SEA AND SHORE.

A

SEQUEL TO "MIRIAM'S MEMOIRS."

BY MRS. CATHARINE A. WARFIELD.

AUTHOR OF

"THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE," "MONFORT HALL," "MIRIAM'S HOUSE" "HESTER HOWARD'S TEMPTATION," "A DOUBLE WEDDING; OR, HOW SHE WAS WON," ETC.

"No fears hath she! Her giant form
Majestically calm would go
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
'Mid he deep darkness, white as snow!
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The main she will traverse forever and aye!
Many ports shall exult in the gleam of her mast—
Hush! hush! Thou vain dreamer, this hour is her last!"

PHILADELPHIA:
T.B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.

1876

MRS. C.A. WARFIELD'S NEW WORKS.

Each Book is in One Volume, Morocco Cloth, price $1.75.

SEA AND SHORE.

MIRIAM'S MEMOIRS.

MONFORT HALL.

THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE.

A DOUBLE WEDDING; or, How She Was Won.

HESTER HOWARD'S TEMPTATION.

From Gail Hamilton, author of "Gala Days" etc.

"'The Household of Bouverie' is one of those books that pluck out all your teeth, and then dare you to bite them. Your interest is awakened at once in the first chapter, and you are whirled through in a lightning-express train that leaves you no opportunity to look at the little details of wood, and lawn, and river. You notice two or three little peculiarities of style—one or two 'bits' of painting—and then you pull on your seven-leagued boots and away you go."

From George Ripley's Review of "The Household of Bouverie" in Harper's Magazine.

"'The Household of Bouverie,' by Mrs. Warfield, is a wonderful book. I have read it twice—the second time more carefully than the first—and I use the term 'wonderful,' because it best expresses the feeling uppermost in my mind, both while reading and thinking it over. As a piece of imaginative writing, I have seen nothing to equal it since the days of Edgar A. Poe, and I doubt whether he could have sustained himself and the readers through a book half the size of the 'Household of Bouverie.' I have literally hurried through it by my intense sympathy, my devouring curiosity—It was more than interest. I read everywhere—between the courses of the hotel-table, on the boat, in the cars—until I had swallowed the last line. This is no common occurrence with a veteran romance reader like myself."

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers at $1.75 each, or $10.50 for a complete set of the six volumes, or copies of either one or more of the above Books, or a complete set of the six volumes, will be sent at once, to any one, to any place, post-paid, or free of freight, on remitting their price in a letter to the publishers,

T.B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.

"No fears hath she! Her giant form
Majestically calm would go
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow!
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The main she will traverse forever and aye!
Many ports shall exult in the gleam of her mast—
Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer, this hour is her last!"

WILSON, "Isle of Palms."

"Then hold her
Strictly confined in sombre banishment,
And Doubt not but she will ere long, full gladly,
Her freedom purchase at the price you name."

"No, subtle snake!
It is the baseness of thy selfish mind,
Full of all guile, and cunning, and deceit,
That severs us so far, and shall do ever."

"Despair shall give me strength—where is the door?
Mine eyes are dark! I cannot find it now.
O God! protect me in this awful pass!"

JOANNA BAILLIE, Tragedy of "Orra."

SEA AND SHORE.

BY MRS. C.A. WARFIELD.

AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE."

CHAPTER I.

It was a calm and hazy morning of Southern summer that on which I turned my face seaward from the "keep" of Beauseincourt, never, I knew, to see its time-stained walls again, save through the mirage of memory. There is an awe almost as solemn to me in a consciousness like this as that which attends the death-bed parting, and my straining eye takes in its last look of a familiar scene as it might do the ever-to-be-averted face of friendship.

The refrain of Poe's even then celebrated poem was ringing through my brain on that sultry August day, I remember, like a tolling bell, as I looked my last on the gloomy abode of the La Vignes; but I only said aloud, in answer to the sympathizing glances of one who sat before me—the gentle and quiet Marion—who had suddenly determined to accompany me to Savannah, nerved with unwonted impulse:

"Madame de Staël was right when she said that 'nevermore' was the saddest and most expressive word in the English tongue" (so harsh to her ears, usually). "I think she called it the sweetest, too, in sound; but to me it is simply the most sorrowful, a knell of doom, and it fills my soul to-day to overflowing, for 'never, never more' shall I look on Beauseincourt!"

"You cannot tell, Miss Harz, what time may do; you may still return to visit us in our retirement, you and Captain Wentworth," urged Marion, gently, leaning forward, as she spoke, to take my hand in hers.

"'Time the tomb-builder'" fell from my lips ere they were aware. "That is a grand thought—one that I saw lately in a Western poem, the New-Year's address of a young editor of Kentucky called Prentice. Is it not splendid, Marion?"

"Very awful, rather," she responded, with a faint shudder. "Time the 'comforter,' let us say, instead, Miss Miriam—Time the 'veil-spreader.'"

"Why, Marion, you are quite poetic to-day, quite Greek! That is a sweet and tender saying of yours, and I shall garner it. I stand reproved, my child. All honor to Time, the merciful, whether he builds palaces or tombs! but none the less do I reverence my young poet for that stupendous utterance of his soul. I shall watch the flight of that eaglet of the West with interest from this hour! May he aspire!"

"Not if he is a Jackson Democrat?" broke in the usually gentle Alice Durand, fired with a ready defiance of all heterodox policy, common, if not peculiar, to that region.

"Oh, but he is not; he is a good Whig instead—a Clay man, as we call such."

"Not a Calhoun man, though, I suppose, so I would not give a snap of my fingers for him or his poetry! It is very natural, for you, Miss Harz," in a somewhat deprecating tone, "to praise your partisans. I would not have you neutral if I could, it is so contemptible."

A little of the good doctor's spirit there, under all that exterior of meekness and modesty, I saw at a glance, and liked her none the less for it, if truth were told. And now we were nearing the gate, with its gray-stone pillars, on one of which, that from which the marble ball had rolled, to hide in the grass beneath,