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diff --git a/old/53948-0.txt b/old/53948-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 9d74de7..0000000 --- a/old/53948-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9653 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXXIV, No. 1, January 1849, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXXIV, No. 1, January 1849 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - J. R. Patterson - J. B. Taylor - -Release Date: January 12, 2017 [eBook #53948] -[Most recently updated: October 30, 2021] - - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: David T. Jones, Mardi Desjardins and the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE, JANUARY 1849 *** - - - - -[Illustration: GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE -1849. -DAY ON THE MOUNTAINS. -Drawn & Engraved by W. E. Tucker] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - VOL. XXXIV. January, 1849. No. 1. - - - Table of Contents - - The Belle of the Opera - What is Beautiful? - Kate Richmond’s Betrothal - The Corsair’s Victim - A Dirge for O’Connell - The Illinois and the Prairies - A Dream of Italy - The Letter of Introduction - Dirge - The Fugitive - The Gentle Step - Barbara Uttman’s Dream - Sunset Upon “The Steine-Kill” - A Song - The Old New House - The Wounded Guerilla - Lines - Speak Kindly - Marie - Love, Duty and Hope - Do I Love Thee? - Ode to Shelley - Marion’s Song in the School-Room - All About “What’s in a Name.” - Game-Birds of America.—No. XII. - Visitants From Spirit-Land - History of the Costume of Men - Maple Sugar - To My Love - Softly O’er My Memory Stealing - Cathara - The Departed - The Dead - The Homestead of Beauty - Gems From Late Readings - Editor’s Table - Review of New Books - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - - - - GRAHAM’S - - AMERICAN MONTHLY - - MAGAZINE - - Of Literature and Art. - - EMBELLISHED WITH - - MEZZOTINT AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS, MUSIC, ETC. - -WILLIAM C. BRYANT, J. FENIMORE COOPER, RICHARD H. DANA, JAMES K. PAULDING, - HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, N. P. WILLIS, CHARLES F. HOFFMAN, J. R. LOWELL. - - MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, MISS C. M. SEDGWICK, MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD, - MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY, - MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN, ETC. - PRINCIPAL CONTRIBUTORS. - - G. R. GRAHAM, J. R. CHANDLER AND J. B. TAYLOR, EDITORS. - - VOLUME XXXIV. - - PHILADELPHIA: - SAMUEL D. PATTERSON & CO. 98 CHESTNUT STREET. - 1849. - - - - - * * * * * - - CONTENTS - - OF THE - - THIRTY-FOURTH VOLUME. - - JANUARY, 1849, TO JUNE, 1849. - -All About “What’s in a Name.” By CAROLINE C——, 62 -A Recollection of Mendelssohn. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 113 -A Voice from the Wayside. By CAROLINE C——, 300 -Barbara Uttman’s Dream. By Mrs. EMMA C. EMBURY, 43 -Christ Weeping Over Jerusalem. By JOSEPH R. CHANDLER, 189 -Cousin Fanny. By M. S. G. NICHOLS, 354 -Doctor Sian Seng. From the French, 123, 174 -Deaf, Dumb and Blind. By AGNES L. GORDON, 347 -Editor’s Table, 79, 153, 215, - 273, 330, 387 -Eleonore Eboli. By WINIFRED BARRINGTON, 134 -Fifty Suggestions. By EDGAR A. POE, 317, 363 -For and Against. By WALTER HERRIES, Esq. 377 -Game-Birds of America. No. XII., 68 -Gems from Late Readings, 78, 149, 211 -History of the Costume of Men. By FAYETTE ROBINSON, 71, 140, 196, - 264, 319 -Honor to Whom Honor is Due. By Mrs. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON, 192 -Jasper Leech. By B., 15 -Kate Richmond’s Betrothal. By GRACE GREENWOOD, 8 -Love, Duty and Hope. By ENNA DUVAL, 56 -Lessons in German. By Miss M. J. BROWNE, 118 -Mormon Temple, Nauvoo, 257 -Mr. and Mrs. John Johnson Jones. By ANGELE DE V. HULL, 277 -Montgomery’s House, 330 -May Lillie. By CAROLINE H. BUTLER, 365 -Passages of Life in Europe. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 307 -Passages of Life in Europe. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 373 -Reviews, 81, 151, 213, - 270, 334, 385 -Rose Winters. By ESTELLE, 258 -Reminiscences. By EMMA C. EMBURY, 325 -Speak Kindly. By KATE SUTHERLAND, 53 -St. Valentine’s Day. By J. R. CHANDLER, 110 -The Belle of the Opera. By J. R. CHANDLER, 1 -The Illinois and the Prairies. By JAMES K. PAULDING, 16 -The Letter of Introduction. By Mrs. A. M. F. ANNAN, 26 -The Fugitive. By the VISCOUNTESS D’AULNAY, 37 -The Old New House. By H. HASTINGS WELD, 47 -The Wounded Guerilla. By MAYNE REID, 50 -The Young Lawyer’s First Case. By J. TOD, 85 -The Man in the Moon. By CAROLINE C——, 91 -The Wager of Battle. By W. GILMORE SIMMS, 99 -The Chamber of Life and Death. By PROFESSOR ALDEN, 129 -The Lost Notes. By Mrs. HUGHS, 144 -The Naval Officer. By W. F. LYNCH, 157, 223, 286 -The Unfinished Picture. By JANE C. CAMPBELL, 182 -The Adventures of a Man who could Never Dress Well. - By M. TOPHAM EVANS, 199 -The Plantation of General Taylor, 206 -The Poet Lí. By CAROLINE H. BUTLER, 217 -The Recluse. By PARK BENJAMIN, 232, 298 -The Missionary, Sunlight. By CAROLINE C——, 235 -The Brother’s Temptation. By SYBIL SUTHERLAND, 243 -The Gipsy Queen. By JOSEPH R. CHANDLER, 250 -The Darsies. By EMMA C. EMBURY, 252 -Taste. By Miss AUGUSTA C. TWIGGS, 310 -The Man of Mind and the Man of Money. By T. S. ARTHUR, 312 -The Picture of Judgment. By W. GILMORE SIMMS, 337 -The Battle of Life. By LEN, 362 -The Birth-Place of Benjamin West, 378 -The Young Dragoon. By C. J. PETERSON, 379 -Unequal Marriages. By CAROLINE H. BUTLER, 169 -Western Recollections. By FAY. ROBINSON, 178 -Wild-Birds of America. By PROF. FROST, 142 -Wild-Birds of America. By PROFESSOR FROST, 208 -Wild-Birds of America. By PROF. FROST, 267 -Wild-Birds of America. By PROF. FROST, 322 -Wild-Birds of America. By PROF. FROST, 382 - - - POETRY. - -A Dirge for O’Connell. By ANNE C. LYNCH, 15 -A Dream of Italy. By CHARLES ALLEN, 25 -A Song. By GIFTIE, 46 -A Song. By RICHARD WILKE, 112 -A Twilight Lay. By W. HORRY STILLWELL, 128 -An Hour Among the Dead. By J. B. JONES, 148 -A Billet-Doux. By FRANCES S. OSGOOD, 177 -A Summer Evening Thought. By COUSIN MARY, 285 -A Sonnet. By FAYETTE ROBINSON, 306 -A May Song. By S. D. ANDERSON, 316 -Ariel in the Cloven Pine. By BAYARD TAYLOR, 324 -Cathara. By WALTER COLTON, U. S. N. 76 -Christine. By E. CURTISS HINE, 90 -Dirge. 36 -Do I Love Thee? By RICHARD COE, JR. 60 -Dreams of Heaven. By M. E. THROPP, 378 -Earth-Life. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 133 -Extract. By HENRY S. HAGERT, 181 -Egeria. By MARY L. LAWSON, 195 -Florence. By HENRY B. HIRST, 165 -Fancies About a Lock of Hair. By S. D. ANDERSON, 207 -From Buchanan. By RICHARD PENN SMITH, 297 -Human Influence. By MARIE ROSEAU, 191 -Jenny Lind. By Miss M. SAWIN, 269 -Lines. By R. T. CONRAD, 52 -Love. By CHARLES E. TRAIL, 173 -Lost Treasures. By P. D. T., 242 -Lines to an Idea that Wouldn’t “Come.” - By FRANCES S. OSGOOD, 285 -Luna. An Ode. By H. T. TUCKERMAN, 297 -Marie. By CAROLINE F. ORNE, 55 -Marion’s Song in the School-Room. - By Mrs. FRANCES S. OSGOOD, 61 -Maple Sugar. By ALFRED B. STREET, 73 -My Bird Has Flown. By Mrs. E. W. CASWELL, 117 -My Study. By WM. H. C. HOSMER, 377 -Night. By Miss AUGUSTA C. TWIGGS, 372 -Ode to Shelley. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 61 -On a Diamond Ring. By CHARLES E. TRAIL, 231 -Parting. By Mrs. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON, 329 -Paraphrase. By RICHARD PENN SMITH, 361 -Requiem. By WM. H. C. HOSMER, 109 -Rome. By R. H. STODDARD, 234 -Reminiscences of a Reader. - By the late WALTER HERRIES, Esq., 249 -Raffaelle D’Urbino. By W. H. WELSH, 352 -Sunset Upon the Steine-Kill. By KATE DASHWOOD, 46 -Summer’s Bacchanal. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 206 -Sonnet to Machiavelli. By FAY. ROBINSON, 251 -Storm-Lines. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 270 -Stanzas. By Mrs. O. M. P. LORD, 346 -Steinhausen’s Hero and Leander. By H. T. TUCKERMAN, 364 -Stanzas for Music. By HARRIET S. HANDY, 376 -The Corsair’s Victim. By WM. H. C. HOSMER, 14 -The Gentle Step. By HARRIET J. MEEK, 42 -To My Love. By HENRY H. PAUL, 73 -The Departed. By Mrs. MARY S. WHITAKER, 76 -The Dead. By “AN AULD HEAD ON YOUNG SHOUTHERS,” 77 -The Homestead of Beauty. By S. D. ANDERSON, 77 -The World. By R. H. STODDARD, 89 -The Ennuyee. By Mrs. S. A LEWIS, 90 -The Mirror of Life. By ANNA, 97 -To the Thames, at Norwich, Conn., - By Mrs. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, 98 -The Song of the Axe. By C. L. WHELER, 98 -The Past. By Miss CAROLINE E. SUTTON, 112 -The Phantasmagoria. By A. J. REQUIER, 120 -The Beating of the Heart. By RICHARD HAYWARDE, 122 -The Highland Laddie’s Farewell. By AUGUSTA C. TWIGGS, 128 -The Old Year and the New. By CLARA, 143 -The Dial-Plate. By A. J. REQUIER, 168 -The Icebergs. By PARK BENJAMIN, 173 -The Heart’s Confession. By HENRY MORFORD, 188 -The Precious Rest. By RICHARD COE, Jr., 207 -The Pine-Tree. By CAROLINE MAY, 210 -To My Little Boy. By Mrs. HENRIETTA L. COLEMAN, 212 -To Mother. By ANNIE GREY, 231 -Thermopylæ. By Mrs. MARY G. HORSFORD, 242 -The Unsepulchred Relics. By Mrs. GOODWIN, 249 -The Brother’s Lament. By AMELIA B. WELBY, 251 -The Unmasked. By S. ANNA LEWIS, 257 -The Zopilotes. By FAYETTE ROBINSON, 263 -The Rustic Shrine. By GEO. W. DEWEY, 296 -The Grass of the Field. By CAROLINE MAY, 309 -To an Absent Sister. By MARY G. HORSFORD, 309 -Thoughts. By MARIE ROSEAU, 346 -Turn Not Away. By HENRY MORFORD, 353 -The Sleep of the Dead. By S. G. HAGERT, 361 -The New Search After Happiness. By E. FOXTON, 371 -Visitants from Spirit-Land. - By E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N. 70 -Vincente Filicaja’s Sonnet to Italy. - By FAYETTE ROBINSON, 384 -What is Beautiful? By AUGUSTA, 7 - - - MUSIC. - -Softly O’er My Memory Stealing. Words by S. D. Patterson. - Music by John A. Janke, Jr. -The Bells of Ostend. Words by W. L. Bowles. - Music by J. Hilton Jones. -Oh, Have I Not Been True to Thee? - Written and adapted to a beautiful melody - by John H. Hewitt. -Adieu, My Native Land. Words by D. W. Belisle. - Arranged for the piano by James Piper. -Virtue’s Evergreen. Words by Theodore A. Gould. - Music by Theodore Von La Hache. -I Can’t Make Up My Mind. Words from Hood’s Magazine. - Arranged for the piano by C. Grobe. - - - ENGRAVINGS. - -Day on the Mountains, engraved by W. E. Tucker. -The Belle of the Opera, engraved by W. E. Tucker. -The Wounded Guerilla, engraved by Rice. -Oglethorp University, engraved by Rawdon & Co. -A Valentine, engraved by W. E. Tucker. -Home Treasures, engraved by Addison. -The Mirror of Life, engraved by Wilmer. -Portrait of Mrs. Davidson, by Rawdon & Co. -Christ Weeping Over Jerusalem, by W. E. Tucker. -Why Don’t He Come, engraved by Addison. -The Bridal Night, engraved by Addison. -View of the Plantation of Gen. Taylor. -The Gipsy Queen, engraved by Thomas B. Welsh. -The Church of St. Isaac’s, engraved by A. L. Dick. -The Miniature, engraved by an American Artist. -Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. -May Morning, engraved by T. B. Welsh. -View of Tortosa, engraved by J. Dill. -Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. -The Star of the Night, engraved by Addison. -The Cottage Door, engraved by Humphreys. -Col. Washington at the Cowpens. -Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: OGLETHORP UNIVERSITY, Engraved by Rawdon & Co.] - -[Illustration: THE BELLE OF THE OPERA, Engraved by W. E. Tucker.] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - * * * * * - - VOL. XXXIV. PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1849. No. 1. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BELLE OF THE OPERA. - - - AN ESSAY UPON WOMAN’S ACCOMPLISHMENT, HER CHARACTER AND HER MISSION. - - BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER. - - [SEE ENGRAVING.] - - -It is not a small thing to be an engaged writer for a magazine that has -admittance into numerous families, and, by the costliness and adaptation -of its decorations, and the general proclivity of its contents, is in no -small degree the handbook of young females. - -A good book, an octavo or quarto, upon sound morals or religious -doctrines comes like a wholesome breeze, “stealing and giving -odors”—but then, like that breeze, it is only occasional—a current -rushing in but rarely, and seldom finding the right object within its -healthful influence. But the magazine is the atmosphere in which the -inmates dwell; they are constantly within its influence, and their -general life, their mental sanative properties become imbued with its -qualities: And this is the more important as the influence is commenced -at home, and upon the female portion; so that it becomes constantly, -permanently, and extensively operative upon, and through others. - -The writers for this magazine seem to have been impressed with this idea -of these consequences, and hence the importance of their contributions; -or the editor has been exceedingly careful in his winnowing, to allow -nothing to pass the sieve that might be productive of evil in the field -which he is called to cultivate. - -The writer of this article is deeply impressed with the importance of -his position, and the danger of an error. A magazine that is devoted to -taste, the arts and the fashions, it would seem, from the opinions of -some, must be in a great degree light, and in no degree instructive, -save in the very subject of taste, fashion and the arts, to which it is -ostensibly devoted, and according to the general acceptation of the -words, taste and fashion, and the ordinary uses to which the arts are -applied. - -“A magazine, then, of polite literature, of the arts and fashions, must -be for the day—must treat of ephemeral subjects—must make the fashions -of female dresses a leading and permanent matter of thought—must -recommend amusements as matters of life-consideration, and erect the -finer arts as an image of universal worship.” - -We say plainly that we differ from those who make this estimate of -periodical literature. We cannot consent to such a degrading standard -for the monthly press—we certainly will not submit ourselves or our pen -to this shortening process of the Procrustean bed of literature—we will -do what we can to keep “Graham’s Magazine” from such debasement—we will -do it for the long established character of the periodical, and for what -we think it capable of—we will do it for our own credit—and, most of -all, we will do it for the good of that large portion of society to -which this magazine supplies the mental _pabulum_. When we furnish forth -the table of those who look to our catering, we will take care that -there shall be no poison in the ingredients, no “death in the pot.” - -But in a secular magazine there _must_ be light reading—all, or nearly -all, the contents must be of a kind addressed to the fancy as well as -the understanding—and consequently of a character to excite the -censure, or at least forbid the approach, of the ascetic. Nay, it must -greatly differ from the class of periodical literature devoted to, and -sustained upon sectarian religious grounds. The task, the labor of the -magazine editor is to sustain the high moral tone of his work, and yet -have it the vehicle of fashion, taste and the arts—to take the pure, -the good, and the beneficial, and give to them attractions for the young -and gay—or, to take that which is attractive for the young and the gay, -and make it the vehicle of high moral truth—of sober, solid reflection, -the means of heart-improvement, and the promoter of home joys—to -overlay the book with gold, and with sculptured cherubim, and all the -magnificence of taste and ingenuity—but to be sure that within are the -prophet’s rod—the shew-bread of the altar—and the written law of -truth. - -Our sense of the duty of a magazine writer of the present time, is -rather hinted at than set forth in the above remarks. The subject is one -that might command the pages of a volume, and if properly handled would -be made eminently useful to writers and to readers. Our attention was -awakened to the subject by an examination of the exquisitely executed -picture of “THE BELLE OF THE OPERA,” with which that accomplished -artist, W. E. Tucker, has enriched the present number of this Magazine. -We do not know that he who drew the figure had such a thought in his -head as the improvement of magazine literature; and it is probable that -Tucker when he exhausted the powers of engraving, or almost all its -powers, to produce the figure, was impressed rather with the importance -of his contribution to the artistic importance of periodicals, than to -the high moral influence which he was aiding to promote. But true -genius, wherever exercised, is suggestive—and the beautifully drawn -figure is as promotive of useful reflection as the best composed essay. -Hence the fine arts and literature are allied—allied in their elevating -influence upon the possessors, and their power of meliorating and -improving the minds of the uninitiated. Hence they go hand in hand in -the path of usefulness—hence they are united in this Magazine. - -The Belle of the Opera! Will the reader turn back once more and look at -the picture? How full of life—how much of thought—how -self-possessed—how desirable for the possession of others—how -conscious of charms—and yet how charmed with the tasteful objects -represented. - -The Belle of the Opera! To be that—to be “the observed of all -observers,” in a house crowded with objects for observation, to be made -preeminent by exceeding beauty is “no small thing.” It must be -costly—it must demand large contributions from other portions of the -possessor of the proud object. If acres went to enrich the dress of the -ancient nobility of England, something as desirable and as essential to -the possessor, as those acres were to the British nobility, must have -been sacrificed to perfect the attractions of the Belle of the Opera. -Were they social duties? were they domestic affections? were they the -means of womanly usefulness? of healthful and almost holy operation upon -the minds of others? were they prospective or present? is present -moderate but growing happiness sacrificed, or is the present enjoyment -of distinction so great as to balance all of immediate loss, and to make -the sacrifice that of future peace, future happiness, future domestic -usefulness, future social consequence, all that makes mature womanhood -delightful, all that makes age respectable and lovely? - -Such reflections and such pregnant queries arise in the mind, when we -contemplate the representation of such loveliness, so displayed. (I -might say such loveliness displayed, for the representation is -loveliness itself.) And the moralist has taken just such a beauty, (if -his mind ever “bodied forth” the forms of things _so_ unknown,) and -marked upon all the display “vanity and vexation of spirit”—the very -display, and especially the place of the display, warranting the -conclusion. - -We confess that we have looked at The Belle of the Opera until our mind -has arrived at other conclusions. We think it fair to conclude that so -lovely a face, and such a majestic form, are at least _prima faciæ_ -evidence of an elevated and beautiful mind, and that the enjoyment of -opera music, nowhere to be enjoyed but at the opera, is by no means -inconsistent with that elevation or that beauty. Music, that constitutes -half our worship on earth, and all in heaven, shall that be regarded in -itself as a sin or a means of degradation? - -“But the display of the person, the vanity of the dress, the folly of -the personal exhibition, these are against the character and usefulness -of the Belle—” - -How so? There is certainly no improper diminution of dress. The most -that can be said is, that a beautiful woman, beautifully dressed, is -sitting in the front seat of an opera-box, surrounded by hundreds of -persons of both sexes, who have come with the same ostensible object, -and who sit equally exposed. - -But it is the exceeding beauty of the person and the elegance of the -dress that make her conspicuous; and it is that conspicuousness which -constitutes the ground of censure. - -But fortunately The Belle of the Opera did not make herself beautiful. -Those elegant proportions, those enticing charms, are the gift of Him -who made human beings in his own image; and let it be confessed that -half the elegance of the _dress_ is attributable to the elegance of the -form which it covers, and the exquisite beauty which it is not intended -to conceal. - -Beauty is a gift—a gift of God—like all personal or mental endowments, -dangerous, it is confessed—but, like all, to be used for personal -gratification and the promotion of social advantage. - -If it is conceded to be a means of mental melioration to dwell among the -beauties of artistic skill and lofty architectural efforts, then surely -it must be still more advantageous to be reared within the influence of -_living_ charms; “to grow familiar day by day” with features and forms -that constitute models for the representation of angels, and to pass -onward through life with the sense of seeing constantly improved and -gratified with objects of exquisite beauty exquisitely clothed. This is -viewing The Belle of the Opera with an artist’s eye. - -“But,” the moralist will say, “the high office of woman is vacated by -such a sacrifice to display, and such a devotion of time to amusement. -That The Belle of the Opera can never be The Bonne of the Nursery, and -therefore woman is out of her place when out of such an exercise of her -faculties as shall minister directly to domestic advantage.” - -We take issue with the moralist on this question of the direct -application of female faculties; and we do this because we feel that the -narrow bigotry of the unenlightened, which leads them to condemn the -elegant enjoyments of life, and to ground their condemnation on the -demand which is constant upon human beings, “to do good and to -communicate,” is founded on a want of a full appreciation of female -powers, and a mistake as to what constitutes these, and their means of -usefulness. - -There will be no space for a discussion of the measure of female duties, -though it is intended to enter upon such a discussion hereafter; but we -may say that however extensive or however limited they may be, their -discharge will be more or less effectual and complete, as she is -qualified by the elegance of education, the improvement of her mind, the -cultivation and adaptation of her faculties, to impart to others the -graces of life, and to fix them by constant example. - -Virtue is embraced for its charms—it is not admired for deformity or -its negligence of mind; it has its attractions and its means of -compensation, as much as has vice—but they are not always as obvious. -The young must be made to _trust_ in the results of a virtuous course; -they must have their faith fixed by the graces of parental, of maternal -precept and example—and this good cannot be hoped for if the mother is -incapable of attracting, if she has not the means of charming—if, -indeed, she cannot show that what constitute the pleasures of life -(pleasures which in excess become crimes) are, while properly enjoyed, -wholesome and advantageous, and at the same time can show the line of -demarcation between their uses and their abuses. She must know what are -the true accomplishments of life—she must understand the influence of -refinement and cultivation on the mind—and she must bring herself to -apply all these. She must know the difference, too, between the uses and -the abuses of cultivated talents, and she must learn to discriminate. - -She who would deny to the young the cultivation of talents, musical, -literary or artistic, is like the beings who would pile up the snows of -winter, that the accumulated heap might prevent the budding and the -blossoming of spring; while she who would force the mind of her child to -an unnatural development of merely ornamental faculties, is like one who -would concentrate the rays of the sun through a burning-glass, in order -to accelerate the growth of a delicate plant. - -What we mean to assert is the obvious fact, that the female, the mother, -cannot discharge the high responsibilities of her sex, without many of -those acquisitions which are condemned as worthless in themselves, and -perhaps the condemnation is in some measure correct; that is, the -acquisition separately considered may be rather injurious than -beneficial. - -Music itself, if it be the only or the principal attainment of a woman, -must be valuable only as a means of obtaining money or fame. So of -dancing—so of painting—so of poetry, that divine gift—each one of -these, allowed to become predominant, loses its meliorating influence, -and devotes the possessor to a solitary enjoyment, or, at most, assists -her in acquiring notoriety and a living. - -It is our intention to laud the cultivation of tastes only as parts of -the meliorating means of woman’s character—the acquisition or rather -the improvement of ingredients to fit her for that office of delicate -influence for which God evidently designed her. Her personal beauty may -be a part of the means of her wholesome domestic influence—her love of, -and attainments in, music, her improvement in drawing, her literary -gifts and acquirements all go, when all are mingled, to give to her -consequence and usefulness in the nursery, and to make her beloved and -beneficially influential in the domestic circle, and to add attraction -to her charms in social life. There is no incompatibility between all -these acquisitions with great personal beauty, between a sense of that -beauty, indeed, and the entire fulfillment of all domestic and social -duties, that are likely to be devolved on one thus highly endowed, thus -qualified by extensive attainments. - -The Belle of the Opera is at a place of refined amusement, where the -richest productions of musical science are properly delivered. She is -dressed to suit her own means and the place which she occupies. There is -as much propriety in the proper presentation of her charms, as in the -appropriate delivery of the music. The place itself is one of enlarged -social intercourse. Elegant attire is the requisite of the place, and is -due from the female (who has it) to him who incurs the expense of the -visitation, and receives the honor of her company. - -“But she is admired in her display; her dress, her form, the beauty of -her face, attract marked attention. She is the object of general -observation.” - -And why not? Is it inconsistent with good taste to admire beauty? Is not -the whole opera a place where the taste is to be improved and gratified? -Is it music alone that is to be relished? When went forth the decree -from morals or religion that beauty—female beauty—should not be -adorned? And to be adorned it must be seen. - -Let us not hear the platitudes about the worthlessness of beauty; it is -not worthless—it is of high price—of exceeding worth—of extensive -usefulness; and, appropriately displayed, its influence is humanizing, -tranquilizing, and every way beneficial. - -To personal charms The Belle of the Opera adds a cultivated taste for -music—a taste which she indulges at the fountain-head of such -enjoyments. But does she less, on that account, or rather on _these_ -accounts, (beauty and musical taste, namely,) fulfill her mission at -home? Does the lesson of virtue which the accomplished mother gives to -her young child, fall less _impressively_ on the heart because the -infant pupil, in looking upward, gazes into a face replete with all of -earthly beauty? Is there not a certain coincidence between the looks of -his beloved teacher and the excellence of her delightful instruction? or -rather, does not her beauty tend to make these lessons delightful? And -if the charm for the child is the morning or evening hymn, does not the -sacred simplicity of the text drop with extraordinary unction on the -ear, if conveyed in the rich melody of a cultivated voice. - -I might thus enumerate all the high attainments, and show how each -becomes _useful_; but it is enough to have it understood, that the true, -the great value of all these high gifts and extraordinary cultivation is -derived from their influence, when combined, to form the character of -the possessor. The Belle of the Opera is also The Belle of the -Ball-room. The same variety of characteristics, without a necessity for -the same attainment, marks each, and both are liable to be set down by a -superficial observer, as destitute of any qualities, except those which -distinguish them in the places of amusement. - -May not the Belle of the Opera, or the Belle of the Ball-room, be the -guardian genius of the sick chamber, the faithful, devoted director of -the nursery? - -I knew The Belle of the Opera, and she was as fond of the dance as of -the song, and shared in both in the social circle, and enjoyed them in -_others_ in more public displays. Her buoyant spirits, her happy gayety -of disposition, made her the marked object of admiration in all parties -in which she shared—the first to propose that in which all could -gracefully and appropriately join, and the last to propound a thought -that could cast a gloom over the countenance of a single being around -her. She seemed so much the spirit of the joyous assembly, that serious -thought, deepth of feeling, or firm principles of good, were not -suspected by those incapable of looking into the heart. The Belle of the -Opera was deemed by such, one set apart for the enjoyment of the opera -and the dance, and to be without life when without these means of life’s -pleasures; to have no sympathy with her kind, excepting through music -and display, and to reckon none among her intimates but the -light-hearted and the gay. - -Men may be thus exclusive, but women are not. - -Returning one night from opera or route, the Belle entered her parlor -wearied _with_, but not tired _of_ the pleasure in which she had shared, -when suddenly a cry of distress was heard; it was caused by the -appearance of a case of small-pox in a neighboring house. At once the -Belle changed her dress, and was at the bed of the sufferer. - -“But, madam, have you had the small-pox?” - -“No; but I have been vaccinated.” - -“Ah! so was my sister.” - -“But evidently not well. I will tarry and assist until she be removed, -or some change take place.” - -The change took place after a few days, and the Belle of the Opera -carefully wrapped the body of the deceased in its grave-clothes, and -having committed it to a coffin, she went to purify herself, give thanks -for her preservation, and to enjoy again the fine arts which she so much -admired. - -The pleasant laugh could at times, and _did_, give place to tears of -sorrow or of sympathy; and the appearance of indifference would promptly -yield, when thoughtlessly or wickedly some sentiment opposed to strict -morality, would drop from the lip of a companion. Never did hours of -gayety tend to moments of unkindness, or the full enjoyment of the -abundance to which all were happy to contribute, obliterate a sentiment -of gratitude toward those whose earlier kindness might have assisted to -prepare for that enjoyment. - -Beneath the exterior of frequent devotion to admissible pleasure, there -was a depth of feeling and a soundness of principle that sustained -themselves in all circumstances, and exhibited themselves where-ever -their exercise was requisite, that were seen, indeed, influencing even -in the midst of gayety, and throwing a charm around that freedom of -conversation in which those of well-regulated minds may indulge. - -The virtues of The Belle of the Opera are not sudden, fitful, dependent -upon excited feelings—they are constant, influencing, ruling. They -appear in private conversations, they are manifest in delicate -forbearance toward the errors of others, they exhibit themselves in -unwavering attachment to known established principles, and a delicate -tolerance of the views of friends; and they are set forth for admiration -by the charms of those accomplishments which the world admires, and -which that world supposes to be her principal attraction. - -And that world judges in this case as in most others; it has no interest -in the object before it, and it is not concerned to look into the effect -of its own judgment upon that object. Ten thousand who saw the late -laughter-moving Jefferson upon the stage, supposed that he never moved -without laughing himself, and making others laugh. They supposed that he -must delight in and be the delight of social life; and as they had -nothing to do with his life off the stage, they never cared to correct -their judgment—they never knew that the most pleasant of all comedians -was fond of solitude, loved the quiet silence of angling—and was a prey -to melancholy. - -The inward man, the man to himself, the household man, the man of the -fireside and social circle, is different from the man abroad, the man -professionally, the man to others, and this not from hypocrisy, not from -a difference of character throughout, but simply because the many who -judge see only one phaze, and one, indeed, is all that is exhibited, all -that is required to fill up the part in which the many know the man. But -justly to judge, and fairly to decide, we must see the whole man, we -must know how all his relations are sustained; we must see how he -discharges the high, solemn duties of his life, and carries the -influence of that discharge into minor relations. We must understand how -much of himself, his better self, he gives to the amusements and light -enjoyments of life, and how much he brings from them to influence his -conduct elsewhere; or, if weak, how much of himself he leaves in scenes -where artistic taste only is exercised; how much he sacrifices of -himself to mere gratification—a burnt-offering never to be recalled. - -And here we reach a point toward which we have attempted to steer; we -mean the fullness of character, the entire inward person—the -meeting—the combination—the fusion, indeed, of all those properties -and qualities of the mind, by a well-directed education; the balancing -of the various propensities and gifts by the skillful hand of -instruction, so that no appetite, natural or acquired, shall have an -undue predominancy, or serve to constitute the distinguishing -characteristic of the possessor. - -The Belle of the Opera, we have already said, brought to the place of -amusements only the charms which God has bestowed and cultivated taste -has well set off. She did not elect herself as The Belle of the Opera; -she did not inaugurate herself as “the observed of all observers.” Such -results, though made probable by the charms of her person, and promoted -by the opportunities afforded by the indulgence of a high order of -talents, was, nevertheless, the work of the admiring many, who felt and -acknowledged the charms of person thus displayed, and at once rendered -to them the kind of homage which their excellence and position seemed to -suggest. They, the multitude, judged in part, judged by what they saw, -and what they imagined—and deified the woman with the appellation of -“Belle of the Opera;” it was all the attribute they had to bestow; they -felt an influence that they did not comprehend; and not knowing of the -charms concealed, that made effective what they saw, they gave to the -visible and the ostensible, the regard which was only due to the -concealed and the influencing, as the shepherds of old saw with -admiration and delight the fiery part of the stars of the firmament in -all their loveliness, and feeling an influence from the celestial -display, adored the hosts of heaven for their beauty and their use, -forgetful or ignorant of the power that made them seem -beautiful—uninstructed in all the relations of those orbs by which -their beauty and their usefulness are secured. - -We have taken the reader to one scene, in which The Belle of the Opera -showed how little the accomplishment of person, and the cultivation of -taste had disturbed the feelings of humanity; and yet we confess, that -such an example standing alone, seems to be a contradiction, or a sort -of accidental effort, rather the result of impulse, rather dependent -upon caprice or individual affection, than to be regarded as -illustrative of, or consistent with, the ruling characteristics. We are -speaking now of a whole character—and a character cannot be judged of -by one strong propensity on one hand, and one great but contradictory -act on the other. - -Is the character of The Belle of the Opera complete? Is the distance -between the lustre and display of the opera-box, and the devotion to the -loathsomeness of the small-pox chamber, all occupied with corresponding -virtues, and similar graces mingling, shading, combining, perfecting? If -the great offices of the woman’s life, (we are speaking now of the Belle -as a _woman_, looking at her higher vocation,) if all these offices are -well discharged, if as mother, wife, as friend and neighbor, she stand -unimpeachable; if she is as notable in all these relations as in the -opera-box, still we want to inquire what is the influence exercised upon -all these relations, by those qualities which made her The Belle of the -Opera. How stand the opera-box and the nursery related? Because in the -complete character of a woman are very few isolated qualities; they all -bear upon each other, or exercise mutual influences, and each is less of -itself by the qualities which it derives from others. The Belle of the -Opera gave to her own fireside the attraction of her personal charms, if -less gorgeously accompanied, still the more directly effective. The -adventitious aid of ornaments, that was a sacrifice to public taste, was -not required; and these charms gathered a circle which the exercise of -mental accomplishments retained; and thus all within their influence -derived the advantage which association with high gifts and large -attainments necessarily impart, and the _home_ was made gladsome by -those charms which are attractive to their like, and compensating to -their admirers. - -The attainment of the science of music, and the display of that science -at home, meliorated the manners of the inmates, and invited to -association those whose taste was elevated, and whose talents were of a -kind to sustain and appreciate high cultivation; and beyond the parlor -these extended even to the nursery, or rather the nursery, by their -exercise, was transferred to the parlor. That is what The Belle of the -Opera understood by making _all_ her accomplishments subservient to her -duties as wife and mother. The mind of the child, by this constant -intercourse with the gifted and the improved, became expanded, received -character from the atmosphere in which it was placed, derived pleasure -from the development which it witnessed, and had its _habits_ formed to -those graces which, in others, are only extraordinary results of -extraordinary means, distinguishing the possessor only by one quality or -attainment, making _her_ The Belle of the Opera _alone_. - -It is this association of the young with the beautiful and the -accomplished, which infuses into their character, and fixes there those -meliorating influences that constitute the charm of life, ruling, -modifying, illustrating their whole character, making it _whole_, -harmonious, consistent. - -It must be understood that The Belle of the Opera was not a mere -pianist, not a mere strummer upon the harp, she understood music as a -_science_, and was therefore capable of conversing upon the subject as -well as playing upon an instrument. This power of conversation, resting -upon a deep knowledge of subjects, is the secret and charm of -association; and it is worthy of remark, that gossip, even among the -elevated, soon wearies; and what is more remarkable, it is wearisome and -disgusting to children compelled to listen, while conversations or -discussions upon subjects well understood by the interlocutors, are at -once interesting to general listeners, and attractive, gratifying and -instructive even to children. We appeal to general experience for this. - -Eminently did The Belle of the Opera comprehend that truth, and practice -upon it; hence a musical entertainment in her house was not a mere -exercise of vocal powers, or a fearful attack upon the piano-keys. Music -was _discussed_ and then performed; and music, too, was not alone the -theme. The well-lined walls denoted a taste for kindred arts; and the -degrees of excellence of pictures, the distinguishing attributes of -masters, were so lucidly illustrated, that the junior members of the -family grew into connoisseurs without dreaming of study—grew directly -and certainly into such characters without forethought, as a blade of -corn, in all its greenness, is tending in the warmth of the sun, and the -favor of the soil, to produce a golden harvest. But the discipline of -mind necessary to acquire the advancement which The Belle of the Opera -attained, gave to her habits of care with regard to the education of her -children; and the superficial study which makes amateurs in any branch, -was unknown in her family. Various degrees of perfection were -observable, and in different branches of pursuits and studies there was -a superiority among them, according to gifts; but compared with other -families, these children evinced pre-eminence in almost every thing they -undertook. - -But it was as a _wife_ that The Belle of the Opera most distinguished -herself; we mean the special, particular duties of a woman to her -husband—all the other qualifications to which we have referred, were of -a kind to make her desirable as a wife—but in constant affection, -manifested in various ways in those delicate arts, appreciable but -inimitable by man, with which a beautiful and an accomplished woman -makes attractive her home, preserves it at once from the restraints of -affected knowledge, which is always _chary_ of near display, because -fearful of detection, and from that ostentatious exhibition of -attainments which wearies and disgusts by obtrusiveness. In all these, -and the graces of intimate and reciprocal affection, she made her -husband proud of his home, happy in his companion, and gratified at her -superiority in those things which belong more especially to her sex and -made her beauty beautiful. - -There was a cloud thrown suddenly across the brilliant prospects of the -husband, a threatening of utter insolvency; the evil seemed inevitable. -Who should tell The Belle of the Opera that the means of gratifying her -highly cultivated taste, and displaying her admirable accomplishments -were about to cease? - -The husband had all faith in the _affections_ of his wife; he -appreciated the excellence of her character, for he was worthy of her. -But it was a terrible blow to pride—to womanly pride—the pride of -condition, which had never been straightened; it must be a terrible blow -to her who knew how to use and how to give, but had never been called -upon to suffer or acquire. He carried to her the fearful news of the -anticipated disaster; he did not annoy her by the prelude of weeks of -abstraction and painful melancholy, but with the first consciousness of -danger he announced to her his fears, and awaited the consequences of -the shock. - -“And what, my dear husband, will become of us all—of you, of me, and of -the children?” - -“That is the misery of my situation. It is not only the loss of the -property I received with you, and that which I had acquired, but it is -the difficulty of pursuing any business without some of the means which -I thought so safe. I know not now how to sustain my family even in the -humble state which we must assume until I can again make a business. And -you, with all your charms, with all your attainments, and all your power -to enjoy, and means of affording pleasure—what a blow—what a fall!” - -“And while you enumerate my attainments, do you forget that they are -like yours, marketable; have you forgotten what that education cost? -Will not others pay _me_ as much for instruction as I have paid for my -education? And will not the task of imparting be a pleasure rather than -a pain, because it will be the exercise of those talents, and the uses -of those attainments, whose employment has been the delight of our home, -the pride of our social relations, and the solace of my solitary hours. -Be assured, my dear husband, that with the exception of _giving_, most -of the pleasures of wealth may be had in poverty—and the substitute for -the pleasure of giving must be found in that of earning.” - -The apprehended evil was never realized. The losses, though -considerable, did not reach an amount that rendered necessary any -diminution of style in the family. - -“I think the alarm has not been uninstructive,” said The Belle of the -Opera; “either that, or the approach of age,” (there was nothing in the -lustre of her eye, or the brilliancy of her complexion that denoted the -proximity of years—and she knew it when she said so—women seldom speak -lightly of such _foes_ when they are within hearing distance,) “either -that or the approach of age has taught me to relish less many of the -amusements which our means have allowed and with which my taste was -gratified.” - -“A natural gratification of so cultivated a taste,” said her husband, -“could be nothing but correct; and it is only when others _are_ -acquired, that we need feel regret at indulging such as you have -possessed. We, who approach the midsummer of life, find fewer flowers in -our pathway than spring presented, but let us not complain of those who -gather the vernal sweets; rather let us rejoice that we take with us the -freshness of appetites that delights in whatever the path of duty -supplies, and by discipline are made to enjoy those latent sweets that -escape the observation of the uncultivated.” - -We repeat our remarks, that to judge of a woman we must know her whole -character. We must not suppose because a lady is at the opera, that she -has no pleasure in other positions, or that a cultivated taste for music -is inconsistent with the general cultivation of her talents. It is wrong -to imagine that a beautiful woman is necessarily vain, or that her -beauty is inconsistent with the discharge of all the high and holy -duties that belong to her sex; the wife, the daughter, the mother, and -the friend. - -Excessive amusement, we know, vitiates the mind; and a woman, whose -whole pride is to be The Belle of the Opera, has evidently no mission -for domestic usefulness. But the domestic circle is blessed, and woman’s -office honored, when an improved taste and generally cultivated talent, -the charms of person and elegance of manners are made subservient to, -and promotive of, the full discharge of the duties that belong to woman -in her exalted sphere. - -And, we may add, that religion itself is made more lovely, more -operative, when the offices of humanity which it suggests, and the -services of devotion by which it is manifested, are discharged by one -who brings to the altar talent, beauty, acquirements, with a sense of -their unworthiness, and takes thence a spirit of piety and devotion that -throws a charm about all the graces that have been so attractive to the -world. - -We would have our Magazine commend to our fair readers for approval and -acquisition, all the gifts and graces which belonged to The Belle of the -Opera; we would not have them seek that title. _She_ did not; as -unconscious of the admiration of the audience, as the performers were of -her individual presence; she came to enjoy the music, not to acquire -fame. We would have those for whom we write bear in mind that the -character of woman is incomplete, whatever talents or acquisition she -may boast, if she has not the charm that attracts to and delights its -domestic circle. And she should know that the basis of all those charms -which give permanent beneficial influence, is _religion_; a fixed -principle of doing right, from right motives. Upon _that_ basis let the -lovely fabric be erected; beauty, music, literature, science, social -enjoyment, all become and all ornament the structure. And woman’s -character with these is complete, if she add the discharge of the duties -of a friend—a wife—a mother. She who is the charm of social life must -be the benignant spirit of home—the source and centre of domestic -affection. - - * * * * * - - - - - WHAT IS BEAUTIFUL? - - - BY AUGUSTA. - - - Flowers are beautiful—every hue - Colors their petals, and pearly dew, - The nectar the fairies love to sup, - Sparkles brightly in each tiny cup, - While the dark leaves of the ivy shine, - And its clustering tendrils closely twine - Round the old oak, and the sapling young, - And when it has lightly round them clung, - It laughs, and shouts, and it calls aloud, - Have I not now a right to be proud? - I’ve mastered the lordly forest-tree, - I’m King of the woods, come see, come see. - - Night’s gems are beauteous, right rare are they, - Gloriously bright is each gentle ray, - Flashing and twinkling up so high, - Like diamonds set in the deep blue sky; - Who is there but loves night’s gentle queen, - Gorgeously robed in her silver sheen? - Shedding her pale, pure brightness round, - O’er hill and valley, and tree and ground; - Gilding the waters as on they glide - In their conscious beauty, joy and pride; - Or sending a quiet ray to rove, - And wake the shade of the deep-green grove. - - The Sun is beautiful—“God of day,” - He sends o’er the earth a lordly ray, - He shames the sweet pensive Orb of night - By his radiant beams so fiercely bright. - - Wind is beautiful—not to the eye— - You cannot see it—but hear it sigh - Lowly and sweet in a gentle breeze, - Rustling the tops of the lofty trees, - Sending the yellow leaves to the ground, - Playfully whirling them round and round, - Filling the sails with their fill of air, - Then dancing off on some freak more rare; - Scat’ring the snow and the blinding hail, - Shrieking aloud in the wintry gale, - Rudely driving the pattering rain - ’Gainst the lonely cottage’s humble pane, - Uprooting the aged forest-tree, - Then whistling loud right merrily; - Owning no king save a _mighty One_! - Following _His_ dictates, and _His_ alone. - - Water is beautiful—sounding clear, - Like distant music upon the ear, - Bubbling light, sparkling bright, bounding still - With a joyous laugh adown the hill, - Clapping its hands with a noisy glee, - Shouting I’m bound for the sea, the sea! - I’ll bear my spoils to the Ocean’s tide— - Hurrah! hurrah! the earth’s my loved bride; - I came through a lovely grassy glade, - And caught the dew-drops from every blade; - I stopped awhile in a shady spring - Hearing the summer-birds sweetly sing, - And I just ’scaped being pris’ner caught, - A maiden to fill her pail there sought; - But I laughed aloud with a careless ring, - As off I rolled from the crystal spring. - Small though I seem, I’m part of the tide - That’s to dash against a tall ship’s side, - Bearing silken goods far o’er the sea, - Bringing back ingots of gold for me— - For me to seize and to bury deep - Where thousands of pearls and diamonds sleep - Scorn me! who dares? I tell thee now, - _I’m_ monarch, and _mine_ is the lordly brow. - - Oh! all is beautiful, all is fair— - High Heaven, and earth, and sea, and air, - The sun, the moon, and the stars on high, - The clouds, the waters, and sands that lie - Far away down where the mermaids roam - And the coral insects build their home. - - * * * * * - - - - - KATE RICHMOND’S BETROTHAL. - - - BY GRACE GREENWOOD. - - -I must warn my readers given to sober-mindedness, that they will -probably rise from the perusal of the sketch before them, with that pet -exclamation of the serious, when vexed, or wearied with frivolity, -“vanity, vanity, all is vanity!” I can, indeed, promise no solid reading -nor useful information—no learning nor poetry—no lofty purpose nor -impressive moral—no deep-diving nor high-flying of any sort in all that -follows. For myself, I but seek to wile away a heavy hour of this dull -autumn day, and for my reader, if I may not hope to please, I cannot -fear to disappoint him, having led him to expect nothing—at least -nothing to speak of. - -As a general thing, I have a hearty horror of all manœuvring and -match-making, yet must I plead guilty to having once got up a private -little conspiracy against the single-blessedness of two very dear -friends. There is a wise and truthful French proverb, “_Ce que femme -veut, Dieu le veut_,” which was not falsified in this case. But I will -not anticipate. - -My most intimate friend, during my school-days, was a warm-hearted, -brave, frank, merry and handsome girl, by name Kate Richmond. In the -long years and through the changing scenes which have passed since we -first met, my love for this friend has neither wearied nor grown cold; -for, aside from her beauty and unfailing cheerfulness, she has about her -much that is attractive and endearing—a clear, strong intellect, an -admirable taste, and an earnest truthfulness of character, on which I -lean with a delicious feeling of confidence and repose. - -As I grew to know and love Kate better, and saw what a glorious -embodiment of noble womanhood she was, and how she might pour heaven -around the path of any man who could win her to himself, I became -intensely anxious that her life-love should be one worthy and -soul-satisfying. One there was, well known to me, but whom she had never -met, who always played hero to her heroine, in my heart’s romances; this -was a young gentleman already known to some few of my readers, my -favorite cousin, Harry Grove. - -I am most fortunate to be able to take a hero from real life, and to -have him at the same time so handsome a man, though not decidedly a -heroic personage. My fair reader shall judge for herself. Harry is not -tall, but has a symmetrical and strongly-built figure. His complexion is -a clear olive, and his dark chestnut hair has a slight wave, far more -beautiful than effeminate ringlets. His mouth is quite small—the full, -red lips are most flexible and expressive, and have a peculiar quiver -when his heart is agitated by any strong emotion. His eyes are full and -black, or rather of the darkest hue of brown, shadowed by lashes of a -superfluous length, for a man. They are arch, yet thoughtful; soft, with -all the tenderness of woman, yet giving out sudden gleams of the pride -and fire of a strong, manly nature. Altogether, in form and expression, -they are indescribably beautiful—eyes which haunt one after they are -once seen, and seem to close upon one never. - -In character my kinsman is somewhat passionate and self-willed, but -generous, warm-hearted, faithful and thoroughly honorable. Yet, though a -person of undoubted talent, even genius, I do not think he will ever be -a distinguished man; for he sadly lacks ambition and concentration, that -fiery energy and plodding patience which alone can insure success in any -great undertaking. He has talent for painting, music and poetry, but his -devotion to these is most spasmodic and irregular. He has quite a gift -for politics, and can be eloquent on occasion, yet would scarcely give a -dead partridge for the proudest civic wreath ever twined. As a -sportsman, my cousin has long been renowned; he has a wild, insatiable -passion for hunting, is the best shot in all the country round, and rare -good luck seems to attend him in all his sporting expeditions. - -For the rest, he is a graceful dancer, a superb singer, and a finished -horseman; so, on the whole, I think he will answer for a hero, though -the farthest in the world from a Pelham, a Eugene Aram, a Bruno -Mansfield, or an Edward Rochester. - -“In the course of human events,” it chanced that a year or two since, I -received an urgent invitation from my relatives, the Groves, to spend -the early autumn months at their home, in the interior of one of our -western states. Now for my diplomatic address; I wrote, accepting, with -a stipulation that the name of my well-beloved friend, Miss Catharine -Richmond, who was then visiting me, should be included in the -invitation, which, in the next communication from the other party, was -done to my entire satisfaction. Kate gave a joyful consent to my -pleasant plan, and all was well. - -One fine afternoon, in the last of August, saw the stage-coach which -conveyed us girls and our fortunes rolling through the principal street -of W——, the county-seat, and a place of considerable importance—to -its inhabitants. We found my uncle, the colonel, waiting our arrival at -the hotel, with his barouche, in which he soon seated us, and drove -rapidly toward his residence, which was about two miles out of town. On -the way, he told me I would meet but two of his seven sons at -home—Harry, and an elder brother, on whom, for a certain authoritative -dignity, we had long before bestowed the sobriquet of “the governor.” He -also informed us that his “little farm,” consisted of about eight -hundred acres, and that the place was called “Elm Creek.” - -As we drove up the long avenue which led to the fine, large mansion of -my friends, I saw that my good aunt and Cousin Alice had _taken steps_ -to give us an early welcome. I leaped from the barouche into their arms, -forgetting Kate, for a moment, in the excitement of this joyful reunion. - -But my friend was received with affectionate cordiality, and felt at -home almost before she had crossed the threshold of that most hospitable -house. My grave cousin, Edward, met us in the hall—bowed profoundly to -Kate, and gave me a greeting more courtly than cousinly; but that was -“Ned’s way.” Harry was out hunting, Alice said, but would probably be -home soon. - -After tea, we all took a stroll through the grounds. These are very -extensive, and the many beautiful trees and the domesticated deer, -bounding about, or stretched upon the turf, give the place a park-like -and aristocratic appearance. Elm Creek, which runs near the house, is a -clear and sparkling stream, which would be pleasantly suggestive of -trout on the other side of the Alleghanies. - -Suddenly was heard the near report of a gun, and the next moment Harry -appeared on the light bridge which spanned the creek, accompanied by his -faithful Bruno, a splendid black setter. On recognizing me, he (Harry, I -mean, not the dog) sprung forward with a joyous laugh, and met me with a -right cousinly greeting. I never had seen him looking so finely—he had -taste in his hunting-dress, which became him greatly; and it was with a -flush of pride that I turned and presented him to Kate. Harry gave her a -cordial hand-shake, and immediately after, his dog, Bruno, gravely -offered her his sable paw, to the no small amusement of the company. - -I soon had the satisfaction of seeing that there was a fine prospect of -Kate and my cousin being on the very best terms with each other, as they -conversed much together during the evening, and seemed mutually pleased. - -The next morning my gallant and still handsome uncle took us out to the -stable and invited us to select our horses for riding. He knew me of old -for an enthusiastic equestrian, and Kate’s attainments in the art of -horsemanship were most remarkable. Kate chose a beautiful black mare, -Joan, the mate of which, Saladin, a fiery-spirited creature, was Harry’s -horse, and dear to him as his life. I made choice of a fine-looking but -rather coltish gray, which I shall hold in everlasting remembrance, on -account of a peculiar trot, which kept one somewhere between heaven and -earth, like Mohammed’s coffin. - -The fortnight succeeding our arrival at Elm Creek, was one of much -gayety and excitement—we were thronged with visiters and deluged with -the most cordial invitations. Ah! western people understand the science -of hospitality, for their politeness is neither soulless nor -conventional, but full of heartiness and truth. Long life to this noble -characteristic of the generous west. - -Colonel Grove was an admirable host—he exerted himself for our pleasure -in a manner highly creditable to an elderly gentleman, somewhat inclined -to indolence and corpulency. Every morning, when it was pleasant, he -drove us out in his barouche, and by the information which he gave, his -fine taste for the picturesque, and the dry humor and genuine good -nature of his conversation, contributed much to our enjoyment. In the -sunny afternoons, we usually scoured the country on horseback—Harry -always rode with Kate and I with “the governor,” who proved an -interesting, though somewhat reserved companion. My Cousin Alice was -unfortunately too much of an invalid for such exercises. - -In our evenings we had music and dancing, and occasionally a quiet game -of whist. Now and then we were wild and childish enough to amuse -ourselves with such things as “Mr. Longfellow looking for his key-hole,” -“Homeopathic-bleeding,” and the old stand-by, “Blind Man’s Buff.” - -One rather chilly afternoon, about three weeks after our arrival, Alice -Grove entered the chamber appropriated to Kate and myself, exclaiming, -“Come, girls, put on some extra ‘fixings’ and come down, for you have a -call from Miss Louisa Grant, the belle and beauty of W——, the fair -lady we rally Harry so much about—you remember.” - -We found Miss Grant dressed most expensively, but not decidedly _à la -mode_, or with much reference to the day or season. She was surprisingly -beautiful, however—a blonde, but with no high expression; and then she -was sadly destitute of manner. She seemed in as much doubt whether to -sit, or rise, nod or courtesy, as the celebrated Toots, on that delicate -point of propriety whether to turn his wristbands up, or down; and like -that rare young gentleman, compromised the matter. - -Miss Louisa talked but little, and that in the merest commonplaces; she -had a certain curl of the lip, and toss of the head, meant for queenly -hauteur, but which only expressed pert superciliousness; so, undazzled -by her dress and beauty, I soon sounded her depth and measured her -entire circumference. But Kate, who is a mad worshiper of beauty, sat -silent and abstracted, gazing on her face with undisguised admiration. - -When the call was over, we accompanied our guest to the door, and while -we stood saying a few more last words, Harry came up, having just -returned from hunting. At sight of his fowling-piece, Miss Louisa -uttered a pretty infantine shriek, and hid her eyes with her small, -plump hands. Harry, taking no notice of this charming outbreak of -feminine timidity, greeted her with a frank, unembarrassed air, and -throwing down his gun and game-bag, begged leave to attend her home. She -assented with a blush and a simper, which left me in no doubt as to her -sentiments toward my handsome cousin. Ah! how perilously beautiful she -seemed to me then, while I watched her proud step as she walked slowly -down the avenue, with a bitter feeling, for all the world as though I -was jealous on my own account. I was somewhat pacified, however, by -Harry’s returning soon, and bringing Kate a bouquet from Louisa’s fine -garden. - -That evening we were honored by another call extraordinary, from a young -merchant of the place—the village D’Orsay—by name, La Fayette Fogg, -from which honorable appellation the gentleman, by the advice of -friends, had lately dropped the “Marquis”—his parents, at his -christening, having been disposed to go the whole figure. But he had a -title which in our “sogering” republic would more than compensate for -any of the mere accidental honors of rank—he had recently been -appointed captain of a company of horse, in W——, and had already -acquired a military bearing, which could not fail to impress the vulgar. -A certain way he had of stepping and wheeling to the right and left, -suggestive at once of both a proud steed and a firm rider—a sort of -drawing-room centaur. But Captain Fogg was beyond all question -strikingly handsome. I never saw so perfect a Grecian head on American -shoulders. There was the low, broad forehead, the close, curling hair, -the nose and brow in one beautiful, continuous line, the short upper -lip, round chin, small ears, and thin nostrils. A classical costume -would have made him quite statuesque; but, alas! he was dressed in the -dandiacal extreme of modern fashion. His entire suit of superfine -material, fitted to an exquisite nicety, and he revealed a consciousness -of the fact more Toots-ish than Themistoclesian. He moved his Phidian -head with slow dignity, so as not to disturb his pet curls, slumbering -in all the softness of genuine Macassar. His whiskers and imperial were -alarmingly pale and thin, but seemed making the most of themselves, in -return for the captain’s untiring devotion and prayerful solicitude. - -The expression of this hero’s face, _malgré_ a Napoleonic frown which he -was cultivating, and a Washingtonish compression of the lips, was soft, -rather than stern—decidedly _soft_, I should say,—and there was about -him a tender verdancy, an innocent ignorance of the world—all in -despite of his best friends, the tailor, the artist in hair, and the -artist in boots. - -During the first half hour’s conversation, I set the gallant captain -down as uneducated, vain and supercilious; but I was vexed to see that -Kate, dazzled by his beauty, regarded him more complacently. It was -evident from the first, that Kate pleased him decidedly, and he “spread -himself,” to use a westernism, to make an impression on her heart, whose -admiration for his _physique_ spoke too plainly through her eyes. While -he talked, Kate watched the play of his finely chiseled lips, and when -he was silent, studied with the eye of an artist, the classic line of -his nose. The attentive, upward look of her large, dark eyes, was most -dangerous flattery—it loosened the tongue of our guest marvelously, -till he talked quite freely, almost confidentially. Among other things, -he informed us that he “was born in the chivalrous south,” and had been -“a _native_ of W—— for only the five years past.” I glanced -mischievously at Kate, and she, to turn the tide of talk, -exclaimed—“Oh, Mr. Fogg, we had a call from Miss Grant to-day! -Exquisitively beautiful—is she not?” - -“Why,” drawled the captain, stroking his imperial affectionately, “she -is rather pretty, but wants cultivation; I can’t say I admire her -greatly, though she is called the _Adonis_ of this country.” - -Kate colored with suppressed laughter, bit her lip, and rising, opened -the piano, saying—“Do you sing, Mr. Fogg?” - -Fortunately, Mr. Fogg did sing, and that very well. He declined -accompanying Kate in “Lucy Neal,” saying that he “never learned them low -things;” but on many of Russell’s songs he was “some,” and acquitted -himself with much credit. - -During all this time Harry had taken little part in the conversation, -and when asked to sing, drily declined. I thought him jealous, and was -not sorry to think so. I saw that Kate also perceived his altered mood, -yet she showed, I regret to say, no Christian sympathy for his -uneasiness, but chatted gayly, sung and played for all the world as -though earth held neither aching hearts nor dissatisfied Harrys. - -At last my cousin rose hastily and left the room. I said to myself, “He -has gone out to cool his burning brow in the night air, and seek peace -under the serene influences of the stars.” But no, he crossed the hall, -and entered the family sitting-room. Soon after I followed, and found -him having a regular rough and tumble with Bruno, on the floor. He -raised his head as I entered, and said with a yawn, - -“Has that bore taken himself off?” - -“No,” I replied. - -“Well, why the deuce don’t he go—who wants his company?” - -“I don’t know,” said I, “Kate, perhaps.” - -“Very likely,” growled Harry, “you intellectual women always prefer a -brainless coxcomb to a sensible man.” - -“Yes, Cousin Harry, in return for the preference you men of genius give -to pretty simpletons.” - -The captain’s “smitation,” as we called it, seemed a real one, and his -sudden flame genuine—at least there was some fire, as well as a great -deal of smoke. He laid resolute siege to Kate’s heart, till his -lover-like attentions and the manifestations of his preference were -almost overwhelming. In a week or two Kate grew wearied to death of her -conquest, and was not backward in showing her contemptuous indifference, -when Harry Grove was not by. But, oh, the perverseness of woman! in the -presence of my cousin, she was all smiles and condescension to his -rival; and he, annoyed more than he would confess, would turn to Miss -Louisa Grant with renewed devotion. - -Yes, Harry was plainly ill at ease to mark another’s attentions -pleasantly received by my friend—that was something gained; but such -jealousy of a mere tailor-shop-window-man, was unworthy my cousin, as -well as a wrong to Kate; and for my part, I would not stoop to combat -it. - -In the captain’s absence, however, all went admirably. Harry seemed to -give himself up to the enjoyment of Kate’s brilliant society, her -cleverness, her liveliness, her “infinite variety,” with joyous abandon. -They sung, read, danced, strolled, and rode together, always preserving -the utmost harmony and good-will. - -For Kate’s success in the part I wished her to play, I had never any -fear. Aside from her beauty, which is undeniable, though on the brunette -order, and her accomplishments, which are many, she has a certain -indescribable attractiveness of manner, an earnest, appealing, endearing -way—a “_je-ne-sais-quoi-sity_,” as a witty friend named it, which would -be coquetry, were it not felt by all alike, men, women, and children, -who find themselves in her presence. It is without effort, a perfectly -unconscious power, I am sure. - -Thus, I did not fear for Kate, provided Harry was heart-whole; but this -fact I could not settle to my entire satisfaction. My Cousin Alice -sometimes joked him about a certain fair maid he had known at New Haven, -while in college, evidently wishing it to appear that she knew vastly -more than she chose to reveal; and then Miss Grant was certainly a -dangerous rival—far more beautiful, according to the common acceptation -of the term, than my friend, with the advantage, if it be one, of a -prior acquaintance. - -One morning, as we were returning home, after having made a call on Miss -Louisa, Harry, who once, for a wonder, was walking with me, began -questioning me concerning my opinion of her. I evaded his question for -awhile, but at length told him frankly that I could not speak freely and -critically unless assured that I should give him no pain thereby. - -“Oh, if that’s all,” replied Harry, with a laugh, “go on, and ‘free your -mind, sister’—I shall be a most impartial auditor.” - -“Indeed, Harry!—has there, then, been no meaning to your attentions in -that quarter?” - -“Why, as to that,” he replied, “I have always admired the girl’s beauty, -and have flirted with her too much, perhaps, but there is not enough in -her to pin a genuine love to; I have found her utterly characterless; -and then, she affects a ridiculous fear of fire-arms, and behaves like a -sick baby on horseback.” - -“But, cousin,” I rejoined, “you do not want a wife to hunt with you, and -ride horseback; Miss Grant is a young lady of domestic virtues and -refined tastes—is she not?” - -“Yes, and no. I believe she is a good housekeeper; she takes pains to -let one know that—a perfect walking cookery-book; but for her -refinement! Have you never noticed her coarse voice, and how much use -she makes of provincialisms? She might sing well, but always makes -mistakes in the words. She professes a passion for flowers; but last -spring, coz, I helped her make her garden, and heard her say ‘_piney_’ -and ‘_layloc_’—I never could marry a woman who said ‘_piney_’ and -‘_layloc_!’ and then she called pansies—‘pansies, that’s for -thoughts’—those flowers steeped in poetry as in their own -dew—‘Jonny-jump-ups!’ Bah! and then, she vulgarizes her own pretty name -into _Lo-izy_!” - -Need I confess that I was far from displeased with this little speech of -my cousin’s. I was silent for a few moments, and then, with my head full -of Kate and her fortunes, said, while pulling to pieces a wild-flower, -which Harry had just gallantly presented to me, - -“Well, then, cousin, you don’t love any body in particular, just now, do -you?” - -I raised my eyes when I had said this, to meet Harry’s fixed on my face, -with a strange, indefinable expression—something of what is called a -“killing look,” so full of intense meaning was it; but around his mouth -lurked a quiet drollery, which betrayed him, even while he replied to my -singular question in a tone meant to _tell_, - -“Why, my dearest cousin, at _this moment_, I cannot say that I do not.” - -I broke at once into a laugh of merry mockery, in which he joined at -last, though not quite heartily; and we hastened to rejoin Ned, Kate and -Alice, who were somewhat in advance. - -On reaching our room I told Kate enough of my conversation with Harry to -prove that he was really not the lover of Louisa Grant; and with a blush -and a smile, she kissed and thanked me. Why should she thank me? - -Thus matters went on—Captain Fogg’s star declining visibly, and Harry -Grove’s evidently in the ascendant, until the last week of our stay, -when a little incident occurred which had quite a disturbing influence -on the pleasant current of my thoughts and Kate’s. One afternoon, while -Harry was out shooting woodcock, of which Kate was very fond, on going -up to my room, I perceived the door of Harry’s open, and saw his easil -standing before the window, with a picture upon it. I could not resist -the temptation of seeing what this might be, and entered the room. The -picture was a small female head—the face rather fair, with dark blue -eyes. It was probably a portrait, still unfinished. The likeness I did -not recognize, though it looked like half a dozen pretty faces I had -seen—Kate’s and Miss Grant’s among the number. To the bottom of the -picture was attached a slip of paper, bearing these lines: - - “Glow on the canvas, face of my beloved! - Smile out upon me, eyes of heavenly blue! - Oh! be my soul’s love by my pencil proved, - And lips of rose, and locks of auburn hue, - Come less obedient to the call of art, - Than to the pleading voice of my adoring heart!” - -When I had read this verse, I remained standing before the picture in a -thoughtful trance. I was finally startled by a deep sigh, and turning, -saw Kate just behind me. She had also seen the portrait of the unknown, -and read those passionate lines. She turned immediately and passed into -her room. - -When I rejoined her, a few moments after, she was reading, apparently -deep in “Martin Chuzzlewit,” but tears were falling on the page before -her. - -“Martin’s return to his grandfather is a very affecting scene,” she -observed. - -I naturally glanced over her shoulder; the book was open at that -“tempest-in-a-teapot” scene, the memorable misunderstanding between -Sairey Gamp and Betsey Prig. - -Oh, Kate, Kate! thy heart had gone many days’ journey into the life and -fortunes of quite another than Martin. - -In the evening Captain Fogg honored us, and Kate was unusually affable -and gay. She sung none but comic songs, and her merry laugh rang out -like a peal of bells. - -During the evening we played a game of forfeits, and it was once -adjudged that the captain should relate a story, to redeem his turquoise -breastpin. He told a late dream, which was, that once, on taking a -morning walk to hear the birds sing, he found Miss Richmond completely -_lost in a fog_, and refused to help her out! - -Oh, how he sparkled, as he fairly got off his witticism, and saw that it -took! - -“Ah, captain,” said I, “you must have a gift for punning.” - -“Something of one, Miss,” he replied, with a complacent pull at his -imperial. “I was into White’s, the other day, buying some music, and -White offered me a song called ‘Mary’s Tears,’ which I told him must -have a tremendous _run_! White laughed till he cried, and threatened to -expose me in our paper! ’Pon honor, he did so!” - -The captain informed us that the following would be a great day for the -militia, as there was to be on the village-green of W——, a parade and -review; and he gallantly begged the honor of our presence. We graciously -testified our willingness to patronize the show, provided Harry would -drive us into town for the purpose. On leaving, the captain requested -the loan of Harry’s noble horse, Saladin, which had been trained to the -field, for the grand occasion. He would come for him in the morning, he -said. Harry consented, with rather a bad grace, I thought. He is a -perfect Arab in his loving care for his horse. - -The next morning, about ten, the captain called and found us all -ready—the barouche waiting at the door. Colonel Grove, who is a -gentleman of the _ancien régime_, invited the young officer, who was in -complete uniform, to take wine with him. It was really laughable—the -captain’s affectation of a cool, _bon-vivantish_ indifference, as he -tossed off glass after glass of the sparkling champagne, showing himself -to be far from familiar with that exhilarating and insidious beverage. -He grew elevated momentarily; his very words soared majestically above -mere common sense, and his eyes winked of strange mysteries, and flashed -unutterable things. - -At length were we civilians seated in the barouche and driving toward -W——, at a brisk rate, the captain causing Saladin to wheel and -caracole beside us in a most remarkable manner. Ah, how did the harmless -lightning of his wit play around us! how were his compliments showered -upon us like _bonbons_ in carnival-time! How beautifully was he like the -sparkling wine he had so lately quaffed—what was he but a human -champagne-bottle, with the cork just drawn! - -About half way to the village we saw before us an old Indian woman, well -known in all the country round as a doctress, or witch, according to -most people. She was bent almost double, and looked very feeble, though -she was said to be still marvelously active and vigorous. - -Suddenly the captain, who had galloped on a little to display his -horsemanship, came dashing back, exclaiming—“Now, young ladies, for -some glorious fun! Do you see that old squaw yonder?” - -“Yes,” said Alice Grove, “that is old Martha—what of her?” - -“Why, I mean to have some rare sport. I’ll invite her to take a ride -behind me. I’ll ride up to the fence for her to get on, and then, just -as she makes her spring, spur Saladin, and let her land on the ground.” - -“Oh, don’t! don’t!” cried we all in chorus; but the captain was off and -already speaking to old Martha. She evidently liked his proposition, for -she quickly climbed the fence, preparatory to mounting. The captain -wheeled his horse to within about two feet of her—she gave a spring—he -spurred his steed, which leaped wildly forward—but _too late_! Old -Martha was safe on Saladin’s back, her long, bony arms clasped closely -round the waist of his rider—and, hurrah, they were off at a dashing -rate. - -Harry whipped up his grays, and we presently overtook the equestrians. -Captain Fogg had succeeded in checking Saladin, and was striving to -persuade old Martha to dismount, but in vain; she would ride to the -village, as he had invited her. He coaxed, threatened, and swore—but -all to no purpose; she _would_ go on to the village! - -At last, in endeavoring forcibly to unclasp her arms, Fogg dropped the -rein, and Saladin, worried and frightened, started off at a furious -gallop, and tore down the street like mad. Oh, the rich, indescribable -ludicrousness of the sight! Such a conspicuous figure was the captain, -so splendidly mounted, with “sword and pistols by his side,” and all his -burnished buttons and buckles glistening in the morning sun; and then -that ridiculous old woman, in her tattered Indian costume, seated behind -him, clinging convulsively to his waist, and bounding up half a foot -with every leap of the frantic steed. The ends of the captain’s scarlet -sash floated back over her short black petticoat, and the white -horse-hair of his military plume mingled ingloriously with her long -elf-locks streaming in the wind. - -The dirty woollen blanket of old Martha became loose, and flew backward, -held only by one corner, exposing her bright blue short-gown, trimmed -with wampum, while her red leggings got up quite a little show on their -own account. - -As thus they dashed on, faster and faster, they spread astonishment and -consternation as they went. - -A farmer, who with his son was gathering apples from a tree near the -road, saw the vision—dropped his basket, and knocked down his first -born with an avalanche of pippins. An old lady, who was hanging out -clothes in her yard, struck with sudden fright and sore dismay, fell -backward into her clothes-basket, as white as a sheet, and as limp as a -wet towel. - -Young urchins let go the strings of kites, leaving them to whirl dizzily -and dive earthward—left “terrestrial pies” unfinished, and took to -their heels! A red-haired damsel who was milking by the road-side, on -beholding the dread apparition, turned pale, and ran, and the cow, -following her example, also _turned pail_ and ran! - -But most excruciatingly and transcendentally ridiculous was the scene -when Saladin, over whom the captain had lost all control, reached the -parade-ground, and dashed in among the soldiers and spectators. Hats -were tossed into the air, and shouts of laughter and derisive hooras -resounded on every side. But fortunately for poor Fogg, Saladin suddenly -perceived a part of the cavalry company, who, in the absence of their -captain, were going through some informal and supererogatory exercises, -and obedient to his military training, wheeled into line, and stood -still, with head erect and nostrils distended. - -“For Heaven’s sake, boys,” cried the captain, “haul off this old -savage!” - -But the worthy Martha, wisely declining such rough treatment, leaped to -the ground like a cat—made a profound courtesy, and with a smile rather -too sarcastic for so venerable a person, said, - -“Me tank you, cap’en—old Martha no often have such fine ride, with such -pretty man, all in _regiments_!” - -After this rare comedy, the review was a matter of little moment, and we -soon returned home, not even waiting for the tragedy of the sham-fight. - -On the afternoon of the following day, Harry invited Kate to take a -horse-back ride—and the incidents of that ride, as I received them from -my friend, I will relate to the best of my ability. - -The equestrians took a route which was a favorite with both—up a glen, -wild and unfrequented, through which ran a clear, silver stream. It -happened that Harry was in one of his lawless, bantering moods, and -teazed Kate unmercifully on the gallant part played by her lover, the -captain, on the preceding day. - -Kate, who was not in the most sunny humor, began to rally him about -“_Lo-izy_” Grant, and the New Haven belle. - -Suddenly Harry became grave, and said, in an earnest tone, “Shall I tell -you, Kate, _just_ the state of my heart?” - -“Don’t trouble yourself,” she coolly replied, “it is a matter of no -moment to me.” - -“There, now, you are insincere,” said Harry, with a saucy smile, leaning -forward to strike a fly from Saladin’s neck, “it _is_ a matter of some -moment to you, for you know that I love you, and that you are not -entirely indifferent to my love.” - -“Sir, you mistake in addressing such language to me—you are presuming,” -said Kate, with a petrifying hauteur; and giving her horse a smart cut -with the whip, galloped on. Surprised, and somewhat angry, Harry checked -his own horse, and gazed after her till she was lost in a bend of the -winding road. As he stood by the side of the rivulet, Saladin reached -down his head to drink. In his troubled abstraction, Harry let go the -rein, which fell over the head of his horse. With a muttered something, -which was not a benediction, Harry dismounted to regain it, when -Saladin, in one of his mad freaks, gave a quick leap away and galloped -up the glen after his mate. Harry was about to follow, but an odd -thought coming into his brain, he threw himself on the turf instead, and -lay perfectly still, with closed eyes, listening to the gallop of the -two steeds, far up the glen. Presently he heard them stop—then turn, -and come dashing down again with redoubled speed. Nearer and nearer came -Kate. She was at his side—with a cry of alarm she threw herself from -her horse and bent above him. - -“Harry, dear Harry, were you thrown—are you injured?” she cried, -raising the head of the apparently unconscious man, and supporting it on -her knee. “Oh, Heaven! he is hurt—he does not hear me!” she murmured, -laying back the hair from his forehead and pressing her lips upon it -wildly and repeatedly. Harry’s eye-lids remained hermetically sealed, -but a queer, comical expression began to play around the corners of his -mouth, and was about to betray him, when he suddenly opened his eyes, -with a look of triumphant impudence, and broke into a peal of joyous -laughter. - -Kate dropped his head with a movement of indignation and dismay—sprung -up—led her horse to the trunk of a fallen tree, just by, from which she -leaped into her saddle, and was off almost as soon as Harry had regained -his feet. Again the faithless Saladin left his master in the lurch, and -followed Kate, who went at a furious rate, never pausing nor looking -back; so the somewhat discomforted Harry was obliged to foot it home, a -matter of “twa mile and a bittock,” as they say in Scotland. - -That night Kate had a headache, and did not appear at the tea-table, nor -join the evening circle, where poor Harry was cross-questioned without -mercy on the strange circumstance of having been left behind both by his -horse and lady-fair. - -“Ah, Kate,” said I, as I joined her at the close of the evening, “I have -something to tell you. While you were dressing for your ride to-day, -Harry called me into his room to show me that picture—and will you -believe, it is only a bad portrait of _yourself_! Harry sketched it long -ago for Louisa Grant, but has lately been making some important -alterations, and now he thinks it strikingly like you. I really wonder -we did not see the resemblance; the poetry was meant for you alone.” - -“Oh, Grace, Grace!” murmured Kate, in a bitter tone, “if you had only -told me this before I went to ride!” - -At breakfast, the next morning, there was no Harry—two hours before he -had whistled his dog and shouldered his gun, and set out on a crusade in -turkey-land. But long before noon the young hunter returned, and -inquiring for Kate, was directed to the library, where she sat, striving -to drive away her sad mood, according to her own cheerful philosophy, by -light reading. She had chosen “Hood’s Prose and Verse,” instead of Miss -Landon’s Poems, which stood on the same shelf. - -Again I must tell the story as it was told to me. - -As Harry entered, Kate coloring deeply, started up—stood still a -moment, and then sat down again, uttering not a word. Harry, seating -himself near her, took off his hunting-cap, ran his fingers nervously -through his hair, and in a tolerably steady voice began, - -“I could have no peace, Miss Richmond, until I had begged your pardon -for my unparalleled impertinence yesterday. I intreat you to believe -that I had in my heart no intentional disrespect for you. I pray your -forgiveness for my first rash words—what you called my _presumption_. -For the other daring act, I am not so deeply repentant, for I would -willingly have my head broken in reality, to have it lie for another -moment where it laid yesterday; yet for that also I ask pardon. Do you -grant it?” - -“With all my heart,” said Kate, smiling; but Harry continued— - -“I have been, indeed, most presuming and conceited, in supposing for a -moment that I could be any thing to you; and, perhaps,” he continued, -with a proud curl of the lip, “we have both been mistaken in according -too much meaning to trifling words and acts—we two have flirted -desperately, Kate,—have we not?” - -Kate bit her lip in vexation, and a shade of disappointment passed over -her face. Just then the eyes of the two met, for the first time for some -minutes, and the ridiculousness, the utter absurdity of they two -endeavoring to deceive one another—to conceal for a moment longer the -blessed truth that they _loved one another_, broke upon them at once, -and they burst into a long and merry laugh. - -“Well,” said Harry, at last, dashing the tears of mirth from his -flashing eyes, and seating himself nearer Kate, “it is time I at least -was serious, for the deepest and strongest feelings of my heart will -make themselves heard. Kate, dear Kate, whether it gives you pleasure to -know it, or not, I _must_ tell you how truly, how devotedly, and, though -you will scarce believe _that_, how _reverentially_ I love you! I am a -strange, wild fellow, Kate, somewhat rude and over-mirthful; but you, I -am sure, can make me what you wish. Will you undertake the task?” - -“With all my heart,” she again replied, frankly extending her hand. - -“Blessings on your sweet soul, Kate!—but—but—” - -“But what, Harry?” - -“Not much, only will you allow me to pay you back _that small coin_ you -bestowed on me yesterday, in your Christian charity?” - -“Oh, I’ll forgive you the debt,” said Kate, laughing. - -“No, dear, I’ll not take advantage of your generosity, but pay you to -the uttermost farthing.” - -“Ah, hold! that is all, now—a thousand times more than I gave you!” - -Suddenly the happy lover darted out of the room, and presently returned, -saying, “See, Kate! a portrait of you, from memory.” - -“Ah, indeed!” said Kate. “But, Harry, you have made my dark hair quite -an auburn, and it has only the slightest golden hue when the sunlight -falls upon it.” - -“Well,” he replied, “to _my_ eyes, there was _always_ sunlight playing -around you.” - -“Ah, thank you; but again, these eyes are dark _blue_, and mine are -gray, or by complaisance, hazel.” - -“A very natural mistake, dearest,” said Harry, with an arch smile, “I -saw heaven in your eyes, and so came to paint them blue.” - - * * * * * - - - - - THE CORSAIR’S VICTIM. - - - (AN EXTRACT FROM “ZILLAH.”) - - BY WM. H. C. HOSMER. - - - When Night, upon her starry throne, - Held undisputed sway and lone, - And moonlight to the trembling wave - A soft but spectral radiance gave, - He seized, with iron grasp, his chain, - As if endued with giant strength, - And after many efforts vain, - While glowing madness fired his brain, - From bondage burst at length. - The cunning Corsair heard the sound - Of strong link breaking, with a clang, - And stealing lightly, with one bound, - Upon his frenzied victim sprang: - His right arm, used to felon deed, - The Corsair raised with ready skill— - One thrust of his stiletto freed - The crazed one from his load of ill. - The pleading look and wild appeal - Of Zillah could not stay the steel; - She saw him fall, and from his side - The red stream gush in bubbling tide, - Then fell herself, as _if the blade_ - _A sheath of her own breast had made;_ - While fearfully his spouting gore - The white robe reddened that she wore. - Her ear heard not the gurgling sound - Of hungry waters closing round, - As hastily the ruffian cast - His victim to the ocean vast, - Or marked the grim, exulting smile - That lighted up his face the while: - Extended on the deck she lay, - As if the war of life was over, - As if her soul had fled away - To realms of never-ending day, - To join the spirit of her lover. - - She woke at last from her long swoon, - To hope that Death would triumph soon, - And the mad pulses of her frame, - With icy touch, forever tame: - She woke with features ashy white, - And wildly gazed upon the plank - That deeply, freely in the night - The crimson of his veins had drank: - Then raising heavenward her eye, - In still, expecting posture stood, - As if a troop from realms on high - Were coming down, with battle-songs, - To wash out sternly in the blood - Of coward-hearts her many wrongs: - No tear-drop came to her relief - In that wild, parching hour of grief, - The tender plant of love she knew - Would into verdure break no more— - The spot was _arid_ where it grew - In green luxuriance before. - She knew henceforth her lot below - Would be to quaff the cup of pain— - On thing of Earth she could not throw - The sunlight of her smile again: - The voice was still whose melting tone - Had vied in sweetness with her own— - The hiding wave had closed above - The only object of her love: - And Rispah, as strict watch she kept, - While cold, like forms of Parian stone, - Her sons on gory couches slept, - Felt not more desolate and lone. - - In many hearts the gloomy sway - Of sorrow lessens, day by day, - Until the charms of life at last - Blot out remembrance of the past: - As winds may kiss the trampled flower, - And lift again its bruiséd leaf, - So time, with his assuaging power, - May stay the wasting march of grief: - But hearts in _other_ bosoms beat - Where anguish finds a _lasting seat_— - That heal not with the lapse of time— - Too delicately stung for earth, - Whose chords can never after chime - With peals of loud, unmeaning mirth. - Weeks flew: but Zillah in their flight - Strove oft, but vainly, to forget - The horrors of that fatal night, - When her _beloved star_, whose light - Made bondage pleasant, set. - No murmur from the lip outbroke, - Though suddenly her cheek grew thin— - No quick, convulsive start bespoke - The desolating fire within. - Her dark eye rested on the wave - By day and in the hush of eve, - As if, ere long, the wet sea-cave - Her buried one would leave, - And, drifting suddenly to view, - His murderer with dread subdue. - Ah! I have said the stately mien - Of Zillah would befit a queen, - That lawless _crime_ could ill withstand - Her innate bearing of command. - Alas! regality of soul - Gives agony supreme control, - And prompts the wretched one to hide - Consuming pangs from vulgar gaze— - To nurse, in uncomplaining pride, - The scorpion that preys. - - * * * * * - - - - - A DIRGE FOR O’CONNELL. - - - BY ANNE C. LYNCH. - - - Throw open once again - The portals of the tomb, - And give among the glorious dead - Another hero room! - - Unclose your shadowy ranks, - Illustrious shades unclose! - The valiant Leader, crowned with years, - Goes down to his repose. - - The champion of Peace - On many a well-fought field, - Whose bloodless victories left no stain - On his untarnished shield; - - A king, though on his brow - No jeweled crown might shine, - A king, although his patriot blood - Glowed from no royal line; - - A sovereign o’er a realm - No boundaries can confine. - Whose throne was in a Nation’s heart, - Who reigned by right divine; - - A priest at Freedom’s shrine, - Whose kindling words he spoke, - Till the dumb millions from their sleep - To life and hope awoke; - - A soldier of the Cross, - Who bore a stainless brand; - The Preacher of a new crusade - To rescue a lost land. - - Rome! to thy care is given - The heart whose throbs are o’er; - Eternal City! to thy charge - Take this one relic more! - - And Erin, sad and lorn, - Take thou thy sacred trust, - And let the soil he loved so well - Commingle with his dust! - - And, Fame, take thou in charge - The patriot’s renown, - And gather from your amaranth fields - Another fadeless crown. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE ILLINOIS AND THE PRAIRIES. - - - BY JAMES K. PAULDING, AUTHOR OF THE “DUTCHMAN’S FIRESIDE,” ETC. - - -That gallant officer and enterprising traveler, Major Long, did the -Illinois great injustice when he described it as “an extended pool of -stagnant water,” for it was, when I saw it, one of the prettiest streams -to be found in this country of fine rivers. The width is such as to give -a full view of objects on both sides in passing; the basin was full -without overflowing; and though the current was gentle, its waters were -neither muddy nor stagnant. It should, however, be observed, that my -journey was in the season when the rivers of the great Mississippi -valley, though beginning to subside, were still high, and that those who -wish to see them to advantage should visit the South and West before the -heats of summer. Else will they be assuredly disappointed, and accuse me -of indulging in a favorite amusement of travelers. - -The Illinois, until you approach the Rapids, seems made on purpose for -steam navigation, which is seldom, if ever, molested either by winds or -waves. With the exception of points where the prairies approach the -borders, the river is every where skirted by those magnificent forests -which constitute one of the most striking and beautiful features of this -new world; and completely sheltered from the storm, seems to glide along -unconscious of the uproar of the elements around. It flows through a -region which, even in this land of milk and honey, is renowned far and -near for its almost unequaled fertility, and the ease with which it may -be brought to produce the rich rewards of labor. There is, perhaps, no -part of the world where the husbandman labors less, and reaps more, than -throughout a great portion of this fine state, on which nature has -bestowed her most exuberant bounties. - -But, strange to say, I found the good-hearted people, almost without -exception, complaining of “hard times,” not arising, however, from the -usual sources of war, famine, or pestilence, but from actual abundance. -They had more than they knew what to do with, and it was an apt, though -melancholy commentary on the wisdom of man, as well as the providence of -human legislation, that while the citizens of Illinois, and, indeed, the -entire great western valley, were overburthened with all the necessaries -of life, a large portion of the laboring poor of England were starving -for want of them, simply because their rulers had virtually prohibited -one country from relieving the necessities of the other. But for the -high duties on flour, grain and provisions, the wants of the poor of -England might and would be greatly relieved by the superabundance of the -United States, and thus the blessings of Providence bestowed on one -country be disseminated among others. But legislators, renowned for -their far-reaching sagacity, have decreed otherwise; and the plenty -which might become a universal blessing, is made a burthen to one -country, while useless to all the rest of the world. - -This noble state, as is well known, derives its name from a tribe of -Indians, originally called the Illeni, which the French missionaries and -explorers, who were the first white men that visited this region, -changed into Illinois. They were neither warlike nor brave, and were -held in great contempt by the invincible Iroquois and Outagamis, as -appears from the following relation of an old traveler. “An Outagami,” -says Father Charleroix, “who was burnt by the Illinois, perceiving a -Frenchman among the spectators, begged of him that he would help his -enemies to torment him; and on being asked why he made this request, -replied, ‘because I should have the comfort of dying by the hands of -men. My greatest grief is, that I never killed a man.’ ‘But,’ said an -Illinois, ‘have you not killed such and such persons?’ ‘True; as for the -Illinois, I have killed enough of them, but they are not men.’” - -The character of the Indians, and the view of the savage state as found -in North America, given by this writer, is so philosophical and just, -that I am tempted to transcribe it for the instruction and amusement of -the reader. It appears at least to be impartial, which is more than can -be said of more recent writers, one class of whom can find nothing to -praise, the other nothing to blame in our Indians. - -“With a savage appearance, and manners, and customs, which are entirely -barbarous, there is observable among them a social kindness, free from -almost all the imperfections which so often disturb the peace of society -among us. They appear to be without passion; but they do that in cold -blood, and sometimes through principle, which the most violent and -unbridled passion produces in those who give no ear to reason. They seem -to lead the most wretched life in the world; and they were, perhaps, the -only happy people on earth, before the knowledge of the objects which so -much work upon and seduce us, had excited in them desires which -ignorance kept in supineness, and which have not, as yet, made any great -ravages among them. We discover in them a mixture of the fiercest and -the most gentle manners; the imperfections of wild beasts, united with -virtues and qualities of the mind and heart which do the greatest honor -to human nature. One would think at first they had no form of -government; that they acknowledge neither laws nor subordination; and -that living in an entire independence, they suffer themselves to be -solely guided by chance, and the wildest caprice. Nevertheless, they -enjoy almost all the advantages that a well regulated authority can -secure to the best governed nations. Born free and independent, they -look with horror on the very shadow of despotic power; but they seldom -depart from certain principles and customs founded on good sense, which -are to them instead of laws, and which in some measure supply the place -of a lawful authority. They will not bear the least restraint; but -reason alone keeps them in a kind of subordination, which, from being -voluntary, it not less effectual to obtain the end intended.”[1] - -The Illinois has the same peculiarity I observed in all the rivers of -the Mississippi valley. With the exception of here and there a solitary -plantation, or a little embryo town, few traces of man appear on its -borders until you arrive at the great prairie, above the head of steam -navigation, which extends all the way to the lakes. At long distances we -came upon one of those evidences of the busy body, man, in the shape of -a little village, a clearing, or an establishment for putting up pork -for exportation, where I was told, notwithstanding the “hard times,” -they throw the ears, feet, and often heads of the swine into the river, -to feed the eels and catfish. Indeed, from what I observed throughout -the whole extent of my journey, in this suffering region, there is -almost as much wasted there as would serve to feed the starving -manufacturers of England. - -Most of the towns on the river, below the Rapids, have little worthy of -attention, and all their glories are prospective; but there is one it -would be unpardonable to pass by without a tribute to its surpassing -beauties. I refer to Peoria, whose aspect is as soft and gentle as its -name. Father Charleroix, I think, calls it Pimitavery, and it lies on -the left bank of the Illinois, where it expands into a lake from one to -three miles wide, and ten in length. Ascending the bank, you come upon a -fine prairie, forming a crescent, of some twelve or fifteen miles, -judging by the eye, whose arch is bounded by a bluff, as it is here -usually called, but which represents a natural terrace of wonderful -regularity, clothed with luxuriant grass, and crowned with open woods, -affording as beautiful sites for country residences as can be imagined -in dreams. It was Sunday, and in the afternoon, when the sun was low, I -took a walk from the town to the terrace, about a mile distant, which is -reached by a private road, leading among wheat and corn fields of the -greatest luxuriance. - -Nothing could be more soft, calm, and alluring than the weather and the -scene. The smooth glassy lake lay directly before me, bordered on the -farther side by a vast green meadow receding far away, and fringed in -the vague distance by a dark barrier of forest, beyond which was nothing -but the skies. Between the lake and the terrace on which I stood, lay -the thrifty, gay-looking town; to the left, the crescent gracefully -curved till it met the lake, while to the right it made a noble sweep, -enclosing a level prairie, whose extent I did not pretend to determine; -and which, though it had never been sowed or reaped, looked as smooth as -a shaven lawn, as green as the most luxuriant meadow. Neither fence nor -inclosure of any kind was seen in that quarter, and the cattle dispersed -about in all directions, strayed wherever they pleased. While -contemplating the scene, the setting sun gradually retired behind the -wooded terrace, and the glowing, golden lustre gave place to those -transitions of the summer twilight which are so exquisitely touching and -beautiful. There was a silence, a repose and loveliness all around, in -the earth, in the heavens above, and on the waters, whose effect, if I -could only communicate it to my readers, they would thank me for; and -never did the sun set on a more holy Sabbath, or one better calculated -to call forth grateful homage to the Creator of such an enchanting -world. - -This little paradise was until recently possessed by the Peoria Indians, -a small tribe, which has since receded; and tradition says there was -once a considerable settlement of the French on the spot. I was informed -there is an extensive old burial-place, not of Indian origin, somewhere -on or near the terrace, and noticed that not a few of the names and -physiognomies in this quarter were evidently French. There seems a chasm -in the forest history of this region, between the relation of -Charleroix, which refers to no later period than 1720, and the final -cession of the French North American possessions to the English. A -series of obscure and unrecorded incidents which have escaped the -historian, led to results which for this reason appear unaccountable; -and there is, I think, every reason to believe all those discoveries of -iron and copper implements, and other evidences of mechanical skill, -from which some ingenious writers have inferred that the Indians once -possessed arts they have now lost, may be traced to this period, and to -adventurous white men, long since forgotten. - -Some eight or ten miles above Peoria, just at the point where this -charming lake again becomes metamorphosed into its parent river, and in -the midst of a solitude which requires only the presence and labors of -man to make it one of the gayest as well as most fruitful districts in -the world, are the ruins, or rather remains of the modern city of Rome, -founded, not built, in the palmy days of speculation wild. These remains -consist of the skeleton of a single house, which puts the passing -traveler in mind of the voice of one crying in the wilderness of rich, -waving prairie, blooming with flowers of every hue and odor. If there is -not a city here now, there certainly will be in time; and the -long-sighted speculator, whoever he was, only anticipated a generation -or two in the march of population. This beautiful region only wants -inhabitants, which, whatever people may say, are necessary to the -prosperity of cities; and I think it by no means improbable that some -hundreds, or perhaps thousands of years hence—which, after all, is -nothing compared to eternity—when all the past, present and future -glories of the ancient mistress of the world are buried in the -bottomless pit of oblivion, the founder of this legitimate successor, -though not suckled by a wolf, may take rank with Romulus and Remus, and -be immortalized as the parent of a new and more illustrious Rome. - -Sailing up the river, among the green meadows, and willows kissing the -surface of the waters, amid a silence broken only by the puffing of the -steam-pipe, the next object which attracted my attention was a pretty -little village pleasantly situated on the right bank, whose name -commemorates the residence of old Father Hennepin, who, tradition says, -once established a mission here. These early pioneers of the wilderness -deserved and attained a great influence over the jealous, independent, -impracticable red-man of the new world, and justly claim the respect of -those who might never be incited to follow their example. They were -unquestionably actuated by the purest, most elevated piety, in thus -encountering and overcoming the dangers and privations of the untracked -wilderness, and deserve to be respectfully remembered, if not for the -success of their endeavors at least for the courage, zeal and -perseverance with which they were prosecuted. - -Among the earliest and most distinguished of these were Father Louis -Hennepin and Joseph Marquette, the former of whom visited Canada -somewhere about the year 1676. He remained some time at fort Frontenac, -where he constructed a portable chapel, and whence he accompanied the -celebrated Louis de La Salle, in a voyage of discovery on the Upper -Mississippi, which had been discovered by Father Marquette, six years -before. They visited the Falls of Niagara, of which he gives the -earliest description on record. It is extremely accurate, as I -ascertained by comparison on the spot, and shows what little change the -incessant action of these mighty waters has produced in the lapse of -almost two centuries. After establishing a post at Niagara, La Salle -built the first schooner that ever sailed on the great lakes, and -passing through Erie, St. Clair and Huron, entered Michigan, where he -erected a fort at the mouth of the river St. Joseph. From thence they -proceeded to explore the Mississippi, and it was probably on his return, -that Father Hennepin erected his chapel on the spot where now stands the -town bearing his name. According to his own account he first descended -the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico, and returning, ascended that -river as high as the Falls of St. Anthony, which are indebted to him for -their name. He returned to France, published a relation of his -discoveries, came back to this country, and I have not chanced to meet -with any further account of him. Whether he ever visited France again, -or whether he ended his days on the banks of the Illinois, I cannot say. -I went on shore and visited the town, which stands on a high gravel -bank—a great rarity in this region—and endeavored to ascertain the -spot of the good father’s residence. But there are no aged persons, no -depositories of traditionary lore to be found here; and our people are -too much taken up with anticipations of the future, to pay much -attention to the past. I found no one who could give any precise -information, though all were familiar with his name. Hennepin is the -county-seat of Putnam; and as it does not, I believe, aspire to the -dignity of a great city, like most of its neighbors, will probably -flourish long and happily, a memorial of the good father whose name it -bears. - -Father Joseph Marquette, whose name is also intimately associated with -the early discoveries in this region, was a kindred spirit. According to -Charleroix, who belonged to the same order of missionary knights errant, -“he was a native of Laon, in Picardy, where his family still holds a -distinguished rank. He was one of the most illustrious missionaries of -new France; he traveled over almost all parts of it, and made many -discoveries, the last of which was the Mississippi, which he entered -with the Sieur Joliet, in 1673. Two years after this discovery, of which -he published an account, as he was going from Chicagou, which is at the -bottom of Lake Michigan, to Michilimackinac, he entered the river I am -now speaking of, the mouth of which was at the extremity of the low land -which, as I have said, we leave to the right in entering. He set up an -altar here and said mass. After this he went a little distance to return -thanks, and prayed the two men who managed his canoe, to leave him alone -for half an hour. This time being expired, they went to seek him, and -were greatly surprised to find him dead; but they recollected he said he -should finish his journey there. As it was too far from thence to -Michilimackinac to carry his body thither, they buried him pretty near -the side of the river, which from that time has retired, as if out of -respect, to the cape, at the foot of which it now runs, and where it has -made a new passage. The year following, one of the men who had performed -the last duties to this servant of God, returned to the place where he -had buried him, took up his remains, and carried them to -Michilimackinac. I could not learn, or else I have forgot, what name -this river had before, but at present the savages always call it the -river of the Black Gown. The French have given it the name of Father -Marquette, and never fail to invoke him when they find themselves in any -danger on Lake Michigan.”[2] The little river still bears the name, and -the spot where he was buried is designated on the maps as Marquette’s -grave. - -About the head of steam-navigation on the Illinois, and especially near -the junction of the canal which will connect the lakes with the -Mississippi, cities multiply prodigiously, and are called by the most -prodigious names. Most assuredly my countrymen are great at christening -places; but still I wish they would consult Tristram Shandy, where they -will find a most edifying discussion on the subject. The race of -antiquaries who grope their way backward through the obscure labyrinth -of time by the clue of names, will assuredly be not a little puzzled, as -children are wont to be, to find out who was the father of Zebedee’s -children. If they should follow the etymology of names, they will -probably come to the conclusion that we derived our parentage from all -the nations of the earth, ancient and modern, and had more fathers than -children. - -Nevertheless I have nothing to say against any of the thriving brood of -young cities that multiplied so wonderfully in those happy days when -swallows built in young men’s whiskers, and the little hatchet became a -great hammer before the iron grew cold. Those especially that have -either houses or inhabitants, I wish all possible prosperity, and hope -they will one day rival the great cities after which they are -christened. But those which have nothing but a name and a lithographic -map to demonstrate their existence, cannot expect to be recognized by -any traveler of ordinary pretensions to veracity. The commencement of -the canal to which allusion has just been made, was the signal for -speculation in its immediate vicinity, and six cities were forthwith -founded on the prairie between La Salle and Ottawa, a distance of some -fourteen miles. As they may possibly perish in embryo before their -birth, and thus dodge the antiquary who will be looking for them some -centuries hence, I feel it a duty to do all I can to assist his -inquiries, lest he should lose his wits in searching for them, as did -the pedagogue in Le Sage, in looking for the _paulo post futurum_ of a -Greek verb. - -The first of these, whose name I don’t choose to remember, is very -advantageously situated on a barren rock, at the head of the navigation -of a stream which can neither be spelt nor pronounced, and which had no -water in it when I passed over. But not to wrong the river, or the -long-headed, long-sighted founder of the city, I acknowledge I was -informed that sometimes during the melting of the snows on the Rocky -Mountains, or after a heavy shower of rain, there was an ample -sufficiency of water to float a chip—not a ship, gentle reader—of -considerable burthen, into the Illinois. It was therefore the opinion of -the unknown and illustrious founder, that nothing could prevent this -place from becoming in good time a great commercial emporium; and I was -told, but will not vouch for the fact, that he had actually organized a -whaling company, and seriously talked of opening a direct trade with -China. In short, he looked forward with all the faith of a speculator, -which exceeds that of a martyr ten times over, to seeing his city, in a -few years, smothered by a corporation, blessed with half a dozen broken -banks, and loaded with debts and taxes, in humble emulation of its -betters. - -In the books of English tenures, there are some whimsical conditions of -ownership and occupancy; but I recollect none similar to the city I am -commemorating, which denounces a forfeiture of property on all those -convicted of either drinking or bringing spirituous liquors therein. No -one will question the morality of this regulation, though its prudence -may not be so obvious, as many people might suppose that any future -purchasers of lots, some of which I was told had been originally sold -for two or three hundred dollars each, would require some powerful -stimulant in addition to the excitement of speculation. It is doubtful -whether any sober man would give such a price at this time. I had almost -forgot to mention that this city has neither houses nor inhabitants. - -The next _brevet_ city we passed, is just at the foot of the lower -rapids of the Illinois, and directly on the margin of the river. It -promises rather better than the other, having one house actually built, -and another in anticipation. It is really a delightful spot, on a strip -of prairie looking like an immense shaven lawn, backed by a high terrace -of grassy knobs and precipitous rocks, whose sides and summits are -clothed with foliage, along which the gentle river meanders lazily until -it comes to the rapids, which, having passed, it pursues its way -rejoicing. It might have destroyed the balance of this portion of the -new world, had these two great marts been placed on the same side of the -river, and accordingly they are prudently located on the opposite -shores, in order to preserve the equilibrium. I was told there was a -desperate rivalry between them, and great apprehensions are entertained -from their competition when they come to be inhabited. - -Just above this last-mentioned metropolis, and on the same side of the -river, is the Starvation Rock, so called from a tradition, not very -ancient, I believe, which tells that a large party of Illinois having -sought refuge from the pursuit of a superior force of hostile Indians, -were blockaded, and all, save one, perished by famine. This place was -visited by Charleroix, in 1720, who ascended the rock, where he found -the remains of old palisades, originally created for defence, and the -bodies of two Indians, half consumed by fire. He says nothing, however, -of the incident from which the place derives its present name. It is one -of the most beautiful rocks I ever saw, exhibiting a succession of -ledges, displayed horizontally with wonderful regularity, but of an -infinite variety of shades and colors, such as is generally observed in -cliffs of limestone. At a little distance, beheld through the soft hazy -atmosphere of the prairie, it resembles the ruins of a great castle, -towering to the height of perhaps two hundred feet, garnished with -trees, shrubs, flowers and clambering vines. The whole of this vast -fruitful region, from the delta of the Mississippi to the Niagara Ridge, -terminating at Lewistown, is, so far as I observed, based on a limestone -formation, and the waters every where impregnated with lime. They are -said to be wholesome when one is accustomed to their use; but, -unfortunately, I never could get used to them, and finally came to the -conclusion, that—to vary the old proverb a little to suit the -occasion—though Heaven had created the land, the D—l had furnished the -water. - -The last city I shall commemorate is called after a famous stronghold in -Europe, being seated on a ledge of rocks extending from the Illinois -into the prairie, and apparently inaccessible on all sides. It is -certainly a capital position in a military point of view, and would be -invaluable on a frontier. People might live there in great security if -they could find any thing to eat. At present the only enemy they would -have to fear is famine. Luckily, however, there are no inhabitants, and -one need be under no apprehensions on that score. It is a most -picturesque spot, the mossy rocks every where interspersed with flowers -and verdure, and the summit crowned with an open wood of lofty trees, -under which the grass is as green and luxuriant as a lowland meadow. -There are several other cities, lying dormant, between this and the town -of Ottawa, and no one can predict their future destinies. When the canal -connecting the Mississippi and the lakes comes to be finished, as I hope -it soon will be, for it is a great national undertaking, and will form -the last link to the most extensive inland navigation in the world, -there can be little doubt, I think, that this will become a very busy -and populous region. Towns will rise up as a matter of course; and, -provided they do not ruin each other by their numbers and their rivalry, -will flourish to a considerable extent. Those, therefore, who have the -wealth of Crœsus, and the patience of Job, may, if they please, -speculate in town-lots in these embryo cities, for the benefit of their -posterity. - -The gallant adventurer La Salle is worthily commemorated in this -quarter, by a town and a county called after his name. Among all the -hardy and daring pioneers, of the Mississippi valley and the lakes, he -stands foremost, and best merits the remembrance and gratitude of the -millions who are now enjoying the fruits of his enterprise and -sufferings. He built the first vessel that ever floated on the lakes; he -explored the Upper and Lower Mississippi, and perished at last by the -hands of his companions, who finally shrunk from the perils and -privations which he bore without flinching. Mr. Adams, when Secretary of -State, in a correspondence with Don Leviz de Onis, the Spanish minister, -on the subject of boundaries, pays a most eloquent, well deserved -tribute to the genius, hardihood, courage and enterprise of Louis La -Salle, but with this exception he has not met with that attention he so -justly merits from my countrymen. - -The little town of La Salle lies close to the junction of the canal with -the Illinois, and was founded by a colony of the sons of old Erin, who -were employed in that undertaking. It is a genuine, unadulterated Irish -town; the cabins many of them of turf, and all thatched with straw. The -number of pigs is only to be matched by that of children, and both are -in a most flourishing condition, to judge from the portly dimensions of -one and the rosy cheeks of the other. There is no place in the universe -where the jolly, hard-working, warm-hearted Irishman can so gloriously -luxuriate in the paradise of potatoes. The reader will please to -understand that notwithstanding the number of great cities hereabouts, -the entire prairie from Peru to Chicago, with here and there an -occasional exception, is in a state of nature, although one of the -fairest and richest portions of the earth. They began at the wrong end, -or rather, they put the cart before the horse, and laid out towns -instead of cultivating land. This is one of the prominent foibles of -that sanguine, enterprising, anticipating and gallant race which is -daily adventuring into the boundless region of the West. They are not -content with land of inexhaustible fertility, but almost every tenth man -aspires to be the founder of a city. Instead, therefore, of laying out -his farm into fields, he lays it out into a town, which he calls after -his own name, with a ville at the end of it; or he dams up the river, -builds a mill, and lays the foundation of a series of bilious -complaints, that descend to his posterity to the second or third -generation. Hence the number of towns is out of all proportion to the -number of inhabitants. With very many of them, their generation is a -mere spasmodic effort of speculation. They consequently exhibit an -appearance of prosperity for a few years; are then suddenly arrested, -and either never grow any more, or dwindle away to nothing. A despotic -monarch like Peter the Great may create a city where he will, but with -all his power he cannot perpetuate its existence beyond his own, unless -it possesses natural advantages to attract voluntary settlers. Private -persons should beware how they undertake to found cities. They may build -houses, but they cannot fill them with people. - -The town of La Salle, unlike some of it neighbors, was conceived and -brought forth in the natural way, that is, the people preceded the -houses. When the honest Irish laborers came to work on the canal, they -according to custom built themselves cabins, about the spot where they -commenced their labors. As the land was neither cultivated nor enclosed, -they employed their leisure hours in digging ditches about a piece of -prairie large enough for a potato-patch, and sometimes a small patch of -wheat or corn. Here, with little labor, they raised as much as supplied -them with bread, or a substitute; and though the canal has for some -years been discontinued for lack of means, these people continue to -cultivate their little fields, which are wonderfully productive, -frequently making new enclosures, and sometimes erecting frame houses. -If the land belonged to the United States they were protected by the -right of preemption, and if to a private citizen, it was his interest to -let them alone, as there was no danger of the soil being exhausted, and -he was thus saved the labor of the first ploughing, which is the most -expensive of all the process of cultivation here. Thus these honest, -laborious people live quite comfortably, waiting the period of -recommencing the canal, and some of them perhaps able to purchase the -land on which they reside, provided it is not laid out in cities, which -is very probable, for you can hardly put down your foot without crushing -one of these mushrooms. - -Ottawa, like La Salle, is a real _bona fide_ town, with houses and -inhabitants. Its age is some twelve or fifteen years, and the number of -its people from twelve to fifteen hundred. I found the situation so -peculiarly agreeable, and the hotel so comfortable, that I determined to -remain awhile, and amuse myself with making little excursions about the -neighborhood, than which nothing can be more beautiful. The town stands -at the junction of the Fox River with the Illinois. They are both clear, -limpid streams, and though coming from far distant lands, meet and -mingle together as quietly as if they had been friends from their birth. -The scenery is as gentle as the rivers, and as mild and mellow as one of -Claude’s pictures, that actually makes a real connoisseur yawn and -stretch to look at it. In one direction the eye passes over a long -narrow prairie, all one rich expanse of grass and flowers, through which -the Illinois sometimes hurries rapidly over a ledge of rocks, at others -meanders lazily along. On either side of the river, the prairie is -bounded by those remarkable terraces which form one of the more -beautiful features of this region. They rise abruptly from the green -level sward, to the height, I should imagine, of one hundred and fifty -feet, in some places presenting a smooth grassy bank, whose ascent is -dotted and their summits crowned with trees; in others, walls of -perpendicular rocks disposed in regular strata, of varied tints, -diversified with all sorts of verdure peeping from out the crevices. -These terraces seem created on purpose for houses, from the porches or -windows of which the proprietors of the rich fields and meadows beneath, -might overlook their beautiful possessions, and thank a bounteous -Providence for having cast their lot, not in Araby, but Illinois the -blest. - -Looking toward the north, from my window at the hotel, the great rolling -prairie, extending from Ottawa to Chicago, presented itself in a -succession of gentle risings and waving lines, all green, yet of such -various shades, that there was nothing like sameness or dull insipidity. -The Fox River approaches in this direction, and may be seen stealing its -way with many windings of coy reluctance, toward that union with the -Illinois where it is to lose its name and identity forever. Indeed, in -all directions the views are almost unequaled for softness and delicacy, -and I hope I may be pardoned for this vain attempt to communicate to my -readers a portion of the pleasure I derived from their contemplation. -Travelers have a right to such indulgence, since nothing can be more -disinterested than for a man to undergo the fatigue of visiting distant -places, merely for the gratification of making others as wise as -himself. - -Ottawa is a fine place for sportsmen, most especially those disciples of -Job and St. Anthony who deal with the fishes. The traditionary fishing -in the Illinois and Fox Rivers is capital, and there is scarcely a man -to be met with, who has not at least once in his life been eminently -successful. But it is certainly somewhat peculiar to the gentle science -of angling, that the best fishing is always the greatest way off. It is -never where you happen to be, but always somewhere else. It is never in -the present tense, but always in the past or the future. However -excellent it be on the spot, it is always better somewhere else: and the -farther you go, the farther off, to the end of the chapter. Then, ten to -one, it is too late, or too early; the sun shines too bright; the wind -blows too hard, or does not blow at all. In short, there is ever some -untoward circumstance in the way of success, and I know no school of -patience and philosophy superior to the noble apprenticeship to angling. - -The fishing is however good, both in the Fox River and the Illinois. -There is a large species called trout, rather from its habits than -appearance, which frequents the rapids, and is a noble subject for the -angler; while the vulgar fisherman, who affects the still water, may now -and then luxuriate in a cat-fish weighing ten or fifteen pounds, and -ugly enough to frighten a member of a militia court-martial. There is -also the gar-fish, of great size, whose pleasure it is to let you toss -him up into the air, without ever catching him, and then see him plump -down into the water with the bait, perhaps hook and all, in his jaws. On -the whole, however, the sport is extremely agreeable, and the little -excursions to the various points renowned for angling, present such a -succession of charming scenes, that no one can complain he toiled all -day long and caught no fish, who has preserved the happy faculty of -enjoying the smiling earth and balmy air. - -Add to this, the prairies abound in a species of grouse, affording equal -sport to the fowler and the epicure. I am no shot, but my excellent -host, who well deserves a passing notice, and who does credit to the -Empire state, of which he is a native, was both a capital shot and a -first rate angler. Indeed he could do almost any thing, and merited the -title of an universal genius as much as any man I have met with. He -would every morning rig out his little wagon, drawn by a rough -uncivilized Indian pony, which, like old Virginia, “never tires,” and -followed by a couple of dogs, sally out on the prairie, whence he never -returned without a supply of game. The summer climate is here by no -means oppressive; the storms never last a whole day; and, in short, I -know few places where a man fond of rural scenes, rural sports, and -quiet enjoyments, might spend his time more pleasantly than at the -comfortable quarters of mine host at Ottawa, whose name is Delano, and -whose house is on the margin of Fox River. “May he live a thousand -years, and his shadow never be less.” - -Leaving Ottawa, I embarked on the sea of the prairie, and after -proceeding a few miles came to a settlement of Norwegians, consisting of -a little straggling village, encompassed by luxuriant fields of wheat -and corn, showing forth the rich rewards of industry operating in a -fertile soil. The buildings and other appendages indicated not only -comfort but competency, and I could not avoid being struck with the -singularity of a community from the remote regions of Northern Europe -planting itself in this secluded spot in the very bosom of the New -World. Yet this is by no means a solitary example. Go where we will in -the great region of the West, we perceive new evidence of the proud and -happy destiny of our country, in being above all others on the face of -the earth, the land toward which the eager and longing eye of hope is -cast from every corner of Christendom: the land to which poverty turns -for relief from its sufferings, and the oppressed for the enjoyment of -the rights bestowed by God and filched away by man; the land which alone -yields an adequate reward to labor, and gives to honest enterprise its -fair field for exertion; the land where pining wretchedness never -descends as an heir-loom from generation to generation, and want is not, -like wealth, hereditary; the New World, which a gracious Providence -seems to have reserved as a refuge and a home to the swarms of -industrious bees driven from the parent hive for want of room, want of -employment, and want of bread. - -This, after all, is the crowning chaplet that adorns the brow of our -great republic, and long may it be before it withers. The triumphs of -arms, art and literature fade in comparison with those of humanity, and -that country which affords the greatest plenty of the necessaries and -comforts of life to the greatest proportion of human beings, may justly -challenge a pre-eminence over those which place their claims to that -distinction merely on the ground of arts and refinements, whose -influence is confined to a few, and contributes but little to the -happiness, and less to the virtues even of those who make it the sole -foundation of their assumptions of superiority. While our country -continues to be the refuge of the honest, industrious poor of Europe, -who cares for their boasts of those paltry refinements, those exquisite -effeminacies, which in all past ages, and in every nation of the world, -have been the sure precursors of decay and dissolution. When the -descendants of those who were driven to the United States by the -privations and discouragements they encountered at home, shall begin to -leave the land of their refuge, and return to the bosom of the country -of their forefathers in search of bread which they cannot procure here, -then, and not till then, may the renovated Old World justly boast of -that superiority which is now little more than a dream of long past -times. - -I have lately seen in some of the English papers exaggerated pictures of -the condition of the United States, founded, probably, in the policy of -encouraging emigration to her own possessions, or derived from the -reports of some few disappointed emigrants who have returned home. It -was proclaimed that the country was crushed with debts it never could -repay without impoverishing the people by taxation; that labor could -neither find employment nor receive adequate reward; that an universal -blight had come over the land, and every where withered its prosperity; -that the states were bankrupt and the people beggars. All this is sheer -declamation. There never has been any thing like widely extended, much -less general distress in the United States, arising from a deprivation -or curtailment of the necessaries or comforts of life. There never was a -time when any class, or any considerable proportion of a class, -approached within a thousand degrees, that poverty and destitution which -is the common lot of so large a portion of the laboring people of the -Old World. The country has at all times been blessed with a plenty, a -superfluity, an exuberance of every product essential to human -existence, and those who could not obtain them, were either unwilling to -make the necessary exertions, or unable to do so by sickness or some -other untoward circumstance. The distress complained of is not positive, -but comparative. We may be restricted in our luxuries, but the land, -from one wide extreme to the other, is absolutely flowing with milk and -honey, and it is little less than flying in the face of the bounties of -Heaven to complain of hard times, which can only be traced to a -superabundance of every thing, and shrink to the earth under the -pressure of a debt, the whole of which could be paid is less time than -it was contracted, without incurring one-fourth of the burden sustained -by the people of England. But we have been spoiled by prosperity -_Fortuna nisirium quem foret stultum facit_. Fifty years of almost -uninterrupted prosperity had turned our heads, and it is to be hoped a -few years of wholesome reaction will restore us to reason. The sudden -cessation of a favorable gale often saves the vessel from running on the -rocks and being dashed to pieces. - -The prairies have already been described as well perhaps as they ever -will be, because they are a sort of _lusus naturæ_, and there is nothing -with which to compare them. To tell of what ingredients they are -composed is easy enough, but to give a just idea of the effects of their -combination, requires analogies not to be found in the other productions -of nature, nor in the imagery of the mind. Although substantial -realities, they present nothing but deceptions, and I believe it is -beyond the power of language, almost imagination, to exaggerate the -strange and beautiful combination of what is, and what is not, sporting -together in perfect harmony on these boundless plains. The eye becomes -at length wearied with being thus perpetually the dupe of imaginary -forms, and imaginary distances, while the mind involuntary revolts at -the deceptions practiced on the senses. Mr. Bryant in poetry, and Mr. -Hoffman and Mr. Catlin in prose, have done all that can be done to -convey to those who have never seen them an impression of the effect of -these happy eccentricities of nature, and the beautiful phantasmagoria -they exhibit forth to the senses and the imagination. - -If ever miser were pardoned for coveting his neighbors land, it might be -such land as the prairies of Illinois, where man labors almost without -the sweat of his brow, and the crops are so abundant that all I heard -the good people complain of was having more than they knew what to do -with. This is indeed a lamentable state of things, and it were I think -much to be wished that some of our philosophical lecturers would discuss -the relative advantages of having too much and too little of a good -thing. The case of an individual being overburthened with superfluity, -is easily disposed of, as he has only to turn it over to his neighbors -who may be in want; but when entire communities, states and -confederations of states, labor under this inconvenience, where nobody -wants, and all have plenty to bestow; in other words, where all wish to -sell and nobody cares to buy, it must be confessed there occurs a crisis -of such deplorable difficulty, that I can conceive no effectual remedy -except two or three years of famine like those which succeeded the seven -years of plenty in Egypt. This would consume the mischievous surplus, -and rid them of an evil which as it never before occurred, has never -been provided against by the wisdom of legislation, which most people -believe can perform impossibilities. But be this as it may, I passed -over a vast region where the table of every man groaned under -superfluities, and every brood of swine wasted more corn than would -supply bread to a family of English manufacturers. Yet I found all, -without exception, in the last stage of hopeless despondency, until one -day I entered the log-cabin of an old negro woman, a slave, who was -enjoying her pipe at ease, and upon asking the usual commonplace -question of “how times went with her,” was answered with the most -cheerful alacrity—“_O bravely, massa. Hens ’gin to lay finely._” We -hear of nations suffering from famine, but my unfortunate countrymen -complain of nothing but plenty. Whence comes this strange paradox? Is it -because men have sought to invent artificial means of prosperity which -act in direct opposition to the great general laws of Providence, and -are thus punished for their presumptuous folly by a new, unheard of -infliction? - -After riding a distance of some seventy or eighty miles on the prairie, -over the best natural roads in the world, I halted at the house of a -Dutch farmer from the banks of the Hudson, where I heard that old -patriarchal language spoken for the first time in many years. There are -several descendants of the ancient Hollanders settled in this quarter, -to which they are tempted by the broad rich flats, and the easiness of -their cultivation. I have observed that those who partake largely in -this blood, though almost uniformly steady and industrious in their -habits, don’t much like hard, fatiguing work. They prefer labor where -there is no violent exertion or straining, no heavy burthens to lift or -carry, and no call for extraordinary efforts to achieve what may be -accomplished in the ordinary way without them. Hence they are great -amateurs in good land, easy to cultivate and yielding liberal returns. -In this I think they are perfectly right. Without doubt, it is the -destiny of civilized man to labor, that is in moderation. But to labor -without the rewards of labor; to be for ever toiling, and panting, and -sweating over a piece of rough, stony land, on which the malediction of -eternal barrenness has been denounced ever since the creation of the -world; to be ever sowing wheat and reaping nothing but tares, is in my -opinion, utterly unphilosophical, and unworthy of all men who can go -farther and fare better. - -A particular occasion had drawn together at this spot a large cavalcade -of both sexes, gayly caparisoned and well-mounted, many of the females -being equipped in riding-habits, hats with feathers, and all more or -less picturesque in their appearance. They chose to accompany the -carriage to a little town about six or seven miles distant, over a -beautiful expanse of prairie, or as it might be aptly termed, “faerie -land,” exhibiting a succession of grassy lawns and beds of flowers of -hundreds of acres, marshaled under different colors, some were red, some -blue, and others entirely yellow. It is difficult to imagine a more gay -and beautiful spectacle than that presented on this occasion. The sky -was sufficiently obscured to temper the glare of sunshine, which is -sometimes here painful to the eye, and the playful cavalcade, consisting -of perhaps an hundred, indulged in a thousand careless, graceful -evolutions on the level greensward, that seemed without beginning or -end, and offered no obstruction in any direction. Sometimes a pair of -riders of both sexes would dash out from the throng, and scamper away -until they appeared like shadows against the distant horizon; and at -others, the whole mass would separate in different directions, skimming -over the plain like Arabs on their winged steeds, their different -colored dresses and picturesque costumes rendering the scene -indescribably gay and animating. The females all without exception sat -and managed their horses with that perfect skill and grace arising from -constant habit, and upon the whole, I never witnessed any exhibition -that could compare with this ride on the prairie of Illinois in romantic -interest and novelty. - -Thus, toward evening, I reached the pleasant town which was to be my -resting-place for the night. By some strange perversion of ignorance, or -freak of vanity, it is nicknamed Juliet, instead of _Joliet_, from the -old pioneer of that name, who established his quarters here in olden -time on a mount, which, fortunately, has escaped being travestied into -Juliet, and still preserves his name. This mount is one of the most -remarkable, as well as beautiful objects in nature. It rises directly -from the prairie to the height, I should judge, of more than an hundred -feet; is clothed with a rich velvet coat of grass on all sides, as well -as at the summit; is entirely distinct from any other eminence; -comprises an area of six or eight acres, and is as regular and perfect -in construction, form, and outline, as any work of art I ever saw. It -has been generally taken by travelers for a creation of those mysterious -mound-builders, whose name and history have passed into oblivion, and -who have left no memorials of their existence but such as render it only -more inexplicable. It is, however, as I ascertained, a production of the -cunning hand of Nature, who sometimes, it would seem, amuses herself by -showing how much she can excel her illegitimate sister, Art, even in her -most successful attempts at imitation. The canal connecting the Illinois -with the lakes, runs directly at the foot of this mount, which with -something like Gothic barbarity has been deeply excavated on one side, -in order to form the outward bank. This process has disclosed a -succession of different strata of earth, clay, and gravel, all regularly -defined, and evidently not the work of man, but of the world of craters, -which beyond doubt covered all the surrounding country, long posterior -to the subsiding of the great deluge. - -The Sieur Joliet, who tradition says, once resided on the top of this -mount, which is flat and comprises several acres of rich meadow, was one -of the adventurous heroes who first found their way from Canada to the -Valley of the West. Little is known of him, except that he preceded or -accompanied La Salle in some of his discoveries on the Mississippi, for -which, says Charleroix, “he received a grant of the island of Anticosti, -which extends about forty degrees north-west and south-east, and lies at -the mouth of the River St. Lawrence. But they made him no great present; -it is absolutely good for nothing. It is poorly wooded, its soil is -barren, and it has not a single harbor where a ship can lie in safety.” -I regret to differ with the good father, whose description shows it to -be eminently calculated for the site of a great emporium, and am -surprised that it has hitherto escaped the notice of our illustrious -founders of cities in places where it is all rocks and no water. But be -this as it may, the Sieur Joliet is particularly unfortunate in having -been rewarded for his services by an island worth nothing, and defrauded -by ignorance or vanity of the honor of giving his name to a beautiful -and thriving town. - -Some fifteen years ago the place occupied by the town of Joliet was the -seat of Black Hawk’s power. It now contains twelve or fifteen hundred -white people, and is a busy, growing place, with reasonable -anticipations of becoming considerably larger in good time. The frank, -hospitable, spirited, and intelligent people of this noble region of the -West, must not, however, calculate too confidently on all their towns -becoming great cities because they grow with astonishing rapidity at the -first starting. Great cities, like great men, do not spring up in all -places and every where. A large portion of these towns, like children, -will probably increase in size the first few years, more than in all -their lives afterward. Many will stop short in their growth, and many -will gradually be swallowed up by some neighboring rival, whose natural -advantages, or some fortunate concurrence of circumstances, will enable -it to secure the ascendancy, and render all the others tributary to its -prosperity. When this ascendency is permanently acquired, nothing but -inferior towns can flourish in its immediate vicinity, and like all -great bodies, they will become the centre of attraction. - -The canal connecting the Mississippi with the Lakes runs through the -town, and is here finished in a most admirable and substantial manner. -It is identified with the River Des Planes, which has been circumscribed -by a wall to prevent its overflowing. There are here two locks, and a -basin, equal to any I have ever seen, and indeed, all the permanent -stonework of this canal appears to have been done in the most -substantial and perfect style. A canal completing a line of inland water -communication to the extent of from three to four thousand miles, by a -cut of scarcely more than a hundred, through a region which is almost an -apparent level, and presents perhaps fewer natural obstructions than any -other of the same extent to be found elsewhere, is not only a noble, but -a feasible undertaking. Its advantages are too obvious to require -enumeration; it is in fact, essentially a national work, and stands a -monument of rational foresight, among a thousand visionary schemes of -sanguine folly, or selfish fraud. It is already more than two-thirds -completed, and I conceive that New York is almost as deeply interested -in the final issue as Illinois. - -Leaving this fair and flourishing town, which still affords me many -agreeable recollections of natural beauty and kind hospitality, I -visited in my way to Chicago, the village of Lockport, which has grown -up in anticipation of the completion of the canal. The descent of the -River Des Planes is here sufficient to afford ample water-power for -mills and manufactories, and this, in a country so level that the water -half the time does not know which way to run, is quite enough to excite -the sanguine adventurers to this promised land to a degree of delirium, -and set them “kalkilating,” as Sam Slick has it, a hundred degrees -beyond the ratio of geometrical progression. There is little reason to -doubt that Lockport will become a considerable manufacturing town in -process of time, after the canal is finished; but the far-sighted -seekers into futurity would perhaps do well to bear in mind, that there -must be people before there are cities; that these latter are the -children, not the parents of the country, and that it is not good policy -to wait so long for the grass to grow that two or three generations of -steeds starve in the meantime. It is well to look a little to the -present as well as the future, and not be for ever gazing at the shadowy -mountain in the distance, least we fall into the ditch directly under -our noses. - -A few hours ride in a delightful morning, partly over rich cultivated -prairie lands, brought me to Chicago, at the southern extremity of Lake -Michigan. It is a fine town, and notwithstanding the blight of -speculation which has swept the land from Dan to Beersheba, continues -steadily on the increase. This is the best possible proof of innate -constitutional vigor, and affords sufficient augury of its future growth -and prosperity. To all these sanguine young cities and citizens, might I -assume the universal privilege of giving advice, I would recommend the -maxim of the wise Emperor Augustus, though I confess it is somewhat -anti-republican to cite such an authority—_festina lente_—hasten -slowly—be not in too great a hurry to grow big and to get rich, and do -not crow before daylight, like ambitious young roosters, who aspire to -be beforehand with the sun. - -After remaining three or four days at Chicago, and making several -agreeable acquaintances, among which was an enterprising old gentleman -of four score, who had come there, as he said, “_to seek his fortune_,” -I bade farewell to the State of Illinois, bearing on my mind the -impression that there was not in any country of the known world, a -region of the same extent combining within itself a greater portion of -the elements of substantial and enduring prosperity. At the same time, I -could not help lamenting that blessed as it is in its soil, its climate, -its geographical position, and its industrious population, it had been -precipitated from the summit of hope to the lowest abyss of debt and -depression, by turning its back on the advantages which nature had -gratuitously bestowed, to snatch at others that Providence had withheld. -Though the immediate source of these pressing difficulties of the state, -is without doubt improvident legislation, yet let not the good people of -Illinois lay all the blame on their law-makers and rulers. They were -chosen by their own free voices, and in many cases, for the express -purpose of carrying out those very projects which in their vast -accumulation have created these embarrassments. It was the feverish -anxiety, the headlong haste, the insatiable passion for growing rich in -a hurry, independently of the exertions of labor and the savings of -economy, that brought them and other states where they are now standing -shivering on the verge of bankruptcy. - -In the United States the people are the sovereign, and all power either -for good or evil emanates from them. If they allow their own passions, -or the seductions of others, to lead them astray, it is but a weak -evasion to cast the blame on those who were only enabled to perpetrate -the offence by the power which they themselves delegated. Let them then -set about retrieving the consequences of their adherence to mischievous -maxims and habits, by returning to those which if firmly adopted and -steadily pursued, will be speedily followed by returning prosperity. Let -the contest be, not who is to blame for the evil, but who shall be -foremost in proposing an effectual remedy and contributing all in his -power to bring it about. In short, let them only save as much in the -next, as they wasted in the last twenty years, instead of resorting for -relief to the very measure which produced the disease, and place their -affairs in the hands of clear-sighted honest men, instead of great -financiers, whose only expedient for paying one debt is contracting -another, and my life on it, they will redeem themselves in less time -than it took to enthral them. But we who live in glass houses should -never throw stones. _Illinois has enough of the sisterhood to keep her -in countenance._ - ------ - -[1] Charleroix, vol. ii. p. 102, 103. - -[2] Charleroix, vol. ii. p. 73. - - * * * * * - - - - - A DREAM OF ITALY. - - - BY CHARLES ALLEN. - - - Land of Poets, Italy, - As the rivers seek the sea, - Floats my dreaming soul to thee; - - And I stand upon the soil, - Where with never ceasing toil, - Careless of the midnight oil, - - Poets say the noblest lays— - Artists wrought for Heaven’s praise— - Marking time by deeds, not days. - - And before my dreaming eyes, - Temples, palaces arise, - Less’ning, fading in the skies, - - ’Till upon their lifted spires, - Sit the stars, those spirit fires, - List’ning to thy minstrel lyres. - - Hark! their music sweeps along— - Lightly dance the waves of song, - Through the air a happy throng; - - Bearing on each foamy crest, - Thoughts that wrap the human breast; - Bidding care lie down to rest. - - List’ning to each beauteous strain, - Ah! I am a child again, - Full of childish joy and pain; - - All unwritten is life’s tome, - And my spirit seeks its home, - More beloved than gilded dome, - - And around the once loved stream, - Revels free in Music’s dream— - Yet, alas! this does but seem. - - Music! ’tis the voice of Love, - Sweetly floating from above, - Winged like Noah’s gentle dove; - - Seeking, seeking wearily, - O’er life’s deeply flooded sea, - To some higher heart, to flee. - - ’Tis thy voice, thy language too, - Spoken by the Sainted Few, - Who still make thy wonders new. - - Love, was exiled Dante’s theme; - Love, was Buonaroti’s dream— - Raphael took its sunny beam; - - ’Twas the pencil with which he - Wrought for immortality— - Sweet Italia, wrought for thee. - - And the chaste Madonna grew, - From that touch so pure and true, - Breathing life, and speaking too. - - These are they who speak for thee, - Speak, though toiling silently— - Speak in love, fair Italy. - - Thus in visions of the night, - Oft my spirit takes its flight, - Soaring to thy land of light; - - But, alas! the op’ning day, - Finds me from thee, far away, - And no more thy minstrel lay, - - Floats in sweetness over me; - But the bird sings on the tree, - ’Neath the casement blithe and free. - - Yes, ’t has vanished into air, - And again comes heavy care— - Would, O, would, that I were there; - - So my spirit whispers me, - Longing, mourning but to see, - Land of Poets, only thee; - - For I’m lonely, lonely here, - Falls for me no kindly tear— - Love itself has pressed the bier; - - And in bitterness of soul, - As the racer to his goal, - Or the magnet to its pole, - - So my spirit turns to thee, - Land of sweetest minstrelsy, - Land of Poets—Italy. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LETTER OF INTRODUCTION. - - - A NEW CHAPTER OF MRS. ALLANBY’S EXPERIENCE. - - BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN. - - -“MY DEAR MARY—I know it will be a pleasure to you to become acquainted -with my friends who will hand you this—Mrs. Dilberry and her two -daughters. They are quite the aristocracy of our town, being very -genteel, as you will find, and also independent as to property. They -will be entire strangers in your city, and as they have made up their -minds to take a trip there, (having the means, they intend to travel a -great deal,) it is nothing but proper in me to give them this letter of -introduction.” - -Such was the exordium of a letter signed “CATHERINE -CONOLLY,” and dated from “_Tarry-town_,” which I found on the -centre-table one morning, after having been down the street to attend to -a little business—giving a small order to a confectioner. The writer -was an old school-mate of mine, whom, indeed, I had not seen since our -school-days. She was Kitty Colville then—a fair, fat, freckled, -_squashy_-looking girl, who was a sort of common favorite from the -good-nature with which she bore being the butt of our tricks, and the -scape-goat of our trespasses. She afterward married a young country -doctor, and, as I had learned, was settled in some out-of-the-way -village of which I had never known the name until I saw it at the head -of her letter. I caught myself smiling as I laid down the missive, it -was so characteristic of poor Kitty. After telling about her children, -four in number, who were called after their grandfathers and -grandmothers, John and Jacob, and Ruth and Sophia; and her husband, who -had so much practice that he wore out a pair of saddle-bags every two -years, she had filled the remainder of her page with apologies for her -pen, ink, and bad writing. The neat but constrained chirography, into -which she had been drilled at school by a teacher standing over her, had -deteriorated into a scrawl, cramped here and straggling there, and the -orthography testified that she no longer wrote with a dictionary at her -elbow. “To chronicle small-beer,” it was very evident, had long been the -extent of her literary efforts. - -My heart always warms at the memory of my early days, and of those in -any way pleasantly connected with them, and I felt glad to have an -opportunity to prove to my old companion that I still remembered her -with kindness. I took up the three cards which had been left with the -letter. They had all been cut out of Bristol-board, and that not by -square and rule. The first was inscribed with ink in a large, round -hand, “_Mrs. Dilberry, Tarry-town_,” with the addition, in pencil, of -“_W—— Hotel_.” The second was got up in similar style, the name being -“_Miss Esther Ann Dilberry_”—both having the down-strokes dotted and -scalloped for ornament. The third was still more ambitious—“_Miss Jane -Louisa Dilberry_” being encircled with a painted wreath of roses, -torches, doves, and quivers, with other etceteras, the execution of -which, on watch papers and other fancy wares, was once indispensable to -the perfection of young-lady-craft. They were any thing but -_comme-il-faut_, but recollecting that my future acquaintances were from -a region where cards were by no means a necessary of life, I thought it -unfair to make them the basis of any prejudications. To give my -correspondent the due of prompt action upon her letter, I set off -without delay for the W—— Hotel, though I could not well spare the -time for a long walk and a visit, for I had invited a small party to -tea, to meet an agreeable Englishman and his accomplished wife, to whom -my husband owed the rights of hospitality, and my preparations were yet -to be made. The ladies had not returned to the hotel when I reached it, -and leaving my card with an invitation to tea penciled upon it, and the -hour specified, I hastened home. - -The hour for tea had arrived and my company had nearly all assembled, -when I heard strange voices on the stairway, and presuming them to be -those of the party from the W—— Hotel, I stepped out, to go through -the ceremony of introduction with them, before presenting them to the -rest of my guests. I was right in my conjecture, though their appearance -was such as to take me aback considerably. Mrs. Dilberry was a short, -coarse, oily-looking woman, with very light, round eyes, a low, slender -nose, almost hidden between a pair of puffy, red cheeks, and a plump -mouth, turned down at the corners. Though it was a warm summer evening, -she was dressed in a heavy reddish brown silk, with a cape of the same. -The remainder of her costume was a fine, though out-of-fashion -French-work collar, a cap of coarsely-figured net, trimmed with thick -cotton lace, intermixed with a quantity of common, deep-pink artificial -flowers, of which the green leaves looked like plain glazed paper, and a -very coarse pocket-handkerchief, with which she fanned herself -incessantly. Her daughters, whose names she pronounced as Easter Ann and -Jane Louyza, were quite as little prepossessing. The elder, who must -have been thirty, was tall, spare and sour, with a sallow complexion, -and a little turned up nose, quite out of proportion with her long upper -lip, and the general dimensions of her face. The other, who looked ten -years younger, was a youthful likeness of the mother, short, fat, and -florid. From her manner it was apparent that she set up for a beauty. -They both had on summer dresses—that of Miss Esther Ann having -straight, perpendicular stripes, which made her look still taller, while -the dumpiness of the sister seemed to be increased by one of a -horizontal or run-round pattern; and they both wore clumsy, high-colored -head trimmings, which had been somewhat in vogue the winter of the -preceding year. - -“Dear me!” exclaimed the old lady, wiping her face with her -handkerchief, “I am so flustered and fagged out!” - -“We had such a time hunting up a cap for maw,” rejoined Miss Jane -Louisa. - -“Not that she did not bring plenty along,” corrected Miss Esther Ann, -“but we thought that, as it was likely she would go out a great deal, -she ought to have one of the newest fashion for evening dress.” - -But the tea-trays were going into the drawing-room, and I hurried my -trio after them. Whilst I was providing them with seats and introducing -them to their neighbors, I heard on different sides of me a strange, -burring, ticking sound, for which I could not account, and which, I -perceived, attracted the attention of others beside myself. During the -course of the evening I discovered its cause. Each of the three had at -her side a large gold repeater, which, having all been set by the same -time, had simultaneously struck eight. - -In a movement to make room for my new arrival, Mr. Aylmere, my husband’s -English friend—(Mr. Allanby, by the by, had that morning been called -unexpectedly away for several days, and I was doing the honors -alone)—had taken possession of a seat next to that of Miss Esther Ann. -I had a misgiving as to the impression he was likely to receive, but did -not therefore evade the civility of introducing her. A few minutes -afterward I caught the thread of a dialogue between them. - -“We intend to stay several weeks,” said she, “and we expect to see a -great deal of city society. We brought a letter of introduction to Mrs. -Allanby from one of her most particular friends, a physician’s lady, and -of course she will think it her duty to make her circle acquainted with -us. I dare say this party is intended for that.” - -“Have you no older acquaintances in the city?” asked Mr. Aylmere. - -“None that we shall claim. There are several persons from here that we -were introduced to at different times in our own neighborhood, but we -always found out afterward that they were not in the first circle, and -we would not think it our place to keep up the acquaintance even if we -should happen to fall in with them.” - -I acknowledge myself afflicted, in some degree, with what is called our -“national thin-skinnedness” to the opinion of an intelligent and -well-bred foreigner of any of my own countrymen or women; even such of -them as I may despise myself; I, therefore, heartily wished my curious -and quizzical-looking Englishman in the farthest corner of the room. I -had not, however, at the moment, the ingenuity to send him there, and, -instead, I made an effort to change the conversation. But my attention -was called off directly, and I next heard him say— - -“Then in your neighborhood you recognize various grades of society?” - -“That we do. Our town has three or four classes. Our own set are very -exclusive, having none but lawyers and doctors, and the most genteel of -the storekeepers, and we are very particular what strangers we pay -attention to. We never call on any, of late, unless we find out that -they are number one at home.” - -“And I suppose it is somewhat difficult to ascertain that,” rejoined Mr. -Aylmere. - -“Not at all, sir. We know the names of two or three of the most genteel -families in each of the large cities, and if the strangers are city -people, some one finds out whether they know any of those. If they -don’t, we set them down for nobodies. If they are not from the cities, -we find out what they do at home, and if they are professional, or live -on their means, we know that they are exclusive; if not we keep clear of -them. Tarry-town is considered a very proud place.” - -“Has your town a large population to select from?” - -“Considerable—eight hundred or so. Though it is not a county-town, we -have four lawyers, two of them, however, don’t practice, owning farms -around the town; my brother is one of the two others. And we have three -physicians, Mrs. Allanby’s friend being the lady of one of them. The -botanic doctor we don’t count.” - -“Do your rules of admission and rejection apply farther than to native -Americans? If a foreigner, like myself for instance, were to go among -you, how is it likely he would be received?” - -“Of course according to his standing in his own country,” replied Miss -Esther Ann, with imperturbable self-importance; “we understand very well -how people are divided off in foreign countries, for we read a great -deal. There’s my sister, she positively swallows every novel she can lay -her hands on, and it is surprising what a knowledge she has of the world -and fashionable life. She says she would know a nobleman at a glance by -his distingué air, (pronounced _a la Anglaise_;) maw doesn’t encourage -her in it—like most elderly persons, maw has very old-fashioned -notions; she tells her it teaches her to look too high.” - -“And I am to infer that, according to the code of Tarry-town, you would -hesitate to admit foreigners, unless they should be noblemen?” persisted -Mr. Aylmere. - -“Certainly, or grandees, or gentry, I believe the English call them. We -have it on the best authority that no others are noticed in the large -cities—that is, by the first people—and what is not good enough for -them is not good enough for us. We think ourselves on a par with any -city people, and, when we go to a city, nothing ought to satisfy us but -the first. Birds of a feather ought always to flock together, in my -opinion, and I’m sure, that after taking the lead in Tarry-town, if ever -I went to Europe, I should make myself very choice of my associates. -Europeans have the same right when they come here. Those that are -aristocracy at home have a right to be aristocracy every where else, and -no others, and those that are not, and push themselves forward, are no -better than impostors.” - -“Then I am afraid I should stand a chance to be _tabooed_ at -Tarry-town,” said Mr. Aylmere, “for I am an English merchant.” - -During the progress of this conversation, Mrs. Dilberry, with a loud, -though wheezing voice, was panting through a long harangue to Mrs. -Aylmere, and two other ladies, in whose midst she had anchored herself. - -“I expected a great deal of pleasure in shopping when I came to the -city,” said she, “but it’s precious little I’m likely to have, for -shopping without making bargains is but a dry business. We tried it -yesterday and this morning, my daughters and me, and plague a thing -could we find that was any thing to signify cheaper than in the stores -at Tarry-town. I told the girls that I now believed what the man said in -the newspapers, that people in the city all live by cheating one -another. One would think that as they live at head-quarters, some of -them could now and then pick up things for little or nothing and sell -them at half-price, but it seems they are all leagued together to get -whatever they can. We went from one end of a street to the other, and -every place they had pretty much the same goods, and asked the same -prices, unless it was here and there where they put up every thing -monstrously high, just to come down little by little on being jewed, and -then they never got lower than their next door neighbors. I was talking -about it to one of the boarders at the hotel, old Mrs. Scrooge, a very -sharp, sensible woman—some of you ladies know her, I dare say. She let -me into a secret about shopping, that is well worth knowing. She says it -is bad policy for people to go shopping with their best bib and tucker -on, for if they look as if they are well off in the world, it’s a sure -way to be taken advantage of, and that when she starts off among the -stores, she always puts on a calico gown and a black straw bonnet which -she keeps for that and for funerals.” - -“And does her plan work well?” asked one of the ladies, at length -breaking in upon the monologue. - -“Just wait, I am coming to it. She says that she had three nieces that -came to the city to buy finery. They were very dressy women, and they -wished to lay in a good supply. She told them her plan, but they hooted -the thoughts of going into the street looking common, so they fixed -themselves up, and went in their carriage, having made up their minds -not to purchase at once, but to go every where first and get samples. -Well, Mrs. Scrooge offered to assist them in gathering samples, but not -a foot would she set in their carriage, but puts on her old things, and -goes out after them, and sometimes into the very places where they were. -When they all got back and compared samples, she showed the others that -she could get many of the self-same things six or eight per cent. lower -than they could. She says that she has crowed over them ever since. I’m -sure I’m much obliged to her for giving me the hint, and I don’t think -any one will catch me shopping again with a silk dress on, and a -four-dollar collar, and a gold watch at my side. I shall wear my old -winter bonnet that I traveled in, and my faded mousseline de laine -dress, and then they’ll have to put their goods down to suit my -appearance. The girls say if I do I may go alone, for they have no -notion to look common, and while they are in the city they mean to put -the best foot foremost. Easter Ann says we should always stand upon our -dignity—she’s very dignified herself. As to Jane Louyza, she says it -looks mean and matter-of-fact to be always counting the cost, and that -if I’d let her, she would take every thing without asking the price, -particularly when she is waited on by some of the spruce, handsome, -fashionable young gentlemen that cut such a dash, showing off the goods -to ladies. But they’ll learn better when they get older; indeed, Easter -Ann is old enough now—she’s no chicken, though she don’t like me to -tell her so, and I shouldn’t wonder if they’d learn to look after the -main chance as well as their mother before them. If I hadn’t been -uncommon keen in money matters their poor father wouldn’t have died -worth his twenty thousand cash, beside farms and stock, leaving them to -sit up like ladies, with their hands in their laps.” - -Miss Jane Louisa was sitting close by, engaged in what she called a -“desperate flirtation” with two astonished-looking young men, the only -beaux in the room, whom she seemed determined to monopolize, one of them -being my brother-in-law, George Allanby, a youth of eighteen. She -discussed love and matrimony with much languishment of manner, and -novelty of pronunciation, and criticised her favorite novels after the -following fashion: - -“Ain’t the ‘Bride of the Brier-field’ beautiful? Don’t tell me you have -not read it!—dear me!—I was perfectly on thorns till I got it. -Araminta is so sweet, I almost cried my eyes out when she died. Of -course you’ve read the ‘Pirate of Point Peepin?’ Oh, how I do hate him! -I declare I never see black whiskers on any of the gentlemen in the -street that I a’n’t ready to scream, they put me so much in mind of Don -Hildebrando.” - -Intent upon conquest as she was, the loud accents of her mother -sometimes disturbed the tenor of her softer themes, and she showed her -apprehension that the old lady’s discourse might not be in unison with -the general tone of the company, by occasionally interpolating, “Just -listen to maw!—did you ever know any one so old-fashioned;” or, “maw -will always talk so, but you city people will get used to her ways after -a while;” or, “maw is so independent, she always says whatever comes -into her head.” - -I thought it time to interpose between the loquacity of Mrs. Dilberry -and the politeness of her listeners, and placing myself beside her, I -made inquiries in a low voice about our friend in common, Mrs. Conolly. -But she was one of those people who are always best satisfied with a -numerous auditory; and punching the shoulder of Mrs. Aylmere, while she -pushed the knee of another lady, she re-commenced in a still higher key. - -“I believe I didn’t tell you ladies how I happened to be in such good -company. I brought a letter of introduction to Mrs. Allanby from one of -her most particular friends, and that makes me feel quite at home with -her, and almost as if she was a blood relation. You’ll really have to -come to Tarry-town, Mrs. Allanby, to pay a visit to Mrs. Conolly. I’m -sure you’ll never repent the expense of the journey, for she is settled -very comfortably, and will introduce you to nobody but the very top of -the town. Like my young people, she’s mighty particular about her -associates. She is changed a good deal though, for looks—more, I dare -say, than you have, Mrs. Allanby; but considering the wear and tear of -married life, and the way she has to expose herself, for help is scarce -in our section; not more so, perhaps, than might be expected, -particularly when she is fixed up—which, to be sure, might be oftener, -for she began to be careless in her dress almost as soon as she was -married, and, though she has four children running about—troublesome, -dirty little limbs, I can’t help saying—some of the wedding finery she -brought out with her is quite good yet. She is a good deal more -freckled, too, than she used to be, but that is no wonder, for I’ve seen -her, many a time, out in the broiling sun in the garden cutting lettuce, -without any thing on her head—she never was proud—except, indeed, a -black bobinet cap; they are very much worn with us, as they save washing -and are economical. And she has lost her two front teeth; no, I believe -it is a front and an eye-tooth, and that, you know, always makes people -look older. Her figure, though, looks genteeler than ever, for she is -not so fat. The doctor says she is getting as poor as Job’s turkey. Did -you never see the doctor, Mrs. Allanby? he is as thin as a weasel, -himself, but a mighty money-making little man. I did a great deal to get -him into business, and he now goes along swimmingly. He first bought the -house they live in, and last year he put up a new kitchen, and this -spring he bought a handsome sofa and marble-topped table for the -parlors. I shouldn’t wonder if in a year or two he’d build an office, -and have two parlors in his house, with folding-doors between them, as -that is getting to be the fashion in Tarry-town. Some of us are pretty -stylish.” - -My friends, at length, began to withdraw, and I was at last left alone -with the Dilberrys. The three repeaters struck eleven, and their -mistresses exchanged whispers, and said something about getting back to -their hotel. - -“You rode, I presume?” said I. - -“Not we, indeed,” returned Mrs. Dilberry; “I had enough of your -hack-riding this morning. We did not know how to find the way here, so -the landlord told us we had better take one of the hacks near the door. -Well, we tried it, and, after we got back, though we hadn’t once got -out, except to look at some balzarines and lawns at two or three stores, -the impudent black fellow had the face to charge us a dollar. This -evening we knew that we could find the place well enough, and we started -as soon as we saw the gas lighted in some of the shops, for we had to -stop by the way to buy me a cap—the girls having got a notion into -their heads, I suppose from their novels, that things intended for -evening dress ought always to be bought by candle-light. After trouble -enough I found a cap—this I have on; and was asked a pretty price, two -dollars, only I jewed the woman down to one and three-quarters. When we -came to your street we took the omnibus, and were let out down here at -the corner. We thought, that as you had invited young ladies, you would -of course provide beaux to gallant them home.” - -“I can’t say,” observed Miss Esther Ann, waving her neck with much -dignity, “that it was exactly treating strangers with politeness, in -Miss Duncan and Miss Edwards to walk off with the only two beaux, and -leave us without any.” - -“The young gentlemen escorted them here,” said I, “and according to -custom were privileged to see them home. If I had known however, ladies, -that you were unprovided with an escort, I should have requested my -brother-in-law to return for you. But I will see what can be done. I -have no carriage to offer you, my husband having taken our little -turn-out to the country.” - -I went out to direct my man-servant to attend them, but was reminded -that I had given him permission to go to his family, in which there was -sickness, after the refreshments had been served. There was nothing now -to be done but to ask my guests to remain over night. I did so, and the -invitation was accepted with a hale-fellow-well-met jocularity quite -uncalled for. - -Dinner, the next day, found me still playing the hostess to my -Tarry-town party, whose cool at-homeness seemed ominous of a still more -protracted visit. After we had left the table, George Allanby, -unsuspicious of my being so occupied, called in. He was saluted with a -bantering familiarity by the old lady, and with the most frigid reserve -by her daughters. Miss Jane Louisa walked to the front windows, upon -which she drummed perseveringly with her fingers, while her sister -slowly paced the floor with measured steps, her head elevated, and her -nostrils turned up as if they were snuffing the ceiling. Mrs. Dilberry -exchanged glances with them, and then addressed herself to my -brother-in-law: - -“I suppose, Mr. Allanby,” said she, “you are very much taken by surprise -to see us still spunging on your sister-in-law, but I must make free to -tell you there’s nobody to be blamed for it but yourself. I can’t say I -would give you city young men the choice over our country beaux for good -manners, for you took yourselves off last night, and left us three -ladies in the lurch, without a single soul to see us safe back to our -tavern. I told the girls I’d speak my mind about it. I’m one of that -kind that make no bones about speaking what they think, and then it’s -all over with me.” - -I hastened to interpose with an explanation to the disturbed-looking -youth, who seemed quite unconscious of the nature of his offence, but -the old lady interrupted me by continuing— - -“Mrs. Allanby has done her best to make us comfortable, and, indeed, I -think myself in such good quarters, that, for my own part, I don’t feel -in any hurry to get away, but the girls have been in the dumps ever -since. Jane Louyza, as you may see, is on a pretty high horse, and -Easter Ann is sky-high, as she always is when she thinks she should -stand on her dignity,” and she nodded and winked toward them. - -“I exceedingly regret if I have failed in proper politeness,” said -George. “I am ready to offer a thousand apologies, or any _amendé_ you -may suggest.” - -“Well, now, that’s getting out of the scrape handsomely, after all,” -returned Mrs. Dilberry. “I knew from the way you and Jane Louyza got -along last night that you could easily make it up, and would soon be as -thick as two pick-pockets. Here, Jane Louyza, Mr. Allanby is ready to -shake hands and be friends, and he says he is willing to make any amends -you please for being impolite;” and as Miss Jane Louisa approached, -simpering and holding out her large, red hand, her mother added: “There, -now, you have him in your power. You know you always said you would jump -out of your skin to see an opera, and now’s your time. I dare say he -would think he was getting off very well to take you there to-night.” - -“Certainly, ma’am,” said poor George, coloring and stammering with the -embarrassment common to his years, and turning to the daughters, he -blundered on—“I shall be happy if Miss Jane Ann—that is, if both the -young ladies will honor me with their company.” - -“With the greatest of pleasure,” curtseyed the ecstatic Jane Louisa. - -“The favor is to us,” rejoined the dignified Esther Ann. - -“You are not to trick me that way, you young people,” exclaimed Mrs. -Dilberry. “I should like to go to the theatre as well as any of you, and -if you a’n’t civil enough to invite me, I’ll go whether or no. Let’s all -go, Mrs. Allanby, and have a jolly time of it. You and I can beau each -other.” - -I excused myself with rather more energy than was necessary. - -“Well, I mean to go, anyhow,” resumed the old lady, “though, of course, -I’ll pay my own way. It would be imposing upon Mr. Allanby to make him -go to the expense of paying for so many of us.” - -“Not at all, ma’am,” said George, looking still redder and more -frightened, “where shall I call for you?” - -There was a pause, but as I had not the grace to break it by answering -“here,” Miss Esther Ann had to reply— - -“We stop at the W—— Hotel,” and the conscripted squire of dames made a -precipitate retreat. - -“We’ll have to go back to the hotel, maw, at once,” said Miss Jane -Louisa, “for you know ladies must always go to the opera in full-dress. -I’ll have to press out my book-muslin dress, and take the wreath off my -bonnet to wear on my head, and Easter Ann must fix something to put on.” - -“That will be quite unnecessary,” said I, anticipating all sorts of -mortifications for my inexperienced brother-in-law, “you may have seats -where you will be able to see and hear every thing, without being so -conspicuous as to make any material change in your dress necessary. -Strangers, who neither know any one nor are known themselves, generally -prefer being unobserved, and saving themselves the trouble of much -dressing. You will all do very well just as you are.” - -“What do you say, girls,” said Mrs. Dilberry; “that might do well enough -for you and me, Mrs. Allanby,” giving me a wink, “but I don’t know how -these two would like to hide their light under a bushel. Girls like to -give the beaux a chance to look at them wherever they can, and I must -say it’s natural enough. As to the trouble of dressing, why we’ve got -nothing else to do here, and people that have the wherewith may as well -put it on their backs.” - -The young ladies did not give their sentiments, but exchanged glances -and whispered together, and Miss Esther Ann formally proposed going up -for their bonnets. Reiterating their hopes of being able to catch an -omnibus, to save them the fatigue of a long, warm walk, they took leave, -not forgetting to volunteer abundant assurances that they would call -every day and make themselves quite at home with me. - -As soon as they were gone I wrote a note to George, instilling a little -worldly wisdom by means of advising him to go late to the theatre, when -the front seats would be filled, and to place his companions where they -would attract as little notice as possible. - -The next morning whilst I was at breakfast, the young man came in. - -“Well, George, how did the opera come off?” asked I. - -“You mean the by-play, in which I was concerned,” said he, passing his -hand over his face. “Don’t talk to me about chivalry toward all -woman-kind again! But I’ll let you have it from the beginning. In the -first place, I took your advice, and went to the W—— Hotel rather -late. I was shown into what, I presume, was the ladies’ saloon, for -there were a couple of dozens of female faces, of all sorts, turned -toward me, as if I were something anxiously expected, and very queer -when I had come. I understood it all in a minute, though, for right in -the middle of the room, parading between two tall glasses, in which they -could see themselves back and front, were the Dilberrys, the objects of -all the nodding and tittering I had observed before I came in for my -share of attention. The old lady espied me first, and puffing out, loud -enough to be heard all over the room, ‘here he comes girls—here comes -our beau at last,’ she ran forward as if she were going to seize hold of -me, the other two following with their arms, grace-like, twined about -each other. ‘La, Mr. Allanby, you have served us a pretty trick—keeping -us waiting so long!’ exclaimed Miss Esther Ann, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if -we were not to get seats at all.’ ‘I’m ready to pout at you, I wanted so -to see every body come in,’ said the other. ‘We were almost ready to -give you up, and had all these ladies comforting us,’ said Mrs. -Dilberry; ‘here we’ve been, dressed from top to toe, for an hour or -more, Jane Louyza walking and standing about, in broad daylight, with -her arms and neck bare, for fear we shouldn’t be ready in time, for we -thought that as you had made up your mind to lay out your money, you’d -like us to get as much for it as possible.’ I escorted them to the -carriage, assuring them they would be in time enough.” - -“But what about their dress, George?” said I. - -“You know I never can make any thing out of describing a lady’s dress. -Mrs. Dilberry looked very choked-up, and melting and greasy, and had on -that abominable frizzly cap that struck us all so last night; and Miss -Esther Ann had on a white frock with old dark kid-gloves, and three -brown cockades stuck on top of her head that made her look full six feet -high; but Jane Louyza, as they call her, was the beauty! Her dress was -one of those stiff, thin ones, that stand out like hogsheads, and are -nearly as hard to bend. Such a crushing and pushing as there was to get -it into the carriage, and down between the seats! Her neck was—I can’t -tell you how bare, and her arms and hands ditto, only that on the latter -she had little tight mitts, that looked like the skin tatooed. She had a -wreath of artificial blue and purple roses on her head, and a quantity -of ribbon flying in tags from each shoulder and from her back and front. -But such arms and neck—so red and beefy!” - -“And where did you get seats?” - -“In one of the side boxes, three benches back—the very place I could -have wished—but, as my luck would have it, a lady in the front row took -sick, and her party left the theatre with her. Before I could have -thought of such a thing, my fair charges pushed forward into the three -vacant places, beckoning me to follow, and calling me by name loudly -enough to be heard half over the house. Of course it drew all the eyes -in the neighborhood upon them, and I observed that the Hallowells, and -the Sewards, and the Wilkinses were in the next box; Joe Nicols was with -them, and had the impudence to lean over and ask me, ‘Who the mischief -have you here, George? country cousins, hey?’—and there they sat -chattering and laughing at full voice, evidently greatly flattered by -being so much stared at.” - -“But of course, you had a respite when the opera commenced?” - -“Just wait—as the old lady says. The curtain rose in a few minutes, and -then each of them had to turn to me for explanations. ‘Dear me! is that -one of your brag singers, the great Mrs. S——!’ said Miss Esther Ann, -‘how affected she is! Did you ever see any body roll her eyes so!’ ‘And -what a mouth she has!’ said Jane Louisa, ‘you could almost jump down her -throat! I don’t see any sense in such singing—Sarah Tibbets in our -choir can go far ahead of that!’ ‘And how scandalous it is for a married -woman to be looking up that way in a young man’s face,’ put in the old -lady, ‘she surely must be painted up, such a color never was natural, -and what loads of extravagant finery! I wonder what all her spangles -cost?’ - -“At length there was a hiss beneath the box, and I directed their -attention to it, informing them that it was meant to command silence, it -being contrary to custom to talk during the performance. Mrs. Dilberry -rolled up her eyes, and put her tongue into her cheek by way of being -humorous, Miss Esther Ann screwed her shoulders and answered me -huffishly that she supposed they should know how to behave, and Jane -Louisa giggled, and kept her handkerchief to her mouth, every few -moments looking back at me, as if it were an excellent joke. - -“When the first act was over, a gentleman who sat between them and me, -and who must have been exceedingly annoyed by their constantly leaning -past him, proposed that I should exchange seats with him, which I could -not refuse, though it made matters worse for me. ‘Why don’t you admire -my bouquet, Mr. Allanby?’ said Jane Louisa, poking in my face a great -clumsy bunch of larkspurs, ragged-robins, mallows, and those coarse, -yellow lilies that shut up at night, garnished by a foliage of -asparagus, ‘I was in despair about a bouquet for my evening-dress, when, -luckily, I came across this when we walked through the market-house on -our way from your sister’s. I do doat on bouquets.’ ‘Now do stop talking -about that borquay,’ interrupted the old lady, ‘after such nonsensical -extravagance as throwing away money for it. Why at home we could get a -wheelbarrow full of such trash out of any body’s garden for nothing. But -it seems to me you city people would be for making money out of the very -dirt in the gutters.’ ‘La, maw, they only cost a six-pence, but you are -so matter-of-fact, you don’t love flowers; we do, though, don’t we, Mr. -Allanby?’ said Miss Jane Louisa. - -“‘If you had told Mr. Allanby you wanted a bouquet,’ observed Esther -Ann, ‘I dare say he would have brought you one, for we’ve heard that -city gentlemen make it a point to give bouquets to ladies they wish to -be polite to, and don’t mind how much they have to pay for them.’ - -“When the curtain rose again, the eye of Jane Louisa was caught by one -of the understrappers, a tall fellow with a huge false _moustache_. ‘Who -is that splendid looking young man!’ exclaimed she—not one of them -having discernment enough to make out a single performer or character -from the bill and the play; ‘isn’t he beautiful! I’m quite in love with -him, I declare; why don’t they applaud him, Mr. Allanby? he’s so -elegant!’ and greatly to my relief, she was so much taken up in looking -at her new hero, and in watching for his appearance, that she withdrew -her attention from me. - -“At length, toward the finale, when S—— excelled himself in one of his -master-pieces, two or three bouquets were thrown upon the stage at his -feet. ‘What was that for?—why are they throwing their flowers away?’ -asked Miss Esther Ann. I explained that it was an expression of -admiration. ‘Dear me!’ said Jane Louisa, ‘I’d be very sorry to pay such -a compliment to such an ugly fellow—he’s not fit to hold a candle to my -favorite.’ The favorite immediately made his appearance in a chorus, and -took his place not far from the box in which we sat. Just as he opened -his capacious mouth, Jane Louisa, with the confidence of a boy throwing -stones, pitched her bouquet at him. The great clumsy thing came down -_flop_ against his face, breaking his _moustache_ from its moorings, and -sweeping it to the floor. The galleries clapped, the pit hissed, one or -two of the minor actors laughed, and it was some moments before the -singing could go on. I felt, as you ladies say, like sinking through the -floor; and I believe I did crouch as low as possible among the people -around me. How I got back to the hotel with my tormentors I can’t tell, -for it appears like a vexatious dream. I remember, however, that, while -they were going up the steps, one of them said I should tell you they -would call this morning to get you to go the rounds of the dressmakers -with them.” - -This was a duty for which I had no inclination, and I concluded to -dispose of myself by spending the day with a friend, knowing, from the -specimens I had had of the familiarity of my new acquaintances, that the -mere excuse of “very much engaged,” delivered by a domestic, would be -insufficient to protect me from their society. Accordingly I went out as -soon as possible after breakfast, and did not return until evening. As I -had anticipated, the “country ladies,” as the servants called them, had -inquired for me morning and afternoon, and had left a message purporting -that they would come again next day. - -The following morning I had some business which called me from home -several hours. When I returned to dinner, I was surprised to find the -entry lumbered full of furniture, evidently from an auction—a dozen of -chairs, of the kind “made to sell,” very loose-jointed, and with flabby -seats of thin haircloth; a sofa to match; a centre-table, with its top, -as large as a mill-wheel, turned up against the wall, and a piano, which -must have had some pretensions fifteen or twenty years back, being much -ornamented with tarnished brass or gilding, and supporting five or six -disabled pedals. - -“What is the meaning of this?” I exclaimed, to the servant who let me -in; “where did all these articles come from?” - -“Didn’t you send them, ma’am?” - -“I!—what in the world should I want with such things?” - -“So we thought, ma’am; but they came in two furniture carriages, and the -man said the lady told him to bring them here—they had our number on a -card.” - -“It is a stupid mistake—I know nothing about it; and upon my word, they -have broken the walls in several places, bringing their lumber in.” - -“And that’s not all, ma’am—they threw over the hat-rack, turning up -that monstrous table, and knocked out two of the pins, beside breaking -the little looking-glass.” - -And so they had; but there was nothing else to be done than to wait -patiently until the real proprietor appeared. - -I had just finished my dinner when I heard a bustle in the hall, and -hastened out, presuming that I was to be rid of my unwelcome storage, -and desirous to superintend its removal. Who should I find but Mrs. -Dilberry and her daughters. Miss Jane Louisa had already the lid of the -piano thrown up, while her sister was trying the chairs, and the old -lady sitting, or rather bouncing herself up and down on the sofa. - -“Oh, Mrs. Allanby, we’ve had the best luck this morning!” they all cried -at once; “do tell us what you think of our bargains!” - -“Stop, girls, and let me talk;” said Mrs. Dilberry, peremptorily. “Well, -to begin at the beginning, Mrs. Allanby, we had laid out to buy two or -three pieces of furniture, to set off our parlors—a pyanna, for -one—ours, that the girls learnt on, that is Jane Louyza, being rather -old-timey—(it was left to me by my Aunt Easter, in her will;) so Mrs. -Scrooge, at the tavern—an uncommon sharp, sensible woman—told us we -would be fools to pay shop prices for things when we could get them at -auction, almost as good, for little or nothing. Well, this morning she -hunted up a sale for us, and took us to it, and we’ve had all these -things knocked off to us for—now could you guess what, Mrs. -Allanby?—upon my word, for what we had made up our minds to pay for a -pyanna! and the best of it is, the chairs and sofa are new, spick and -span. The auctioneer said that not a soul had ever sat on them before. -They didn’t belong to the furniture of the house at all, but to himself, -and he had just brought them there to sell, for his own convenience. But -the pyanna—just think of it!—I may as well tell you what it cost, Mrs. -Allanby, though it would never do to let it be known in Tarry-town;” and -she added in a whisper, “only sixty-one dollars!” - -“Do try it, Mrs. Allanby,” said Jane Louisa; “some of the strings are -broken, to be sure, and the pedals don’t seem to work, but when it is -fixed up, it will be delightful.” - -I agreed that it must have been a fine affair in its day. - -“And the centre-table,” rejoined Esther Ann, “think of such a -centre-table selling for fifteen dollars—pure mahogany! when it is -varnished, and has a new castor, one being broken, it will be -beautiful—or even if it were just rubbed up with oil and turpentine; -indeed, for my part, I prefer second-hand furniture to new—it looks -more respectable, as if we had it some time. Our old furniture at home -I’m very proud of—no one that sees it can call us upstarts.” - -“Yes,” added Mrs. Dilberry, “there’s the pyanna, and the book-case, and -the pair of card-tables—” - -“Don’t say upstarts, sister;” said Jane Louisa, hurrying to drown her -mother’s voice; “I’m sure you know it is the fashion to call them -_parvenues_!” - -“Upon my word,” resumed the old lady, still see-sawing up and down on -the sofa, to enjoy its springs, “it will make talk enough in Tarry-town, -when we get home with such lots of stylish things; they’ll call us -prouder than ever; but when people can be grand for quarter price, -they’d be gumpies to let the chance slip through their fingers.” - -Still the point that most concerned me, why they had been deposited in -my charge, had not yet been broached, and I ventured to hint at it. - -“Sure enough, we forgot to mention it;” said Mrs. Dilberry; “we could -not take the things to the hotel, you know, so we told the men they -might as well bring them here. I suppose they might be removed into the -parlors at once.” - -I remarked that my parlors were already as full of furniture as was -desirable, and that their best plan would have been to have had them -removed—at once to some cabinet-makers shop to be repaired, and boxed -for transportation. - -“That was what Mrs. Scrooge thought,” returned Mrs. Dilberry, “but we -went to two or three shops and found they charged such different prices, -that I made up my mind to wait, and go round to a dozen at least, till I -could find out where the best bargain was to be made. So you may as well -put them among your own things and have the credit of them till I can -look about a little.” - -I had no resource now but to send the chairs to the third story, the -table to the dining-room, and to leave the sofa and piano where they -stood. Whilst her possessions were being moved by the servants, Mrs. -Dilberry ran about the house giving orders as if quite at home. - -“Now I must tell you about our tower among the mantua-makers,” said she, -at length settling herself in the drawing-room, and mopping her face -with her handkerchief, after her exercise; “but, girls, why don’t you -follow my example and take your bonnets off? Don’t wait to be -coaxed—Mrs. Allanby don’t expect you to make strangers of yourselves -with her; as we’ve come to spend the afternoon, we may as well be -comfortable first as last. But where was I about the mantua-makers? Oh, -I believe I hadn’t began. Well, a lady at the tavern gave us the names -of three of them, written on a card, with directions where they were to -be found. So we got into an omnibus, in front of the hotel, and were let -out at the corner next to the place that was nearest. We soon found the -house—as I’m alive, a large three-story brick, with marble steps, and -nothing like a sign about it. But the name was on the door-plate, and we -rang the bell. A black boy took us into the parlors, and what should we -see but Brussels carpets, and looking-glasses as tall as yours, and -spring-seated chairs, and a pyanna, and every thing as fine as you -please. ‘Mercy on us, maw,’ says Jane Louyza, ‘there’s nothing looks -like a mantua-maker’s here!’ I thought so myself, and told the girls we -had better slip out before any body came; but Easter Ann would not hear -to it—she said it would look undignified, and, says she, ‘If we are -mistaken, maw, let me make the apology.’ - -“In a few minutes a lady steps in, dressed in a handsome black silk -wrapper, with a watch at her side, looking as stiff as a poker. ‘We were -told that we would find Mrs. N——, the mantua-maker, here, ma’am,’ says -I. - -“‘I am Mrs. N——,’ says she, stiffer, if any thing, than before. - -“‘We have three dresses to make, ma’am,’ says Easter Ann; ‘perhaps it -wouldn’t be convenient for you to undertake them?’ - -“‘I am always prepared to do any amount of work,’ says she. - -“‘What may be your charges, ma’am?’ says I. - -“‘That depends upon the material, and the style in which it is to be -made,’ says she. - -“‘One is a silk, and the other two are balzarines,’ says I. - -“‘And we want them made fashionably,’ put in Jane Louyza. - -“‘I make every thing fashionably,’ says she, as high as if she was the -president’s lady. - -“We had our bundles with us, and we opened them, and though our dresses -are beautiful, considering how cheap we got them, she looked at them -without saying a word, and didn’t even deign to take them in her hands. -‘I want mine made quite plain,’ says I; ‘but my daughters will expect to -have theirs flounced off to the top of the mode—mine’s the silk one. -But we’ll have to settle first what you’ll take to do the job—it’s a -large one, remember, ma’am—three dresses—and it will be nothing but -fair that you should make allowance for that.’ - -“‘I never make abatement,’ says she; ‘my charge is three dollars for a -plain silk dress, and four for such as the others, if full trimmed.’ - -“Eleven dollars for making three dresses—just think of it! the girls -looked dumb-foundered, and so was I; but being in the scrape, we had to -get out of it the best way we could. ‘Very well, ma’am,’ says I, making -up our bundles again, and looking unconcerned, ‘we’ll call again when we -get the trimmings.’ - -“‘As you please,’ says she, more like Queen Victoria than a -mantua-maker; and we walked out in double-quick time, my lady never -condescending to step to the door. ‘She may call us fools if she ever -catches us again,’ says I to the girls. - -“Well, we went on to the next. The house looked pretty fine, too, this -time; but under the name on the door was another plate with -‘_Fashionable Dress-making_’ on it, and we thought it didn’t look quite -so stuck up. A girl let us in, and we didn’t find the parlors quite so -grand, though they were stylish enough, dear knows. This was Mrs. -B——’s. She was down stairs herself, waiting for customers, we -supposed, which looked as if she was not above her business, and she had -a table beside her covered all over with fashion-plates and magazines, -like yours, on the centre-table. She was a little, sharp-eyed, -fidgetty-looking woman, with a very pointy nose. She sent away a girl -she was fixing a sleeve for, and came forward to meet us, and gave us -seats, and seemed very sociable. - -“‘We have some dresses to be made, ma’am,’ says I; ‘here’s three in our -hands, and it’s likely we may have some more if we can make a good -bargain about these.’ I thought it best to hold out a large inducement -to her. - -“‘And I suppose you will want the three without delay?’ said she, -talking very glib; ‘dear me, how unfortunate just at this time! I have -so much work on hand already. I keep twenty-two hands working night as -well as day, and I don’t see how I possibly can get through all that I -have taken in. But, really, I should like to oblige you three ladies—I -always do all in my power to accommodate strangers—you are from the -country, I presume?’ - -“‘From Tarry-town,’ says Easter Ann. - -“‘Ah, indeed! I am very glad to have customers from Tarry-town; I have -made dresses to be sent there several times.’ We could not help looking -at each other, for we had known every dress in Tarry-town for years, and -not one of them had ever touched her hands. ‘I make dresses for ladies -in all parts of the country,’ she kept on; ‘my establishment is very -popular with strangers, because it is known that I make it a point to -accommodate them even at the risk of making sacrifices among my city -customers. Of course, you ought to have your dresses in two or three -days, and I’ll try what can be done. The silk is for you, ma’am, I -perceive,’ and she tore open the bundles; ‘very appropriate, indeed, for -an elderly lady, and the balzarines will make up quite dressy for your -daughters. Look at the plates, ladies—this will suit you, ma’am, quite -plain, but very genteel; the sleeve is particularly proper for a stout -lady; and you, ma’am,’ to Easter Ann, ‘would look best in this, with -flounces pretty high up, as you are tall and not fleshy. You, miss,’ to -Jane Louyza, ‘ought to have front trimming, as you are rather low;’ and -she actually slipped a tape measure round my waist. I was on thorns, for -she hadn’t given us a word of satisfaction about her prices, and I told -her we hadn’t made up our minds yet how we would have them made, ‘and, -beside,’ says I, ‘we must first know what they are to cost.’ - -“‘Certainly, ma’am, that’s all very reasonable,’ says she; ‘and I know -you wont find fault with my charges—I can perceive at a glance that you -are a lady of property; are you certain that you have enough of the -material?—ladies of your size require a very full skirt;’ and before I -could have said ‘no,’ she had actually gathered up my silk and clipped a -nick in it for a breadth of the skirt. - -“‘I don’t think, ma’am, we have time to wait for the dresses to be cut -out,’ says I, ‘we haven’t, neither, got the linings nor the sewing-silk, -nor the other trimmings.’ - -“‘It will take me but a few minutes,’ says she, making another nick in -the silk, ‘for I cut by a patent measure; and I always find the -trimmings myself—I can then have them to suit me, and, you know, it all -amounts to the same thing in the end;’ and she snatched up a piece of -Holland from the table, and began measuring off a pair of backs. ‘Stop, -if you please, ma’am,’ says I, ‘we’ve made no bargain yet, and it’s -nothing but what I have a right to expect, to know what you are to -charge me.’ - -“‘It will be difficult to tell,’ says she, ‘before the dresses are -finished—it is not our custom to settle the prices until we have seen -how the work is done.’ - -“‘But, ma’am,’ says I, ‘I insist upon a rough guess.’ - -“‘Then let me see,’ says she, ‘supposing we say something like five or -six dollars each, trimmings included, for the young ladies’ dresses, and -four for yours.’ - -“‘Why, bless my soul!’ says I, ‘I could get cord, and hooks and eyes, -and sewing-silk, and linings enough for all three, for a dollar; and as -to paying five or six dollars for making a dress, I’ll never do it in -the world; it’s outrageous—it’s an imposition,’ and I snatched my silk -out of her hands in short order. - -“‘It’s too late, now,’ says she, pert enough, ‘to talk about that, as -soon as the scissors are put in the work, it is considered as taken in.’ - -“‘It’s we that are taken in, or we came pretty near it,’ says I; and I -bundled the silk under my arm, and the girls took up their balzarines; -but such a tongue-lashing as we got, I never heard the like of it in my -life before; and you may be sure I didn’t take it all quietly—I’m not -very mealy-mouthed; and if it hadn’t been for Easter Ann telling me loud -enough for her to hear, ‘Come along, maw, it’s not dignified to be -disputing with a mantua-maker,’ she’d likely have got the worst of it. - -“The girls were so put out that they didn’t want to try any more; but -I’m not one to be brow-beat; I had got my spirit up, and I made them go -on to the next. When we came to the house, there stood two splendid -carriages, with black fellows about them that had gold bands on their -hats, and velvet on their coats, and what not. ‘Don’t let’s go in,’ says -Jane Louyza; ‘I dare say the house is full of customers already;’ and -just then another coach and pair drives up, and two or three girls, -dressed to death, jumps out, and orders their niggers to bring in their -parcels—a whole carriage load, pretty near—so, thinks I, there’s not -much encouragement for us to go in there, sure enough. We came away, and -there hasn’t been a stitch put in our dresses yet.” - -I gave my visiters a very early tea, and having no excuse for billeting -themselves on me for another night, they made their departure before -dark. They did not, however, forget to invite themselves for the -following day. - -The next morning, greatly to my relief, proved to be very rainy, and -feeling secure from the premeditated inroad, I seated myself cosily at -my sewing. But, alas! a vehicle stopping at the door drew me to the -front windows. I had some expectation of my husband’s return, and -instead of his carriage was a hackney-coach, which had already -discharged its living cargo, and from which two large hair-trunks were -unloading; at the same time the bell-wire cracked to the point of doom, -and the Dilberrys rushed in. - -“Here we come, bag and baggage, Mrs. Allanby, to make our home with -you,” cried the old lady, “we have had a grand blow up at the hotel, and -I’m determined, as long as I live, to keep exposing your city landlords -for taking advantage of unprotected females.” - -“I hope nothing very unpleasant has happened?” said I, my heart sinking -at the prospect before me. - -“I wonder if there hasn’t! What do you think, Mrs. Allanby, of our being -charged twelve dollars a piece for six days’ board?” - -“That, I believe, is the regular charge,” said I. - -“Well, they’re not coming their regular charges over me again, I can -tell them. Last night we were talking our bargains over in bed, and we -made up our minds that as we could get things so low at auction, we -might as well keep on till we had furniture enough for the spare -bed-room, as well as for the parlors—people in Tarry-town expect -something a little extra from us. We calculated how far our money would -go, and it struck us that we had never found out what we were living up -to at the hotel. So the next morning I told the waiter to bring us our -bill, and what should it be but thirty-six dollars—two dollars a piece -a day, and no allowance for the four meals we had eaten with you, and -the night we had slept here. I sent for the landlord, and spoke my mind -about the bill pretty plainly, letting him know that charging us for -what we had not got was down-right imposition; and I told him he seemed -to suppose we had no friends to see us righted, but that he was -mistaken, for we had brought a letter of introduction to Mrs. Allanby, -and her husband would soon be at home to speak up for us. He cut me -short by telling me that he made no deductions, and that as long as we -hadn’t given up our rooms we must expect to pay as their occupants; and -he walked off as cool as a cucumber. So I sent out for a hack, knowing -you would be glad to have us with you for company, as Mr. Allanby is not -at home, particularly as you have house-room plenty, and servants enough -to wait on your friends. Six dollars a-day, indeed! why we didn’t cost -him one!” - -“We are all very small eaters, as you may have observed, Mrs. Allanby,” -said Jane Louisa. - -“And though they gave us two chambers with a door between them, we all -slept in one of them,” rejoined Esther Ann. - -The visitation now began to have a serious aspect, but what was to be -done? I could not, with truth, make any excuse to get rid of my -obtrusive guests, except that of my want of inclination to entertain -them, and to hint at that would have required more philosophy than I -could command. My only hope now was in the speedy return of Mr. Allanby, -on whose resolution or ingenuity I knew I might rely. - -This was Saturday, and the weather remaining inclement, I had to endure -for the rest of the day, and the whole of the next, the uninterrupted -flow of their loquacity, which was a continuous exposition of ignorance, -vulgarity, selfishness and meanness. On Monday morning the old lady, -after some whispering and winking with her daughters, assailed me with, - -“We told you, Mrs. Allanby, what a pucker we were in about getting our -dresses made. Before we left the tavern, we went to Mrs. Scrooge’s -room—the old lady, you remember, that took us to the auction; and she -let us know how we might snap our fingers at the mantua-makers. She said -there were women that go out sewing by the day, and that by hiring one -of them, and helping along with the easy parts ourselves, we might have -our dresses made for little or nothing. At the hotel we couldn’t have -done it, for paying board for a seamstress would have been but a poor -speculation; but now that we are in a private family visiting, there -would be some sense in it. I dare say she could sit in one of our -sleeping-rooms, and the little one woman would eat couldn’t be of much -consequence to you.” - -“I do not know where such a person could be found,” said I. - -“Oh, that is all settled already. Mrs. Scrooge is to call for us to go -to a second-hand furniture store this morning, and she promised that she -would take us to a seamstress that goes out for thirty-one cents a-day.” - -Again I succumbed to my inability to say “no.” Mrs. Scrooge did call—a -vinegar-faced old lady, with a voice sharp enough to have given one an -ear-ache; and I learned that the seamstress was engaged, though she -could not come until the latter end of the week. The next day Mrs. -Scrooge came again, and my trio departed to a second auction. The result -of this expedition was another load of furniture, driven up to the door -in the middle of the day. The first article discharged was a sideboard, -capacious enough, almost, to serve as a pantry, with broken locks and an -impaired foot, which fell off in the difficult descent of the main body -from the wagon; then came a dressing-bureau, of scarcely smaller -dimensions, with defective knobs and a low, distorted glass; and, -lastly, a wash-stand, with a cracked marble slab. Mrs. Dilberry stood on -the front steps, superintending their passage into the house, and giving -orders at the top of her voice, when I ran out to protest against their -being carried up stairs, which she was directing—the broken wall of the -entry serving as a warning to me—and to propose their being stored in -the wash-house. Whilst I was endeavoring to make myself heard, my -husband, with a wondering countenance, presented himself before me. In -my joy I dragged him into the first room, and shut the door. - -“My dear Mary,” said he, “I was not right certain whether it was proper -for me to come into my own house—what is the meaning of this -commotion?” - -I gave him a hurried narration of my trials, at which he laughed -immoderately, as I thought, and at once he opened to me a prospect of -relief. “I have made arrangements with one of my friends,” said he, “to -send you on an excursion of several weeks among the mountains, to -matronize his daughters. The young ladies are now, I suppose, on their -way to meet you with carriage and servants, and, as soon as possible, -you must be off. I shall lose no time to make the announcement to your -visiters. As they have attached themselves to you merely for their own -convenience, there will be nothing unfair in getting rid of them for -ours.” - -In half an hour my guests were on flatteringly familiar terms with Mr. -Allanby, to whom they confessed that they had dreaded his return, as -they were afraid they could not feel so “free and easy” if there was a -gentleman in the house. “Now that we have seen you,” observed the old -lady, “we would rather have you here than not; you appear to suit us -exactly, and we will be all the better off for having some one to beau -us about.” - -I own I could not myself have had courage to lower them from such a -height of contentment, but my husband was less qualmish, and Mrs. -Dilberry soon afforded him a desirable opportunity to approach the -unexpected topic, by saying, “I suppose if you had known your wife had -found such good company to cheer her up, you’d have been in no hurry to -come back.” - -“At least,” returned Mr. Allanby, “I should not have made a positive -promise to send her from home as soon as her trunk could be packed.” He -explained the arrangements he had made, and with all proper courtesy -regretted that they should be peremptory. - -“And what do you say, Mrs. Allanby, to your husband taking so much upon -himself without leave or license from you?” asked the old lady, winking -at me. - -“That I always consider myself in duty bound to fulfill any engagement -he may make for me, whether agreeable or not,” replied I, taking -courage. - -“Indeed!” exclaimed both Mrs. Dilberry and Esther Ann, in a tone of -surprise and pique. - -“If I did not know how fastidious you ladies are upon such points,” -resumed Mr. Allanby, “I should beg you to share my bachelor -establishment with me. As it is I must be content to render myself as -useful to you as possible. If you commission me, I shall make exertions -to find a boarding-house where you can be accommodated as comfortably as -with us.” - -“You needn’t concern yourself,” said Mrs. Dilberry, tartly; “if I had -wanted to go to a boarding-house, I dare say I could have found one -where we could have lived a great deal cheaper than at any you would be -likely to pitch upon. I got enough of living on expense at the tavern, -and I’ve not made up my mind to pay boarding for the little pleasure -we’re likely to have. We’ve been to the theatre only once, and never -were taken any where else, and there seems to be but precious little -pains spent upon having attentions showed us. I’m one of them that -always speak their minds; and I must say I can’t see where the -politeness is in people, when they have company, running off and leaving -them in the lurch, particularly when they haven’t got their dresses made -or any thing. I shall be careful who I take a letter of introduction to -again.” - -The third day after this I was prepared to commence my trip, and my -guests having taken passage for their homeward journey, were to leave -the house at the same time, it having been decided that their furniture -was to be boxed and sent after them. They had comported themselves, in -the meantime, as if under a strong sense of injury, Miss Esther Ann -being frigid and lofty, her sister sullen, and the old lady snappish and -uncivil. The carriage was waiting for my conveyance, when the -stage-coach, well-loaded with passengers, drove up to the door for them. -I had wished them a safe and pleasant journey, offering them my hand, -which they pretended not to observe, and was standing on the door-step -to see them off, when Mrs. Dilberry paused, with one foot on the floor -of the coach, as my husband was assisting her to climb in, and winking -at her daughters, called back to me, “Good by to you, ma’am, and I hope -you may have a merrier time of your trip than we have had of ours. I’ll -not forget to give your love to the doctor’s wife, and let her know how -you honored her letter of introduction.” - -A chuckling laugh, which reached me in spite of the grinding of the -wheels as they rolled away, was the last I heard of my wind-fall from -Tarry-town. - - * * * * * - - - - - DIRGE, - - - The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.—_Coleridge’s Wallenstein._ - - Thou art gone! - We shall miss thee when the flowers - Come again with vernal hours, - Brightly though thy roses bloom, - They will whisper of the tomb! - And thy voice will linger still - In the gurgle of the rill, - In the murmurs, low and sweet, - Where the silver waters meet, - In the summer even’s gale, - Sporting with the violets pale. - Meekly will their blue eyes weep - O’er thy still and solemn sleep; - And the wild-bird’s gentle moan - Murmur o’er thy slumbers lone, - Like a viewless spirit’s lay, - Asking of thee Far Away! - Fare thee well! - - Thou art gone! - On thy brow, so pale and fair, - On thy dark and glossy hair, - Wreathed in many a shining braid, - Sad, autumnal flowers were laid. - Slowly to thy tomb they bore thee, - Tender farewells murmured o’er thee, - Veiled thee in its silence deep, - In thy last and dreamless sleep. - Where thou liest, soft and low, - Winter spreads his sheet of snow, - Pure and spotless as thy form. - Thou hearest not the surly storm - Sweeping o’er the dazzling wold; - Stars are gleaming, pale and cold, - On thee from the vault above, - Like the watchful eyes of Love. - Fare thee well! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FUGITIVE. - - - BY THE VISCOUNTESS D’AULNAY. - - - [Most of our readers are familiar with “Claire d’Albe,” the work - spoken of in the following pages, either in the original or as - translated, and will recollect the pleasure its perusal gave - them. Its author is better known in America, however, by one of - her subsequent works, which has been translated into almost - every written language, admired wherever it has been read, and - which has been justly ranked among the first productions in that - department of French literature to which it belongs. We refer to - that affecting story, over which so many tears have been shed, - “Elizabeth, Or The Exiles of Siberia.” In translating the - following account we have been obliged, from its great length, - to condense from the original—leaving out nothing, however, - which was essential to the interest of the story. It will be - recollected that the incidents of our tale took place in 1793, - when France was convulsed by political revolutions.] - -“Madam, this is beautifully written,” said an old nurse, looking up with -the familiarity of an ancient and privileged servant. - -The person thus addressed was a young woman, clothed in black, so small -and so frail, that at first sight, without doubt, one would have taken -her for a child. She was seated before a table of dark wood, drawn up in -front of a good fire, upon which burned two wax candles, shining upon a -heap of loose leaves, one of which she had just finished writing, and -was then reading. Laughing at the admiration of her nurse, she asked, - -“And do you, then, find it so beautiful?” - -“Do I find it beautiful?” replied Marianne; “never since the world began -have I read any thing so affecting. What an interesting creature that -Claire was! and what a pity that she died! Ah, her death grieved me -much; one might say that it frightened me; but that would not be -astonishing in such a great lonely room as this. I hate these great -rooms, I do;” added the nurse, looking cautiously around her, and gazing -with a look of affright at the window the most distant from where she -and her mistress were sitting. - -“Oh how the curtain moves! did you not leave the shutters badly closed, -madam?” - -“It was not I who shut them,” tranquilly replied Madam Cottin, for it -was of her old Marianne asked the question. - -“Not you?” cried Marianne, in a frightened voice. “Who then could have -shut them?” - -“You, most probably, Marianne.” - -“Me! I tell you, madam, I swear to you, as true as I am a good and -sincere Christian, I swear to you, upon my soul—” - -“Do not swear at all, Marianne; there is no one here but we two; if it -were not me, it could have been no one else but you, and it was not -me—” - -“I am not a fool, out of my senses!” replied the Bordelaise. “I believe, -rather,” she added in a solemn tone, “that there is some mystery behind -the curtain—” - -“We will admit that it was I who closed the shutters,” interrupted Madam -Cottin, impatiently again taking up the papers, and reading them. - -“But was it _really_ you?” importuned the nurse. - -“Why do you wish me to tell a lie? Shall I read you another page of my -romance?” - -“Oh yes, I love to hear you read,” replied the old woman. “But what are -you going to do with that romance, as you call it?” - -“Ah, Marianne, if I dared, if I did not fear the ridicule attached to -the name of a female author, I would have it published, and the money -that it would bring would ameliorate our condition. I would buy some -articles of furniture—a piano, for instance—lonely and sad as I now -am, music would charm my retreat.” - -“Ah yes, Sophie, buy a piano; that will enliven you a little—may I call -you Sophie?—for what else should I call you? It always seems as if I -saw you as you looked when you were a child. I see now the house at -Tonniens—the two steps you had to ascend on entering, then the little -green gate, opening upon a lawn; then the garden to the right; upon the -ground-floor was the kitchen, the dining-room and the parlor; on the -first floor, the chamber of your mother, Madame Ristaud, that of your -father, and yours, which was also mine. O, yes, I see it all! and your -little bed with the figured coverlet! And the day you were born, it -seems to me as yesterday! It was the fifteenth of August, 1773—that was -twenty years ago. And then the day of your wedding at Bordeaux, (we -lived then at Bordeaux;) didn’t your marriage make a noise?—you -recollect it?—the little Ristaud, who married a rich banker of the -capital, Monsieur Cottin. ‘Well, what is there astonishing about that?’ -said I, ‘the little Ristaud is worth a banker of the capital two or -three times over!’ I had only one fear, which I kept to myself, and that -was, that when you should once be married and in Paris, you would not -want your old nurse any longer. ‘Leave my nurse!’ you said, when you saw -me weeping, and found why, ‘leave my nurse! no, no, I couldn’t do -without her; I should feel lost if I should lose her.’ And you were -right, my dear little one; your mother died, and your father, and then, -in three years and six months after your wedding, your husband died; and -now your fortune is gone, no one knows where, and not one is left but -your nurse, your old nurse, who would give her blood, her life, every -thing, that she might see you more happy. Yes, if you had a piano here, -you could sing; you have such a sweet voice, and that would do well for -us both. If by selling my cross of gold we might have one—what do you -say?” - -“It would need twelve hundred francs to purchase a piano, and the cross -would not procure them; _these_” she added, striking her hand upon the -papers scattered upon the table, “these would give them to me if I had -the courage to go and sell them; but I dare not, I would only get a -refusal.” - -“Do you wish me to go, Sophie?” replied the nurse, “only tell me where, -and it shall be done quickly—there!—what was that? This chamber is -very gloomy, and that curtain is always moving!” - -“I will go myself to-morrow,” said Madam Cottin, looking at her watch. -“It is eleven o’clock—I must work a little longer; leave me, Marianne, -and go to your rest.” - -“Ah! now you are quite sure it was you who closed the shutters and drew -down the curtains?” asked Marianne, reluctantly complying with her -mistress’s command—“you are not afraid?” - -“No!” answered Madam Cottin, who, as soon as she found herself alone, -resumed her labor; but, whether it was the solitude and silence of the -place, or because Marianne had really frightened her, she paused from -her writing every few moments to look around her. By chance her eyes -rested on the window-curtain, which, by the position of the lights, was -thrown into the shade, and the words of Marianne recurred to her mind, -“that, if she had left the window open on going out to walk, who could -have shut it?” She thought, all at once, that she saw the cloth falling -in numberless folds upon the floor, and moving in a most mysterious way. -Fear bound her to the spot where she was standing, and for some moments -she was unable to move; but at length, with a desperate effort, she -advanced toward the curtain, and raised it up with a stifled cry. _A man -was standing behind_ with his back placed against the window-panes. - -[Illustration] - -“Do not cry out, madam,” he said, “or I am a dead man.” - -“What would you have me do?” said Madam Cottin, pale, but determined. “I -am poor, and have nothing to tempt the cupidity of any one, -nevertheless, if you are in want, here is a little money. But depart -instantly, without approaching me; in Heaven’s name, go—go instantly!” - -To the great astonishment of Madam Cottin, in place of taking the silver -which she had offered him, the man threw back his cloak, and in a -trembling, broken voice, said to her, - -“Pardon me, madam, for having frightened you; can it be that you have -forgotten me?” - -“I do not know you,” replied Madam Cottin, scrutinizing the intruder, an -old man, and whose disordered clothes, long, ragged beard, disheveled, -gray hair, and the livid palor which overspread his features, prevented -her from recognizing him. - -“I am Monsieur de Fombelle,” said he, “proscribed and pursued—” - -“Ah, good heaven!” interrupted Madam Cottin, running to bolt the door, -“ah, sir, what can I do to assist you?” - -“Alas! nothing, madam,” replied Monsieur de Fombelle, “for I have heard -your conversation with your nurse, and can ask nothing of you.” - -“If it is money you want, alas! I have none, sir! but approach the fire, -and pardon me for not having recognized you sooner.” - -Her visiter mechanically complied, while he abruptly addressed her.— - -“Denounced by the law—pursued, tracked as a wild beast—finding no -where an asylum, not even daring to seek one amongst my best friends, I -wander in the streets of Paris—and—and—since yesterday I have not -tasted food,” speaking with the air of a man with whom hunger stifled -the shame of avowing it. - -Madam Cottin immediately brought from a cupboard some bread, a pot of -preserves, and a bottle of wine, saying as she did so, - -“Believe me, this is the best I have.” - -And she looked, with tears in her eyes, and a sad heart, upon that old -man, whom she had known in better times, so polished, so dignified, so -amiable, and so well beloved. He spoke not a word while eating, and when -he looked up, at the end of his meal, he saw that she wept. - -“Is it for me, or for yourself that you weep?” said he. - -“For both of us,” replied Madam Cottin; “for you, that you suffer so -much in your old age, and for me, that I am unable to assist a sincere -friend of my husband.” - -“Do you know no one?” he demanded. - -“No one, sir; since my widowhood, I have seen no one.” - -“Alas!” said Monsieur de Fombelle, lifting his eyes despondingly toward -the ceiling, “and when I saw into what company I was cast, I believed I -had found some assistance.” - -“Was it not of your own accord that you came to me?” - -“No, madam. A friend, who is actively endeavoring to assist me, but who -scarcely has the means, for, like me, he is without money, appointed a -place of rendezvous, after night-fall, in the open fields behind _la rue -Ceruti_. I was returning from this rendezvous, when suddenly I found -myself confronted face to face with my most mortal enemy—the same who -had denounced me, and caused the decree against me. I endeavored to -elude him, and had been running until almost exhausted, when a window, -low and opened, attracted my attention. I obeyed my first impulse, made -a spring, and found myself here. There was no one in the room, and, to -guard against discovery, I closed the casement and the outer shutters; I -lowered the curtains and concealed myself behind them. Scarcely had I -done this, when you entered. As soon as you spoke, I recognized you, the -wife of my best friend; I should certainly not have hesitated to have -presented myself before you, but your good nurse was with you, and I -believed it prudent to await her departure. In overhearing your -conversation, I learned how your condition, once so happy, had changed -since the sad events which have desolated our dear country, and I -resolved to escape, if possible, without causing you fear or danger. -Hence my immovability while you lifted the curtain; for I supposed that -in the obscurity of the place you would not perceive me. But I ought -not, madam, longer to interrupt your repose.” - -“No, do not go,” replied Madam Cottin, “until you tell me if I can in -any way assist you.” - -“In three days I am to quit France; all is arranged, and my flight is -certain, if I can accomplish what seems to be an impossibility—I must -raise twelve hundred francs.” - -“Twelve hundred francs,” said Madam Cottin, thoughtfully. - -“Otherwise, since I cannot hope always to elude my enemies, I shall be -lost.” - -“Monsieur de Fombelle,” said Madam Cottin, after a moment of silence, “I -have but few means, yet I have such a desire to assist you, that perhaps -God will aid me. Day after to-morrow, at this same hour, you will find -my window open; enter, and perhaps I will then have some good news for -you. And now, adieu, sir! be of good cheer;—stop, take under your cloak -this bread, and this bottle of wine. Leave me to close the window—the -street is deserted, and not a soul is passing. Remember, on the night of -day after to-morrow, at eight o’clock, be under my window; strike three -times on the glass. If I have succeeded, I will reply to you; if not, I -will not have the courage to answer. Go, now, and be assured that I will -do all in my power to assist you.” - -Too much moved to venture a single word in reply, M. de Fombelle pressed -her hand, leaped out of the window, and disappeared at the corner of a -street yet inhabited by the _Chaussée d’Antin_. - -The next morning had scarcely dawned, when Madam Cottin importuned her -nurse to get breakfast; as soon as it was over, she gave her no time to -arrange the furniture of the room. - -“Come with me,” she said; “come with me, it is absolutely necessary that -I sell _Claire d’Albe_ this morning.” - -“Ah, these young women!” exclaimed the nurse, as she complied; “these -young women! when they once take a fancy, they have neither quiet nor -reason. If the bookseller is as impatient to buy, as you are to sell, we -shall soon have a piano, I see.” - -From _la rue Chanteriene_ to the quay, where, from time immemorial, the -booksellers have had their shops, the walk was long, and Marianne harped -upon the one idea of getting a piano, until they arrived at the place of -their destination. After scrutinizing the long row of shops for a few -moments, Madam Cottin selected one which had the most promising -exterior. - -“I can but fail,” said she, as she crossed the threshold. But as soon as -she entered, she stopped, and remained, blushing, and with downcast -eyes, before the bookseller, who advanced toward her, asking her what -work she wished to purchase. - -“It is not to purchase, but to sell, sir,” said Marianne, replying for -her mistress, who could not overcome her embarrassment. “We have written -a romance, and we have come to see if you wish to buy it. It is superb! -I assure you, you have nothing in your shop which can compare with it.” - -“Tut, tut, Marianne!” interrupted Madam Cottin, now sufficiently -reassured to continue the negotiation. “Do you never buy manuscripts, -sir?” - -“Yes—no—that is—what is the name of the author?” - -“The name of the book, sir, you mean to say?” timidly observed the young -woman. - -“No, of the author, not having time to read our books ourselves, you -understand, it is almost always the name of the author that we buy.” - -“But, sir, the work is written by me, and my name is not known,” said -Madam Cottin, almost discouraged; “if you would take the trouble to read -it,” and she presented, hesitatingly, a little roll of papers. - -“I have no doubt,” replied the bookseller, blandly, “it is a -master-piece; it would be useless for me to read it—I would find it -perfect. But business is not profitable just at this time. Some other -time, when you shall have become known—” - -“If all booksellers were like you, we would never be known,” impatiently -interrupted Marianne. “Let us go, we have not got the piano yet.” - -“No,” replied Madam Cottin, “but God always places good and bad fortune -side by side; we will go in here,” and she boldly crossed the threshold -of a second shop. - -The appearance of this bookseller was more engaging than that of his -neighbor. On seeing a lady enter, he advanced courteously toward her. - -“What can I do to serve you?” he asked; then offering a seat to -Marianne, and one to Sophie, he remained standing before the latter, who -said to him, - -“I am afraid of a disappointment, sir, after one failure to-day. I have -written a little story—” - -“Which you wish to have printed?” asked the bookseller. - -“If you think it worthy of it, sir.” - -“It will be necessary to see it, madam—have you the manuscript?” - -Sophie’s hand trembled as she presented it to him. - -“It is very small,” said the bookseller, glancing at it; “it will make a -very small volume. It is a romance, in letters. Will you allow me to -look at it?” - -“Certainly. I am ignorant of the value of the work; having written it -within the last five days, I have not bestowed upon it either the time -or labor of retouching it; but I am in need of twelve hundred francs. I -need it by to-morrow evening; see, sir, if you can give them to me.” - -“Since you request so early a decision, I will ask only time to read -three letters—one at the commencement, one in the middle, and one at -the end of the book; and I will then be able to give you my opinion of -the rest.” - -With these words the bookseller retired behind a railing, hung with -green curtains, and applied himself to reading the manuscript. Meanwhile -Madam Cottin remained seated with her old nurse, unable to conceal the -anxiety which devoured her. - -“You are afraid that you will not get your piano, are you not, madam?” - -“Yes, yes,” she replied, without knowing what she was saying. - -“But why is it necessary for you to have the money to-morrow evening? Is -it because the poor countess, who offers to sell you one, demands it -immediately? Jean Paul, her porter, told me that she would give long -time. You have spoken of it, then, to the countess?” - -“Yes, yes, he seems satisfied!” exclaimed Sophie, anxiously scrutinizing -the countenance of the bookseller. - -At this moment the bookseller rose from his seat. Sophie’s heart beat as -he approached. - -“It is good, madam, very good! the conception is perfect; only one can -see that you are not in the habit of writing, and it seems to me -impossible to print it without corrections. As to the price, it is -rather dear; but as you are in need of money, I will not deny it you. -You will repay the difference in some other book which you will write -for me, will you not?” - -“Oh, yes, sir, yes!” eagerly replied Madam Cottin. “Give me the -manuscript, sir; to-morrow, at six o’clock, you shall have it -corrected.” - -“And to-morrow, at six o’clock, your money shall be ready. Shall I bring -it to you, that you may avoid going out at that hour? Do you wish this -little sum in paper, in gold, or in silver?” - -“In gold, sir. Oh! you have saved more than my life!” said Madam Cottin, -departing. - -“At last we shall have the piano!” said Marianne, running by the side of -her mistress, scarcely able to keep even with her rapid pace. - -“Jean Paul,” said she, when they had arrived opposite to the countess’s -residence, stopping a moment behind her mistress, “Jean Paul, you may -tell the countess we will purchase the piano, and that we will pay her -to-morrow evening—do you hear, Jean Paul?” - -“What have you been doing this morning, that you have found so much -money to-day?” replied the porter, with a sneer; “has your mistress -found a treasure?” - -“No, sir,” replied Marianne, angrily, “it is in her mind that she has a -treasure—it is in her head.” - -“A trifle, citizen Marianne—a trifle! You told me she wrote, did you -not? Now look you, I’ll put both of my hands into the fire, if your -mistress is not a conspirator!” - -“What!—a conspirator! Do you know what you are saying, Mr. Jean Paul?” - -“Perfectly, citizen Marianne; and since your mistress loves ink, they -are going to give her and her nurse some. Listen; I do not meddle—I say -nothing, but I see all. This morning I had a little talk with the -officer who lives near, and he is of my opinion concerning your -mistress. She holds correspondence with the enemy—the English! -Otherwise, why should she be writing all day? It is not natural for a -woman to write so much. My wife never writes; it is true, she does not -know how to write—but that makes no difference. Now I have an idea—I -may have an idea, may I not?—well, I have an idea that she wishes to -sell France; who knows but that she has already sold it, and that it is -with some of the money she is going to buy the piano! O, my country—my -poor country! into what hands have you fallen!” - -“You are either a fool, or you don’t love music, which is the same -thing; for if I understand a word you say, I hope my head may be cut -off!” With this retort, Marianne turned toward Madam Cottin’s -apartments. - -Madam Cottin did not go to bed that night, but labored without -relaxation to have her book ready by the appointed hour, and to receive -the twelve hundred francs, by which she was to aid the escape of her -husband’s friend. Morning and noon passed, the sun began to decline, and -as the clock sounded five, she finished the last letter. The same moment -the door of her chamber was opened with violence, and Marianne, weeping, -rushed in, followed by a motley crowd of soldiers and “citizens,” the -porter at their head. - -“In the name of the law, search every where,” said a municipal officer; -and in an instant they were ransacking every corner of the apartment. As -soon as Madam Cottin could recover her self-possession, which had -deserted her at first sight of these intruders, she demanded, - -“What do you here—and what do you wish of me, sirs?” - -Carrying his hand to his cap with a military air, the officer replied, - -“Citizen, you are accused of holding correspondence with the enemies of -France, and we are ordered to seize your papers.” - -“Me, sir, holding correspondence with the enemy!” cried Madam Cottin, in -a tone of surprise; “me, a poor widow, without friends and without -experience! Who has been so base as to invent this falsehood?” - -“If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear,” replied the officer, -“and the examination of your papers will clear you without doubt.” - -“Take them, then,” said Madam Cottin, assisting them in the search. The -officer examined packages of letters from her husband, her mother, her -schoolmates, some large writing books in which were registered the -fruits of her studies, and some loose papers in her port-folio, without -finding any thing which could excite suspicion. - -At length the manuscript of _Claire d’Albe_, lying on the table, -attracted his eye, and approaching it, he laid his hand upon it. Madam -Cottin could not refrain from a cry of affright. - -“Oh, for pity! pity! do not touch that!” - -“Ah! we have reached the hiding-place at last!” said the officer, -beginning to collect the scattered leaves. - -“Sir,” said the lady, anxiously, “those papers do not endanger in any -way the security of the state, I assure you; nay, I will most solemnly -swear it!” - -“Why then this fear?” said the officer, still gathering up the leaves. - -“Because—because—they are invaluable to me, though they can be of -little use to you. Oh! I am telling you the truth! Give them back, I -beseech you!” - -“Oh, yes, Mr. Officer!” interposed Marianne, “that is nothing but a -romance, which my mistress sold yesterday for twelve hundred francs, to -buy a piano. This is all the mystery, and if I were to die to-day, I -have told you the exact truth. But if you do not believe what I have -said, here comes the bookseller, and you can ask him yourselves.” - -As she spoke, this personage entered the apartment. - -“Speak, sir,” cried Marianne, rushing toward the bookseller, “make clear -the innocence of my mistress. Say to these gentlemen what these papers -are.” - -The bookseller looking at the packet which the officer held in his hand, -replied, “That is a romance which I bought yesterday of madam.” - -Madam Cottin, seemingly insensible to what was passing around her, -followed with her eyes the minute-hand of the clock, which was -approaching nearer and nearer to the eighth hour. There was a short -interval of silence, when the officer replied, - -“I am inclined to believe, sir, that this is, as you say, a romance; but -what difference can it make to you or madam, if I carry it to the -_Section_? I will return it in the morning.” - -Madam Cottin grew desperate. The hands on the dial-plate marked seven -o’clock and five minutes. - -“Let me read you one of the letters, sirs, and if you find in it a line -to suspect, I will give the book into your hands.” - -“I see no objection,” replied the officer, and accordingly, Madam -Cottin, taking up the first letter, commenced reading. As she proceeded, -the attention of her audience became more and more profound; their -countenances betrayed emotion; soon tears started from their eyes, and -at length one of the auditors, interrupting the fair reader, threw -himself upon his knees before her. - -“I am a miserable wretch, madam, do what you please with me! It was I -who denounced you—I who first suspected your daily habit of writing; -no, there is no torture that I do not deserve! Oh! what you have written -is beautiful! it is beautiful! I will buy the book when it is printed; I -will learn to read—I, and my wife, and my children. Sir,” he added, -turning toward the bookseller, “I wish the first copy you send out of -your shop, and I will pay you any price you ask. I am Jean Paul, porter -of house number forty-six, in _la rue Chanteriene_. And now, madam, -pardon me—will you say that you pardon me?” - -Madam Cottin cast a look at the dial—_it wanted but five minutes of -eight!_ She rose hastily. - -“Yes, yes, I pardon you. Sir Officer, you leave me my manuscript, do you -not?” added she, turning to the officer, who wiped his eyes, while the -porter remained sobbing in his place. - -“Certainly, madam,” replied he; “I leave you all your papers. I see that -the republic of France has nothing to fear from you; and in taking my -leave; I beg you to excuse our seeming rudeness.” - -At this moment three blows were struck upon the window. Madam Cottin -turned pale as death— - -“Not yet—not yet!” said she, recovering herself instantly, and -intending the words to have a meaning which should apply to the person -without, as well as to those within. As she turned toward her secretary, -the bookseller, unobserved by the rest, slipped a small roleau of gold -into her hand—the price of the romance. - -“We fear we are abusing your politeness,” said the officer, rising to -leave. A second blow, stronger than the first, rattled upon the glass. -Sophie turned paler than before. - -“I pray you remain,” she replied, in a loud voice, adding, in a lower -tone, “and you also, Jean Paul. Marianne, bring some of the wine of our -country—Bordeaux. Gentlemen, you can not refuse to drink the prosperity -of France? And now,” added she, “the excitement I have undergone—this -fire, which is so warm—you will excuse me, if I step to the window a -moment for fresh air.” - -So saying, she went to the window, and opened the shutters, letting the -curtains fall before her. - -“Stop!” she said to M. de Fombelle, restraining him from entering the -chamber, which he attempted, and handing him the rouleau of -_louis-d’ors_—the price of her first book—“take this, and begone -quickly; you are in danger if you remain. Adieu!” - -Closing the shutters and the sash, she again appeared, smiling in the -midst of the soldiers. Marianne returned the same moment with a salver -covered with glasses, and bottles of wine. - -“At last we shall have a piano, Sophie,” said she, turning toward her -mistress to drink. - -“Not yet, my good Marianne,” replied Sophie, with a joyful tone, which -contradicted her reply. - -[Illustration] - -Such was the _début_ of the gifted woman who has written so many -charming romances. Late in life she commenced a work on Education; but a -cruel malady surprised her in the midst of her labor, and after three -months of suffering, which were, however, alleviated by the tenderness -of friends, and the consolations of religion, she died on the 25th of -August, 1807, aged thirty-four years. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE GENTLE STEP. - - - BY HARRIET J. MEEK. - - - Hearts somewhere beat, from which it cannot pass; - Earth has no sunshine left, nor time nor place, - But a new scene slides o’er the magic glass, - And _we_ forget the space. - - Light, and still lighter seemed that step to fall; - I scarce could tell you when it ceased, or how; - A breathing spirit walked the earth—’tis all— - That does not walk it now. - - I think sometimes upon the sunny floor - I see the shadow of her golden hair; - And turn half-dreaming to the open door, - To look if she is there. - - And then I mind. Life’s rough and thorny round - Would long ere this have torn the folded wing - Whose downy waving glided over sound, - And left it slumbering. - - Death came, when flowers were passing from the earth; - We thought to hear the clanking of his chain, - But the light step one evening left the hearth, - And came not back again. - - * * * * * - - - - - BARBARA UTTMAN’S DREAM. - - - BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. - - -In the little hamlet of Anneberg, far up among the Erzberges or Copper -Mountains of Saxony, there dwelt, once upon a time, a gentle child named -Barbara. She was so fair, with such soft blue eyes, such long golden -curls, and withal wearing a look of such exceeding sweetness, that the -people of the hamlet, who were all miners, or workers in metal, called -her by a name that signified the “Lily of the Mines.” Barbara was an -orphan, a little lone creature, whom no one claimed, but whom every body -loved. Her father had been a delver into the depths of the earth, and -when she was only a tiny little baby, he had kissed her round cheek, and -gone to his daily labor at early dawn; but ere the shadows of the dark -trees fell toward the eastern slope of the hills, he was brought home -mangled and lifeless. The “fire-damp” had seized him and his companions; -or, as the simple peasants believed, the demon of the mine had arisen in -his might, and torn to pieces the daring spoilers of his treasure-house. -Barbara’s mother did not long outlive the dreadful sight. She pined -away, with a dull aching at her heart, and one morning a kind neighbor -found the child sleeping calmly on the cold bosom of her dead mother. - -From that moment the little Barbara became the nursling of the whole -hamlet. The good women of the village remembered that she had been born -on a Sunday morning, and according to their tender and beautiful faith, -the “_Sabbath-child_” had received a peculiar blessing, which was -shared, in some degree, by all who ministered to her wants. So Barbara -was the foster-child of many mothers, and found heart-kindred in every -cottage. But chiefly did she dwell, after she had grown beyond the -swaddling-bands of infancy, in the house of the good Gottlieb, the -pastor of this little mountain flock of Christians. Barbara grew up a -gentle quiet child, rarely mingling in the noisy sports of the -villagers, and loving nothing so well as to steal away to some forest -nook, where she would sit for hours looking out upon the rugged face of -nature, and weaving dreams, whose web, like that of the wood-spider, was -broken by a breath. - -Some said—“little Barbara is moping for the lack of kindred.” Others -said more truly—“Nay, is she not a blessed Sabbath-child? It may be -that the spirit of her dead mother is with her in the lonely places -where she loves to abide; hinder her not, therefore, lest ye break the -unseen bond between the living and the dead.” So Barbara was left to the -guidance of her own sweet will, and long ere she had grown beyond -childhood she was familiar with all the varied aspects of nature in the -wild and beautiful country of her birth. It seemed as if some holy charm -had indeed been bestowed on the little orphaned Sabbath-child, for every -living thing seemed to recognize in her a gentle and loving companion. -All the children of the hamlet loved her, and it was wonderful to see -the little shy birds hopping about her feet to pick the crumbs which she -always scattered for them in her wanderings. - -But Barbara was not a merry, light-hearted maiden. Cheerful she was and -gentle, but not gay, for a cloud had fallen upon her earliest years, and -a shadow from Death’s wing had thrown a gloom over her infant life, -darkening those days which should have been all sunshine. True, she had -found friends to shield her from want, but never did she see a child -nestling upon its mother’s bosom, without feeling a mournful loneliness -of heart. Therefore it was that she loved to steal away to the green -foldings of the hills, and hold companionship with the pleasant things -of earth, where, in the quietude of her own pure nature, she could -commune with herself. She had early learned to think of her mother as an -angel in heaven, and, when she looked up to the blue sky, gorgeous in -its drapery of gold and purple clouds, or shining with its uncounted -multitude of stars, she never forgot that she was gazing upon the outer -gates of that glorious home, where dwelt her long lost parents. Yet she -was not an idle or listless dreamer in a world where all have their -mission to fulfill, and where none are so desolate as to have no duties -to perform. She learned all the book-lore that the good pastor chose to -impart to the little maidens of the hamlet, and no hand was more -skillful than hers with the knitting-needle and distaff. Thus she grew -up, delicate and fair, with eyes as blue as summer skies, and long -golden locks, hanging almost to her feet, for she was as tiny as a fairy -in stature. - -There came sometimes to the cottage of Father Gottlieb, a dark-browed -man, whose towering form and heavily-built limbs gave him the semblance -of some giant of the hills. His voice was loud and as clear as a -trumpet-call, and his step was bold and firm, like that of a true-born -mountaineer. He was the owner of vast tracts in the mine districts, and -stores of untold wealth lay hidden for him in earth’s deep caverns. Herr -Uttman was stern of visage, and bold—it may be rough—in his bearing, -but his heart was as gentle as a woman’s. He loved to sit at Gottleib’s -board, and, while partaking of his simple fare, to drink in the wisdom -which the good pastor had learned in far-off lands. The wonders of -Nature—the mystic combinations that are ever going on in her -subterranean laboratory—the secret virtues, or the equally secret -venom, which is found in her humblest plants—the slow but unfailing -process of her developments, by which the small and worthless acorn -grows into the towering oak, and the winged seed lifts its broad pinions -in the new form of leafy branches toward the skies—all these things -Herr Uttman loved to learn from the lips of the wise old man. Therefore -did he seek the pastor’s cottage whenever he had leisure to listen to -his teachings. - -Uttman’s kindly heart had early warmed toward the orphan child of -Gottlieb’s adoption. He won her infantine love by telling her wild tales -of the dark mines, and the fantastic spirits of the nether world. He had -tales of the Fire-Demon, and the Water-Dragon, of the Mocking-Imp, who -led poor miners to their destruction, by mimicking the voice of a -companion, and of the dazzling Cavern-Queen, the flash of whose diamond -crown, and the gleam of whose brighter eyes, lured the poor workman to a -frightful death. To sit on his knee, twining her small fingers in the -black curls which fell unshorn upon his shoulders—to look in his great -dark eyes as they gleamed with the enthusiasm of that half-poetic nature -which is the inheritance of a high-hearted mountaineer—to feel herself -nestling like a dove on his broad breast, and clinging to him half in -terror, half in delight, as his strong words brought all those fearful -shapes vividly before her eyes—these had been Barbara’s pleasures when -a little child. - -But Barbara could not always remain the petted child, and the time came -when the budding maiden sat on a stool at Uttman’s feet, and no longer -leaned her head upon his bosom while she listened to his wild legends. -At first Herr Uttman was troubled at the change in Barbara’s manner, -then he pondered over its meaning, and at last he seemed to awaken to a -new perception of happiness. So he asked Barbara to be his wife, and -though his years doubly numbered hers, she knew that she loved no one -half so well, and, with the affection which a child might feel for a -tender parent, she gave him the troth-pledge of her maiden faith. Nor -was Barbara mistaken in her recognition of his real nature. A rough and -stern man did he seem to many, but his heart was full of kindness, and -his affections, though repressed and silent, yet, like a mountain -stream, made for themselves only a deeper channel. He had an abiding -love for Nature. He defaced not her fair bosom with the scars of the -plough or the pick-axe, but following the course of the dark ravine, and -entering into the yawning chasm, he opened his way into earth’s -treasure-house, leaving the trees to tower from the mountain’s brow, the -streams to leap down their rocky beds, and the green sward to stretch -down the sunny slopes. Barbara was as a dove nestling in the branches of -a stately tree. No wonder her husband worshiped her, for his affections -were like a full, deep stream rushing through a mine, and she was like -the star, which, even at noonday, may be seen reflected in its depths. -She was the angel of his life, the bright and beautiful spirit of truth -and love within his household. - -Years passed on and Barbara had but one ungratified hope within her -heart. God had given her no children, and the tenderness of her nature -found no vent save in her kindly charities. To the poor, and needy, and -sorrowful, she was the friend and benefactress, but her heart sometimes -thrilled with a vain repining, and she felt a thirst for those pure -waters which spring up only in a mother’s pathway. One night she was -oppressed with sadness, and ere she yielded herself up to sleep, she -prayed that this vain longing within her heart might be quenched for -ever, or find some solace in the duties which lay around her. - -Scarcely had she closed her eyes in slumber, when her couch was visited -by a wild and wonderful dream. She dreamed she was standing within the -porch, when a lady clad in shining raiment, emerged from the foldings of -the hills and slowly approached her. The lady’s face was hidden beneath -a snow-white veil of some transparent fabric, which though it seemed as -translucent as water, yet, like water, gave an indistinctness to the -object seen through it. But when the strange visitant spoke, her voice -thrilled through Barbara’s inmost heart, for it was the spirit-voice -which she had so often heard in her childhood—the voice of her dead -mother. It seemed to Barbara that the lady stood close beside her, and -then, without fear Barbara laid her head on the stranger’s bosom and -clasped her arms around her tall form, while she rather _felt_ than -heard these words: - -“Daughter lift up thine eyes, and behold the children which the Lord -hath given unto thee.” - -Barbara raised her head and beheld a train of young maidens clad in the -simple costume of the Saxon peasant, and linked together as it seemed by -webs of the same transparent texture as that which veiled the lady’s -face. Slowly they passed before her wondering eyes, fading into thin air -as they became lost in the distance, but still succeeded by others, -similarly clad and holding webs of the same delicate fabric, until -Barbara’s brain grew giddy as the troop swept on and on unceasingly. -Weary with gazing she closed her eyes, and when she re-opened them the -maidens had vanished; only the strange lady in her shining garments was -beside her, and she heard a low, silvery voice saying: - -“They who are called to fulfill a mission among nations must find their -sons and their daughters beneath the roof-tree of the poor and the -oppressed. Childless art thou, Barbara, yet the maidens of Saxony -through yet uncounted ages shall call thee mother.” - -Barbara awoke from her dream, but so strongly was it impressed upon her -memory, that she could not banish it from her thoughts for many days. -But it had done its work upon her gentle spirit, for from that hour she -felt that Heaven had some recompense in store for her, and though -utterly unable to interpret her vision, she endeavored by redoubling her -charities to find for herself children among the needy and sorrowful. - -But year after year fleeted on, and the Herr Uttman’s coal-black locks -had become almost silver-white, while Barbara’s cheek had lost nothing -of its smoothness, and her golden locks, though gathered beneath a -matron’s coif, were still as glossy and sunny as in her girlhood. (For -time seemed to have spared her gentle beauty, as if in reverence for the -gentle spirit which it had so long clothed in a fitting garb.) She had -long since forgotten her youthful repinings, for from every cottage in -the hamlet had blessings gone up to heaven upon her who was the friend -of the friendless, and, though her dream was still vivid in her -remembrance, she fancied that she had already attained its fulfillment -in the gratitude of the poor. - -“Come with me, sweet wife, and I will show thee a new wonder in the -mines,” said the good Herr Uttman, one summer’s morning. - -Barbara looked up with a pleasant smile: - -“Have I not threaded with thee all the mazes of the dark mountains, and -gathered the glittering spar, the many-tinted stone, and the rough gem? -Are there yet more marvels in thy dark domain?” - -“Nay, don thy wimple and hood, and thou shalt see.” - -So Barbara went forth with her husband, and he led her to the yawning -mouth of a dark cavern in the mountains. Carefully enfolding her in a -thick cloak, to protect her from the jagged points of the rocks, he took -her in his arms, (for he had lost none of his gigantic strength,) and -bore her like a child, into the cavern. For a time they wended their way -in what seemed to her total darkness, and she was only conscious of -being carried along winding passages, where she felt the spray of a -subterranean torrent, and heard the dash of its waters in some -unfathomed chasm. At length her husband, setting her feet upon a broad -ledge of rock, lifted the cloak from her face and bade her look upon the -scene before her. - -Barbara found herself at the entrance of a long gallery in the mine, in -the roof of which an aperture had been made up to the outer surface of -the mountain, and through which a flood of sunshine was pouring down -into what seemed a glittering corridor, hung with festoons of the most -exquisitely wrought tapestry. Never had Barbara beheld any thing so -fantastically beautiful. The sides of the shaft were covered with a half -transparent fabric, enwrought with patterns like rich embroidery, -through which the gleam of the metal shone like gold, as the sunbeam -danced into the cavern depths. - -It was a gallery in the mine, which years before had been closed up and -forgotten. The workmen, while digging an air-shaft, had struck into the -disused chamber. Cut in the solid ore, the pillars which supported its -roof were carved into grotesque shapes, as the whim of the old miners -had directed the stroke of their tools. During the years that it had -been closed, the spiders had taken possession of its walls, and their -webs, spun over and over again, for more than half a century, had -produced a tapestry richer in design, and more airy in fabric than ever -came from the looms of Ispahan. It needed but little stretch of -imagination to behold the vine with its tiny tendrils and drooping -fruit, the rose with its buds and leaves, the fantastic arabesque -border, and the quaint devices of ancient emblazoning in that -many-tissued yet translucent web. No where else could the same humble -material have worn the same magical beauty, for the mingled colors of -the ore which formed the walls, and the golden sunshine pouring in -through the roof, tinted the woven tracery with all the hues of the -rainbow. - -Barbara stood entranced before this strange spectacle, but while she -gazed, dim and vague recollections came thronging upon her mind. At -length all was clear to her. In the webs which adorned the walls of the -mine, she recognized the beautiful drapery which had veiled the face of -her dream-visitant, and had linked together the band of dream-children -in former years. A cry of wild surprise broke from her lips, and from -that moment she felt that there was a mysterious connection between her -fate and this haunted chamber of the mine. - -Now when Barbara returned to her home, and sat down amid her workwomen, -she told of this wondrous fabric woven by the little fairy spinners in -the mine. It happened that among the pensioners of her bounty was -numbered a certain woman from Brabrant who had been driven from her home -by the cruelties practiced by the Duke of Alva in the Low Countries. In -her own country she had learned to weave a coarse kind of lace, and when -she heard her lady describe the delicate texture of the spiders’ webs, -she drew forth some flaxen threads, and wove them into meshes resembling -somewhat the drapery which Barbara had so admired. This was all that was -wanting to give purpose and definiteness to Barbara’s vague fancies. - -They who look with most pleasure on a finished work, are oft-times most -easily wearied with tracing the slow footsteps of the patient laborer. -The reader would tire of this faithful chronicle if called to watch the -gradual progress of Barbara Uttman’s schemes of wide spread good. By -unwearied toil she made herself acquainted with the means of perfecting -the new manufacture, which offered to her prophetic spirit a means of -livelihood to the feebler portion of the poor. Going on from one -improvement to another, she finally invented the cushion, the bobbins, -and the pins, by which hand-woven lace is wrought with such perfect -symmetry and regularity of fabric and design as make it, even now, the -costliest of all the trappings of wealth. Then—when the invention was -perfected—by offering premiums to those who would engage in the work, -by establishing manufactories in her own domain, by precept and example, -and all the varied means of influence which wealth and virtue had placed -within her power, she established the weaving of lace as the especial -employment of the women of Saxony. Thousands of maidens have found their -sole support in this employment, and for nearly three hundred years the -name of Barbara Uttman has been revered as the “mother” of many -daughters, and the benefactress of the women of more than one nation in -Europe. - - * * * * * - -Gentle reader, I have beguiled you with no fictitious tale. In the -church-yard of the little mountain hamlet of Anneberg lie the remains of -Barbara Uttman, who was born in 1514, married in 1531 to Christopher -Uttman, a rich mine-owner, and died a widow in 1575. A visit to a -long-disused shaft in a mine, where the spiders’ had woven their webs -for fifty years, gave her the first idea of that beautiful fabric, -which, under the various names of Mechlen, Valenciennes, and Brussels -lace, makes the choicest of all additions to a lady’s toilet. It is said -that since her establishment of its manufacture in 1560, upwards of a -million of women are supposed to have obtained a comfortable livelihood -by this species of employment. Notwithstanding the general introduction -of a much inferior kind of lace, which is woven by machinery, at least -twenty thousand women in Europe, annually obtain their support from the -manufacture of hand-woven lace. With the far-seeing spirit of true -philanthropy a woman thus solved for her country the problem which -statesmen yet cavil over, and by affording the poor a means of humble -independence, rescued the females of her own land from want and -destitution. Yet how few of those who deck themselves with lace, only -less costly than diamonds, have ever heard the name of Barbara Uttman! - - * * * * * - - - - - SUNSET UPON “THE STEINE-KILL.” - - - BY KATE DASHWOOD. - - - [The Steine-Kill is one of the sparkling tributaries of our American - Rhine, the Hudson, and signifies “Stony River.”] - - Our own bright “Steine-Kill!” once more, once more! - Thy wavelets steal the glowing hues of Heaven, - And now with stranger glory than before, - The gold-encrimsoned clouds melts into even. - One soft-veiled rose-cloud floateth slowly on, - Mirrored in thy calm bosom; rainbow-dyes - All radiant, vie with glowing hues like morn; - While far amid the deep’ning west, arise - Strange giant-forms, that seem to guard the skies. - - Ay, giant-clouds!—from out the vestibule - Of Heaven’s vast, dark’ning dome, what mighty train - Comes forth!—a cavalcade of kings—whose sceptered rule, - The whole broad realm of Heaven! Lo, again - Their host they marshal—where the God of Day - Sinks, like a wearied conqueror, to his rest, - They have usurped his throne; with proud array - Of gold and purple canopy o’er thy breast— - A gorgeous couch!—rest captive conqueror! - The orient guards thy bright triumphal car. - - But, lo, another scene—a battle-plain— - The deep-toned roar of Heaven’s artillery! - ’Mid iron hail and lightning-flash, again - The shattered hosts rush fiercely to the fray! - ’Mid foaming steed, and flashing shield and spear, - And waving oriflame, those warrior-clouds - Surge onward like the sea!—a mighty bier - Yawns to receive them—for the darkness shrouds - Them, as a tomb, and solemn twilight’s reign - Broodeth o’er Heaven’s ensanguined battle-plain. - - Thus, change the scenes of thy great drama, Life! - Love, Hate, Pride—the fever-dreams - Of restless energies, warring with the strife - Of bigot Ignorance; while brightly gleams - The radiant light of Hope! Ah! are not all - These passions mirrored from our hearts, in those - We love and influence?—ever may their thrall - Be like the _secret fount_ the lap-wing knows,[3] - E’er pure, and calm, and holy—as thy breast— - Oh, Steine-Kill! whereon the twilight rests. - ------ - -[3] It is known that the “hud-hud,” or lap-wing, possesses the instinct -to discover subterranean springs. - - * * * * * - - - - - A SONG. - - - FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. - - BY GIFTIE. - - - Oft when the evening sun is low, - Along the billowing sea - Is heard the echoing sound of bells, - Ringing harmoniously. - - Ringing the call to vesper prayer, - With muffled tone and low, - From the towers of that old “wonder-town,” - Submerged so long ago. - - And as the billows dance and play - Beneath the lingering light, - The sailor sees far in the sea - A strange and fearful sight; - - For temple, tower and palace gleam - I’ the sunset’s golden sheen; - And ghostly people walk the streets - Like a crowd of living men. - - Oh, human heart! art thou not like - That city lost of old - With all thy glittering towers of pride, - And buried joys untold. - - The tides of life rush over thee, - But cannot sweep away - The temples of thine early hopes— - Thine halls of imagery. - - And from thy depths there comes a tone— - A music sad and low; - The requiem of thy buried loves, - That perished long ago. - - And gloriously thy visions gleam - I’ the light of memory; - Oh, human heart! art thou not like - That city of the sea. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE OLD NEW HOUSE. - - - BY H. HASTINGS WELD. - - -Many a kind heart beats under a rough exterior. Such a heart was old -Simon Gray’s, and in appearance he was rude and uncourtly enough. People -said he was crazed, but his madness never was exhibited in any -unkindness, or in any injustice. Nor was he at all deficient in his -business management, or incoherent in his conversation, when he chose to -converse. Simon was a man of few words—to others—though his lips often -moved, as if he talked to himself. When he did speak audibly there was -good will even in his harshest tone; and the pale blue eyes, which were -deep set under his bushy brows, beamed with kindness, when once you had -passed their forbidding portals. Strange boys and chance comers were -afraid of the old man, as he sat at the door of the _old new house_ -where he had dwelt for many, many years in bachelorhood; but those who -knew him had always a kind word, and he had a cheerful answer. His -especial pet was a little fair-haired girl, whom he seemed to love with -the affection of a protector as well as parent. He tried to shield her -that even the wind might not visit her too roughly; and she on her part -looked up to him with a confidence, love, and trust, which would make it -seem almost that she knew him to be more than human. Both are dead now, -else might we not write this story, for it would have given the old man -pain, and made a revelation to the young child of which she died happily -ignorant. Nor, so far as we know are there any, who under our altered -names of persons and places, and the absence of dates, will recognize -the characters. If there are, they will admit that we do old Simon no -more than justice; or if they knew him but slightly they will love a -memory which has hitherto been to them only that of a bizarre old man. - -We have called the house old and new. Old it certainly was, as the -blackened boards and other marks of time showed—prematurely old, from -neglect. And yet it appeared new too, in that the building was never -entirely finished. Paint, plaster, and care have made a new place of it -since the time of which we write, for it has passed into strange hands. -Why it presented the appearance of which we have been speaking, will -appear in our narrative. - -Simon Gray’s life opened happily. There was nothing which indicated for -him a splendid destiny. The path which seemed open before him was -obscure, and promised to embrace only the ordinary incidents of -ninety-nine lives in a hundred; but it so befell that his experience -showed that strange things may happen as well to the humble as to the -exalted. The prince has gilded play-things, the peasant boy plain. Both -are toys after all, and both the possessors are children. Both grow up -to be men only, and in every man’s heart the thoughts are mightier to -himself than the marching of an army with banners. - -Simon received the usual elements of a practical education in a New -England public school. And what was more to his benefit, he was taught -by parental admonition and example the way in which he should go; and -was founded in true faith in the God whom he should love. And between -himself and a young woman, his neighbor, Margaret Goodenow, there grew -an attachment which strengthened with their years. Neither could go back -and fix the date when the other was not a chosen companion. It was love, -pure and unsophisticated; and it was only when they learned by -observation that they were not and could not be brother and sister to -each other, that the thought came into their heads that they might be -something else, still nearer and dearer. Simon continued his attentions -naturally, and Margaret as naturally accepted them as matters of course. -There were no vows—no protestations—no jealous fits—no frantic -passages—no prudery and no affectation of concealment. None of the -romantic artillery which gives eclat to the pages of a fashionable novel -marked their intercourse. All went quietly and happily, without any -particularly definite thought of the future; until, about the same time, -Simon’s father asked him how he would like to build over against the big -elm, (that same house of which we were speaking just now,) and -Margaret’s mother asked her why she did not put a web for herself in the -loom. - -That “set them to thinking,” as the Yankee phrase is. Mag plied the -distaff and shuttle as if at task-work—and a pleasant task too. Simon -would not wait that spring, till the frost was out of the ground, before -he tried some experimental blows with the pick, at the cellar; and as -for the stone for cellar-wall and foundation, that was on the spot -before sledding was over. And everybody looked forward to the completion -of the house as a probable approximation to the date of the young -couple’s wedding. Margaret was daily at the building—her mother daily -scolding her, good-humoredly, and telling her that Simon would certainly -get his part done first; but then Margaret knew that Simon would rather -the cloth should not be woven, than that she should not know every inch -of the house’s progress. So together they consulted, and together they -planned all the details; and as the walking became “settled,” it was not -unfrequently the case that both families were collected there once a -day, if not oftener. Every body had some advice or suggestion, or -incident from experience, how cellars should be kept dry, and rats and -mice kept out; how room could be saved this way and that—how too many -corners catch dirt, and above all, how a house is nothing without -“cupboards” and closets. Manifold where the dark places which were -economized into “stow-holes,” and long and earnest the conferences -between Simon and Margaret. They heard the others, and then did as they -pleased—or rather as she pleased. A wise man will let woman have her -way in such arrangements, provided that she does not wish to do any -thing quite as _outre_ as commencing the chimneys at the top, after the -mode described in Gulliver’s Travels. - -Summer sometimes brought idlers and valetudinarians to Hill-side. It was -not a regular summering resort; but those who really wish to enjoy -country-life occasionally discover that the crowded watering-place is -not the true scene of rural pleasures. A young man named Bernard came -this summer to the village. Whether his pocket, his taste, or a mere -whim brought him there; whether he sought retirement, or traveled for -health, or what induced him to pitch upon this spot, nobody knew. Some -letters he had, and what was a better introduction, he had a good -address. He was young and pale, and of course, interesting. He had -frequent letters and parcels at the post-office, and must therefore be a -man of some note. He was extremely affable to all whom he met, old and -young; and in a very little time every body at Hill-side felt an -interest in the handsome stranger; and trusted that he would carry away -such a report of the place, its advantages and hospitalities, as would -induce other visiters. - -The young people voted him an author—perhaps a poet—certainly a -student; and Margaret’s mother was not at all displeased when the young -student applied to her for summer-quarters; for to tell the truth, she -had already resolved such a possibility in her mind. He said he wished -home comforts, which were not to be found at a country tavern, and -delicately conveyed his firm impression that her house would be to him a -perfect elysium. She was not prepared to take a stranger into the house, -lived in a plain way, and all that. But he protested that these -objections were precisely the advantages that he sought in a country -visit—the absence of a mercenary calculation—a mouthful for each penny -paid, and a set price for lodgings. Where one party is determined, and -the other opposes only feigned resistance, the point at issue is soon -determined, and Bernard was at once domiciliated at Chestnut-Farm. - -Never was man so little trouble as he—never were family so much -infatuated with a stranger. Margaret and all partook of the fascination. -It seemed as if she never would tire of reciting his praises to Simon at -their daily meetings. She was very anxious that the two young men should -be intimate, and as she said, “like each other very much.” She knew that -they would do so if each could only know the good points of the other as -well as she knew both. But neither of them could be inspired with any -very warm attachment in the direction she desired. Bernard was civil and -courteous to Simon, as he was to every body; but Margaret thought she -could detect some appearance of undervaluing her lover on the part of -the stranger. And he permitted this impression to be gathered in the -most agreeable manner—that is to say, as if he accidentally betrayed -his sense of her exceeding worth, and his sorrow that she was to be -sacrificed to Simon. In no way did he attempt to derogate from that -individual’s good points in the abstract, or as plain Simon—but it was -as Margaret’s accepted that he fell below Bernard’s standard. Margaret -pleaded with Bernard for her lover, and that was dangerous business, -because it was in some sort admitting what Bernard rather implied than -alleged. It was reading his hieroglyphics, and that indicated a common -understanding between them, and emboldened Bernard, while it threw -Margaret in the way of temptation. - -And she pleaded with Simon for Bernard. That was dangerous business too. -The most unsuspecting heart is not proof against all misgivings—and -Simon did not like that she should enter so warmly into advocacy for a -man in whose behalf he saw no reason why she should be so deeply -interested. The stranger was but a transient guest—never again to visit -the vicinity Simon hoped; and he could not perceive that it was a matter -of great consequence whether he ever learned to like him particularly or -not. He soon ceased to argue the matter at all with her. He forced -himself to listen; but it was with evident disrelish, and Margaret, -finding the subject an unpalatable one, abandoned it. But this did not -mend matters much, since Simon’s uneasiness now look a positive -character. He had disliked to hear Margaret continually talking of the -stranger, but her evident reserve upon all that related to him was -worse. And Margaret shared in his discontent; for it seemed to her, -though she did not trust herself to say it, or even dare to think of it, -that Simon was unkind. And, what was more unfortunate for her peace, she -felt that Bernard was not. - -The young stranger was by no means an indifferent observer of all this. -Nay, it seemed wonderfully to fall in with his plans—perhaps with his -expectations—certainly with his wishes. Margaret learned to be very -much pleased with him, and fond of his conversation and society; and yet -she felt a half-consciousness that she was doing her old friend a wrong. -But why? she would ask herself. Is it esteeming Simon less, to do -justice where he refuses it? It was too knotty a point in casuistry for -her to solve; and things at Chestnut-Farm now began to go on strangely. -Simon was spoken of in a tone in which he had never been mentioned -before. Bernard was particular in his expressions of good opinion—too -particular—patronizing. But there was, withal, a covert spice of -detraction in it—as neatly contrived as Mark Antony’s effort “to bury -Cæsar, not to praise him.” Bernard affected to praise Simon, not to -detract from him; but the effect of all his conversation was precisely -the opposite of his ostensible design. After a time even Margaret could -laugh heartily at a joke uttered at the expense of her lover in his -absence. At first she was almost offended at any liberty taken with the -character or person of Simon, however well it was gilded; but the -polished wit of Bernard, and his apparently unassuming superiority, led -her more and more to desire that her country lover could resemble her -accomplished friend. - -It would too much lengthen our sketch to describe the whole process and -progress of the estrangement—for an estrangement it became. Bernard’s -discussions upon architecture quite ruined in the eyes of Margaret the -humble dwelling which had once seemed to her a palace. As she suggested -this and that and the other impossible change in the original plan, and -treated poor Simon’s cherished notions with ill-disguised -superciliousness, he was grieved to perceive in all this, that he as -well as the house, was daily growing less and less in her estimation. -And the villagers began now to perceive the growing coolness. It made -the judicious sad; the thoughtless sneered, the friends of Simon were -angry. And at last he became angry himself; or at least his feelings -approached as near to anger as the love he still felt would admit; and -he looked anxiously forward to the time when the departure of the -dangerous guest would release Margaret from her hallucination. - -Summer passed away, and the foliage commenced to wear its autumn hue. -Long before this Simon had taken it for granted that his house would -have been finished and furnished, and that his wife would have been busy -with him, perfecting their winter comforts. But now things began to wear -the aspect of a house begun without counting the cost. There was a delay -in the few finishing touches which alone remained to perfect the -building. A step here, and a pale there were ready for their places, but -still stood unadjusted. The gate which had been tacked up, waiting for -bolts and hinges, still waited. Dust blew over the door-stone, and all -looked like neglect. Simon Gray was no more seen daily at the building; -indeed he was scarcely seen abroad at all, and when he did make his -appearance, it was with an aspect so wan and woful, that men saw he had -a broken-heart. - -The student had gone from the village. Margaret, who had grieved the -good people by a flirtation with him which had grown more and more open -and unblushing, was now seldom met. The whole vicinage, so cheerful and -pleasant in the spring, appeared to have had a spell cast over it; and -the people—for in a village men sympathize with each other—looked as -if a heavy secret lay at all their hearts; as if they knew more than -they would speak, and feared more than they knew. - -Winter came; and the deep snows of New England drifted over the paling -of Simon Gray’s new house, and filled the yard, where nobody broke a -path. Winds blew, and scattered from the bared road side sand and gravel -over the white mantle, and still it lay unbroken, and where the eaves -dropped it froze. The threshold was ice, and the roof and windows hung -with icicles. Simon passed one day, and paused and looked at the place -earnestly. A little boy who watched him, for Simon had now become an -object of marvel to the little folk, said that Simon Gray drew his -sleeve across his eyes. The lad wondered if it was not because his house -was not finished before the snow set in. Poor Simon! He was no poet, but -the sullied snow had given him other and more bitter thoughts than that! - -Spring opened. The strengthening sun melted down the bank of snow before -Simon Gray’s new house, and the winter-hid shavings and bits of brick, -and scraps of mortar, peeped out—last year’s mementoes of the -unfinished work, preserved beneath the bank to tell their story over -again in the new year. And now a great surprise had taken the village; -and the envious wondered how _that_ family, meaning Margaret’s poor -mother, and her father, bowed with more than the weight of years, could -have held up their heads as long as they did. The doctor, and the truly -worthy and pious minister, vied with each other in the constancy and -frequency with which they visited Chestnut Farm-house. Simon went at -last also, for the minister took him there. If he went at all disposed -to be unforgiving, he came away melted and subdued. His heart was -lighter too; for he had performed a duty which all owe who dare to say -in their prayers “forgive us—_as we forgive_.” - -A long train wound one day, just as the violets were opening, into the -village grave-yard. Simon Gray was there, and it was observed, as they -passed his new house, for the train were all on foot, that his companion -had much labor to bear him up. But he was not a mourner as one without -hope; for his arms had supported Margaret when she resigned her soul to -Him who forgiveth sin, and heareth those who call upon Him. He never -spoke of her after while he lived; and he never would hear when her name -was mentioned. Some people felt, and others affected surprise that he -was present at all at the funeral—but Simon noticed neither. He was -simply following the dictates of an affection too virtuous to have -permitted him to sacrifice his self-respect had she lived—too -charitable to permit one who was once loved to die unforgiven of man, -since the Master received her—or to die unloved of a fellow-mortal, -since while we were yet sinners Christ died for us; and greater love can -none show than this. - -Such is the story of the “Old New House.” The child of whom we spoke at -the opening was Margaret’s grandchild. Her father grew in that house, -lived there married and single, and died there. Simon never would suffer -it to be finished further than absolute necessity required; and people, -as we have already stated, said he was crazed. He was solitary and -heart-broken; and if it were a strange fantasy that he should rear -Margaret’s child, there was a method in such madness, which we all would -do well to imitate in behalf of the orphan and the destitute. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE WOUNDED GUERILLA. - - - A SKETCH OF THE LATE CAMPAIGN. - - BY MAYNE REID. - - [SEE ENGRAVING.] - - -The city of Puebla lies in the centre of an immense _plateau_, seven -thousand feet above sea level, and bordered by mountains of more than -twice this altitude. Malinchi, rendered classic in the history of the -first conquest, rises on the north; the Piñal bars up the eastern -passes, while the great Cordillera of the Rio Frio forms its western -boundary, thus separating the two great valleys of Puebla and Mexico by -an almost impassible barrier. In this ridge lie the great snow mountains -of Popocatepec and the “White Woman,” (_la muger blanca_,) known -poetically as the “Twin Sisters.” - -These mountains soar far above the regions of eternal snow. Popocatepec -is a cone, and the gray fringe that marks the blending of the white -glacier and the dark pines of the mountain forest, forms the -circumference of a horizontal circle. On the White Woman this snow line -is more irregular. On both mountains its altitude is variable, according -to the season and the heat of the sun. Thus the melting of the snows in -the sultry months of summer throws the gray fringe higher up the sides -of Popocatepec and Ixticihuath, and irrigates the broad plains of Puebla -and Tlaxcalla. - -But for these snow-crowned mountains the _plateau_ of Puebla would be a -barren desert. As it is, the western segment of this plain may be termed -the garden spot of Mexico. - -As the traveler emerges from the western gate of Puebla, he beholds one -of the loveliest pictures in the world. The delighted eye roams over -broad fields of corn and wheat, and “frijoles,” bordered by fence rows -of the picturesque maguey—here and there the cupolas of rich -haciendas—the turrets of a flourishing village, and the spires of a -rural church variegate the green landscape, while in the distance rises -the dark Cordilleras of the Mexican Andes, over whose gloomy forests and -frowning chasms the snowy crests of the “Twin Sisters” glisten with a -dazzling whiteness. - -This is, perhaps, the fairest picture in Mexico. Its beauty, however, -did not protect it from the desolating influence of war, and during the -occupation of Puebla by the American army, bands of robbers under the -name of “guerilleros,” alike hostile to Mexican and American, roamed -over the fairest portions of this district, committing every species of -outrage upon its peaceful inhabitants. - -The American army entered Puebla in the month of May, 1847. The -inhabitants, one hundred thousand in number, were struck with -astonishment at the boldness of the act. They had been expecting an army -of at least ten thousand men. Instead of this, ninety dragoons rode into -the piazza alone, where they halted to await the advance of the army, in -all, not numbering four thousand men. Hundreds of Mexicans counted our -soldiers as they crossed the bridge of “Noche buena,” and the feeling -that existed in the breasts of the Poblanos, after our entry into their -city, was one of shame, that they had permitted such a handful of men to -take the old and warlike town of Puebla without a blow having been -struck in its defense. - -They might apparently _have stoned us to death_. - -Santa Anna repulsed at Amozoc, had retreated upon San Martin, and now -held that fair district with his rabble soldiery. - -On finding that it was not in the power of the American commander to -advance beyond Puebla for a time, the bright idea struck Santa Anna of -rousing the national pride once more in defense of their capital. He -consequently crossed the mountains at Rio Frio, and commenced fortifying -the ancient city of the Aztecs, leaving however a large guerilla force, -who roamed at will over the western plain of Puebla and occupied San -Martin, Tlaxcalla, and Atlixco. These at first commenced hostilities by -stopping the supplies of the Puebla market, which depends altogether -upon the fertile districts of the west. Finding, however, that the -American gold received in exchange for the fruits and vegetables of San -Martin, served their purposes better than revenge, the guerillas at -length permitted the produce to pass, levying a heavy contribution upon -each article. - -The hated “alcabala,” was abolished at the city gates, and the Indians -and rancheros of Chohula, San Pablo, and San Martin, flocked to the -grand Piazza of Puebla. - -It was a rare sight in the bright mornings of June, this Piazza of -Puebla. Hundreds of Indian girls seated in groups under their awnings of -“petates,” gayly chatting with one another, or laughing with a clear -ringing laugh at the bad Spanish of the American soldier. Who says that -the Indians of Mexico are a dejected race? No such thing. We have seen -more bright happy faces in the markets of Puebla than any where else. -The slightest witticism—a mispronunciation of the names of any of their -wares by a foreign tongue, will elicit peals of laughter from these -merry market-girls, while the almost constant display of their small -pearly teeth and sparkling eyes evinces the lightness of their hearts. - -[Illustration: THE WOUNDED GUERILLA -Engraved by Rice] - -The remnants of several nations exist in the plains of Puebla. These may -be easily distinguished in the streets of the city by a singular custom. -A few strands of worsted thread, blue, crimson, or purple, are twisted -into the plaits of their luxuriant black hair. The difference of color -in this worsted marks the tribe or village to which the wearer belongs, -so that at a glance you may tell an Indian girl from Tlaxcalla or San -Pablo from one of the Cholultecas. - -The Indians of the last mentioned tribe are perhaps the most interesting -to be met with in Mexico. Living at the foot of the great pyramid, on -“haunted holy ground,” they are constantly reminded of the religion of -their fathers, many of whose peculiar customs and habits they still -preserve in all their pristine simplicity. The young girls of this tribe -are strikingly handsome, and but for their malformation—the effect of -early toil and careless rearing—the Cholultecas, with their dark Indian -eyes and pearly teeth, would far eclipse with their beauty the daughters -of the famed Castilian conquerors. - -Of all the Indian maidens who visited the Piazza of Puebla, none -attracted more admiration from the officer or soldier who thronged -through this market than two sisters from Cholula. These girls were -named Remedios and Dolores, after the appellations of two of the most -popular saints in Mexico. - -The elder, Remedios, was strikingly beautiful, and though admired by -all, her dark Indian eye had made a deeper impression upon the heart of -a young Ranger. - -The occupation of these girls was that of weaving baskets from the fine -fibres of the _palma redonda_, which wares, along with the flowers that -grew in their little garden at Cholula, they brought once or twice a -week to the city. - -The young ranger spoken of, was frequently placed upon picket guard at a -point on the Cholula road, and had thus become acquainted with the -sisters, with whom he seemed to be on terms of friendly intercourse. He -was frequently seen to accompany them beyond the confines of the city on -their return homeward, and at parting the beautiful Remedios would -linger behind her sister, and concealed by the friendly shelter of a -maguey plantation, bid him farewell with a kiss. It was evident that the -passion between the ranger and the fair Cholulteca was mutual. - -Such was the state of affairs in the city. Let us follow the young girls -to their native village at the foot of the far-famed pyramid. - -Under the shade of a huge pepper-tree, stood a small but neat cottage of -adobes. In front of this cottage was a little garden filled with bright -flowers, and fenced in by a close wall of the octagonal columns of -nopal. Outside of the little garden grew the giant maguey planted -closely in rows, and running alongside pathways which led to other -cottages similar to the one above mentioned. Such pathways form the -lanes and streets of a Mexican-Indian village. - -Over the cottage door is a little awning or shade formed by two or three -poles and the broad leaves of the royal palm, and under this awning are -seated the sisters Remedios and Dolores. - -They have been silent for some time, each busily engaged with her work, -which consists in weaving the beautiful palm-baskets, that meet with -such ready sale in the piazza. Dolores is no doubt thinking upon the -profits which her work will yield, and how she will rejoice the heart of -her old and helpless father, who has no other support. Dolores is the -old man’s favorite, and returns his parental fondness with a heart full -of filial love. - -The thoughts of Remedios are dwelling upon a far different object, and -two or three times she has become so absent as to make strange mistakes -in her work. Presently the fibre of palm which she has been weaving -becomes entangled, and suddenly breaks. - -“What are you doing, Remedios?” asks her sister. Then adds with a -somewhat malicious laugh, “Thinking of Don Santiago! But come, sister, -see better to your work, or we will not have our baskets ready for -to-morrow’s market, and then how you would be disappointed!” - -Remedios blushed, but made no other reply to the pleasantry of her -sister. - -Dolores looked in her face, and noticing the blush, said in a more -serious tone, - -“Ah, Remedios! if Pepe only knew.” - -“Knew what?” - -“Of Don Santiago.” - -“And if he did?” exclaimed the elder sister, while her dark eyes flashed -with indignation, “what is Pepe to me. I never loved him, and I never -told him I did—he has no right to me more than another!” - -At this moment a footstep reached the ears of the sisters, causing them -to start and look up. - -A young man of rather a forbidding appearance was coming up between the -rows of magueys. He was dressed in the costume of an ordinary peasant, -but the short carbine which he carried over his shoulder, and the belt -and pouch slung across his breast, betokened that he was one of the -enrolled guerillus, whose head-quarters were for the time in the village -of Cholula. - -The young man entered through the opening of the nopal fence, and -striking the butt of his piece to the ground, stopped in front of the -cottage, saluting the sisters with the usual exclamation for that hour -“_buenos tardes!_” (good evening.) - -The salutation was returned by both the sisters; but in such a manner by -the elder, as showed that she felt a coldness, or rather a repugnance -toward the object of it. - -Pepe (the name of the intruder,) noticed this, and glared upon her with -a scowl which bespoke a strange blending of fierce love with jealous -anger. It was evident that he was now before them with some sinister -design, and the sisters sat without speaking, but both trembling under -the influence of his evil eye. - -“So, Remedios, I have found out the reason why you rejected me so -scornfully, but I will be revenged.” - -“What mean you, Pepe?” asked the girl in a conciliatory tone. - -“You know what I mean. I have heard and know well, too, of your partings -on the road by the garita. I have been told all—but trust me you will -take no more of these affectionate farewells, for this night I will have -my revenge. We have laid our plans, and this night your Yankee lover -will die—and if by to-morrow at noon you have not promised to be mine, -you may dread the vengeance of my comrades, for they shall know all. - -“Remember, to-morrow I return.” - -So saying, the guerilla flung his carbine over his shoulder, and with an -angry look strode from the cottage. - -The young girls watched for a moment in silence his retreating form. -When he had passed from their sight Remedios bent toward her sister, and -in a half whisper asked, - -“What does he mean when he says that he must die to night? Do you think -he has some plot laid to assassinate Don Santiago?” - -“No, to-night they are to attack the picket at the garita. You know that -this is the day of Don Santiago’s guard. I overheard one of the -guerillus talk of their plan as I came from the church.” - -All that night Remedios was unhappy. She slept but little, thinking of -the threat which had been uttered by the jealous Pepe, and with painful -suspense she awaited the approach of day. - -At an early hour the sisters, with their basket filled with the work of -yesterday, and a profusion of beautiful flowers, started for Puebla. - -Shortly after leaving the village they met an Indian woman coming from -the direction of the city, driving an ass. This woman informed the -sisters that there had been a severe skirmish near the garita between -the guerillus and the guard, in which the former had been defeated and -scattered. The guard had got information by some means of the intended -attack, and had sent to Puebla for a reinforcement of mounted men, which -had arrived just in time and by a circuitous route, and had attacked the -guerillus in the rear, so that only a few of them escaped from either -death or capture. - -The sisters had scarcely bid adieu to the Indian woman, when on reaching -a turn in the road they came upon one of the guerillus, seated upon a -stone. - -A handkerchief was bound around his head—his face, pale and haggard, -was spotted with blood, and there was a look of wild revenge in his eye -as he recognized the approach of the two girls. - -They were at first alarmed on perceiving whom they had encountered, for -it was Pepe who was before them, but when they saw that the guerilla was -wounded, and apparently suffering, in the true spirit of womanly -compassion both the young girls ran up to him and inquired what they -could do to assist him. - -This appeared for a moment to soften the bitter spirit of the wounded -man, and in a manner of more tenderness than he usually exhibited, he -requested one of them to bring him a draught of water, while the other -rebound the handkerchief upon his wound. - -The elder sister immediately ran to fulfill his request, while Dolores -remained alone with the guerilla. - -She unbound the handkerchief with tender care, and had commenced -readjusting it, when the sudden trampling of horses’ hoofs was heard, -and before the wounded man had time to escape, half a dozen rangers came -galloping up the road. - -The guerilla had seized his carbine, and was making for the chapparal, -when one of his pursuers called at him to halt and they would spare him. -Seeing the impossibility of escape, the man turned suddenly round and -doggedly approached the party of rangers, who had halted upon the road. - -At this moment Remedios returned, and recognizing one of the rangers, -with an exclamation of delight called out— - -“Don Santiago!” - -“Ha!” cried the guerilla, “it is he!” And throwing up his carbine he -fired at the young ranger, who had leaped from his horse, and was -approaching the girl. - -The ball took effect, passing through the fleshy part of the ranger’s -arm. The shock, brought him to the ground, and the wild laugh of the -guerilla told that he believed his vengeance had been complete. - -The quick successive reports of half a dozen rifles for a moment drowned -this laugh, and when they ceased it was heard no more. He that had -uttered it lay by the road a bleeding corpse. - - * * * * * - - - - - LINES - - - TO MRS. G. R. GRAHAM. - - BY R. T. CONRAD. - - - May not, in this sweet season, my meek prayer - Rise near thine own? It is a prayer for thee, - Gentle and pure, affectionate and fair, - God guard thee ever! and around thee be - Blessings like rays! Thine is a heart to throw - A noble reflex from a manly mate, - To give his loftiest pulse a loftier glow, - - And shed o’er all his path a purer fate. - Gentle as thou art may thy summers be! - Sweet as thy voice and gentle as thy smile! - And hopes that know no winter give to thee - All that is sweetest, surest! all that, while - The clouded earth obscures, has power to light - The soul upon that path that never knows a night. - - * * * * * - - - - - SPEAK KINDLY. - - - BY KATE SUTHERLAND. - - -“Gracious, girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Lindley, thrown suddenly off of her -guard, and turning, with a frown, upon a young lady who had accidentally -trodden upon her dress as she was almost forced down the stairs of the -Musical Fund Hall, at the breaking up of a crowded concert. - -“I am sorry, ma’am,” said the young lady, gently; “it was entirely an -accident.” - -“People ought to look where they put their feet!” muttered Mrs. Lindley, -frowning another reproof upon the blushing girl; and then, with a -dignified toss of the head, resuming her march down the stairs, letting -the crowd, that had been momentarily checked in its downward tendency, -move on again more freely. - -“I should call that a poor specimen of a refined lady,” remarked the -gentleman upon whose arm the girl so rudely addressed was leaning, as -they gained the street. “I hope we shall not find her a representative -of Philadelphia good breeding.” - -“Oh, no! I presume not,” was the answer. “New York has plenty just like -her; and I would be very sorry if strangers were to estimate all by the -standard they afford.” - -“Very true! How weak and foolish it is,” remarked the young man, “for -people to lose temper at every trifle. If the person who gave us so fine -a specimen of amiability to-night, has any right feelings about her, she -was not ten steps from the door of the concert-room before a feeling of -shame took the place of anger. But, whether this be so or not, I would -much rather have your feelings than hers on the occasion.” - -“So would I. And yet an incident like this cannot but disturb the -feelings. To be spoken to insultingly, in the midst of strangers, is far -from being pleasant.” - -“It is. But no one suffers in the estimation of those who happen to be -present when such things occur, but the individual who so far outrages -all good breeding as to resent a trifling accident with ill nature.” - -“True. And yet I feel hurt about the incident which has just transpired. -It leaves a weight upon my feelings, that such thoughts as you suggest -will not throw off. My self-love is perhaps wounded. In other words, I -feel insulted.” - -“And you have reason to feel so, for you were insulted.” - -“Still, I must not permit myself to think unkindly of the person who so -far lost her self-control as to wound my feelings. She may be a woman of -many good qualities, yet hasty in her temper. This may have only been -the exhibition of a prominent weakness, and she may now be suffering -severe mortification in consequence.” - -“More probably she is, at this present moment, animadverting upon the -rudeness of people in public assemblies—herself of course not -included.” - -“Don’t think so unkindly of any one. Rather look at the brighter side.” - -“I’m not as charitable as you are. People show us, in unguarded moments, -the true features of their character. Judging from the glance we had -to-night, I should pronounce the individual who got into such a pet for -a trifle, to be no lady, notwithstanding she was well dressed and seemed -to be in good company. A true lady is one who thinks of others more than -of herself, when she is in society; and—one who does this is never -thrown off of her guard—never speaks unkindly to others—never insults -those who happen, by accident, to step upon a corner of her dress.” - -The subject of this conversation was a Mrs. Lindley. The remarks her -conduct elicited from the companion of the young lady who had, by -stepping upon her dress, caused her to lose her temper, were rather -severe. But few of her intimate friends, had they heard them, could -possibly have believed that she was meant, for they only knew her as a -lady of polished and amiable manners. But Mrs. Lindley had her -weaknesses. She was naturally of a hasty temper, though her regard for -the good opinion of others caused her to keep it under control while in -society, and her reason prompted her to put a check upon it, under all -circumstances. Still, occasions would come when she would forget -herself. - -On the occasion of her attending the concert at the Musical Fund Hall, -she wore a new and elegant dress. The fabric was very delicate, as was -also the color. In descending the stairs, at the close of the concert, -she felt herself suddenly drawn back, and on turning around quickly, saw -that a young woman, a stranger, had stepped upon this dress. Her first -thought was, that it was both torn and soiled, and the exclamation, -“Gracious, girl!” dropped from her lips as an expression of surprise at -the carelessness of the strangers. The annoyance she felt prevented her -from accepting the apology that was instantly offered, and caused her to -reject it in the ungracious manner we have seen. But a few minutes only -elapsed before a better state of mind came, and then she was deeply -mortified at her unlady-like conduct, and would have given almost -anything could she have recalled the hasty words that had fallen from -her lips. - -“It will be a lesson to me,” she said to herself, as she sat brooding -over the incident, after her return home that evening. “I am too apt to -speak from the impulse of the moment, and too prone to speak unkindly on -slight provocation.” - -On the next day, Mrs. Lindley received a letter from a very particular -friend in New York, in which was mentioned the fact that a highly -accomplished young lady, belonging to one of the best families in the -city, was then on a visit to Philadelphia. - -“Miss Herbert,” said the letter, “is a sweet girl, and I number her -among my choicest friends. I have frequently spoken to her of you, and -she has expressed a wish to make your acquaintance. She will remain at -Jones’s Hotel for a week. Will you not call upon her, and show her some -attentions, for my sake? I know you will like her very much; she is the -favorite of every one. Among all my friends here, I know of no one to -whom I am more attached. She is so kind, so gentle, so unselfish, so -wise for one of her age. Make her acquaintance, by all means.” - -“For your sake, if for no other, I will do so,” said Mrs. Lindley, as -she closed the letter. “And as Miss Herbert is only going to spend a few -days in Philadelphia, I will call upon her at once.” - -And so Mrs. Lindley dressed herself that very morning, and called at -Jones’s, to see her friend’s particular friend. She found her quite a -young lady, simple in her style of dressing, slightly reserved at first, -yet easy in her manners. Five minutes had passed before Mrs. Lindley was -entirely at home with her. - -“When did you arrive in our city?” inquired Mrs. Lindley, soon after -they met. - -“I came on day before yesterday,” was replied. - -“Will your stay be short?” - -“I shall leave in a few days, for the South, where I intend spending the -winter.” - -“My friend, Mrs. D—— is, I suppose, very well?” - -“Oh, yes! I never saw her look better in my life She speaks of you very -often, and promises herself great pleasure from your contemplated visit -to New York.” - -“Not more than I do myself. She is a lovely-minded woman.” - -“She is, truly, and the favorite of every circle wherein she moves.” - -“There is something familiar in your face, Miss Herbert,” said Mrs. -Lindley, during a slight pause in the conversation, looking earnestly at -the young lady as she spoke. “It seems as if we must have met before.” - -“And your face made the same impression upon me,” returned Miss Herbert, -smiling. - -“This is a little singular, is it not?” remarked Mrs. Lindley. “We never -met before, and yet both recognize something familiar.” - -“At first thought it seems so. But it is a fact, that we rarely, if -ever, see a new face which has not in it something familiar.” - -“True. But the likeness belongs to a class, and generally has in itself -a peculiarity essentially its own, that marks its individuality. Not -such a likeness do I see in your face. It seems to me as if we must have -met before.” - -“And I cannot get away from the same impression, in regard to you,” said -Miss Herbert. - -“It is a little singular,” returned Mrs. Lindley, sinking for a few -moments into a musing state. - -“Have you been out much since you arrived in the city?” she inquired, as -she came out of this slight abstraction of mind. - -“I have been around a good deal, for the short time I have been here. -Last night I attended the concert at your fine Musical Fund Hall. For -musical purposes, it is one of the best rooms I have ever been in.” - -“Were you pleased with the concert?” inquired Mrs. Lindley—her thoughts -reverting, as she spoke, to the unpleasant incident we have mentioned, -and a vague, yet deeply mortifying suspicion, stealing through her mind. -Her eyes, which were upon the face of Miss Herbert, drooped, and a -slight flush warmed her cheeks. - -“Very much pleased with the concert,” replied the young lady, “but not -quite so well pleased with some of the people who were there.” - -“Ah! What displeased you in the people?” - -“I should have spoken rather in the singular number,” said Miss Herbert, -smiling. “At the close of the concert, and while descending the steps, I -was so unfortunate as to tread upon the dress of a lady, who became -offended thereat, and spoke to me, I thought, with extreme rudeness. I -felt hurt at the moment, but soon got over it.” - -Mrs. Lindley tried to look calmly at the young lady, while she spoke, -and to assume an expression of countenance different from her real -feelings. But the effort was not entirely successful. Miss Herbert saw -that there was a change, and, for a few moments, wondered at its -meaning. Then the truth flashed upon her mind, and she understood why -the face of Mrs. Lindley was so familiar. She had met her before, and -she remembered where! - -To both, this was a painful and an embarrassing discovery. But each felt -that self-possession, and a seeming unconsciousness of the mortifying -fact was of all things necessary. As quickly as Mrs. Lindley was sure -that she could command her voice, she said— - -“I am sorry that any one should have so far forgotten what was due from -a lady as to utter an unkind word to a stranger, in a public assembly, -and on so slight a provocation. But you must try and forgive the -indignity.” - -“That I have already done,” said Miss Herbert, making every effort in -her power to seem unconcerned. “I know that the very best people may -sometimes, in a moment of weakness, be thrown off of their guard, and -say or do things entirely at variance with their real character, and for -which, afterward, they feel the sincerest regret.” - -“It is best always,” replied Mrs. Lindley, whose feelings no one need -envy, “to judge thus kindly of others, even under marked provocation. -But I cannot so readily excuse the person who, from so slight a cause, -could be led into a gross violation of one of the commonest proprieties -of life. Ah, me! How watchful we should all be, for we cannot tell at -what moment we may be thrown off of our guard, and say or do something -that will cost us unavailing regret.” - -This was as much as Mrs. Lindley felt that she dared say upon the -subject; and, as Miss Herbert’s reply did not lead to its continuance, -the theme of conversation took another direction. - -During the young lady’s stay in Philadelphia, Mrs. Lindley paid her -every attention; but never in her presence did she feel at ease, for she -had an instinctive assurance that she was known to Miss Herbert, as the -person who had offered her, on slight provocation, a most gross -indignity. - -For all the kindness and attention of Mrs. Lindley to Miss Herbert, -during her brief stay in Philadelphia, the latter could not forget the -night of the concert. Reason the matter as she would, she could not -force from her mind the natural conclusion that, when off their guard, -people spoke as they felt. The anger of Mrs. Lindley’s voice, her -impatient and insulting language, and particularly the expression of her -face, were constantly presenting themselves to her mind. - -“She may be a woman of many excellent qualities,” she said to herself, -as she mused upon the unpleasant incident connected with their first -meeting; “but I would not choose her as an intimate friend.” - -On her return from the South, Miss Herbert passed through Philadelphia -without calling upon Mrs. Lindley. She thought of doing so, and even -debated the matter seriously, but the repugnance she felt prevented a -renewal of the acquaintance. Reason with herself as she would, -afterward, she found it impossible to think well of Mrs. Lindley, and -though she has been in Philadelphia frequently since, has not visited -her. Yet, for all this, Mrs. Lindley is a woman of excellent qualities, -and much beloved among all her friends. In a moment of weakness she was -thrown off of her guard, and betrayed into the utterance of unkind -words; and that single phase of her character, presented to the eyes of -a stranger, made an unfavorable impression that could not afterward be -effaced. - - * * * * * - - - - - MARIE. - - - BY CAROLINE F. ORNE. - - - When we bore thee to thy grave, Marie, - The flowers were springing fair, - And violets, like azure gems, - Were scattered every where. - The blossoms of the trees, Marie, - In perfumed showers fell fast, - The incense of their dying breath - Each light breeze floated past. - - For the sweet spring-tide had come, Marie, - When we laid thee to thy rest, - With the lily and forget-me-not, - And the rose-bud on thy breast. - These were thy favorite flowers, beloved, - And our tears fell on them, then, - For we thought that nevermore with thee - Should we gather them again. - - Soft clouds were in the sky, Marie, - Soft summer-clouds were they, - They wept a few bright drops for thee, - So early passed away. - They floated swiftly by, beloved, - Half sunshine, and half tears, - Like the checkered light and shade of life, - In thine own vanished years. - - The ever-wandering winds, Marie, - That went and came at will, - Brought whispered tones of love from thee, - As thou wert with us still. - And I almost saw thy seraph form - Hovering above us there, - And felt thy spirit-wing, beloved, - Fanning the viewless air. - - We stood around thy grave, Marie, - Where thy gentle form was laid; - It is a pleasant place of rest - Beneath the greenwood shade; - The wind-flower blooms there earliest, - When the earth wakes from her sleep, - But the spring will come and go, beloved, - Nor break thy slumber deep. - - Our tears fall fast for thee, Marie, - Young mother and young wife, - But not thine infant’s pleading tones - Could call thee back to life; - The soft smile lingered on thy lip, - Lending its quiet grace, - And the dark fringe of thy snowy lids - Shadowed thy pale, calm face. - - We knew ’twas but thy form, Marie, - We placed beneath the mould, - We knew thy spirit laid it off - As a garment’s cumbrous fold. - But beautiful to us, beloved, - Had thy spirit’s dwelling been, - And ’twas hard to see the cold, cold grave - So darkly close it in. - - Thou art nearer to us now, Marie, - Thy vision is more clear, - Thou speakest with a seraph’s voice - In that celestial sphere. - Oh, pray the Lord of Life, beloved, - That unto us be given, - To cheer the darkness of our path, - Some glimpses of thy heaven. - - * * * * * - - - - - LOVE, DUTY AND HOPE. - - - BY ENNA DUVAL. - - - “Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend— - Seeking a higher object. Love was given, - Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end; - For this the passion to excess was driven— - That self might be annulled: her bondage prove - The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.” - - “What though the radiance which was once so bright - Be now for ever taken from my sight, - Though nothing can bring back the hour - Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; - We will grieve not, rather find - Strength in what remains behind, - In the primal sympathy - Which having been must ever be; - In the soothing thoughts that spring - Out of human suffering. - In the faith that looks through death, - In years that bring the philosophic mind.” - —WORDSWORTH. - -There is a romance and interest in the simple unadorned recital of any -woman’s life, no matter how confined may have been her sphere of action. -When I look around a circle of elderly ladies, whose countenances, so -quiet and calm, tell the victory they have gained over “the weary strife -of frail humanity.” I think, ye were once young and full of hope, love -and enthusiasm, and ye have passed through scenes of romance -unconsciously. Each wrinkle, each line on their aged faces seem -glorified to me, for they are records of woman’s trials—evidences of -the earnest struggle of each fond, enduring woman’s heart. - -Years, many and trying have passed since I was a child. The days of my -girlhood I recall with but little pleasure, for the recollection is -associated with remembrances of dependence, loneliness, and ill-health. -My parents died while I was yet quite young. Of my father I have no -recollection—of my mother a faint memory, which may be but fancy after -all. A girl always imagines she recollects her mother, and with the -fancied memory she blends all that is lovely and beautiful. - -My relatives were kind-hearted, but plain matter-of-fact people. They -were mostly well to do in the world, but they had families of their own -to forward in life, and the poor weakly girl was but a burthen to them. -As I grew larger and stronger in health, they all agreed that something -must be done to make me independent when I should grow to woman’s -estate. Very properly they argued “she may never marry, and although a -woman, she must have some means of support to free her from the humbling -feeling of dependence.” My weakly constitution had made me shy and -reserved. A mother’s watchful, fearful love would have overcome this -tendency, but I shrank from the abrupt kindnesses of my plain, homely -friends, and in secret, with a sort of “sorrowing luxury” pined for the -gentle hand of a mother to smooth the pillow for my constant aching -brow, and listen to, and soothe my childish complainings. I loved to be -alone, and fortunately I early imbibed a love for reading. In books I -forgot the sensation of loneliness that weighed down my young spirits. -The bustling, busy natures of those amongst whom the death of my parents -had thrown me, caused them to look upon this very natural tendency of -mine as something quite remarkable. They thought I must surely be -uncommonly clever, uncommonly intelligent to display, thus early, a love -for books; their own memories told a different story—study and reading -had been irksome to their restless minds—minds which found food enough -in every-day worldly pursuits. My vocation was decided upon—I was fond -of study, therefore I would surely make a good teacher, and to fit me -for this trying office, they all resolved that I should have an -excellent education, cost what it might. As I grew older, I fully -appreciated their judicious kindness, and prayed Heaven might bless such -single-hearted people—for although I had not received from my homely, -matter-of-fact relatives, the gentle caresses, and persuasive, patient -endurance of parents, for which I pined in childhood, yet they freely -gave of their store to me, and provided me with the resources, which in -womanhood fortified my mind, and enabled me to bear with sore trials. - -An old established prosperous school was selected, where, under the -supervision of a highly accomplished and superior mind, my early days -were passed. I improved rapidly. Each session at its conclusion gave a -most satisfactory report of my progress; and when I reached the age of -fifteen I had obtained such a position as to entitle me to a vacant -subordinate teachership in the school, the duties of which were but -light, and left me sufficient time to pursue the higher branches of -study. My position as half-teacher, half-pupil, caused a slight barrier -to be raised between my fellow scholars and myself, but amongst them I -had many dear friends, who disregarded this fancied difference, and -loved me as one of themselves. My most intimate school-girl friend was -Clara Neale. So different were we in every respect, that even as a girl -I used to wonder at our intimacy. She was beautiful, rich, and -surrounded by a troop of loving and admiring friends. I poor, not -absolutely ugly, yet plain, and almost if not quite alone in the school -world. How I worshiped her beauty—I was always strangely affected and -influenced by personal appearance. Beauty, particularly in a woman, -attracted me—it was a weakness, but still I acknowledge its power. The -blue of Clara’s eyes was so deep, so dark—I can see their melting, -bewitching softness of expression even now, though many, many years have -passed away, and those eyes are closed in death. - -Her hair was of the purest shade of chestnut brown; and many an hour -have I hung over her as if under the influence of a beautiful dream, -listening to her sweetly modulated voice reading some impassioned tale; -her graceful form thrown carelessly in a lovely attitude, and every -movement beaming with beauty. She was my idol, I confess, but the idol -also of many. My enthusiastic love pleased her, for I was cold to -others, being as in childhood, quiet and reserved, and seldom giving -evidence of any emotion. In the school I ranked high as a scholar, and -on account of my incessant, ambitious application, received from my -principals more credit for superiority of mind, than I fear I really -deserved; which, although it caused me to be an object of envy to many, -yet by girls possessing the associations and independence of position -which Clara did, I was regarded with respect and admiration. Therefore -did my romantic love flatter her. She was my first infatuation. I -clothed her with every virtue under the sun—I endowed her with every -mental gift in my fancy. As I look upon the ideal being created by my -girlish fascination, I can scarcely refrain from smiling, though in -sadness. Beautiful, she truly was, “as a poet’s or a painter’s -dream”—but she was little else. Clever enough, but not superior. She -was romantic, easily influenced, and gentle—but I loved her -passionately, and I love her memory now, even though she caused me great -suffering. - -My vacations were generally spent at the school, for it was situated in -a very healthy section of country, and there were always many of the -boarding scholars that different circumstances compelled to remain. But -the summer of my sixteenth year, my health gave evidences of failing. -The preceding winter had been a trying one, both out of doors and -in—bleak and stormy had been the weather—the studies had likewise been -arduous and severe for me. The class of younger girls, my charges, had -been uncommonly large, consequently my duties increased, which caused me -to take from my sleeping hours the time necessary for accomplishing my -other studies. I felt that my reputation as the leading scholar in the -establishment was all I had to depend upon, therefore I could not permit -any thing to deprive me of that which I knew was my only capital. But, -ah! how wretchedly I felt at the close of the session; all the old -pining sadness of my childhood returned to me—I sickened for a tender -mother’s gentle soothings, a father’s looks of anxious pride—but these -were not for me, poor lone hearted girl, and “the future rose only as a -wall of darkness before me.” No longer did my heart beat with pride when -the principal prizes were unanimously awarded to me; and the directors -of the school looked compassionately on me, as they marked my thin form, -hollow cheeks, and dim eyes. A change of scene was necessary, so all -said, and I received from a distant relative an invitation to spend the -weeks of my vacation in his family. Passively I accepted the kind offer, -for so despondent was I, that all places seemed alike to me; but I -little expected the happiness that awaited me. They were relatives I had -never met with before; the husband was kind, intelligent, and -pleasant—the wife was still handsome, though no longer young—in my -eyes a great virtue—had known and loved my mother, and was gentle and -affectionate. They had many children, all married, and young -grandchildren shouted merrily through the house. It was a beautiful -country place where they lived, high mountains surrounded them, and -thick forests, such as I had never seen but in pictures and dreams. The -glow of health soon bloomed once more upon my cheeks; the dark cloud of -the Future was no longer regarded by me, for the bright sunny light of -the Present, blinded me to its shadows and I again rejoiced in life. - -When my visit was about half over, a ward of my cousin’s came to pay -them a visit. Does not my reader see already that I am approaching the -history of my second infatuation? How my heart beats even now, old as I -am, when I recall the image of Walter Grey. He was also beautiful, or my -heart would never have been enchained. A miniature of him lies beside me -as I write, and I fancy I am a girl again, as I look in those liquid -dark eyes and dwell on the lovely lines of the countenance—massive and -rich are the dark clusters of the wavy hair; beautiful is the face, and -deeply, devotedly, did I love the original. - -The last weeks of my sojourn in that blessed region floated as on -dream-wings. Walter was my constant companion. We wandered through the -forests—by the gushing, dancing, Undine streams, and he imagined, while -listening to my girlish rhapsodies, that I was the realization of an -intellectual perfection he had created in his fancy. We parted in the -fall, promising to meet again. My cousin’s family had become much -attached to me, and they insisted on parting, that every vacation should -be spent with them. Gladly I consented, and with a heart beating as it -never before had beat, with feelings of rapture and hope, I returned to -school. Clara was my confidante, and yet I had nothing to confide, as -she with more worldly wisdom said. She looked disappointed when I told -her Walter had made no offer, and my sensitive spirit felt shocked that -she should think it a necessary attendant upon our intercourse. He had -talked of love, but not particularly of loving me. We had roamed -together by the banks of the mountain streamlets, watching the -moon-beams glistening on the tiny white-crested wavelets, listening to -the chiming of their ringing foam bells, as they sprang aloft to kiss -the overhanging branches of the osier willows that hung as in “love-sick -langor” o’er the banks of the faëry waters. Hand clapped in hand, we had -talked of nature, of spiritual love and beauty—earthly every day -matters were unthought of by us, we were dreamers, and happy in our -visions. - -A winter vacation came, and again I visited my cousin’s beautiful -home—again met with Walter. I saw those magnificent forests clothed in -snow—a glittering mantle enveloped all nature; but still the dancing -streamlet leaped, dashing and sparkling along its mountain path, unbound -by the icy chains that held captive other streams; it seemed as an -emblem of my own joyous nature. I was so happy. Another summer came, and -I revisited the lovely place; but that summer I had indeed much to -confide to Clara. Walter and I were betrothed, with the willing, joyful -consent of my relatives. We were to be married at some future time, when -he should have accomplished his studies. Two or three years might -elapse, but then we could meet frequently at my cousin’s, and we could -write, oh! such eloquent letters to each other. I yielded myself up -heart and soul to this infatuation, with an earnestness that surprised -me, for I had been so accustomed to control my feelings from childhood, -that I was almost ignorant of the depth of feeling I possessed. - -Walter was wealthy, and every one congratulated me on my good fortune. -Little I cared for his worldly goods, and with all the romance of a -young disinterested spirit, I sighed that he was not poor—but he -rejoiced over his wealth for my sake, he said, and longed with -impatience to release me from what he deemed degrading thraldom. He -implored that I should no more return to Penley-Hill—that I should -remain with my cousins—they united their entreaties, but I refused; no, -until our marriage, I preferred my residence at the school. I -represented to him that it was not disagreeable to me, my pursuits were -intellectual, and it was better for me to continue my studies. This was -the only cause for dispute between us, and I felt more pained than I was -willing to confess when I discovered that he rather looked down on my -position in life; but his love, freely and fervently expressed, for my -own self, soothed my wounded feelings, and we again parted—I for -Penley-Hill, he for the gay metropolis, where he was to commence the -study of a profession, which would occupy two years—two long years—at -the expiration of which we were to be married. - -That winter was a long one to me, for Clara had left the school at the -close of the preceding session—her education completed, she was to make -her debut that season in society. But her letters and Walter’s, cheered -the hours which would have otherwise hung heavily. I was exceedingly -anxious they should meet, and looked forward with delight to Walter’s -residence in the city where Clara’s parent’s resided. They did meet—in -the same circle of fashionable, wealthy families did they mingle, and I -was charmed at the rapturous description my friend and my lover gave me -of each other. How could they fail being pleased, one with the other I -said, and I pressed their letters with transport to my bosom. That -either should prove false, never entered my mind, and long, long was it -before I opened my eyes with fearful certainty to the truth fatal to my -happiness. The constrained, short letters I received from both, I -attributed to every cause but the right one. Clara was so occupied in a -whirl of dissipation I thought, as to be unable to write differently. -Walter was hurried in his studies, I said self-consolingly; he was -vainly endeavoring to shorten by intense application the tedious two -years probation. - -The winter’s vacation I spent at Penley—for Walter wrote that his -studies would detain him in the city. The next vacation was indeed -passed at my cousin’s mountain-home—but in such wretchedness that my -heart aches as I recall that sad time. The lovely place had lost all -beauty in my eyes. Long before the spring flowers had drooped, I became -convinced of my friend’s perfidy—my lover’s infidelity; and I was -nearer death than life when my tender relatives bore me from Penley to -their home, vainly endeavoring to soothe and comfort my outraged -spirits. Long and severe was the illness which held me helpless as an -infant to my bed. Those who still loved me watched with painful anxiety, -scarcely hoping for my recovery, for they felt that returning health -would only restore me to a miserable, forsaken existence. But I did -recover, and quietly and calmly resolved to bend to the burden imposed -upon me. But a greater trial came. My dangerous illness had awakened -feelings of remorse in both Clara and Walter. She wrote wild, -self-reproaching letters, begging my forgiveness, and yielding up all -claim to Walter; whilst he renewed his protestations of love, imploring -me to pardon his wandering; but the same spirit which made me return to -Penley the preceding summer, caused me to reject firmly these weak -overtures. But I wrote with earnest affection to both, communicating my -firm determination. They both sought to see me, but I steadily refused -all interviews, and assured them if they really wished my future quiet -and rest, they must love each other as I had loved them, but not harass -my wounded heart by useless scenes and letters. Some of my friends -commended my course, others attributed it to a natural coldness of -disposition, and felt a sympathy for the two who had so deeply injured -me; but I was alike deaf to commendation or censure. I acted as my heart -and spirit impelled me, and felt a cold indifference to the remarks or -opinions of any one. - -I heard from Walter and Clara no more for years. Before the two years -necessary for the completion of his studies had passed around, they were -married; but I was far distant at the time, and did not hear of it until -some months after. After my health was established my devoted -application to my duties was the remark of every one, and I soon rose in -the school to one of the head teacherships. I gave myself up heart and -spirit to my business, and it was regarded as a wonder that I so young, -should display such endurance and strength. They knew not how I suffered -in secret—they knew not of the moments when my overtaxed heart could -bear up no longer—when I trembled before the wailings of my inner -spirit. I felt that I had - - “Poured out my soul’s full tide - Of hope and trust, - Prayer, tear, devotedness; - ’Twas but to write with the heart’s fiery rain, - Wild words on dust.” - -The habit of self-control which I had early acquired, enabled me, -however, to struggle against such feelings of sorrowful, hopeless -despondency, and I would rouse myself, seeking constant, unceasing -occupation in my daily duties, that I might strengthen my fainting -spirit. - -Amongst my pupils was one whose situation had always endeared her to me. -Lucy Hill was a delicate, weakly orphan girl. She reminded me of myself -in my early days; but, unlike me, though dependent, it was on an -affectionate, wealthy uncle, who, being unmarried, had no one to care -for but her. He watched anxiously every breath, and anticipated every -wish of this idolized niece. A fall in her infancy had increased a -debility natural to her, and the fear of personal deformity at last -became realized. As she passed the age of early childhood, her -physicians thought that to place her at Penley-Hill would be of benefit -to her, bodily as well as mentally; and she had resided there for three -or four years, as half pupil, half boarder. She loved me as she would -have loved an elder sister; and I taught her, nursed her, and after my -great sorrow, tried to forget my own griefs in the interest I felt for -her. Symptoms of the disease which had swept off her family displaying -themselves in her, a milder climate than her bleak northern home was -deemed necessary—and her uncle resolved to take her to the South of -Europe. She insisted upon my accompanying her—urged how necessary I was -to her health and happiness. Her uncle joined his entreaties, and even -the principals of Penley urged me to accept the offer, though at the -same time, with kind, flattering words, assured me that on my return -they would gladly again receive me in their establishment, from which -they said they could illy spare me. But in truth they feared that I, as -well as poor Lucy, needed the change of scene and climate. Though quiet -and resigned, my health was gradually sinking under the burden pride -imposed upon my suffering spirit, and my friends began to tremble for my -life. - -I accepted the munificent offers Lucy and her uncle made to me. Money -was of no consequence to him compared to the gratification of that loved -girl; and we set sail for Europe. A year and more passed delightfully to -me. Lucy’s health seemed, indeed, benefited by the change. We traveled -leisurely through the classic scenes of Europe—lingering where we -wished, and roaming where fancy led us; and I almost forgot—yes, quite -forgot—my sorrows in the intellectual gratification I was enjoying. But -a new cause of annoyance sprung up; Mr. Hill became, to my surprise, my -lover, and Lucy added her entreaties to his. I shrank from the idea of -marrying. No, I had loved once, I never could again—and I would never -marry without love. Mr. Hill was much older than I—many years my -senior, but pleasant, intelligent and gentlemanly. He knew of my -unfortunate connection with Walter, and was one of those who had looked -with respect upon the course I had pursued; this sympathy and respect -had deepened into love. I liked him—respected him—had even a warm -friendship for him—but marry him! oh, no—that I could never do; and -when he found that his offers pained me, he and Lucy, with kind -consideration, desisted from their entreaties. But I could see in his -countenance and manner that great was the struggle he endured; and I had -resolved upon returning home, when an alarming change took place in -Lucy, which forbade my leaving her. A few weeks of violent, intense -suffering to her ensued, which ended in her death. On her death-bed I -yielded to her request—I became the wife of her uncle. She dreaded to -leave him alone in life, and her parting breath was calmed with the -certainty that I was, indeed, her aunt, by the ceremony which was -performed sadly, at her bed-side a few hours previous to her death. - -We remained abroad many years, and I was quietly happy. I at last -fancied I loved my husband; not as I had loved Walter, it is true; but -the many excellent qualities which my husband possessed, won upon me. -His kindness, his attention to my unexpressed wishes, could not but be -appreciated—and I valued him as he deserved to be valued. We had -troubles in our married life, however; our three lovely children were -laid, one after another, beside dear Lucy, in the beautiful Neapolitan -burial-place; and when, after ten years of quiet, calm happiness, my -husband died, he left me a childless widow. We had returned to our -native country a year or so before his death, and he had taken great -pleasure the last few months of his existence, in beautifying in every -possible manner, our country residence, which was my favorite abode. One -could scarcely imagine a more lovely spot; nature had been lavish in its -bounties, and my husband added every thing that wealth could purchase to -adorn its exterior and interior. It reminded me of the beautiful villa -belonging to the Italian, Paul Jovius; and I wish for his glowing words, -that, like him, I could paint with rapture “the gardens bathed by the -waters of the lake—the shade and freshness of the woods—the green -slopes, sparkling fountains—the deep silence and calm of solitude.” - -My husband, in adorning this place, followed out with loving precision, -the classic description given of the Italian eulogist’s beautiful -residence. Like the villa of Jovius, “a statue was raised in the gardens -to Nature. In the hall stood a fine statue of Apollo and the Muses -around, with their attributes. The library was guarded by a Mercury, and -there was an apartment, adorned with Doric columns, and with pictures of -the most pleasing subjects dedicated to the Graces.” - -The loss of such a husband could not but be deeply felt by me, and -though young, wealthy, and more comely than I had been in youth, I shut -myself up from society, long after the period of mourning had elapsed. I -became resigned at last, and in intellectual pursuits was tranquilly -happy. Being surrounded by images of beauty—the works of masters -glowing on my walls—exquisite and costly pieces of sculpture around -me—my library almost a fairy spot—my days passing in luxurious -quiet—the recollection of past sorrow became subdued and softened, and -I breathed with calm tranquillity the delicious atmosphere of the -present. - -One summer, some four or five years after my husband’s death, I ventured -to visit the mountain region where my dear cousins had resided. They -were dead—kind creatures—but their youngest child, a married daughter, -of whom I was fond, resided there with a lovely family of children. They -were such romping, blessed little ones, I envied her the possession of -these darlings. One lovely child, which bore the name of my mother and -hers—Mary—I quietly resolved to adopt and coax away from her parents, -when she should become sufficiently fond of me. The days passed -delightfully to me, although that lovely place was connected with the -most bitter recollections of my past life. Again I roamed through the -deep forests—along the mountain paths, and traced the course of the -stream as it dashed over its rocky bed as I had in girlish days with -Walter, and at last found myself recalling his beautiful face to my -memory. One day, on my return from my ramblings, I was told that -he—Walter—the long parted one—had arrived. He was, like myself, alone -in life—a childless widower. Clara was dead. How my heart sprung—and -then sunk; recollections of bitter agony came with his presence—and I -was chilled. We met—and days did we spend together. I knew that the -meeting and intercourse had been planned by my kindly meaning friends; -they thought we would renew our love—how little they knew of woman’s -heart. Again we visited our old haunts; again Walter addressed words of -passionate love to me, and for a while I fancied the influence of the -old dream hung over me. I returned abruptly to my home, and spent weeks -in its quiet, calm seclusion; severely and earnestly questioning my -heart, my first conclusion remained; the recollection of past love was -mingled too deeply with the remembrance of those bitter moments of -heart-breaking agony, when I had dared, in my sufficiency, to question -the justice of Providence. Walter’s desertion had taught me to still and -calm my feelings—to coldly reason on heart-throbbings; now he was the -sufferer by the lesson—and again we parted, never more to meet. I was -firm—he said, heartless—and it may be I was; if so, his early -faithlessness had caused that heartlessness. - -Life passed quietly around. I succeeded in persuading the little Mary to -love me as she loved her mother—and her merry voice and light footstep -cheered my residence. I saw her married to one she loved; and my former -quiet, solitary home has rung with the joyous laughter of her children, -who troop around me daily. I have known great sorrow, but also much -happiness, and have contributed to lighten the griefs of many. I am now -old, but I am surrounded with dear, loving friends; and when I would -sigh over the past, I look on these happy faces around me, and raise my -heart in grateful thoughts to the Power that guided me through a painful -childhood—a bitter womanhood—and led me at last to the quiet waters of -peaceful prosperity, where I may lay down my spirit to rest. - - * * * * * - - - - - DO I LOVE THEE? - - - BY RICHARD COE, JR. - - - Do I love thee? Ask the flower - If it love the pearly tear - That, at evening’s quiet hour, - Falleth soft and clear, - Its gentle form to bless? - If, perchance, it answer “yes!” - Answer thee sincerely— - Then I love with earnestness, - Then I love thee dearly! - - Do I love thee? Ask the child, - If it love its mother dear? - If it love her accents mild? - Love her fond, sincere, - Tender and warm caress? - If, perchance, it answer “yes!” - Answer thee sincerely— - Then I love with earnestness, - Then I love thee dearly! - - Do I love thee? Ay! I love thee - Better far than words can tell; - All around and all above me - Lives a charméd spell, - My spirit sad to bless! - Then I fondly answer “yes!” - Answer thee sincerely— - That I love with earnestness, - That I love thee dearly! - - * * * * * - - - - - ODE TO SHELLEY. - - - BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. - - - Why art thou dead? Upon the hills once more - The golden mist of waning Autumn lies; - The slow-pulsed billows wash along the shore, - And phantom isles are floating in the skies. - They wait for thee: a spirit in the sand - Hushes, expectant, for thy lingering tread; - The light wind pants to lift thy trembling hair; - Inward, the silent land - Lies with its mournful woods—why art thou dead, - When Earth demands that thou shalt call her fair? - - Why art thou dead? O, glorious Child of Song, - Whose brother-spirit ever dwells with mine, - Feeling, twin-doomed, the burning hate of Wrong, - And Beauty’s worship, deathless and divine! - Thou art afar—wilt thou not soon return, - To tell me that which thou hast never told? - To grasp my throbbing hand, and by the shore - Or dewy mountain-fern, - Pour out thy heart as to a friend of old, - Tearful with twilight sorrow? Nevermore. - - Why art thou dead? My years are full of pain— - The pain sublime of thought that has no word; - And Truth and Beauty sing within my brain - Diviner songs than men have ever heard. - Wert thou but here, thine eye might read the strife— - The solemn burthen of immortal song— - And hear the music, that can find no lyre; - For thou hast known a life, - Lonely, amid the Poets’ mountain-throng— - Whose cloudy snows concealed eternal fire! - - I could have told thee all the sylvan joy - Of trackless woods; the meadows, far apart, - Within whose fragrant grass, a lonely boy, - I thought of God; the trumpet at my heart, - When on bleak mountains roared the midnight storm - And I was bathed in lightning, broad and grand:— - Oh, more than all, with low and sacred breath - And forehead flushing warm, - I would have led thee through the summer land - Of my young love, and past my dreams of Death! - - In thee, immortal Brother! had I found - That voice of Earth for which my spirit pines; - The awful speech of Rome’s sepulchral ground, - The dusky hymn of Vallambrosa’s pines! - From thee the noise of ocean would have taken - A grand defiance round the moveless shores, - And vocal grown the mountain’s silent head. - Canst thou not still awaken - Beneath the funeral cypress? Earth implores - Thy presence for her son—why art thou dead? - - I do but rave—for it is better thus: - Were once thy starry heart revealed to mine, - In the twin-life which would encircle us, - My soul would melt, my voice be lost in thine! - Better to mask the agony of thought - Which through weak human lips would make its way, - ’Neath lone endurance, such as men must learn: - The Poet’s soul is fraught - With mightiest speech, when loneliest the day; - And fires are brightest, that in midnight burn. - - * * * * * - - - - - MARION’S SONG IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM. - - - BY FRANCIS S. OSGOOD. - - - Away with you, ye musty tomes! - I’ll read no more this morning! - The wildwood rose unlessoned grows— - I’m off—your sermons scorning! - - I found a problem, yester eve, - In wondering where the brook led, - More pleasant far for me to solve - Than any one in Euclid. - - I heard a bird sing, sweet and low, - A truer lay than Tasso— - A lay of love—ah! let me go, - And fly from Learning’s lasso! - - I saw a golden missal, too, - ’Twas writ in ancient ages, - And stars—immortal words of light— - Illumined all its pages! - - The hand of God unclasped the book, - And oped its leaves of glory; - I read, with awed and reverent look, - Creation’s wondrous story. - - I will not waste these summer hours, - The gift that He has given; - I’ll find philosophy in flowers, - Astronomy in heaven! - - Yon morning-glory shuts its leaves, - A worm creeps out from under; - Ye volumes, take the hint she gives, - And let the book-worm wander! - - I’ll scan no more old Virgil’s verse, - I’d rather scan the heavens; - I’ll leave the puzzling Rule-of-Three - At sixes and at sevens; - - The only sum I’ll cipher out - Shall be the “_summum bonum_;” - My only _lines_—shall fish for trout, - Till Virgil wouldn’t own ’em! - - A costly cover has my book, - Rich blue, where light is winding; - How poor, beside its beauty, look - Your calf and cotton binding. - - Away! the balmy air—the birds— - Can teach me music better - Than all your hard, high-sounding words, - That still my fancy fetter. - - The waves will tell me how to play - That waltz of Weber’s rightly; - And I shall learn, from every spray, - To dance, with grace and lightly. - - Hush! hark! I heard a far-off bird, - I’ll read no more this morning; - The jasmine glows—the woodbine blows! - I’m off—your sermons scorning! - - * * * * * - - - - - ALL ABOUT “WHAT’S IN A NAME.” - - - BY CAROLINE C——. - - - ’Tis folly to think of life’s troubles, yet they have the most - inconvenient faculty of forcing themselves on the minds of men! - _An. Phi._ - -Proprietor of the visual organs now scanning this page, which the -publisher, with the still but potent voice of print, proclaimeth -henceforth and forever mine, _do_ you love music? rejoice you in the -melody of singing voices? If you reply in the affirmative, then most -heartily do I wish that you occupied my place at this present moment; -for over the way—oh, most uncomfortable proximity!—there is a “Hall,” -where regularly meet a number of _vocalists_, whose chief object in -life, for all I can discover, seems to be to ascertain to a certainty -the exact power of their individual lungs—perhaps a secondary intent -may be to edify this usually calm neighborhood; in case this latter -should be at all an influential motive, I hereby proclaim that I, being -the neighbor most concerned, am fully satisfied, and far from following -the pernicious example of the world-renowned Oliver, I will not cry for -“more,” on the contrary, I would much rather stoop to compromise; and if -they will but cessate, I will henceforth and forever maintain a most -unbreakable silence on all musical subjects, though in doing so, you can -hardly conceive what a _sacrifice_ I would be making. - -Oh, could you but hear them shout “I _will_ praise the Lord!” perhaps if -you are a good Christian you might put up with the nuisance, after -having given utterance to only a _partial_ sigh; but possessing as _I_ -do so small a share of the Christian graces, I can only say in answer, -though with all reverence, “if you call _this_ praise, beseech you, -expedite your glorifyings, and have done.” - -Perhaps I owe an apology, at least a reason, for opening this chapter in -such an exceedingly unamiable style: here it is then. I came into my -“_sanctum_” with the express purpose of thinking of one I would fain -tell you all about, but with thoughts so distracted as mine are at -present, I fear I shall hardly do justice to any body in giving them -utterance to night, and yet I feel constrained so to do; remember, in -mercy, how I have been outraged by the explosion in yonder “Hall,” and -so proceed. - -My heroine lived and _lives_ in this most beautiful of all villages in -the Empire State, which, as perhaps you know, is _footed_ by the most -charming of lakes imaginable, and is, though a “sleeping beauty,” (the -village I mean,) when taken all together quite perfect in its way. - -To avoid being convicted of speaking of _any body in particular_, I -shall treat of this lady as though she were one of the has beens; -perhaps afterward I may tell you what she _is_. - -Well, then, in her _young_ days she _was_ a maiden very much like other -maidens, (American, of course,) pretty, graceful, intelligent, and -interesting. No one ever thought her a great beauty, but the expression -of her countenance was decidedly good. She was very fair, indeed, _so_ -fair that her face seemed pale, in contrast with the glossy black hair -which was not usually arranged with very great regard for effect. Her -eyes also were black—not the detestable, twinkling, beady, black orb, -nor the very opposite, dull, heavy black; but a soft, spiritual eye, -filled with mild, cheerful light, quite pleasing to behold; and yet I -have seen them glowing actually with what might be called the _fire of -determination_, which was quite astonishing to see in one most every -body took to be the most placid, and amiable, and soft-hearted creature -in the world. - -In a crowd of brilliants, or of ordinary fashionable people even, this -little lady would have been in her earlier days hopelessly lost to all -observation. It was amid the fire-side circle she was calculated -pre-eminently to shine. In her own home, among familiar friends, what an -affectionate child she was; the arms of her spirit seemed to be -continually out-stretched, seeking and asking for love and kindness and -sympathy; it was a craving of her nature, a necessity to her happiness, -that all should love and esteem her. - -A pale-faced, quiet girl, whom, because of her goodness and gentleness, -every body liked—there, you have her. You have seen hundreds such, but -in all your promiscuous travels, I will guaranty, not many of you have -met with one of whom you have such a tale to tell as I am going to -unfold. - -In order that I may continue this story with any degree of satisfaction -to you, patient(?) bearer with my many digressions, or with any comfort -or propriety to myself, it is absolutely necessary that I should give -this amiable and loveable maiden “a name,” as I have already given her a -“local habitation.” I have not delayed doing this for so long without -reason, so far from that, it is with inexpressible reluctance that I -proclaim to you the cognomen of _this_ friend of mine. I have tried to -get up a little interest in her on your part before mentioning her -title, the world is so cold-hearted, and possesses so little power of -_appreciation_, that I fear me it will imagine no manner of interest -could attach itself to the owner of _such_ a name. - -Poor dear, (do not look at me so earnestly, my tongue falters while I -speak,) poor, dear Delleparetta Hogg, all honor to thee for bearing the -burden of _such_ a nomenclature so meekly and so well! Let me tell you -all about her, (for really I am coming to the point,) and you will see -what other burdens she bore nobly, beside that odious appendage to her -identity. - -Her childhood passed much in the manner of the childhood of other -people. From the time when she was a little wee thing till she was -twelve years old, Delleparetta, or Delle, as we used to call her, went -with all the rest of the village children to the village-school; she -played with us, and rode, and walked, and went nutting with us, and was -in all respects as we, only a great deal better, and more obliging, -till, as I have said, she approached _’teen hood_. Then “trouble came -down upon” the young child. - -One day the sun, which had always shone so cheerfully upon her, went -behind a dark and hateful cloud, and an evil genius passing by her home, -stamped upon the door the cross of poverty. From that day there was a -sad change in little Delle; her voice became more hushed than ever in -its tone, she rarely came to join us in our merry-makings—and there -spread a thoughtful, sad expression over the face of the gentle child, -which told she had heard unpleasant changes in the aforetime harmony of -her life. - -The father of Delle had started in life with a purse alarmingly full of -nothingness, but by slow and patient toil and care, he had worked -himself into the possession of a comfortable living. Not content with -this, one ever-to-be-lamented day he entered into a wild speculation, -which, instead of at once doubling his fortune, left him in a far worse -predicament than he was placed in at the beginning of life forty years -before, when he had played a bare-footed boy in the streets, with -scarcely a home to boast of. Yes, he was a great deal worse off than he -was _then_, despite his present respectability, and his fine noble wife, -and five children; because _then_ he was but a boy, brimful of hope, -eager to enter into the contest of life, fearful of no failure, feeling -he had “little to lose, and all to win.” Now his habits of ease and -quiet had been so long fastening upon him, it really required no little -strength of mind and purpose to rouse and labor as he had done in the -days of his youth; his eagerness and hopefulness of spirit were -gone—his ambition was departed; and when he looked on his five helpless -little ones, the eldest but twelve years old, he felt as though the -weight of a mountain were on his hands. - -Temptation comes well armed to such a mind, and not with unheard -footsteps, or disregarded smile drew she nigh to him. She held the -wine-cup to his lips—his eyes grew red with looking on the burning -poison, and he tasted, and was lost! Not a hand lifted he to avert the -dread calamity which he alone _could_ avert; not an effort did he make -to re-establish once more the happiness of that household, when smiles -and kind words were all the little group cared to have. About this time -Sickness passed on heavy wing by this home of our little friend; she saw -the cross her sister Poverty had marked upon the lintel, and she knew -where she might rest. The _poor_ have no power to shut out the dark -angel, when she pauseth before their open door. - -The mother, who, during one of the longest and hardest of winters had -exerted herself daily and nightly far beyond her strength to provide for -the wants of her children, who had in reality no other support but her, -drooped when the “life-inspiring” spring came round again. The health -which was so shattered by the struggles and heart-sorrows of the winter, -was not restored again when the sunlight streamed so richly through her -cheerless home. With the blossoming trees, and the violets, her hope did -not strongly revive. The voices of the returning birds did not bring to -her the lightness and happiness of spirit she had known in other -days—for every day the brand of drunkenness was graven deeper and -deeper on the forehead of the lover of her youth. Long, long after all -her natural strength had failed, the mother’s love, and the wife’s -devotion sustained, supported her. Long after her voice was faltering -with weakness, did she supplicate that husband to rouse him to his -former manliness, to exert himself once more. Long after her hands were -trembling with disease, did she continue to ply the needle, whose labor -was to bring them their daily food. - -And heavy debts hung over them. Then the creditors, who saw no -probability of these being ever satisfied, determined to liquidate them -by selling off the little farm and residence of Mr. Hogg. And so they -were sold. With the miserable remnant of their household goods which was -left them, they removed to a smaller and less comfortable home. Then, as -if evil days had not dawned on them already, one morning found the -toiling mother laid on the bed of sickness and of death. To leave those -helpless children _thus!_ oh, it had been hard to part with those little -ones, when around each one her heart-strings clung, even had their -future been very bright, but to leave them when darkness and dreariness -of life was before them, when a path so beset with sorrow and trial was -all that she could see in store for them! bitter, bitter it was, indeed! -Pass we over the sacredness of that hour, when the dying mother -breathing the few faint parting words in the ear of her eldest child, -left them to struggle on in their hard road alone. Words fail me to tell -her anguish, who, in the last moments of her life, was racked by the -thought of _all_ that _they_ might be called on to endure. No living -voice _should_ essay to speak of all that was in her heart, when she -clasped the youngest, a bright-eyed boy, to her bosom, while his gay -voice broke forth in laughter, and he flung his arms about her neck, and -hid his face, all radiant with smiles, in her bosom. I am powerless when -I attempt to tell you of the girl who stood shuddering with agony beside -that bed, while the shadows of the coming night were fast filling the -little room, when, after a long, and to her terrible silence, with -trembling hands she lifted the boy from his mother’s arms, and felt as -her fingers loosened the parent’s grasp, that the thin hands were icy -cold, when she fell almost lifeless to the floor with the little one in -her arms, feeling that those children had no mother or protector but -her. _I_ cannot tell you as should be told, if told, indeed, at all, of -the terrible sorrow that filled her soul, when the little one said to -her, “put me back with mamma, she is sleeping!” - -From that day Delle went with us no more to the village school, neither -joined us in our hours of gayety. While she was so young, the cares and -anxieties of a woman had overtaken her, and trials which older heads and -hearts find it hard to bear, were thick in her path, all that delights -the young and excitable, did she most cheerfully forego; I never heard a -murmur from her lips. The living witnesses of her mother’s love and -life-devotion surrounded her; they forbade every expression, every -feeling of impatience, or envious regard of the happiness of others, no -worthier than herself. - -It was a heart-cheering sight, the firmness and perseverance of that -strong-minded girl, when the first wildness of her sorrow was passed, -and she stood amid that family group, a support, and a counsellor, and -guide, plying her little hands on the coarse work with which the -neighbors had supplied her. All the counsel and advice of the dead -mother she kept most religiously. Never for a moment did she falter in -her duty, but no one knows how much of sadness there was in her heart. - -At the time of his wife’s death, the father seemed to pause for a little -in his downward course, for he had loved her once, and remembered well -that happy time, and perhaps, but no, I cannot dignify the affection -with which still, in his sober hours, he thought of her, with the name -of _love_. No, he did not _love_ her in her better days, because love -would have prompted him to deeds commensurate with so ennobling and -exalting a faculty. Yet when she died, the husband sorrowed for her, and -conscience reproached him, too, when he looked for the last time on the -care-worn, faded countenance of his departed wife, who had always been -his good angel. Still it was not with such sorrow as he should have -sorrowed for her, that he followed her to the grave, and then led his -little ones back to his home; had it been, he would have sought then, in -a better life, to pay a fitting homage to her memory. - -For a few weeks he did labor with what little skill was left him, at his -old trade; but his was not the will, nor the mind, nor the heart to -pursue the good because it was right, and just, and his duty. His recent -excesses had shattered his constitution—his hands trembled, and his -feet went tottering, and ere long these evil inclinations quite overcame -him again. Poor Delle! she had no more hope for him when she saw that -the death of her mother was a thing so feebly remembered and cared for -by him. How strange it seemed to her that he could _ever_ forget the -words of entreaty the dying woman addressed to him. To the mind of the -innocent child it was wonderful that he should ever seek to drown those -words of pleading and warning that _she_ had spoken to him in the -horrible forgetfulness that is bought by intoxication. - -But aside from this great sorrow, there was another and a different kind -of care that weighed heavily on Delle’s mind. Her only sister was ten -years old at the time of her mother’s death. She had been always a puny, -sickly little thing—the object of that mother’s unceasing and peculiar -care. It is said that the heart of the parent is always filled with a -deeper and tenderer sympathy and love for an unfortunate child. Most -true was this in the case of Jane. She had never been much at school, -and rarely had left her mother’s side. A sober little creature she was, -always seeking to make herself useful, and quite unlike in all respects -the romping boys who filled the house with their noise. When Mrs. Hogg -died, Jane, to use Mrs. Jones’ expressive words, “wilted right down, -just like a cabbage-leaf;” and the scrofula, which had afflicted her for -many years, manifested itself in a fearful form. It seemed to Delle that -the cup of bitterness was running over when the village doctor, who was -called to the child’s aid, told her, for she _would_ know the truth, -that he could do nothing for her—that her spine would be inevitably -curved. It might be, he said, that constant care and watching would in a -measure restore her health, and her life _might_ be spared for years, -but she could never wholly recover. - -All the tenderness and affection her mother had borne toward little -Jane, seemed to have centered itself in the bosom of Delle. A most -patient and untiring nurse was she, doing every thing so cheerfully, -sacrificing all her own wants that she might procure comforts for the -invalid, and never giving the child reason to suppose for a moment that -her, I mean Delle’s, constitution was not made of iron. Often and often, -after a day of exertion, would she sit for half the night by the side of -the little sufferer, who was writhing in agony, watching her and -supporting her with the fondest care; and to all poor Jane’s anxious -fears that she would weary out, the gentle voice of Delle assured her it -was not possible to weary in doing for _her_. - -Three years from the spring when the weeping children had gathered -around their mother’s grave, they stood together in the church-yard -again, and saw the dust and the sod heaped over the dead body of their -father. I would not say that it was not with much sorrowing, with many -tears, that Delle had nursed him through his death-sickness; that it was -not with love and a martyr’s patient endurance she had ministered to his -numberless wants; but I should be _far_ wrong (and you will not impute -it to her sin) were I to say that it was the same great sorrow which had -bowed and well-nigh crushed her gentle spirit when her mother died, that -brought forth those tears when she stood by her father’s death-bed. He -was her father; she remembered with affectionate gratitude the days of -old, when he was to his children a parent indeed, when he had been the -tender and devoted husband of his wife; but even _that_ remembrance was -not strong enough to obliterate all recollection of the recent past; and -I say it was not in her nature, nor, indeed, in human nature at all, to -mourn _very_ deeply over _such_ a man. It was _not_ with such a dreadful -sense of bereavement that she followed him to the grave, as had once -before swept over her. The “cloud had spent its fury” upon her, the bolt -had fallen the day her worshiped mother died. - -The children returned to their home, orphaned—four of them dependent on -the exertions of that frail young creature on whom only the sun of -sixteen years was beaming. There were no friends on whom they might -depend, for their mother’s relatives lived somewhere in the far South; -and had Delle even known _where_ they lived, there was far too much -independence and self-reliance in her nature to impose on them the -maintenance of five strange children, which she felt could not be a very -agreeable accession to any family; and her heart was so filled with -almost _parental_ affection for those young beings, that she could not -bear to think of subjecting them to the possible hard treatment of -unsympathizing relatives. - -Delle’s next-door neighbor was an old woman, who, though poor as the -children themselves, and dependent upon her own feeble exertions for -support, had taken the deepest interest in this parentless family. She -it was who proposed to Delle that she should go to her father’s brother, -who lived in a town further to the west, and pray that he would help -them in their need. This was the day after Mr. Hogg’s funeral, and the -old “lady” had dropped in to console the children, bringing with her -provisions for them which she could ill spare from her own little store. -I was gone from home that year, but many times since I have heard Delle -speak with tears of gratitude of the kindness of the good old Mrs. Jones -at that crisis of their lives. She came to advise with Delle, as I have -said, and even went so far in her Christian charity (by the way, though -in the very act of constructing a fit and proper sentence, I must pause -to say the ever-to-be-lamented Hood erred when he wrote so musically, - - “Alas! for the rarity - Of Christian Charity - Under the sun;” - -because there _is_ plenty of charity and sympathy in the world, if -people were only so wise as to know where to look for it. Do you think -to find fragrance in the dahlia, and the bright-hued tulip-flowers? Vain -will be your seeking. Go into the woods and fields, along the banks of -the little stream—search in _such_ places, you will not return -successless, you will come back with your hands _filled_ with fragrant -violets and wild-roses!) as to offer to take charge of the younger -member of the family during her necessary absence, and also to endeavor -to gather from the neighbors sufficient funds to carry her to those -friends. But to all these kind proposals, greatly astonished was the -good woman by Delle’s firm refusal. - -“No,” said she, “Mrs. Jones, I remember when our misfortunes overtook us -three years ago; father wrote to uncle, and told him of our necessities, -begging him to assist us, but uncle made such answer, that _I_ will -never repeat those requests; no, Mrs. Jones, though I should starve! But -we shall not starve, neither shall my little ones come on the town. You -know that after I left school, for some time I taught Charley and -Georgy, and Jane, and I have learned them a great deal, beside improving -myself, and this is what I’ll do. I’ll open a small school for children, -and the neighbors—will they patronize me for my poor dear mother’s -sake—oh, I will try, and teach so well!” - -Poor Delle’s voice was not quite firm as she disclosed these projects to -the kind-hearted old woman, but she did not cry; there was not a tear in -her soft, down-cast eyes—but Mrs. Jones did weep outright when she -looked on the excited young girl, and saw the flashes of color which -betrayed her emotion, deeply tinging her cheek one moment, and the next -leaving it colorless. _She_ did weep, I say, and for some minutes made -no answer to Delle’s inquiry; this sympathy which the old woman evinced, -emboldened the maiden to speak again, for she felt _she_ had no time to -weep then—she must _act_. - -“Do you think, dear Mrs. Jones, I shall succeed? Will the people be -afraid to send their children to me because I am so young? Oh, if you -will but speak to a few, just a few people, and tell them how I will try -to do justice to their little ones. And tell them, yes, tell them, Mrs. -Jones, that I do it to give bread to _my_ children; they have always -known me, they need not fear I will neglect theirs.” - -“Yes, yes,” cried the old woman, hurriedly, starting up and wiping her -eyes, “I’ll go this minute; bless your noble heart! they _shall_ send -their children to your school. I’ll be bound you’ll do justice to -’em—when shall I tell ’em you’ll open?” - -“To-day—to-morrow—any day; let them come here, I shall be ready for -them, I have no time to wait or to waste.” - -And in a moment old Mrs. Jones (blessed be her memory!) was gone on her -errand of mercy; and then, yes, as a true historian, I _must_ say, -Delle’s tears did burst forth, resisted no longer. The children left -their broken toys and their play, when they saw their sister weeping, -and came softly and stood beside her—every little face that had a -moment before been covered with smiles, wore a most touching, solemn -expression, when they saw how grieved she was; Jane laid her head on -Delle’s knee and wept too, scarcely knowing why; and little Willy crept -into her arms, and while he nestled there so lovingly, he brushed away -her tears with his tiny hand, saying, “Dear, dear Delle, don’t cry, we -all love you so dearly.” - -But the words and sympathy of the children only brought the tears faster -to her eyes, even while they fell like balm on her heart. Was she not -_rich_ in the love of those children? What a pleasure would it be to -labor for them, and to see them guided by her hand, growing up in -goodness and knowledge; and again, in that home, before God she vowed -she would be unceasingly faithful to her dead mother’s charge. - -Two years passed away, and Delle’s school was continued with the -greatest success; indeed, it had become _the_ child’s school of our -village. You should have seen her in the school-room of her now -comfortable home, amid the multitudes of youth who gathered around her, -whose “young ideas” she was teaching to “shoot” in the right direction. -You should have seen her in the hours when she was alone in her home -with her brothers and invalid sister. How unabated was her tender and -watchful care of the fragile Jane; how unceasing her efforts to secure -the comfort and happiness of the poor girl; how happy she herself was -when a smile and visible contentment on the part of the sufferer was -returned for all her pains. You should have seen her encouraging, or -mildly reproving, or joining the three light-hearted boys in their -sports, who regarded her with the deference and affection they would -have shown toward a parent. You should have seen her on the Sabbaths -when she went with the children, whom _her_ diligence and perseverance -fed and clothed, to the village church, teaching them by her example to -“remember their Creator in their youth.” You should have watched her -when she went with them to the church-yard, to the place where their -parents were buried—a little spot which their hands had made beautiful -as a garden. You should have seen Delle at such times to have rightly -and fully estimated her worth. Those only who saw her and knew her in -all these lights, _could_ know her truly; for as she grew nigh to -womanhood, there was a dignity and reserve in her manners, resulting -from the manifold trials to which she had been exposed, which made her -not readily understandable to those who had not known her from -childhood. - -Do you abominate parties? So do I. But follow me this once, ’tis a -beautiful moonlight night, to yonder well-lighted mansion. I have trod -through it oftentimes, and with me for your guide, there is no possible -danger of losing your way. Here we are in the midst of the gay -assemblage; what profusion of flowers, what pleasant voices and bright -smiles, and happy hearts; and, hark! there are sounds of music and of -dancing feet. Let us wander, now, through the rooms, _in spirit_, and -amuse ourselves for a moment with “seeing what is to be seen,” and -hearing what is to be heard; and if there be any malice in our remarks, -we can keep our own secret, and not expose those “modern belles” to more -ridicule than very naturally they draw forth from common, ordinary -observers; nor will we say any thing _aloud_ about that nondescript sort -of personage yclept a fashionable beau, whose culminated faculties -emerge before the public in the shape of unmitigated _non_sense. - -Ah, what an unexpected relief—the belabored piano is resting now; the -incessant battering and twisting of the keys, which, alas! rarely open -the real gates of glorious music, is stilled—the harp is twanged no -more—the guitar is silenced, yet the music-room is filled, and every -sound is hushed, and they await in expectancy a somewhat—there it is! -Heard you ever the like. That _is music_! keep silent, it will not do to -criticise _such_ singing. How melodiously the words gush forth; they are -new, but how distinctly they are pronounced! The song is finished. What, -not one concluding, prolonged trill of approved flourish? No—for it is -finished. - -See how they crowd round the pale, sweet-faced girl who has filled the -room with such melody, and all, excepting the performers who have so -prodigiously exerted themselves on the musical instruments, entreat for -_one_ more song. And while she stands silently for a moment, see the -delighted countenance of the tall, well-formed gentleman who stands near -her; listen, he is saying in the lowest possible tone, “pray, lady, sing -once more.” And the lady heard his words, and as she raises her eyes to -the stranger, a scarcely perceptible flush is on her pale face. Again -her eyes are drooping, and the rich voice is doing ample justice to Mrs. -Heman’s splendid poem, “The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.” Is not the -wild, drear scene before you—can you not see it all as she sings, how - - “The breaking waves dashed high - On a stern and rock-bound coast, - And the woods against a stormy sky, - Their giant branches tossed.” - -And again they are beseeching for but one more song; but see how mildly, -yet so firmly, that they cannot doubt she means to sing no more, does -she decline. No one essays to charm the ear now after _such_ -singing—and already they are beginning to pour out of the music-room, -whither _her_ voice had drawn them. But, see! there is one who remains -standing, as spell-bound, beside the lady. Who is this stranger? A city -gent, but to-day arrived from the East, at the residence of his -relative, _our_ hostess. How refined he is in manner and dress, and -apparently not tinged with coxcombry at all, yet this may be the effect -of an education conducted solely with the intent to please and catch the -world’s eye, as well as of good sound common sense. At all events, if he -_is_ puffed up with inordinate vanity because Heaven has suffered him to -attain the ordinary stature of manhood, in the possession of a fine, -intelligent face, he conceals it with consummate skill, does he not? -That is one thing in his favor, for a proper appreciation of the rarity -of such an instance _vide_ the Book of Human Life. They are in the midst -of a most agreeable conversation; happily, the gentleman touches on the -right topics to interest the maiden; you can tell that by her manifest -attention, and pleasure, as well as by the spirit with which she carries -on her part of the conversation. Suddenly and abruptly he has left her. -Ah! the hostess has entered the room, and he is speaking with her -rapidly. Now, leaning on his arm, she approaches the pale little lady -standing beside the piano, and makes Mr. Alfred Livingstone, whose most -unreserved admiration she had won, acquainted with Miss Delleparetta -Hogg! Do but see that sudden lifting of the gentleman’s eyebrows, the -half frown on his forehead, and the ill-concealed smile of his lips, -which even his “good breeding” cannot wholly banish, as he listens to -her name; fortunate for Delle is it that her eyes are just now cast -down; but never seemed she more fair, graceful and lovable than now, -while she stands confessing to that outrageous name! - -Despite this little drawback, the city gentleman seems in a fair way of -falling desperately in love with Delle. Not for a moment since her first -song has he left her side; and now she has gone so early from the gay -company, because she thinks of the dear ones at home, waiting to hear -all about the party—and he accompanies her. Delle seldom appears in -such scenes—but the heart beating beneath those eyes which never shone -so brightly before is not weary; she feels no fatigue because of the -unwonted excitement. And to-morrow, when she sits in her pleasant -school-room again, initiating her pupils in the mysteries of -common-sense, which no teacher ever knew how to teach more successfully, -_perhaps_ those words which Alfred Livingstone has spoken to her, will -not be _quite_ forgotten. - - * * * * * - -A fortnight passed away, and three weeks, and a month, still young -Livingstone tarried in our dull village; and every night his tall figure -might be seen wending its way up our beautiful street to the tasteful, -cheerful home of Delle. And it grew at last to be not the most wonderful -sight in the world to see the poor school-teacher taking the walk she so -much needed, after the close confinement of the day, not with her usual -companion, her oldest brother, but with the stately youth already named. -It was a happy month to Delle, if we might judge from appearance. One -could not but see there was a certain lightness in her step, and a -general joyousness in her whole appearance, that was alone wanting in -former times to make her beautiful. But at the end of the month it -became necessary that Livingstone should return to his city home; and -the last we to the opposite saw of him, he was emerging from the -cottage-home of Delle, as the whistle of the approaching cars was -heard—and he was gone; and the children had a holyday! - -They who prided themselves on being learned in such matters, said that -every week brought with it regularly a letter from —— to Delle, and -that _very_ often the western mail bore a most lady-like (in its outward -garb) epistle to the eastern city. Then, when all this was currently -reported and believed, some wise head, judging from appearances, added -to the story the information, that early in the spring Delle was to -discontinue her school altogether. - -How near “they” came to the right of the story, let us try and find out, -which I think having earnestly set ourselves about it, we shall do -suddenly. - -Just imagine Alfred Livingstone, two or three months after his return -from his country sojourning, seated, alone, in his exquisitely furnished -apartment at the Astor, before a table covered with writing materials. -The paper over which his pen is hovering is unstained yet by the -ink—for he is arrested by voices speaking in the adjoining room, which -are neither hushed nor moderate, they are speaking with all the freedom -of tone one is wont to indulge in at home. Do but hear them and watch -him! - -“Where in all the world did you hear that?” asked one. - -“What?” responded the other, carelessly. - -“That you were speaking about at Howard’s, that Fred Livingstone, prince -of beaux and gentlemen, is going to marry a dowdy little country Miss?” - -“Hear it!” ejaculated the other, “why it’s the town talk.” - -“But who is she—is she rich, or beautiful? Something she must be beyond -the common to win him. Who are her relations? What—” - -“Stop, stop—how shall I wade through all these questions. What an -inquisitor you’d make! but I acknowledge that for once your curiosity is -laudable. First, as to _who_ she is? She is the daughter of some -miserable low family, remarkable for nothing but their poverty. Second, -_what_ is she? A country school-teacher, who spends her days in teaching -a set of insufferable children their ab-abs. Is she a beauty? Don’t -know, deponent saith not. She sings well though, and you know music was -always Fred’s hobby—he says he abominates this fashionable singing.” - -“Well, but you haven’t told me her name.” - -“Ah, that’s the horrible part of the thing. Listen while I try to -pronounce it, and then say wonders will never cease. The name of this -captivator, this charmer of ‘the greatest match in town,’ -is—Delleparetta Hogg! Do but think of _his_ asking, in his bland voice, -_Miss Hogg_, to favor him with a song!” - -“Heaven and earth!” exclaimed the other, after a moment’s silence, for -he had seemed struck dumb with amazement; and then the hopeful -conversationists burst into such a roar of laughter as quite drowned the -noise of the crash with which Alfred Livingstone’s hand was brought down -on his writing-desk, making in its descending progress the most dreadful -marks on his paper, which, in their confusion and blackness, perhaps -resembled closely the color and confusion of his thoughts at that -present moment. - -Now be it known that this unfortunate name of his lady-love had been the -sorest of all points with Alfred Livingstone, Esq. Indeed, it had -instituted a series of doubts in his mind which were there agitated for -a long time, before he arrived at the brave conclusion that he _would_ -marry her, name and all—that is, supposing he could win her consent. -But to be jested with by his city friends, and in _his_ circle, on -_such_ a subject, the very thought was insupportable. He had hoped with -all his heart that her name would never elapse till he introduced her, -to the envy of all the town, as Mrs. Livingstone. - -But now it was all over; his love was not proof against such a -trial—such a mortification _he_ thought it—for her name was a most -indisputable fact, a tangible thing on which his friends and enemies -might harp to his continual agony. There was but one remedy—a desperate -one it was—but there was _no other_ remedy, or way of escape. It took -him not long to concoct and despatch that letter which he had _meant_ to -fill with kind and loving words. Poor Delle, she never quite understood -that cruel epistle; but there was one thing about it she could -sufficiently comprehend, that all was passed that ever could pass -between her and Alfred Livingstone. - -The next morning the elegant Mr. Livingstone laid his hand, and -_heart_,(?) and fortune, and _name_, at the feet of the most -accomplished and brilliant “belle of the season,” which, I scarcely need -say, when it was held in consideration, that he was “the greatest match -in town,” was without hesitation accepted. - - * * * * * - -Delle’s school was carried on as usual; there was no cessation or -holyday when that letter of renouncement came to her. She had lived -through and borne nobly sharper griefs than was hers when she read _his_ -strange, cold words. With renewed diligence she turned to her -occupation—that was not “gone”—but it was a hope that struggled long -in her heart, that the recreant would at least write to explain—that he -would tell her _there was no meaning to his words_. Such an explanation -never came, however. The school continued, I said, and it continues -still; and one would scarcely think, to look on the self-possessed, -noble young lady at its head, that she had had _such_ an experience in -love matters. - -There is another report circulating extensively in our neighborhood just -now, relative to Delle’s movements in the coming spring. I will not -vouch for its truth. I have not dared ask _her_ if it be true; but -people _do_ say that a rich bachelor in our neighborhood, is then to -relieve her of that odious name which is now so indisputably hers; and -that at that happy time she will take up her abode, with the children -who are her constant care, in his beautiful mansion. If this be true, it -is hardly necessary for me to ask what kind of wife you think she’ll -make. I _know_ your thoughts already on this subject; and if you be a -gentleman, I fancy that I hear you “heaving a sigh,” and longing for -just such a wife, because _you_ are, of course, far too sensible to -think _there’s any thing in a name_! - -Some say this is no love match—that Delle will only marry this -bridegroom elect for the purpose of ridding herself of the fatigues of -school-teaching, arguing from the fact, I suppose, that he is so -_un_like Alfred Livingstone in all respects; and that he is so much -older than she—and his hair is already tinged with gray; beside he is -an odd sort of man, as is usually the case with old bachelors. Be this -as it may, whether Delle is so foolish as to marry for love (which -generally turns out to be such a delusion) or not, of this thing be -convinced, reader, the marriage will be a happy one, for everybody knows -he is as “kind as kind can be;” and she—but I’ve already said enough -about her; and after all, if she derives but one benefit from the union, -it will not be a small one—for will not that name, that horrid name of -hers, be merged in partial forgetfulness? Don’t call names _trifles_! By -hers she lost him whom she did truly love, and who, perhaps, was not, -strange as it may seem that I should say so, wholly unworthy of her -love; for in very deed and truth, he had but one weak side, and that was -most mortally pierced by the sharp arrow pointed with _her name_. - -If there be one whose eyes have followed the jottings of my pen thus -far, let me say to such an one another word about _proper nouns in -particular_. If with most philosophic indifference you have, after -mighty struggles, brought yourself to repeat with the chiefest of bards, -on thinking of your own high-sounding misfortune, - - “What’s in a name?” - -please let me advise you “lay your mouth in the dust,” remembering, my -word for it, that there is something “considerable, if not more,” in a -name—especially in such an one as Miss Delleparetta Hogg—poets and -philosophers “to the contrary notwithstanding,” which I hope and pray -for your edification and enlightenment I have satisfactorily proved. - - * * * * * - - - - - GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. XII. - - -[Illustration: THE DUNLIN. (_Tringa Variabilis._ TEMMINCK.)] - -The Dunlin, or Ox-bird, or Purre, is well entitled to the epithet -“_variabilis_,” from the great difference between its summer and winter -plumage. It is the Purre in summer and the Dunlin in winter in England, -while in the United States it is called most commonly the Red-backed -Sandpiper. In winter these birds assemble in small parties, following -the tide on the oozy shores and estuaries near the sea. When undisturbed -they run rather swiftly, and utter a sort of murmuring note, but when -they are alarmed and forced to take wing, they utter a querulous and -wailing scream. In the autumn they are seen around Vera Cruz, and may be -bought in the markets of Mexico, while many, in their winter dress, -remain throughout the winter within the limits of the Union. At times -they frequent the coast of the Carolinas in great numbers about -February, leading a vagabond life, and swayed hither and thither by -every change in the temperature. - -In the Middle States, the Dunlins arrive on their way to the North in -April and May, and in September and October they are again seen pursuing -the route to their hybernal retreat in the South. At these times, -according to Nuttall, they mingle with the flocks of other strand birds, -from which they are distinguishable by the rufous color of their upper -plumage. They frequent the muddy flats and shores of the salt marshes, -at the recess of the tide, feeding on the worms, insects and minute -shell-fish which such places generally afford. They are very nimble on -the strand, frequenting the sandy beaches which bound the ocean, running -and gleaning up their prey with great activity on the reflux of the -waves. When, says Nuttall, in their hybernal dress they are collected in -flocks, so as to seem at a distance like a moving cloud, performing -their circuitous waving and whirling evolutions along the shores with -great rapidity, alternately bringing its dark and white plumage into -view, it forms a very grand and imposing spectacle of the sublime -instinct and power of Nature. At such times, however, the keen gunner, -without losing much time in contemplation, makes prodigious slaughter in -the timid ranks of the Purres, while, as the showers of their companions -fall, the whole body often alight, or descend to the surface with them, -until the greedy sportsman becomes satiated with destruction. - -Length of the Dunlin is eight inches and a half; extent, fifteen inches; -bill black, longer than the head, which would seem to rank it with the -snipes, slightly bent, grooved on the upper mandible, and wrinkled at -the base; crown, back, and scapulars bright reddish rust, spotted with -black; wing coverts pale olive; quills darker; the first tipped, the -latter crossed with white; front cheeks, hind head, and sides of the -neck quite round; also the breast, grayish white, marked with small -specks of black; belly white, marked with a small crescent of black; -tail pale olive, the two middle feathers centered with black; legs and -feet ashy black; toes divided to their origin, and bordered with a -slightly scolloped membrane; irides very black. - -The males and females are nearly alike in one respect, both differing -greatly in color, even at the same season, probably owing to difference -of age; some being of a much brighter red than others, and the plumage -dotted with white. In the month of September many are found destitute of -the black crescent on the belly; these have been conjectured to be young -birds. - -[Illustration: SEMIPALMATED SNIPE, OR WILLET. (_Scolopax -Semipalmata._)] - -Willets breed in great numbers along the shores of New York, New Jersey, -Delaware and Maryland, and afford the sportsman an easy prey and -excellent eating. The experienced gunners always select the young birds, -which are recognized by the grayness of their plumage, in preference to -the older and darker birds, which are not so tender and well flavored. -In the month of October they generally pass on to their winter-quarters -in the warmer parts of the continent. Their food consists chiefly of -small shell-fish, aquatic insects, their larvæ and mollusca, searching -for which they may be found on the muddy shores and estuaries at low -water. The Willet is peculiarly an American bird, its appearance in the -north of Europe being merely accidental, as is also that of the Ruff in -America. The Willets wade more than most of their tribe, and when -disabled by a wound they take to the water without hesitation, and swim -with apparent ease. - -The length of the Willet is about fifteen and a half inches; length of -the bill to the rictus two and a half inches, much shorter in the young -bird of the season; tarsus two inches eight lines. In the summer -plumage, according to Nuttall, the general color above is brownish gray, -striped faintly on the neck, more conspicuously on the head and back, -with blackish brown; the scapulars, tertiaries and their coverts -irregularly barred with the same; tail coverts white, tail even, -whitish, thickly mottled with pale ashy brown, that color forming the -ground of the central feathers, which are barred with dusky brown toward -their extremities; spurious wing, primary coverts, a great portion of -the anterior extremities of the primaries, the axillary feathers, and -under-wing coverts black, with a shade of brown; the remaining lower and -longer portion of the primaries, and the upper row of under-wing coverts -white; the posterior primaries tipt with the same; secondaries and the -outer webs of their greater coverts white, marbled with dusky; wings -rather longer than the tail, the lower with a spotted liver-brown -streak, bounded above by a spotted white one; eyelids, chin, belly and -vent white; the rest of the under plumage brownish white, streaked on -the throat and transversely barred, or waved on the breast, shoulders, -flanks, and under tail coverts with clove-brown, the bars pointed in the -middle. Female colored like male, but an inch longer. Legs and feet dark -lead color, the soles inclining to olive, the toes broadly margined with -a sort of continuation of the web; iris hazel. Winter dress with fainter -spots on the upper plumage, and without the dark waving transverse bars -below, only the fore part of the neck and breast of a cinereous tint, -marked with small brown streaks. - - * * * * * - - - - - VISITANTS FROM SPIRIT-LAND. - - - BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N. - - - Then the forms of the departed - Enter at the open door, - The loved ones, the true-hearted, - Come to visit us once more. - —LONGFELLOW. - - They are ever hovering round us, - A mysterious, shadowy band, - Singing songs, low, soft and plaintive - They have learned in Spirit-Land. - Bright their wings as hues elysian, - Blended on the sunset sky, - By unseen, but angel-artists, - That concealed behind it lie. - - Sweet their soft and gentle voices - Mingle with each passing breeze, - And the sorrowing heart rejoices, - As amid the leafy trees - In the green and verdant summer, - Tones long-hushed are heard again, - And the quick ear some new-comer - Catches joining in their strain. - - Sceptics say ’tis but the breezes - Wandering on their wayward way— - That the souls of the departed - Rest in peace and bliss for aye. - But I know the fond, the loved ones, - Cleansed from every earthly stain, - Who have passed away before us, - Come to visit us again! - - True, our eyes may not behold them, - Nor the glittering robes they wear. - True, our arms may not enfold them, - Radiant phantoms formed of air! - But I often hear them round me, - And each gentle voice is known, - When some dreamy spell hath bound me, - As I sit at eve alone! - - Playmates of my joyous childhood, - Wont to laugh the hours away, - As they roamed with me the wildwood, - In life’s beauteous break-of-day; - They are spirits now, but hover - On bright pinions round me still, - Tender as some doting lover, - Warning me of every ill. - - And among them comes one, brighter, - Fonder far than all beside, - Sunlight of my young existence, - Who in life’s green springtime died. - Music from her lips is gushing, - Like the wind-harps plaintive tune, - When the breeze with soft wing brushes - O’er its strings in flowery June. - - O, thou white-browed peerless maiden, - Holiest star that beams for me! - Thou didst little dream how laden - Was this heart with love for thee! - Once fair garlands thou didst weave me, - But to gem EMANUEL’S throne - Thou didst soar away and leave me - In this weary world alone! - - But in dreams thou comest often, - Hovering saint-like round my bed, - Telling me in gentle whispers - Of the loved and early dead! - Once, methought, thou didst a letter - Bring from one remembered well, - Who has left this world of sorrow, - In the Spirit-Land to dwell! - - Strange the seal, and when ’twas broken, - Strange the characters within, - For ’twas penned in language spoken - In a world devoid of SIN; - Told, no doubt, of joys that wait them - Who shall enter spotless there, - But before I could translate them - I awoke, and found them air! - - Deem not that the soul reposes - In its radiant home for aye, - On the fragrant summer roses - Sunset beams may sadly play; - But they whisper “banish sorrow, - And from bitter thoughts refrain, - On the bright and glorious morrow - We will gild your leaves again!” - - * * * * * - - - - - HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN, - - - DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. - - BY FAYETTE ROBINSON. - - -People grieve about the departure of the good old times, and prate of -the days of chivalry, which Mr. Burke sixty years ago said were gone. -That they are gone the world may well rejoice at, not only because they -were times of ignorance and cruelty, but also of discomfort and -inconvenience. In the diary of a court-officer of the days of Henry VII. -is the note of a charge for cutting rushes, to strew on the floor of the -Queen-closets; and another one mentions the number of under-garments -belonging to Henri III. of France as considerably less than any one of -the better orders in our own time would require. In those days, the -downy couch meant a bed of goose-wing feathers; gloves were not; and -when a gentleman needed a new doublet or head-piece, he went not to a -tailor or the hatter of the day, but to a blacksmith. Let the lovers of -romance talk as they please, there was little true poetry, and less -feeling, in the minds of the heroes they wish to extol, than of the -veriest apostles of commerce of our own age. Rightly enough do we date -civilization from the times when men laid aside the rugged manners of -old with the bronze and iron armor, and doffing the hammered helmet, -assumed the cap of velvet and the hat of plush; when they laid aside the -iron gauntlet for the chamois glove, and assumed the Cordovan boot in -place of the leg-pieces of steel. - -The feelings of chivalry yet lingered as late as the days of the English -Charles I. and the French Louis XIII. in the minds of the nobility. A -new series of ideas, however, had arisen in the breasts of the people at -a date long previous to this. Printing had become general, and the -learning previously the property of the priests had become the heir-loom -of humanity: As a natural consequence, new ideas and new wants were -unfolded, and these same ideas had become more general. At this crisis -France took the lead, and not only in philosophy but in the minor things -of life, French manners and habits were copied. Consequently, in -describing costume, Paris will be perpetually referred to, from the fact -that from that great city emanated the fashions which controlled the -costume of the world. - -It is true that other nations had their peculiar costume, handed down -and preserved by the tradition of courts, as the Norman dress continues -even now the court uniform of the state officials of the British -kingdom; Spain had her peculiar doublet, hose and cloak, and Holland her -own court apparel. If, however, we look nearer and closer, we shall -discover each of these were dresses imported from France at some -particular crisis, and retaining position and importance in their new -home, when they were forgotten in the land whence they were adopted. - -The most highly civilized of all the nations of Europe at the time that -this supremacy over the costume of the world was exerted by France, it -might have been expected that its selection would have been guided by -good taste and propriety. This was not however the case, for in spite of -the progress the world has made, the women of France and our own -country, and the men also, are not to be compared to the members of the -most savage tribes, either in gracefulness of form or propriety of -dress. If the Chinese distort the foot, or the Indians of the North West -Coast of America the forehead, the civilized women of to-day compress -the waist, and men commit not less enormities. - -These matters are, however, incontestable; and though we might regret we -cannot prevent them. They simply therefore give us a clue in treating -our subject, of which we will avail ourselves. They teach us, that to -Paris belongs the incontestable empire of that mysterious power known in -France as _la_ _mode_, and in our own land as FASHION. Possibly this may -be a remnant, the sole _vestige_, of that tone of pretension which led -France in other days to aspire to universal empire. If so, the pride of -other nations which led them elsewhere to resist French assumption here -has been silent. Though not the rulers of the world by the power of the -sword; though the French idiom be not so universal as the English, even -the denizens of “_Albion perfide_” submit to the behests of the -controlling powers of the French _mode_. Let the French language be -universal or not, is to us now of no importance; that French fleets will -drive English and American squadrons from the seas, is doubtful, but it -is very certain Englishmen and Americans for all time to come will wear -French waist-coats, and Germans both in London and Philadelphia will -call themselves French bootmakers. How fond soever a people may be of -its national garb, ultimately it must submit to the trammels devised in -Paris. Ultimately all men will wear that most inconvenient article -called a hat, will insert their extremities into pantaloons, and put -their arms into the sleeves of the garment, so short before and so long -behind, they are pleased to call a coat. When all nations shall have -come to this state of subserviency, the end of the world will certainly -be at hand, whether because the _ultima perfectio_ has been reached, or -because God, who created man after his own likeness, will be angry at -the ridiculous figure they have made of his features, better theologians -than I must decide. We certainly are not very near this crisis, for -hundreds of yellow-skinned gentlemen are yet ignorant of the art and -mystery of tying a cravat, and never saw a patent leather boot. - -Like great epidemics, the passion for dress often leaps over territorial -boundaries, and ships not unfrequently carry with the cholera and -_vomito_ bales of articles destined to spread this infection among lands -as yet ignorant of it; so that some day we may live to hear of Oakford -sending a case of hats to the Feejees, and of Watson making an uniform -for the general-in-chief of the King of the Cannibal Islands. - -Possibly this passion for our costumes is to be attributed to the -deterioration of the morals of the savages, and if so, even dress has -its historical importance and significance, and is the true reflection -of _morale_. It may be that the days of the iron garb were days of iron -manners, and also of iron virtue, and that in adopting a silken costume -we have put on, and they may be about to adopt a silken laxity of virtue -and honor. - -We will begin to treat of costume as it was in the days of Louis XIV., -the solemn mood and ideas of whom exerted their influence even on dress, -and the era which saw all other arts become pompous and labored, also -saw costume assume the most complicated character. Costume naturally -during this reign was permanent in its character, and when Louis XV. -succeeded to the throne he found his courtiers dressed entirely as their -fathers had done, and the young king, five years of age, dressed -precisely like his great-grandfather, with peruke, cane and breeches. -When he had reached the years of discretion, Louis XV. continued to -devote himself more to the trifles of the court than to affairs of -state. - -The following engraving is an illustration taken from a portrait of a -celebrated marquis of that day. - -[Illustration] - -This, it will be remembered, was the era when women wore whalebone -frame-works to their dresses and caps, or a kind of defensive armor over -the chest and body. The fine gentlemen also encased themselves in wires, -to distend the hips of their _culottes_ or breeches. This was the -costume of the fine gentlemen, and in it kings and heroes appeared on -the stage almost without interruption until the days of Talma, if we -except the brief and unsuccessful attempt at reform, as far as theatres -were concerned, by Le Kain and Mademoiselle Clairon. - -The foregoing was the prevailing court costume, the next is the military -garb of the day, recalling the costume of Charles XII. of Sweden, and -not unlike that of our own Putnam or Mad Anthony Wayne. Thus the lowland -gentlemen who fought in ’45, dressed after this mode, were the opposing -parties of the armies at Ramilies. As a whole it is not _malapropos_, -and altogether more suitable and proper than the uniforms of our own -day. The following is the portrait of a mousquetaire just one century -after the time of Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artignan, whom Dumas made -illustrious. - -[Illustration] - - * * * * * - - - - - MAPLE SUGAR. - - - BY ALFRED B. STREET. - - -Oh, the rich, dark maple sugar! how it tells me of the woods, -Of bland south winds and melting snows, and budding solitudes! -Oh, the melting maple sugar! as I taste its luscious sweets, -Remembrance in my raptured ear her witching song repeats; -Once more my heart is young and pure! once more my footsteps stray -Amid the scenes, the lovely scenes, of childhood’s opening day. - -A frosty night! the searching air made hearth-fires a delight, -Stern Winter seemed as if again to rally in his might; -But, oh, how pure and beautiful the morning has arisen! -What glorious floods of sunshine! off! the dwelling is a prison! -Off, off! run, leap, and drink the air! off! leave man’s roofs behind! -Nature has more of pleasure now than haunts of human kind. - -How free the blood is bounding! how soft the sunny glow! -And, hearken! fairy tones are ringing underneath the snow! -Slump, slump! the gauzy masses glide from hemlock, fence and rock, -And yon low, marshy meadow seems as spotted with a flock; -Drip, drip, the icicle sends its tears from its sparkling tip, and still -With tinkle, tinkle, beneath the snow rings many a viewless rill. - -We cross the upland pasture, robed with a brown and sodden pall, -The maple ridge heaves up before—a sloping Titan wall! -The maple ridge! how gloriously, in summer it pitches tent: -Beneath, what a mossy floor is spread! above, what a roof is bent! -What lofty pillars of fluted bark! what magical changeful tints -As the leaves turn over and back again to the breeze’s flying prints. - -Up, up, the beaten path I climb, with bosom of blithesome cheer, -For the song, oft varied with whistle shrill of the woodsman Keene, I - hear; -The bold and hardy woodsman, whose rifle is certain death, -Whose axe, when it rings in the wilderness, makes its glory depart like - breath, -Whose cabin is built in the neighboring dell, whose dress is the skin of - the doe, -And who tells long tales of his hunting deeds by the hearth-fire’s - cheerful glow. - -The summit I gain—what soaring trunks—what spreading balloon-like tops! -And see! from the barks of each, the sap, slow welling and limpid, drops; -A thicket I turn—the gleam of a fire strikes sudden upon my view, -And in the midst of the ruddy blaze two kettles of sooty hue, -Whilst bending above, with his sinewy frame, and wielding with ready skill -His ladle amidst the amber depths, proud king of the scene is Will. - -The boiling, bubbling liquid! it thickens each moment there, -He stirs it to a whirlpool now, now draws thin threads in air; -From kettle to kettle he ladles it to granulate rich and slow, -Then fashions the mass in a hundred shapes, congealing them in the snow, -While the blue-bird strikes a sudden joy through the branches gaunt and - dumb, -As he seems to ask in his merry strain if the violet yet has come. - -The rich, dark maple sugar! thus it brings to me the joy, -The dear warm joy of my heart, when I was a careless, happy boy; -When pleasures so scorned in after life, like flowers, then strewed my - way, -And no dark sad experience breathed “doomed sufferer be not gay!” -When Life like a summer ocean spread before me with golden glow, -And soft with the azure of Hope, but concealing the wrecks that lay below. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO MY LOVE. - - - BY HENRY H. PAUL. - - - Dewy buds of Paphian myrtle - Strew, ye virgins, as I sing; - Chaplets weave from Love’s bright fountain— - O’er my lyre their fragrance fling. - What—what is gay Pieria’s rose, - What is Paphos’ blushing flower, - Whilst Beauty doth my spirit thrall, - Whilst all my pulses feel thy power? - - With Cyprian fire thine eye is sparkling, - Like the morning’s tender light; - Through thy silken lashes straying, - Shafts resistless wing their flight: - O! the time I first beheld thee, - Blushing in thy early teens, - Rose nor lily ne’er excelled thee, - Though the garden’s rival queens. - - * * * * * - - - - - SOFTLY O’ER MY MEMORY STEALING. - - - MUSIC COMPOSED FOR “GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE,” - - BY PROFESSOR JOHN A. JANKE, JR. - - _WORDS BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON._ - -[Illustration] - - Softly o’er my mem’ry stealing, - Comes the light of other days, - Visions of past joys revealing, - Lit by Hope’s enchanting rays. - ’Twas - -[Illustration] - - in that blest time I knew thee, - And thy glance and gentle tone, - Thrill’d with magic influence through me, - Waking joys till then unknown. - - SECOND VERSE. - - Time has sped with ceaseless motion; - Chance and change have wrought their will— - But my heart, with fond devotion, - Clings to thee, belov’d one, still. - Nor can life yield richer pleasure, - Or a brighter gift impart, - Than the pure and priceless treasure, - Of thy fond and faithful heart. - - * * * * * - - - - - CATHARA. - - - BY WALTER COLTON, U. S. N. - - - Cathara had that pure Ionian face, - Which melts its way in music to the heart; - Each look and line betrayed that breathing grace, - Which Genius has embalmed in classic art, - Or sculptured in the Aphrodite—where glows - Immortal life, in marble’s still repose. - - Her presence on your love and wonder stole - With such an atmosphere of softened light, - It seemed as some Aurora of the Pole, - Were melting down the starry depths of night; - Or Dian had her glowing form unrolled - From out her floating orb of liquid gold. - - Her features were most delicately moulded, - And so transparent shone her dimpled cheek, - That when her large black eyes their rays unfolded. - Its bloom was lighted like some Alpine peak, - When zephyrs roll the circling mists away, - And on its summit breaks the blush of day. - - Her raven hair in showering ringlets fell, - That veiled her sylph-like form from human vision; - Her step was light as that of the gazelle, - And yet its airy motions had precision; - The circling air displayed, where’er she went, - A wave of light in rainbow beauty bent. - - Her voice was sweet as warble of a bird; - The accent flowed so softly through the tone, - It seemed as ’twere the _thought_ itself you heard— - Like music, which the summer’s breeze hath thrown - O’er silent waters, from some woodland lyre, - Or humming stream, or old cathedral quire. - - Her beauty broke not on a sudden glance, - But if you watched its soft progressive ray, - Some hidden charm of form, or countenance, - Like silver planets at the close of day— - Would cast its slender veil of shadows by, - And timidly advance upon the eye. - - Her heart was that from which her features took - The tender tone their aspect ever wore; - The pensive thoughts which saddened in her look, - Were what you feel upon a lonely shore, - Where not a sound is heard except the surge, - In which some billow hymns its dying dirge. - - Her eyes would swim, her bosom heave with grief, - When pale misfortune poured its tragic theme; - As in the quick wind shakes the forest leaf, - An orphan’s wo would tremble in her dream; - The tears despair had hardened into stone, - Would melt to dew, when mingled with her own. - - You deemed that such an one, if death were nigh, - Might cheer and soothe you, tho’ she might not save; - You thought how sweetly on your closing eye - Would fall each glance her tender spirit gave; - While meekness showed where guilt might be forgiven, - And mercy plumed the parting soul for Heaven. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DEPARTED. - - - BY MRS. MARY S. WHITAKER. - - - Bid sorrow cease; she rests in peace— - Her task, at last, is done; - And decked with youth, and bright with truth, - Cold lies thy martyred one. - But thine the crime, and through all time, - Remorse shall follow thee, - With phantom form, through calm and storm, - On land and on the sea. - - Her shadowy hair, her bosom fair, - So often heaving sighs; - Her smile so bland, her lily hand, - Her mildly mournful eyes— - Which long did weep—in troubled sleep, - How lovely will they come, - All fresh with life, and free from strife, - From out the marble tomb. - - Her voice of love, all price above, - Shall speak, as once it spoke, - With gushing flow of tender wo, - The while her heart was broke; - When thy distrust had bowed to dust - Her bosom’s modest pride, - Ere like a flower, beneath the shower - Too rude, she meekly died. - - ’Twill whisper soft, “Beloved, how oft - Thy brow grows dark and stern; - I know not why, yet in thy eye - Strange coldness I discern; - A heavy blight, the spirit’s night, - Falls darkly on my soul; - This inward grief, without relief, - Thou only canst control!” - - These accents clear, thy waking ear - Shall lose in silence dread; - But from thy heart shall ne’er depart, - The wailing of the dead; - Her wasted bloom, her early doom, - Shall haunt thee evermore! - While she, at rest, with spirits blest, - Lives on the better shore. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DEAD. - - - BY “AN AULD HEAD ON YOUNG SHOUTHERS.” - - - Dead! dead! they are dying—dying! - Oh! for the hands that were clasping ours! - Passed like a breeze in its own sad sighing, - Falling like leaves from the wasted flowers, - Dropping away, so still—so still! - Call them again, so cold and chill! - - Dead? dead? Oh! _how could_ they die? - Laughed they not, sang they not joyfully? - Were they not with us—and now are they gone? - Why have they left us, and where have they flown? - Spake they not oft of a deathless tie? - Are they not sleeping? Oh! where do they lie? - - _Here!_ not here! ’tis a fearful place— - Were they not gentle, with steps of grace? - Were they not glad as the birds in June? - With hearts like a fountain of joyful tune? - They were with us at morn, and with us at night, - Their locks were of gold, and their eyes of light! - - Yet—yet, ye say they are dead; - Tell us the land where their footsteps tread! - Oh! there is _one_ who hath sought its shore, - Never to smile with us, weep with us more; - Soon, _too_ soon; ’tis a mournful thing - To pass with the bier o’er the flowers of spring! - - List! list! she is coming now! - Twine ye the wreath for her gladsome brow, - Gather the buds, ay, the buds that keep - Such trembling dreams in their breasts, asleep, - Beauteous types of her heart are they; - Cull them from streamlet and glen away! - - Here, here, when the sun is low, - We shall sit again, when the shadows throw - Their dusky wings o’er mount and sea, - And speak of the past, and the time to be! - Counting the links that have broken away - From each chain at the fount, where the heart-streams play! - - Hist! hist! did you hear her pass, - The ringing laugh on her lip? Alas! - Say ye again that she slumbers low? - Mourner, why art thou shaken so? - Death is the veil that the spirit takes, - When the light of God on its sorrowing breaks! - - Then, then, thou’lt murmur _no more_! - Peace to the weary who travel before! - Blesséd are they He hath chosen and tried, - Blesséd are they in His love that have died; - Heart! let thy throbbings be constant to prayer, - So thou wouldst dwell where thy cherished ones are! - - Turn! turn, look down through the vale - Stretching before thee, where, saddened and pale, - Sorrow is beck’ning thee—sorrow and wrong— - Weak though thine arm may be, feeble thy song, - God smileth aye, on the small “precious seed,” - Making the harvest-time golden indeed! - - Thou hast been sleeping; wake from thy dreams! - Wo for that waking till God o’er it gleams! - Better the sleeper were locked in his rest, - Better the sun had gone down in his west! - Yet if thy path windeth up through thy fears, - Hope’s resurrection shall dawn on thy tears! - - Hope! Hope! transfigured and bright, - Walking with Faith on the mountains of light! - Bidding thee weep the departed no more, - _Angels_ await at the sepulchre door! - Bidding thee take up thy cross, for the day - Soon from thy vision will vanish away! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE HOMESTEAD OF BEAUTY. - - - BY S. D. ANDERSON. - - - There’s a homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream, - And the sweet tones of children are ringing all day, - While the voice of the mother is blithesome and glad, - As the notes of the song-bird that warbles in May. - The Angel of Peace to the hearth-stone has come, - With a message of mercy to brighten each dream, - And as glad to the heart, as ’tis pure to the eye, - Is that homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream. - - The woodbine has curtained the threshold with flowers, - And the half-shaded sunbeams fall soft on the floor; - While the white-sanded streamlet is singing as sweet - As the echoes of music, when music is o’er. - The dew on each snow-drop is gem-like and bright, - And the lily is bathed in morn’s earliest beam, - While the zephyrs are whispering their matins of praise, - Round that homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream. - - The wings of the evening come loaded with bliss, - When the toil and the trouble of daylight is past, - And the coolness and calm of the star-lighted hours, - O’er the dwellers in hall and in cottage is cast, - The sun-browned cheek of the father is kissed; - With tears the full eye of the parent will gleam - As he presses those loved ones more near to his heart, - In that homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream. - - And then from that cottage the hymn and the prayer - Uprose, when the hour of reposing had come; - And each sent an offering of thanksgiving up - To _Him_ who had blessed them with quiet at home. - Oh! who has not wished, when the cold world has chilled - Each flow’ret that blossomed in life’s morning dream. - To find out some refuge from sorrow and care, - Like that homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream. - - * * * * * - - - - - GEMS FROM LATE READINGS. - - - * * * * * - - - BY G. P. R. JAMES. - -We always fail when we judge of the fate of others. Life is double—an -internal and an external life; the latter often open to the eyes of all, -the former only seen by the eye of God. Nor is it alone those material -things which we conceal from the eyes of others, which often make the -apparently splendid lot in reality a dark one, or that which seems sad -or solitary, cheerful and light within. Our characters, our spirits -operate upon all that fate or accident subjects to them. We transform -the events of life for our own uses, be those uses bitter or sweet; and -as a piece of gold loses its form and solidity when dropped into a -certain acid, so the hard things of life are resolved by the operations -of our own minds into things the least resembling themselves. True, a -life of study and of thought may seem to most men a calm and tranquil -state of existence. Such pursuits gently excite, and exercise softly and -peacefully the highest faculties of the intellectual soul; but age -brings with it indifference even to these enjoyments—nay, it does more, -it teaches us the vanity and emptiness of all man’s knowledge. We reach -the bounds and barriers which God has placed across our path in every -branch of science, and we find, with bitter disappointment, at life’s -extreme close, that when we know all, we know nothing. This I have -learned, and it is all that I have learned in eighty years, that the -only knowledge really worth pursuing is the knowledge of God in his word -and his works—the only practical application of that high science, to -do good to all God’s creatures. - - * * * * * - -The operation of man’s mind and of his heart are as yet mysteries. We -talk of eager love; we speak of the warm blood of the South; we name -certain classes of our fellow beings excitable, and others phlegmatic; -but we ourselves little understand what we mean when we apply such -terms, and never try to dive into the sources of the qualities or the -emotions we indicate. We ask not how much is due to education, how much -to nature; and never think of the immense sum of co-operating causes -which go to form that which is really education. Is man or woman merely -educated by the lessons of a master, or the instructions and -exhortations of a parent? Are not the acts we witness, the words we -hear, the scenes with which we are familiar, parts of our education? Is -not the Swiss, or the Highlander, of every land, educated in part by his -mountains, his valleys, his lakes, his torrents? Is not the inhabitant -of cities subjected to certain permanent impressions, by the constant -presence of crowds, and the everlasting pressure of his fellow men? Does -not the burning sun, the arid desert, the hot blast, teach lessons never -forgotten, and which become part of nature to one class of men; and -frozen plains, and lengthened winters, and long nights, other lessons to -the natives of a different region? Give man what instruction you will, -by spoken words or written signs, there is another education going on -forever, not only for individuals but for nations, in the works of God -around them, and in the circumstances with which his will has -encompassed their destiny. - - * * * * * - - - BY J. G. WHITTIER. - - THE WORSHIP OF NATURE. - - The ocean looketh up to heaven, - As ’twere a living thing; - The homage of its waves is given - In ceaseless worshiping. - - They kneel upon the sloping sand, - As bends the human knee; - A beautiful and tireless band— - The priesthood of the sea. - - They pour the glittering treasures out - Which in the deep have birth; - And chant their awful hymns about - The watching hills of earth. - - The green earth sends its incense up - From every mountain shrine— - From every flower and dewy cup - That greeteth the sun-shine. - - The mists are lifted from the rills, - Like the white wing of prayer - They lean above the ancient hills, - As doing homage there. - - The forest tops are lowly cast - O’er breezy hill and glen, - As in a prayerful spirit passed - On nature as on men. - - The clouds weep o’er the fallen world, - E’en as repentant love; - Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurled, - They fade in light above. - - The sky it is a temple’s arch— - The blue and wavy air - Is glorious with the spirit-march - Of messengers at prayer. - - The gentle moon, the kindling sun, - The many stars are given, - As shrines to burn earth’s incense on— - The altar-fires of Heaven! - - * * * * * - - - BY MISS PARDOE. - -There is always something sad, if not revolting, in the visit of those -unsympathizing servitors of dissolution who first break upon the -stillness of the house of death. The very nature of their errand is -fearful—they come to claim all that is left of what was once life, and -will, and action—to tread heavily over the floor where others have -previously moved with a noiseless step—to talk in hoarse, although -suppressed voices, where the dull echoes have latterly been hushed—and -coldly to pursue their avocation in the very presence of eternity. -Perhaps it is well that there is no possibility of delaying this first -trial, for where the ties of love have been rent asunder, who would have -courage to sanction so unhallowed an intrusion? Who could summon to the -bedside, so lately the scene of agony and prayer, the unsympathizing -eyes and hands of mercenary strangers? Human nature is ever prone to -resist where resistance is possible, and suffering certain; happy is it, -therefore, that it is taught, in so solemn a moment, to feel its own -impotence, and to submit. - - * * * * * - -The tiger gives no warning before he springs—it is for the traveler to -be wary. The serpent utters no threatening before he stings—the -intended victim must defend himself against the venomed tongue. And -thus, in like manner, the woman who sees only the gorgeous skin or the -gleaming scales of vice, and wilfully closes her eyes against the poison -to which they lend a mocking and a worthless charm, finds little pity, -and excites no sympathy. - - * * * * * - - - - - EDITOR’S TABLE. - - -A HAPPY NEW-YEAR.—Holding continual intercourse through the press with -so many thousands scattered over this country, and other countries, we -feel an enlarged sympathy with our fellow beings, and use suitable -occasions to give utterance to hopes and wishes in another form than -that of the essays, stories and poetry of the stated columns of this -Magazine. We set forth our humble “table,” and while we invite all to a -seat, we bid all welcome to the viands; nay, we make the little festival -with a particular and special view—to express to our readers our hearty -wishes for “a happy New-Year.” May they all be happy, all enjoy the year -upon which we now enter, all be freed from care and troublesome anxiety, -and all have enough for their own enjoyment and the gratification of -liberal feelings. - -Now we are as sensible as any can be that the above wish is extended to -the readers of Graham—“And so we are selfish, sordid, can only wish -well to those who _do_ well to us.” That is the charge which will be -made by some good-natured body that has not had her feelings refined by -a constant perusal of this Magazine. She curls her thin lip in scorn at -our narrow feeling, and quotes scripture and poetry against the -contracted philanthropy which does good in such a limited circle. We -shall not quote scripture back to her, but content ourselves with a -simple remark that we adhere to our form of expression, and shall prove -it to be sufficiently inclusive for all the New-Year wishes which we are -bound to entertain and utter. - -In the first place, we wish the readers of Graham a happy -New-Year—health, peace, comforts—rational enjoyment and pleasures that -will please on reflection. - -Can peace, comfort and enjoyment be had by the readers of this Magazine, -when those who are related with them are deprived of such -gratifications? Should we not offend by gross injustice if we should -imagine the readers of Graham capable of high enjoyments when others -were in distress? How numerous and extensive are the ramifications of -social life! Not a blow is struck on the remote verge of society but -some sympathetic nerve carries it to the -heart—friend—relative—associate—give interest to events; and such -links in the chain of social existence bind man to man, and make of -human society one common body. We wish you happy! then wealth, health, -peace and quiet to all with whom you stand related. Can you be happy and -your brother, your friend, your relative miserable? It is not possible. -And when we wish a happy New Year to the thirty or forty thousand who -take, and the four hundred thousand who read Graham, we wish a general -happiness. - -_We_ enter upon a new year with the fullness of hopes that are only -enlarged by the fruition of former hopes. Our hopes are not hopeless. -Our desires to be rewarded have kept pace with our desires and efforts -to please. We believe the latter desires have contributed to the -gratification of the former; and it is therefore in a spirit of hopeful -gratitude that we wish _our_ friends and _their_ friends a happy -New-Year. - -To the old we wish the ease which belongs to the dignity of years, and -that degree of health which makes the twilight of life delightful. - -To the middle-aged we wish the maturity of intellect which secures -wisdom to plans, and success to efforts. - -To youth a consciousness that very many of the promises of life are so -deceptive, that they must learn to rely more upon their own exertions -than upon those promises. We wish to them well regulated minds, well -controlled passions—we do not expect, we do not wish for the stately -dignity of age in the lively and stimulated feelings of youth: -enjoyment—and enjoyment of something of which age calls the vanity of -life—is permitted to youth. So that in all their rejoicings, in all the -cheerfulness of their hearts, in all the wanderings which they make by -the light of their eyes, (alas! how much has the lustre of even one pair -of woman’s eyes led us astray,) and in the understanding of their -hearts, (and how much do we all suffer by overrating that -understanding!) all these things may be endured—may be encouraged -indeed—if indulged in with that kind of reflection which keeps in view -accountability for it all. - -Some have desired that at the foot of Janus, who guards the closing -portal of the past and the opening door of the coming year, there might -flow a rill from the river of Lethe, that we might drink in oblivion to -the past. How narrow, how contracted must be the mould of such wishes. -Let us take with us into the new year a full remembrance of the past. -Let the events which have cast a gloom over a portion of our experience -be recollected, that we may feel for others, that we may have in view -that great fact, that we are born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. - -The heartiness of our wishes for the good of the readers of this -Magazine will be found in our efforts to make its pages interesting and -instructive. We have adopted measures, and shall carry them out, to -maintain the pre-eminence of position which our Magazine has acquired. -And while we look to the increased patronage of the public, we shall -continue to hold at a proper elevation the standard of Literature, -Morals and Truth. - - * * * * * - -A NUT TO CRACK FOR ’49.—With, we think, a very just estimate of the -position of Graham’s Magazine, in the eye of the American public, we -_do_ flatter ourselves that the January number, will in no degree be -equaled by any cotemporary, or that we will in the least lesson our own -dignity, if we boast a little about it. There has been so much talking -on the part of our would-be rivals about their books, and an effort so -manifestly strained to catch our tone and look, that we shall let out a -link or two—or, as the horsemen say, “shake out a step faster, if the -mettle is in the other nag.” - -The truth is, that there is a very great mistake made in efforts to -assimilate to Graham’s Magazine—for, in the first place, all -competition must be distanced by our superior facilities, derived from -circulation; and in the next, the effort ends in playing second fiddle, -to the great loss of reputation and time. There is—there _ought to be_ -at least—some unexplored field in which these rivals of ours may try -their unfledged wing, where our own magnificent flight may not be seen -in humiliating contrast, by these gentlemen and their friends. - -Suppose now, for instance—having tried a magazine _after_ Graham—they -confess the “_distance_,” and give us a touch at a magazine made up -exclusively of translations from the French, with such copies of the -illustrations as may be picked up in Paris, or can be done here. We -really think something could be done with this hint profitably, but this -blundering and dodging along after another magazine, which crowds every -avenue, and presents itself for contrast at every turn, must be most -humiliating and vexatious, and cannot but be a losing concern in -shoe-leather and temper. The stereotype promises of our friends, which -appear with the “snow-birds” every January, have lost their value, and -as a standing joke might be relished well enough, but it strikes us that -it is a sort of eccentricity in amusement, harmless _only_ because -nobody is deluded. - -It is unfortunate that one half the world takes its notions of business, -as it does its opinions, from the other half, and vainly supposes that -the high road to success is a beaten track. Nothing can be more absurd; -and the history of the leading penny commercial and weekly papers in -large cities attests this. In magazines the world does not take -unfledged genius and untried promises _at par_. The magazine world—by -which we mean that part of the world that reads magazines—has grown -cautious, cute, shrewd, or whatever may happen to be the choicest phrase -to designate a careful squint into the “bag” before “buying the pig.” It -will not do, therefore, to attempt to _gull_ the good folks, with a -supposed rivalry between your buzzard and our hawk—they know the -difference, and although “_Hail to the chief who in triumph advances_,” -may charm the ear as Graham for January flutters its golden wings before -the bright eyes of _all_ the cherry-cheeked damsels, in _all_ the -post-towns, when on his annual visit—his New-Year’s call—to his fifty -thousand friends—the tatterdemalion who, _under cover_, attempts to -follow, will assuredly be greeted with the “Rogue’s March,” and achieve -disgrace if not the whipping-post. It _will_ not do, this sort of living -by wit—this throwing out of a magnificent prospectus like Graham’s, and -then following it up with a specimen number in the way of -“_inducement_,” as if the world were one vast fishpool, and people—who -are not gudgeons—were to be jerked out, dollars and all, with an adroit -fling of the fly, (going a _flyer_ with a prospectus.) The game has been -played to every variety of tune—we _think_—and the gamut—we had like -to have said _gammon_—is exhausted, and with it the public patience. - - G. - - * * * * * - - - “GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.” - -_My dear Jeremy_,—The coming of the year 1849 must present reflections -of a mixed character to “THE TRIO.” _Our_ memories do not stretch back -to “thirty years since,” but fifteen years ago at “BAMFORD’S,” how -vividly fresh in memory, to “YOU AND JOE AND I!” Those years of fun, -frolic, literature in the bud, (poetic,) _and_ extravagant expenditure -of sixpences. Which of us troubled our brains about _current rates_, -while we passed “_currant_” at “BAMFORD’S?” What cared we about the -opinion of the world? _Our_ “_mead_ of praise” was in bottles. -“_Imperial!_” did you say? You are right there. “Three bottles of it!” -_Did_ we ever reach that sublime of extravagant dissipation in those -_imperial days_? I think not. It would have been a sort of royal -expenditure, that must have drained the treasury, and rendered us unfit -for the grave studies of the afternoon. - -Ah! there was a foam, a sparkle, a sort of frost-work fizzling upon -those mead-glasses, which we shall never see again, Jeremy!—NEVER! -Champagne, bubble it ever so brightly, pales in its ineffectual rivalry -with the memory of the snowy effervescence, which crowned the goblet at -“BAMFORD’S!” With the freshness of life’s morning, has “BAMFORD” and his -“_imperial_” melted away! and the place which knew them and us is known -no more. The old blue frame, with an attic in its _first_ story, and its -_window_ all awry, is gone!—as if to join those bright dreams which -have floated into the unattainable. The very dew of the heart of each of -_us_ has been exhaled, and with those laughing hours has gone, upward we -trust, to enjoy sunshine and smiles with the angels. - -Do you know that I cannot look upon the staring brick edifice which -covers that hallowed ground, without thinking it a desecration? and -feeling a sort of unbidden wish for a circumscribed earthquake! Is it -not enough that the heart shrivels and grows cold in its calloused -casement, under the blighting influences of the god of this world—that -Mammon must bridge over and entomb the small spot that memory has -consecrated to truth; so that the scared conscience shall be watered no -more at the fountain at which in youth the heart’s secrets of each of us -were mirrored. Must even the green places which we remember in the past -be obliterated forever?—the points from which, with imprisoned impulses -and high hopes, we started into that untried and beckoning world, which, -as a prism to the young eye, varied its fanciful and attractive colors -as we advanced, forever changing, forever deceptive, until the heart, -jaded and wearied with the cheat, started from its dreams of bliss, to -dream—to hope—no more. - -It _is_ enough that the heart changes—that all that we looked forward -to in youth, hopefully and trustfully, fades as we advance. That the -path which before us was verdant and full of flowers, is sterile and -strewn with ashes, as we tread it now; and instead of the songs of -birds, which filled the grove and made the air vocal, and the heart -happy, we have but the melancholy dirge—the funeral wail of -autumn—sweeping with moaning sound through the unleafed trees—a sad -sky above our heads—and withered leaves beneath our feet! - -Ah! how _sadly_ have _we_ changed!—“WE THREE!” What bitter heart -experiences have we treasured up! How many of “the world’s” dark lessons -do we know! Would not either of us give all that we have learned for one -hour of the unshadowed happiness of those young days? Could we but go -back again to taste it—did you ever muse on this?—would we change as -we have, or remain as we were, think you? With but a slice of a year’s -experience—as years roll by us _now_—to start with as a capital, would -we be as wordly-wise—in any way as worldly—as we are? I think not. We -should quaff its knowledge more sparingly, believe me, in a -Bamford-reminiscence, vividly intermingled with that slight appreciation -of men as we know them! We should treasure those heart bubbles, which -the world has blown into air! _Should we not, Jeremy?_ - - G. R. G. - - * * * * * - -INDUSTRY AND PERSEVERANCE.—The power of these two qualities to overcome -almost every difficulty is well exemplified in the case of Bulwer, the -novelist. When he first commenced writing, he found it to be very hard -work. Bently says he worked his way to eminence through failure and -ridicule. His facility is only the result of practice and study. He -wrote at first very slowly, and with great difficulty; but he resolved -to master his stubborn instrument of thought, and mastered it. He has -practiced writing as an art, and has re-written some of his essays -(unpublished) nine or ten times over. Another habit will show the -advantage of continuous application. He only works about three hours a -day—from ten in the morning till one—seldom later. The evenings, when -alone, are devoted to reading, scarcely ever to writing. Yet what an -amount of good hard labor has resulted from these three hours! He writes -very rapidly, averaging 20 pages a day of novel print. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _Lays and Ballads. By Thomas Buchanan Read. Philadelphia: Geo. - S. Appleton. 12mo. pp. 140._ - -We confess that we have little sympathy with the mass of cream and -tea-colored books which have invaded our land, with the apparent -intention of benefitting none but printers. It is therefore with -heartfelt satisfaction that we now and then glean from amid this host of -versified rubbish a volume like the one before us. - -To the numerous admirers of Mr. Read’s former collection the present -volume will afford peculiar pleasure, fulfilling as it does the -predicted progressive spirit which was everywhere manifest in his -earlier production, which is evident here, and which still points to -something better to come. We know of no surer test of true poetical -greatness than this evidence of a power of development, which has always -shown itself in the earlier verses of men possessing the highest order -of genius. - -The volume before us, as the title imports, is chiefly composed of -lyrical poems; but there are also two or three articles in blank verse, -whose exceeding merit awaken a desire to see a further exertion of the -author’s talents in this unfettered mode of versification. The power -which he evinces in “the Alchemist’s Daughter” and “A Vision of Death,” -prove the existence of resources for which the friends of his former -volume scarcely gave him credit. We own ourselves astonished at the -versatility of Mr. Read’s genius, at the ease with which he passes from -lyrical to the highest order of poetry, with the scope of thought which -is shown in his unveilings of man’s inner nature, and with the dramatic -variety and intensity of his diction. We scarcely recognize the same -hand in the lyrical and dramatic poems; both are beautiful, but of -widely different orders of beauty. The former are characterized by a -purity of thought and sentiment, a delicate refinement and nicety in the -choice of phrases, a brilliant and constant play of fancy in figures the -most apt and glowing, a striking spirit of individuality, and a -versification the most varied and harmonious. The transition from the -lyrical to the dramatic pieces is at the same time both delightful and -startling. The style changes at once, the author vanishes from sight, -and is lost in our sympathy for the imaginary creatures of his mind. In -the dramatic compositions the language is vigorous, passionate and -condensed, dealing rather in the bold metaphor than in the more ornate -but less difficult simile, and seeking effect rather by force and -earnestness than by beauty and delicacy of expression. This is as it -should be, and proves our author the possessor of powers which must -eventually place him in the very first rank of poets. But we must leave -general criticism, and proceed to substantiate our high opinions by the -text before us. - -The volume opens with a poem replete with the most picturesque and -striking imagery. There is a beautiful contrast between the desolate, -frozen appearance of nature— - - “When old Winter, through his fingers numb, - Blows till his breathings on the windows gleam; - And when the mill-wheel, spiked with ice, is dumb - Within the neighboring stream;” - -and the fervent feeling which appears to have dictated this friendly -tribute to one whose presence can at all seasons make - - “A summer in the heart.” - -Passing some half dozen poems, every way worthy of special notice, but -omitted on account of our confined space, we come to “The Beggar of -Naples.” This is one of the longest and most striking poems in the book; -in a versification the most irregular but the most harmonious, indulging -in the wildest flights of fancy, but never soaring beyond the common -ken. The story is simple, and turns on the power with which a virtuous -love may shape the destiny of the meanest. The picture of the beggars -hanging round the sunny corners of the streets, tells with a few -skillful touches more than a whole library of statistics. - - “Avoiding every wintry shade, - The lazzaroni crawled to sunny spots; - At every corner miserable knots - Pursued their miserable trade, - _And held the sunshine in their asking palms,_ - _Which gave unthanked its glowing alms,_ - Thawing the blood until it ran - As wine within a vintage runs.” - -The italicized lines are eminently suggestive; and in the contemplative -mind, awaken a long train of the most solemn thoughts—thoughts of -Heaven’s indiscriminate bounty, and man’s unthankful forgetfulness, of -the beggar’s hands overflowing with the gifts of nature, but all empty -of the gifts of churlish human charity. The listlessness of the beggar’s -life, the vacant sense and brain of the purposeless idler, is admirably -portrayed in the following lines:— - - “Upon the beggar’s heart the matin hymn - Fell faint and dim; - As when upon some margin of the sea - The fisher breathes the briny air, - And hears the far waves symphony, - But hears it unaware. - The music from the lofty aisle, - And all the splendor of the sacred pile— - The pictures hung at intervals - Like windows, giving from the walls - Clear glimpses of the days agone. - - * * * * * - - All were unheeded, - And came but as his breath; - Or if there came a thought, that thought unheeded - Even in its birth met death.” - -The awakening from this lethargy, at the first touch of love, is -unrivaled:— - - “At once upstarting from his knees, - He watched her as she went; - The blood awakened from its slothful ease, - Through all his frame a flaming flood was sent; - _He stood as with a statue’s fixed surprise,_ - _Great wonder making marble in his eyes!_” - -What can surpass the simple grandeur of the concluding lines of this -passage? The new light which at once bursts on his aroused senses is -thus happily described:— - - “All things at once became a glorious show; - Now could he see the sainted pictures glow; - And instantly unto his lips - Rolled fragments of old song— - Fragments which had been thrown - Into his heart unknown.” &c. - -His shame at his tattered appearance, at his companions, and at his base -mode of life, are singularly beautiful and truthful strokes. That a soul -so aroused should struggle for and reach the first ranks of fame is -nothing strange, and that he should wed his deliverer is strict poetical -justice. From “The Deserted Road” we clip the following felicitous local -touches:— - - “Here I stroll along the village, - As in youth’s departed morn, - But I miss the crowded coaches, - And the driver’s bugle-horn; - - “Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters, - Filling buckets at the wells, - With their wains from Conestoga, - _And their orchestras of bells_.” - -“The Alchemist’s Daughter,” amid a host of stirring lines, contains the -following beautiful passages. Lorenzo, speaking of the marriage of his -young mistress— - - “Her mother died long years ago, and took - One half the blessed sunshine from our house, - _The other half was married off last night_.” - -This is genuine poetry, and we recognize it at once. Again, describing -the rising moon,— - - “Mark how the moon, as by some unseen arm, - Is thrust toward heaven like a bloody shield.” - -The following noble burst should go far to cheer those whose labors -appear to produce no immediate results:— - - “Are there no wrongs but what a nation feels— - No heroes but among the martial throng? - Nay, there are patriot souls who never grasped - A sword, or heard a crowd applaud their names— - Who lived and labored, died, and were forgot; - And after them the world came out and reapt - The field, and never questioned who had sown.” - -From this garden of dainty devices let us, before leaving, cull a few -choice flowers. From “The New Village” we would fain extract the whole -stanza, describing the forest-life of the Indian maids, which concludes -thus— - - “The daisies kiss their foot-falls in the grass, - _And little streams stand still to paint them in their glass_.” - -In “A Vision of Death,” the flowers over the grave of a beautiful -maiden, are thus invoked:— - - “Bloom, bloom, - Ye little blossoms! _and if beauty can,_ - _Like other purest essences, exhale_ - _And penetrate the mould, your flowers shall be_ - _Of rarest hue and perfume_.” - -From “The Realm of Dreams,” we extract this exquisite couplet: - - “And where the spring-time sun had longest shone - And violet looked up, _and found itself alone_.” - -The above has a positive fragrance, that unexplainable odor which at -once distinguishes genuine poetry, however disguised, from all -imitations, however ingenious. No one but a true poet could have written -this passage, which, for its suggestive delicacy, is scarcely rivaled in -our language. From the same poem we extract this simile, describing the -unruffled quiet of a small mountain lake:— - - “Through underwood of laurel, and across - A little lawn, _shoe-deep with sweetest moss,_ - I passed, and found the lake, _which, like a shield_ - _Some giant long had ceased to wield,_ - _Lay with its edges sunk in sand and stone,_ - _With ancient roots and grasses overgrown._” - -The descent of the mystic spirit of the lake is thus pictured: - - “Then noiselessly as moonshine falls - Adown the ocean’s crystal walls, - And with no stir or wave attended, - Slowly through the lake descended; - _Till from her hidden form below_ - _The waters took a golden glow,_ - _As if the star which made her forehead bright_ - _Had burst and filled the lake with light._” - -Observe the beautiful melancholy, and the slow, swaying versification of -the following description of a deserted quay:— - - “The old, old sea, as one in tears, - Comes murmuring with his foamy lips, - And knocking at the vacant piers, - Calls for his long-lost multitude of ships.” - -We would gladly extend this imperfect notice to twice its prescribed -length; for we are aware that in our limited bounds we can do but -partial justice to merits so conspicuous; and, perhaps, in our bungling -haste to pluck that which caught our fancy, we have passed by beauties -which would have arrested the eyes of others. We are conscious of having -bestowed on this volume the most unmixed praises; and the censorious may -ask us, what has become of our critical gall? The province of criticism -is two-fold—to cheer with praise, or to correct with censure; and we -belong to that good-natured portion who exercise the former calling. -What is deliberately done can be followed by no apology. Whatever we -have said, has been supported with solid material from the work before -us; and our readers may judge by the extracts, whether we have done our -author that worst of all injustice which arises from over commendation. - - * * * * * - - _Poems. By Oliver Wendall Holmes. A New Edition. Boston: Wm. D. - Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 16mo._ - -It gives us great pleasure to announce the appearance of a new and -revised edition of Dr. Holmes’s poems, printed in a style of simplicity -and elegance creditable to the publishers and appropriate to him. It -contains a large number of pieces which have never before appeared in -any collection of his poems, and also a number which are now printed for -the first time. A volume which is so emphatically “a nest of spicery,” -which sparkles on every page with wit, fancy, and imagination, and which -contains some of the most perfect specimens of versification and true -poetical expression ever produced in the country, will be sure of a -rapid and a large circulation. The author has been literally mobbed for -many years to prepare an edition of his poems, and we now have one which -fairly reflects his character and powers. - -In criticising a poet, the too common method pursued by the craft is to -fix upon him some time-honored and time-worn phrases and epithets, which -apply to him only as they apply to all poets, and to avoid that task of -analysis which would bring out the peculiarities of his genius. Holmes -has especially suffered from this mode of criticism; and thus one of the -most singular and individual of our poets, a man who, whatever may be -thought of the scope and domain of his genius, is still a strictly -original writer, is described in terms which are as applicable to -Longfellow and Bryant as to him. - -The great mental peculiarity of Holmes is fineness of -intellect—subtilty in the perception of resemblances, subtilty in the -perception of differences, and subtilty in the conception of remote and -filmy shades of thought. He has a most acute and inevitable perception -of the ludicrous, but it is ever passed through his intellect before it -is expressed; and, accordingly, his wit and humor have the certainty of -demonstration, and never miss their mark. He has a no less acute -perception of the pathetic, the beautiful, and the grand, but he never -hazards their expression from the simple impulse of enthusiasm, but -passes them also through his intelligence, scrutinizes them as they lie -mirrored on his imagination, and gives them utterance only when he is -satisfied intellectually and consciously of their validity and -excellence. Such a man would naturally be accused of lacking -sensibility, sensitiveness to impressions; but no careful reader of his -writings, who considers their singular wealth and variety of sensuous -imagery, of niceties and felicities of description, can fail to discern -the intense sensibility to external objects they continually imply, -however much he may be puzzled to account for the form in which it is -expressed. The truth is, we should judge, that Holmes’s extreme -sensitiveness made him skeptical, or fearful of the quality, and that he -arraigned his impressions, his spontaneous combinations and strange -freaks of juxtaposition, his teeming throng of fanciful images, his -impatient, voluble, and affluent verbal extravagances, before the -tribunal of his intellect, to see if they would bear the tests by which -the bizarre is discriminated from the picturesque, levity from wit, -drollery from humor, sentimentality from pathos, flightiness from -ideality. Were it not for his detecting, exacting, sure and fine -intellect, there would be no rein on his wild colt of a fancy, and the -result would be more portentous freaks of deviltry and mischievousness, -and perhaps more direct expression of impatient passion and tender -feeling, but the whole would be but splendid disorder and aimless -brilliancy. It is thus from the very fulness and fierce pressure of his -sensitive nature for expression, that Holmes has become so eminently an -intellectual poet, and that all his writings indicate an intense working -of faculties rather than a heedless expression of affinities. Take up -any one of his poems, witty or serious, subject it to the chemical -processes of criticism, and it is surprising what seemingly untameable -elements of thought and emotion are revealed. This mastery of his -impulses, as seen in the intellectual form of their expression, is the -peculiarity of Holmes, and gives to his poems that character of -certainty, decision, and restrained exuberance, which constitutes so -much of their charm. Such a man must have rejected more brilliancies and -grotesque strokes of fanciful wit, than most men have ever conceived. -Nothing which his fancy or his wit, his Ariel or his Puck, pitches into -his mind, can pass muster, unless it can bear the sharp, close, -microscopic glance of his sure and subtle intellect. - -In respect to the intellectuality of his processes, Holmes bears some -resemblance to Tennyson, with the exception that Tennyson’s mind pierces -patiently into a different and more mysterious domain of spiritual -phenomena, and bears the marks of a slower reduction of film to form. -The mind of Holmes acts with the rapidity of lightning. It examines and -dissects as instantaneously as it feels and conceives. There is no -patient contemplation of the object of his thought, but a quick, brisk, -almost nervous seizure of it. His mind works with such intensity, all -its faculties are so perfectly under his control, that what it grasps it -grasps at once with the celerity of intuition. Nothing comes to him by -degrees and slow steps. He does not wait for the Muse to turn her -countenance gradually upon him, unfolding feature after feature, but he -impatiently seizes her by the shoulders, twirls her round, and looks her -right in the face. He is not abashed by her reproof, and disregards all -her airs and assumptions of dignity. He seems plainly to tell her that -he will stand none of her nonsense—that he knows her secret—that she -cannot impose upon him—that if she do not choose to smile he can sail -along very well without her assistance. Such spiteful treatment from any -body else, would draw down her wrath; but Holmes seems a favorite, and -has his mischievous ways indulged. - -There is observable in Holmes’s long poems one defect which springs from -the refinement of his perceptions. Though his writings evince no lack of -vivid and palpable imagery, the curious subtilty of his mind leads him -often into a remoteness of allusion whose pertinence and beauty are not -apprehended by the ordinary reader. The leading idea of some of his -poems, though obvious enough if sharply scrutinized, is still not -prominent enough to enforce attention of itself. The result is that -“Poetry” and “Urania,” appear at first like aggregates of brilliant -parts rather than as vital wholes. The unity of each is perceived only -on an after examination. This is an artistical defect which mars their -excellence and effectiveness. - -The present edition of Holmes, while it contains a complete collection -of his published pieces, is enriched with some after dinner poems, which -were not intended for the public eye. These seem to have been thrown off -extempore, but they teem with brilliancies of wit and fancy, and are -full of fine audacities of expression. Of these the best are -“Terpsichore,” “A Modest Request,” and “Nux Postcænatica,” which contain -enough spirit and poetry to make a reputation, and which almost add to -that which Holmes has already made. The drinking song, slily called “A -Song of Other Days,” is almost unmatched for the grandeur and splendor -of its imagery, and the heartiness of its tone. The “Sentiment” which -follows this right royal Anacreontic, is as glorious a tribute to water -as the other is to wine—thus satisfactorily proving that Holmes is -indebted to neither for inspiration. One of the most beautiful and -brilliant of the poems added in this edition, is that on the Ancient -Punch Bowl, and the mode in which sentiment and wit are made to shake -hands, and dwell cosily together, is grandly humorous. “Urania,” we -suppose, must be considered on the whole, the best production in the -volume. It has touches of sentiment and pathos, so graceful, so pure, -and so elusive—not to speak of its satirical and witty portions—that -it would be in vain to place any other poem of the author before it. - -We have only space to refer to one more admirable peculiarity of Holmes, -a natural consequence of the vigor, affluence and fineness of his -intellect, and that is the _re-readableness_ of his productions. There -is a perpetual stimulant in them which we cannot drain dry. On a fourth -or fifth perusal some refinement of allusion or analogy, some delicacy -of thought or expression, some demure stroke of humor, which did not at -first fix the attention, repays the diligent reader. Indeed to read one -of his poems for the purpose of taking in its whole meaning at once, -would require the mind to be as thoroughly awake and active as if it -were engaged on Hume or Butler. The very gladness and briskness with -which his verse moves, the flood of radiance poured out upon it, the -distinctness of much of the imagery, interfere, on the first perusal, -with the perception of his minor felicities and remote combinations of -fancy and wit. Holmes, indeed, is a poet to have constantly on the -parlor-table, not one to be consigned to a shelf in the library; for -there is hardly a page not brightened by those fine fancies which age -does not dim, and which “sparkle like salt in fire.” - - * * * * * - - _United States Fiscal Department._ - -In a republican government entire simplicity in all that relates to -public affairs, is not only convenient to the officers, but is a duty to -the public, every man of whom is a party in the business. We are -reminded of the value of simplicity and order by two quarto volumes now -before us, which point out the order, and show how simplicity is to be -attained in whatever relates to the fiscal department of the government -of the United States. - -The title of these volumes is expressive of their valuable contents. “A -Synopsis of the Commercial and Revenue System of the United States, as -Developed by Instructions and Decisions of the Treasury Department, for -the Administration of the Revenue Laws: Accompanied with a Supplement of -Historical and Tabular Illustrations of the Origin, Organization and -Practical Operations of the Treasury Department and its various Bureaus, -in Fulfillment of that System: In Eight Chapters, with an Appendix. By -Robert Mayo, M.D. 2 vols. 4to.” - -We have not space to enter into details of this truly great work. All -that is set forth in the promises of the title page is amply sustained -by the body of the work, and an amount of information is given, truly -astonishing to those who have not had experience in the numerous -ramifications of the overgrown department. While there is scarcely a -relation which any citizen could occupy with regard to the treasury -department, in all its forms, and while the duty of every officer -connected with that branch of government, whatever may be his grade, is -amply set forth, it seems as a matter of course that at least one in -every hundred of the citizens of this country should have a copy of this -instructive work, for the benefit of himself and of the others to whom -he is the _centurion_. And while these various kinds of information are -given, the work incidentally contains a history of the department. - -Loan holders, applicants for remuneration, and all who have any -connection or business with the treasury department, are instructed by -these volumes how to proceed—how they ought to proceed—and how others -have proceeded. Dr. Mayo has done a public service by preparing these -volumes. We hope the public will remember him and his work. - - * * * * * - - _The Women of the Bible; Delineated in a series of Sketches of - Prominent Females mentioned in Scripture. By Clergymen of the - United States. Illustrated by eighteen characteristic - engravings. Edited by the Rev. J. M. Wainwright, D. D. Phila: - Geo. S. Appleton, 164 Chestnut street._ - -This book is as remarkable for the felicity of its design as for the -beauty of its execution. The plates which adorn it are eighteen in -number, and they are among the best and most exquisite specimens of the -engraver’s art that it has ever been our good fortune to examine. The -articles have been written by clergymen of the United States, -distinguished for their talents, and eminent for their piety; and they -have truly rendered a meet offering for those to whom it is -appropriately dedicated, “thoughtful readers, men as well as women, the -one being interested equally with the other, in what constitutes the -character of mother, wife, daughter, sister.” As the inside of the book -is rich and attractive, so the skill and taste of the binder have made -its exterior truly magnificent. The style is new in this country, being -a rich, massive arabesque, and its execution reflects the highest credit -upon Mr. J. T. ALTEMUS, of this city, under whose -supervisory direction the work was accomplished. - - * * * * * - - _The Republic of the United States of America; Its Duties to - Itself, and its Responsible Relations to other Countries. New - York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -In this volume the author enters upon an elaborate defense of the -democratic party of the union, the administration of President Polk, and -the Mexican War. As a partisan production it may be considered able and -moderate. The writer, however, in his remarks on war in general, and the -Mexican war in particular, falls into some offensive cant of his own, in -attempting to upset some popular cant of another kind. - - * * * * * - - _Mrs. Sigourney’s Poems._ - -Carey & Hart have published, in one beautiful volume, uniform with their -editions of Longfellow, Bryant and Willis, the Poems of Lydia H. -Sigourney, a lady who has been long before the public as a writer, and -whose fine powers have ever been devoted to good objects. She richly -deserves the compliment of such an edition, and we have no doubt that -its success will be triumphant. The volume contains many poems which -have never before been included in a collection of her works, and many -which are now published for the first time. The illustrations by Darley -are the best, both in respect to design and execution, which have -appeared in Carey & Hart’s editions of the American poets. They all -exhibit Darley’s singular power of making the countenance physiognomical -of the mind, even of the most elusive qualities of thought and emotion, -and of bringing out character distinctly and decisively. - - * * * * * - - _Notes of a Military Reconnoisance of the Route to California - with the advanced Guard of the Army of the West, Commanded by - General S. W. Kearney. By W. H. Emory, U.S.A._ - -This public document, printed by order of Congress, and vastly different -from the usual verbose _farragos_, in printing which public money is -expended, is a most valuable work. Mr. Emory has traveled with the eye -of a scholar as well as soldier, and while he has amassed a valuable -collection of military _data_, he has added scarcely less to our stock -of Ethnological and antiquarian information. Well written, truthful, -because it is an official report, recording many incidents of peril by -flood and field, it should find a place in every library, as a memorial -of the toil and sufferings of that gallant little band which, under the -guidance of the late General Kearney, won that beautiful country for the -United States. The battle of San Pasqual and the subsequent operations -on the San Francisco, (where the gallant Captain Moore Johnstone, Lieut. -Hammond, and so large a portion of the command were killed,) are -graphically told, and add to the interest of the book, which is richly -illustrated by engravings of ruined buildings, plants, scenery, etc. - - * * * * * - -_The Opal._—Our amiable and highly gifted friend, Mrs. SARAH J. HALE, -has presented to the public, in “The Opal” just published, one of the -best and most beautiful Annuals we have ever seen. Her superior taste as -Editress, has enabled her to collect a number of articles of -unquestionable merit, which, together, form a most delightful volume. We -do not wonder at “The _Opal’s_” popularity, especially since the care of -its preparation has devolved upon Mrs. Hale, who is so eminently fitted -for the performance of that duty. Its pages are pure and bright, and the -gems which adorn them, from the rich treasures of the minds of Grace -Greenwood, N. P. Willis, and other equally popular authors, serve to -render it in truth, a neat and appropriate offering for all seasons. - - * * * * * - -_Thirty Years Since, or the Ruined Family._—The indefatigable G. P. R. -JAMES, has written another novel, which bears this title. It is -remarkable with what facility works of fiction emanate from his pen, and -it is not the less astonishing that they should be so generally -readable. “Thirty Years Since” is fully equal to any of its author’s -recent productions, and will doubtless find many readers and admirers. - - * * * * * - -_The Rival Beauties._—This is the title of a new novel written by Miss -PARDOE, author of “The City of the Sultan,” &c. Gertrude and Sybil, the -Rival Beauties, are as dissimilar in their natures as light is the -opposite of darkness, and the character of each has been portrayed in an -admirable manner by the writer. Miss Pardoe’s works are usually -interesting—the one before us will, we think, compare advantageously -with any that have preceded it. - - * * * * * - -_Hand-Book of the Toilette_ and _Hand-Book of Conversation and Table -Talk_, are the titles of two _bijou_ volumes published by G. S. -Appleton. They are beautifully gotten up, and contain many valuable -suggestions. - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Hyphenation and archaic spellings have been retained. Punctuation has -been corrected without note. Obvious typographical errors have been -corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be -missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals used for -preparation of the ebook. - -page iv, the Stiene-Kill. By ==> the Steine-Kill. By -page 2, of the possesor ==> of the possessor -page 5, the varions propensities ==> the various propensities -Page 8, a dead patridge ==> a dead partridge -page 12, _ancien regimé_ ==> _ancien régime_ -page 14, by complaisance, hazle ==> by complaisance, hazel -page 14, for my unparalelled ==> for my unparalleled -page 15, unmeanining mirth ==> unmeaning mirth -page 15, the stately mein ==> the stately mien -page 34, ‘we havn’t ==> ‘we haven’t -page 34, and its nothing ==> and it’s nothing -page 35, if their hasn’t ==> if there hasn’t -page 35, six day’s board ==> six days’ board -page 41, to day, I have ==> to-day, I have -page 41, replied the the officer ==> replied the officer -page 49, The threshhold was ==> The threshold was -page 50, and Tlascalla ==> and Tlaxcalla -page 53, “Do’nt think so ==> “Don’t think so -page 55, early past away ==> early passed away -page 66, diligence and perseverence ==> diligence and perseverance -page 67, all the fredom ==> all the freedom -page 71, and the learnning ==> and the learning -page 71, however, incontestible; and ==> however, incontestable; and -page 71, belongs the incontestible ==> belongs the incontestable -page 79, quaff its knowledgee ==> quaff its knowledge -page 82, in Homes’s long poems ==> in Holmes’s long poems -page 83, with the tresury ==> with the treasury -page 83, preparing these volume ==> preparing these volumes - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE, JANUARY 1849 *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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