the rocks for support, I waded with figure rushing towards us Geoffrey. It yet her through the waters. rings in my ears, the terrible cry which burst from him, as he beheld the figure lying lifeless in my arms. Before we rounded the chain of steep rocks which had shut her in from the shore, she fainted. I was very strong. I raised her in my arms, and clasped her close. I climbed my way with vigor. I never felt her weight. I felt nothing, except thanksgiving that she was living, breathing, safe! "She is living, she is safe!" I cried. I saw the change in his face, as he snatched her from me to his heart. Then I fell at his feet, and knew no more. ASPARAGUS. THE delicate ASPARAGUS, with its pretty Greek name (aoлagayos, a young shoot not yet opened into leaf). Is there not much beauty in a bed of asparagus run to seed? The tall, slender, feathery, green sprays, with their shining, bead-like berries, have an air of great elegance, especially when begemmed by the morning dew. Asparagus was first cultivated in England about 1662. Some species of the wild asparagus are still found in Wales, in the Isle of Portland, and near Bristol. Tavernier mentions having found some enormous asparagus on the banks of the Euphrates; and Pliny mentions asparagus cultivated at Ravenna, three of which would weigh a pound. Asparagus is an especial favorite with our Gallic neighbors. Of the French philosopher, Fontenelle, an anecdote is related, which shows how completely his gourmandise could conquer all natural emotions of the mind! of cruelty he practised on all whom he defeated. He used to bend down two pine trees till they met; then he tied a leg and an arm of the captive to each tree, and suddenly letting the pines fly back to their natural position, the unfortunate victim was torn asunder. This monster was conquered by Theseus, and put to death in his own manner. On his defeat, his young daughter, Perigone, fled away, and hid herself amid a brake of wild asparagus, praying the plants, in childish simplicity, to conceal her, and promising never to root them up, or burn them. She lay among them so well sheltered that she escaped discovery by Theseus, till she was induced by the conciliatory tone in which he called upon her in his researches, to come forward to him. He subsequently married her; and their grandson, Ioxus, founded in Caria a colony who kept in memory the pledge of Perigone to the plants that had given her refuge. THE DYING POET TO HIS WIFE. Thus in my dying hour; We The wild asparagus being full of prickles, One day a brother literati, with whom he yet agreeable and wholesome to eat, its had lived in habits of friendship for many sprays were used by the Boeotians as wedding years, came to dine with him. The principal garlands, to signify to the bride, that as she part of the meal was to consist of asparagus, had given her lover trouble in wooing her, so of which both host and guest were extremely she ought to recompense him by the pleasfond, but they differed in their tastes as to antness of her manners in wedded life. the mode of dressing it; the latter preferred will accompany this reminiscence with the it with butter, the former with oil. After address of a dying poet to his beloved wife, some discussion, they came to a compromise; which we translate from the Italian: the cook was ordered to make two equal divis ions, and to dress one share with oil, and the other with butter. This knotty point being settled, the friends entered into some literary conversation. In the height of their discourse, the guest fell from his chair, suddenly struck with apoplexy. Fontenelle hastily summoned all necessary assistance, but in vain; for, despite of every exertion to restore him, the invalid expired. What were the reflections of our French philosopher on this abrupt and melancholy termination of a longstanding friendship? Awe? Sorrow? Religious aspirations? No! but a happy recollection that now his own taste could be fully gratified, without the necessity of any deference to that of another. He left the corpse, and, running to the head of the stairs, called out to his cook" Dress it all with oilall with oil!" "Tout à l'huile-tout à l'huile!" It is not surprising that a man so exempt from the wear and tear of human emotions as Fontenelle, lived to be upwards of ninety-nine years of age. He was for forty years Secretary to the Academy of Sciences, and died in 1756. Wild asparagus was held in reverence by the Ioxides, a colony in Caria, in remembrance of their ancestress, Perigone. She was the daughter of Sinnis, a robber of gigantic stature, dwelling in the Peloponnesus, who was surnamed the Pine-bender, from the species The day that made thee mine. Pledge of affection's vow; Remember when from thee And when restored by me. The CARROT came to us at an early period from Flanders. The roots of caraway boiled were often used as a substitute. When the carrot was more rare than at present, it was at one time a fashion among ladies to wear its graceful foliage in their caps and bonnets, and in their hair. The wild carrot (whose seed enjoy some reputation as medicinal) is called by the English peasant, bird's-nest, from the hollowed and fibrous appearance of its cymes of small white flowers, when withered. POETRY: To the British and Irish Telegraph, 385; A Poet's Morning-Epitaph, 386; The Contented Man, 428. SHORT ARTICLES: 'Tis Eighty Years Since, 420; The Cabbage, 427; Form of Chimneys, 428. NEW BOOKS: A Few Notes on Shakspeare, 417; Lord Bacon and Sir Walter Raleigh, 427; Adventures of a Gentleman in Search of the Church of England, 448. From the Dublin University Magazine. TO THE BRITISH AND IRISH TELEGRAPH. O, WONDROUS chain, thou well canst prove When even love, for carrier dove, May trust the lightning's wings; Yea, in itself, a spirit good, Which thou hast brought us o'er; Here mind meets mind with rapid spring; First, ask our friends in yonder land, Why keep they thus apart? Holds Beauty to her heart; And lets her voice accompany That when the cloud's rich purple fold Lifts to the evening's beam, Beneath, on couch of pearl and gold, Lies Beauty in a dream. CCCCLXXXII. LIVING AGE. VOL. II. 25 For cloudland who? we bid thee say, That this, her green domain, So will she come again? Then shall thy wires with welcomes quiver, And should'st thou all such tales convey, 'T would wear thy wires too soon away. Of Erin's slothful hands, that waste Rich gifts bestowed in vain? How party's bonds are o'er her cast How passion shakes the chain? To men of high degree, May yet mishandled be; Some say thy chain was not the first But thou hast made the word accursed |