Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge," Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, And would have spoken, but he found not words, But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream-by these Three Queens with crowns of gold-and from them rose And dropping bitter tears against his brow Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, I have lived my life, and that which I have done prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice WE long after Mr. Percival disappeared; he had THE HEIR OF RAYMOND HILL. gone to England, his wife said. Mr. Percival E had two lions in Summerfield. One staid a long time in England; finally he was was Fanny Clifford, the other Raymond announced as dead, and Mary Raymond PerciHill. The one was a beautiful woman, the oth-val put on a widow's cap, which she never took er a fine estate. You can imagine-let your off; and quietly, sadly, submissively bore her tastes determine which you would have liked to secret to the grave. see. Raymond Hill, with its park, its trees, its fine lake, or pond as we called it, the stately mansion which crowned the scene, was a rare possession for one little country town. The village lay like an appendage, a tributary of Raymond Hill, which had been two hundred years in the hands of a Raymond, but was now, in default of a male heir, to descend to the son of a daughter of the house, who so valued his family name of Percival that he resisted all his grand-spring of her character, and she could never bear father's entreaties to change it. "What's in a to see another woman mistress of Raymond Old Raymond died and William Percival grew up and prospered. Whatever had been the sins or misfortunes of the father, as yet the son had not suffered from them. Prosperity was the only thing he had to contend against. Of course he was in love with Fanny, and she laughed. However, the Judge said she would eventually marry him, because-he went on with a sigh"in spite of her laughing, pride is the main Hill." The Judge was a grave bachelor of forty, rather bald on top of head, not handsome, nor inclined to sacrifice to the Graces. Yet he was a name?" said Fanny Clifford, saucily. "I think a great deal," said Will Percival. "I mean to to make you think so." Fanny laughed. That was what she always did. She had besides her beauty, which was enough to make her cheer-favorite with the fair, and every body wondered ful, a happy, sunny temper, that had never known a sorrow greater than an occasional absence from her adoring father and mother, or the temporary grievances which every handsome and admired girl must suffer from the detraction and spite of the less gifted human beings who surround her. why he did not marry. Some people said an early attachment, some said coolness, some said one thing and some another; but I believe, like many another admirable man, he had an excessive distrust of his own powers of making a woman happy, and while he had within himself all the tenderness and truth, all the constancy and It was the favorite remark among this class that she was a heartless coquette, a woman with-elevation of sentiment which insure the happiout high and noble sentiments, the plaything of an hour, etc. All these things are easily said, you know, and Time is the only gentleman who can unsay them. Perhaps I should not have called her a "lion." She had none of the characteristics of a "lionne" certainly. She neither drove fast horses, smoked cigars, made startling speeches, nor wore her hair short and parted on one side; she had no taste for any thing; but was a very sweet, laughing girl, with all the contradictions, and sometimes caprices of that incomprehensible but interesting species. The heir of Raymond Hill was William Percival; handsome in person, equine in taste, generous of disposition, plethoric in pocket. There he lived, the young country squire, after his return from college, with his widowed mother, the cynosure of all the female eyes of the neighborhood; rich, good-looking, and marriageable, no doubt young Percival grew rather sultan-like, and imagined he had but to "wave his cambric" and the obedient fair would rush into the possession of the master of Raymond Hill. ness of woman, he had an indomitable shyness and doubt which made them useless. There are many such caskets of rare jewels of which the key has been lost, in this world of incompleteness. Fanny knew the Judge loved her and dared not say so, and laughed. But she was more proud than she chose to acknowledge of this silent worship, and talked her best-ay, and dressed her best for him too-for these silent men use their eyes very much. Then came Mr. Milman, the clergyman. "The street" used to say that Will Percival went away at eight, the Judge at nine, and the Reverend Milman at ten of the clock from Mr. Clifford's house, and the knowing ones thought the minister was sly in staying longest, and thus summing up the argument. But the minister and Fanny had many things to talk about. They read together; they had charities, Sunday-schools, and the like, to discuss, while the Judge was always silent; and as for poor Will, his high health and much driving about made him sleepy early, and he preferred retiring from the field before his powers got blunted. So Mr. Milman, whose trade it was to be "unable to sleep," nervous, and the like, had Fanny's ear longer than either. Mr. Milman was the model of young clergy As for the elder Percival, William's father, he was the tradition, the romance, the dark mysterious unknown of Summerfield; no one knew much of him, except that Mary Raymond brought him home from England with her as her hus-men. band. Old Mr. Raymond was said not to have liked him even, but they were a close-mouthed race, and kept their own counsel; then came a rumor of a young and beautiful woman who appeared at the hotel with a young child, inquiring for Mr. Percival. She disappeared, and not Large-eyed, pale, slender, deep-voiced, with an occasional cough, with the blackest of coats and the whitest of neckerchiefs, he was the idol of all the elderly tea-drinkers of his parish. Mr. Milman was a good man and a good preacher. If he had some slight affections, let us pass them by, as Scott says of Reu ben Butler, "for the man was mortal and had been a schoolmaster." Now Fanny Clifford did not reign undisturbed on her throne of Summerfield. Although unquestionably the finest young woman in the field-although her right to the throne was as good as that of Bess-auburn-haired queen of England-there were not wanting Mary Stuarts in the field, who did not intend to die without a struggle. There was the large army of the Meddlecombs-eight mortal enemies of Fanny and of every other pretty girl-eight sisters, with a moderate share of good looks, considerable smartness, and preternatural license of tongue. The Meddlecombs were bent on power in the church, in the first place; and by dint of much serving in Sunday-school, much singing in the choir, much devotion to the sewing society, and nobody caring much for the object in question, they got it. Their immense numbers, their consequent ubiquity, their strong voices and nerves, and their indomitable impudence, gave them a considerable power. Fanny laughed at | them, and received for a long time their neverceasing arrows of slander and malignity on her impenetrable armor. Then there was Miss Jones, the "teacher," as we called her, that woman of “fine family," who consented, at immense cost of personal dignity, to teach our young ideas how to shoot, and who was much occupied, meantime, in endeavoring to teach young Cupid to fire some arrows into the Judge's heart. How Miss Jones lived for four or five years of Fanny's supremacy no one knew. She peaked and pined, but bravely lived on, occasionally reviving by dint of a tea at the Meddlecombs, where she heard Fanny pretty well torn to pieces. He The descent of the Meddlecombs on Mr. Milman was only to be compared to the descent of a flock of wild pigeons on the rich harvest fields. They fluttered, curveted, bore down upon him with slippers, offered to hem his handkerchiefs, mend his gloves, and in all matters of moral reform were in great league with him. once whispered to Fanny at a Sunday-school picnic that he could not look any where without seeing a Meddlecomb; that they were as thick as motes in the sunbeam; when lo! one started up under his very feet, having heard every word he had said, and in a soft voice asked him to tea. It did not suit the Meddlecomb policy ever to recognize an insult or a snub openly. Then, on the other side, could be counted the family of the Hartmans, who were amiable and pretty, friends of Fanny, and one of them, sweet Sarah Hartman, almost a rival in the affections of Will Percival. Then there was the elegant Arabella Ramsay, who said she was descended from Allan Ramsay-a fact no one had time to prove, so we took it on trust. Far from all this charmed circle, measuring out calico and selling tape, did Abram Brown pass his monotonous and degraded life. Are you familiar, my dear reader, with the tremendous social barrier which a few country families in some village (whose name you have never heard of) can sometimes raise around themselves, and how, in their mean and meagre way, they ape the customs of the dukes and lords of whom they read in novels? If not, take the cars tomorrow, and go up into the interior of some New England State. Remain there a week, and get invited out to tea. To your astonishment you will find yourself surrounded by sensible, well-informed, well-dressed people, who are as much impressed with their own importance as the Duchess of Sutherland can possibly be with hers, and as rigorous as the Herald-at-Arms in regard to the claims of "society." Perhaps you know Mrs. Clay-then you are in society; perhaps you are so unfortunate as to know Mrs. Blake-then you are not in society. As far as you can see, Mrs. Blake and Mrs. Clay live in equal style, on the same side of the street-that is nothing; an invisible but invincible presence assures you that one is, and the other is not to be known. So with poor Abram Brown. Although he spoke at the Lyceum very well, although he was constant at church, and Mr. Milman liked him very much and occasionally took a walk with him, although he was a well-looking and well-dressed young man, yet he was not in "society." His profession was not so much the objection, for did not the proud Arabella's father, old Mr. Ramsay himself, sell red flannel, which he manufactured in a small mill which he owned? but then he could be called-and was, by his wife and daughter-"a large operator in woolen manufactures," and that is a title to distinction, every body knows. Then there were the Elkins boys: they all performed some manual labor. One sold snuff for old Ball; but Sam Elkins was called a "tobacconist." All he seemed to get by it, and he needed it, was a gratuitous sneeze now and then; and he, Sam Elkins-a thick-headed, wheezing boy-was "in society." Voltaire Elkins, too, in spite of his metaphysical name, preferred the sincere chopping of the trees of the forest, and we called him an "agriculturist"-more practical than theoretical, I imagine. He was decidedly in "society"-when he was not haying; but they had an uncle who had been in Congress, hence their patent of nobility. Poor Abram Brown, whom nobody knew any thing about, who had no sponsors, lived thus neglected by the aristocracy of Summerfield. Sometimes a lower Meddlecomb-that is, one of the least pretty-would drive with him to a picnic, or dance with him at a public ball, or speak to him in the choir; but these occasions were rare, and, to do him justice, he never seemed to care much for these small successes. He never had spoken to Miss Clifford or Miss Ramsay, except to mention the price of a yard of silk. The noble William Percival looked at the place where he was, but saw nothing; and when he rose to speak in the Lyceum the elder Meddlecomb and the aristocrat Ramsay trotted their elderly feet, and said, "Pretty good for the shop-boy!" What were you, Meddlecomb? and what your early history, Ramsay? Tradition | glow, and she was sitting by the side of the man hesitates to say. Aristocrats as we were in Summerfield, of the deepest dye, we yet loved a little fun; and once a year we went off to a picnic on the borders of a beautiful pond. It was generally understood that the rigorous distinctions of society were on this occasion to be laid aside-Mrs. Blake and Mrs. Clay were on terms of equality. We had observed that the cake of the lower classes was apt to be better than ours, and we would fain give them gentility for goodies-rank and title for money-bags and flesh-pots. So on one lovely August morning the little town moved to adjourn for the day to the shores of Lilypad Pond. Family arks were gotten out; all the things which went upon four wheels were in requisition; huge hampers of provision were with difficulty induced to get under the legs of the cramped driver. Will Percival, mad with excitement, was driving from one end of town to the other, doing nothing, but thinking he was doing worlds of work. He had determined to drive Fanny down in twenty-eight minutes; what was his disgust at being informed by that young lady that she was "previously engaged," and to see the Judge drive slowly along, in his plain old chaise, and take the lovely Fanny as a matter of course, and start off leisurely, giving the brown cob a rather more animated whack than usual as he passed the discomforted Will! The Judge and Fanny were passed by the huge van, containing a crowd of Meddlecombs and Elkinses; by Mrs. Percival's old family coach, where she sat in state with Mr. Milman and two Meddlecombs-there were always as many as that in every carriage; they had to be taken by somebody, so every body resigned himself to two; by Will Percival with Sarah Hartman, looking lovely enough to have made up for his disappointment; by carriage after carriage, every body looking out and joking them because they drove so slowly; to which the Judge made some jocose allusion to his old horse, and Fanny did what she always did-laughed. Finally came two vehicles, the lumbering Ramsay concern, with the addition of Miss Jones to the family-party, who "sweetly smiled" as she looked out on the Judge and Fanny, and young Abram Brown, modestly keeping behind Mr. Ramsay and taking his dust, though Abram was driving a light wagon and a good horse, and could have distanced aristocracy in no time. To Fanny's great surprise the Judge touched his hat respectfully to the clerk. "Tell me about that young man, he seems somewhat refined and educated," said Fanny. "Very much so," said the Judge; "I have lately had occasion to examine him as a witness, and he showed some remarkable qualities. However, if he is good for any thing he will not stay long in that country-store. I asked him why he did so he blushed and refused to tell me." But the Judge and Fanny had other things to talk about. Fanny was lovely in her straw-hat and blue ribbons-the fresh morning gave her a VOL. XXIX.-No. 169.-B she most admired and respected in the world. He, shy old bachelor of forty-four, drank in her loveliness at every pore. He, too, talked his best; and they were both disappointed when the groves which surround Lilypad Pond became visible. Every body had arrived and dismounted; and the Judge and Fanny had to run the inevitable gauntlet of jokes and significant looks as they drove into the circle of dismasted vehicles. Miss Jones caught the Judge later in the day and found him in great spirits; indeed, he was so gallant that her heart jumped into her throat. She was walking pensively, leaning on his arm, through the soft glades of the wood, when they heard Fanny's ringing laughter at a little distance. "What a pity Miss Clifford laughs so loud!" said Miss Jones, pensively. "Do you think she laughs loud? To me it is the sweetest music in the world!" Jones's heart jumped back again. They ate, they drank, they boated on the pond, groups wandered into the wood, groups sat on the water's edge. Like Mary and her lamb "Every where that Fanny went The Judge was sure to go." Will Percival was furious. He drank Champagne, he rowed furiously in the hot sun, he got very red; but it did not affect the predisposed order of things. Miss Jones sneered, the Meddlecombs twittered, Mr. Milman grew pale and sighed. It did no good. The Judge was evidently épris. Fanny whispered to the Judge; he rose quickly and walked toward young Abram Brown and asked him to go out on the pond in the boat. Poor Brown up to this time had been neglected. No party had included him. He accepted with quiet dignity and began arranging the oars; a Meddlecomb was immediately found ready to go, and a male Elkins; and the Judge then asked Fanny, who declined on the ground of a natural hydrophobia-she was afraid, as any sensible woman should be, of these cockleshells. Miss Jones, however, accepted the Judge's invitation. So they went sailing about, the Judge gallantly tugging at an oar, Jones dipping her fair hand in the water, Brown at the helm quiet and somewhat amused, the Meddlecomb and the Elkins flirting in a grotesque way, when over went the boat, and our party were seen struggling in the water; the Elkins came safely to land with the rescued Meddlecomb, Brown arrived with Miss Jones clinging around his neck in a pitiable condition, and before we knew it was putting back for the Judge, who was hanging on to the capsized boat unable to swim. The distance was not great, but Brown had done very well. The Judge struggled ashore, and thanked the dripping young preserver-himself a Leander who could not swim-and they all went off to get dry clothes. They reappeared in the clothes of a neighboring farmer much too large for them, |