LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 698, 14 September 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

DEOPPED IN HASTE. (Continued.) I began now to think that I was behind the age, till then I had not thought about the sige. I had only thought of participles and deponent verbs and ablative absolutes. Had Tullia ever had kad gloves ? and had she ever lowered her mind down to the proper fit of her garments round the waist. All this talk of dress and fashion worked a perfect revolution in my mind, I began to be more particular about my clothes, I spent more time at the glass, I tried to make my hair sit smoothly, and to tie my neckerchief in a becoming bow under my chin. All at once it suddenly dawned upon me that I had a pretty face. My figure was not good; it was short, stout, and ungainly, spoilt, my aunt said, from not being laced properly, but my face certainly was pretty. I held up the hand-glass again and again to the light. Yes! there could be no doubt about it. I was not a beauty, but my brown eyes were soft and lustrous: my cheeks had a clear pink color, my lips were small, red, and wellformed ; my features were good and harmonious. The result was favorable. I could fairly be called a pretty girl. I put down the glass with a new sensation—the sensation of one who has suddenly become conscious of an unexpected treasure. What would my treasure bring me 1 What, indeed ?

Among my aunt'3 guests at Brookfield was a certain Captain MacNamara. He was a widower, home on leave from India, a clever rising officer, considered quite an acquisition at the entertainments in the neighbourhood. He was yellow with the sun of India, slight and slim, and had an off-hand, well-assured air, as if he knew he was somebody, and was quite prepared for every one else to recognize the fact. I had met him once or twice, and had surveyed him from a distance with some curiosity. Report said he was wonderfully well acquainted with Indian dialects, but what were they to Greek and Latin, my father's peculiar province? I rather resented any one being considered clever except that wonderful father of mine. But the next time I went to Brookfield, what was my astonishment to see Captain MacNamara leave a couple of town young ladies, who had been expressly invited to entertain him, and seat himself down by me. There he remained for a good hour and a half, talking of nothing in particular—of Welsh scenery, of musia, of bezique; but now and then a look came, which said as plainly as look could say, ' You are a pretty girl, Miss Lina Parnell, therefore I like to talk to you and sit by you. Your eyes, when they glance up suddenly and meet mine, are uncommonly agreeable. Come, let me see them again. I went home with my head and my heart full of strange thoughts. Triumph, gratified vanity, curiosity, and I know not what besides, were oddly blended together. Only there was no love. I tossed about that night building castles in the air. I had no idea of matrimony ; my castles were all erected in the distant future, and had a certain pomp of their own. I saw myself clad in robes of purple and gold, walking down marble staircases, while Captain MacNamara leaned against a pillar and surveyed me with intense admiration. Counts and earls and dukes passed before me, and one asked me to dance ; and, as 1 whirled away to the gay sounds of music, Captain MacNamara gazed after me with envj and longing in his eyes. Well! well! what fools we all are sometimes.

My visions came to an end with the morning light, and at ten o'clock I was busy over my lessons in the study. Wonderful to say, my mind seemed rather sharpened than otherwise. I translated a letter of Cicero's without a mistake, and my father nodded at me approvingly. This approval gave me pleasure, but not so much as usual, for my thought was full of other things. I was wondering whether 1 would see Captain MacNamara again. I did not mention him to my father; such subjects were all too poor for him ; his clear intellect ought not to be ruffled with them. Was not he soaring away in the limped azure of the ' Antigone,' and should I bring him back to the common trifles of every day life ? And after all, what had Ito say ? That Captain MacNamara had vouchsafed to converse with me for an hour and a half the night before. A pretty confession truly ! That afternoon I did see Captain MacNamara again. He met me as I was coming from the village school; he was ridiug, and when he saw me, he dismounted and led his horse by the reins, and walked along talking to me as I trudged on the foot-path. Here was a triumph ! To have a cavalier sought after by so many actually seeking poor little uie, and spending his time sauntering through the niuddy roads by niy side. More castles in the air! more throbs of excitement ! more thrills of vanity ! After this, I met him constantly—at dinner, at tea, at church. It gave me intense pleasure one day to overhear an old lady saying, 'lt is not Mi3s So-and-so that Captain MacNamara admirers, it is little Lina Para ell.' Was it, indeed ? Ah! it was, it was. Life is sometimes a wild intoxication, a draught of champagne, a glass of elixir ; and it seemed to me that I got prettier and prettier every day. I could not help it, but so it was, if the hand-glass of mine told truth. One evening, Captain MacNamara asked me if ever I walked through a certain green lane. I answered that I did ; it was the way to the cowslip iields, and just then the cowslips were in full blow, aud I intended to get some before they were over. • Will you go to-morrow ?' he asked softly; ' to-morrow, about eleven o'clock ?' I whispered,'Yes.' What was coming now? I could not rightly tell. If it was a proposal, why then I was all curiosity to know what a proposal would be like. I never thought of the answer I would give. As I said before, I had no love for Kawdon MacNamara, only intense pleasure at his attentions, while gratified vanity, eager excitement, victorious youth, all sang a delightful song in my ears, to which my foolish heart beat time. Next morning came : that morning I waa full of nothing but myself. 1 had even forgotten my father. Forgotten him! Ah I cruel inexorable seventeen, which makes egotists of us all, which swallows up everything in the all-devoivring I. Oh ! youth, youth, why cannot you make us wise as well as young; why must we be so besotted with self and self-pleasing that we forget our nearest and best in our eager pursuit for baubles, for 'sound and fury'that signify nothing, and yet seem so much ? (To be continued.)