A HAPPY BALLAD OF TRUE LOVE.

BY MARY HOWITT.

In the spring I went a-wooing
To a humble peasant-lass;

When the brindled kine were lowing,
And the meadows full of grass;

When the turtle-dove was sitting On her eggs in woodland state; Then said I, 'tis but befitting

That I also seek a mate.

Full of youth was I, and healthy, Twelve months past, my father died, Leaving me a young man wealthy, With each earthly want supplied.

Leaving me his grassy meadows,

Round an old paternal grange,
And the trees whose inassy shadows,
Through his life, had seen no change.

Sitting 'mid the winter's gladness,
Musing on the old man gone,
All at once a sense of sadness
Fell upon my heart like stone.

Down the chimney came a moaning, From the wild wind's gusty flight; And the old clock hoarsely droning,

Told the long hours of the night.

All at once a sense of sorrow,

Heretofore to me unknown, Fell on me, "to-day, to-morrow," Whispering," thou art all alone!

Spring-time came, and spring-time fulness Roused the earth's rejoicing powers ; And the wintry sense of dulness

Passed before the laughing flowers.

Green leaves decked the garden-bushes,
Tasselled buds were on the lime;
And a pair of warbling thrushes
Woke me every morn betime.

One May morning, through the meadows
Strolling idly, ill at ease,

I lay down, beneath the shadows,
Where the cowslips lured the bees,

When a sound of turtle's cooing,

Came from out the boughs o'er head, And "this is the time for wooing, This is wooing-time," I said.

And straightway a thrill went through me,
Like a quick electric glow,
And I said, "the turtle to me
Preacheth what is good to know."

All my blood grew warm and warmer,
And I spoke aloud and said,
I, the wealthy, landlord farmer,
Will espouse a peasant maid.

"From my youth I loved her dearly, Nor am I too proud to wed

One by fortune used severely,
But by virtue dowered instead.

"In our childhood, near together, Stood our homes upon the brae, We, as children 'mong the heather, Played for many a livelong day.

TALES FROM THE SWEDISH.

Translated by Mary Howitt.
No. I.

"IT WILL DO."

A PIECE OF EXPERIENCE.

OLOF's father was dead. Tears fell from his eyes; tears fell down his cheeks. He felt a pain in his heart, an extraordinary sedateness in his mind, and the words, "I shall never more see my beloved, worthy father," came as if of themselves to his tongue. But, for all that, a new day had dawned, a new sphere of operation had revealed itself. A door, which had hitherto been closed to the young man's future, now stood wide open. He hastily collected together his things, sped with a light and winged step, although he was conscious of sorrow at his heart, around the city; paid his debts; took leave of his friends and acquaintances; and, last of all, stole up a winding staircase, knocked softly at a door, and entered when it was opened.

"Good evening, Sara," said he in a peculiar voice, which he in vain strove to make calm. "Good evening, dear girl, how are you? I bring you sad news. My father is dead, and I must leave you-for a time-a long time, perhaps; but you shall be cared for." (Sara turned pale with terror.) "Nay, don't turn so pale, dear Sara," continued he, "because then you are not pretty, then I don't like you, then I will not come back to you; so now look charming and gay. I shall soon come back again; if not, you are such a pretty, charming girl, that you will soon get another lover!"

"But I shall not have you !" said Sara, and her eyes swam with tears.

He pressed her to his heart; he kissed her cold lips; he wiped away her tears, and began again

Here, Sara, you shall have all the money which I can spare at this moment. Take it! Live happily I shall not forget you. I am not so poor now as I used to be. You shall now want for nothing. But live quite quietly until you hear further from me!"

And now followed whispered communications; Sara made a confession, which Olof received with very mingled feelings; and then, with a deep sigh, he parted from the poor girl;-poor in virtue and innocence; rich in grace and natural gifts, and even perhaps good qualities of heart, although from the first they had been so trodden under foot that it was hardly possible now to distinguish them.

Olof rushed down the stairs, hurried into the street, glanced up towards the light in Sara's window, sighed a time or two, and had a presentiment that he now looked up, perhaps, for the last time, to the room where he had spent so many twilight hours. "But she will console herself!" said he, to console his own conscience, and hastened into the street.

His home was full of confusion. Half of his things were unpacked, and it was not until twelve at night, when the post-horses drove up to his door, that he was ready to set out. He went forth into darkness and night. The farther he drove from the city, the fainter, the paler became the image of that Sara, whom he had seen for the first time only a few months ago; who was then a pretty, wilful girl; whom he liked now more than ever; yet, notwithstanding, whom he probably in a short time-very soon, perhaps would have forsaken, had not business and fate compelled him to do so now; for business and fate compel, people say, when they wish to give a reasonable motive for an unreasonable action. "Poor Sara; she really loves me !" thought he, with but little grief, and a great deal of egotistical pleasure; because whether beloved or hated, despised or worshipped, a woman's love is always a sacrifice which a man

receives with pleasure. "Poor Sara! she loves me; and so long as she is evidently faithful to me, she shall never suffer want!" So thought he, whilst the wheels went spinning round and round. We have already said, however, that Sara's image grew fainter and fainter, and imagination presented, in new, fresh, living, bright colours, his cousin Melida-she with whom he was brought up; she whom father, mother, and relations, educated for him ever since she was born; she, the golden-haired fairy of light, who had always beamed as the sun in Olof's most beautiful future heaven. In the embrace of the dark-eyed Sara, it is true that her image lost some of its brightness; now, however, it recovered it, and innocence cast around it a glory, the magic of which Olof now for the first time rightly understood. The more vivid grew his recollections of Melida, the more were the horses urged onward, onward; and when Olof had travelled incessantly for four-and-twenty hours, he stood at the door of the paternal home, where the white blinds in the window, and the weeping people clad in mourning, were the first objects that met his eyes.

Is my uncle here?" was his first question, on recovering himself somewhat from the painful feeling of entering a house where they whom we loved formerly lived, breathed, moved, and came hitherto to meet us with glad and friendly hearts, but who now lie silent, cold, dead,-who are gone down to the grave and corruption.

"He is not here, but he is coming," replied an old servant, and dried the tears which the arrival of his young master had again called forth.

"Does he come alone?" asked Olof, and a light colour passed over his cheek, otherwise pale with tears, the fatigue of the journey, and his city-life.

"I do not know," replied the servant, and Olof hoped. But his hope was disappointed; his uncle came alone.

The funeral and troublesome business engaged the time and thoughts of the two kinsmen. In the course of eight days the deceased was laid in the earth; his personal property valued, and that with a certain degree of pleasure, because it was considerable, and far exceeded what had been expected; a fact somewhat consolatory both to the heir and to the future hopes of the uncle, who was in but indifferent circumstances. Everything was quite in order about the house; and the uncle said,

"Yes, my dear Olof, nothing remains to be done here; we will now go to my house. There we are daily expected, and here you cannot get on at all without good company."

At these words Olof's pale cheeks became crimson, because good company presented at this moment no image in the whole world but that of her who silently waited, and daily longed for their coming,-Melida.

Oh, what joyous, heavenly-joyous hours, life can sometimes offer! These joyous prefigurings of the future are fashioned from the most beautiful material which it possesses, for life has a purely bright or dark prefiguring of the future, and blessed are they for whom it is bright!

Olof accompanied his kinsman with restless, unspeakable, joyous longings. It was evening when they reached his uncle's house. It was autumn, and Nature was dark, but spring and hope were in Olof's heart; and he saw with joy light shining in the windows of the well-known house where he had spent so many heavenly, happy hours by Melida's side, in the exultant days of childhood and early youth. A light shadow moved backwards and forwards in the window; and when they had entered the passage, the daughter flew to meet her father, and seemed not to see her cousin, although her crimson cheeks showed plainly enough that she was aware of his being near. Melida had become taller,

prettier, wittier, gayer, and more charming, during these years. Her black dress heightened the dazzling whiteness of her skin, and the northern colour of her abundant hair. Olof was altogether in love. Melida knew it perfectly well, and was unspeakably happy. More delicious dreams than, during this long, first autumn night, visited these two young people, never ascended from the lands of dreams-the rich, luxuriant pleasure-garden of fancy.

Days and weeks flew by like moments to this happy pair. Melida had never loved, never thought that she could love, anyone but him, for whom she had been educated from her tenderest years; he who had held undivided possession of her rich, full, warm heart; he who was loyal and true to her in all changes, at home in her native town, or away amid the tumult of the world. So believed Melida, at least, and believed even that love could only be repaid with love, and she loved.

Olof now called her his betrothed, his bride, whispering in the lonely hour of magical twilight. He called her his bride before the whole world, and in the brightest sunshine; and the following summer was fixed upon for their wedding.

Christmas passed over gaily and lovingly for our lovers, and for all those who merely saw them, because their happiness diffused a glory all around them, a gentle and creative happiness. Spring came and went; and now many cares and little troubles beset them. Melida's mother was a good sort of weariful lady; she embittered the invaluable time of the poor lovers with petty affairs; very petty, but at the same time very tiresome, very troublesome, and almost tending to chill or render lukewarm, because they fell like cold water drops upon their warm hearts. Olof all his life had felt the greatest repugnance to his aunt, and felt no little annoyed and angry when elderly people continually tortured him by the remark that Melida was exactly like what her mother had been at that age, for the mother also had been a handsome young lady; but Olof forgot that, and only thought, "Can Melida be some day like her?" and shuddered at the idea.

"Such

In the mean time, letters came to him from the city which he had left. A young companion of his, altogether ignorant of his betrothal, wrote to him among other things, "Sara goes out but seldom; whenever one does see her, she is as splendidly beautiful as the sun. What a lucky fellow you are to possess the love of such a girl! Beautiful and true! but how long do you think that she will remain so? There are those who are laying snares for her, and though she may resist them for a time, she will in the end fall into them." Olof bit his lips and contracted his brows. He wished, notwithstanding his own happiness, that Sara should continue constant to him, and love him still. "Voilà les hommes!" a Parisian would say. are respectable people," we would as quietly remark. Sara herself wrote, in her poor handwriting and miserable spelling, "How I long for you! Do you never mean to return? I am quite merry and well again; things turned out a deal better than we might have expected or hoped. Our one great trouble cost us needless anxiety, and I am now very happy. You perfectly understand me-the poor child is not living. Thanks for the money you sent me; it came at the right moment. By means of it I got everything very grand for myself, and very grand about me, all for your sake, because I do not trouble myself about other young fellows, although they have spared no means of disturb ing me, importunately begging me to come out, and even going so far as to come knocking at my door, and threatening to knock it down, if I will not immediately open it." (Olof clenched his fists, and his eyes flashed.) "What have you been doing latterly in that tiresome country-place? Dalson says that you have been taking

possession of your father's property; but that could not occupy you the whole winter. You have not been falling in love with another girl-that I know! or else I shall get another lover for myself; that I can tell you of a truth," etc.

Olof curled his lips, and contemptuously thought about poor Sara, because he still saw so much real happiness behind all those petty annoyances which the future mother-in-law and all these small and great troubles occasioned him: still he fancied that love and concord between husband and wife would be able to overcome these and far greater troubles. Never yet had an idea stolen into his mind, whispering any girl more desirable, or to be compared with Melida, as his other, his better self; she still stood thus in all her glory before his imagination; but even that must be dimmed. An extinguisher of the darkest kind must quickly come to cover it up.

an.

The well-known work " Det går an,"* had now for several months been extending its unwholesome breath, the produce of some dark and pestilent naphtha pit, around the country; and people, who are very like moths in more cases than one, because they are especially fond of flying round the fire which scorches their wings, are very willing to suck poison, if there be only a little honey smeared over it. Det går an fell also into Olof's hand; he read it once, and threw it away from him. But he received Sara's and his friend's letter,-but-Melida's mother was intolerably quarrelsome, hard to please, and out of humour-but-workpeople and others vexed Olof. He became wearied, and out of temper. Melida wept. No young man of Olof's character could endure tears which did not flow from jealousy. For amusement Olof once more read Det gûr He pondered a long time on its contents, and one evening in April, after having received by that day's post yet another letter from his friend in the city, which sail that in a few days Sara would assuredly fall into the snares of a designing person; when he had received also a letter from Sara herself, written as if on the brink of an abyss, and in which she merely besought of him to come, come, come-when Melida's mother was still more ill-tempered-annoyances more than ever, and Melida, pale and tearful-eyed, and "cross," as Olof called it-then-that very afternoon when all this occurred all at once-then he came to his decision, which, according to his views, was merry, original, poetical, magnanimous, advantageous, praiseworthy, excellent in all respects, yes, and even necessary and inevitable; he ordered horses; called for ink and paper, dipped a pen, and wrote the following to Melida, his heart frequently almost aching as he wrote :

"Melida, we must part! I see it now plainly: I consider it for the best. We are not suitable for each other; and it is better that we part before we are irrevocably

(1) This was a novel with that title, or "It will do," written by It was extremely clever and interesting, and contained that kind Arnqvist, a celebrated and much admired writer at that time. this story. The first volume only of the work was published, of social philosophy and morals which may be gathered from

as is not uncommon in Sweden. Its effect was like wild-fire nothing was talked of, nothing was thought of, but this wonderful story of Det går an. Arnqvist did not hurry the second volume, but to his astonishment, the second volume made its appearance. It was written by another equally clever authorbut was published ostensibly as the true continuation of the work. The public eagerly possessed themselves of it; -the story was finished, but not as Arnqvist had intended; the apple of the Dead-Sea was opened, and all its poison-contents revealed system of morals was already terminating many a domestic to the public. It was ended, in the way in which that very tragedy in real life. Arnqvist was enraged-but it was too late for him to do anything. His own second volume never appeared, and he himself never recovered his position in the literary world.