JAN. 3 
13 
THE RURAL WEW-YORIER. 
%itearj UtiMang. 
THE IRON: GATE. 
[A poem delivered by Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, at 
tlie celebration ot' bis seventieth birthday.) 
Whkuk is this patriarch you are kindly greeting 7 
Not unfamiliar to iny ear liis name. 
Nor yet unknown to many a Joyous meeting 
In days long vanished—Is he still the same 7 
Or changed by years, forgotten and forgetting. 
Dull-eared, dim-Bighted, slow of speech and thought. 
Still o'er the sad, degenerate present fretting. 
Where, all goes wrong, and nothing as it ought! 
Old Age, the gray-beard! well, indeed, I know him— 
Shrunk, tottering, bent, of aches and ills the prey; 
Ill sermon, story, fable, picture, poem. 
Oft have I met him, from my earliest day. 
In my old .'Ksop, toiliug with his bundle— 
His load of st.icks-politcly asking Death, 
Who comes when called for—would he lug or trundle 
His fagot for him ?—he was short of breath. 
And sad " Kcclesiastos, or The Preacher,” 
Has ho not stamped the image on my soul, 
In that last Chapter, where the worn-out Teacher 
Sighs o’er the loosenod chord, the broken bowl 7 
Yes, long Indeed, I've known him at a distance, 
* And now my lifted door-latch shows him here; 
I take his shriveled hand without resistance, 
And And him smiling, as his step draws near. 
What though of gilded baubles be bereaves us, 
Dear to the heart of youth, to manhood's prime; 
Think of tho calm he brings, the wealth he leaves us. 
The hoarded spoils, the legacies of time! 
Altars once naming', still with iucense fragrant, 
Passion's uneasy nurslings rocked asleep, 
llopu’s anchor faster, wild desires less vagrant, 
Life's flow loss noisy, but the stream how deep ! 
Still, as tho silver chord gets worn and tender. 
Its lightened task-work tugs with lessoning strain: 
Hands get more hopeful, Voiooh grow more tender, . 
Soothe with their soltenud tunes tho sluiuhorous 
brain. 
Youth longs and Manhood strives, but Ago remembers. 
Sits by the raked Up aslves of the past, 
Spreads its thin hand above the whitening embers, 
That warms its creeping life-blood till tho hist. 
Dear to its heart is ovury loving token 
That comes unbidden ere its pulse grows cold, 
lire tile last, lingering ties of life are broken, 
Its labors ended, and its story told. 
All, when around us rosy youth rejoices, 
Por its the sorrow-laden breezes sigh 
And through the chorus of its jocund voices, 
Throbs the sharp note of .Misery’shopeless cry. 
As ou the gauzy wings of fancy flying. 
Prom some far orb I track our watery sphere— 
Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying. 
The silvered globule seems a glistening tear. 
Hut Nature leuds her mirror of Illusion, 
To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed 
eyes. 
And misty day-dreams blond in sweet confusion 
The wintry landscape and the Summer skies. 
So, when the iron portal shuts behind us, 
And life forgets us in its noise and whirl. 
Visions that slimmed the glaring noonday finds us. 
And glimmering starlight shows tho gates of pearl 
_l come not here your morning hour to sadden. 
A limping pilgrim, leaning on his stuff— 
I, who have never deemed it sin to gladdon 
This vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh. 
If word of mine another’s gloom has brightened 
Through my dumb lips the Heaven-sent message 
came; 
If baud of mine another’s task has lightened, 
It felt the guidance that it dares not claim. 
But, oh, my gentle slstors, oh, my brothers, 
These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of toil’s release; 
Those feeble pulses bid me leave to others 
The task ouee welcome; evening asks for peace. 
Time claims his tribute; silence now is golden ; 
Let me not vex tho too long suffering lyre; 
Though to your love uutiriugstill beholden. 
The curfew tells me—cover up the tiie. 
And now, with grateful smile and accents cheerful, 
And warmer heart than look or word can tell, 
In simplest phrase— those traitorous eyes are tearful- 
Thuuks, Brothers, Sisters—Children—and Farewell! 
IN FOLLY’S NET. 
(Continued from page 846.) 
“ Her prayer was heard and answered; she was 
saved from that terrible sin, .she locked away the 
poison. I have but little more to say, gentlemen 
of the Jury; coniidently I leave the rest in your 
hand. It in lor you to decide whether the prisoner 
at tho bar he guilt)' of the crime or which she Is 
accused whether tho woman whose life we have 
traced back In Itg gentleness and purity, wno hag 
home trial nobly, and defeated temptation grand- 
one likely to sink to such depths as these! 
If she had been accused ot having taken a knlte 
in her despair, and sheathed It In her husband’s 
heart, you might have believed that; but of such 
a oold-blooded crime as this she is Incapable, It Is 
not In her nature—it would be impossible for her 
to commit it I” 
sir David sat down with his face as calm and 
impassive as when he had risen; but ere he sac 
down he gave one glance at the Jury. It was 
enough—a slight smile flashed over his Ups that 
one glance had told him wbathe wanted to know, 
and when they went away to deliberate he knew 
what their verdict would be, 
dean (lid not move—she still kept the same pos¬ 
ture, with her fair face halt-bidden on her maid’s 
shoulder, unco she had murmured a few words 
In answer to a Question from Collins, but that was 
all Thoso who loved her watched her with anx¬ 
ious eyes; there was some tiling In this unnatu¬ 
ral silliness and calm that had a more horrible 
dread lor them than the wUdeat distress or pas¬ 
sion of terror could have had. 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
“BECAUSE t LOVE YOU.” 
It had been almost spring-time when Jean Blair 
had been tried for her life, and the summer was 
past and gone before she was able to leave her 
room after the long and serious Illness which had 
followed tho trial, and during which she had been 
unconscious of all that passed around her—ot the 
anxiety of those who eared for her, or of her own 
danger. A burning fever consumed her, her eye* 
were without ught or sense, her Ups were parched 
and dry, and the loud, uneven panting beats of 
the poor heart which had suffered so much, could 
be seen when tho Uttlc, hot hands hung the cover¬ 
ings off her aching chest. Her only cry was for 
“ water, water;” tor thirst consumed her with an 
intolerable torment. 
It was terrible to see her suffer thus; each un¬ 
conscious sigh that broke from her, each move¬ 
ment of the fevered, aching limbs, each look of 
anguish from the sleepless, sightless eyes, rent 
the loving hearts which watched by her bedside 
and did au to aueviate her bodily suffering that 
was in their power. 
But more heartrending than even her bodUy 
pangs, to those who tended her, were the Indis¬ 
tinct, unconnected, wandering words which es- 
caped her Ups; sometimes she was in the prison, 
longing tor yet dreading the trial; then she was 
In court with tho hundreds of eyes upon her; at 
other times she was In the past, In the fresh, fair 
scones, before trouble hud touched her; before, 
she had suffered and borne—sometimes she 
thought herself with Lord Ivor, happy, beloved, 
and loving; and then a terrible shadow would 
cross her face, and she would relapse Into silence 
for a time. 
But she was young and strong, and in the end 
youth and strength conquered; after many weeks 
ot suffering the fever left her, and consciousness 
returned. It left, her weak, feeble, helpless as a 
child, but the recovery was but a work of time, 
the doctors said—she would soon get stronger now. 
She was at Sholto Hall all tlda time, for Blair 
Gates was closed. Mrs. Fergus Blair, having been 
defeated In her object, had returned to Edinburgh, 
and Blair Gates was tenanted only by the ser¬ 
vants. Mrs. Brett had left the neighborhood— 
none knew whither she had gone. By Mr. Blair’s 
will she had been left well provided for, and she 
had had few friends among the household. Free¬ 
man, the steward, was looking after the estate, 
Lord Sholto rode over sometimes and thoug ht of 
the rich demesnes which were now in Jean's pos¬ 
session, and which could not, for many years, ir 
ever, give her any pleasure. 
Lord Ivor had spent most ot his time at Sholto 
Hall, for though he never saw Jean, he could not 
have borne to be away from her at such a time; 
his anxiety at her dangerous Illness had been very 
great—so great, that he bad wandered about Hip 
house and grounds, looking haggard and misera¬ 
ble, and utterly wretched. But at last the change 
for the better had come; Jeau had been pro¬ 
nounced out ot danger, t he heavy shadow of gloom 
which had huDg over the house had been lifted, 
the servants went about their duties with cheer¬ 
ful countenance once more. 
Ida Crawford’s fair young face brightened, and 
her sweet voice could bo heard singing about the 
pretty rooms; and Captain Murray, who had be¬ 
haved in a moat exemplary manner during the 
long, anxious time through which they had passed, 
began to grow eloquent against such a long de¬ 
lay, and to press for an early date for the mar¬ 
riage. 
Onhis first Interview with Jean, he had won her 
over to his side; and when he had left her she had 
sent for Ida, and pleaded the cause which was 
already nearly won. 
“ Do not let me think that I have brought suf¬ 
fering on all whom 1 love, Ida,” she said, softly. 
“ I do not want your husband to dislike me be¬ 
cause your pity for my unhappy fate makes you 
keep him waiting. Let it he as he wishes, dear, 
and may you have every happiness!” 
So Captain Murray prevailed; milliners and 
dressmakers were called into play, and wnen the 
autumn was turning the fair green leaves red and 
golden before the wlntery winds swept them to the 
ground, a fair young bride knelt in the parish 
church at Sholto, and plighted her troth •* for bet¬ 
ter or worse.” And when the ceremony was 
over, she came In her sweeping while robes, with 
the lace veil still on her orange-blossom crowned 
brow, to show herself In her bridal finery to Jean 
as she lay white and languid on her sola, and 
smiled her welcome with such sweet tenderness, 
that Ida’s Up trembled as she kissed her, and 
Captain Murray bent to touch the little frail hand 
held out to him reverently as ho might have 
touched a queen's. 
It was a quiet, wedding, and followed by no ball. 
In the arternooon the bride and bridegroom drove 
away together, and Lord and Lady Sholto as they 
stood and bidding them farewell, wished them 
“ God-speea,” thought of another bride and bride¬ 
groom who had left sholto Hall scarcely;* year ago 
under such very different circumstances. 
Quiet as it had been, of course the wedding had 
brought many guests to sholto Hall—relatives of 
the bride and the family ot the bridegroom; and 
In her quiet Uttle sitting-room sounds otten came 
to Jean of the Ufe and gaiety which reigned be¬ 
low. She was much alone Just now, for Lady 
snolto’s time was much taken up by her visitors; 
and now that Ida had left, many hours would be 
necessarily lonely, for Lord Sholto's sister had 
conceived a deep and heartfelt admiration for 
Jean’s behavior during her trouble, and had spent 
every spare moment by her side. 
“ You need not Light the candles, Collins,” she 
said to her maid, In the evening ot Ida’s wedding- 
day. "I Uke the rlrellght now. 1 am so lazy, 
lying here.” 
•‘Very welL, ma’am,” Collins said, qtUetly. 
“ Lord Ivor wishes to know If you will receive 
him this evening—If It will not tire you.” 
“ Oh! no," Jean answered, quietly. “ Tell his 
lordship I shall be very glad." 
A few minutes after the Earl entered the room, 
which was lighted only by the pleasant dusky 
light of the Ore, which was blazing cheerily, and 
lent a warm touch of color to Jean's pale cheek as 
she lay on the cushions, and held out her hand to 
him with her old bright smile. 
“ I want to hear all about the wedding,” she 
said, with a touch of her old gaiety. “ Florence 
had not time to tell me. 1 only know that the 
bride looked lovely and the bridegroom radiant, 
for that T saw for myself.” 
“ Everything passed off very well,’’ he an¬ 
swered, pulling a deep arm-chair over to the fire, 
and ensconcing himself easily therein In an atti¬ 
tude of careless ease, and In a position whence he 
could watch the sweet, wan face, so precious to 
him still. “ The bride, as you say, looked lovely! 
Murray was beside himself with happiness, and 
the speeches were quite en rcr/le: there was no 
opportunity to quote the well-worn saying, ' Lost 
a daughter and gained a son,’ you know; but I am 
sure everything else was said that Is usual on such 
occasions." 
Jean laughed softlyIt was an uncommon occur¬ 
rence for the Earl to come and spend a long after¬ 
noon or evening with her In her solitude, and since 
her Illness he had been almost constantly at 
Sholto Hall. lie had not spoken of love to her, 
and they had drifted Into a warm, close friendship, 
which satisfied Jean, and appeared to satisfy the 
Karl; but he was only walttng—waiting with all 
the patience of a deep, true love—tor the time when 
he should deem it right to speak to her of the old 
relations between, and ask tor their renewal. 
Perhaps the sight of C aptain Murry’s happiness 
had given a spur to his Impatience; perhaps, the 
great love he bore Jean would wait no longer; per¬ 
haps he thought that the nine months which had 
elapsed since Mr. Blair's death were sufficient. 
Be It as It may, he had come to her this even lug, 
making up his mind to put his fate to the touch, 
and “ win or lose It a'." 
“ And you returned thanks for the bridesmaids 
as best man, I suppose?" Jean said. In a moment 
“ What did you say ?” 
“1 escaped that penance,” he answered, laugh¬ 
ingly. “ Ida agreed with me In thinking that the 
proper thing Is for the youngest, groomsman to do 
so; and little Trevena made a capital speech, only 
breaking down once, when he looked at Lucy 
Grevllle, and found her pretty blue eyes fixed 
admiringly upon him. I should not be at all sur¬ 
prised, Jeanle, If there was a not he r wedding ere 
long In which Trevena and Lady Lucy take pro¬ 
minent parts'” 
“ He Is a nice follow but too young to think of 
matrimony, surely.” 
“ He will be soon ot age,” said Lord Ivor. “ The 
best thing he can do Is to marry young, because 
ho has time to play ducks and drakes with Ills 
property." 
There was a short silence, then tho Earl leant 
forward where he sat, and said softly: 
••Jean when am I to he made happy?” 
She started violently and the great brown eyes, 
so much larger and sadder since her Illness, went 
to Ms face wUb a sudden dread In their depths, 
while the color Hashed up for a moment Into her 
face, giving It hack almost its old beauty and bril¬ 
liance. 
He drew near her, and took the little slender 
hands tenderly In his strong clasp. 
“ 1 do not want to startle you, dear cMld,” he 
said, caressingly; " nor to distress you in any 
way; but, darling, l have had a weary waiting, 
and I have been patient; when may I have my 
reward?” 
“ Your reward 1" she repeated, vaguely. 
" Yes, my reward—your love!” 
The roBe-flush faded, and a shudder ran through 
Jean’s slender frame. She knew that this moment 
must come, and she had dreaded It wit h an unut¬ 
terable dread; now that. It had come, she had 
hardly strength to bear it. She lifted her little 
hands, and covered her face with a sob. 
“ l have startled and agitated you,” he said, ten¬ 
derly. “Forgive me, darling; I ought to have re¬ 
membered that you were not strong yet. 1 will not 
urge you furthor, Jeanle; but surely you can give 
me one word—only one word, to tell me that your 
love is mine still—that soon you will give me the 
right to take care of you and cherish you.” 
8he answered him nothing, lying there still, 
with her.hands Mding her face, she shuddered as 
It In dread, as Ir in terror. 
“isIt that you have ceased to love me?’ he 
said, suddenly, and his voice grew hard and cold. 
8he uncovered her face, and as her eyes met his, 
the look of reproachful love was sufficient answer; 
the momentary doubt faded. 
“Forgive me, darling," he said, penitently. 
“ That was a cruel speech. See, I will not tease 
you any further. You shall answer me when you 
will, dearest child; but remember. Jeanle, that 1 
have loved you so long, and that 1 have, waited 
patiently.” 
He rose from his chair as he spoke, and went 
over to the piano, while Jean turned her face to 
the cushions and cried softly, as In very weakness 
and terror of the answer she must give him, 
The Earl sat down and opened the piano; he 
was an accomplished musician, and often, during 
the languor and debility which had weighed upon 
Jean In the llrst weeks of her recovery, he had 
spent hours unwearledly at the piano, trying to 
sooth and cheer her. Now. as his angers wandered 
over the keys in soma of Beethoven’s softest melo¬ 
dies, Jean's tears flowed fast and unrestrainedly 
as she lay with her face Mdden from his gaze, 
softly the Earl played on; from where he sat he 
could see the bowed head and slender, recumbent 
form ; he had not meant to pain her, hut he felt 
an undetlued dread ot what her answer would tie, 
which he st rove to set aside In vain ; and so watch¬ 
ing her, he tlulshod the sonata, and played a sweet , 
dreamy prelude. Then ids rich tenor voice rose 
clearly and sweetly In the silent, room: 
“ Tho iove that dtiup within me lies, 
Unmoved abides In conscious power; 
Yet, in tho heaven of thy sweet eyes. 
It varies every hour. 
“ A look from thee will flush the cheek, 
A word of thine awaken tears; 
But, ah! in all I do and speak. 
How frail my love appears! 
“ But storms may rise aud thunders roll, 
Nor move the (riant roots below; 
So, from the buses of the soul, 
My love for then doth grow ! 
" It seeks the heaven,and trembles there 
To every light and pasBinK breath; 
But from the heart no storm can tear 
Its rooted growth beneath !” 
The song came to an end; the singer arose, an 
crossing over to Jean’s sola, gathered her in h 
arms to his heart. 
“Even so do Hove you, my darling! Can you 
he Insensible to such love?” he murmured, ten¬ 
derly. 
“Not Insensible, ah. nol—not ungrateful, ah, 
no!" she said, passionately, as she strove to re' 
lease herself from Ms clasp, and lifted her wet 
eyes to his face. “ It Is but too precious to me, 
Archie; and because It Is so precious, I cannot ac¬ 
cept It!" 
•• Cannothe repeated "My dearest, you took 
it long ago, and you have uever given It back. I 
will not take It back, Jeanle!” 
“But you must, dear!” she said, gently. 
“ Archie, listen.” 
“ I am Ustonlng,” ho said, softly, looking at tho 
fair face on hla breast with iorinlte love and com¬ 
passion. “ Say on, my dearest 1” 
“You will not he angry? I cannot bear your 
anger,” she pleaded. 
“ Angry with you, JeaMe 1 Is that likely ?” 
“ It Is possible!” she said, sadly. 
“I think not! Try me, love I" 
She shivered as he held her. How could she 
say to him what she meant to say—what she must 
say! 
OHAITKK XXIX. 
“ A re Me!" said Jean, at length, with her wet 
cheek resting against Mm, and her eyes seeking 
Ms with a prayer In their depths, "it is very 
hard to say It to you- but 1 must; and you will 
not be angry, because you kuow how I suffer In 
speaking the words which will part us ?” 
He smiled, holding her closer to Ms heart. 
“ You must believe me,” she went on, with 
feverish earnestness, “and you must make It 
easier for me, Archie! I will never bring dis¬ 
grace on tho one I love—1 love you too well to 
accede to your wishes!” 
“ Disgrace!” 
“ Yes, disgrace 1” she repeated, more steadily. 
“Think what I am, ArcMe, a woman who has been 
tried for her life—a woman on whom the stain of 
imputed crime lies heavily still! Uemembor the 
verdict was “ Not Proven,” It does not clear one 
ot guilt because the crime was not proved against 
me I” 
“ it means the same thing, Jean. What foolish 
scruples are these 1" he said, quickly. " Are you 
going to break both our hearts with this roily ?” 
“Not break yours, my dearest, 1 trust,” she 
saUl, trying to smile. You have not considered 
enough. ArcMe; your ancient name and stainless 
lineage shall receive no blot from me, and hun¬ 
dreds deem me guilty still; hundreds would say 
you had wedded a—a-” her voice failed. 
“Hush!” he said, passionately, “how can you 
soil your Ups with the word ? If It be as you say 
there Is all the more reason for you to accept the 
shelter or my name. Who will dare to accuse you 
when you are my wife ?” 
“ I will not bring shame to you. Archie !” she 
repeated, drearily. “ I will not, because I love 
you!” 
“ Even If you should, I love you enough to bear 
the shame gladly," he said, quickly. "Jean, you 
are breaking my heart 1” 
. o— no!” she said. In a tone of pain. “It is 
to save you pain that I speak! Dear, the time 
would come when you would regret the sacrifice— 
when you would wish you could undo what you 
had done 1” 
“ Do you think me so base and so cowardly?” 
“ Ah t no! l know you to be noble and good. 1 
kuow that you would never say one word to re¬ 
mind me of my shame; but I should see It, In your 
face, Archie—1 should read It tn your eyes; and 
one look would kill me, ArcMe for 1 love you!” 
"Haveyou considered?” he saltl, passionately. 
"You, who speak so coldly and dispassionately, 
have you thought of what Ufe will be in the future 
If you are to be alone? If the world casts shame 
upon you, will It he easier to bear without the 
shelter of my love ? can you right alone better 
than when I am at your side ?” 
A look of Infinite sadness and desolation came 
Into her face. 
" Easier ?—bettor ?” she repeated, faintly. 
“ Without you! Ah! no ; and yet It must he, 
Archie!” 
He turned from her with a gesture of impa¬ 
tience. 
“ So my love Is nothing to you ?” he said, an¬ 
grily. “ Do you not care that I suffer ? Jean, 
there are times when you make me doubt your 
love 1" 
A Uttle cry of pain broke from her. her head 
sank, her hands were pressed together like one 
who suffers beyond her strength; but she gave 
no sign that she yielded. She loved Mm with an 
unutterable love, but she would not accept the 
happiness he offered—she would not seek his ten¬ 
derness In her shame; lor she spoke hut the truth 
when she said the stain of crime lay heavily on 
her still. She loved him too weU to become his 
wife. 
in proportion to her love was her agony-there 
was no consolation possible to her. J t would have 
seemed mockery beside the supreme renunciation 
of this Uvlng saerinee ot her Intense love. wMch 
gave Itself to misery and desolation wttnout a 
thought, of Its own devotion, without a glance at 
lta own unasked and cruel self-immolation. 
lie watched her tn silence, never thinking but 
that she would yield in the end, never thinking 
