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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13643 ***</div>

    <h1>INTERNATIONAL WEEKLY MISCELLANY<br />
     Of Literature, Art, and Science.</h1>
    <hr class="full" />

    <table width="100%"
           summary="Volume, Number, and Date">
        <tr>
            <td align="left"><b>Vol. I.</b></td>

            <td align="center"><b>NEW YORK, August 5,
            1850.</b></td>

            <td align="right"><b>No. 6.</b></td>
        </tr>
    </table>
    <hr class="full" />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page161"
       id="page161"></a>[pg 161]</span>

    <h2>GERMAN CRITICISM ON ENGLISH FEMALE ROMANCE WRITERS.</h2>

    <p>We translate the following for the <i>International</i> from
    a letter dated London, June 15, to the <i>Cologne
    Gazette</i>.</p>

    <p>"Among the most remarkable writers of romances in England,
    three women are entitled to be reckoned in the first rank,
    namely, Miss Jewsbury, Miss Bronte, and Mrs. Gaskell. Miss
    Jewsbury issued her first work about four years since, a novel,
    in three volumes, under the title of 'Zoe,' and since then she
    has published the 'Half Sisters.' Both these works are
    excellent in manner as well as ideas, and show that their
    author is a woman of profound thought and deep feeling. Both
    are drawn from country life and the middle class, a sphere in
    which Miss Jewsbury is at home. The tendency of the first is
    speculative, and is based on religion; that of the second is
    social, relating to the position of woman.</p>

    <p>"Miss Jewsbury is still young, for an authoress. She counts
    only some thirty years, and many productions may be confidently
    expected from her hand, though perhaps none will excel those
    already published, for, after gaining a certain climax, no one
    excels himself. Her usual residence is Manchester; it is but
    seldom that she visits the metropolis; she is now here. She has
    lively and pleasing manners, a slight person, fine features, a
    beautiful, dreamy, light brown eye. She is attractive without
    being beautiful, retiring, altogether without pretensions, and
    in conversation is neither brilliant nor very
    intellectual,&mdash;a still, thoughtful, modest character.</p>

    <p>"Miss Bronte was long involved in a mysterious obscurity,
    from which she first emerged into the light as an actually
    existing being, at her present visit to London. Two years ago
    there appeared a romance, 'Jane Eyre,' by 'Currer Bell,' which
    threw all England into astonishment. Everybody was tormenting
    himself to discover the real author, for there was no such
    person as Currer Bell, and no one could tell whether the book
    was written by a man or woman, because the hues of the romance
    now indicated a male and now female hand, without any
    possibility of supposing that the whole originated with a
    single pencil. The public attributed it now to one, now to
    another, and the book passed to a second edition without the
    solution of the riddle. At last there came out a second
    romance, 'Shirley,' by the same author, which was devoured with
    equal avidity, although it could not be compared to the former
    in value; and still the incognito was preserved. Finally, late
    in the autumn of last year the report was spread about that the
    image of Jane Eyre had been discovered in London in the person
    of a pale young lady, with gray eyes, who had been recognized
    as the long-sought authoress. Still she remained invisible. And
    again, in June 1850, it is said that Currer Bell, Jane Eyre,
    Miss Bronte,&mdash;for all three names mean the same
    person,&mdash;is in London, though to all inquiries concerning
    the where and how a satisfactory answer is still wanting. She
    is now indeed here, but not for the curious public; she will
    not serve society as a lioness, will not be gazed and gaped at.
    She is a simple child of the country, brought up in the little
    parsonage of her father, in the North of England, and must
    first accustom her eye to the gleaming diadem with which fame
    seeks to deck her brow, before she can feel herself at home in
    her own sunshine.</p>

    <p>"Our third lady, Mrs. Gaskell, belongs also to the country,
    and is the wife of a Unitarian clergyman. In this capacity she
    has probably had occasion to know a great deal of the poorer
    classes, to her honor be it said. Her book, 'Mary Barton,'
    conducts us into the factory workman's narrow dwelling, and
    depicts his joys and sorrows, his aims and efforts, his wants
    and his misery, with a power of truth that irresistibly lays
    hold upon the heart. The scene of the story alternates from
    there to the city mansion of the factory owner, where, along
    with luxury and splendor we find little love and little
    happiness, and where sympathy with the condition of the workman
    is wanting only because it is not known, and because no one
    understands why or how the workman suffers. The book, is at
    once very beautiful, very instructive, and written, in a spirit
    of conciliation."</p>
    <hr />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page162"
       id="page162"></a>[pg 162]</span>

    <h2>MARGARET FULLER, MARCHESA D'OSSOLI.</h2>

    <p>Sarah Margaret Fuller, by marriage Marchioness of Ossoli,
    was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, about the year 1807. Her
    father, Mr. Timothy Fuller, was a lawyer, and from 1817 to 1825
    he represented the Middlesex district in Congress. At the close
    of his last term as a legislator he purchased a farm near
    Cambridge, and determined to abandon his profession for the
    more congenial one of agriculture; but he died soon after,
    leaving a widow and six children, of whom Margaret was the
    eldest.</p>

    <p>At a very early age she exhibited unusual abilities, and was
    particularly distinguished for an extraordinary facility in
    acquiring languages. Her father, proud of the displays of her
    intelligence, prematurely stimulated it to a degree that was
    ultimately injurious to her physical constitution. At eight
    years of age he was accustomed to require of her the
    composition of a number of Latin verses every day, while her
    studies in philosophy, history, general science and current
    literature were pressed to the limit of her capacities. When he
    first went to Washington he was accustomed to speak of her as
    one "better skilled in Greek and Latin than half of the
    professors;" and alluding in one of her essays, to her
    attachment to foreign literature, she herself observes that in
    childhood she had well-nigh forgotten her English while
    constantly reading in other tongues.</p>

    <p>Soon after the death of her father, she applied herself to
    teaching as a vocation, first in Boston, then in Providence,
    and afterward in Boston again, while her "Conversations" were
    for several seasons attended by classes of women, some of them
    married, and many of them of the most eminent positions in
    society. These conversations are described by Dr. Orestes A.
    Brownson, as "in the highest degree brilliant, instructive, and
    inspiring," and our own recollections of them confirm to us the
    justice of the applause with which they are now referred to.
    She made her first appearance as an author, in a translation of
    Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe, published in Boston in
    1839. When Mr. Emerson, in the following year, established
    <i>The Dial</i>, she became one of the principal contributors
    to that remarkable periodical, in which she wrote many of the
    most striking papers on literature, art, and society. In the
    summer of 1843 she made a journey to the Sault St. Marie, and
    in the next spring published in Boston reminiscences of her
    tour, under the title of Summer on the Lakes. <i>The Dial</i>
    having been discontinued, she came to reside in New York, where
    she had charge of the literary department of the New York
    <i>Tribune</i>, which acquired a great accession of reputation
    from her critical essays. Here in 1845 she published Woman in
    the Nineteenth Century; and in 1846, Papers on Literature and
    Art, in two volumes, consisting of essays and reviews,
    reprinted, with one exception, from periodicals.</p>

    <p>In the summer of 1845, she accompanied the family of a
    friend to Europe, visiting England, Scotland, and France, and
    passing through Italy to Rome, where they spent the ensuing
    winter. The next spring she proceeded with her friends to the
    north of Italy, and there stopped, spending most of the summer
    at Florence, and returning at the approach of winter to Rome,
    where she was soon after married to Giovanni, Marquis d'Ossoli,
    who made her acquaintance during her first winter in that city.
    They resided in the Roman States until the last summer, after
    the surrender of Rome to the French army, when they deemed it
    expedient to go to Florence, both having taken an active part
    in the Republican movement. They left Florence in June, and at
    Leghorn embarked in the ship Elizabeth for New York. The
    passage commenced auspiciously, but at Gibraltar the master of
    the ship died of smallpox, and they were detained at the
    quarantine there some time in consequence of this misfortune,
    but finally set sail again on the 8th of June, and arrived on
    our coast during the terrible storm of the 18th and 19th ult.,
    when, in the midst of darkness, rain, and a terrific gale, the
    ship was hurled on the breakers of Fire Island, near Long
    Island, and in a few hours was broken in pieces. Margaret
    Fuller d'Ossoli, the Marquis d'Ossoli, and their son, two years
    of age, with an Italian girl, and Mr. Horace Sumner of Boston,
    besides several of the crew, lost their lives. We reprint a
    sketch of the works and genius of Margaret Fuller, written
    several years ago by the late Edgar A. Poe.</p>
    <hr class="short" />

    <p>"Miss Fuller was at one time editor, or one of the editors
    of the 'The Dial,' to which she contributed many of the most
    forcible and certainly some of the most peculiar papers. She is
    known, too, by 'Summer on the Lakes,' a remarkable assemblage
    of sketches, issued in 1844, by Little &amp; Brown, of Boston.
    More lately she published 'Woman in the Nineteenth Century,' a
    work which has occasioned much discussion, having had the good
    fortune to be warmly abused and chivalrously defended. For
    '<i>The New York Tribune</i>,' she has furnished a great
    variety of matter, chiefly notices of new books, etc., etc.,
    her articles being designated by an asterisk. Two of the best
    of them were a review of Professor Longfellow's late
    magnificent edition of his own works, (with a portrait,) and an
    appeal to the public in behalf of her friend Harro Harring. The
    review did her infinite credit; it was frank, candid,
    independent&mdash;in even ludicrous contrast to the usual mere
    glorifications of the day, giving honor <i>only</i> where honor
    was due, yet evincing the most thorough capacity to appreciate
    and the most sincere intention to place in the fairest light
    the real and idiosyncratic merits of the poet. In my opinion it
    is one of the very few reviews of Longfellow's poems, ever
    published in America, of which the critics have not had
    abundant reason to be ashamed. Mr. Longfellow is entitled to a
    certain and very distinguished rank among the poets of his
    country, but that country is disgraced by the evident toadyism
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page163"
       id="page163"></a>[pg 163]</span> which would award to his
       social position and influence, to his fine paper and large
       type, to his morocco binding and gilt edges, to his
       flattering portrait of himself, and to the illustrations of
       his poems by Huntingdon, that amount of indiscriminate
       approbation which neither could nor would have been given to
       the poems themselves. The defense of Harro Harring, or
       rather the philippic against those who were doing him wrong,
       was one of the most eloquent and well-<i>put</i> articles I
       have ever yet seen in a newspaper.</p>

    <p>"'Woman in the Nineteenth Century' is a book which few women
    in the country could have written, and no woman in the country
    would have published, with the exception of Miss Fuller. In the
    way of independence, of unmitigated radicalism, it is one of
    the 'Curiosities of American Literature,' and Doctor Griswold
    should include it in his book. I need scarcely say that the
    essay is nervous, forcible, suggestive, brilliant, and to a
    certain extent scholar-like&mdash;for all that Miss Fuller
    produces is entitled to these epithets&mdash;but I must say
    that the conclusions reached are only in part my own. Not that
    they are bold, by any means&mdash;too novel, too startling or
    too dangerous in their consequences, but that in their
    attainment too many premises have been distorted, and too many
    analogical inferences left altogether out of sight. I mean to
    say that the intention of the Deity as regards sexual
    differences&mdash;an intention which can be distinctly
    comprehended only by throwing the exterior (more sensitive)
    portions of the mental retina <i>casually</i> over the wide
    field of universal <i>analogy</i>&mdash;I mean to say that this
    <i>intention</i> has not been sufficiently considered. Miss
    Fuller has erred, too, through her own excessive objectiveness.
    She judges <i>woman</i> by the heart and intellect of Miss
    Fuller, but there are not more than one or two dozen Miss
    Fullers on the whole face of the earth. Holding these opinions
    in regard to 'Woman in the Nineteenth Century,' I still feel
    myself called upon to disavow the silly, condemnatory criticism
    of the work which appeared in one of the earlier numbers of
    "<i>The Broadway Journal</i>." That article was <i>not</i>
    written by myself, and <i>was</i> written by my associate, Mr.
    Briggs.</p>

    <p>"The most favorable estimate of Miss Fuller's genius (for
    high genius she unquestionably possesses) is to be obtained,
    perhaps, from her contributions to 'The Dial,' and from her
    'Summer on the Lakes.' Many of the <i>descriptions</i> in this
    volume are unrivaled for <i>graphicality</i>, (why is there not
    such a word?) for the force with which they convey the true by
    the novel or unexpected, by the introduction of touches which
    other artists would be sure to omit as irrelevant to the
    subject. This faculty, too, springs from her subjectiveness,
    which leads her to paint a scene less by its features than by
    its effects.</p>

    <p>"Here, for example, is a portion of her account of
    Niagara:&mdash;</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>"'Daily these proportions widened and towered more and
        more upon my sight, and I got at last a proper foreground
        for these sublime distances. Before coming away, I think I
        really saw the full wonder of the scene. After a while it
        <i>so drew me into itself as to inspire an undefined dread,
        such as I never knew before, such as may be felt when death
        is about to usher us into a new existence</i>. The
        perpetual trampling of the waters seized my senses. <i>I
        felt that no other sound, however near, could be heard, and
        would start and look behind me for a foe</i>. I realised
        the identity of that mood of nature in which these waters
        were poured down with such absorbing force, with that in
        which the Indian was shaped on the same soil. For
        continually upon my mind came, unsought and unwelcome,
        <i>images such as had never haunted it before, of naked
        savages stealing behind me with uplifted tomahawks</i>.
        Again and again this illusion recurred, and even <i>after I
        had thought it over, and tried to shake it off, I could not
        help starting and looking behind me</i>. What I liked best
        was to sit on Table Rock close to the great fall; <i>there
        all power of observing details, all separate consciousness
        was quite lost</i>.'</p>
    </blockquote>

    <p>"The truthfulness of the passages italicized will be felt by
    all; the feelings described are, perhaps, experienced by every
    (imaginative) person who visits the fall; but most persons,
    through predominant subjectiveness, would scarcely be conscious
    of the feelings, or, at best, would never think of employing
    them in an attempt to convey to others an impression of the
    scene. Hence so many desperate failures to convey it on the
    part of ordinary tourists. Mr. William W. Lord, to be sure, in
    his poem 'Niagara,' is sufficiently objective; he describes not
    the fall, but very properly, the effect of the fall upon
    <i>him</i>. He says that it made him think of his <i>own</i>
    greatness, of his <i>own</i> superiority, and so forth, and so
    forth; and it is only when we come to think that the thought of
    Mr. Lord's greatness is quite idiosyncratic confined
    exclusively to Mr. Lord, that we are in condition to understand
    how, in spite of his objectiveness he has failed to convey an
    idea of anything beyond one Mr. William W. Lord.</p>

    <p>"From the essay entitled 'Philip Van Artevelde, I copy a
    paragraph which will serve at once to exemplify Miss Fuller's
    more earnest (declamatory) style, and to show the tenor of her
    prospective speculations:&mdash;</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>"'At Chicago I read again 'Philip Van Artevelde,' and
        certain passages in it will always be in my mind associated
        with the deep sound of the lake, as heard in the night. I
        used to read a short time at night, and then open the blind
        to look out. The moon would be full upon the lake, and the
        calm breath, pure light, and the deep voice, harmonized
        well with the thought of the Flemish hero. When will this
        country have such a man? It is what she needs&mdash;no thin
        Idealist, no coarse Realist, but a man whose eye reads the
        heavens while his feet step firmly on the ground, and his
        hands are strong and dexterous in the use of human
        instruments. A man, religious, virtuous,
        and&mdash;sagacious; a man of universal sympathies, but
        self-possessed; a man who knows the region of emotion,
        though he is not its slave; a man to whom this world is no
        mere spectacle or fleeting shadow, but a great, solemn
        game, to be played with good heed, for its stakes are of
        eternal value, yet who, if his own play be true, heeds not
        what he loses by the falsehood of others. A man who lives
        from the past, yet knows that its honey can but moderately
        avail him; whose comprehensive eye scans the present,
        neither infatuated by its golden lures nor chilled by its
        many ventures; who possesses prescience, as the wise man
        must, but not so far as to be driven mad to-day by the gift
        which discerns to-morrow. When there is such a man for
        America, the thought which urges her on will be
        expressed."</p>
    </blockquote>

    <p>"From what I have quoted, a <i>general</i> conception of the
    prose style of the authoress may be gathered. Her manner,
    however, is infinitely varied. It is always forcible&mdash;but
    I am not sure that it is always anything else, unless I say
    picturesque. It rather indicates than evinces scholarship.
    Perhaps only the scholastic, or, more properly, those
    accustomed to look narrowly at the structure of phrases, would
    be willing to acquit her of ignorance of grammar&mdash;would be
    willing to attribute her slovenliness to disregard of the shell
    in anxiety for the kernel; or to waywardness, or to
    affectation, or to blind reverence to Carlyle&mdash;would be
    able to detect, in her strange and continual inaccuracies, a
    capacity for the accurate.</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>"'I cannot sympathize with such an apprehension; the
        spectacle is <i>capable to</i> swallow <i>up</i> all such
        objects."</p>

        <p>"It is fearful, too, to know, as you look, that whatever
        has been swallowed by the cataract, is <i>like</i> to rise
        suddenly to light."</p>

        <p>"I took our <i>mutual</i> friends to see
        her."</p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page164"
           id="page164"></a>[pg 164]</span>

        <p>"It was always obvious that they had nothing in common
        <i>between them</i>."</p>

        <p>"The Indian cannot be looked at truly <i>except</i> by a
        poetic eye."</p>

        <p>"McKenny's Tour to the Lakes gives some facts not to be
        met <i>with</i> elsewhere."</p>

        <p>"There is that mixture of culture and rudeness in the
        aspect of things <i>as</i> gives a feeling of freedom,"
        etc., etc.</p>
    </blockquote>

    <p>"These are merely a few, a very few instances, taken at
    random from among a multitude of <i>willful</i> murders
    committed by Miss Fuller on the American of President Polk. She
    uses, too, the word 'ignore,' a vulgarity adopted only of late
    days (and to no good purpose, since there is no necessity for
    it) from the barbarisms of the law, and makes no scruple of
    giving the Yankee interpretation to the verbs 'witness' and
    'realize,' to say nothing of 'use,' as in the sentence, 'I used
    to read a short time at night.' It will not do to say in
    defense of such words, that in such senses they may be found in
    certain dictionaries&mdash;in that of Bolles', for
    instance;&mdash;<i>some</i> kind of 'authority' may be found
    for <i>any</i> kind of vulgarity under the sun.</p>

    <p>"In spite of these things, however and of her frequent
    unjustifiable Carlyleisms, (such as that of writing sentences
    which are no sentences, since, to be parsed, reference must be
    had to sentences preceding,) the style of Miss Fuller is one of
    the very best with which I am acquainted. In general effect, I
    know no style which surpasses it. It is singularly piquant,
    vivid, terse, bold, luminous&mdash;leaving details out of
    sight, it is everything that a style need be.</p>

    <p>"I believe that Miss Fuller has written much poetry,
    although she has published little. That little is tainted with
    the affectation of the <i>transcendentalists</i>, (I used this
    term, of course, in the sense which the public of late days
    seem resolved to give it,) but is brimful of the poetic
    <i>sentiment</i>. Here, for example, is something in
    Coleridge's manner, of which the author of 'Genevieve' might
    have had no reason to be ashamed:&mdash;</p>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>A maiden sat beneath a tree;</p>

            <p>Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be,</p>

            <p>And she sighed heavily.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>From forth the wood into the <i>light</i></p>

            <p>A hunter strides with carol <i>light</i></p>

            <p>And a glance so bold and bright.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>He careless stopped and eyed the maid;</p>

            <p>'Why weepest thou?' he gently said;</p>

            <p>'I love thee well, be not afraid.'</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>He takes her hand and leads her on&mdash;</p>

            <p>She should have waited there alone,</p>

            <p>For he was not her chosen one.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>He <i>leans</i> her head upon his breast&mdash;</p>

            <p>She knew 'twas not her home of rest,</p>

            <p>But, ah! she had been sore distrest.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>The sacred stars looked sadly down;</p>

            <p>The parting moon appeared to frown,</p>

            <p>To see thus dimmed the diamond crown.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Then from the thicket starts a deer&mdash;</p>

            <p>The huntsman seizing <i>on</i> his spear</p>

            <p>Cries, 'Maiden, wait thou for me here.'</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>She sees him vanish into night&mdash;</p>

            <p>She starts from sleep in deep affright,</p>

            <p>For it was not her own true knight.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Though but in dream Gunhilda failed&mdash;</p>

            <p>Though but a fancied ill assailed&mdash;</p>

            <p>Though she but fancied fault bewailed&mdash;</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Yet thought of day makes dream of night;</p>

            <p>She is not worthy of the knight;</p>

            <p>The inmost altar burns not bright.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>If loneliness thou canst not bear&mdash;</p>

            <p>Cannot the dragon's venom dare&mdash;</p>

            <p>Of the pure meed thou shouldst despair.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Now sadder that lone maiden sighs;</p>

            <p>Far bitterer tears profane her eyes;</p>

            <p>Crushed in the dust her heart's flower lies.'</p>
        </div>
    </div>

    <p>"To show the evident carelessness with which this poem was
    constructed, I have italicized an identical rhyme (of about the
    same force in versification as an identical proposition in
    logic) and two grammatical improprieties. <i>To lean</i> is a
    neuter verb, and 'seizing <i>on</i>' is not properly to be
    called a pleonasm, merely because it is&mdash;nothing at all.
    The concluding line is difficult of pronunciation through
    excess of consonants. I should have preferred, indeed, the
    ante-penultimate tristich as the <i>finale</i> of the poem.</p>

    <p>"The supposition that the book of an author is a thing apart
    from the author's self, is, I think, ill-founded. The soul is a
    cipher, in the sense of a cryptograph; and the shorter a
    cryptograph is, the more difficulty there is in its
    comprehension&mdash;at a certain point of brevity it would bid
    defiance to an army of Champollions. And thus he who has
    written very little, may in that little either conceal his
    spirit or convey quite an erroneous idea of it&mdash;of his
    acquirements, talents, temper, manner, tenor and depth (or
    shallowness) of thought&mdash;in a word of his character, of
    himself. But this is impossible with him who has written much.
    Of such a person we get, from his books, not merely a just, but
    the most just representation. Bulwer, the individual, personal
    man, in a green velvet waistcoat and amber gloves, is not by
    any means the veritable Sir Edward Lytton, who is discoverable
    only in 'Ernest Maltravers,' where his soul is deliberately and
    nakedly set forth. And who would ever know Dickens by looking
    at him or talking with him, or doing anything with him except
    reading his 'Curiosity Shop?' What poet, in especial, but must
    feel at least the better portion of himself more fairly
    represented in even his commonest sonnet, (earnestly written,)
    than in his most elaborate or most intimate personalities?</p>

    <p>"I put all this as a general proposition, to which Miss
    Fuller affords a marked exception&mdash;to this extent, that
    her personal character and her printed book are merely one and
    the same thing. We get access to her soul <i>as</i> directly
    from the one as from the other&mdash;no <i>more</i> readily
    from this than from that&mdash;easily from either. Her acts are
    bookish, and her books are less thoughts than acts. Her
    literary and her conversational manner are identical. Here is a
    passage from her 'Summer on the Lakes:'&mdash;</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>"'The rapids enchanted me far beyond what I expected;
        they are so swift that they cease to <i>seem</i>
        so&mdash;you can think only of their <i>beauty</i>. The
        fountain beyond the Moss Islands I discovered for myself,
        and thought it for some time an <i>accidental</i> beauty
        which it would not do to <i>leave</i>, lest I might never
        see it again. After I found it <i>permanent</i>, I returned
        many times to watch the play of its crest. In the little
        waterfall, beyond, Nature seems, as she often does, to have
        made a <i>study</i> for some larger design. She delights in
        this&mdash;a sketch within a sketch&mdash;a dream within
        <i>a dream</i>. Wherever we see it, the lines of the great
        buttress in the fragment of stone, the hues of the
        waterfall, copied in the flowers that <i>star</i> its
        bordering mosses, we are <i>delighted</i>; for all the
        lineaments become <i>fluent</i>, and we mould the scene in
        congenial thought with its <i>genius</i>.'</p>
    </blockquote>

    <p>"Now all this is precisely as Miss Fuller would <i>speak</i>
    it. She is perpetually saying just such things in just such
    words. To get the <i>conversational</i> woman in the mind's
    eye, all that is needed is to imagine her reciting the
    paragraph just quoted: but first let us have the
    <i>personal</i> woman. She is of the medium height; nothing
    remarkable about the figure; a profusion of lustrous light
    hair; eyes a bluish gray, full of fire; capacious forehead; the
    mouth when in repose indicates profound sensibility, capacity
    for affection, for love&mdash;when moved by a slight smile, it
    becomes even beautiful in the intensity of this expression; but
    the upper lip, as if impelled by the action of involuntary
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page165"
       id="page165"></a>[pg 165]</span> muscles, habitually uplifts
       itself, conveying the impression of a sneer. Imagine, now, a
       person of this description looking at you one moment
       earnestly in the face, at the next seeming to look only
       within her own spirit or at the wall; moving nervously every
       now and then in her chair; speaking in a high key, but
       musically, deliberately, (not hurriedly or loudly,) with a
       delicious distinctness of enunciation&mdash;speaking, I say,
       the paragraph in question, and emphasizing the words which I
       have italicized, not by impulsion of the breath, (as is
       usual) but by drawing them out as long as possible, nearly
       closing her eyes, the while&mdash;imagine all this, and we
       have both the woman and the authoress before us."</p>
    <hr />

    <h4>[From the New York Tribune.]</h4>

    <h3>ON THE DEATH OF S. MARGARET FULLER.</h3>

    <h4>BY G.F.R. JAMES</h4>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>High hopes and bright thine early path bedecked,</p>

            <p class="i2">And aspirations beautiful, though
            wild,</p>

            <p>A heart too strong, a powerful will unchecked,</p>

            <p class="i2">A dream that earth-things could be
            undefiled.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>But soon, around thee, grew a golden chain,</p>

            <p class="i2">That bound the woman to more human
            things,</p>

            <p>And taught with joy&mdash;and, it may be, with
            pain&mdash;</p>

            <p class="i2">That there are limits e'en to Spirits'
            wings.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Husband and child&mdash;the loving and
            beloved&mdash;</p>

            <p class="i2">Won, from the vast of thought, a mortal
            part,</p>

            <p>The empassioned wife and mother, yielding,
            proved</p>

            <p class="i2">Mind has, itself, a master&mdash;in the
            heart.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>In distant lands enhaloed by old fame</p>

            <p class="i2">Thou found'st the only chain the spirit
            knew,</p>

            <p>But, captive, led'st thy captors from the shame</p>

            <p class="i2">Of ancient freedom, to the pride of
            new.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>And loved hearts clung around thee on the deck,</p>

            <p class="i2">Welling with sunny hopes 'neath sunny
            skies;</p>

            <p>The wide horizon round thee had no speck;</p>

            <p class="i2">E'en Doubt herself could see no cloud
            arise.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>The loved ones clung around thee, when the sail,</p>

            <p class="i2">O'er wide Atlantic billows, onward
            bore</p>

            <p>Thy freight of joys, and the expanding gale</p>

            <p class="i2">Pressed the glad bark toward thy native
            shore.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>The loved ones clung around thee still, when all</p>

            <p class="i2">Was darkness, tempest, terror, and
            dismay&mdash;</p>

            <p>More closely clung around thee, when the pall</p>

            <p class="i2">Of fate was falling o'er the mortal
            clay.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>With them to live&mdash;with them, with them to
            die&mdash;</p>

            <p class="i2">Sublime of human love intense and
            fine!</p>

            <p>Was thy last prayer unto the Deity,</p>

            <p class="i2">And it was granted thee by love
            divine.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>In the same billow&mdash;in the same dark
            grave&mdash;</p>

            <p class="i2">Mother, and child, and husband find their
            rest.</p>

            <p>The dream is ended; and the solemn wave</p>

            <p class="i2">Gives back the gifted to her country's
            breast.</p>
        </div>
    </div>
    <hr />

    <p>An Illustration of the high prices paid to fortunate artists
    in these times may be found in the fact that Alboni, the famous
    contralto singer, has been engaged to sing at Madrid, at the
    enormous rate of $400 dollars per day, while Roger, the tenor,
    who used to sing at the Comic Opera at Paris, and who was
    transplanted to the Grand Opera to assist in the production of
    Meyerbeer's "Prophet," has been engaged to sing with her at the
    more moderate salary of $8000 a month. This is almost equal to
    the extravagant sum guaranteed to Jenny Lind for performing in
    this country. It would be a curious inquiry why singers and
    dancers are always paid so much more exorbitantly than
    painters, sculptors or musical composers, especially as the
    pleasure they confer is of a merely evanescent character, while
    the works of the latter remain a perpetual source of delight
    and refinement to all generations.</p>
    <hr />

    <h2>FRASER'S MAGAZINE UPON THE POETS AND POETRY OF
    AMERICA.</h2>

    <p>The last number of <i>Fraser's Magazine</i> has a long
    article upon THE POETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA, in which the
    subject is treated with more than the customary civility of
    English criticism upon this subject. We are half inclined,
    indeed, to believe the article was written "above Bleecker," or
    by an inhabitant of that quarter now in London. Omitting the
    illustrative extracts, we copy the greater portion of the
    review, in which most of those who are admitted to be poets are
    characterized.</p>

    <p>"When Halleck said of New York&mdash;</p>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p class="i10">Our fourteen wards</p>

            <p>Contain some seven-and-thirty-bards,</p>
        </div>
    </div>

    <p>he rather understated than exaggerated the fact. Mr.
    Griswold, besides the ninety regular poets in his collection,
    gives an appendix of about seventy fugitive pieces by as many
    authors; and bitter complaints have been made against him in
    various quarters for not including some seventy, or a hundred
    and seventy more, 'who,' it is said, and probably with truth,
    'have as good a right to be there as many of those admitted.'
    Still it is possible to pick out a few of general reputation,
    whom literati from all parts of the Union would agree in
    sustaining as specimens of distinguished American poets, though
    they would differ in assigning their relative position. Thus,
    if the Republic had to choose a laureate, Boston would probably
    deposit a nearly unanimous vote for Longfellow; the suffrages
    of New York might he divided between Bryant and Halleck; and
    the southern cities would doubtless give a large majority for
    Poe. But these gentlemen, and some three or four more, would be
    acknowledged by all as occupying the first rank. Perhaps, on
    the whole, the preponderance of native authority justifies us
    in heading the list with Bryant, who, at any rate, has the
    additional title of seniority in authorship, if not in actual
    years.</p>

    <p>"William Cullen Bryant is, as we learn from Mr. Griswold,
    about fifty-five years old, and was born in Massachusetts,
    though his literary career is chiefly associated with New York,
    of which he is a resident. With a precocity extraordinary, even
    in a country where precocity is the rule instead of the
    exception, he began to write <i>and publish</i> at the age of
    thirteen, and has, therefore, been full forty years before the
    American public, and that not in the capacity of poet
    alone&mdash;having for more than half that period edited the
    <i>Evening Post</i>, one of the ablest and most respectable
    papers in the United States, and the oldest organ, we believe,
    of the Democratic party in New York. He has been called, and
    with justice, a poet of nature. The prairie solitude, the
    summer evening landscape, the night wind of autumn, the
    water-bird flitting homeward through the twilight&mdash;such
    are the favorite subjects of inspiration.
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page166"
       id="page166"></a>[pg 166]</span> <i>Thanatopsis</i>, one of
       his most admired pieces, was written at the age of
       <i>eighteen</i>, and exhibits a finish of style, no less
       than a maturity of thought, very remarkable for so youthful
       a production. Mr. Bryant's poems have been for some years
       pretty well known on this side the water,&mdash;better
       known, at any rate, than any other transatlantic verses; on
       which account, being somewhat limited for space, we forbear
       to make any extracts from them.</p>

    <p>"FITZ-GREENE HALLECK is also a New-Englander by birth and a
    New Yorker by adoption. He is Bryant's contemporary and friend,
    but the spirit and style of his versification are very
    different; and so, it is said, are his political affinities.
    While Bryant is a bulwark of the Democracy, Halleck is reported
    to be not only an admirer of the obsolete Federalists, but an
    avowed Monarchist. To be sure, this is only his private
    reputation: no trace of such a feeling is observable in his
    writings, which show throughout a sturdy vein of republicanism,
    social and political. In truth, the party classification of
    American literary men is apt to puzzle the uninitiated. Thus
    Washington Irving is said to belong to the Democrats; but it
    would be hard to find in his writings anything countenancing
    their claim upon him. His sketches of English society are a
    panegyric of old institutions; and the fourth book of his
    <i>Knickerbocker</i> is throughout a palpable satire on the
    administration of Thomas Jefferson, the great apostle of
    Democracy. Perhaps, however, he may since have changed his
    views. Willis, too, the 'Free Penciler,' who has been half his
    life prating about lords and ladies, and great people, and has
    become a sort of Jenkins to the fashionable life of New York;
    he also is one of the Democratic party. Peradventure he may
    vote the 'Locofoco ticket' in the hope of propitiating <i>the
    boys</i> (as the <i>canaille</i> of American cities are
    properly called), and saving his printing-office from the fate
    of the Italian Opera House in Astor Place. But what shall we
    say of Cooper, who, by his anti-democratic opinions, has made
    himself one of the most unpopular men in his country, and whose
    recent political novels rival the writings of Judge Haliburton
    in the virulence as well as the cleverness of their satire upon
    Republican institutions? He, too, is a Democrat. To us, who are
    not behind the curtain, these things are a mystery incapable of
    explanation. To return to our present subject. Halleck made his
    <i>début</i> in the poetical world by some satirical pieces
    called <i>The Croakers</i>, which created as much sensation at
    their appearance as the anonymous <i>Salmagundi</i> which
    commenced Irving's literary career. These were succeeded by
    <i>Fanny</i>, a poem in the <i>Don Juan</i> metre. <i>Fanny</i>
    has no particular plot or story, but is a satirical review of
    all the celebrities, literary, fashionable, and political, of
    New York at that day (1821). And the satire was probably very
    good at the time and in the place; but, unfortunately for the
    extent and permanence of its reputation, most of these
    celebrities are utterly unknown, not merely beyond the limits
    of the Union, but beyond those of New York. Among all the
    personages enumerated we can find but two names that an
    European reader would be likely to know anything
    about,&mdash;Clinton and Van Buren. Nay, more, in the rapid
    growth and change of things American, the present generation of
    New Yorkers are likely to lose sight of the lions of their
    immediate progenitors; and unless some Manhattanese scholiast
    should write a commentary on the poem in time, its allusions,
    and with them most of its wit, will be in danger of perishing
    entirely. What we <i>can</i> judge of in <i>Fanny</i> are one
    or two graceful lyrics interspersed in it, though even these
    are marred by untimely comicality and local allusions. The
    nominal hero, while wandering about at night after the wreck of
    his fortunes, hears a band playing outside a public place of
    entertainment. It must have been a better band than that which
    now, from the Museum opposite the Astor House, drives to frenzy
    the hapless stranger.... In Halleck's subsequent productions
    the influence of Campbell is more perceptible than that of
    Byron, and with manifest advantage. It may be said of his
    compositions, as it can be affirmed of few American verses,
    that they have a real innate harmony, something not dependent
    on the number of syllables in each line, or capable of being
    dissected out into feet, but growing in them, as it were, and
    created by the fine ear of the writer. Their sentiments, too,
    are exalted and ennobling; eminently genial and honest, they
    stamp the author for a good man and true,&mdash;Nature's
    aristocracy.... For some unexplained reason Halleck has not
    written, or at least not published, anything new for several
    years, though continually solicited to do so; for he is a great
    favorite with his countrymen, especially with the New Yorkers.
    His time, however, has been by no means passed in idleness.
    Fashionable as writing is in America, it is not considered
    desirable or, indeed, altogether reputable, that the poet
    should be <i>only</i> a poet. Halleck has been in business most
    of his life; and was lately head-clerk of the wealthy merchant,
    John Jacob Astor, who left him a handsome annuity. This was
    increased by Mr. Astor's son and heir, a man of well-known
    liberality; so that between the two there is a chance of the
    poet's being enabled to 'meditate the tuneful Muse' for the
    remainder of his days free from all distractions of
    business.</p>

    <p>"LONGFELLOW, the pet poet of Boston, is a much younger man
    than either Bryant or Halleck, and has made his reputation only
    within the last twelve years, during which time he has been one
    of the most noted lions of American Athens. The city of Boston,
    as every one knows who has been there, or who has met with any
    book or man emanating from it, claims to be the literary
    metropolis of the United States, and assumes the
    slightly-pretending <span class="pagenum"><a name="page167"
       id="page167"></a>[pg 167]</span> <i>soubriquet</i> just
       quoted. The American Athenians have their thinking and
       writing done for them by a coterie whose distinctive
       characteristics are Socinianism in theology, a
       præter-Puritan prudery in ethics, a German tendency in
       metaphysics, and throughout all a firm persuasion that
       Boston is the fountain-head of art, scholarship, and
       literature for the western world, and particularly that New
       York is a Nazareth in such things, out of which can come
       nothing good. For the Bostonians, who certainly cultivate
       literature with more general devotion, if not always with
       more individual success than the New Yorkers, can never
       forgive their commercial neighbors for possessing by birth
       the two most eminent prose-writers of the
       country&mdash;Irving and Cooper; and by adoption, two of the
       leading poets&mdash;Bryant and Halleck. Nor are the good
       people of the 'Empire State' slow to resent these
       exhibitions of small jealousy; but, on the contrary, as the
       way of the world is, they are apt to retort by greater
       absurdities. So shy are they of appearing to be guided by
       the dicta of their eastern friends, that to this day there
       is scarcely man or woman on Manhattan Island who will
       confess a liking for Tennyson, Mrs. Barrett Browning, or
       Robert Browning, simply because these poets were taken up
       and patronized (metaphorically speaking, of course,) by the
       'Mutual Admiration Society' of Boston.</p>

    <p>"The immediate influences of this <i>camaraderie</i> are
    highly flattering and apparently beneficial to the subject of
    them, but its ultimate effects are most injurious to the proper
    development of his powers. When the merest trifles that a man
    throws off are inordinately praised, he soon becomes content
    with producing the merest trifles. Longfellow has grown
    unaccustomed to do himself justice. Half his volumes are filled
    up with translations; graceful and accurate, indeed; but
    translations, and often from originals of very moderate merit.
    His last original poem, <i>Evangeline</i>, is a sort of
    pastoral in hexameters. The resuscitation of this classical
    metre had a queer effect upon the American quidnuncs. Some of
    the <i>critics</i> evidently believed it to be a bran-new metre
    invented for the nonce by the author, a delusion which they of
    the 'Mutual Admiration' rather winked at; and the parodists who
    endeavored to ridicule the new measure were evidently not quite
    sure whether seven feet or nine made a hexameter. It is really
    to be regretted that Longfellow has been cajoled into playing
    these tricks with himself, for his earlier pieces were works of
    much promise, and, had they been worthily followed out, might
    have entitled him to a high place among the poets of the
    language.... Longfellow's poetry, whenever he really lays
    himself out to write poetry, has a definite idea and purpose in
    it&mdash;no small merit now-a-days. His versification is
    generally harmonious, and he displays a fair command of metre.
    Sometimes he takes a fancy to an obsolete or out-of-the-way
    stanza; one of his longest and best poems, <i>The Skeleton in
    Armor</i>, is exactly in the measure of Drayton's fine ballad
    on Agincourt. His chief fault is an over-fondness for simile
    and metaphor. He seems to think indispensable the introduction
    into everything he writes of a certain (or sometimes a very
    uncertain) number of these figures. Accordingly his poems are
    crowded with comparisons, sometimes very pretty and pleasing,
    at others so far-fetched that the string of tortured images
    which lead off Alfred de Musset's bizarre <i>Ode to the
    Moon</i> can hardly equal them. This <i>making figures</i>
    (whether from any connection with the calculating habits of the
    people or not) is a terrible propensity of American writers,
    whether of prose or verse. Their orators are especial sinners
    in this respect. We have seen speeches stuck as full of
    metaphors (more or less mixed) as Burton's <i>Anatomy</i> is of
    quotations.</p>

    <p>"Such persons as know from experience that literary people
    are not always in private life what their writings would
    betoken, that Miss Bunions do not precisely resemble March
    violets, and mourners upon paper may be laughers over
    mahogany&mdash;such persons will not be surprised to hear that
    the Longfellow is a very jolly fellow, a lover of fun and good
    dinners, and of an amiability and personal popularity that have
    aided not a little the popularity of his writings in verse and
    prose&mdash;for he writes prose too, prettier, quainter, more
    figurative, and more poetic if anything, than his poetry. He is
    also a professor at Harvard College, near Boston.</p>

    <p>"EDGAR A. POE, like Longfellow and most of the other
    American poets, wrote prose as well as poetry, having produced
    a number of wild, grotesque, and powerfully-imagined tales;
    unlike most of them he was a literary man <i>pur sang</i>. He
    depended for support entirely on his writings, and his career
    was more like the precarious existence of an author in the time
    of Johnson and Savage than the decent life of an author in our
    own day. He was a Southerner by birth, acquired a liberal
    education, and what the French call 'expansive' tastes, was
    adopted by a rich relative, quarreled with him, married 'for
    love,' and lived by editing magazines in Richmond,
    Philadelphia, and New York; by delivering lectures (the
    never-failing last resort of the American literary adventurer);
    by the occasional subscriptions of compassionate acquaintances
    or admiring friends&mdash;any way he could&mdash;for eighteen
    or nineteen years: lost his wife, involved himself in endless
    difficulties, and finally died in what should have been the
    prime of his life, about six months ago. His enemies attributed
    his untimely death to intemperance; his writings would rather
    lead to the belief that he was an habitual taker of opium. If
    it make a man a poet to be</p>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of
            scorn,</p>

            <p>The love of love,</p>
        </div>
    </div><span class="pagenum"><a name="page168"
       id="page168"></a>[pg 168]</span>

    <p>Poe was certainly a poet. Virulently and ceaselessly abused
    by his enemies (who included a large portion of the press), he
    was worshiped to infatuation by his friends. The severity of
    his editorial criticisms, and the erratic course of his life,
    fully account for the former circumstance; the latter is
    probably to be attributed, in part at least, to pity for his
    mishaps.</p>

    <p>"If Longfellow's poetry is best designated as quaint, Poe's
    may most properly be characterized as fantastic. The best of it
    reminds one of Tennyson, not by any direct imitation of
    particular passages, but by its general air and tone. But he
    was very far from possessing Tennyson's fine ear for melody.
    His skill in versification, sometimes striking enough, was
    evidently artificial; he overstudied metrical expression and
    overrated its value so as sometimes to write, what were little
    better than nonsense-verses, for the rhythm. He had an
    incurable propensity for refrains, and when he had once caught
    a harmonious cadence, appeared to think it could not be too
    often repeated. Poe's name is usually mentioned in connection
    with <i>The Raven</i>, a poem which he published about five
    years ago. It had an immense run, and gave rise to innumerable
    parodies&mdash;those tests of notoriety if not of merit. And
    certainly it is not without a peculiar and fantastic excellence
    in the execution, while the conception is highly striking and
    poetic. This much notice seems due to a poem which created such
    a sensation in the author's country. To us it seems by no means
    the best of Poe's productions; we much prefer, for instance,
    this touching allegory, which was originally embodied in one of
    his wildest tales, <i>The Haunted Palace</i>. In the very same
    volume with this are some verses that Poe wrote when a boy, and
    some that a boy might be ashamed of writing. Indeed the secret
    of rejection seems to be little known to Transatlantic bards.
    The rigidness of self-criticism which led Tennyson to ignore
    and annihilate, so far as in him lay, full one half of his
    earlier productions, would hardly be understood by them. This
    is particularly unlucky in the case of Poe, whose rhymes
    sometimes run fairly away with him, till no purpose or meaning
    is traceable amid a jingle of uncommon and fine-sounding
    words....</p>

    <p>"Though Poe was a Southerner, his poetry has nothing in it
    suggestive of his peculiar locality. It is somewhat remarkable
    that the slave-holding, which has tried almost all other means
    of excusing or justifying itself before the world, did not
    think of 'keeping a poet,' and engaging the destitute author
    from its own territory to sing the praises of 'the patriarchal
    institution.' And it would have been a fair provocation that
    the Abolitionists had their poet already. Indeed several of the
    northern poets have touched upon this subject; Longfellow, in
    particular, has published a series of spirited and touching
    anti-slavery poems; but the man who has made it his
    <i>specialité</i> is JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, a Quaker,
    literary editor of the <i>National Era</i>, an Abolition and
    ultra-Radical paper, which, in manful despite of Judge Lynch,
    is published at Washington, between the slave-pens and the
    capitol. His verses are certainly obnoxious to the jurisdiction
    of that notorious popular potentate, being unquestionably
    'inflammatory, incendiary, and insurrectionary,' as the
    Southern formula goes, in a very high degree. He makes
    passionate appeals to the Puritan spirit of New England, and
    calls on her sons to utter their voice,</p>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>... From all her wild green mountains,</p>

            <p class="i2">From valleys where her slumbering fathers
            lie,</p>

            <p>From her blue rivers and her welling fountains,</p>

            <p class="i6">And clear cold sky&mdash;</p>

            <p>From her rough coast, and isles, which hungry
            Ocean</p>

            <p class="i2">Gnaws with his surges&mdash;from the
            fisher's skiff,</p>

            <p>With white sails swaying to the billow's motion</p>

            <p class="i6">Round rock and cliff&mdash;</p>

            <p>From the free fireside of her unbought farmer,</p>

            <p class="i2">From her free laborer at his loom and
            wheel.</p>

            <p>From the brown smithy where, beneath the hammer,</p>

            <p class="i6">Rings the red steel&mdash;</p>

            <p>From each and all, if God hath not forsaken</p>

            <p class="i2">Our land and left us to an evil
            choice;&mdash;</p>
        </div>
    </div>

    <p>"and protest against the shocking anomaly of slavery in a
    free country. At times, when deploring the death of some fellow
    laborer in the cause, he falls into a somewhat subdued strain,
    though even then there is more of spirit and fire in his verses
    than one naturally expects from a follower of George Fox; but
    on such occasions he displays a more careful and harmonious
    versification than is his wont. There is no scarcity of these
    elegies in his little volume, the <i>Abolitionists</i>, even
    when they escape the attentions of the high legal functionary
    already alluded to, not being apparently a long-lived
    class.</p>

    <p>"<i>Toujours perdrix</i> palls in poetry as in cookery; we
    grow tired after awhile of invectives against governors of
    slave-states and mercenary persons, and dirges for untimely
    perished Abolitionists. The wish suggests itself that Whittier
    would not always</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>'Give up to a party what is meant for mankind,'</p>
    </blockquote>

    <p>but sometimes turn his powers in another direction.
    Accordingly, it is a great relief to find him occasionally
    trying his hand on the early legends of New England and Canada,
    which do not suffer such ballads as <i>St. John</i>....</p>

    <p>"Whittier is less known than several other Western bards to
    the English reader, and we think him entitled to stand higher
    on the American Parnassus than most of his countrymen would
    place him. His faults&mdash;harshness and want of
    polish&mdash;are evident; but there is more life, and spirit,
    and soul in his verses, than in those of eight-ninths of Mr.
    Griswold's immortal ninety.</p>

    <p>"From political verse (for the anti-slavery agitation must
    be considered quite as much a political as a moral warfare) the
    transition is natural to satire and humorous poetry. Here we
    find no lack of matter, but a grievous short-coming in quality.
    The Americans are no contemptible humorists in prose, but their
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page169"
       id="page169"></a>[pg 169]</span> fun cannot be set to verse.
       They are very fond of writing parodies, yet we have scarcely
       ever seen a good parody of American origin. And their satire
       is generally more distinguished for personality and
       buffoonery than wit. Halleck's <i>Fanny</i> looks as if it
       might be good, did we only know something of the people
       satirized in it. The reputed comic poet of the country at
       present is OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, a physician. Whether it
       was owing to the disappointment caused by hearing too much
       in his praise beforehand we will not pretend to say, but it
       certainly did seem to us that Dr. Holmes' efforts in this
       line must originally have been intended to act upon his
       patients emetically. After a conscientious perusal of the
       doctor, the most readable, and about the only presentable
       thing we can find in him, is the bit of seriocomic entitled
       <i>The Last Leaf</i>.</p>

    <p>"But within the last three years there has arisen in the
    United States a satirist of genuine excellence, who, however,
    besides being but moderately appreciated by his countrymen,
    seems himself in a great measure to have mistaken his real
    forte. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, one of the Boston coterie, has for
    some time been publishing verses, which are by the coterie duly
    glorified, but which are in no respect distinguishable from the
    ordinary level of American poetry, except that they combine an
    extraordinary pretension to originality, with a more than
    usually palpable imitation of English models. Indeed, the
    failure was so manifest, that the American literati seem, in
    this one case, to have rebelled against Boston dictation, and
    there is sufficient internal evidence that such of them as do
    duty for critics handled Mr. Lowell pretty severely. Violently
    piqued at this, and simultaneously conceiving a disgust for the
    Mexican war, he was impelled by both feelings to take the field
    as a satirist: to the former we owe the <i>Fable for
    Critics</i>; to the latter, the <i>Biglow Papers</i>. It was a
    happy move, for he has the rare faculty of writing <i>clever
    doggerel</i>. Take out the best of <i>Ingoldsby</i>, Campbell's
    rare piece of fun <i>The Friars of Dijon</i>, and perhaps a
    little of Walsh's <i>Aristophanes</i>, and there is no
    contemporary verse of the class with which Lowell's may not
    fearlessly stand a comparison; for, observe, we are not
    speaking of mock heroics like Bon Gaultier's, which are only a
    species of parody, but of real doggerel, the Rabelaisque of
    poetry. The <i>Fable</i> is somewhat on the Ingoldsby
    model,&mdash;that is to say, a good part of its fun consists in
    queer rhymes, double, treble, or poly-syllabic; and it has even
    Barham's fault&mdash;an occasional over-consciousness of
    effort, and calling on the reader to admire, as if the <i>tour
    de force</i> could not speak for itself. But <i>Ingoldsby's</i>
    rhymes will not give us a just idea of the <i>Fable</i> until
    we superadd Hook's puns; for the fabulist has a pleasant knack
    of making puns&mdash;outrageous and unhesitating
    ones&mdash;exactly of the kind to set off the general style of
    his verse. The sternest critic could hardly help relaxing over
    such a bundle of them as are contained in Apollo's lament over
    the 'treeification' of his Daphne.... The <i>Fable</i> is a
    sort of review in verse of American poets. Much of the Boston
    leaven runs through it; the wise men of the East are all
    glorified intensely, while Bryant and Halleck are studiously
    depreciated. But though thus freely exercising his own critical
    powers in verse, the author is most bitter against all critics
    in prose, and gives us a ludicrous picture of one&mdash;</p>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>A terrible fellow to meet in society,</p>

            <p>Not the toast that he buttered was ever so dry at
            tea.</p>
        </div>
    </div>

    <p>And this gentleman is finely shown up for his condemnatory
    predilections and inability to discern or appreciate beauties.
    The cream of the joke against him is, that being sent by Apollo
    to choose a lily in a flower-garden, he brings back a thistle
    as all he could find. The picture is a humorous one, but we are
    at a loss to conjecture who can have sat for it in America,
    where the tendency is all the other way, reviewers being apt to
    apply the butter of adulation with the knife of profusion to
    every man, woman, or child who rushes into print. Some of his
    complaints, too, against the critic sound very odd; as, for
    instance, that</p>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>His lore was engraft, something foreign that grew in
            him.</p>
        </div>
    </div>

    <p>Surely the very meaning of <i>learning</i> is that it is
    something which a man learns&mdash;<i>acquires</i> from other
    sources&mdash;does not originate in himself. But it is a
    favorite practice with Mr. Lowell's set to rail against dry
    learning and pedants, while at the same time there are no men
    more fond of showing off cheap learning than themselves: Lowell
    himself never loses an opportunity of bringing in a bit of
    Greek or Latin. Our readers must have known such
    persons&mdash;for, unfortunately, the United States has no
    monopoly of them&mdash;men who delight in quoting Latin before
    ladies, talking Penny-Magazine science in the hearing of
    clodhoppers, and preaching of high art to youths who have never
    had the chance of seeing any art at all. <i>Then</i> you will
    hear them say nothing about pedantry. But let a man be present
    who knows more Greek than they do, or who has a higher standard
    of poetry or painting or music, and wo be to him! Him they will
    persecute to the uttermost. What is to be done with such men
    but to treat them <i>à la</i> Shandon, 'Give them Burton's
    <i>Anatomy</i>, and leave them to their own abominable
    devices?'</p>

    <p>"The <i>Biglow Papers</i> are imaginary epistles from a New
    England farmer, and contain some of the best specimens extant
    of the 'Yankee,' or New England dialect,&mdash;better than
    Haliburton's, for Sam Slick sometimes mixes Southern, Western,
    and even English vulgarities with his Yankee. Mr. Biglow's
    remarks treat chiefly of the Mexican war, and subjects
    immediately connected with it, such as slavery, truckling of
    Northerners to the south, &amp;c. The theme is treated in
    various ways with uniform bitterness. Now
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page170"
       id="page170"></a>[pg 170]</span> he sketches a 'Pious
       Editors Creed,' almost too daring in its Scriptural
       allusions, but terribly severe upon the venal fraternity. At
       another time he sets one of Calhoun's pro-slavery speeches
       to music. The remarks of the great Nullifier form the air of
       the song, and the incidental remarks of honorable senators
       on the same side make up a rich chorus, their names
       supplying happy tags to the rhymes. But best of all are the
       letters of his friend the returned volunteer, Mr.
       Birdofredom Sawin, who draws a sad picture of the private
       soldier's life in Mexico. He had gone out with hopes of
       making his fortune. But he was sadly disappointed and
       equally so in his expectations of glory, which 'never got so
       low down as the privates.'</p>

    <p>"But it is time to bring this notice to a close not,
    however, that we have by any means exhausted the subject. For
    have we not already stated that there are, at the lowest
    calculation, ninety American poets, spreading all over the
    alphabet, from Allston, who is unfortunately dead, to Willis,
    who is fortunately living, and writing <i>Court Journals</i>
    for the 'Upper Ten Thousand,' as he has named the
    quasi-aristocracy of New York? And the lady-poets&mdash;the
    poetesses, what shall we say of them? Truly it would be
    ungallant to say anything ill of them, and invidious to single
    out a few among so many; therefore, it will be best for us to
    say&mdash;nothing at all about any of them."</p>
    <hr />

    <h2>Original Poetry.</h2>

    <h3>A RETROSPECT.</h3>

    <h4>BY HERMANN.</h4>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>On this rustic footbridge sitting,</p>

            <p class="i2">I have passed delightful eyes,</p>

            <p>Moonbeams round about me flitting</p>

            <p class="i2">Through the overhanging leaves.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>With me often came another,</p>

            <p class="i2">When the west wore hues of gold,</p>

            <p>And 'twas neither sister&mdash;brother&mdash;</p>

            <p class="i2">One the heart may dearer hold.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>She was fair and lightly moulded,</p>

            <p class="i2">Azure eyed and full of grace;</p>

            <p>Gentler form was never folded</p>

            <p class="i2">In a lover's warm embrace.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Oh those hours of sacred converse,</p>

            <p class="i2">Their communion now is o'er</p>

            <p>And our straying feet shall traverse</p>

            <p class="i2">Those remembered paths no more.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Hours they were of love and gladness,</p>

            <p class="i2">Fraught with holy vows of truth:</p>

            <p>Not a single thought of sadness</p>

            <p class="i2">Shadowing o'er the hopes of youth.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>I am sitting sad and lonely</p>

            <p class="i2">Where she often sat with me,</p>

            <p>And the voice I hear is only</p>

            <p class="i2">Of the silvery streamlet's glee.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Where is she, whose gentle fingers,</p>

            <p class="i2">Oft were wreathed amidst my hair?</p>

            <p>Still methinks their pressure lingers,</p>

            <p class="i2">But, ah no! they are not there.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>They are whiter now than ever,</p>

            <p class="i2">In a light I know not of,</p>

            <p>Sweeping o'er the chords of silver</p>

            <p class="i2">To a song of joy and love.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Though so lonely I am sitting,</p>

            <p class="i2">This sweet thought of joy may bring,</p>

            <p>That she still is round me flitting,</p>

            <p class="i2">On an angel's tireless wing.</p>
        </div>
    </div>
    <hr />

    <h3>THE AUTHOR OF "ION."</h3>

    <p>"Mr. Talfourd is now a Justice, and we find in the London
    journals an account of a visit to his residence by a deputation
    from his native town, to present to him a silver candelabrum,
    subscribed for by a large number of the inhabitants of the
    borough, of all parties. The base of the candelabrum is a
    tripod, on which stands a group of three female figures;
    representing Law, Justice, and Poetry, the two former modeled
    from Flaxman's sculpture on Lord Mansfield's monument in
    Westminster Abbey, the latter from a drawing of the Greek
    Antique, bearing a scroll inscribed with the word "Ion" in
    Greek characters. The arms of Mr. Talfourd and of the borough
    of Reading are engraved on the base. The testimonial was
    presented to the Justice in the presence of his family,
    including the venerable Mrs. Talfourd, his mother, and a large
    circle of private friends. In answer to the gentleman who
    presented the testimonial, Mr. Talfourd replied:</p>

    <p>"If I felt that the circumstances of this hour, and the
    eloquent kindness which has enriched it, appealed for a
    response only to personal qualities, I should be too conscious
    of the poverty of such materials for an answer to attempt one;
    but the associations they suggest expand into wider circles
    than self impels, and while they teach me that this occasion is
    not for the indulgence of vanity, but for the cultivation of
    humble thankfulness, they impart a nobler significance to your
    splendid gift and to your delightful praise. They remind me
    that my intellectual being has, from its first development,
    been nurtured by the partiality of those whom, living and dead,
    you virtually represent to-day; they concentrate the
    wide-spread instances of that peculiar felicity in my lot
    whereby I have been privileged to find aid, comfort,
    inspiration, and allowance in that local community amidst which
    my life began; and they invite me, from that position which
    once bounded my furthest horizon of personal hope, to live
    along the line of past existence; to recognize the same
    influence everywhere pervading it: and to perceive how its
    struggles have been assisted; its errors softened down or
    vailed, and its successes enhanced, by the constant presence of
    home-born regards. Embracing in a rapid glance the events of
    many years, I call to mind how at an early age&mdash;earlier
    than is generally safe or happy for youths&mdash;the incidents
    of life, supplying an unusual stimulus to ordinary powers, gave
    vividness to those dreams of human excellence and progress
    which, at some time, visit all; how by the weakness which
    precluded them from assuming those independent shapes which
    require the plastic force of higher powers, they became
    associated with the scenes among which they were cherished, and
    clove to them with earnest grasp; and how the fervid
    expressions which that combination prompted, were accepted by
    generous friends as indicating faculties 'beyond the reaches of
    my soul,' and <span class="pagenum"><a name="page171"
       id="page171"></a>[pg 171]</span> induced them to encourage
       me by genial prophecies which, with unwearied purpose, they
       endeavored to fulfill. I renew that golden season when such
       vague aspirations were at once cherished and directed by the
       Christian wisdom of the venerated master of Reading
       School&mdash;who, during his fifty years of authority, made
       the name of our town a household word to successive
       generations of scholars, who honored him in all parts of the
       world, and all departments of society&mdash;whose long life
       was one embodied charity&mdash;and who gave steadiness and
       object to those impulses in me which else might have ended,
       as they began, in dreams. I remember, when pausing on the
       slippery threshold of active life, and looking abroad on the
       desolate future, how the earnestness of my friends gave me
       courage, and emboldened me, with no patrons but themselves,
       to enter the profession of my choice by its most dim and
       laborious avenue, and to brace myself for four years of
       arduous pupilage; how they crowded with pleasures the
       intervals of holiday I annually enjoyed among them during
       that period, and another of equal length passed in a special
       pleader's anxieties and toils; how they greeted with praise,
       sweeter than the applause of multitudes to him who wins it,
       the slender literary effusions by which I supplied the
       deficiency of professional income; and how, when I dared the
       hazard of the bar, they provided for me opportunities such
       as riper scholars and other advocates wait long for, by
       confiding important matters to my untried hands; how they
       encircled my first tremulous efforts by an atmosphere of
       affectionate interest, roused my faint heart to exertion,
       absorbed the fever that hung upon its beatings, and
       strengthened my first perceptions of capacity to make my
       thoughts and impressions intelligible, on the instant, to
       the minds of courts and juries. The impulse thus given to my
       professional success at Reading, and in the sessions of
       Berkshire during twelve years, gradually extended its
       influence through my circuit, until it raised me to a
       position among its members beyond my deserts and equal to my
       wishes. Another opening of fortune soon dawned on me; in the
       maturity of life I aspired to a seat in
       parliament&mdash;rather let me say, to <i>that</i> seat
       which only I coveted&mdash;and then, almost without
       solicitation, from many surviving patrons of my childhood,
       and from the sons of others who inherited the kindness of
       their fathers, I received an honor more precious to me as
       the token of concentrated regards than as the means of
       advancement; yet greatly heightened in practical importance
       by the testimony it implied from the best of all witnesses.
       That honor, three times renewed, was attended by passages of
       excitement which look dizzy even in the distance&mdash;with
       much on my part requiring allowance, and much allowance
       rendered by those to whom my utmost services were due; with
       the painful consciousness of wide difference of opinion
       between some of my oldest friends and myself, and with
       painful contests which those differences rendered
       inevitable, yet cheered by attachments which the vivid
       lights struck out in the conflict of contending passions
       exhibited in scatheless strength, until I received that
       appointment which dissolved the parliamentary connection,
       and with it annihilated all the opposition of feeling which
       had sometimes saddened it, and invested the close of my life
       with the old regard, as unclouded by controversy as when it
       illumined its opening. And now the expressions of your
       sympathy await me, when, by the gracious providence of God,
       I have been permitted to enter on a course of less fervid
       action, of serener thought, of plainer duty. For me
       political animosities are forever hushed and absorbed in one
       desire, which I share with you all, for the happiness and
       honor of our country, and the peaceful advancement of our
       species; and all the feverish excitements and perils of
       advocacy, its ardent partisanship with various interests,
       anxieties, and passions, are displaced by the office of
       seeking to discover truth and to maintain justice. I am no
       longer incited to aspire to public favor, even under your
       auspices: my course is marked right onward&mdash;to be
       steadily trodden, whether its duties may accord with the
       prevalent feeling of the hour, or may oppose the temporary
       injustice of its generous errors: but it is not forbidden me
       to prize the esteem of those who have known me longest and
       best, and to indulge the hope that I may retain it to the
       last. To encourage me in the aim still to deserve that
       esteem, I shall look on this gift of those numbers of my
       townsmen whose regards have just found such cordial
       expression. I shall cherish it as a memorial of earliest
       hopes that gleam out from the depth of years; as a memorial
       of a thousand incentives to virtuous endeavor, of sacred
       trusts, of delighted solaces; as a memorial of affections
       which have invested a being, frail, sensitive, and weak,
       with strength not its own, and under God, have insured for
       it an honorable destiny; as a memorial of this hour, when,
       in the presence of those who are nearest and dearest to me
       on earth, my course has been pictured in the light of those
       friendships which have gladdened it&mdash;an hour of which
       the memory and the influence will not pass away, but, I
       fondly trust, will incite those who will bear my name after
       me, and to whose charge this gift will be confided when I
       shall cease to behold it, better to deserve, though they
       cannot more dearly appreciate, such a succession of
       kindnesses as that to which the crowning grace is now added,
       and for which, with my whole heart, I thank you."</p>
    <hr />

    <p>Cultivate and exercise a serene faith, and you shall acquire
    wonderful power and insight; its results are sure and
    illimitable, moulding and moving to its purposes equally
    spirit, mind, and matter. It is the power-endowing essential of
    all action.</p>
    <hr />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page172"
       id="page172"></a>[pg 172]</span>

    <h2>Recent Deaths.</h2>

    <p>Under this head we have rarely to present so many articles
    as are demanded by the foreign journals received during the
    week, and by the melancholy disaster which caused the death of
    the MARCHESA D'OSSOLI, with her husband, and Mr. SUMNER. Of
    MARGARET FULLER D'OSSOLI a sketch is given in the preceding
    pages, and we reserve for our next number an article upon the
    history of Sir ROBERT PEEL. The death of this illustrious
    person has caused a profound sensation not only in Great
    Britain, but throughout Europe. In the House of Lords, most
    eloquent and impressive speeches upon the exalted character of
    the deceased, and the irreparable loss of the country, were
    delivered by the Marquis of Lansdowne, Lord Stanley, Lord
    Brougham, the Duke of Wellington, and the Duke of Cleveland,
    and in the House of Commons, by Lord John Russell, and Messrs.
    Hume, Gladstone, Goulburn, Herries, Napier, Inglis and
    Somervile. The House, in testimony of its grief, adjourned
    without business, an act without precedent, except in case of
    death in the royal family. A noble tribute of respect was also
    paid by the French Assembly to the memory of Sir Robert Peel.
    The President, M. Dupin, pronounced an affecting eulogy upon
    the deceased, which was received with the liveliest sympathy by
    the Chamber, and was ordered to be recorded in its journal. A
    compliment like this is totally unprecedented in France, and
    the death of no other foreigner in the world could have
    elicited it.</p>
    <hr />

    <h3>BOYER, EX-PRESIDENT OF HAYTI.</h3>

    <p>Jean Pierre Boyer, a mulatto, distinguished in affairs, and
    for his abilities and justice, was born at Port-au-Prince, on
    the 6th of February, 1776. His father, by some said to have
    been of mixed blood, was a tailor and shopkeeper, of fair
    reputation and some property, and his mother a negress from
    Congo in Africa, who had been a slave in the neighborhood. He
    joined the French Commissioners, Santhonax and Polverel, in
    whose company, after the arrival of the English, he withdrew to
    Jacqemel. Here he attached himself to Rigaud, set out with him
    to France, and was captured on his passage by the Americans,
    during the war between France and the United States. Being
    released at the end of the war, he proceeded to Paris, where he
    remained until the organization of Le Clerc's expedition
    against St. Domingo. This expedition he with many other persons
    of color joined; but on the death of Le Clerc he attached
    himself to the party of Petion, with whom he acted during the
    remainder of that chieftain's life, which terminated on the
    29th of March, 1818. Under Petion he rose from the post of
    aid-de-camp and private secretary to be general of the
    arrondissement of Port-au-Prince; and Petion named him for the
    succession in the Presidency, to which he was inducted without
    opposition. When the revolution broke out in the northern part
    of the island, in 1820, Boyer was invited by the insurgents to
    place himself at their head; and on the death of Christophe,
    the northern and southern parts of the island were united under
    his administration into one government, under the style of the
    Republic of Hayti. In the following year the Spanish
    inhabitants of the eastern part of the island voluntarily
    placed themselves under the government of Boyer, who thus
    became, chiefly by the force of character, without much
    positive effort, the undisputed master of all St. Domingo.</p>

    <p>It is not questionable that the productions and general
    prosperity of the island decreased under Boyer's
    administration. The blacks needed the stringent policy of some
    such tyrant as Christophe. And the popularity of Boyer was
    greatly lessened by his approval or direct negotiation of a
    treaty with France, by which he agreed to pay to that country
    an indemnity of 150,000,000 of francs, in five annual
    instalments. The French Government recognized the independence
    of Hayti, but it was impossible for Boyer to meet his
    engagements. He however conducted the administration with
    industry, discretion, and repose, for fifteen years, when a
    long-slumbering opposition, for his presumed preference of the
    mulatto to the black population in the dispensations of
    government favor, began to exhibit itself openly. When this
    feeling was manifested in the second chamber of the
    Legislature, in 1843, the promptness and decision with which he
    attempted to suppress it, induced an insurrection among the
    troops, and he was compelled to fly, with about thirty
    followers, to Jamaica. He afterward proceeded to London, and
    finally to Paris, where he lived quietly in the Rue de
    Madeline, enjoying the respect of many eminent men, and
    surrounded by attached followers who shared his exile, until
    the 10th of July. On the 12th he was buried with appropriate
    funeral honors.</p>
    <hr />

    <h3>THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.</h3>

    <p>The death of the Duke of Cambridge, brother of the late
    William IV., occurred the 8th of July, and was quite sudden. He
    was the seventh son of George III., was born in 1774, received
    his earliest education at Kew, and finished his studies at
    Gottingen. He entered the army, and experiencing much active
    service, was promoted, until in 1813 he attained the
    distinction of Field Marshal. He soon afterward became
    Governor-General of Hanover, and continued to fill that post
    until the accession of the Duke of Cumberland, in 1839. His
    subsequent life presented few features of much interest. His
    name was to be found as a patron and a contributor to many most
    valuable institutions, and he took delight in presiding at
    benevolent festivals and anniversary dinners, when, though
    without the slightest pretension to
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page173"
       id="page173"></a>[pg 173]</span> eloquence, the frankness
       and <i>bonhommie</i> of his manners, and his simple
       straight-forward earnestness of speech, used to make him an
       universal favorite. He took but little part in the active
       strife of parties. He died in his seventy-seventh year,
       leaving one son, Prince George of Cambridge, and two
       daughters.</p>
    <hr />

    <h3>GEORGE W. ERVING.</h3>

    <p>This distinguished public man died in New York, on the 22d
    ult. A correspondent of the <i>Evening Post</i> gives the
    following account of his history:</p>

    <p>"The journals furnish us with a brief notice of the death of
    the venerable George W. Erving, who was for so many years,
    dating from the foundation of our government, connected with
    the diplomatic history of the country, as an able, successful
    and distinguished negotiator. The career of this gentleman has
    been so marked, and is so instructive, that it becomes not less
    a labor of love than an act of public duty, with the press, to
    make it the occasion of comment. At the breaking out of our
    revolution, the father of the subject of this imperfect sketch
    was an eminent loyalist of Massachusetts, residing in Boston,
    connected by affinity with the Shirleys, the Winslows, the
    Bowdons, and Winthrops of that State. Like many other men of
    wealth, at that day, he joined the royal cause, forsook his
    country and went to England. There his son, George William, who
    had always been a sickly delicate child, reared with
    difficulty, was educated, and finally graduated at Oxford,
    where he was a classmate of Copley, now Lord Lyndhurst.
    Following this, on the attainment of his majority, and during
    the lifetime of his father, notwithstanding the most powerful
    and seductive efforts to attach him to the side of Great
    Britain, the more persevering from the great wealth, and the
    intellectual attainments of the young
    American&mdash;notwithstanding the importunities of misjudging
    friends and relatives, the incitements found in ties of
    consanguinity with some, and his intimate personal associations
    with many of the young nobility at that aristocratic seat of
    learning, and notwithstanding the blandishments of fashionable
    society&mdash;the love of country and the holy inspirations of
    patriotism, triumphed over all the arts that power could
    control, and those allurements usually so potent where youth is
    endowed with great wealth. The young patriot promptly,
    cheerfully, sacrificed all, for his country&mdash;turned his
    back upon the unnatural stepmother, and came back, to share the
    good or evil fortunes of his native land.</p>

    <p>"Such facts as these should not be lost sight of at the
    present day&mdash;such an example it is well to refer to now,
    in the day of our prosperity. And we would ask&mdash;in no
    ill-natured or censorious spirit, but rather that the lessons
    of history should not be forgotten&mdash;how many young men of
    these days under like circumstances, would make a similar
    sacrifice upon the altar of their country? The solemn and
    impressive event which has produced this notice seems to render
    this question not entirely inappropriate; for years should not
    dim in the minds of the rising generation the memory of those
    pure and strong men, who, in the early trials of their country,
    rose equal to the occasion. When, at a later period, political
    parties began to develop themselves, Mr. Erving, then a
    resident of Boston, identified himself with the great
    republican party, and became actively instrumental in securing
    the election of Thomas Jefferson to the Presidency. From that
    time forward until the day of his death, he never faltered in
    his political faith.</p>

    <p>"Few men have been, for so long a period, so intimately
    connected with the diplomatic history of our country. He
    received his first public appointment, as Consul and
    Commissioner of Claims at London, nearly half a century since.
    This appointment was conferred upon him without his
    solicitation, and was at first declined. Subsequent reflection,
    however, induced him to waive all private and personal
    considerations, and he accepted the post assigned to him. The
    manner in which he discharged the duties of that trust,
    impressed the government with the expediency of securing his
    services in more important negotiations, and he was sent as
    Commissioner and Charge d'Affaires to Denmark. His mission to
    the court of that country was, at that period, a highly
    important one. The negotiations he had to conduct there,
    required great tact and ability.</p>

    <p>"While at Copenhagen, he secured, in an eminent degree, the
    esteem and confidence of the Danish authorities, and brought to
    a successful solution the questions then arising out of the
    interests committed to him. In consequence, the government was
    enabled to avail itself of his experience at the Court of
    Berlin, where events seemed to require the exercise of great
    diplomatic ability. He was afterward appointed to Madrid,
    where, by his highly honorable personal character, and
    captivating manners, he obtained great influence, even at that
    most proud and distrustful court, and conducted, with
    consummate skill and marked success, the important and delicate
    negotiations then pending between the United States and Spain.
    He remained at Madrid for many years, where he attained the
    reputation of being one of the most able and accomplished
    diplomatists that the United States had ever sent abroad. Upon
    his final retirement from this post, and, in fact, from all
    public employment, the administration of General Jackson sought
    to secure his services in the mission to Constantinople, but
    the proffered appointment was declined.</p>

    <p>"There are many interesting incidents in his public and
    diplomatic career, which a more extended notice would enable us
    to detail. Indeed, we hope that so instructive a life as that
    of Mr. Erving may hereafter find a fit historian. That
    historian may not have to chronicle victories won upon the
    battle <span class="pagenum"><a name="page174"
       id="page174"></a>[pg 174]</span> field, but the civic
       achievement he will have to record, if not so dazzling as
       the former, will, at least, be as replete with evidences of
       public usefulness.</p>

    <p>"The latter years of his life were passed in Europe, chiefly
    in Paris. The public agitations consequent upon the last French
    revolution, need of quiet at his advanced age, and the
    presentiment of approaching dissolution, induced him to return
    home. Indeed it was meet that he should close his mortal career
    in that country which he had so long and faithfully served, and
    whose welfare and happiness had been the constant object of his
    every earthly aspiration."</p>
    <hr />

    <h3>DR. JOHN BURNS.</h3>

    <p>Among those who perished in the wreck of the <i>Orion</i>,
    was Dr. John Burns, Professor of Surgery in the University of
    Glasgow, aged about eighty years. Dr. Burns held a
    distinguished place in the medical world, for at least half a
    century, as an author and a teacher. He was a son of the Rev.
    Dr. John Burns, for more than sixty years minister of the
    Barony parish of Glasgow, who died about fourteen years ago, at
    the age of ninety. He was originally intended to be a
    manufacturer, and in his time the necessary training for this
    business included a practical application to the loom. A
    disease of the knee-joint unfitted him for becoming a weaver,
    and he turned his attention to the medical profession, winch
    the neighboring university afforded him easy and ample means of
    studying. He early entered into business as a general
    practitioner, but his ambition led him very soon to be an
    instructor. In 1800, he published <i>Dissertations on
    Inflammation</i>, which raised his name to a high position in
    the literature of his profession. In 1807, he published a
    kindred volume on Hemorrhage. In the mean time he had turned
    his attention to lecturing, and he continued to give, for many
    years, lectures on midwifery. His observations and experience
    on this subject he offered to the world in <i>The Principles of
    Midwifery</i>, a work which has run through twelve editions,
    and been translated into several of the continental languages.
    It is very elaborate and valuable, and as each succeeding
    edition presented the result of the author's increasing
    experience, it became a standard in every medical library. Its
    chief defect is a want of clearness in the arrangement, and
    sometimes in the language. In 1815, the crown instituted a
    Professorship of Surgery in the Glasgow University, and the
    Duke of Montrose, its chancellor, appointed to it Mr. Burns, a
    choice which the voice of the profession generally approved.
    The value of the professorship might average 500<i>l.</i>
    yearly.</p>

    <p>As a professor, Dr. Burns was highly popular. He had a
    cheerful and attractive manner, and was fond of bringing in
    anecdotes more or less applicable, but always enlivening. His
    language was plain and clear, but not always correct or
    elegant. In personal appearance, he was of the middle size, of
    an anxious and careworn, but gentlemanly and intelligent,
    expression of countenance. In 1830, he published <i>Principles
    of Surgery</i>, first volume, which was followed by another.
    This work is confused, both in style and arrangement, and has
    been very little read, but it did credit to his zeal and
    industry, for he had now acquired fame and fortune, and had
    long had at his command the most extensive practice in the west
    of Scotland. John Burns, the younger, had written and published
    a work on the evidences and principles of Christianity, which
    was extensively read, and went through many editions. His name
    was not at first on the title-page, but that it was the
    production of a medical man was obvious. He gave a copy to his
    father, who shortly after said, "Ah, John, I wish <i>you</i>
    could have written such a book!" Dr. Burns has many friends in
    the United States, who were once his pupils. One of the most
    eminent of them is Professor Pattison of the Medical Department
    of the New York University, in this city.</p>
    <hr />

    <h3>HORACE SUMNER.</h3>

    <p>This gentleman, one of the victims of the lamentable wreck
    of the Elizabeth, was the youngest son of the late Charles P.
    Sumner, of Boston, for many years Sheriff of Suffolk county,
    and the brother of George Sumner, Esq., of Boston, who is well
    known for his legal and literary eminence throughout the
    country. He was about twenty-four years of ago, and has been
    abroad for nearly a year, traveling in the south of Europe for
    the benefit of his health. The past winter was spent by him
    chiefly in Florence, where he was on terms of familiar intimacy
    with the Marquis and Marchioness d'Ossoli, and was induced to
    take passage in the same vessel with them for his return to his
    native land. He was a young man of singular modesty of
    deportment, of an original turn of mind, and greatly endeared
    to his friends by the sweetness of his disposition and the
    purity of his character.&mdash;<i>Tribune</i>.</p>
    <hr />

    <h2>The Fine Arts.</h2>

    <p>POWERS'S STATUE OF CALHOUN.&mdash;An unfortunate fatality
    appears to wait upon the works of Hiram Powers. It is but a few
    weeks since his "Eve" was lost on the coast of Spain, and it is
    still uncertain here whether that exquisite statue is preserved
    without such injury as materially to affect its value. And his
    masterpiece in history&mdash;perhaps his masterpiece in all
    departments&mdash;the statue of Calhoun, which has been so
    anxiously looked-for ever since the death of the great senator,
    was buried under the waves in which Madame d'Ossoli and Horace
    Sumner were lost, on the morning of the 19th, near Fire Island.
    At the time this sheet is sent to press we are uncertain as to
    the recovery of <span class="pagenum"><a name="page175"
       id="page175"></a>[pg 175]</span> the statue, but we hope for
       the sake of art and for the satisfaction of all the parties
       interested, that it will still reach its destination. It is
       insured in Charleston, and Mr. Kellogg, the friend and agent
       of Mr. Powers, has been at the scene of the misfortune, with
       all necessary means for its preservation, if that be
       possible.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>HORACE VERNET, the great painter, has returned to Paris from
    St. Petersburgh. Offensive reports were current respecting his
    journey: he had been paid, it was alleged, in most princely
    style by the Emperor, for his masterly efforts in translating
    to canvas the principal incidents of the Hungarian and Polish
    wars. He came back, it was declared, loaded and content, with a
    hundred thousand dollars and a kiss&mdash;an actual
    kiss&mdash;from his Imperial Majesty. M. Vernet has deemed it
    necessary to publish a letter, correcting what was erroneous in
    these reports. He says:&mdash;"In repairing to Russia I was
    actuated by only one desire, and had but a single object, and
    that was, to thank His Majesty, the Emperor, for the honors
    with which he had already loaded me, and for the proofs of his
    munificence which I had previously received. I intended to
    bring back, and in fact have brought back from the journey,
    nothing but the satisfaction of having performed an entirely
    disinterested duty of respectful gratitude." It is true,
    however, that he lent his powers to illustrate the triumph of
    despotism, and if he brought back no gold the matter is not all
    helped by that fact.</p>
    <hr />

    <h2>Authors and Books.</h2>

    <p>THE REV. JAMES H. PERKINS, of Cincinnati, whose suicide
    during a fit of madness, several months ago, will be generally
    recollected for the many expressions of profound regret which
    it occasioned, we are pleased to learn, is to be the subject of
    a biography by the Rev. W.H. Channing. Mr. Perkins was a man of
    the finest capacities, and of large and genial scholarship. He
    wrote much, in several departments, and almost always well. His
    historical works, relating chiefly to the western States, have
    been little read in this part of the Union; but his
    contributions to the North American Review and the Christian
    Examiner, and his tales, sketches, essays, and poems, printed
    under various signatures, have entitled him to a desirable
    reputation as a man of letters. These are all to be collected
    and edited by Mr. Channing.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>Mrs. ESLING, better known as Miss Catherine H. Waterman,
    under which name she wrote the popular and beautiful lyric,
    "Brother, Come Home!" has in press a collection of her
    writings, under the title of <i>The Broken Bracelet and other
    Poems</i>, to be published by Lindsay &amp; Blackiston of
    Philadelphia.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>M. ROSSEEUW ST. HILAIRE, of Paris, is proceeding with his
    great work on the History of Spain with all the rapidity
    consistent with the nature of the subject and the elaborate
    studies it requires. The work was commenced ten years ago, and
    has since been the main occupation of its author. The fifth
    volume has just been published, and receives the applause of
    the most competent critics. It includes the time from 1336 to
    1492, which comes down to the very eve of the great discovery
    of Columbus, and includes that most brilliant period, in
    respect of which the history of Prescott has hitherto stood
    alone, namely, the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. M. St.
    Hilaire has had access to many sources of information not
    accessible to any former writer, and is said to have availed
    himself of them with all the success that could be anticipated
    from his rare faculty of historical analysis and the beautiful
    transparency of his style.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>THE REV. ROBERT ARMITAGE, a rector in Shropshire, is the
    author of "Dr. Hookwell," and "Dr. Johnson, his Religious Life
    and his Death." In this last work, the <i>Quarterly Review</i>
    observes, "Johnson's name is made the peg on which to hang
    up&mdash;or rather the line on which to hang out&mdash;much
    hackneyed sentimentality, and some borrowed learning, with an
    awful and overpowering quantity of twaddle and rigmarole." The
    writer concludes his reviewal: "We are sorry to have had to
    make such an exposure of a man, who, apart from the morbid
    excess of vanity which has evidently led him into this scrape,
    may be, for aught we know, worthy and amiable. His exposure,
    however, is on his own head: he has ostentatiously and
    pertinaciously forced his ignorance, conceit, and effrontery on
    public notice." We quite agree with the <i>Quarterly</i>.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>JOHN MILLS&mdash;"John St. Hugh Mills," it was written
    then&mdash;was familiarly known in the printing offices of Ann
    street in this city a dozen years ago; he assisted General
    Morris in editing the Mirror, and wrote paragraphs of foreign
    gossip for other journals. A good-natured aunt died in England,
    leaving him a few thousand a year, and he returned to spend his
    income upon a stud and pack and printing office, sending from
    the latter two or three volumes of pleasant-enough mediocrity
    every season. His last work, with the imprint of Colburn, is
    called "Our Country."</p>
    <hr />

    <p>Mr. PRESCOTT, the historian, who is now in England, has
    received the degree of Doctor of Civil Law from the University
    of Oxford. Two or three years ago he was elected into the
    Institute of France.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>DR. MAGINN's "Homeric Ballads," which gave so much
    attraction during several years to <i>Fraser's Magazine</i>,
    have been collected and republished in a small octavo.</p>
    <hr />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page176"
       id="page176"></a>[pg 176]</span>

    <p>Mr. KENDALL, of the <i>Picayune</i>, has sailed once more
    for Paris, to superintend there the completion of his great
    work on the late war in Mexico upon which he has been engaged
    for the last two years. The highest talent has been employed in
    the embellishment of this book, and the care and expense
    incurred may be estimated from the fact that sixty men,
    coloring and preparing the plates, can finish only one hundred
    and twenty copies in a month. The original sketches were taken
    by a German, Carl Nebel, who accompanied Mr. Kendall in Mexico,
    and drew his battle scenes at the very time of their
    occurrence. He has engaged in the prosecution of the whole
    enterprise with as much zeal and interest as Mr. Kendall
    himself, and has spared no pains to procure the assistance of
    the most skillful operatives. The book is folio in size, and
    will be published early in the fall. The letter press has long
    been finished, and only waiting for the completion of the
    plates. These are twelve, and their subjects are Palo Alto, the
    Capture of Monterey, Buena Vista: the Landing at Vera Cruz,
    Cerro Gordo, Contreras, Cherubusco, Molino del Rey, two views
    of the Storming of Chapultepec, and Gen. Scott's entrance into
    the city of Mexico. The lithographs are said to be unsurpassed
    in felicity of design, perfection of coloring, and in the
    animation and expression of all the figures and groups. No such
    finished specimens of colored lithography were ever exhibited
    in this country. The plates will have unusual value, not only
    on account of their intrinsic superiority, but because of their
    rare historical merit, since they are exact delineations of the
    topography of the scenes they represent and faithful
    representations in every particular of the military positions
    and movements at the moment chosen for illustration.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>MRS. TROLLOPPE is as busy as she has ever been since the
    failure of her shop at Cincinnati&mdash;trading in fiction,
    with the capital won by her first adventure in this way, "The
    Domestic Manners of the Americans." Her last novel, which is
    just out, has in its title the odor of her customary vulgarity;
    it is called "Petticoat Government." Her son, Mr. A. Trolloppe,
    his just given the world a new book also, "La Vendee" a
    historical romance which is well spoken of.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>THE REV. DR. WILLIAM R. WILLIAMS, it will gratify the
    friends of literature and religion to learn, has consented to
    give to the press several works upon which he has for some time
    been engaged. They will be published by Gould, Kendall &amp;
    Lincoln, of Boston. In the next number of <i>The
    International</i> we shall write more largely of this
    subject.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>Dr. BUCKLAND, the Dean of Westminster&mdash;the eloquent and
    the learned writer of the remarkable "Bridgewater Treatise" is
    bereft of reason, and is now an inmate of an asylum near
    Oxford.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>Dr. WAYLAND's "Tractate on Education," in which he proposes
    a thorough reform in the modes of college instruction, has, we
    are glad to see, had its desired effect. The Providence
    <i>Journal</i> states that the entire subscription to the fund
    of Brown University has reached $110,000, which is within
    $15,000 of the sum originally proposed. The subscription having
    advanced so far, and with good assurances of further aid, the
    committee have reported to the President, that the success of
    the plan, so far as the money is concerned, may be regarded as
    assured, and that consequently it will be safe to go on with
    the new organization as rapidly as may he deemed advisable. Of
    the sum raised, about $96,000 have come from Providence. A
    meeting of the Corporation of the University will soon be
    called, when the entire plan will be decided upon, and carried
    into effect as rapidly as so important a change can be made
    with prudence.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>SIR JAMES EMERSON TENNANT has in the press of Mr. Murray a
    work which will probably be read with much interest in this
    country, upon Christianity in Ceylon, its introduction and
    progress under the Portuguese, the Dutch, the British, and the
    American missions, with a Historical View of the Brahminical
    and Buddhist superstitions.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>CHARLES EAMES, formerly one of the editors of the Washington
    <i>Union</i>, and more recently United States Commissioner to
    the Sandwich Islands, is to be the orator of the societies of
    Columbia College, at the commencement, on the evening of the
    6th of October. Bayard Taylor will be the poet for the same
    occasion.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>CHATEAUBRIAND'S MEMOIRS.&mdash;The eleventh and last volume
    has just been published at Paris in the book form, and will
    soon be completed in the <i>feuilletons</i>. An additional
    volume is however to be brought out, under the title of
    "Supplement to the Memoirs."</p>
    <hr />

    <p>THE THIRD AND FOURTH SERIES of Southey's Common-Place Book
    are in preparation, and they will be reprinted by the Harpers.
    The third contains Analytical Readings, and the fourth,
    Original Memoranda.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>WASHINGTON IRVING's Life of General Washington, in one
    octavo volume, is announced by Murray. It will appear
    simultaneously from the press of Putnam.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>MRS. JAMESON has in press Legends of the Monastic Orders, as
    illustrated in art.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>Dr. ACHILLI is the subject of an article in the July number
    of the <i>Dublin Review</i>&mdash;the leading Roman Catholic
    journal in the English language. Of course the history of the
    missionary is not presented in very flattering colors.</p>
    <hr />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page177"
       id="page177"></a>[pg 177]</span>

    <h4>[From Household Words.]</h4>

    <h2>THE SERF OF POBEREZE.</h2>

    <p>The materials for the following tale were furnished to the
    writer while traveling last year near the spot on which the
    events it narrates took place. It is intended to convey a
    notion of some of the phases of Polish, or rather Russian
    serfdom (for, as truly explained by one of the characters in a
    succeeding page, it is Russian), and of the catastrophes it has
    occasioned, not only in Catherine's time, but occasionally at
    the present. The Polish nobles&mdash;themselves in
    slavery&mdash;earnestly desire the emancipation of their serfs,
    which Russian domination forbids.</p>

    <p>The small town of Pobereze stands at the foot of a stony
    mountain, watered by numerous springs in the district of
    Podolia, in Poland. It consists of a mass of miserable Cabins,
    with a Catholic chapel and two Greek churches in the midst, the
    latter distinguished by their gilded towers. On one side of the
    market-place stands the only inn, and on the opposite side are
    several shops, from whose doors and windows look out several
    dirtily dressed Jews. At a little distance, on a hill covered
    with vines and fruit-trees, stands the Palace, which does not,
    perhaps, exactly merit such an appellation, but who would dare
    to call otherwise the dwelling of the lord of the domain?</p>

    <p>On the morning when our tale opens, there had issued from
    this palace the common enough command to the superintendent of
    the estate, to furnish the master with a couple of strong boys,
    for service in the stables, and a young girl to be employed in
    the wardrobe. Accordingly, a number of the best-looking young
    peasants of Olgogrod assembled in the avenue leading to the
    palace. Some were accompanied by their sorrowful and weeping
    parents, in all of whose hearts, however, rose the faint
    whispered hope, "Perhaps it will not be <i>my</i> child they
    will choose!"</p>

    <p>Being brought into the court-yard of the palace, the Count
    Roszynski, with the several members of his family, had come out
    to pass in review his growing subjects. He was a small and
    insignificant-looking man, about fifty years of age, with
    deep-set eyes and overhanging brows. His wife, who was nearly
    of the same age, was immensely stout, with a vulgar face and a
    loud, disagreeable voice. She made herself ridiculous in
    endeavoring to imitate the manners and bearing of the
    aristocracy, into whose sphere she and her husband were
    determined to force themselves, in spite of the humbleness of
    their origin. The father of the "Right-Honorable" Count
    Roszynski was a valet, who, having been a great favorite with
    his master, amassed sufficient money to enable his son, who
    inherited it, to purchase the extensive estate of Olgogrod, and
    with it the sole proprietorship of 1600 human beings. Over them
    he had complete control; and, when maddened by oppression, if
    they dared resent, woe unto them! They could be thrust into a
    noisome dungeon, and chained by one hand from the light of day
    for years, until their very existence was forgotten by all
    except the jailor who brought daily their pitcher of water and
    morsel of dry bread.</p>

    <p>Some of the old peasants say that Sava, father of the young
    peasant girl, who stands by the side of an old woman, at the
    head of her companions in the court-yard, is immured in one of
    these subterranean jails. Sava was always about the Count, who,
    it was said, had brought him from some distant land, with his
    little motherless child. Sava placed her under the care of an
    old man and woman, who had the charge of the bees in a forest
    near the palace, where he came occasionally to visit her. But
    once, six long months passed, and he did not come! In vain
    Anielka wept, in vain she cried, "Where is my father?" No
    father appeared. At last it was said that Sava had been sent to
    a long distance with a large sum of money, and had been killed
    by robbers. In the ninth year of one's life the most poignant
    grief is quickly effaced, and after six months Anielka ceased
    to grieve. The old people were very kind to her, and loved her
    as if sue were their own child. That Anielka might be chosen to
    serve in the palace never entered their head, for who would be
    so barbarous as to take the child away from an old woman of
    seventy and her aged husband?</p>

    <p>To-day was the first time in her life that she had been so
    far from home. She looked curiously on all she
    saw,&mdash;particularly on a young lady about her own age,
    beautifully dressed, and a youth of eighteen, who had
    apparently just returned from a ride on horse-back, as he held
    a whip in his hand, whilst walking up and down examining the
    boys who were placed in a row before him. He chose two amongst
    them, and the boys were led away to the stables.</p>

    <p>"And I choose this young girl," said Constantia Roszynski,
    indicating Anielka; "she is the prettiest of them all. I do not
    like ugly faces about me."</p>

    <p>When Constantia returned to the drawing-room, she gave
    orders for Anielka to be taken to her apartments, and placed
    under the tutelage of Mademoiselle Dufour, a French maid,
    recently arrived from the first milliner's shop in Odessa. Poor
    girl! when they separated her from her adopted mother, and
    began leading her toward the palace, she rushed, with a shriek
    of agony, from them, and grasped her old protectress tightly in
    her arms! They were torn violently asunder, and the Count
    Roszynski quietly asked, "Is it her daughter, or her
    grand-daughter?"</p>

    <p>"Neither, my lord,&mdash;only an adopted, child."</p>

    <p>"But who will lead the old woman home, as she is blind?"</p>

    <p>"I will, my lord," replied one of his servants, bowing to
    the ground; "I will let her, walk by the side of my horse, and
    when she <span class="pagenum"><a name="page178"
       id="page178"></a>[pg 178]</span> is in her cabin she will
       have her old husband,&mdash;they must take care of each
       other."</p>

    <p>So saying, he moved away with the rest of the peasants and
    domestics. But the poor old woman had to be dragged along by
    two men; for in the midst of her shrieks and tears she had
    fallen to the ground, almost without life.</p>

    <p>And Anielka? They did not allow her to weep long. She had
    now to sit all day in the corner of a room to sew. She was
    expected to do everything well from the first; and if she did
    not, she was kept without food or cruelly punished. Morning and
    evening she had to help Mdlle. Dufour to dress and undress her
    mistress. But Constantia, although she looked with hauteur on
    everybody beneath her, and expected to be slavishly obeyed, was
    tolerably kind to the poor orphan. Her true torment began,
    when, on laving her young lady's room, she had to assist Mdlle.
    Dufour. Notwithstanding that she tried sincerely to do her
    best, she was never able to satisfy her, or to draw from her
    naught but harsh reproaches.</p>

    <p>Thus two months passed.</p>

    <p>One day Mdlle. Dufour went very early to confession, and
    Anielka was seized with an eager longing to gaze once more in
    peace and freedom on the beautiful blue sky and green trees, as
    she used to do when the first rays of the rising sun streamed
    in at the window of the little forest cabin. She ran into the
    garden. Enchanted by the sight of so many beautiful flowers,
    she went farther and farther along the smooth and winding
    walks. till she entered the forest. She who had been, so long
    away from her beloved trees, roamed where they were thickest.
    Here she gazes boldly around. She sees no one! She is alone! A
    little farther on she meets with a rivulet which flows through
    the forest. Here she remembers that she has not yet prayed. She
    kneels down, and with hands clasped and eyes upturned she
    begins to sing in a sweet voice the Hymn to the virgin.</p>

    <p>As she went on she sang louder and with increased fervor.
    Her breast heaved with emotion, her eyes shone with unusual
    brilliancy; but when the hymn was finished she lowered her
    head, tears began to fall over her cheeks, until at last she
    sobbed aloud. She might have remained long in this condition,
    had not some one come behind her, saying, "Do not cry, my poor
    girl; it is better to sing than to weep." The intruder raised
    her head, wiped her eyes with his handkerchief, and kissed her
    on the forehead.</p>

    <p>It was the Count's son, Leon!</p>

    <p>"You must not cry," he continued; "be calm, and when the
    filipony (peddlers) come, buy yourself a pretty handkerchief."
    He then gave her a ruble and walked away. Anielka, after
    concealing the coin in her corset, ran quickly back to the
    palace.</p>

    <p>Fortunately, Mdlle. Dufour had not yet returned, and Anielka
    seated herself in her accustomed corner. She often took out the
    ruble to, gaze fondly upon it, and set to work to make a little
    purse, which, having fastened to a ribbon, she hung round her
    neck. She did not dream of spending it, for it would have
    deeply grieved her to part with the gift of the only person in
    the whole house who had looked kindly on her.</p>

    <p>From this time Anielka remained always in her young
    mistress's room; she was better dressed, and Mdlle. Dufour
    ceased to persecute her. To what did she owe this sudden
    change? Perhaps to a remonstrance from Leon. Constantia ordered
    Anielka to sit beside her whilst taking her lessons from her
    music masters, and on her going to the drawing-room, she was
    left in her apartments alone. Being thus more kindly treated.
    Anielka lost by degrees her timidity; and when her young
    mistress, whilst occupied over some embroidery, would tell her
    to sing, she did so boldly and with a steady voice. A greater
    favor awaited her. Constantia, when unoccupied, began teaching
    Anielka to read in Polish; and Mdlle. Dufour thought it politic
    to follow the example of her mistress, and began to teach her
    French.</p>

    <p>Meanwhile, a new kind of torment commenced. Having easily
    learnt the two languages, Anielka acquired an irresistible
    passion for reading. Books had for her the charm of the
    forbidden fruit, for she could only read by stealth at night,
    or when her mistress went visiting in the neighborhood. The
    kindness hitherto shown her for a time, began to relax. Leon
    had set off on a tour, accompanied by his old tutor, and a
    bosom friend, as young, as gay, and as thoughtless as
    himself.</p>

    <p>So passed the two years of Leon's absence. When he returned,
    Anielka was seventeen, and had become tall and handsome. No one
    who had not seen her during this time, would have recognized
    her. Of this number was Leon. In the midst of perpetual gayety
    and change, it was not possible he could have remembered a poor
    peasant girl; but in Anielka's memory he had remained as a
    superior being, as her benefactor, as the only one who had
    spoken kindly to her, when poor, neglected, forlorn! When in
    some French romance she met with a young man of twenty, of a
    noble character and handsome appearance, she bestowed on him
    the name of Leon. The recollection of the kiss be had given her
    ever brought a burning blush to her cheek, and made her sigh
    deeply.</p>

    <p>One day Leon came to his sister's room. Anielka was there,
    seated in a corner at work. Leon himself had considerably
    changed; from a boy he had grown into a man. "I suppose,
    Constantia," he said, "you have been told what a, good boy I
    am, and with what docility I shall submit myself to the
    matrimonial yoke, which the Count and Countess have provided
    for me?" and he began whistling, and danced some steps of the
    Mazurka.</p>

    <p>"Perhaps you will be refused," said Constantia
    coldly.</p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page179"
       id="page179"></a>[pg 179]</span>

    <p>"Refused! Oh, no. The old Prince has already given his
    consent, and as for his daughter, she is desperately in love
    with me. Look at these moustachios; could anything be more
    irresistible?" and he glanced in the glass and twirled them
    round his fingers; then continuing in a graver tone, he said,
    "To tell the sober truth, I cannot say that I reciprocate. My
    intended is not at all to my taste. She is nearly thirty, and
    so thin, that whenever I look at her, I am reminded of my old
    tutor's anatomical sketches. But, thanks to her Parisian
    dress-maker, she makes up a tolerably good figure, and looks
    well in a Cachemere. Of all things, you know, I wished for a
    wife with an imposing appearance, and I don't care about love.
    I find it's not fashionable, and only exists in the exalted
    imagination of poets."</p>

    <p>"Surely people are in love with one another sometimes," said
    the sister.</p>

    <p>"Sometimes," repeated Anielka, inaudibly. The dialogue had
    painfully affected her, and she knew not why. Her heart beat
    quickly, and her face was flushed, and made her look more
    lovely than ever.</p>

    <p>"Perhaps. Of course we profess to adore every pretty woman,"
    Leon added abruptly. "But, my dear sister, what a charming
    ladies' maid you have!" He approached the corner, where Anielka
    sat, and bent on her a coarse familiar smile. Anielka, although
    a serf, was displeased, and returned it with a glance full of
    dignity. But when her eyes rested on the youth's handsome face,
    a feeling, which had been gradually and silently growing in her
    young and inexperienced heart, predominated over her pride and
    displeasure. She wished ardently to recall herself to Leon's
    memory, and half unconsciously raised her hand to the little
    purse which always hung round her neck. She took from it the
    rouble he had given her.</p>

    <p>"See!" shouted Leon, "what a droll girl; how proud she is of
    her riches! Why, girl, you are a woman of fortune, mistress of
    a whole rouble!"</p>

    <p>"I hope she came by it honestly," said the old Countess, who
    at this moment entered.</p>

    <p>At this insinuation, shame and indignation kept Anielka, for
    a time, silent. She replaced the money quickly in its purse,
    with the bitter thought that the few happy moments which had
    been so indelibly stamped upon her memory, had been utterly
    forgotten by Leon. To clear herself, she at last stammered out,
    seeing they all looked at her inquiringly, "Do you not
    remember, M. Leon, that you gave me this coin two years ago in
    the garden"?"</p>

    <p>"How odd!" exclaimed Leon, laughing, "do you expect me to
    remember all the pretty girls to whom I have given money? But I
    suppose you are right, or you would not have treasured up this
    unfortunate rouble as if it were a holy relic. You should not
    be a miser, child; money is made to be spent."</p>

    <p>"Pray put an end to these jokes," said Constantia
    impatiently; "I like this girl, and I will not have her teased.
    She understands my ways better than any one, and often puts me
    in a good humor with her beautiful voice."</p>

    <p>"Sing something for me pretty damsel," said Leon, "and I
    will give you another rouble, a new and shining one."</p>

    <p>"Sing instantly," said Constantia imperiously.</p>

    <p>At this command Anielka could no longer stifle her grief;
    she covered her face with her hands, and wept violently.</p>

    <p>"Why do you cry?" asked her mistress impatiently; "I cannot
    bear it; I desire you to do as you are bid."</p>

    <p>It might have been from the constant habit of slavish
    obedience, or a strong feeling of pride, but Anielka instantly
    ceased weeping. There was a moment's pause, during which the
    old Countess went grumbling out of the room. Anielka chose the
    Hymn to the Virgin she had warbled in the garden, and as she
    sung, she prayed fervently;&mdash;she prayed for peace, for
    deliverance from the acute emotions which had been aroused
    within her. Her earnestness gave an intensity of expression to
    the melody, which affected her listeners. They were silent for
    some moments after its conclusion. Leon walked up and down with
    his arms folded on his breast. Was it agitated with pity for
    the accomplished young slave? or by any other tender emotion?
    What followed will show.</p>

    <p>"My dear Constantia," he said, suddenly stopping before his
    sister and kissing her hand, "will you do me a favor?"</p>

    <p>Constantia looked inquiringly in her brother's face without
    speaking.</p>

    <p>"Give me this girl"</p>

    <p>"Impossible!"</p>

    <p>"I am quite in earnest," continued Leon, "I wish to offer
    her to my future wife. In the Prince her father's private
    chapel they are much in want of a solo soprano."</p>

    <p>"I shall not give her to you," said Constantia."</p>

    <p>"Not as a free gift, but in exchange. I will give you
    instead a charming young negro&mdash;so black. The women in St.
    Petersburgh and in Paris raved about him: but I was inexorable:
    I half refused him to my princess."</p>

    <p>"No, no," replied Constantia; "I shall be lonely without
    this girl, I am so used to her."</p>

    <p>"Nonsense! you can get peasant girls by the dozen; but a
    black page, with teeth whiter than ivory, and purer than
    pearls; a perfect original in his way; you surely cannot
    withstand. You will kill half the province with envy. A negro
    servant is the most fashionable thing going, and yours will be
    the first imported into the province."</p>

    <p>This argument was irresistible. "Well," replied Constantia,
    "when do you think of taking her?"</p>

    <p>"Immediately; to-day at five o'clock," said
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page180"
       id="page180"></a>[pg 180]</span> Leon; and he went merrily
       out of the room.</p>

    <p>This then was the result of his cogitation&mdash;of
    Anielka's Hymn to the Virgin. Constantia ordered Anielka to
    prepare herself for the journey, with as little emotion as if
    she had exchanged away a lap-dog, or parted with parrot.</p>

    <p>She obeyed in silence. Her heart was full. She went into the
    garden that she might relieve herself by weeping unseen. With
    one hand supporting her burning head, and the other pressed
    tightly against her heart, to stifle her sobs, she wandered on
    mechanically till she found herself by the side of the river.
    She felt quickly for her purse, intending to throw the rouble
    into the water, but as quickly thrust it back again, for she
    could not bear to part with the treasure. She felt as if
    without it she would be still more an orphan. Weeping bitterly,
    she leaned against the tree which had once before witnessed her
    tears.</p>

    <p>By degrees the stormy passion within her gave place to calm
    reflection. This day she was to go away; she was to dwell
    beneath another roof, to serve another mistress. Humiliation!
    always humiliation! But at least it would be some change in her
    life. As she thought of this, she returned hastily to the
    palace that she might not, on the last day of her servitude,
    incur the anger of her young mistress.</p>

    <p>Scarcely was Anielka attired in her prettiest dress, when
    Constantia came to her with a little box, from which she took
    several gay-colored ribbons, and decked her in them herself,
    that the serf might do her credit in the new family. And when
    Anielka, bending down to her feet, thanked her, Constantia,
    with marvelous condescension, kissed her on her forehead. Even
    Leon cast an admiring glance upon her. His servant soon after
    came to conduct her to the carriage, and showing her where to
    seat herself, they rolled off quickly toward Radapol.</p>

    <p>For the first time in her life Anielka rode in a carriage.
    Her head turned quite giddy, she could not look at the trees
    and fields as they flew past her; but by degrees she became
    more accustomed to it, and the fresh air enlivening her
    spirits, she performed the rest of the journey in a tolerably
    happy state of mind. At last they arrived in the spacious
    court-yard before the Palace of Radapol, the dwelling of a once
    rich and powerful Polish family, now partly in ruin. It was
    evident, even to Anielka, that the marriage was one for money
    on the one side, and for rank on the other.</p>

    <p>Among other renovations at the castle, occasioned by the
    approaching marriage, the owner of it, Prince Pelazia, had
    obtained singers for the chapel, and had engaged Signer
    Justiniani, an Italian, as chapel-master. Immediately on Leon's
    arrival, Anielka was presented to him. He made her sing a
    scale, and pronounced her voice to be excellent.</p>

    <p>Anielka found that, in Radapol, she was treated with a
    little more consideration than at Olgogrod, although she had
    often to submit to the caprices of her new mistress, and she
    found less time to read. But to console herself, she gave all
    her attention to singing, which she practiced several hours a
    day. Her naturally great capacity, under the guidance of the
    Italian, began to develop itself steadily. Besides sacred, he
    taught her operatic music. On one occasion Anielka sung an aria
    in so impassioned and masterly style, that the enraptured
    Justiniani clapped his hands for joy, skipped about the room,
    and not finding words enough to praise her, exclaimed several
    times, "Prima Donna! Prima Donna!"</p>

    <p>But the lessons were interrupted. The Princess's wedding-day
    was fixed upon, after which event she and Leon were to go to
    Florence, and Anielka was to accompany them. Alas! feelings
    which gave her poignant misery still clung to her. She despised
    herself for her weakness; but she loved Leon. The sentiment was
    too deeply implanted in her bosom to be eradicated; too strong
    to be resisted. It was the first love of a young and guileless
    heart, and had grown in silence and despair.</p>

    <p>Anielka was most anxious to know something of her adopted
    parents. Once, after the old prince had heard her singing, he
    asked her with great kindness about her home. She replied, that
    she was an orphan, and had been taken by force from those who
    had so kindly supplied the place of parents, Her apparent
    attachment to the old bee-keeper and his wife so pleased the
    prince, that he said, "You are a good child. Anielka, and
    to-morrow I will send you to visit them. You shall take them
    some presents."</p>

    <p>Anielka, overpowered with gratitude, threw herself at the
    feet of the prince. She dreamed all night of the happiness that
    was in store for her, and the joy of the poor, forsaken, old
    people; and when the next morning she set off, she could
    scarcely restrain her impatience. At last they approached the
    cabin; she saw the forest, with its tall trees, and the meadows
    covered with flowers. She leaped from the carriage, that she
    might be nearer these trees and flowers, every one of which she
    seemed to recognize. The weather was beautiful. She breathed
    with avidity the pure air which, in imagination, brought to her
    the kisses and caresses of her poor father! Her foster-father
    was, doubtless, occupied with his bees; but his wife?</p>

    <p>Anielka opened the door of the cabin; all was silent and
    deserted. The arm-chair on which the poor old woman used to
    sit, was overturned in a corner. Anielka was chilled by a
    fearful presentiment. She went with a slow step toward the
    bee-hives; there she saw a little boy tending the bees, whilst
    the old man was stretched on the ground beside him. The rays of
    the sun, falling on his pale and sickly face, showed that he
    was very ill. Anielka stooped down over him, and said, "It is
    I, it is Anielka, your own Anielka, who always loves
    you."</p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page181"
       id="page181"></a>[pg 181]</span>

    <p>The old man raised his head, gazed upon her with a ghastly
    smile, and took off his cap.</p>

    <p>"And my good old mother, where is she?" Anielka asked.</p>

    <p>"She is dead!" answered the old man, and falling back he
    began laughing idiotically. Anielka wept. She gazed earnestly
    on the worn frame, the pale and wrinkled cheeks, it which
    scarcely a sign of life could be perceived; it seemed to her
    that he had suddenly fallen asleep, and not wishing to disturb
    him, she went to the carriage for the presents. When she
    returned, she took his hand. It was cold. The poor old
    bee-keeper had breathed his last!</p>

    <p>Anielka was carried almost senseless back to the carriage,
    which quickly returned with her to the castle. There she
    revived a little; but the recollection that she was now quite
    alone in the world, almost drove her to despair.</p>

    <p>Her master's wedding and the journey to Florence were a
    dream to her. Though the strange sights of a strange city
    slowly restored her perceptions, they did not her cheerfulness.
    She felt as if she could no longer endure the misery of her
    life; she prayed to die.</p>

    <p>"Why are you so unhappy?" said the Count Leon kindly to her,
    one day.</p>

    <p>To have explained the cause of her wretchedness would have
    been death indeed.</p>

    <p>"I am going to give you a treat," continued Leon. "A
    celebrated singer is to appear to-night in the theater. I will
    send you to hear her, and afterward you shall sing to me what
    you remember of her performances."</p>

    <p>Anielka went. It was a new era in her existence. Herself, by
    this time, an artist, she could forget her griefs, and enter
    with her whole soul into the beauties of the art she now heard
    practiced in perfection for the first time. To music a chord
    responded in her breast which vibrated powerfully. During the
    performances she was at one moment pale and trembling, tears
    rushing into her eyes; at another, she was ready to throw
    herself at the feet of the cantatrice, in an ecstacy of
    admiration. "Prima donna,"&mdash;by that name the public called
    on her to receive their applause, and it was the same, thought
    Anielka, that Justiniani had bestowed upon her. Could she also
    be a prima donna? What a glorious destiny! To be able to
    communicate one's own emotions to masses of entranced
    listeners; to awaken in them, by the power of the voice, grief,
    love, terror.</p>

    <p>Strange thoughts continued to haunt her on her return home.
    She was unable to sleep. She formed desperate plans. At last
    she resolved to throw off the yoke of servitude, and the still
    more painful slavery of feelings which her pride disdained.
    Having learnt the address of the prima donna, she went early
    one morning to her house.</p>

    <p>On entering she said, in French, almost incoherently, so
    great was her agitation&mdash;"Madam, I am a poor serf
    belonging to a Polish family who have lately arrived in
    Florence. I have escaped from them; protect, shelter me. They
    say I can sing."</p>

    <p>The Signora Teresina, a warm-hearted, passionate Italian,
    was interested by her artless earnestness. She said, "Poor
    child! you must have suffered much,"&mdash;she took Anielka's
    hand in hers. "You say you can sing; let me hear you." Anielka
    seated herself on an ottoman. She clasped her hands over her
    knees, and tears fell into her lap. With plaintive pathos, and
    perfect truth of intonation, she prayed in song. The Hymn to
    the Virgin seemed to Teresina to be offered up by
    inspiration.</p>

    <p>The Signora was astonished. "Where," she asked, in wonder,
    "were you taught?"</p>

    <p>Anielka narrated her history, and when she had finished, the
    prima donna spoke so kindly to her that she felt as if she had
    known her for years. Anielka was Teresina's guest that day and
    the next. After the Opera, on the third day, the prima donna
    made her sit beside her, and said:&mdash;</p>

    <p>"I think you are a very good girl, and you shall stay with
    me always."</p>

    <p>The girl was almost beside herself with joy.</p>

    <p>"We will never part. Do you consent, Anielka?"</p>

    <p>"Do not call me Anielka. Give me instead some Italian
    name."</p>

    <p>"Well, then, be Giovanna. The dearest friend I ever had but
    whom I have lost&mdash;was named Giovanna," said the prima
    donna.</p>

    <p>"Then, I will be another Giovanna to you."</p>

    <p>Teresina then said, "I hesitated to receive you at first,
    for your sake as well as mine; it you are safe now. I learn
    that your master and mistress, after searching vainly for you,
    have returned to Poland."</p>

    <p>From this time Anielka commenced an entirely new life. She
    took lessons in singing every day from the Signora. and got an
    engagement to appear in inferior characters at the theater. She
    had now her own income, and her own servant&mdash;she, who till
    then had been obliged to serve herself. She acquired the
    Italian language rapidly, and soon passed for a native of the
    country.</p>

    <p>So passed three years. New and varied impressions failed,
    however, to blot out the old ones. Anielka arrived at great
    perfection in her singing, and even began to surpass the prima
    donna, who was losing her voice from weakness of the chest.
    This sad discovery changed the cheerful temper of Teresina. She
    ceased to sing in public; for she could not endure to excite
    pity, where she had formerly commanded admiration.</p>

    <p>She determined to retire. "You," she said to Anielka, "shall
    now assert your claim to the first rank in the vocal art. You
    will maintain it. You surpass me. Often, on hearing you sing, I
    have scarcely been able to stifle a feeling of jealousy."</p>

    <p>Anielka placed her hand on Teresina's shoulder, and kissed
    her.</p>

    <p>"Yes," continued Teresina, regardless of everything but the
    bright future she was <span class="pagenum"><a name="page182"
       id="page182"></a>[pg 182]</span> shaping for her friend. "We
       will go to Vienna&mdash;there you will be understood and
       appreciated. You shall sing at the Italian Opera, and I will
       be by your side&mdash;unknown, no longer sought,
       worshiped&mdash;but will glory in your triumphs. They will
       be a repetition of my own; for have I not taught you? Will
       they not be the result of my work!"</p>

    <p>Though Anielka's ambition was fired, her heart was softened,
    and she wept violently.</p>

    <p>Five months had scarcely elapsed, when a <i>furore</i> was
    created in Vienna by the first appearance, at the Italian
    Opera, of the Signora Giovanna. Her enormous salary at once
    afforded her the means of even extravagant expenditure. Her
    haughty treatment of male admirers only attracted new ones; but
    in the midst of her triumphs she thought often of the time when
    the poor orphan of Pobereze was cared for by nobody. This
    remembrance made her receive the flatteries of the crowd with
    an ironical smile; their fine speeches fell coldly on her ear,
    their eloquent looks made no impression on her heart:
    <i>that</i>, no change could alter, no temptation win.</p>

    <p>In the flood of unexpected success a new misfortune
    overwhelmed her. Since their arrival at Vienna, Teresina's
    health rapidly declined, and in the sixth month of Anielka's
    operatic reign she expired, leaving all her wealth, which was
    considerable, to her friend.</p>

    <p>Once more Anielka was alone in the world. Despite all the
    honors and blandishments of her position, the old feeling of
    desolateness came upon her. The new shock destroyed her health.
    She was unable to appear on the stage. To sing was a painful
    effort; she grew indifferent to what passed around her. Her
    greatest consolation was in succoring the poor and friendless,
    and her generosity was most conspicuous to all young orphan
    girls without fortune. She had never ceased to love her native
    land, and seldom appeared in society, unless it was to meet her
    countrymen. If ever she sang, it was in Polish.</p>

    <p>A year had elapsed since the death of the Signora Teresina,
    when the Count Selka, a rich noble of Volkynia, at that time in
    Vienna, solicited her presence at a party. It was impossible to
    refuse the Count and his lady, from whom she had received great
    kindness. She went. When in their saloons, filled with all the
    fashion and aristocracy in Vienna, the name of Giovanna was
    announced, a general murmur was heard. She entered, pale and
    languid, and proceeded between the two rows made for her by the
    admiring assembly, to the seat of honor beside the mistress of
    the house.</p>

    <p>Shortly after, the Count Selka led her to the piano. She sat
    down before it, and thinking what she should sing, glanced
    round upon the assembly. She could not help feeling that the
    admiration which beamed from the faces around her was the work
    of her own merit, for had she neglected the great gift of
    nature&mdash;her voice, she could not have excited it. With a
    blushing cheek, and eyes sparkling with honest pride, she
    struck the piano with a firm hand, and from her seemingly weak
    and delicate chest poured forth a touching Polish melody, with
    a voice pure, sonorous, and plaintive. Tears were in many eyes,
    and the beating of every heart was quickened.</p>

    <p>The song was finished, but the wondering silence was
    unbroken. Giovanna leaned exhausted on the arm of the chair,
    and cast down her eyes. On again raising them, she perceived a
    gentleman who gazed fixedly at her, as if he still listened to
    echoes which had not yet died within him. The master of the
    house, to dissipate his thoughtfulness, led him toward
    Giovanna. "Let me present to you, Signora," he said, "a
    countryman, the Count Leon Roszynski."</p>

    <p>The lady trembled; she silently bowed, fixed her eyes on the
    ground, and dared not raise them. Pleading indisposition, which
    was fully justified by her pallid features, she soon after
    withdrew.</p>

    <p>When on the following day Giovanna'a servant announced the
    Counts Selka and Roszynski, a peculiar smile played on her
    lips, and when they entered, she received the latter with the
    cold and formal politeness of a stranger. Controlling the
    feelings of her heart, she schooled her features to an
    expression of indifference. It was manifest from Leon's manner,
    that without the remotest recognition, an indefinable
    presentiment regarding her possessed him. The Counts had called
    to know if Giovanna had recovered from her indisposition. Leon
    begged to be permitted to call again.</p>

    <p>Where was his wife? why did he never mention her? Giovanna
    continually asked herself these questions when they had
    departed.</p>

    <p>A few nights after, the Count Leon arrived sad and
    thoughtful. He prevailed on Giovanna to sing one of her Polish
    melodies; which she told him had been taught, when a child, by
    her muse. Roszynski, unable to restrain the expression of an
    intense admiration he had long felt, frantically seized her
    hand, and exclaimed, "I love you!"</p>

    <p>She withdrew it from his grasp, remained silent for a few
    minutes, and then said slowly, distinctly, and ironically, "But
    I do not love <i>you</i>, Count Roszynski."</p>

    <p>Leon rose from his seat. He pressed his hands to his brow,
    and was silent. Giovanna remained calm and tranquil. "It is a
    penalty from Heaven," continued Leon, as if speaking to
    himself, "for not having fulfilled my duty as a husband toward
    one whom I chose voluntarily, but without reflection. I wronged
    her, and am punished."</p>

    <p>Giovanna turned her eyes upon him. Leon continued, "Young,
    and with a heart untouched, I married a princess about ten
    years older than myself, of eccentric habits and bad temper.
    She treated me as an inferior. She dissipated the fortune
    hoarded up with so much care by my parents, and yet was
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page183"
       id="page183"></a>[pg 183]</span> ashamed on account of my
       origin to be called by my name. Happily for me, she was fond
       of visiting and amusements. Otherwise, to escape from her, I
       might have become a gambler, or worse; but, to avoid meeting
       her, I remained at home&mdash;for there she seldom was. At
       first from ennui, but afterward from real delight in the
       occupation, I gave myself up to study. Reading formed my
       mind and heart. I became a changed being. Some months ago my
       father died, my sister went to Lithuania, whilst my mother,
       in her old age, and with her ideas, was quite incapable of
       understanding my sorrow. So when my wife went to the baths
       for the benefit of her ruined health, I came here in the
       hope of meeting with some of my former friends&mdash;I saw
       you&mdash;"</p>

    <p>Giovanna blushed like one detected; but speedily recovering
    herself, asked with calm pleasantry, "Surely you do not number
    <i>me</i> among your former friends?"</p>

    <p>"I know not. I have been bewildered. It is strange; but from
    the moment that I saw you at Count Selka's, a powerful instinct
    of love overcame me; not a new feeling; but as if some latent,
    long-hid, undeveloped sentiment had suddenly burst forth into
    an uncontrollable passion. I love, I adore you. I&mdash;"</p>

    <p>The Prima Donna interrupted him&mdash;not with speech, but
    with a look which awed, which chilled him. Pride, scorn, irony
    sat in her smile. Satire darted from her eyes. After a pause,
    she repeated slowly and pointedly, "Love <i>me</i>, Count
    Roszynski?"</p>

    <p>"Such is my destiny," he replied. "Nor, despite your scorn,
    will I struggle against it. I feel it is my fate ever to love
    you; I fear it is my fate never to be loved by you. It is
    dreadful."</p>

    <p>Giovanna witnessed the Count's emotion with sadness. "To
    have," she said mournfully, "one's first, pure, ardent,
    passionate affection unrequited, scorned, made a jest of, is
    indeed a bitterness, almost equal to that of death."</p>

    <p>She made a strong effort to conceal her emotion. Indeed she
    controlled it so well as to speak the rest with a sort of
    gayety.</p>

    <p>"You have at least been candid, Count Roszynski; I will
    imitate you by telling a little history that occurred in your
    country. There was a poor girl born and bred a serf to her
    wealthy lord and master. When scarcely fifteen years old, she
    was torn from a state of happy rustic freedom&mdash;the freedom
    of humility and content&mdash;to be one of the courtly slaves
    of the Palace. Those who did not laugh at her, scolded her. One
    kind word was vouchsafed to her, and that came from the lord's
    son. She nursed it and treasured it; till, from long concealing
    and restraining her feelings, she at last found that gratitude
    had changed into a sincere affection. But what does a man of
    the world care for the love of a serf? It does not even flatter
    his vanity. The young nobleman did not understand the source of
    her tears and her grief, and he made a present of her, as he
    would have done of some animal, to his betrothed."</p>

    <p>Leon, agitated and somewhat enlightened, would have
    interrupted her; but Giovanna said, "Allow me to finish my
    tale. Providence did not abandon this poor orphan, but
    permitted her to rise to distinction by the talent with which
    she was endowed by nature. The wretched serf of Pobereze became
    a celebrated Italian cantatrice. <i>Then</i> her former lord
    meeting her in society, and seeing her admired and courted by
    all the world, without knowing who she really was, was
    afflicted, as if by the dictates of Heaven, with a love for
    this same girl,&mdash;with a guilty love"&mdash;</p>

    <p>And Giovanna rose, as she said this, to remove herself
    further from her admirer.</p>

    <p>"No, no!" he replied earnestly; "with a pure and holy
    passion."</p>

    <p>"Impossible!" returned Giovanna. "Are you not married?"</p>

    <p>Roszynski vehemently tore a letter from his vest, and handed
    it to Giovanna. It was sealed with black, for it announced the
    death of his wife at the baths. It had only arrived that
    morning.</p>

    <p>"You have lost no time," said the cantatrice, endeavoring to
    conceal her feelings under an iron mask of reproach.</p>

    <p>There was a pause. Each dared not speak. The Count
    knew&mdash;but without actually and practically believing what
    seemed incredible&mdash;that Anielka and Giovanna were the same
    person&mdash;<i>his slave</i>. That terrible relationship
    checked him. Anielka, too, had played her part to the end of
    endurance. The long cherished tenderness, the faithful love of
    her life could not longer be wholly mastered. Hitherto they had
    spoken in Italian. She now said, in Polish,</p>

    <p>"You have a right, my Lord Roszynski, to that poor Anielka
    who escaped from the service of your wife in Florence; you can
    force her back to your palace, to its meanest work;
    but"&mdash;</p>

    <p>"Have mercy on me!" cried Leon.</p>

    <p>"But," continued the serf of Pobereze, firmly, "you cannot
    force me to love you."</p>

    <p>"Do not mock&mdash;do not torture me more; you are
    sufficiently revenged. I will not offend you by importunity.
    You must indeed hate me! But remember that we Poles wished to
    give freedom to our serfs; and for that very reason our country
    was invaded and dismembered by despotic powers. We must
    therefore continue to suffer slavery as it exists in Russia;
    but, soul and body, we are averse to it; and when our country
    once more becomes free, be assured no shadow of slavery will
    remain in the land. Curse then our enemies, and pity us that we
    stand in such a desperate position between Russian bayonets and
    Siberia, and the hatred of our serfs."</p>

    <p>So saying, and without waiting for a reply, Leon rushed from
    the room. The door was closed. Giovanna listened to the sounds
    of <span class="pagenum"><a name="page184"
       id="page184"></a>[pg 184]</span> his rapid footsteps till
       they died in the street. She would have followed, but dared
       not. She ran to the window. Roszynski's carriage was rolling
       rapidly away, and she exclaimed vainly, "I love you, Leon; I
       loved you always!"</p>

    <p>Her tortures were unendurable. To relieve them she hastened
    to her desk, and wrote these words:</p>

    <p>"Dearest Leon, forgive me; let the past be forever
    forgotten. Return to your Anielka. She always has been, ever
    will be, yours!"</p>

    <p>She dispatched the missive. Was it too late, or would it
    bring him back? In the latter hope she retired to her chamber,
    to execute a little project.</p>

    <p>Leon was in despair. He saw he had been premature in so soon
    declaring his passion after the news of his wife's death, and
    vowed he would not see Anielka again for several months. To
    calm his agitation, he had ridden some miles into the country.
    When he returned to his hotel after some hours, he found her
    note. With the wild delight it had darted into his soul, he
    flew back to her.</p>

    <p>On regaining her saloon a new and terrible vicissitude
    seemed to sport with his passion&mdash;she was nowhere to be
    seen. Had the Italian cantatrice fled? Again he was in
    despair-stupefied with disappointment. As he stood uncertain
    how to act, in the midst of the floor, he heard, as from a
    distance, an Ave Maria poured forth in tones he half
    recognized. The sounds brought back to him a host of
    recollections: a weeping serf&mdash;the garden of his own
    palace. In a state of new rapture he followed the voice. He
    traced it to an inner chamber, and he there beheld the lovely
    singer kneeling in the costume of a Polish serf. She rose,
    greeted Leon with a touching smile, and stepped forward with
    serious bashfulness. Leon extended his arms; she sank into
    them; and in that fond embrace all past wrongs and sorrows were
    forgotten! Anielka drew from her bosom a little purse, and took
    from it a piece of silver, It was the rouble. Now, Leon did not
    smile at it. He comprehended the sacredness of this little
    gift, and some tears of repentance fell on Anielka's hand.</p>

    <p>A few months after, Leon wrote to the steward of Olgogrod to
    prepare everything splendidly for the reception of his second
    wife. He concluded his letter with these words:</p>

    <p>"I understand that in the dungeon beneath my palace there
    are some unfortunate men, who were imprisoned during my
    father's lifetime. Let them be instantly liberated. This is my
    first act of gratitude to God, who has so infinitely blessed
    me!"</p>

    <p>Anielka longed ardently to behold her native land. They left
    Vienna immediately after the wedding, although it was in the
    middle of January.</p>

    <p>It was already quite dark when the carriage, with its four
    horses, stopped in front of the portico of the palace of
    Olgogrod. Whilst the footman was opening the door on one side,
    a beggar soliciting alms appeared at the other, where Anielka
    was seated. Happy to perform a good action as she crossed the
    threshold of her new home, she gave him some money; but the
    man, instead of thanking her, returned her bounty with a savage
    laugh, at the same time scowling at her in the fiercest manner
    from beneath his thick and shaggy brows. The strangeness of
    this circumstance sensibly affected Anielka, and clouded her
    happiness. Leon soothed and reassured her. In the arms of her
    beloved husband she forgot all but the happiness of being the
    idol of his affections.</p>

    <p>Fatigue and excitement made the night most welcome. All was
    dark and silent around the palace, and some hours of the night
    had passed, when suddenly flames burst forth from several parts
    of the building at once. The palace was enveloped in fire; it
    raged furiously. The flames mounted higher and higher; the
    windows cracked with a fearful sound, and the smoke penetrated
    into the most remote apartments.</p>

    <p>A single figure of a man was seen stealing over the snow,
    which lay like a winding-sheet on the solitary waste; his
    cautious steps were heard on the frozen snow as it crisped
    beneath his tread. It was the beggar who had accosted Anielka.
    On a rising ground he turned to gaze on the terrible scene.</p>

    <p>"No more unfortunate creatures will now be doomed to pass
    their lives in your dungeons," he exclaimed. "What was
    <i>my</i> crime? Reminding my master of the lowness of his
    birth. For this they tore me from my only child&mdash;my
    darling little Anielka; they had no pity even for her orphan
    state; let them perish all!"</p>

    <p>Suddenly a young and beautiful creature rushes wildly to one
    of the principal windows: she makes a violent effort to escape.
    For a moment her lovely form, clothed in white, shines in
    terrible relief against the background of blazing curtains and
    walls of fire, and as instantly sinks back into the blazing
    element. Behind her is another figure, vainly endeavoring to
    aid her&mdash;he perishes also: neither of them are ever seen
    again!</p>

    <p>This appalling tragedy horrified even the perpetrator of the
    crime. He rushed from the place, and as he heard the crash of
    the falling walls, he closed his ears with his hands, and
    darted on faster and faster.</p>

    <p>The next day some peasants discovered the body of a man
    frozen to death, lying on a heap of snow&mdash;it was that of
    the wretched incendiary. Providence, mindful of his long, of
    his cruel imprisonment and sufferings, spared him the anguish
    of knowing that the mistress of the palace he had destroyed,
    and who perished in the flames, was his own beloved
    daughter&mdash;the Serf of Pobereze!</p>
    <hr />

    <p>A TRUE POET never takes a "poetic license."</p>
    <hr />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page185"
       id="page185"></a>[pg 185]</span>

    <h4>From the Dublin University Magazine.</h4>

    <h2>THE MYSTERIOUS COMPACT.</h2>

    <h3>IN TWO PARTS.&mdash;PART I.</h3>

    <p>In the latter years of the last century, two youths,
    Ferdinand Von Hallberg and Edward Von Wensleben were receiving
    their education in the military academy of Mariensheim. Among
    their schoolfellows they were called Orestes and Pylades, or
    Damon and Pythias, on account of their tender friendship, which
    constantly recalled to their schoolfellows' minds the history
    of these ancient worthies. Both were sons of officers who had
    long served the state with honor, both were destined for their
    father's profession, both accomplished and endowed by nature
    with no mean talents. But fortune had not been so impartial in
    the distribution of her favors&mdash;Hallberg's father lived on
    a small pension, by means of which he defrayed the expenses of
    his son's schooling at the cost of the government; while
    Wensleben's parents willingly paid the handsomest salary in
    order to insure to their only child the best education which
    the establishment afforded. This disparity in circumstances at
    first produced a species of proud reserve, amounting to
    coldness, in Ferdinand's deportment, which yielded by degrees
    to the cordial affection that Edward manifested toward him on
    every occasion. Two years older than Edward, of a thoughtful
    and almost melancholy turn of mind, Ferdinand soon gained a
    considerable influence over his weaker friend, who clung to him
    with almost girlish dependence.</p>

    <p>Their companionship had now lasted with satisfaction and
    happiness to both, for several years, and the youths had formed
    for themselves the most delightful plans&mdash;how they were
    never to separate, how they were to enter the service in the
    same regiment, and if a war broke out, how they were to fight
    side by side, and conquer or die together. But destiny, or
    rather Providence&mdash;whose plans are usually opposed to the
    designs of mortals&mdash;had ordained otherwise.</p>

    <p>Earlier than was expected, Hallberg's father found an
    opportunity to have his son appointed to an infantry regiment,
    and he was ordered immediately to join the staff in a small
    provincial town, in an out-of-the-way mountainous district.
    This announcement fell like a thunderbolt on the two friends;
    but Ferdinand considered himself by far the more unhappy, since
    it was ordained that he should be the one to sever the happy
    bond that bound them, and to inflict a deep wound on his loved
    companion. His schoolfellows vainly endeavored to console him
    by calling his attention to his new commission, and the
    preference which had been shown him above so many others. He
    only thought of the approaching separation; he only saw his
    friend's grief, and passed the few remaining days that were
    allowed him at the academy by Edward's side, who husbanded
    every moment of his Ferdinand's society with jealous care, and
    could not bear to lose sight of him for an instant. In one of
    their most melancholy hours, excited by sorrow and youthful
    enthusiasm, they bound themselves by a mysterious vow, namely,
    that the one whom God should think fit to call first from this
    world, should bind himself (if conformable to the Divine will)
    to give some sign of his remembrance and affection to the
    survivor.</p>

    <p>The place where this vow was made was a solitary spot in the
    garden, by a monument of gray marble, overshadowed by dark
    firs, which the former director of the institution had caused
    to be erected to the memory of his son, whose premature death
    was recorded on the stone.</p>

    <p>Here the friends met at night, and by the fitful light of
    the moon they pledged themselves to the rash and fanciful
    contract, and confirmed and consecrated it the next morning by
    a religious ceremony. After this they were able to look the
    approaching separation in the face more manfully, and Edward
    strove hard to quell the melancholy feeling which had lately
    arisen in his mind on account of the constant foreboding that
    Ferdinand expressed of his own early death. "No," thought
    Edward, "his pensive turn of mind and his wild imagination
    cause him to reproach himself without a cause for my sorrow and
    his own departure. Oh, no, Ferdinand will not die
    early&mdash;he will not die before me. Providence will not
    leave me alone in the world."</p>
    <hr class="short" />

    <p>The lonely Edward strove hard to console himself, for after
    Ferdinand's departure, the house, the world itself, seemed a
    desert; and absorbed by his own memories, he now recalled to
    mind many a dark speech which had fallen from his absent
    friend, particularly in the latter days of their intercourse,
    and which betokened but too plainly a presentiment of early
    death. But time and youth exercised, even over these sorrows,
    their irresistible influence. Edward's spirits gradually
    recovered their tone, and as the traveler always has the
    advantage over the one who remains behind, in respect of new
    objects to occupy his mind, so was Ferdinand even sooner calmed
    and cheered, and by degrees he became engrossed by his new
    duties and new acquaintances, not to the exclusion, indeed, of
    his friend's memory, but greatly to the alienation of his own
    sorrow. It was natural, in such circumstances, that the young
    officer should console himself sooner than poor Edward. The
    country in which Hallberg found himself was wild and
    mountainous, but possessed all the charms and peculiarities of
    "far off" districts&mdash;simple, hospitable manners,
    old-fashioned customs, many tales and legends which arise from
    the credulity of the mountaineers, who invariably lean toward
    the marvelous, and love to people the wild solitudes with
    invisible beings.</p>

    <p>Ferdinand had soon, without seeking for
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page186"
       id="page186"></a>[pg 186]</span> it, made acquaintance with
       several respectable families in the town; and as it
       generally happens in such cases, he had become quite
       domesticated in the best country-houses in the neighborhood;
       and the well-mannered, handsome, and agreeable youth was
       welcomed everywhere. The simple, patriarchal life in these
       old mansions and castles&mdash;the cordiality of the people,
       the wild, picturesque scenery, nay, the very legends
       themselves, were entirely to Hallberg's taste. He adapted
       himself easily to his new mode of life, but his heart
       remained tranquil. This could not last. Before half a year
       had passed, the battalion to which he belonged was ordered
       to another station, and he had to part with many friends.
       The first letter which he wrote after this change bore the
       impression of impatience at the breaking up of a happy time.
       Edward found this natural enough; but he was surprised in
       the following letters to detect signs of a disturbed and
       desultory state of mind, wholly foreign to his friend's
       nature. The riddle was soon solved. Ferdinand's heart was
       touched for the first time, and perhaps because the
       impression had been made late, it was all the deeper.
       Unfavorable circumstances opposed themselves to his hopes:
       the young lady was of an ancient family, rich, and betrothed
       since her childhood to a relation, who was expected shortly
       to arrive in order to claim her promised hand.
       Notwithstanding this engagement, Ferdinand and the young
       girl had become sincerely attached to each other, and had
       both resolved to dare everything with the hope of being
       united. They pledged their troth in secret; the darkest
       mystery enveloped not only their plans, but their
       affections; and as secrecy was necessary to the advancement
       of their projects, Ferdinand entreated his friend to forgive
       him if he did not intrust his whole secret to a sheet of
       paper that had at least sixty miles to travel, and which
       must pass through so many hands. It was impossible from his
       letter to guess the name of the person or the place in
       question. "You know that I love," he wrote, "therefore you
       know that the object of my secret passion is worthy of any
       sacrifice; for you know your friend too well to believe him
       capable of any blind infatuation, and this must suffice for
       the present. No one must suspect what we are to each other;
       no one here or round the neighborhood must have the
       slightest clew to our plans. An awful personage will soon
       make his appearance among us. His violent temper, his
       inveterate obstinacy, (according to all that one hears of
       him,) are well calculated to confirm in <i>her</i> a
       well-founded aversion. But family arrangements and legal
       contracts exist, the fulfillment of which the opposing party
       are bent on enforcing. The struggle will be
       hard&mdash;perhaps unsuccessful; notwithstanding, I will
       strain every nerve. Should I fail, you must console
       yourself, my dear Edward, with the thought, that it will be
       no misfortune to your friend to be deprived of an existence
       rendered miserable by the failure of his dearest hopes, and
       separation from his dearest friend. Then may all the
       happiness which Heaven has denied me be vouchsafed to you
       and her, so that my spirit may look down contentedly from
       the realms of light, and bless and protect you both."</p>

    <p>Such was the usual tenor of the letters which Edward
    received during that period, His heart was full of
    anxiety&mdash;he read danger and distress in the mysterious
    communications of Ferdinand; and every argument that affection
    and good sense could suggest did he make use of, in his
    replies, to turn his friend from this path of peril which
    threatened to end in a deep abyss. He tried persuasion, and
    urged him to desist for the sake of their long-tried
    affection&mdash;but when did passion ever listen to the
    expostulations of friendship?</p>

    <p>Ferdinand only saw one aim in life&mdash;the possession of
    the beloved one. All else faded from before his eyes, and even
    his correspondence slackened, for his time was much taken up in
    secret excursions, arrangements of all kinds, and
    communications with all manner of persons; in fact every action
    of his present life tended to the furtherance of his plan.</p>

    <p>All of a sudden his letters ceased. Many posts passed
    without a sign of life. Edward was a prey to the greatest
    anxiety; he thought his friend had staked and lost. He imagined
    an elopement, a clandestine marriage, a duel with a rival, and
    all these casualties were the more painful to conjecture, since
    his entire ignorance of the real state of things gave his fancy
    full range to conjure up all sorts of misfortunes. At length,
    after many more posts had come in without a line to pacify
    Edward's fears, without a word in reply to his earnest
    entreaties for some news, he determined on taking a step which
    he had meditated before, and only relinquished out of
    consideration for his friend's wishes. He wrote to the officer
    commanding the regiment, and made inquiries respecting the
    health and abode of Lieutenant Von Hallberg, whose friends in
    the capital had remained for nearly two months without news of
    him, he who had hitherto proved a regular and frequent
    correspondent.</p>

    <p>Another fortnight dragged heavily on, and at length the
    announcement came in an official form. Lieutenant Von Hallberg
    had been invited to the castle of a nobleman whom he was in the
    custom of visiting, in order to be present at the wedding of a
    lady; that he was indisposed at the time, that he grew worse,
    and on the third morning had been found dead in his bed, having
    expired during the night from an attack of apoplexy.</p>

    <p>Edward could not finish the letter&mdash;it fell from his
    trembling hand. To see his worst fears realized so suddenly,
    overwhelmed him at first. His youth withstood the bodily
    illness <span class="pagenum"><a name="page187"
       id="page187"></a>[pg 187]</span> which would have assailed a
       weaker constitution, and perhaps mitigated the anguish of
       his grief. He was not dangerously ill, but they feared many
       days for his reason; and it required all the kind solicitude
       of the director of the college, combined with the most
       skillful medical aid, to stem the torrent of his sorrow, and
       to turn it gradually into a calmer channel, until by degrees
       the mourner recovered both health and reason. His youthful
       spirits, however, had received a blow from which they never
       rebounded, and one thought lay heavy on his mind, which he
       was unwilling to share with any other person, and which, on
       that account, grew more and more painful. It was the memory
       of that holy promise which had been mutually contracted,
       that the survivor was to receive some token of his friend's
       remembrance of him after death. Now two months had already
       passed since Ferdinand's earthly career had been arrested,
       his spirit was free, why no sign? In the moment of death
       Edward had had no intimation, no message from the passing
       spirit, and this apparent neglect, so to speak, was another
       deep wound in Edward's breast. Do the affections cease with
       life? Was it contrary to the will of the Almighty that the
       mourner should taste this consolation? Did individuality
       lose itself in death, and with it memory? Or did one stroke
       destroy spirit and body? These anxious doubts, which have
       before now agitated many who reflect on such subjects,
       exercised their power over Edward's mind with an intensity
       that none can imagine save one whose position is in any
       degree similar.</p>

    <p>Time gradually deadened the intensity of his affliction. The
    violent paroxysms of grief subsided into a deep but calm
    regret. It was as if a mist had spread itself over every object
    which presented itself before him, robbing them indeed of half
    their charms, yet leaving them visible, and in their real
    relation to himself. During this mental change the autumn
    arrived, and with it the long-expected commission. It did not
    indeed occasion the joy which it might have done in former
    days, when it would have led to a meeting with Ferdinand, or at
    all events to a better chance of meeting, but it released him
    from the thraldom of college, and it opened to him a welcome
    sphere of activity. Now it so happened that his appointment led
    him accidentally into the very neighborhood where Ferdinand had
    formerly resided, only with this difference, that Edward's
    squadron was quartered in the lowlands, about a short day's
    journey from the town and woodland environs in question.</p>

    <p>He proceeded to his quarters, and found an agreeable
    occupation in the exercise of his new duties.</p>

    <p>He had no wish to make acquaintances, yet he did not refuse
    the invitations that were pressed upon him, lest he should he
    accused of eccentricity and rudeness; and so be found himself
    soon entangled in all sorts of engagements with the neighboring
    gentry and nobility. If these so-called gayeties gave him no
    particular pleasure, at least for the time they diverted his
    thoughts; and with this view he accepted an invitation (for the
    new-year and carnival were near at hand) to a great
    shooting-match which was to be held in the mountains&mdash;a
    spot which it was possible to reach in one day, with favorable
    weather and the roads in good state. The day was appointed, the
    air tolerably clear; a mild frost had made the roads safe and
    even, and Edward had every expectation of being able to reach
    Blumenberg in his sledge before night, as on the following
    morning the match was to take place. But as soon as he got near
    the mountains, where the sun retires so early to rest,
    snow-clouds drove from all quarters, a cutting wind came
    roaring through the ravines, and a heavy fall of snow began.
    Twice the driver lost his way, and daylight was gone before he
    had well recovered it; darkness came on sooner than in other
    places, walled in as they were by dark mountains, with dark
    clouds above their heads. It was out of the question to dream
    of reaching Blumenberg that night; but in this hospitable land,
    where every householder welcomes the passing traveler, Edward
    was under no anxiety as to shelter. He only wished, before the
    night quite set in, to reach some country-house or castle; and
    now that the storm had abated in some degree, that the heavens
    were a little clearer, and that a few stars peeped out, a large
    valley opened before them, whose bold outline Edward could
    distinguish, even in the uncertain light. The well-defined
    roofs of a neat village were perceptible, and behind these,
    half-way up the mountain that crowned the plain, Edward thought
    he could discern a large building which glimmered with more
    than one light. The road led straight into the village. Edward
    stopped and inquired.</p>

    <p>That building was indeed a castle: the village belonged to
    it, and both were the property of the Baron Friedenberg.
    "Friedenberg!" repeated Edward: the name sounded familiar to
    him, yet he could not call to mind when and where he had heard
    it. He inquired if the family were at home, hired a guide, and
    arrived at length by a rugged path which wound itself round
    steep rocks, to the summit of them, and finally to the castle,
    which was perched there like an eagle's nest. The tinkling of
    the bells on Edward's sledge attracted the attention of the
    inmates; the door was opened with prompt hospitality; servants
    appeared with torches; Edward was assisted to emerge from under
    the frozen apron of his carriage, out of his heavy pelisse,
    stiff with hoar-frost, and up a comfortable staircase into a
    long saloon of simple construction, where a genial warmth
    appeared to welcome him from a huge stove in the corner. The
    servants here placed two large burning candles in massive
    silver sconces, and went out to announce the
    stranger.</p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page188"
       id="page188"></a>[pg 188]</span>

    <p>The fitting-up of the room, or rather saloon, was perfectly
    simple. Family portraits, in heavy frames, hung round the
    walls, diversified by some maps. Magnificent stags' horns were
    arranged between; and the taste of the master of the house was
    easily detected in the hunting-knives, powder-flasks, carbines,
    smoking-bags, and sportsmen's pouches, which were arranged, not
    without taste, as trophies of the chase. The ceiling was
    supported by large beams, dingy with smoke and age; and on the
    sides of the room were long benches, covered and padded with
    dark cloth, and studded with large brass nails; while round the
    dinner-table were placed several arm-chairs, also of ancient
    date. All bore the aspect of the good old times, of a simple,
    patriarchal life with affluence. Edward felt as if there were a
    kind welcome in the inanimate objects which surrounded him,
    when the inner-door opened, and the master of the house
    entered, preceded by a servant, and welcomed his guest with
    courteous cordiality.</p>

    <p>Some apologies which Edward offered on account of his
    intrusion, were silenced in a moment.</p>

    <p>"Come, now, Lieutenant," said the Baron, "I must introduce
    you to my family. You are not such a stranger to us, as you
    fancy."</p>

    <p>With these words he took Edward by the arm, and, lighted by
    the servant, they passed through several lofty rooms, which
    were very handsomely furnished, although in an old-fashioned
    style, with faded Flemish carpets, large chandeliers, and
    high-backed chairs: everything in keeping with what the youth
    had already seen in the castle. Here were the ladies of the
    house. At the other end of the room, by the side of an immense
    stove, ornamented with a large shield of the family arms,
    richly emblazoned, and crowned by a gigantic Turk, in a most
    comfortable attitude of repose sat the lady of the house, an
    elderly matron of tolerable circumference, in a gown of dark
    red satin, with a black mantle and a snow-white cap. She
    appeared to be playing cards with the chaplain, who sat
    opposite to her at the table, and the Baron Friedenberg to have
    made the third hand at ombre, till he was called away to
    welcome his guest. On the other side of the room were two young
    ladies, an elder person, who might be a governess, and a couple
    of children, very much engrossed by a game at lotto.</p>

    <p>As Edward entered, the ladies rose to greet him, a chair was
    placed for him near the mistress of the house, and very soon a
    cup of chocolate and a bottle of tokay were served on a rich
    silver salver, to restore the traveler after the cold and
    discomfort of his drive: in fact it was easy for him to feel
    that these "far away" people were by no means displeased at his
    arrival. An agreeable conversation soon began among all
    parties. His travels, the shooting-match, the neighborhood,
    agriculture, all afforded subjects, and in a quarter of an hour
    Edward felt as if he had long been domesticated with these
    simple but truly well-informed people.</p>

    <p>Two hours flew swiftly by, and then a bell sounded for
    supper; the servants returned with lights, announced that the
    supper was on the table, and lighted the company into the
    dining-room&mdash;the same into which Edward had first been
    ushered. Here, in the background, some other characters
    appeared on the scene&mdash;the agent, a couple of his
    subalterns, and the physician. The guests ranged themselves
    round the table. Edward's place was between the Baron and his
    wife. The chaplain said a short grace, when the Baroness, with
    an uneasy look, glanced at her husband over Edward's shoulder,
    and said, in a low whisper&mdash;</p>

    <p>"My love, we are thirteen&mdash;that will never do."</p>

    <p>The Baron smiled, beckoned to the youngest of the clerks,
    and whispered to him. The youth bowed, and withdrew. The
    servant took the cover away, and served his supper in the next
    room.</p>

    <p>"My wife," said Friedenberg, "is superstitious, as all
    mountaineers are. She thinks it unlucky to dine thirteen. It
    certainly has happened twice (whether from chance or not who
    can tell?) that we have had to mourn the death of an
    acquaintance who had, a short time before, made the thirteenth
    at our table."</p>

    <p>"This idea is not confined to the mountains. I know many
    people in the capital who think with the Baroness," said
    Edward. "Although in a town such ideas, which belong more
    especially to the olden time, are more likely to be lost in the
    whirl and bustle which usually silences everything that is not
    essentially matter of fact."</p>

    <p>"Ah, yes, Lieutenant," replied the Baron, smiling
    good-humoredly, "we keep up old customs better in the
    mountains. You see that by our furniture. People in the capital
    would call this sadly old-fashioned."</p>

    <p>"That which is really good and beautiful can never appear
    out of date," rejoined Edward courteously; "and here, if I
    mistake not, presides a spirit that is ever striving after
    both. I must confess, Baron, that when I first entered your
    house, it was this very aspect of the olden time that enchanted
    me beyond measure."</p>

    <p>"That is always the effect which simplicity has on every
    unspoiled mind," answered Friedenberg: "but townspeople have
    seldom a taste for such things."</p>

    <p>"I was partly educated on my father's estate," said Edward,
    "which was situated in the Highlands; and it appears to me as
    if, when I entered your house, I were visiting a neighbor of my
    father's, for the general aspect is quite the same here as with
    us."</p>

    <p>"Yes," said the chaplain, "mountainous districts have all a
    family likeness: the same necessities, the same struggles with
    nature, the same seclusion, all produce the same way of life
    among mountaineers."</p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page189"
       id="page189"></a>[pg 189]</span>

    <p>"On that account the prejudice against the number thirteen
    was especially familiar to me," replied Edward. "We also
    dislike it; and we retain a consideration for many
    supernatural, or at least inexplicable things, which I have met
    with again in this neighborhood."</p>

    <p>"Yes, here, almost more than anywhere else," continued the
    chaplain, "I think we excel all other mountaineers in the
    number and variety of our legends and ghost stories. I assure
    you that there is not a cave or a church, or, above all, a
    castle, for miles round about, of which we could not relate
    something supernatural."</p>

    <p>The Baroness, who perceived the turn which the conversation
    was likely to take, thought it better to send the children to
    bed; and when they were gone, the priest continued, "Even here,
    in this castle&mdash;"</p>

    <p>"Here!" inquired Edward, "in this very castle?"</p>

    <p>"Yes, yes! Lieutenant," interposed the Baron, "this house
    has the reputation of being haunted; and the most extraordinary
    thing is, that the matter cannot be denied by the skeptical, or
    accounted for by the reasonable."</p>

    <p>"And yet," said Edward, "the castle looks so cheerful, so
    habitable."</p>

    <p>"Yes, this part which we live in," answered the Baron; "but
    it consists of only a few apartments sufficient for my family
    and these gentlemen; the other portion of the building is half
    in ruins, and dates from the period when men established
    themselves on the mountains for greater safety."</p>

    <p>"There are some who maintain," said the physician, "that a
    part of the walls of the stern tower itself are of Roman
    origin; but that would surely be difficult to prove."</p>

    <p>"But, gentlemen," observed the Baroness, "you are losing
    yourselves in learned descriptions as to the erection of the
    castle, and our guest is kept in ignorance of what he is
    anxious to hear."</p>

    <p>"Indeed, madam," replied the chaplain, "this is not entirely
    foreign to the subject, since in the most ancient part of the
    building lies the chamber in question."</p>

    <p>"Where apparitions have been seen?" inquired Edward,
    eagerly.</p>

    <p>"Not exactly," replied the Baroness; "there is nothing
    fearful to be seen."</p>

    <p>"Come, let us tell him at once," interrupted the Baron. "The
    fact is, that every guest who sleeps for the first time in this
    room (and it has fallen to the lot of many, in turn, to do so,)
    is visited by some important, significant dream or vision, or
    whatever I ought to call it, in which some future event is
    prefigured to him, or some past mystery cleared up, which he
    had vainly striven to comprehend before."</p>

    <p>"Then," interposed Edward, "it must be something like what
    is known in the Highlands, under the name of second sight, a
    privilege, as some consider it, which several persons and
    several families enjoy."</p>

    <p>"Just so," said the physician, "the cases are very similar;
    yet the most mysterious part of this affair is, that it does
    not appear to originate with the individual, or his
    organization, or his sympathy with beings of the invisible
    world; no, the individual has nothing to say to it&mdash;the
    locality does it all. Every one who sleeps there has his
    mysterious dream, and the result proves its truth."</p>

    <p>"At least, in most instances," continued the Baron, "when we
    have had an opportunity of hearing the cases confirmed. I
    remember once, in particular. You may recollect, Lieutenant,
    that when you first came in, I had the honor of telling you you
    were not quite a stranger to me."</p>

    <p>"Certainly, Baron; and I have been wishing for a long time
    to ask an explanation of these words."</p>

    <p>"We have often heard your name mentioned by a particular
    friend of yours&mdash;one who could never pronounce it without
    emotion."</p>

    <p>"Ah!" cried Edward, who now saw clearly why the Baron's name
    had sounded familiar to him also&mdash;"ah! you speak of my
    friend Hallberg; truly do you say, we were indeed dear to each
    other."</p>

    <p>"Were!" echoed the Baron, in a faltering tone, as he
    observed the sudden change in Edward's voice and countenance;
    "can the blooming, vigorous youth be&mdash;"</p>

    <p>"Dead!" exclaimed Edward; and the Baron deeply regretted
    that he had touched so tender a chord, as he saw the young
    officer's eyes fill with tears, and a dark cloud pass over his
    animated features.</p>

    <p>"Forgive me," he continued, while he leaned forward and
    pressed his companion's hand; "I grieve that a thoughtless word
    should have awakened such deep sorrow. I had no idea of his
    death; we all loved the handsome young man, and by his
    description of you were already much interested in you before
    we had ever seen you."</p>

    <p>The conversation now turned entirely on Hallberg. Edward
    related the particulars of his death. Every one present had
    something to say in his praise; and although this sudden
    allusion to his dearest friend had agitated Edward in no slight
    degree, yet it was a consolation to him to listen to the
    tribute these worthy people paid to the memory of Ferdinand,
    and to see how genuine was their regret at the tidings of his
    early death. The time passed swiftly away in conversation of
    much interest, and the whole company were surprised to hear ten
    o'clock strike, an unusually late hour for this quiet, regular
    family. The chaplain read prayers, in which Edward devoutly
    joined, and then he kissed the matron's hand, and felt almost
    as if he were in his father's house. The Baron offered to show
    his guest to his room, and the servant preceded them with
    lights. The way led past the staircase, and then on one side
    into a long gallery, which communicated with another wing of
    the castle.</p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page190"
       id="page190"></a>[pg 190]</span>

    <p>The high-vaulted ceilings, the curious carving on the
    ponderous doorways, the pointed gothic windows, through many
    broken panes of which a sharp nightwind whistled, proved to
    Edward that he was in the old part of the castle, and that the
    famous chamber could not be far off.</p>

    <p>"Would it be possible for me to be quartered there," he
    began, rather timidly; "I should like it of all things."</p>

    <p>"Really!" inquired the Baron, rather surprised; "have not
    our ghost stories alarmed you?"</p>

    <p>"On the contrary," was the reply, "they have excited the
    most earnest wish&mdash;"</p>

    <p>"Then, if that be the case," said the Baron, "we will
    return. The room was already prepared for you, being the most
    comfortable and the best in the whole wing; only I fancied,
    after our conversation&mdash;"</p>

    <p>"Oh, certainly not," exclaimed Edward; "I could only long
    for such dreams."</p>

    <p>During this discourse they had arrived at the door of the
    famous room. They went in. They found themselves in a lofty and
    spacious apartment, so large that the two candles which the
    servant carried only shed a glimmering twilight over it, which
    did not penetrate to the furthest corner. A high-canopied bed,
    hung with costly but old-fashioned damask, of dark green, in
    which were swelling pillows of snowy whiteness, tied with green
    bows, and a silk coverlet of the same color, looked very
    inviting to the tired traveler. Sofa and chairs of faded
    needlework, a carved oak commode and table, a looking-glass in
    heavy framework, a prie-dieu and crucifix above it, constituted
    the furniture of the room, where, above all things, cleanliness
    and comfort preponderated, while a good deal of silver plate
    was spread out on the toilet-table.</p>

    <p>Edward looked round. "A beautiful room!" he said. "Answer me
    one question, Baron, if you please. Did he ever sleep
    here?"</p>

    <p>"Certainly," replied Friedenberg; "it was his usual room
    when he was here, and he had a most curious dream in that bed,
    which, as he assured us, made a great impression on him."</p>

    <p>"And what was it?" inquired Edward.</p>

    <p>"He never told us, for, as you well know, he was reserved by
    nature; but we gathered from some words that he let slip, that
    an early and sudden death was foretold. Alas! your narrative
    has confirmed the truth of the prediction."</p>

    <p>"Wonderful! He always had a similar foreboding, and many a
    time has he grieved me by alluding to it," said Edward; "yet it
    never made him gloomy or discontented. He went on his way
    firmly and calmly, and looked forward with joy, I might almost
    say, to another life."</p>

    <p>"He was a superior man," answered the Baron. "whose memory
    will ever be dear to us. But now I will detain you no longer.
    Good night. Here is the bell"&mdash;he showed him the cord in
    between the curtains&mdash;"and your servant sleeps in the next
    room."</p>

    <p>"Oh, you are too careful of me," said Edward, smiling; "I am
    used to sleep by myself."</p>

    <p>"Still," replied the Baron, "every precaution should be
    taken. Now once more good night."</p>

    <p>He shook him by the hand, and, followed by the servant, left
    the room.</p>

    <p>Thus Edward found himself alone, in the large,
    mysterious-looking, haunted room, where his deceased friend had
    so often reposed; where he also was expected to see a vision.
    The awe which the place itself inspired, combined with the sad
    and yet tender recollection of the departed Ferdinand, produced
    a state of mental excitement which was not favorable to his
    night's rest. He had already undressed with the aid of his
    servant (whom he had then dismissed,) and had been in bed some
    time, having extinguished the candles. No sleep visited his
    eyelids; and the thought recurred which had so often troubled
    him, why he had never received the promised token from
    Ferdinand, whether his friend's spirit were among the
    blest&mdash;whether his silence (so to speak) proceeded from
    unwillingness or incapacity to communicate with the living. A
    mingled train of reflections agitated his mind; his brain grew
    heated; his pulse beat faster and faster. The castle clock
    tolled eleven&mdash;half-past eleven. He counted the strokes:
    and at that moment the moon rose above the dark margin of the
    rocks which surrounded the castle, and shed her full light into
    Edward's room. Every object stood out in relief from the
    darkness. Edward gazed, and thought, and speculated. It seemed
    to him as if something moved in the furthest corner of the
    room. The movement was evident&mdash;it assumed a
    form&mdash;the form of a man, which appeared to advance, or
    rather to float forward. Here Edward lost all sense of
    surrounding objects, and found himself once more sitting at the
    foot of the monument in the garden of the academy, where he had
    contracted the bond with his friend. As formerly, the moon
    streamed through the dark branches of the fir-trees, and shed
    its pale cold light on the cold white marble of the monument.
    Then the floating form which had appeared in the room of the
    castle became clearer, more substantial, more earthly-looking;
    it issued from behind the tombstone, and stood in the full
    moonlight. It was Ferdinand, in the uniform of his regiment,
    earnest and pale, but with a kind smile on his features.</p>

    <p>"Ferdinand, Ferdinand!" cried Edward, overcome by joy and
    surprise, and he strove to embrace the well-loved form, but it
    waved him aside with a melancholy look.</p>

    <p>"Ah! you are dead," continued the speaker; "and why then do
    I see you just as you looked when
    living?"</p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page191"
       id="page191"></a>[pg 191]</span>

    <p>"Edward," answered the apparition, in a voice that sounded
    as if it came from afar, "I am dead, but my spirit has no
    peace."</p>

    <p>"You are not with the blest?" cried Edward, in a voice of
    terror.</p>

    <p>"God is merciful," it replied; "but we are frail and sinful
    creatures; inquire no more, but pray for me."</p>

    <p>"With all my heart," cried Edward, in a tone of anguish,
    while he gazed with affection on the familiar features; "but
    speak, what can I do for thee?"</p>

    <p>"An unholy tie still binds me to earth. I have sinned. I was
    cut off in the midst of my sinful projects. This ring burns."
    He slipped a small gold ring from his left hand. "Only when
    every token of this unholy compact is destroyed, and when I
    recover the ring which I exchanged for this, only then can my
    spirit be at rest. Oh, Edward, dear Edward, bring me back my
    ring!"</p>

    <p>"With joy&mdash;but where, where am I to seek it?"</p>

    <p>"Emily Varnier will give it thee herself; our engagement was
    contrary to holy duties, to prior engagements, to earlier vows.
    God denied his blessing to the guilty project, and my course
    was arrested in a fearful manner. Pray for me, Edward, and
    bring me back the ring, my ring," continued the voice, in a
    mournful tone of appeal.</p>

    <p>Then the features of the deceased smiled sadly but tenderly;
    then all appeared to float once more before Edward's
    eyes&mdash;the form was lost in mist, the monument, the
    fir-grove, the moonlight, disappeared; a long, gloomy,
    breathless pause followed. Edward lay, half sleeping, half
    benumbed, in a confused manner; portions of the dream returned
    to him&mdash;some images, some sounds&mdash;above all, the
    petition for the restitution of the ring. But an indescribable
    power bound his limbs, closed his eyelids, and silenced his
    voice; mental consciousness alone was left him, yet his mind
    was a prey to terror.</p>

    <p>At length these painful sensations subsided&mdash;his nerves
    became more braced, his breath came more freely, a pleasing
    languor crept over his limbs, and he fell into a peaceful
    sleep. When he awoke it was already broad daylight; his sleep
    toward the end of the night had been quiet and refreshing. He
    felt strong and well, but as soon as the recollection of his
    dream returned, a deep melancholy took possession of him, and
    he felt the traces of tears which grief had wrung from him on
    his eyelashes. But what had the vision been? A mere dream
    engendered by the conversation of the evening, and his
    affection for Hallberg's memory, or was it at length the
    fulfillment of the compact?</p>

    <p>There, out of that dark corner, had the form risen up, and
    moved toward him. But might it not have been the effect of
    light and shade produced by the moonbeams, and the dark
    branches of a large tree close to the window, when agitated by
    the high wind? Perhaps he had seen this, and then fallen
    asleep, and all combined, had woven itself into a dream. But
    the name of Emily Varnier! Edward did not remember ever to have
    heard it; certainly it had never been mentioned in Ferdinand's
    letters. Could it be the name of his love, of the object of
    that ardent and unfortunate passion? Could the vision be one of
    truth? He was meditating, lost in thought, when there was a
    knock at his door, and the servant entered. Edward rose
    hastily, and sprang out of bed. As he did so, he heard
    something fall with a ringing sound; the servant stooped and
    picked up a gold ring, plain gold, like a wedding-ring. Edward
    shuddered: he snatched it from the servant's hand, and the
    color forsook his cheeks as he read the two words "Emily
    Varnier" engraved inside the hoop. He stood there like one
    thunderstruck, as pale as a corpse, with the proof in his hand
    that he had not merely dreamed, but had actually spoken with
    the spirit of his friend. A servant of the household came in to
    ask whether the Lieutenant wished to breakfast in his room, or
    down stairs with the family. Edward would willingly have
    remained alone with the thoughts that pressed heavily on him,
    but a secret dread lest his absence should be remarked, and
    considered as a proof of fear, after all that had passed on the
    subject of the haunted room, determined him to accept the
    proposal. He dressed hastily, and arranged his hair carefully,
    but the paleness of his face, and the traces of tears in his
    eyes, were not to be concealed, and he entered the saloon,
    where the family were already assembled at the breakfast-table,
    with the chaplain and the doctor.</p>

    <p>The Baron rose to greet him: one glance at the young
    officer's face was sufficient; he pressed his hand in silence,
    and led him to a place by the side of the Baroness. An animated
    discussion now began concerning the weather, which was
    completely changed; a strong south wind had risen in the night,
    so there was now a thaw. The snow was all melted&mdash;the
    torrents were flowing once more, and the roads impassable.</p>

    <p>"How can you possibly reach Blumenberg, to-day?" the Baron
    inquired of his guest.</p>

    <p>"That will be well nigh impossible," said the doctor. "I am
    just come from a patient at the next village, and I was nearly
    an hour performing the same distance in a carriage that is
    usually traversed on foot in a quarter of an hour."</p>

    <p>Edward had not given a thought this morning to the
    shooting-match. Now that it had occurred to him to remember it,
    he felt little regret at being detained from a scene of noisy
    festivity which, far from being desirable, appeared to him
    actually distasteful in his present frame of mind. Yet he was
    troubled by the thought of intruding too long on the
    hospitality of his new friends; and he said, in a hesitating
    manner&mdash;</p>

    <p>"Yes! but I must try how far&mdash;"</p>

    <p>"That you shall not do," interrupted the
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page192"
       id="page192"></a>[pg 192]</span> Baron. "The road is always
       bad: and in a thaw it is always dangerous. It would go
       against my conscience to allow you to risk it. Remain with
       us: we have no shooting-match or ball to offer you,
       but&mdash;"</p>

    <p>"I shall not certainly regret either," cried Edward,
    eagerly.</p>

    <p>"Well, then, remain with us, Lieutenant," said the matron,
    laying her hand on his arm, with a kind, maternal gesture. "You
    are heartily welcome; and the longer you stay with us, the
    better shall we be pleased."</p>

    <p>The youth bowed, and raised the lady's hand to his lips, and
    said&mdash;</p>

    <p>"If you will allow me&mdash;if you feel certain that I am
    not intruding&mdash;I will accept your kind offer with joy. I
    never care much for a ball, at any time, and to-day in
    particular"&mdash;. He stopped short, and then added, "In such
    bad weather as this, the small amusement&mdash;"</p>

    <p>"Would be dearly bought." interposed the Baron. "Come, I am
    delighted; you will remain with us."</p>

    <p>He shook Edward warmly by the hand.</p>

    <p>"You know you are with old friends."</p>

    <p>"And, beside," said the doctor, with disinterested
    solicitude, "it would be imprudent, for M. de Wensleben does
    not look very well. Had you a good night, sir?"</p>

    <p>"Very good," replied Edward.</p>

    <p>"Without much dreaming?" continued the other,
    pertinaciously.</p>

    <p>"Dreaming! oh, nothing wonderful," answered the officer.</p>

    <p>"Hem!" said the doctor, shaking his head, portentiously. "No
    one yet&mdash;"</p>

    <p>"Were I to relate my dream," replied Edward, "you would
    understand it no more than I did. Confused images&mdash;"</p>

    <p>The Baroness, who saw the youth's unwillingness to enlarge
    upon the subject, here observed&mdash;</p>

    <p>"That some of the visions had been of no great
    importance&mdash;those which she had heard related, at
    least."</p>

    <p>The chaplain led the conversation from dreams, themselves,
    to their origin, on which subject he and the doctor could not
    agree; and Edward and his visions were left in peace at last.
    But when every one had departed, each to his daily occupation,
    Edward followed the Baron into his library.</p>

    <p>"I answered in that manner," he said, "to get rid of the
    doctor and his questioning. To you I will confess the truth.
    Your room has exercised its mysterious influence over me."</p>

    <p>"Indeed!" said the baron, eagerly.</p>

    <p>"I have seen and spoken with my Ferdinand, for the first
    time since his death. I will trust to your kindness&mdash;your
    sympathy&mdash;not to require of me a description of this
    exciting vision. But I have a question to put to you."</p>

    <p>"Which I will answer in all candor, if it be possible."</p>

    <p>"Do you know the name of Emily Varnier?"</p>

    <p>"Varnier!&mdash;certainly not."</p>

    <p>"Is there no one in this neighborhood who bears that
    name?"</p>

    <p>"No one: it sounds like a foreign name."</p>

    <p>"In the bed in which I slept I found this ring," said
    Edward, while he produced it; "and the apparition of my friend
    pronounced that name."</p>

    <p>"Wonderful! As I tell you, I know no one so
    called&mdash;this is the first time I ever heard the name. But
    it is entirely unaccountable to me, how the ring should have
    come into that bed. You see, M. von Wensleben, what I told you
    is true. There is something very peculiar about that room: the
    moment you entered, I saw that the spell had been working on
    you also, but I did not wish to forestall or force your
    confidence."</p>

    <p>"I felt the delicacy, as I do now the kindness, of your
    intentions. Those who are as sad as I am can alone tell the
    value of tenderness and sympathy."</p>

    <p>Edward remained this day and the following at the castle,
    and felt quite at home with its worthy inmates. He slept twice
    in the haunted room. He went away, and came back often; was
    always welcomed cordially, and always quartered in the same
    apartment. But, in spite of all this, he had no clew, he had no
    means of lifting the vail of mystery which hung round the fate
    of Ferdinand Hallberg and of Emily Varnier.</p>
    <hr />

    <h4>From Punch.</h4>

    <h3>OUR "IN MEMORIAM."</h3>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Not in the splendor of a ruinous glory</p>

            <p>Emblazoned, glitters our lost Statesman's name:</p>

            <p>The great deeds that have earned him deathless
            fame</p>

            <p>Will cost us merely thanks. Their inventory</p>

            <p>Of peaceful heroism will be a story,</p>

            <p>Of wise assertion of a rightful claim,</p>

            <p>And Commerce freed by sagely daring aim.</p>

            <p>Famine averted; Revolution glory</p>

            <p>Disarmed; and the exhausted Commonweal</p>

            <p>Recruited; these are things that England long</p>

            <p>Will couple with the name of ROBERT PEEL,</p>

            <p>Of whom the worst his enemies can say</p>

            <p>Is, that he left the error of his way</p>

            <p>When Conscience told him he was in the wrong.</p>
        </div>
    </div>
    <hr />

    <h4>From the Southern Literary Messenger.</h4>

    <h3>TO W.J.R., WITH A MS.</h3>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>A little common weed, a simple shell,</p>

            <p class="i2">From the waste margent of a classic
            sea;</p>

            <p>A flower that grew where some great empire fell,</p>

            <p class="i2">Worthless themselves, are rich to
            Memory.</p>

            <p>And thus these lines are precious, for the hand</p>

            <p class="i2">That penned their music crumbles into
            mould;</p>

            <p class="i2">And the hot brain that shaped them now is
            cold</p>

            <p>In its own ashes, like a blackened brand.&mdash;</p>

            <p>But where the fiery soul that wove the spell;</p>

            <p class="i2">Weeping with trailing wings beside his
            tomb?</p>

            <p>Or stretched and tortured on the racks of Hell</p>

            <p class="i2">Dark-scowling at the ministers of
            doom?&mdash;</p>

            <p>Peace! this is but a dream, there cannot be</p>

            <p>More suffering for him in Eternity!</p>
        </div>
    </div>

    <p class="author">R.H. STODDARD</p>
    <hr />

    <h4>From the Knickerbocker Magazine.</h4>

    <h3>THE ACTUAL.</h3>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Away! no more shall shadows entertain;</p>

            <p class="i2">No more shall fancy paint and dreams
            delude;</p>

            <p>No more shall these illusions of the brain</p>

            <p class="i2">Divert me with their pleasing
            interlude;</p>

            <p>Forever are ye banished, idle joys;</p>

            <p>Welcome, stern labor-life&mdash;this is no world for
            toys!</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Blessed labor-life! victorious only he</p>

            <p class="i2">Who in its lists doth valiantly
            contend;</p>

            <p>For labor in itself is victory;</p>

            <p class="i2">Yield never to repose; but let the
            end</p>

            <p>Of Life's great battle be&mdash;the end of life:</p>

            <p>A glorious immortality shall crown the strife.</p>
        </div>
    </div>

    <p class="author">R.B.X.</p>
    <hr class="full" />

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13643 ***</div>
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