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diff --git a/old/53949-0.txt b/old/53949-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cbf6505..0000000 --- a/old/53949-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8687 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXIV, No. 2, February 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. 2, February 1849 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham, J. R. Patterson, J. B. Taylor - -Release Date: January 12, 2017 [EBook #53949] -[Most recently updated: December 24, 2020] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Mardi Desjardins and the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 1849 *** - - - - -[Illustration: Drawn and Engraved by W. E. Tucker -Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine] - - Whilst now with rapture burning, - Thy smiles and sighs returning, - Say wilt thou love be mine? - See—the songsters’ wings are spreading, - Each grove and arbour threading, - To seek their Valentine. - - Then while all hearts are striving, - And at Love’s Arts conniving, - Send offerings to his shrine. - May we, our pledge renewing, - Our patrons favor wooing, - Prove their true Valentine. - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - VOL. XXXIV. FEBRUARY, 1849. No. 2. - - Table of Contents - - The Young Lawyer’s First Case - The World - Christine - The Ennuyee - The Man in the Moon - The Mirror of Life - To the Thames, At Norwich, Conn. - The Song of the Axe - The Wager of Battle - Requiem - St. Valentine’s Day - The Past - A Song - A Recollection of Mendelssohn - Jasper Leech - My Bird Has Flown - Lessons in German - The Phantasmagoria - The Beating of the Heart - Doctor Sian Seng - The Highland Laddie’s Farewell - A Twilight Lay - The Chamber of Life and Death - Earth-Life - Eleonore Eboli - History of the Costume of Men - Wild-Birds of America - The Old Year and the New - The Lost Notes - An Hour Among the Dead - Gems From Late Readings - Review of New Books - Editor’s Table - The Bells of Ostend - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - * * * * * - - VOL. XXXIV. PHILADELPHIA, FEBRUARY, 1849. No. 2. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE YOUNG LAWYER’S FIRST CASE. - - - BY JOHN TODD. - -In one of those long, low, one-story, unpainted houses which succeeded -the log-houses in Vermont as the second generation of human habitations, -lay a sick woman. She knew, and all her friends knew, that her days were -numbered, and that when she left that room it would be in her -winding-sheet for the grave. Yet her face and her spirit were calm, and -the tones of her voice, like those of the dying swan, were sweeter than -those of life. She had taken an affectionate leave of all her children, -in faith and hope, save one—her eldest son—a mother’s boy and a -mother’s pride. By great economy and unwearied industry this son had -been sent to college. He was a mild, inoffensive, pale-faced one; but -the bright eye did not belie the spirit that dwelt in a casket so frail. -He had been sent for, but did not reach home till the day before his -mother’s death. As soon as she knew of his coming, she immediately had -him called to her room, and left alone with her. Long and tearful was -their conversation. Sweet and tender was this last interview between a -mother and son who had never lacked any degree of confidence on either -side. - -“You know, my son, that it has always been my most earnest wish and -prayer that you should be a preacher of the gospel, and thus a -benefactor to the souls of men. In choosing the law, you are aware, you -have greatly disappointed these hopes.” - -“I know it, dear mother; and I have done it, not because I like the law -so much, but because I dare not undertake a work so sacred as the -ministry, conscious as I am that I am not qualified in mind, or body, or -spirit, for the work. If I dared do it, for _your_ sake, if for no other -reason, I would do it.” - -“In God’s time, my dear son, in God’s time, I trust you will. I neither -urge it, nor blame you. But promise me now, that you will never -undertake any cause which you think is unjust, and that you will never -aid in screening wrong from coming to light and punishment.” - -The son said something about every man’s having the right to have his -case presented in the best light he could. - -“I know what you mean,” said she; “but I know that if a man has violated -the laws of God and man, he has no _moral_ right to be shielded from -punishment. If he has confessions and explanations to offer, it is well. -But for you to take his side, and for money, to shield him from the -laws, seems to me no better than if, for money, you concealed him from -the officers of justice, under the plea that every man had a right to -get clear of the law if he could. But I am weak and cannot talk, my son; -and yet _if_ you will give me the solemn promise, it seems as if I -should die easier. But you must do as you think best.” - -The young man bent over his dying mother, and with much emotion, gave -her the solemn promise which she desired. Tender was the last kiss she -gave him, warm the thanks which she expressed, and sweet the smile which -she wore, and which was left on her countenance after her spirit had -gone up to meet the smiles of the Redeemer. - -Some months after the death of his mother, the young man left the -shadows of the Green Mountains, and toward a more sunny region, in a -large and thrifty village, he opened his office; the sign gave his name, -and under it, the words, “Attorney at Law.” There he was found early and -late, his office clean and neat, and his few books studied over and over -again, but no business. The first fee which he took was for writing a -short letter for his black wood-sawyer, and for that he conscientiously -charged only a single sixpence! People spoke well of him, and admired -the young man, but still no business came. After waiting till “hope -deferred made the heart sick,” one bright morning a coarse-looking, -knock-down sort of a young man was seen making toward the office. How -the heart of the young lawyer bounded at the sight of his first client! -What success, and cases, and fees danced in the vision in a moment! - -“Are you the lawyer?” said the man, hastily taking off his hat. - -“Yes, sir, that’s my business. What can I do for you?” - -“Why, something of a job, I reckon. The fact is I have got into a little -trouble, and want a bit of help.” And he took out a five dollar bill, -and laid it on the table. The young lawyer made no motion toward taking -it. - -“Why don’t you take it?” said he. “I don’t call it pay, but to begin -with—a kind of wedge—what do you call it?” - -“Retention-fee, I presume you mean.” - -“Just so, and by your taking it, you are my lawyer. So take it.” - -“Not quite so fast, if you please. State your case, and then I will tell -you whether or not I take the retention-fee.” - -The coarse fellow stared. - -“Why, mister, the case is simply this. Last spring I was doing a little -business by way of selling meat. So I bought a yoke of oxen of old Maj. -Farnsworth. I was to have them for one hundred dollars.” - -“Very well—what became of the oxen?” - -“Butchered and sold out, to be sure.” - -“By you?” - -“Yes.” - -“Well, where’s the trouble?” - -“Why, they say, that as I only gave my note for them, I need not pay it, -and I want you to help me to get clear of it.” - -“How do you expect me to do it?” - -“Plain as day, man; just say, gentlemen of the jury, this young man was -not of age when he gave Maj. Farnsworth the note, and therefore, _in -law_, the note is good for nothing—that’s all!” - -“And was it really so?” - -“Exactly.” - -“How came Maj. Farnsworth to let you have the oxen?” - -“Oh, the godly old man never suspected that I was under age.” - -“What did you get for the oxen in selling them out?” - -“Why, somewhere between one hundred and thirty and one hundred and forty -dollars—they were noble fellows!” - -“And so you want me to help you cheat that honest old man out of those -oxen, simply because the law, this human imperfection, gives you the -opportunity to do it! No, sir; put up your retention-fee. I promised my -dying mother never to do such a thing, and I will starve first. And as -for you—if I wanted to help you to go to the state’s prison, I could -take no course so sure as to do what you offer to pay me for doing. And, -depend upon it, the lawyer who does help you, will be your worst enemy. -Plead minority! No; go, sir, and pay for your oxen honestly and live and -act on the principle, that let what will come, you will be an honest -man.” - -The coarse young man snatched up his bill, and muttering something about -seeing Squire Snapall, left the office. - -So he lost his first fee and his first case. He felt poor and -discouraged, when left alone in the office; but he felt that he had done -right. His mother’s voice seemed to whisper, “Right, my son, right.” The -next day he was in old Maj. Farnsworth’s, and saw a pile of bills lying -upon the table. The good old man said he had just received them for a -debt which he expected to lose, but a kind Providence had interposed in -his behalf. The young lawyer said nothing, but his mother’s voice seemed -to come again, “Right, my son, right.” - -Some days after this a man called in the evening, and asked the young -man to defend him in a trial just coming on. - -“What is your case?” - -“They accuse me of stealing a bee-hive.” - -“A bee-hive!—surely that could not be worth much!” - -“No, but the bees and the honey were in it.” - -“Then you really did steal it?” - -“Squire are you alone here—nobody to hear?” - -“I am all alone.” - -“Are you bound by oath to keep the secrets of your clients?” - -“Certainly I am.” - -“Well, then, ’twixt you and me, I did have a dab at that honey. There -was more than seventy pounds! But you can clear me.” - -“How can I?” - -“Why, Ned Hazen has agreed to swear that I was with him fishing at -Squanicook Pond that night.” - -“So, by perjury, you hope to escape punishment. What can you afford to -pay a lawyer who will do his best?” - -The man took out twenty dollars. It was a great temptation. The young -lawyer staggered for a moment—but only for a moment. - -“No, sir, I will not undertake your case. I will not try to shield a man -whom I know to be a villain from the punishment which he deserves. I -will starve first.” - -The man with an oath bolted out of the office, and made his way to -Snapall’s office. The poor lawyer sat down alone, and could have cried. -But a few dollars were left to him in the world, and what to do when -they were gone, he knew not. In a few moments the flush and burning of -the face was gone, as if he had been fanned by the wings of angels, and -again he heard his own mother’s voice, “Right, my son, right.” - -Days and even weeks passed away, and no new client made his appearance. -The story of his having refused to take fees and defend his clients got -abroad, and many were the gibes concerning his folly. Lawyer Snapall -declared that such weakness would ruin any man. The multitude went -against the young advocate. But a few noted and remembered it in his -favor. - -On entering his office one afternoon, the young man found a note lying -on his table. It read thus, - -“Mrs. Henshaw’s compliments to Mr. Loudon, and requests, if it be not -too much trouble, that he would call on her at his earliest convenience, -as she wishes to consult him professionally, and with as much privacy as -may be. - -“_Rose Cottage, June 25th._” - -How his hand trembled while he read the note. It might lead to -business—it might be the first fruits of an honorable life. But who is -Mrs. Henshaw? He only knew that a friend by that name, a widow lady, had -lately arrived on a visit to the family who resided in that cottage. “At -his earliest convenience.” If he should go at once, would it not look as -if he were at perfect leisure? If he delayed, would it not be a -dishonesty which he had vowed never to practice? He whistled a moment, -took up his hat, and went toward “Rose Cottage.” On reaching the house, -he was received by a young lady of modest, yet easy manner. He inquired -for Mrs. Henshaw, and the young lady said, - -“My mother is not well, but I will call her. Shall I carry your name, -sir?” - -“Loudon, if you please.” - -The young lady cast a searching, surprised look at him, and left the -room. In a few moments the mother, a graceful, well-bred lady of about -forty, entered the room. She had a mild; sweet face, and a look that -brought his own mother so vividly to mind, that the tears almost started -in his eyes. For some reason, Mrs. Henshaw appeared embarrassed. - -“It is Mr. Loudon, the lawyer, I suppose,” said she. - -“At your service, madam.” - -“Is there any other gentleman at the Bar of your name, sir?” - -“None that I know of. In what way can you command my services, madam?” - -The lady colored. “I am afraid, sir, there is some mistake. I need a -lawyer to look at a difficult case, a man of _principle_, whom I can -trust. You were mentioned to me—but—I expected to see an older man.” - -“If you will admit me,” said Loudon, who began to grow nervous in his -turn, “so far into your confidence as to state the case, I think I can -promise not to do any hurt, even if I do no good. And if on the whole, -you think it best to commit it to older and abler hands, I will charge -you nothing and engage not to be offended.” - -The mother looked at the daughter, and saw on her face the look of -confidence and hope. - -The whole afternoon was spent in going over the case, examining papers, -and the like. As they went along, Loudon took notes and memoranda with -his pencil. - -“He will never do,” thought Mrs. Henshaw. “He takes every thing for -granted and unquestioned; and though I don’t design to mislead him, yet -it seems to me, as if he would take the moon to be green cheese, were I -to tell him so. He will never do;” and she felt that she had wasted her -time and strength. How great then was her surprise when Loudon pushed -aside the bundles of papers, and looking at his notes, again went over -the whole ground, sifting and scanning every point, weighing every -circumstance, pointing out the weak places, tearing and throwing off the -rubbish, discarding what was irrelevant, and placing the whole affair in -a light more luminous and clear than even she had ever seen it before. -Her color came and went as her hopes rose and fell. After he had laid it -open to her, he added, with unconscious dignity, - -“Mrs. Henshaw, I think yours is a cause of right and justice. Even if -there should be a failure to convince a jury so that law would decide in -your favor, there are so many circumstantial proofs, that I have no -doubt that justice will be with you. If you please to entrust it to me, -I will do the best I can, and am quite sure I shall work harder than if -I were on the opposite side.” - -“What do you say, Mary?” said the mother to the daughter. “You are as -much interested as I. Shall we commit it to Mr. Loudon?” - -“You are the best judge, but it seems to me that he understands the case -better than any one you have ever talked with.” - -Loudon thanked Mary with his eyes, but for some reason or other, hers -were cast down upon the figures of the carpet, and she did not see him. - -“Well, Mr. Loudon, we will commit the whole affair to you. If you -succeed we shall be able to reward you; and if you do not, we shall be -no poorer than we have been.” - -For weeks and months Loudon studied his case. He was often at Rose -Cottage to ask questions on some point not quite so clear. He found they -were very agreeable—the mother and the daughter—aside from the -law-suit, and I am not sure that he did not find occasion to ask -questions oftener than he would have done, had it been otherwise. - -The case, briefly was this. Mr. Henshaw had been an active, intelligent -and high-minded man of business. He had dealt in iron, had large -furnaces at different places, and did business on an average with three -hundred different people a day. Among others, he had dealings with a man -by the name of Brown—a plausible, keen, and as many thought, an -unprincipled man. But Henshaw, without guile himself, put all confidence -in him. In a reverse of times—such as occur once in about ten years, -let who will be President—their affairs became embarrassed and terribly -perplexed. In order to extricate his business, it was necessary for -Henshaw to go to a distant part of the land, in company with Brown. -There he died—leaving a young widow, and an only child, Mary, then -about ten years old, and his business in a condition as bad as need be. -By the kindness of the creditors their beautiful home called Elm Glen, -was left to Mrs. Henshaw and her little girl, while the rest of the -property went to pay the debts. The widow and her orphan kept the place -of their joys and hopes in perfect order, and everybody said “it didn’t -look like a widow’s house.” But within four years of the death of Mr. -Henshaw, Brown returned. He had been detained by broken limbs and -business, he said. What was the amazement of the widow to have him set -up a claim for Elm Glen, as his property! He had loaned Mr. Henshaw -money, he said—he had been with him in sickness and in death; and the -high-minded Henshaw had made his will on his death-bed, and bequeathed -Elm Glen to Brown, as a payment for debts. The will was duly drawn, -signed with Mr. Henshaw’s own signature, and also by two competent -witnesses. Every one was astonished at the claim—at the will—at every -thing pertaining to it. It was contested in court, but the evidence was -clear, and the will was set up and established. Poor Mrs. Henshaw was -stripped of everything. With a sad heart she packed up her simple -wardrobe, and taking her child, left the village and went to a distant -State to teach school. For six years she had been absent, and for six -years had Brown enjoyed Elm Glen. No, not enjoyed it, for he enjoyed -nothing. He lived in it; but the haggard look—the frequent appeal to -the bottle—the jealous feelings which were ever uppermost—and his -coarse, profane conversation, showed that he was wretched. People -talked, too, of his lonely hours, his starting up in his sleep, his -clenching his fist in his dreams, and defying “all hell” to prove it, -and the like. - -Suddenly and privately, Mrs. Henshaw returned to her once loved village. -She had obtained some information by which she hoped to bring truth to -light, for she had never believed that her husband ever made such a will -in favor of Brown. To prove that this will was a forgery was what Loudon -was now to attempt. An action was commenced, and Brown soon had notice -of the warfare now to be carried on against him. He raved and swore, but -he also laid aside his cups, and went to work to meet the storm like a -man in the full consciousness of the justice of his cause. There was -writing and riding, posting and sending writs—for both sides had much -at stake. It was the last hope for the widow. It was the first case for -young Loudon. It was victory or state’s prison for Brown. The community, -one and all took sides with Mrs. Henshaw. If a bias _could_ reach a -jury, it must have been in her favor. Mr. Snapall was engaged for Brown, -and was delighted to find that he had only that “white-faced boy” to -contend with; and the good public felt sorry that the widow had not -selected a man of some age and experience; but then they said, “women -will have their own way.” - -The day of trial came on. Great was the excitement to hear the great -“will case,” and every horse in the region was hitched somewhere near -the courthouse. - -In rising to open the case, young Loudon was embarrassed; but modesty -always meets with encouragement. The court gave him patient attention, -and soon felt that it was deserved. In a clear, concise, and masterly -manner, he laid open the case just as it stood in his own mind, and -proceeded with the evidence to prove the will to be a forgery. It was -easy to show the character of Brown to be one of great iniquity, and -that for him to do this was only in keeping with that general character. -He attempted to prove that the will could not be genuine, because one of -its witnesses on his death-bed had _confessed_ that it was a forgery, -and that he and his friend had been hired by Brown to testify and swear -to its being genuine. Here he adduced the affidavit of a deceased -witness, taken in full before James Johnson, Esq. Justice of the Peace, -and acknowledged by him. So far all was clear, and when the testimony -closed it seemed clear that the case was won. But when it came Mr. -Snapall’s turn, he demolished all these hopes by proving that though -James Johnson, Esq. had signed himself Justice of the Peace, yet he was -no magistrate, inasmuch as his commission had expired the very day -before he signed the paper, and although he had been re-appointed, yet -he had not been legally _qualified_ to act as a magistrate—that he -might or might not have supposed himself to be qualified to take an -affidavit; and that the law, for very wise reasons, demanded that an -affidavit should be taken only by a sworn magistrate. He was most happy, -he said, to acknowledge the cool assurance of his young brother in the -law; and the only difficulty was that he had proved nothing, except that -his tender conscience permitted him to offer as an affidavit a paper -that was in law not worth a straw, if any better than a forgery itself. - -There was much sympathy felt for poor Loudon, but he took it very coolly -and seemed no way cast down. Mr. Snapall then brought forward his other -surviving witness—a gallows-looking fellow, but his testimony was -clear, decided and consistent. If he was committing perjury, it was -plain that he had been well-drilled by Snapall. Loudon kept his eye upon -him with the keenness of the lynx. And while Snapall was commenting upon -the case with great power, and while Mrs. Henshaw and Mary gave up all -for lost, it was plain that Loudon, as he turned over the will, and -looked at it again and again, was thinking of something else besides -what Snapall was saying. He acted something as a dog does when he feels -sure he is near the right track of the game, though he dare not yet -bark. - -When Snapall was through, Loudon requested that the witness might again -be called to the stand. But he was so mild, and kind, and timid, that it -seemed as if he was the one about to commit perjury. - -“You take your oath that this instrument, purporting to be the will of -Henry Henshaw, was signed by him in your presence?” - -“I do.” - -“And you signed it with your own hand as witness at the time?” - -“I did.” - -“What is the date of the will?” - -“June 18, 1830.” - -“When did Henshaw die?” - -“June 22, 1830.” - -“Were you living in the village where he died at the time?” - -“I was.” - -“How long had you lived there?” - -“About four years, I believe, or somewhere thereabouts.” - -Here Loudon handed the judge a paper, which the judge unfolded and laid -before him on the bench. - -“Was that village a large or a small one?” - -“Not very large—perhaps fifty houses.” - -“You knew all these houses well, I presume?” - -“I did.” - -“Was the house in which Mr. Henshaw died, one story or two?” - -“Two, I believe.” - -“But you _know_, don’t you? Was he in the lower story or in the chamber -when you went to witness the deed?” - -Here the witness tried to catch the eye of Snapall, but Loudon very -civilly held him to the point. At length he said, “In the chamber.” - -“Will you inform the court what was the color of the house?” - -“I think, feel sure, it wasn’t painted, but didn’t take particular -notice.” - -“But you saw it every day for four years, and don’t you know?” - -“It was not painted.” - -“Which side of the street did it stand?” - -“I can’t remember.” - -“Can you remember which way the street ran?” - -“It ran east and west.” - -“The street ran east and west—the house two story, and unpainted, and -Mr. Henshaw was in the chamber when you witnessed the will. Well, I have -but two things more which I will request you to do. The first is to take -that pen and write your name on that piece of paper on the table.” - -The witness demurred, and so did Snapall. But Loudon insisted upon it. - -“I can’t, my hand trembles so,” said the witness. - -“Indeed! but you wrote a bold, powerful hand when you signed that will. -Come, you _must_ try, just to oblige us.” - -After much haggling and some bravado, it came out that he couldn’t -write, and never learned, and that he had requested Mr. Brown to sign -the paper for him! - -“Oh, ho!” said Loudon. “I thought you swore that _you_ signed it -yourself. Now one thing more, and _I_ have done with you. Just let me -take the pocket-book in your pocket. I will open it here before the -court, and neither steal nor lose a paper.” - -Again the witness refused, and appealed to Snapall; but that worthy man -was grinding his teeth and muttering something about the witness going -to the devil! - -The pocket-book came out, and in it was a regular discharge of the -bearer, John Ordin, from four years imprisonment in the Pennsylvania -Penitentiary, and dated June 15, 1831, and signed by Mr. Wood, the -worthy warden. - -The young advocate now took the paper which he had handed to the judge, -and showed the jury, that the house in which Mr. Henshaw died was -situated in a street running north and south—that it was a one-story -house—that it was _red_, the only red house in the village, and -moreover, that he died in a front room of the lower story. - -There was a moment’s silence, and then a stifled murmur of joy all over -the room. Brown’s eyes looked blood-shot; the witness looked sullen and -dogged, and Mr. Snapall tried to look very indifferent. He made no -defence. The work was done. A very brief, decided charge was given by -the judge, and, without leaving their seats, the jury convicted Brown of -forgery! - -“That young dog is keen, any how!” said Snapall. - -“When his conscience tells him he is on the side of justice,” said -Loudon, overhearing the remark. - -It was rather late in the evening before Loudon called on his clients to -congratulate them on the termination of their suit, and the recovery of -Elm Glen. He was met by Mary, who frankly gave him her hand, and with -tears thanked and praised him, and felt sure they could never -sufficiently reward him. Loudon colored, and seemed more troubled than -when in the court. At length he said abruptly, “Miss Henshaw, you and -your mother can _now_ aid me. There is a friend of yours—a young lady, -whose hand I wish to obtain. I am alone in the world, poor, and unknown. -This is my first law-case, and when I may have another is more than I -know.” - -Mary turned pale, and faintly promised that she and her mother would aid -him to the extent of their power. Then there was a pause, and she felt -as if she, the only one who was supposed to be unagitated and cool, must -speak. - -“Who is the fortunate friend of mine?” - -“Don’t you suspect?” - -“Indeed, I do not.” - -“Well, here is her portrait,” handing her a miniature case. She touched -a spring and it flew open, and in a little mirror, _she saw her own -face_! Now the crimson came over her beautiful face, and the tears came -thick and fast, and she trembled; but I believe she survived the shock; -for the last time I was that way, I saw the conscientious young lawyer -and his charming wife living at Elm Glen; and I heard them speak of _his -first law-suit_! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE WORLD. - - - BY R. H. STODDARD. - - - What wiser is the world in this bright age— - What better than in the darkened days of old? - Survey the Past, its blotted scroll unfold; - Compare it with the Present’s golden page— - It is no worse; the world was cruel then, - And hearts were trampled on, and spirits bled, - And tears and blood like summer rain were shed, - And men were what they always will be—Men! - Experience teaches naught, man will not heed - And profit by the lessons. Fools can read; - The task is said by rote; we do not learn, - But live in ancient ignorance and crime. - There is no hope—the Future will but turn - The old sands in the failing glass of Time! - - * * * * * - - - - - CHRISTINE. - - - BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N. - - - Bright dreams were mine in life’s young day, - Too bright, too fair to last, - Fresh flow’rets sprung beside my way, - And fragrance round it cast; - And hopes as radiant as the dyes - That angel-artists spread, - Upon the western sunset skies, - To my young heart were wed. - - Bright days, sweet days, forever gone! - Ye can return no more, - I’m doomed to tread the sands alone - That skirt life’s desert shore! - Afar, upon the ocean wide, - My bark of hope went down, - I saw the angel leave my side, - And all things on me frown. - - But there are paintings hanging yet - In memory’s ghostly halls, - And bright young faces looking down - Upon me from the walls. - The gentle smile that thrilled my soul, - In life’s young break-of-day, - The small white hands once clasped in mine, - Are pictured there for aye. - - There is a form, I see it now, - More radiant far than all, - The full, dark eye, the snowy brow - That held my heart in thrall. - But, O, that voice, so low and sweet! - I ne’er shall hear it more; - The fond, warm heart hath ceased to beat— - My dream of bliss is o’er. - - And still another picture there— - A being young and bright; - The captive sunbeams in her hair, - A form of love and light; - The deep blue tints that stain the sky, - When summer bids it gleam, - Are mirrored in her laughing eye, - Like violets in the stream. - - I deemed those forms forever fled - From time’s bleak desert shore, - And that the light upon me shed, - Could visit me no more. - But late I saw a vision bright, - And fair as those of old, - That taught to me this lesson trite— - The heart can ne’er grow cold! - - O, charming, charming young Christine - Long years may pass away, - But cannot seize the love I ween, - Of young life’s joyous day! - O, would some gem like thee were mine - Upon my breast to wear, - Through Sorrow’s dreary hour to shine, - And light the night of Care; - - My glance upon mankind should fall - Contented, happy, free, - And I should richer feel than all, - My only treasure _thee_! - But, O, my lot is wild and drear, - And sad the night-winds moan; - Upon life’s tree the leaves are sere, - And I am all alone. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE ENNUYEE. - - - BY MRS. S. A. LEWIS. - - - It hath been said, “for all who die, - There is a tear; - Some pining, bleeding heart to sigh, - O’er every bier;” - But in that hour of pain and dread, - Who will draw near, - Around my humble couch, and shed - One farewell tear? - - Who watch life’s last dim parting ray, - In deep despair, - And soothe my spirit on its way, - With holy prayer? - What mourner round my bier will come, - In weeds of wo, - And follow me to my long home, - Solemn and slow? - - When lying on my clayey bed, - In icy sleep, - Who there, by pure affection led, - Will come and weep? - And by the moon implant the rose - Upon my breast, - And bid it cheer my dark repose, - My lowly rest? - - Could I but know when I am sleeping - Low in the ground, - One faithful heart would there be keeping - Watch all night round, - As if some gem lay shrined beneath - That sod’s cold gloom, - ’Twould mitigate the pangs of death, - And light the tomb. - - Yes! in that hour, if I could feel, - From halls of glee - And Beauty’s presence, one would steal - In secresy, - And come and sit and weep by me - In night’s deep noon; - Oh! I would ask of memory - No other boon. - - But, ah! a lonelier fate is mine— - A deeper wo; - From all I love in youth’s sweet time - I soon must go, - Drawn round me my pale robes of white - In a dark spot, - To sleep through death’s long, dreamless night, - Lone and forgot. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE MAN IN THE MOON. - - - A TRUE STORY. - - (DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND MARTHA W. B——.) - - BY CAROLINE C——. - - - Away with weary cares and themes! - Luring wide the moonlit gate of dreams! - Leave free once more the land which teems - With wonders and romances! - - I know that _thou_ wilt judge aright - Of all that makes the heart more light, - Or lends one star-gleam to the night - Of clouded Melancholy! - —J. G. WHITTIER. - -I fancy, my good reader, that you are about as familiar with the -physical appearance of this exalted personage, the far-famed Man in the -Moon, as is your most obedient. That you have gazed upon him with -love-kindled eyes many and many a witching summer night, I have not the -shadow of a doubt—that you have often lamented the provoking -imperfectness of your vision, which presents such insurmountable -difficulties and obstructions in the way to your beholding clearly what -manner of man he truly is, I cannot have much hesitation in believing; -reasoning as I do, from my extensive knowledge of what passes in the -minds of other people, and from the thoughts and feelings I have had -myself in regard to the peculiar personalities of this mysterious -gentleman. - -Until recently I never indulged in the hope of being counted among the -benefactors of my race, but, my fair countrywomen, I hope I do not -presume too much, when I say that I shall hereafter merit this honor at -your hands, for am I not going to speak to you of events which, -wonderful as they are, have hitherto never come to the knowledge of our -present generation? I cannot conscientiously make known to you the -mysterious means by which I became cognizant of the following events, -yet do I hold myself clear of any breach of confidence when I lay before -you these wondrous facts, upon the truth of which you may rely, on my -veracity as a story-teller! - -Long, long ago there lived in a far country, among the mountains, which -towered to heaven much in the manner of mountains now, a young maiden, -who must certainly have been one of the progenitors of “The Sinless -Child;” for in personal beauty, and in excellence and purity of mind, -this girl was unsurpassed, perhaps unequaled in her day. A “rare and -radiant maiden” was she, albeit unaccomplished and unlearned. - -Kind, generous and affectionate was Rose May, having withal such a -reasonable amount of spirited independence in her nature, as a child -born and bred among the mountain wilds would be like to have. - -It was a glorious dwelling-place, that of my heroine! Grant May, her -father, was a shepherd, a rugged man of middle age, whose furrowed face -bore testimony to the fact, that he had encountered and weathered many a -hard storm in the course of his life. A true son of the mountains was -he; for three or four generations back his fathers had lived, shepherds, -in these same wild heights, and I doubt much if _this_ son of his father -could ever have breathed the warmer and gentler air of a less elevated -home. Occasionally, but at long intervals, he had wandered away to the -world below him, but, like the eagle, his eyry and his affections were -fixed amid the towering heights, the rugged scenes and bracing air of -the mountains—there was the home for which Nature and a forty years’ -residence had fitted him. - -The shepherd’s house was built in what, to an eye unaccustomed to such -scenes, would seem a most dangerous situation. But it was just to the -contrary. Erected on the side of a deep ravine at the bend of the -stream, it was sheltered on three sides from the rough, wild winds of -winter; and in summer it seemed half buried in the vegetation, which was -nowhere on the mountains so abundant as about this place. Above, -beneath, and around the cottage there were hardy bushes and flowering -shrubs, and towering high above them the pine-trees and the -strong-limbed offspring of that rugged clime; and higher still above the -flowers, and bushes, and pines, spread the bright deep blue sky, which -seemed to rest its mighty arches on the peaks and crags of those great -heights. - -Yes, it was a glorious home, a noble dwelling-place, that of young Rose -May! The voice of the southern wind, when it crept so softly up the -mountain, and through the branches of the pines, to kiss her brow, and -tell her of the wild beauty of the land from which it wandered, that -voice was sweet and welcome music to her ear; but no less loved and -welcome was the trumpet-blast of the storm, when it came rushing like a -fiend’s voice past her home, or like the challenge of a giant fresh from -the strong fortress where the soldiery of Winter were garrisoned. Rose -loved the flowers, the gay bright blossoms which in midsummer bloomed -about her home, but more keen was her delight in the grandeur which made -her heart to thrill, and her blood to leap wildly through its veins, -when on awakening some dreary mornings of winter, she saw the pine-trees -loaded with the wealth of glittering icicles, which glowed and blazed -with a splendor greater than if the treasuries of all the kings and -princes of earth had been melted and poured over those same stately -scions of the soil. - -Nature in all her phases was beautiful, and welcome to Rose May; but -there was something in the heart of the girl which made her sympathize -with, and rejoice more keenly in the grand and terrible shapes the great -Queen chose during more than eight months of the year to appear in. -Therefore Rose May was most truly a daughter, a bright, strong-hearted, -noble daughter of the mountains. - -They had aptly named this maiden after the queen of the flowers. For -though there were many sons in Grant May’s household, Rose was the only -daughter, and she was like a rose indeed, the fairest as well as -tenderest bud opening beneath the family roof-tree. The bloom of health -was on the maiden’s cheek—the glow of health was in her veins and in -the calm beating of her heart, which told so steadily “all’s well.” - -While Grant May and his sons were absent from their home all day, -tending to their many flocks, Rose remained with her mother at home, -assisting her with willing hand in the domestic toils; and a steady and -invaluable helpmate was she, spinning yarn from the sheep her father -called her own, and then knitting the proceeds into stout socks and -mittens for them who labored out of doors; and ingeniously contriving -numerous garments, whereby to keep the ears, necks and feet of her wild, -light-hearted brothers warm in the dreadful winter weather. Rose was, in -fact, quite a pattern maid; never complaining, or caring to rest herself -even when she was aweary, while there was any work left for her mother -to do—and the last thing she ever would have thought to boast of was -ignorance of any part of the book of domestic economy—which volume, if -you, my dear reader, have had any occasion to thumb, you know very well -is not printed with the most readable or understandable type. - -Rose May had not many companions. There were, it is true, other -families, and numbers of them, scattered among the mountains, but these -lived at long distances from each other, and were so circumstanced as to -preclude the possibility of frequent visitings. But when these far-off -neighbors _did_ meet, it was with the warm and earnest good feeling -which people so situated would be likely to entertain for each other. -Perhaps their mutual interest was even more sincere and honest, their -friendship more generous and truthful, than if they had been able to -hold more frequent and familiar communication with each other, -partaking, as necessarily they did, each and all, of the mundane nature, -for they had scarcely time to discover one another’s particular failings -and short-comings. - -There were two families, however, whose members maintained a more -familiar intimacy with the household of Grant May than the other -mountaineers. And for this reason. In both these families there was a -son—each, only sons, too, who regarded Rose May with fonder eyes than -mere friendly interest would warrant; they both loved her with all the -devotion their wild, earnest spirits were capable of—both acknowledged -her the queen of the mountain flowers, and the object of their supreme -regard. - -One of these youths was named Joseph Rancy; his father was the -wealthiest of the shepherds—the son would be the old man’s sole heir. -This fact alone was one calculated to greatly enhance the merits of the -young man—to make him a favored guest—a much sought for friend—and an -acceptable suitor, especially in the eyes of parents who had a double -eye to their daughter’s happiness and good fortune. - -Joseph was a tall, robust, free-spoken youth, with a heart whose honesty -forbade his lips ever speaking a word which could not safely be echoed -in its recesses. But his very bluntness, though it arose from his -honesty of purpose, was not perhaps calculated to make him a great -favorite with that class of people _said_ to be lovers of soft words and -honied speeches. Joseph was a great favorite with Grant May and with the -young brethren of Rose. They liked him for his generosity and daring, -and for many noble traits of character he evinced, which I will not now -stop to enumerate. The young man knew he stood well in their eyes—but -about her whose favor he cared for more than all the rest, he was as yet -in a state of doubt and perplexity. - -The other youth who visited so frequently Grant May’s cottage was Rob -Horn. To say Rob was handsome as a picture would be rather a doubtful -compliment; but handsome he was, tall and straight as an Indian, with a -bright, smiling face—which (but for a treacherous expression sometimes -seen lurking about the mouth) seemed to hail every man a brother and -friend; then his hair was black as a raven’s wing, eyes ditto—a -becoming bloom on his brown cheeks, graceful, light-hearted, cheerful -and companionable—there, you have Rob Horn—is he one you would suppose -Rose May might love? - -Rob also was an only son—but the great difference between him and -Joseph Rancy was, that his father was far from wealthy, having only -managed to keep partially “above board,” during all the long years of -his earthly pilgrimage. - -More than once Rob had roved away from his mountain home to the low-land -villages, for his was a restless spirit, and his were roving eyes, that -grew weary at times of looking always on the same grand scenes; but -still he seemed to retain an unextinguishable affection for his native -home, for after a short absence he always returned to his father’s -humble cot, with his head full of the scenes he had looked upon in the -busy world, but with his curiosity satisfied, and his heart all right -toward home. The reason, however, of his invariable return was, that up -in the old eagle’s eyry (that is in Grant May’s cottage) there was the -little bird whose wild, free-gushing songs was the attractive power -which always called him back. - -And among the fairer faced damsels who lived in cities, were there none -whom Rob thought comparable with the unfettered-by-fashion Rose May? Was -there none whose smile made his heart thrill with rapture? Was there not -one whose voice was sweeter than an angel’s to his ear, whose words were -dearly remembered, and treasured long after they were uttered? Let us -see. - -Sitting by the blazing fire in Grant May’s kitchen during the long, -pleasant winter evenings, and telling to the gathered family the strange -fashions and habits of the people with whom he had occasionally -mingled—describing to the wondering children modes of life which they -in their simplicity had never dreamed of, and to the father the changes -which had occurred in public affairs, and to the mother, of the women, -whose acquaintance he had made, and of the friends she had known in her -girlhood whom he had chanced to meet, it is not to be supposed that he -neglected all this while, and thought not at all of the fair young -listener, to please whom he would have talked on forever, had that been -necessary—no, indeed, she was not forgotten, for during many years Rob -had been incessantly at work, forming a telegraph route between his -heart and her own; he was even then, during those winter evenings, busy -in that great work of his life, and ere long he was determined to prove -if the work was perfect—but he delayed sending the first real -dispatch—he feared lest it should be uncomprehended and unanswered. - -To Rose, Rob had always _seemed_ kind, and noble, and honest—in short, -all that man _ought_ to be—all that Joseph Rancy _was_. And a keener -insight than she possessed, or many mortals on earth possess, would have -been requisite in this case to detect the true gold from the glittering -dross. Even when the maiden’s father discovered how all the inclination -and affection of his child chose Rob instead of Joseph, he did not see -any insurmountable objection lying in the way to the child’s union with -the former—and it was only with a sigh for the fortune which might have -been his daughter’s, that he gave up all idea of her ever wedding Joseph -Rancy. - -These two boys had always been the most intimate and best of friends. In -earlier days the visits which they planned together to make to their -young friend, Rose, were unmarred by jealous thoughts, they were marked -as the best of their weekly holydays. No matter how deep the snow might -lie on their path toward Grant May’s cot, these appointments, which they -made between themselves, were ever regularly kept; for the thought of -the bright faces which always gave them such a hearty welcome, and made -for them a place by the warm fire with such ready zeal, was a sufficient -inducement for them to brave the coldest weather, and the stormiest day. - -But as the two grew older, and learned to distinguish between -friendliness and love, they did, sorry am I to tell, grow jealous of one -another, and at last, before they had concluded it were better to make -these visits to Rose alone, each by himself, when Rose had unwittingly -spoken in a tone more kindly to one of them, and evinced in any way an -innocent and thoughtless preference, the other walked homeward with -closed lips and aching heart, and in most unsocial mood. - -Joseph Rancy had never dared to speak openly to Rose May of _love_. It -was strange that one so stout-hearted as he, with all the advantages of -wealth, beside possessing much personal beauty, should falter as he -tried to tell a simple mountain maid he loved her! But so it was. The -words refused to obey his bidding when he tried to utter them. He had -not lived even in those busy places where men and women congregate, yet -he _did_ know that “faint heart never won fair lady,” and the very -knowledge of that truth but increased his fears. Poor fellow! he doubted -his own powers to please, and he knew that Rob Horn was a powerful and -much to be feared rival. But Joseph was one who could not easily give up -a thought he had cherished for so long. It was a hope it would have been -hard for him to relinquish; he could never forget that he had loved Rose -May, even though she turned a relentlessly deaf ear to his suit; his -heart would never be satisfied with the affection of another woman. And -I say but the truth, when I tell you he was worthy of her love—more -worthy, if a less dashing lover than Rob Horn. There was less glitter in -him, far more real worth, less of admiration, and passion, than deep and -earnest love in his thoughts of Rose. - -He had placed his hopes upon her returning affection; and it is not -agreeable with the natural order of things, to suppose that he would for -ever continue irresolute in a case momentous as this; and so, once -again, with the express desire to hear his fate decided by her lips, he -set out on a summer morning, determined that his resolution _should_ -hold out till he had heard his doom from her own voice. - -The day was favorable; oh! if the event might only prove so, too! The -time also seemed propitious, for before Joseph had half way reached her -father’s house, he met Rose May. She was gathering wild-flowers, and -when she saw him coming toward her, she gayly bade him assist her in the -pleasant work. I know not if those simple people ever studied the -“language of flowers;” perhaps, however, the _science_ is a _natural_ -one, but this I know, that there was a great preponderance of -mountain-roses, buds, and half-opened blossoms, in the flowers Joseph -gathered for the little lady. Ah, what a lucky wight! the beautiful -summer morning—the silent wood—the naturalness of the offer of his -heart with the flowers he gave her! Surely Fate, for once, was -propitious! But notwithstanding the chances were with him, and the hour -was one of a thousand, Joseph still hesitated and delayed; and it was -not till all the flowers were gathered, and Rose had actually set out on -her homeward path, that Joseph nerved himself to the pitch requisite. - -And, indeed, it was quite a point in his destiny he had reached; the -next step you plainly see _was_ an important, an all important one to -him. It had been the hope of years that he might win, and one day wed, -Rose May; he had lived in that hope; its working out had been one of the -most blessed of his thoughts; and now, in five short minutes (perhaps -less) he would know if this dear dream were to have fruition, or was it -to pass away like the morning dew, leaving him no possibility of ever -indulging in it again, that is, with reason—and Joseph was a reasonable -youth. - -As I have stated, he was an uneducated youth, that is, uneducated in the -schools, and ignorant and innocent of polite learning, therefore he knew -but one way of discovering a fact, and that was by asking a question -point-blank. When Rose was about emerging from the wood, from whence a -little path led down the ravine to her father’s house, he paused in the -walk, and said quite distinctly, - -“Wait a moment, Rose May. I came to ask you a question I have thought to -ask you this long time—will you love me—will you be my wife?” - -“Yours, Joseph,” replied Rose, as honestly and unreservedly as the -question had been put; “Yours—how can you think of such a thing?” - -“I _have_ thought of it for years, Rose. You have so many brothers and -friends, like enough you have considered me as one of them; but I, I -have no sister, Rose, no friend I hold half so dear as you. It does not -strike me as such a very strange thing to ask you; if you will only -think of it, I do not ask you to answer me to-day. Perhaps when you -think it all over, the matter will not seem so strange; and I would not -have you answer me in haste, dear Rose.” - -“Never, Joseph Rancy,” answered Rose, speaking rapidly, but kindly, -though so firm. “I _have_ always thought of you as a dear friend, that -is true, but I can never be any more than that.” - -“Will you not say any thing more, Rose? Think again; you call me your -dear friend, oh, be my wife, my best and dearest friend. Your home is so -happy, think of mine, lonely and dreary as it is now; what a paradise it -_might_ be were you there! Rose, dear Rose May, I pray you only to think -again.” - -“I have thought, Joseph; do not speak to me so any more, it pains me; -there are many others who might make your home as happy, far happier -than I; forget that you have had such thoughts about me, my friend.” - -“How can I forget,” said Joseph, sadly, while for a moment longer he -retained her to hear his words, for she was hastening away. “Tell me, -Rose,” he said, falteringly, “is there any other—do you love any body -better than me?” - -“Yes, my father and mother.” - -“Not them—I don’t mean them; the love I ask is not the kind you give to -them—but is there another—” - -“It is not right in you to ask me such questions, you know it is not. -Don’t make me think the less of you as a friend by going too far now.” - -“Forgive me dear, dear Rose—I’m going. Don’t let what I’ve said trouble -you; I’d let my tongue be burned with hot iron before speaking what I -have to you to-day, if I thought ’twould make you less happy.” - -“Good-by, Joseph, now you are what you always have been, generous and -good; and if I don’t love you as you could wish, I honor you from my -heart—good-by.” - -There was a lingering sadness in the maiden’s voice as she spoke, that -convinced Joseph she was honest in her words, and that she did sincerely -grieve to have been the cause of disappointment to him; yet that -knowledge did not soothe nor allay the heart-wound she had given him; -and he went back to his home, feeling, as I suppose many a poor mortal -has felt before, disconsolate and unhappy. Still Joseph was a young man -of sound mind, and he loved Rose May even better than ever he had -before; her very firmness made him respect her for it, though that -firmness was all directed against his suit. - -Often as he thought over the unmeasurable distance there must forever -be, even in thought, between them, so often came the soothing -remembrance that it was not lack of worth on his part that made her -reject him. Had she not said she honored him? And was not such respect -and kindly feeling, indeed, the highest and the purest kind of love? -Might he not some day convince her that it was also the best love, and -the one most conducive to happiness in wedded life? But, alas! close -upon this thought came the death-blow to all hope, for Joseph was -convinced that she would wed another. - -Yes, and there _was_ one she had promised to wed—one for whom she had -more than respect—one whom she more than honored—and he none other -than Rob Horn! He was the fortunate youth whose telegraph-dispatch was -successful in receiving a speedy and satisfactory reply. Fortune favored -him; does she favor only the good, and the deserving, and true? - -The home of one of the most powerful of the spirits was in these -mountains—a spirit loving justice and equity, who watched the scales -wherein the good and evil were weighed with jealous eye. This being of -power took much interest in the affairs of the shepherds; sometimes she -had even deigned to speak with them in her quiet, unostentatious way; -and when she taught them, it was generally on some subject of domestic -good or household economy. Almost all her instructions had been of this -nature, for they were a quiet, religious people among whom she lived, -giving away very rarely to the temptations of vice; but once or twice -the spirit had spoken in rather strong and understandable language, to -an offender who rarely in his sinful life had any “compunctious -visitings.” No one had ever seen her bodily, and yet there was but one -person who dared to disbelieve in the spirit’s existence, but one who -would not recognize her power; and who should this reckless one be but -the wild youth, Rob Horn? _He_ dared to say, and say openly, too, that -there was never any such being in existence, and that from the very -nature of things there never could be. Some people will never believe in -any thing out of the ordinary range of facts, more especially if they be -in a state of partial ignorance—and of this very class of persons was -Rob; the spirit had never manifested herself in any shape to him, and -he, poor mortal! fancied she never could. - -It was the only point in her lover’s nature that Rose May feared—this -skepticism; for Rose was a firm believer in all spiritual existences; -and often, but unavailingly, she had besought Rob to at least speak in a -manner more respectful of the powerful agent, who would, she knew, work -him wo if he continued obdurate in his unbelief. But there was nothing -in the natural world the young man feared, there was no danger he dared -not brave—why then tremble at the unseen, unknown, unheard? Why give -heed to the superstitious fears of old women and maidens? Instead of -being able in this case to convince her lover, Rose, after all, was -herself almost persuaded by his jests and ridicule to doubt the -existence of the power, which she also had never seen or heard. She -began to give place in her mind to Rob’s words, that it was the idlest -thing in the world to believe in such romantic impossible existences. -But as yet Rose had kept her growing infidelity to herself; she would -not have dared to breathe to her mother even, who was firm in the faith, -her strengthening doubts; perhaps it was well for her she did not dare. - -It was night—the night previous to his bridal day—and at a late hour -Rob left the home of Rose, and bent his steps through the rough path -that led to his own dwelling-place. The happy fellow, if we may judge -from facts, was in a most delightful state of mind, well-pleased with -himself and his bride-to-be, and with all the world beside. “To-morrow” -was his wedding-day, and ever thereafter Rose May, the brightest flower -of the mountains, was his own! And well might he rejoice. - -Grant May had yielded to the youth’s solicitations with a good grace -when he found his child’s hope and love were directed toward Rob; and it -was no difficult thing to win the consent of the mother, for he had -always been in high favor with her, since he brought her from his -wanderings in the valley, the inestimable gift of a few bright pieces of -useful furniture, which occupied the most honorable places and positions -in her household. - -In a few days after the festivities following the great occasion were -over, Rob, with his bride, were to make the journey to the nearest large -town, which plan was of itself half enough to make young Rose wild with -joy, for the greatest multitude she had ever seen gathered, was on the -Sabbath days, when twenty or thirty of the mountain people met in the -little church to worship. - -It was a bright moonlit night, the soft light streamed over the path he -was to tread, as Rob returned home. The parting kiss of Rose was warm on -his forehead; he fancied she was beside him, walking in the same path, -and nearly all the way he talked soft words of love as though she were -by to hear. When the young man had nearly reached his home, he -encountered Joseph Rancy. These two had been far from cordial in their -greetings of late, and with good reason, for Rob’s manner to Joseph had -been that of triumph, and Joseph’s that of a man heart-sore and jealous -of the success of his rival. - -This night, however, Joseph Rancy had come out with the express purpose -of meeting his friend of other days, and to speak with him in the manner -of by-gone time, as kindly and as generously. When he had come up -directly in front of Rob, he was still unobserved; he paused then, and -holding out his hand, said, - -“I came out on purpose to meet you, Rob.” - -Horn took the proffered hand in his own, and said, - -“I am glad to see you, truly, Rancy; we have not met of late.” - -“No; we haven’t been the friends we once were, Rob. I have shunned you -because—because you seemed to triumph over me, my old friend. You who -have been so successful where I failed so bitterly.” - -“Was it my _fault_ that I succeeded in winning Rose May, tell me that,” -replied Horn, sharply. “Where’s the blame, then, if I did rejoice?” - -“No _blame_, none, none,” said Joseph, mildly, “you have been fortunate -indeed, I wish you and yours much joy Rob, now and ever.” - -“Hold,” cried Rob as Joseph turned away, “you will come to the church -to-morrow, will you not. You will wish to see Rose married?” - -“Rob!” exclaimed Joseph, in a tone of deep reproach, “no—I can bear to -know you are going to marry her—I can hope for you, and pray for you -both—but to see her married to another! You will not need me there.” - -When he finished speaking Joseph went off quickly on his way, and Rob -Horn pursued his path home; the only answer he returned to Joseph’s -grief was a smothered laugh, which stifled as it was in the stillness of -the night, the disappointed seeker of peace heard distinctly. - -All that night Joseph Rancy sat on the opposite bank of the ravine where -he might look on the dwelling-place of Rose May, and all that night he -prayed for her happiness, and strove hard to banish all unfriendly -thoughts toward Rob Horn from his mind. But when the morning came, long -before the sun rose he wandered away among the mountains, that he might -be far off from the place where _she_ would be given to another. - -Rob went on to his home—the cot was still as sleep, for his father and -mother had hours before retired to their rest. He went to his chamber, -and soon upon the easy couch he slept. And then Rob dreamed; of course -there was but one he could dream of all that night, his young and -beautiful bride, the girl he would be so proud to hear the old priest -pronounce his wife. But though he could only dream of _her_, it does not -follow that his night visions were pleasant—far enough from pleasant -was the truth in this case. - -He fancied that the spirit of the mountain, (the same in whose existence -he had doubted for so long,) came to him with an angry frown on her -spirit countenance. He trembled, yes he, the strong iron-willed youth -trembled when he looked on her; he had never feared or quailed before. -When she had come quite close to his bedside, and rested her hand upon -his shoulder, where it lay like lead, and gazed so sternly upon him, Rob -said to her: - -“Why dost thou come here to disturb me, and trouble my dreams, thou -terrible shape?” - -And the spirit answered: - -“Tell me instead, what is it thou art about to do?” - -“That is quickly told,” said Horn, “to-morrow I shall marry Rose May, -the loveliest maid the sun ever shone upon.” - -“Ah, Rob Horn, Rob Horn,” said the spirit sternly, interrupting him, -“bethink thee what it is thou wilt do! bethink thee what has become of -thy betrothed in the distant village? does she wear thy ring? does she -remember thy kiss, and thy love vows? what of _her_ Rob Horn?” - -When the spirit spoke thus Rob was amazed, and he could not hide his -amazement; his face became suddenly very red—was it the confusion of -guilt? and for a moment he was completely abashed. But soon he rallied -again, and said, - -“I cannot marry two wives. I have loved Rose May all my life—I _must_ -marry her; the maiden in the village can find another bridegroom.” - -“Thou art not worthy to wed one like Rose May, but there _is_ one worthy -of her whom thou hast triumphed over many a time, and even this very -night, because thou hast been more successful than he—beware, thou -may’st go too far.” - -“Too far! She will be mine to-morrow—what power in heaven or earth can -separate us? She is mine—mine—mine!” - -“Thou mayest deceive thyself. I ask thee, wilt thou not give up Rose May -and betake thee to the pale and sorrowing maid who has awaited thy -coming so long?” - -“Give her up? My Rose! never! Thou fool to ask it of me!” - -“And yet I do ask thee again, wilt thou not be just? Do that which thine -honor and truth require of thee—the girl thou hast deserted will die.” - -“Be death her bridegroom then! Who art thou to take my Rose from me? She -is mine, I will wed no other!” - -“Why so sure? Did ever such wickedness as is in thee prosper? Thou hast -a bad heart Rob Horn, and a thousand things may come between thee and -her, even after the priest proclaims her thine. There is nothing sure or -stable for one like thee! give her up now, or beware—a fate more -terrible than thou canst think may be in store for thee.” - -“Begone thou prating fool! rather will I give my life up than my Rose, -my bride, my beautiful!” - -So firmly was this third repetition of his determination spoken that Rob -awoke, and as might be supposed he found himself alone, and the sunlight -streaming brightly through his little window. Heartily congratulating -himself that it was all a dream, the young man arose, and ere long had -tastefully adorned himself with the new raiment prepared for the -momentous occasion. - -The morning was verging toward noon, when in the simple church the -wedding party gathered before the altar. - -There was beautiful Rose May and her handsome bridegroom, and after the -manner of things, of necessity, the twain never in their lives looked so -charmingly as then. And there were the parents of the bridegroom and the -bride, happy as parents might be, who believed they were about to -witness the consummation of their children’s joy. And there also were -all the young brothers of Rose, bright and smiling, as such little folks -on such occasions invariably are. These were all gathered about the -altar; the body of the church was nearly filled with the young friends -of the to-be-married ones, and the sturdy old mountaineers with their -wives. - -It would not be strictly cleaving to truth to say that Rob Horn was -wholly at ease that morning—far otherwise, for that strange dream of -his tormented him. It was foremost in his mind, claiming even in that -holy hour more of his thought than the gentle, excited girl who leaned -in trusting fondness on his arm. Why should a merely ugly dream annoy -him so? Was the young skeptic’s disbelief in spirits shaken? Had he in -reality a promised bride awaiting him in the far-off village? Have -patience with me, by the _dénoument_ you will know it all. - -They were kneeling before the altar. The consecrated hands of the old -priest were raised in blessing above them, he was about pronouncing the -uniting words, and Rob, the bridegroom, was thinking even then if there -were in reality spirits he had overpowered his visitant, at least, by -his boldness and firmness, when suddenly there came a shape of light -floating through the open door of the church. It moved on noiselessly -through the holy edifice above the heads of the astonished and alarmed -congregation, until it came to the altar, and there it paused. And then -a voice soft and thrilling as the voice of the summer breeze, yet -distinctly audible to every soul gathered there, said— - -“Rise, Robert Horn, thou _shalt not_ speak the marriage vows!” - -And pale as death, Rob, unable to resist these words, lifted up himself. - -Then distinctly as before, the voice said— - -“Did I not tell thee to beware? Did I not forbid thee to wed this maid, -thou, who hast another plighted to thee, one who waits and watches for -thee, wondering at thy long delay? Did I not bid beware—didst thou not -laugh at my words? Answer me, Robert Horn?” - -The bridegroom lifted up his eyes to the shape before him and said, but -with a voice that trembled— - -“Thou didst bid me beware, but I _am_ here notwithstanding—here to take -this woman for my wife, and Rose is here, she is mine, and thou, -whatsoever thou art, canst not and shalt not part us.” - -“Thou hast sealed thy fate,” answered the Spirit of the Mountain, “for -thy wickedness, thy falseness, and thy unbelief, thou shalt be banished -away from the earth for ever! And it shall be a part of the misery of -thy banishment, that once in every month from thy prison-house thou -shalt look down upon this lower world. Thou shalt see, and know, and -feel, all the pangs, and the bliss, and the glory of love, and yet -hereafter never share it with any mortal! The water-brooks, the oceans, -and the seas, shall reflect thy image, and thou shalt know the -bitterness of seeing even these unconscious soulless things unknowing -thee, uncaring for thee. Thou shalt live on for years till they are -counted by centuries, long after she thou hast so shamefully deserted -sleeps the quiet, blessed sleep of death; thou shalt live to mourn and -to lament over a fate thou canst not change. Thy doom is more dreadful -than thou canst yet conceive of! Come, wait not even for _her_ last -embrace, come—come—come!” - -Swiftly away they passed, the spirit and the wifeless bridegroom, -without one parting look, or kiss, or word with the trembling girl -forever separated from the forever exiled youth. In an instant the -little church was vacant, and without its walls might be seen gathered a -group of terrified people, and foremost among them the widowed Rose, -gazing on the far upper flight of poor Rob Horn. - -The new moon that night came up in all her glorious beauty, and sailed -on calmly as she was wont to do over the broad blue upper sea; and night -after night she glided over the vast expanse, unfurling gradually wider -and wider her sails, till in full and perfect splendor she at last -appeared. And then, yes then Rose May beheld her lover once more; but oh -that shadowy glimpse she caught of him was worse to her than had she -looked on utter vacancy. She _knew_ that he was gazing on her home, that -he looked in despair on her, but, alas! she saw no more the tender light -that filled once his beautiful, dark eyes; she heard no words from his -silenced lips, and it was like a torturing dream to her to look upon him -thus, and fancy all the horrors of his banishment. - -And what of Rob? He dwells in moon-land yet! among the elevated -“mountains of the moon,” instead of those dear, wild heights his -dwelling place on earth. Who ever could have dreamed that the wretched -Wandering Jew had an unknown companion in yon bright sphere, whose lot -was yet more miserable than his own? Who ever thought a “breach of -promise” might be visited on unfaithful man, in quite another and more -effectual way, than by laying strong hold on his most precious -purse-strings? - -Oh, ye soft-hearted maidens, I pray you henceforth bear in mind _who_ is -the captive knight to whom so oft your fond eyes are directed, “oft in -the stilly night,” when he doth stand on the brink of the “moon -mountains” and gazeth down so sadly on the world, remember ye this story -I have told, and turn away and leave him quite alone. Sing not in -pensive strains the praise he loves to hear, laud not the beauty of the -exile’s home, for oh his strained ear is strong to catch your words, his -eye is quick to note your admiration. Let him not gladden in one word -from thee. - -And ye, gay-hearted knights, so strong to promise, and so slow to do; ye -who do count it pastime to win woman’s love, and then fling it away as -ye would cast aside the flower of lost fragrance, but be ye warned in -time, for spirits _are_, and moon-land yet may find room in its borders -for thy feet! - -And now what more remains for me to tell. You have guessed, I know, how -the warm-hearted spirit taught Rose May that Joseph Rancy possessed all -the good and attractive qualities of the lost lover, with none of his -sins and follies! You have guessed that one gay morning the old church -doors were opened for another bridal party—that young Rose stood again -in marriage garments before the altar, and Joseph by her side. You have -guessed how the Spirit once more glided through the “place of prayer,” -to add her blessing to that which the priest pronounced over the -bridegroom and the bride. - -Why speak of the happy home where Joseph Rancy dwelt with his beautiful -lady-love? Why tell of all that wedded bliss which people for the most -part in our world have heard of already, or else desire in an especial -manner to hear of, and to know. And why say that all the teachings and -advice which the Spirit deigned to administer to these two blest -mortals, was ever received and heeded by them with the utmost care and -gratitude? - -Do you believe in dreams? No! Why not? Have you, indeed, yet to learn, -that through them the good spirits whisper to us advice, and peace, and -warning, and consolation! Are you so cold and dull as to believe there -are no ministering spirits, no guiding guardian angels? Do you, _can_ -you scornfully repel the idea that the forests and mountains, the oceans -and the plains, have their myriad viewless _intellectual_ inhabitants? -Ah, foolishly unwise, may these powerful agents have mercy on you, and -charitably bear with your shameful, willful blindness! - -What then—must I set you down as more ignorant and unlearned than even -simple Joseph Rancy? Fling all your book-learning aside and be a very -child in all knowledge, I beseech you, if that will give you faith in -these surrounding millions, to believe in them, and a keen mental -eyesight to behold them. And do not, above all things, dare to brave the -possible malignance of Rob Horn, that is, if you regard the preservation -of your worldly wealth. Gather not in your harvests, and your winter -stores, while he is gazing full upon you, rather follow honest Joseph’s -example, shear all shearable sheep, reap in the wealth of your -apple-trees, and massacre your swine while Rob is sleeping in the shade -of the mountains, just before he awakens from his slumber to gaze openly -upon your doings. And if you manifest your faith in my story in no other -way than in doing this, I shall be satisfied, and feel, whether you -admit it or not, that I have for once “well done.” - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: THE MIRROR OF LIFE.] - - _Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_ - - _BY W. A. WILMER FROM A PICTURE BY W. A. CONORROE_ - - * * * * * - - - - - THE MIRROR OF LIFE. - - - [SEE ENGRAVING.] - - Sweet child, whose gentle eyes upon - The mirror’s polished surface rest, - Thy heart no grief has ever known, - No anxious care disturbs thy breast. - - O, may the coming time, to thee - Calm as the present ever prove; - And she who guards thy infancy - Live years of rapture in thy love. - —ANNA. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO THE THAMES, AT NORWICH, CONN. - - - BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. - - - Hail, Father Thames! ’Tis joy to me - Once more thy face and haunts to see; - For lingering verdure, soft and rare, - Makes thine autumnal carpet fair; - And ’mid thy bordering heights is seen - The strong and patient evergreen, - While checkering sunbeams gild thy way, - And lightly with thy ripples play. - Spare not to give me smile of cheer, - And kindly bid me welcome here; - For some, who erst my hand would take, - And love me for affection’s sake, - Sleep the cold sleep that may not break; - And though to fill their vacant place - Are blooming brows and forms of grace, - Who still a favoring glance extend, - And greet their parent’s cherished friend, - Yet mingling with that welcome dear, - Are voices that they may not hear; - For visioned forms around me glide, - And tender memories throng my side, - Till tears, like pearl-drops, all apart, - Swell in the silence of the heart. - - ——— - - Methinks thou speak’st of change. ’Tis true; - What hand may hold the morning dew - All unexhaled through lengthened day, - To sparkle ’neath the westering ray? - Who dreams his flowing curls to keep, - While years roll on, in eddies deep? - The elastic feet, that sprung untired, - Where cliffs o’er towering cliffs aspired; - The heart, untaught a pang to bear, - The cheek that ne’er had paled with care, - The eye, undimmed by sorrow’s rain— - How could I bring these back again? - Change hath a part in every loan - And gift that youth doth call its own, - Nor grants old Earth a bond or claim, - Without the endorsement of his name; - So, that’s the tenure, father dear, - By which we hold possession here, - And be not strict to mark with shame, - Unless thyself wert free from blame, - For, in thy presence be it told, - That even thou art changed and old. - Methinks, with wild resentment’s flash, - I hear thy rising currents dash— - But still my charge I’ll deftly prove; - Where are the healthful flowers that wove - Fresh garlands here, in copse and grove? - The golden-rod, of sunny hue, - Heart’s-ease and violets deeply blue, - The lustrous laurel, richly drest, - That through the sober alders prest; - These blossomed when I saw thee last, - Yet now, dismantled branches cast - Keen challenge to the mocking blast, - And fallen leaves, in eddies dank, - Reproachful strew thy mottled bank. - Thy shrouded dells, where lovers stole, - Or poets mused with raptured soul— - Where are they now? I ask in vain; - Strange iron steeds that scorn the rein, - With shriek, and tramp, and nostrils bright, - The herds amid thy pastures fright; - And clashing wheel, and spindle’s force, - Oft drain thy faithful allies’ source, - Shetucket, with his roughened breast, - And Yantic, that I love the best; - While granite walls, and roofs of grace, - Usurp the moping owlet’s place. - Yes, thou art changed, the world hath made - High inroad on thy hermit shade. - But, say’st thou, that with spirit true - Thou keep’st a glorious goal in view; - Heaven speed thee on, with feet of glee, - And bless thy bridal with the sea; - Dear River! that doth lingering stay, - Laving the sandals, on thy way; - Of the fair city of my birth, - Perchance, the loveliest spot on earth. - Be thou our guide. Thy steadfast eye - Might teach us our own goal to spy; - For to that goal, through smile and tear, - Each winged moment brings us near; - Oh! may it be that blissful shore, - Where chance and change are known no more. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE SONG OF THE AXE. - - - BY C. L. WHELER. - - - Let the poet-lord bepraise the sword - That gleams on Conquest’s track; - Be’t mine to prolong a humbler song— - The song of the woodman’s axe! - ’Tis meet to sing of th’ lowliest thing - That graces the reign of Peace, - And add our praise, in hearty lays, - Or prayers for bright increase. - - In the ruddy flood of battle’s blood - Its splendor ne’er was dimmed, - For a gentler fame awaits its name - Than e’er the soldier hymned. - Like a pioneer, with voice of cheer, - It breaks the forest’s gloom, - And maketh the earth give joyous birth, - And like a garden bloom! - - And the palace dome, or peasant’s home, - It rears with brave command; - For no towering oak its lusty stroke - Could ever yet withstand. - Ho! the axe is king of the wildwood ring, - And of the lordly trees, - For before his blow they bow them low - That laugh at the mountain breeze. - - And his trophies bright are truth and light, - And Plenty’s golden store; - For no drop of teen e’er dims the sheen - That flashed in days of yore! - Then praise to the king of the wildwood ring, - The woodman’s shining axe; - For a gentler fame awaits its name - Than the sword or Conquest’s tracks. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE WAGER OF BATTLE. - - - A TALE OF THE FEUDAL AGES. - - BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD - HURDIS,” &c. - - - CHAPTER I. - -The analysis of the dreaming faculty has never yet been made. The -nearest approach to it is in our own time, and by the doctors of -Phrenology. The suggestion of a plurality of mental attributes, and of -their independence, one of the other, affords a key to some of the -difficulties of the subject, without altogether enabling us to penetrate -the sanctuary. Many difficulties remain to be overcome, if we rely upon -the ordinary modes of thinking. My own notion is, simply, that the -condition of sleep is one which by no means affects the mental nature. I -think it probable that the mind, accustomed to exercise, thinks on, -however deep may be the sleep of the physical man; that the highest -exercise of the thinking faculty—that which involves the -imagination—is, perhaps, never more acutely free to work out its -problems, than when unembarrassed by the cares and anxieties of the -temperament and form; and that dreaming is neither more nor less than -habitual thought, apart from the ordinary restraints of humanity, of -which the memory, at waking, retains a more or less distinct -consciousness. This thought may or may not have been engendered by the -topics which have impressed or interested us during the day; but this is -not necessary, nor is it inevitable. We dream precisely as we think, -with suggestions arising to the mind in sleep, spontaneously, as they do -continually when awake, without any special provocation; and our dreams, -in all probability, did not our memory fail us at awaking, would possess -that coherence, proportion and mutual relation of parts, which the -ordinary use of the ratiocinative faculties requires. I have no sort of -doubt that the sleep of the physical man may be perfect, even while the -mind is at work, in a high state of activity, and even excitement in its -mighty store-house. The eye may be shut, the ear closed, the tongue -sealed, the taste inappreciative, and the nerves of touch locked up in -the fast embrace of unconsciousness, while thought, fancy, imagination, -comparison and causality, are all busy in the most keen inquiries, and -in the most wonderful creations. But my purpose is not now to insist -upon these phenomena, and my speculations are only meant properly to -introduce a vision of my own; one of those wild, strange, foreign -fancies which sometimes so unexpectedly people and employ our -slumbers—coherent, seemingly, in all its parts, yet as utterly remote -as can well be imagined from the topics of daily experience and -customary reflection. - - * * * * * - -I had probably been asleep a couple of hours, when I was awakened with -some oppressive mental sensation. I was conscious that I had been -dreaming, and that I had seen a crowd of persons, either in long -procession, or engaged in some great state ceremonial. But of the -particulars—the place, the parties, the purpose, or the period, I had -not the most distant recollection. I was conscious, however, of an -excited pulse, and of a feeling so restless, as made me, for a moment, -fancy that I had fever. Such, however, was not the case. I rose, threw -on my _robe de chambre_, and went to the window. The moon was in her -meridian; the whole landscape was flickering with the light silvery haze -with which she carpeted her pathway. From the glossy surface of the -orange leaves immediately beneath the window, glinted a thousand -diamond-like points of inexpressible brightness; while over all the -fields was spread a fleecy softness, that was doubly pure and delicate -in contact with the sombre foliage of the great forest, to the very foot -of which it stretched. There was nothing in the scene before me that was -not at once gentle and beautiful; nothing which, by the most remote -connection, could possibly suggest an idea of darkness or of terror. I -gazed upon the scene only for a few moments. The night was cold, and a -sudden shivering chillness which it sent through all my frame, counseled -me to get back to bed with all possible expedition. I did so, but was -not successful in wooing the return of those slumbers which had been so -unusually banished from mine eyes. For more than an hour I lay tossing -and dissatisfied, with my thoughts flitting from subject to subject with -all the caprice of an April butterfly. When I again slept, however, I -was again conscious of a crowd. A multitude of objects passed in -prolonged bodies before my sight. Troops of glittering forms then -occupied the canvas, one succeeding to the other regularly, but without -any individuality of object or distinct feature. But I could catch at -intervals a bright flash, as of a plume or jewel, of particular size and -splendor, leading me to the conviction that what I beheld was the -progress of some great state ceremonial, or the triumphal march of some -well-appointed army. But whether the procession moved under the eagles -of the Roman, the horse-tails of the Ottoman, or the lion banner of -England, it was impossible to ascertain. I could distinguish none of the -ensigns of battle. The movements were all slow and regular. There was -nothing of strife or hurry—none of the clamor of invasion or exultation -of victory. The spectacle passed on with a measured pomp, as if it -belonged to some sad and gloomy rite, where the splendor rather -increased the solemnity to which it was simply tributary. - - - CHAPTER II. - -The scene changed even as I gazed. The crowd had disappeared. The vast -multitude was gone from sight, and mine eye, which had strained after -the last of their retreating shadows, now dropped its lids on vacancy. -Soon, however, instead of the great waste of space and sky, which left -me without place of rest for sight, I beheld the interior of a vast and -magnificent hall, most like the interior of some lofty cathedral. The -style of the building was arabesque, at once richly and elaborately -wrought, and sombre. The pointed arches, reached by half-moon -involutions, with the complex carvings and decorations of cornice, -column and ceiling, at once carried me back to those wondrous specimens -which the art of the Saracen has left rather for our admiration than -rivalry. The apartment was surrounded by a double row of columns; -slender shafts, which seemed rather the antennæ of graceful plants than -bulks and bodies of stone and marble, rising for near thirty feet in -height, then gradually spreading in numerous caryatides, resembling -twisted and unfolding serpents, to the support of the vast roof. All -appearance of bulk, of cumbrousness, even of strength, seemed lost in -the elaborate delicacy with which these antennæ stretched themselves -from side to side, uniting the several arches in spans of the most airy -lightness and beauty. The great dome for which they furnished the -adequate support, rose too high in the but partial light which filled -the hall, to enable me to gather more than an imperfect idea of its -character and workmanship. But of its great height the very incapacity -to define its character afforded me a sufficient notion. Where the light -yielded the desired opportunity, I found the flowery beauty of the -architecture, on every hand, to be alike inimitable. To describe it -would be impossible. A thousand exquisite points of light, the -slenderest beams, seemed to depend, like so many icicles, from arch and -elevation—to fringe the several entrances and windows—to hang from -every beam and rafter; and over all, to cast an appearance so perfectly -aerial, as to make me doubtful, at moments, whether the immense interior -which I saw them span, with the massive but dusky ceiling which they -were intended to sustain, were not, in fact, a little world of wood, -with the blue sky dimly overhead, a realm of vines and flowers, with -polished woodland shafts, lavishly and artfully accumulated in the open -air, so as to produce, in an imperfect light, a delusive appearance of -architectural weight, magnificence and majesty. An immense avenue, -formed of columns thus embraced and bound together by the most elaborate -and fantastic carvings, linked vines, boughs, flowers and serpents, -opened before me, conducting the eye through far vistas of the same -description, thus confirming the impression of cathedral avenues of -forest. The eye, beguiled along these passages, wandered into others -quite as interminable, with frequent glimpses into lateral ranges quite -as wonderful and ample, until the dim perspective was shut, not because -of the termination of the passage, but because of the painful inability -in the sight any further to pursue it. Each of these avenues had its -decorations, similarly elaborate and ornate with the rest of the -interior. Vines and flowers, stars and wreaths, crosses and -circles—with such variety of form and color as the kaleidoscope only -might produce in emulation of the fancy—were all present, but -symmetrically duplicated, so as to produce an equal correspondence on -each side, figure answering to figure. But these decorations were made -tributary to other objects. Numerous niches opened to the sight, as you -penetrated the mighty avenue, in which stood noble and commanding -forms;—statues of knights in armor; of princes; great men who had -swayed nations; heroes, who had encountered dragons for the safety of -the race; and saintly persons, who had called down blessings from heaven -upon the nation in the hour of its danger and its fear. The greater -number of these stood erect as when in life; but some sat, some -reclined, and others knelt; but all, save for the hue of the marble in -which they were wrought—so exquisite was the art which they had -employed—would have seemed to be living even then. Around the apartment -which I have been describing, were double aisles, or rather avenues, -formed by sister columns, corresponding in workmanship and style, if not -in size, with those which sustained the dome. These were deep and -sepulchral in shadow, but withal very attractive and lovely places; -retreats of shade, and silence, and solemn beauty; autumnal walks, where -the heart which had been wounded by the shafts and sorrows of the world, -might fly, and be secure; and where the form, wandering lonely among the -long shadows of grove and pillar, and in the presence of noble and holy -images of past worth and virtue, might still maintain the erect stature -which belongs to elevated fancies, to purest purposes, and great designs -forever working in the soul. - -But it would be idle to attempt to convey, unless by generalities, any -definite idea of the vast and magnificent theatre, or of that singular -and sombre beauty with which I now found myself surrounded. Enough, -that, while I was absorbed, with my whole imagination deeply excited by -the architectural grandeur which I surveyed, I had grown heedless of the -progress of events among certain human actors—if I may be thus -permitted to designate the creatures of a vision—which had meanwhile -taken their places in little groups in a portion of the ample area. -While mine eyes had been uplifted in the contemplation of things -inanimate, it appears that a human action was in progress on a portion -of the scene below. I was suddenly aroused by a stir and bustle, -followed by a faint murmur, as of applauding voices, which at length -reached my ears, and diverted my gaze from the remote and lofty, to the -rich tesselated pavement of the apartment. If the mere splendor of the -structure had so fastened upon my imagination, what can I say of the -scene which now commanded my attention! There was the pomp of courts, -the pride of majesty, the glory of armor, the grace and charm of -aristocratic beauty, in all her plumage, to make me forgetful of all -other display. I now beheld groups of noble persons, clad in courtly -dresses, in knightly armor, sable and purple, with a profusion of gold -and jewels, rich scarfs, and plumes of surpassing splendor. Other groups -presented me with a most imposing vision of that gorgeous church, whose -mitred prelates could place their feet upon the necks of mightiest -princes, and sway, for good or evil, the destinies of conflicting -nations. There were priests clad in flowing garments, courtiers in -silks, and noblest dames, who had swayed in courts from immemorial time. -Their long and rustling trains were upborne by damsels and pages, lovely -enough, and richly enough arrayed, to be apt ministers in the very -courts of Love himself. A chair of state, massive, and richly draped in -purple and gold, with golden insignia, over which hung the jeweled tiara -of sovereignty, was raised upon a _dais_ some five feet above the level -of the crowd. This was filled by a tall and slender person, to whom all -made obeisance as to an imperial master. He was habited in sable, a -single jewel upon his brow, bearing up a massive shock of feathers as -black and glossy as if wrought out of sparkling coal. The air of majesty -in his action, the habitual command upon his brow, left me in no doubt -of his sovereign state, even had the obeisance of the multitude been -wanting. But he looked not as if long destined to hold sway in mortal -provinces. His person was meagre, as if wasted by disease. His cheeks -were pale and hollow; while a peculiar brightness of the eyes shone in -painful contrast with the pale and ghastly color of his face. Behind his -chair stood one who evidently held the position of a favorite and -trusted counselor. He was magnificently habited, with a profusion of -jewels, which nevertheless added but little to the noble air and -exquisite symmetry of his person. At intervals he could be seen to bend -over to the ear of the prince, as if whispering him in secret. This show -of intimacy, if pleasing to his superior, was yet evidently of different -effect upon many others in the assembly. The costume of the place was -that of the Norman sway in England, before the Saxons had quite -succeeded,—through the jealousy entertained by the kings, of their -nobles,—in obtaining a share of those indulgences which finally paved -the way to their recognition by the conquerors. Yet, even in this -respect of costume, I was conscious of some discrepancies. Some of the -habits worn were decidedly Spanish; but as these were mingled with -others which bore conclusive proof of the presence of the wearers in the -wars of the Crusades, it was not improbable that they had been adopted -as things of fancy, from a free communion of the parties with knights of -Spain whom they had encountered in the Holy Land. - -But I was not long permitted to bestow my regards on a subject so -subordinate as dress. The scene was evidently no mere spectacle. -Important and adverse interests were depending—wild passions were at -work, and the action of a very vivid drama was about to open upon me. A -sudden blast of a trumpet penetrated the hall. I say _blast_, though the -sounds were faint as if subdued by distance. But the note itself, and -the instrument could not have been mistaken. A stir ensued among the -spectators. The crowd divided before an outer door, and those more -distant bent forward, looking in this direction with an eager anxiety -which none seemed disposed to conceal. They were not long kept in -suspense. A sudden unfolding of the great valves of the entrance -followed, when a rush was made from without. The tread of heavy -footsteps, the waving of tall plumes, and a murmur from the multitude, -announced the presence of other parties for whom the action of the drama -was kept in abeyance. The crowd opened from right to left, and one of -the company stood alone, with every eye of the vast assemblage fixed -curiously upon his person. - - - CHAPTER III. - -And well, apart from every consideration yet to be developed, might they -gaze upon the princely form that now stood erect, and with something -approaching to defiance in his air and manner, in the centre of the vast -assemblage. He was habited in chain armor, the admirable work, in all -probability, of the shops of Milan. This, though painted or stained -thoroughly black, yet threw out a glossy lustre of incredible -brightness. Upon his breast, as if the love token of some noble damsel, -a broad scarf of the most delicate blue was seen to float. A cap of -velvet, with a double loop in front, bearing a very large brilliant, -from which rose a bunch of sable plumes, was discarded from his brows -the moment that he stood within the royal presence. He stood for a brief -space, seeming to survey the scene, then advanced with a bold and -somewhat rapid step, as if a natural spirit of fearlessness had been -stimulated into eagerness by a consciousness of wrong and a just feeling -of indignation. His face was scarcely less noble than his form and -manner, but it was marked by angry passions—was red and swollen—and as -he passed onward to the foot of the throne, he glanced fiercely on -either hand, as if seeking for an enemy. In spite of the fearlessness of -his progress, I could now perceive that he was under constraint and in -duresse. A strong body of halberdiers closed upon his course, and -evidently stood prepared and watchful of his every movement. As he -approached the throne, the several groups gave way before him, and he -stood, with unobstructed vision, in the immediate presence of the -monarch. For an instant he remained erect, with a mien unsubdued and -almost haughty, while a low murmur—as I fancied, of indignation—rose -in various portions of the hall. The face of the king himself seemed -suddenly flushed, and a lively play of the muscles of his countenance -led me to believe that he was about to give utterance to his anger; but, -at this moment, the stranger sunk gracefully but proudly upon his knee, -and, bending his forehead, with a studied humility in his prostration, -disarmed, if it had been felt, the indignation of his sovereign. This -done, he rose to his feet with a manly ease, and stood silent, in an -attitude of expectation, but with a calm, martial erectness, as rigid as -if cut from the inflexible rock. - -The king spoke, but the words were inaudible to my ears. There was a -murmur from various parts of the assembly. Several voices followed that -of the monarch, but of these I could not comprehend the purport. I could -only judge of the character of what was said by its startling effect -upon the stranger. If excited before, he seemed to be almost maddened -now. His eyes followed the murmuring voices from side to side of the -assembly, with a fearful flashing energy, which made them dilate, as if -endangering the limits of their reddened sockets. A like feverish and -impatient fury threw his form into spasmodic action. His figure seemed -to rise and swell, towering above the rest. His arms were stretched in -the direction of the assailing voices. His clenched fist first seemed to -threaten the speakers with instant violence. Unintimidated by the -presence in which he stood, his appearance was that of a subject, not -only too strong for his superior, but too confident and presumptuous for -his own self-subjection, even in the moment of greatest peril to -himself. - -He resumed his composure at last, and the murmur ceased around him. -There was deep silence, and the eyes of the stranger were fixed rigidly -upon those of his prince. The latter was evidently moved. His hand was -extended—something he spoke which I again lost; but, strange to say, -the reply of the stranger came sharply and distinctly to my ear. - -“Swear! Why should I swear? Should I call upon the Holy Evangel as my -witness, when I see not my accuser? Let him appear. Let him look me in -the face, if there be lord or knight in this assembly so bold, and tell -me that I am guilty of this treason. Sire! I challenge my accuser. I -have no other answer to the charge!” - - - CHAPTER IV. - -The lips of the King moved. The nobleman who stood behind his throne, -and whom I conceived to be his favorite, bent down and received his -orders; then disappeared behind one of the columns whose richly -decorated, but slender shafts, rose up directly behind him, like some -graceful stems of the forest, over which the wildering vine, and the -gaudy parasite clambers with an embrace that kills. But a few moments -elapsed when the favorite re-appeared. He was accompanied by a person, -whose peculiar form and aspect will deserve especial description. - -In that hall, in the presence of princes, surrounded by knights and -nobles of the proudest in the land, the person newly come—though -seemingly neither knight nor noble, was one of the most lofty in his -carriage, and most imposing and impressive in his look and manner. He -was not only taller than the race of men in general, but he was -obviously taller than any in that select circle by which he was -surrounded. Nor did his features misbeseem his person. These were -singularly noble, and of Italian cast and character. His face was large, -and of the most perfect oval. Though that of a man who had probably seen -and suffered under sixty winters, it still bore the proofs of a beauty -once remarkable. It still retained a youthful freshness, which spoke for -a conscience free from remorse and self-reproach. His eyes were of a -mild, but holily expressive blue; and, beneath their rather thin white -brows, were declarative of more than human benevolence. His forehead was -very large and lofty, of great breadth and compass, in the regions of -ideality and sublimity, as well as causality; while his hair, thick -still, and depending from behind his head in numerous waving curls, was, -like his beard, of the most silvery whiteness. This was spread, -massively, upon his breast, which it covered almost to the waist. His -complexion was very pale, but of a clear whiteness, and harmonized -sweetly with the antique beauty and power of his head. His costume -differed in style, texture and stuff, entirely from that which prevailed -in the assembly. A loose white robe, which extended from his shoulders -to the ground, was bound about his body by a belt of plain Spanish -leather, and worn with a grace and nobleness perfectly majestical. His -feet were clothed in Jewish sandals. But there was nothing proud or -haughty in his majesty. On the contrary, it was in contrast with the -evident humility in his eye and gesture, that his dignity of bearing -betrayed itself. This seemed to be as much the fruit of pure and -elevated thoughts, calm and resigned, as of that superior physical -organization which made this aged man tower as greatly above the rest, -in person, as he certainly did in air and manner. - -He advanced, as he appeared, to the foot of the throne, gracefully sunk -before it, then rising, stood in quiet, as awaiting the royal command to -speak. His appearance seemed to fill the assembly with eager curiosity. -A sudden hush prevailed as he approached, the natural result of that awe -which great superiority usually inspires in the breast of ignorance. -There was but one face among the spectators that seemed to betray no -curiosity as he came in sight. This was that of the accused. With the -first coming of the ancient man, I had instinctively fixed my gaze upon -the countenance of the nobleman. I could easily discern that his lips -were compressed as if by sudden effort, while his usually florid -features were covered with a momentary paleness. This emotion, with the -utter absence of that air of curiosity which marked every other visage, -struck me, at once, as somewhat significant of guilt. - -“Behold thy accuser!” exclaimed the sovereign. - -“He! the bookworm!—the dreamer!—the mad-man!—sorcerer to the vulgar, -but less than dotard to the wise! Does your majesty look to a star-gazer -for such evidence as will degrade with shame the nobles of your realm? -Sire!—if no sorcerer, this old man is verily distraught! He is lunatic -or vile—a madman, or a bought servitor of Satan!” - -The venerable man thus scornfully denounced, stood, meanwhile, looking -sorrowful and subdued, but calm and unruffled, at the foot of the -_dais_. His eye rested a moment upon the speaker, then turned, as if to -listen to that speech, with which the favorite, behind the throne of the -monarch, appeared to reply to the language of the accused. This I did -not hear, nor yet that which the sovereign addressed to the same person. -But the import might be divined by the answer of the accused. - -“And I say, your majesty, that what he hath alleged is false—all a -false and bitter falsehood, devised by cunning and malice to work out -the purposes of hate. My word against his—my gauntlet against the -world. I defy him to the proof! I defy all my accusers!” - -“And he shall have the truth, your majesty;” was the firm, clear answer -with which the venerable man responded to this defiance. His tones rang -through the assembly like those of a sweet bell in the wilderness.—“My -life, Sire, is sworn to the truth! I can speak no other language! That I -have said nothing falsely of this lord, I invoke the attestation of the -Lord of all. I have had his sacred volume brought into this presence. -You shall know, Sire, what I believe, by what I swear!” - -He made a sign, even while he spoke, to a little girl whom I had not -before seen, but who had evidently followed him into the assembly. She -now approached, bearing in her hands one of those finely illuminated -manuscripts of an early day of Christian history in Europe, which are -now worth their weight in gold. I could just perceive, as he opened the -massive volume, by its heavy metallic clasps, that the characters were -strange, and readily conjectured them to be Hebrew. The work, from what -he said, and the use to which he applied it, I assumed to be the Holy -Scriptures. He received it reverently from the child, placed it -deliberately upon one of the steps of the _dais_, then knelt before it, -his venerable head for a moment, being bowed to the very floor. Then -raising his eyes, but without rising from his position, he placed one -hand upon this volume, raised the other to heaven, and, with a deep and -solemn voice, called upon God and the Holy Evangelists, to witness that -what he had spoken, and was about to speak, was “the truth, and the -truth only—spoken with no malice—no wicked or evil intent—and rather -to defeat and prevent the evil designs of the person he accused.” In -this posture, and thus affirming, he proceeded to declare that “the -accused had applied to him for a potent poison which should have the -power of usurping life slowly, and without producing any of those -striking effects upon the outward man, as would induce suspicion of -criminal practice.” He added, with other particulars, that “the accused -had invited him, under certain temptations, which had been succeeded by -threats, to become one of a party to his designs, the victim of which -was to be his majesty then sitting upon the throne.” - - - CHAPTER V. - -Such was the tenor of the asseverations which he made, fortified by -numerous details, all tending strongly to confirm the truth of his -accusations, his own testimony once being relied on. There was something -so noble in this man’s action, so delicate, so impressive, so simple, -yet so grand; and the particulars which he gave were all so probably -arrayed, so well put together, and so seemingly in confirmation of other -circumstances drawn from the testimony of other parties, that all around -appeared fully impressed with the most perfect conviction that his -accusation was justly made. A short but painful silence followed his -narration, which seemed, for an instant, to confound the guilty noble. -The sad countenance of the monarch deepened to severity, while a smile -of triumph and exultation rose to that of the favorite behind his -throne. At this sight the accused person recovered all his audacity. -With half-choking utterance, and features kindling with fury rather than -faltering with fear, he demanded, - -“Am I to be heard, your majesty?” - -A wave of the monarch’s hand gave him the desired permission, and his -reply burst forth like a torrent. He gave the lie to his accuser, whom -he denounced as an impostor, as one who was the creature of his and the -king’s enemies, and tampering, himself, with the sovereign’s life while -pretending to minister to his ailments. He ridiculed, with bitterness -and scorn, the notion that any faith should be given to the statements, -though even offered on oath, of one whom he affirmed to be an unbeliever -and a Jew; and, as if to crown his defense with a seal no less -impressive than that of his accuser, he advanced to the foot of the -throne, grasped the sacred volume from the hands by which it was upheld, -and kneeling, with his lips pressed upon the opened pages, he imprecated -upon himself, if his denial were not the truth, all the treasured wrath -and thunder in the stores of Heaven! - -The accuser heard, with uplifted hands and looks of holy horror, the -wild and terrible invocation. Almost unconsciously his lips parted with -the comment, - -“God have mercy upon your soul, my lord, for you have spoken a most -awful perjury!” - -The king looked bewildered, the favorite behind him dissatisfied, and -the whole audience apparently stunned by equal incertitude and -excitement. The eyes of all parties fluctuated between the accused and -the accuser. They stood but a few paces asunder. The former looked like -a man who only with a great struggle succeeded in controlling his fury. -The latter stood sorrowful, but calm. The little girl who had brought in -the holy volume stood before him, with one of his hands resting upon her -head. Her features greatly resembled his own. She looked terrified; her -eyes fastened ever upon the face of her father’s enemy with a -countenance of equal curiosity and suspicion. Some conversation, the -sense of which did not reach me, now ensued between the king and two of -his counselors, to which his favorite was a party. The former again -addressed the accuser. - -“Have you any other testimony but that which you yourself offer of the -truth of your accusation.” - -“None, your majesty. I have no witness of my truth but God, and it is -not for vain man to prescribe to him at what seasons his testimony -should be given. In bringing this accusation, my purpose was not the -destruction of the criminal, but the safety of my sovereign; and I am -the more happy that no conviction can now follow from my charge, as from -the dreadful oath which he has just taken, he places it out of the power -of human tribunal to resolve between us. For the same reason, sire, he -is in no condition to suffer death! Let him live! It is enough for me -that your majesty is safe from the present, and has been warned against -all future danger at his hands.” - -“But not enough for me!” cried the accused, breaking in impetuously. “I -have been charged with a foul crime; I must free my scutcheon from the -shame. I will not rest beneath it. If this Jewish sorcerer hath no -better proof than his own false tongue, I demand from your majesty the -wager of battle! I, too, invoke God and the blessed Jesu, in testimony -of my innocence. This enemy hath slandered me; I will wash out the -slander with his blood! I demand the trial, sire, his arm against mine, -according to the laws and custom of this realm.” - -“It cannot be denied!” was the cry from many voices. The favorite looked -grave and troubled. The eyes of the king were fixed sadly upon the -venerable accuser. The latter seemed to understand the expression. - -“I am not a man of blood, your majesty. Strife hath long been banished -from this bosom; carnal weapons have long been discarded from these -hands.” - -“Let him find a champion!” was the fierce answer of the accused. - -“And of what avail to me,” returned the accuser, “the brute valor of the -hireling who sells for wages the strength of his manhood, and perils for -gain the safety of his life. Little should I hope from the skill of such -as he, opposed in combat to one of the greatest warriors of the realm.” - -“Ah, sorcerer! thou fearest!” was the exulting cry of the accused; “but, -if thy cause be that of truth, as thou hast challenged the Most High to -witness, what hast thou to fear? The stars which thou searchest nightly, -will they not do battle in thy behalf?” - -“Methinks,” said the favorite, who now advanced from behind the throne, -“methinks, old man, thou hast but too little reliance on the will and -power of God to assist thee in this matter. It is for him to strengthen -the feeblest, where he is innocent, and in the ranks of war to do -successful battle with the best and bravest. Is it not written, ‘the -race is not always to the swift, nor the triumph to the strong?’” - -“Ah! do I not know this, my lord. Do not think that I question the power -of the Lord to do marvels, whenever it becomes his will to do so; but -who is it, believing in God’s might and mercy, flings himself idly from -the steep, with the hope that an angel’s wings shall be sent to bear him -up. I have been taught by the faith which I profess, to honor the Lord -our God, and not to tempt him; and I do not readily believe that we may -command the extraordinary manifestations of his power by any such vain -and uncertain issue as that which you would now institute. I believe not -the truth is inevitably sure to follow the wager and trial of battle, -nor will I lean on the succor of any hireling weapon to avouch for -mine.” - -“It need be no hireling sword, old man. The brave and the noble love -adventure, for its own sake, in the paths of danger; and it may be that -thou shalt find some one, even in this assembly, noble as him thou -accusest, and not less valiant with his weapon, who, believing in thy -truth, shall be willing to do battle in thy behalf.” - -“Thyself, perchance!” cried the accused, impetuously, and turning a -fiery glance upon the speaker. In this glance it seemed to me that I -could discover a far greater degree of bitterness and hate than in any -which he had shown to his accuser. “It is thyself that would do this -battle? Ha! thou art he, then, equally noble and not less valiant art -thou? Be it so! It will rejoice me shouldst thou venture thy body in -this quarrel. But I know thee—thou lovest it too well—thou durst not.” - -“Choose me for thy champion, old man,” was the further speech of the -favorite, with a difficult effort to be calm. “I will do battle for -thee, and with God’s mercy, sustain the right in thy behalf.” - -“Thou shalt not!” exclaimed the king, vehemently, but feebly, half -rising as he spoke, and turning to the favorite. “Thou shalt not! I -command thee mix not in this matter.” - -More was said, but in such a feeble tone that they failed to reach my -senses. When the king grew silent, the favorite bowed with submissive -deference, and sunk again behind the throne. A scornful smile passed -over the lips of the accused, who looked, with a bitter intelligence of -gaze, upon a little group, seemingly his friends and supporters, who had -partly grouped themselves around him. Following his glance, a moment -after, toward the royal person, I was attracted by a movement, though -for a single instant only, of the uplifted hand of the favorite. It was -a sign to the accused, the former withdrawing the glove from his right -hand, a moment after, and flinging it, with a significant action, to the -floor behind him. The accused whispered to a page in waiting, who -immediately stole away and disappeared from sight. But a little while -elapsed when I beheld him approach the spot where the glove had fallen, -recover it adroitly, and convey it, unperceived, into his bosom. All -this by-play, though no doubt apparent to many in the assembly, was -evidently unseen and unsuspected by the king. I inferred the rank -luxuriance of the practice of chivalry in this region, from the nicety -with which the affair was conducted, and the forbearance of all those by -whom it had been witnessed, to make any report of what they had beheld. -The discussion was resumed by the accuser. - -“I am aware, your majesty, that by the laws and practice of your realm, -the wager of battle is one that may be freely challenged by any one -accused of treason, or other crime against the state, against whom there -shall be no witness but the accuser. It is not the fear of danger which -makes me unwilling to seek this conflict; it is the fear of doing wrong. -Though the issues of battle are in the hands of the Lord, yet who shall -persuade me that he has decreed the combat to take place. Now I do -confess that I regard it as unholy, any invocation of the God of Peace, -to be a witness in a strife which his better lessons teach us to -abhor—a strife grossly at variance with his most settled and divine -ordinances.” - -“I am grieved, old man, to hear you speak this language,” was the grave -censure of one who, from his garments, seemed to be very high in -authority, and the church. “What thou sayest is in direct reproach of -holy church, which has frequently called in the assistance of mortal -force and human weapons to put down the infidel, to crush the -wrong-doer, and to restore that peace which can only owe her continued -existence to the presence ever of a just readiness for war. Methinks -thou hast scarcely shown thyself enough reverent in this, thy bold -opinion.” - -“Holy father, I mean not offence! I do not doubt that war, with -short-sightedness of human wisdom, has appeared to secure the advantages -of peace. I believe that God has endowed us with a strength for the -struggle, and with a wisdom that will enable us to pursue it with -success. These we are to employ when necessary for the protection of the -innocent, and the rescue and safety of those who are themselves -unwilling to do harm. But I am unwilling to believe that immortal -principles—the truth of man, and the value of his assurances—are to -depend upon the weight of his own blows, or the address with which he -can ward off the assaults of another. Were this the case, then would the -strong-limbed and brutal soldier be always the sole arbiter of truth, -and wisdom, and all moral government.” - -We need not pursue the argument. It has long since been settled, though -with partial results only to humanity, as well by the Pagan as the -Christian philosopher. But, however ingenious, true, or eloquent, was -the venerable speaker, on this occasion, his arguments were entirely -lost upon that assembly. He himself soon perceived that the effect was -unfavorable to his cause, and exposed his veracity to question. With a -proper wisdom, therefore, he yielded promptly to the current. But first -he asked:— - -“And what, may it please your majesty, if I decline this ordeal?” - -“Death!” was the reply of more than one stern voice in the assembly. -“Death by fire, by the burning pincers, by the tortures of the screw and -rack.” - -The venerable man replied calmly. - -“Life is a duty! Life is precious!” he spoke musingly, looking down as -he spoke, upon the little girl who stood before him, while the big tears -gathered in his eyes as he gazed. - -“Do you demand a champion?” was the inquiry of the king. - -“No, Sire! If, in behalf of my truth, this battle must be fought, its -dangers must be mine only.” - -“Thine!” exclaimed the favorite. - -“Ay, my lord, mine. None other than myself must encounter this peril.” - -A murmur of ridicule passed through the assembly. The accused laughed -outright, as the exulting warrior laughs, with his captive naked beneath -his weapon. A brief pause followed, and a visible anxiety prevailed -among the audience. Their ridicule afforded to the accuser sufficient -occasion for reply: - -“This murmur of surprise and ridicule that I hear on every hand, is, of -itself, a sufficient commentary upon this trial of truth by the wager of -battle. It seems to all little less than madness, that a feeble old man, -like myself, even though in the cause of right, should oppose himself to -the most valiant warrior in the kingdom. Yet, if it be true that God -will make himself manifest in the issue, what matters it whether I be -old or young, strong or weak, well-skilled or ignorant in arms? If there -be a just wisdom in this mode of trial, the feeblest rush, in -maintenance of the truth, were mighty against the steel-clad bosom of -the bravest. I take the peril. I will meet this bold criminal, nothing -fearing, and will, in my own person, engage in the battle which is thus -forced upon me. But I know not the use of lance, or sword, or -battle-axe. These weapons are foreign to my hands. Is it permitted me to -use such implements of defense as my own skill and understanding may -invent, and I may think proper to employ?” - -“Thou shalt use no evil arts, old man,” exclaimed the Churchman who had -before spoken, anticipating the answer of the monarch. “No sorcery, no -charms, no spells,—no accursed devices of Satan. I warn thee, if thou -art found guilty of arts like these thou shalt surely perish by fire.” - -“None of these, Holy Father, shall I employ. My arts shall be those -only, the principles of which I shall proclaim to thyself, or to any -noble gentleman of the king’s household. My weapons shall be those only -which a human intelligence may prepare. They belong to the studies which -I pursue—to the same studies which have enabled me to arrive at truths, -some of which thou thyself hast been pleased to acknowledge, and which, -until I had discovered them, had been hidden from the experience of men. -It cannot be held unreasonable and unrighteous that I employ the weapons -the virtues of which I know, when my enemy uses those for which he is -renowned?” - -Some discussion followed, the demand of the accuser being strenuously -resisted by the friends of the accused. - -“The weapons for knightly encounter,” said they, “have long since been -acknowledged. These are sword, and battle-axe, and spear.” - -“But I am no knight,” was the reply; “and as it is permitted to the -citizen to do battle with staff and cudgel, which are his wonted -weapons, so may it be permitted to me to make use of those which are -agreeable to my strength, experience, and the genius of my profession.” - -Some demur followed from the churchman. - -“Holy father,” replied the accuser, “the sacred volume should be your -guide as it is mine. My claim is such as seems already in one famous -instance, to have met the most decisive sanction of God himself.” - -Here he unfolded the pages of the Holy Scriptures. - -“Goliah,” said he, “was a Philistine knight, who came into battle with -the panoply of his order. David appeared with staff, and sling, and -stone, as was proper to the shepherd. He rejected the armor with which -Saul would have arrayed him for the combat. The reproach of the -Philistine knight comprises the objection which is offered here—‘Am I a -dog,’ said Goliah, ‘that thou comest to me with staves?’ The answer of -David, O king! shall be mine: ‘And all this assembly shall know that the -Lord saveth not with sword and spear; for the battle is the Lord’s, and -he will give you into our hands.’—Such were his words—they are mine. -God will deliver me from the rage of mine enemy. I will smite him -through all his panoply, and in spite of shield and spear.” - -He spoke with a momentary kindling of his eyes, which was soon succeeded -by an expression of sadness. - -“And yet, O king! I would be spared this trial. My heart loves not -strife. My soul shrinks in horror from the shedding of human blood. -Require not this last proof at my hands. Suffer me to keep my conscience -white, and clear of this sacrifice. Let this unhappy man live; for as -surely as we strive together, so surely must he perish.” - -“Now this passeth all belief, as it passeth all human endurance!” -exclaimed the accused with irrepressible indignation. “I claim the -combat, O king, on any condition. Let him come as he will, with what -weapons he may, though forged in the very armory of Satan. My talisman -is in the holy cross, and the good sword buckled at my thigh by the -holiest prince in Christendom, will not fail me against the devil and -all his works. I demand the combat!” - -“Be ye both ready within three days!” said the king. - -“I submit,” replied the aged man. “I trust in the mercy of God to -sustain me against this trial, and to acquit me of its awful -consequences.” - -“Ready, ay, ready!” was the answer of the accused, as with his hand he -clutched fiercely the handle of his sword, until the steel rung again in -the iron scabbard. - - - CHAPTER VII. - -The scene underwent a sudden change, and I now found myself in a small -and dimly-lighted apartment, which seemed designed equally for a studio -and a laboratory of art. The walls were surrounded by enormous cases, on -the shelves of which were massive scrolls of vellum, huge parchment -manuscripts, and volumes fastened with clasps of brass and silver. Some -of these lay open. Charts hung wide marked with strange characters. -Frames of ebony were thus suspended also bearing the signs of the -zodiac. Other furniture, of quaint and strange fashion, seemed to show -conclusively that the possessor pursued the seductive science of -astrology. He had other pursuits—a small furnace, the coals of which -were ignited, occupied one corner of the chamber, near which stood a -table covered with retorts and receivers, cylinders and gauging-glasses, -and all the other paraphernalia which usually belong to the analytic -worker in chemistry. The old man, and the young girl described in the -previous scene, were, at first, the only occupants of the apartment. But -a few moments elapsed, however, when an inner door was thrown open, and -a third party appeared, closely enveloped in a cloak of sable. This he -threw aside, and I discovered him to be the same person who had been the -chief counselor of the king, and whom I supposed to be his favorite. At -his entrance the damsel disappeared. The stranger then, somewhat -abruptly, began in the following manner: - -“Why, O why did you not choose me for your champion?” - -“And why, my lord, expose you to a conflict with one of the bravest -warriors in all the realm?” - -“He is brave, but I fear him not; besides, he who fights against guilt -hath a strength of arm which supplies all deficiencies. But it is not -too late. I may still supply your place.” - -“Forgive me, dear lord, but I have made my election.” - -“Alas! old man, why are you thus obstinate? He will slay you at the -first encounter.” - -“And if he does, what matter! I have but a brief space to live, -according to the common allotment. He hath many, which were well -employed devoted to repentance. It were terrible, indeed, that he should -be hurried before the awful tribunal of Heaven with all the blackness in -his soul, with all his sins unpurged, upon his conscience.” - -“Why, this is veriest madness. Think you what will follow your -submission and defeat? He will pursue his conspiracy. Others will do -what you have refused. He will drag other and bitter spirits into his -scheme. He will bring murder into our palaces, and desolation into our -cities. Know you not the man as I know him? Shall he be suffered to -escape, when the hand of God has clearly shown you that his purposes are -to be overthrown, and his crime to be punished through your agency?” - -“And it shall be so, my dear lord. It is not my purpose to submit. The -traitor shall be met in battle.” - -“But by thyself. Why not a champion? I am ready.” - -“Greatly, indeed, do I thank and honor thee, my lord; but it cannot be!” - -“Methinks there is some touch of insanity about thee, old man, in spite -of all thy wisdom. Thou canst not hope to contend, in sooth, against -this powerful warrior. He will hurl thee to the earth with the first -thrust of his heavy lance; or smite thee down to death with a single -blow of battle-axe or dagger.” - -“Hear me, my lord, and have no fear. Thou knowest not the terrible -powers which I possess, nor should any know, but that this necessity -compels me to employ them. I will slay my enemy and thine. He cannot -harm me. He will perish helplessly ere his weapon shall be twice lifted -to affront me.” - -“Thou meanest not to employ sorcery?” - -“Be assured, my lord, I shall use a carnal agent only. The instrument -which I shall take with me to battle, though of terrible and destructive -power, shall be as fully blessed of Heaven, as any in your mortal -armory.” - -“Be it so! I am glad that thou art so confident; and yet, let me entreat -thee to trust thy battle to my hands.” - -“No, my dear lord, no! To thee there would be danger—to me, none. I -thank thee for thy goodness, and will name thee in my prayers to -Heaven.” - -We need not pursue their dialogue, which was greatly prolonged, and -included much other matter which did not concern the event before us. -When the nobleman took his departure, the damsel reappeared. The old man -took her in his embrace, and while the tears glistened upon his snowy -beard, he thus addressed her: - -“But for thee—for thee, chiefly—daughter of the beloved and sainted -child in Heaven, I had spared myself this trial. This wretched man -should live wert thou not present, making it needful that I should still -prolong to the last possible moment, the remnant of my days. Were I to -perish, where wert thou? What would be the safety of the sweet one and -the desolate? The insect would descend upon the bud, and it would lose -scent and freshness. The worm would fasten upon the flower, and a poison -worse than death would prey upon its core. No! my poor Lucilla, I must -live for thee, though I live not for myself. I must shed the blood of -mine enemy, and spare mine own, that thou mayest not be desolate.” - - - CHAPTER VIII. - -While the tears of the two were yet mingling, the scene underwent a -change corresponding with my anxiety for the _dénouement_. A vast area -opened before me, surrounded by the seats and scaffolding as for a -tourney, and the space was filling fast with spectators. I will not -attempt to describe the splendor of the scene. Lords and ladies, in -their most gorgeous attire, occupied the high places; princes were -conspicuous; the people were assembled in thousands. At the sound of -trumpets the king made his appearance. A grand burst of music announced -that he was on his throne. Among the knights and nobles by whom he was -attended, I readily distinguished “the Favorite.” He was in armor, but -it was of an exceedingly simple pattern, and seemed designed for service -rather than display. He looked grave and apprehensive, and his eyes were -frequently turned upon the barriers, as if in anxious waiting for the -champions. - -The accused was the first to appear. He was soon followed, however, by -the accuser, and both made their way through the crowd to the foot of -the throne. As the old man approached, the favorite drew nigh, and -addressed him in subdued, but earnest accents. - -“It is not yet too late! Call upon me as thy champion. The king dare not -refuse thee, and as I live, I will avenge mine own and thy wrongs -together.” - -“It cannot be, my lord,” was the reply, with a sad shake of the head. -“Besides,” he continued, “I have no wrongs to avenge. I seek for safety -only. It is only as my life is pledged equally to the living and the -dead, that I care to struggle for it, and to save.” - -The face of the favorite was clouded with chagrin. He led the way in -silence to the foot of the throne, followed by the venerable man. There, -the latter made obeisance, and encountered the hostile and fierce glance -of his enemy, whom he regarded only with looks of sorrow and -commisseration. A breathless silence pervaded the vast assembly as they -beheld the white locks, the simple majesty of his face and air, and the -costume—singular for such an occasion—which he wore. This did not in -any degree differ from that in which he had always appeared habited -before. It consisted of a loose, flowing robe of the purest white, most -like, but more copious than the priestly cassock. His opponent, in -complete steel, shining like the sun, with helmeted head and gauntleted -hand, afforded to the spectators a most astonishing difference between -the combatants. The wonder increased with their speculations. The -surprise extended itself to the king, who proffered, as Saul had done to -David, the proper armor of a warrior to the defenseless man. But this he -steadily refused. The king, himself, condescended to remonstrate. - -“This is sheer madness, old man. Would’st thou run upon thy death with -uncovered head and bosom?” - -“Oh! Sire, I fear not death, and feel that I am not now to die. Yet -would I still implore that I may be spared this trial. Once more, I lay -myself at the foot of the throne, to supplicate its mercy.” - -“For thyself!” cried his enemy, with a scornful taunt. - -“For myself and for thee!”—was the firm reply—“that I may be spared -the pang of sending thee before the Eternal Judge, with all thy unatoned -crimes upon thy head.” - -The voice and words of the venerable speaker, deep and solemn, thrilled, -with a sensible effect, throughout the assembly. Whence should he derive -this confidence? From heaven or from hell. The conclusion to which they -came, more than ever confirmed their belief in his reputed sorceries; -and his words inspired a deep and silent terror among the crowd. But the -accused, strong in his skill, courage and panoply of steel, if not in -the justice of his cause, mocked scornfully, and defied the doom which -was threatened. Some of his friends, however, shared strongly in the -apprehensions of the vulgar. - -“He hath no visible armor,” was their cry; “with what would he defend -himself? How know we that he hath not magic arts, and devices of hell, -with which he secretly arms himself?” - -“Thou hast weapons—visible weapons, as I hear”—remarked the King. - -“They are at hand, Sire;—they are here.” - -“Thou hast dealt in no forbidden practice?” - -“None, Sire, as I stand uncovered in the sight of heaven. The reverend -father in God, to whom thou did’st give in charge this inquiry, is here, -and will answer to your majesty. He hath heard and seen the secret of my -strength—that strength which I know and declare is powerful to destroy -my foe. He knows it to be a secret of mortal wisdom only, as patiently -wrought out by human art and labor, as were the sword and axe of him who -now seeks my destruction. I have warned him already of the fearful power -which they impart. I would still have him live, unharmed by me.” - -“Peace, insolent!” cried the accused; “I am here, your majesty, to -fight, not to prate!—to chastise, not to hearken to the speeches of -this pagan sorcerer. Let his power be what he esteems it: I trust to my -good sword, and to the favor of the Mother of God,—and I doubt not of -this good steel, which hath been crowned with a three-fold conquest, on -the plains of Saracem. I entreat that your majesty will give command for -the combat.” - - - CHAPTER IX. - -The eye of the venerable accuser, regarded the face of the speaker with -a sad and touching solemnity; but at this moment, the little girl who -had before accompanied him, was conducted into the foreground by the -Archbishop. She bore in her hand a sarbacane,—seemingly of brass, long -and narrow like a wand, and crowned, at the extremity, by a small globe -or bulb of the same material. The length of this instrument was fully -six feet or more. The old man took it into his hands, and having -unscrewed a part of the bulb—which seemed a mere sheathing of brass, he -discovered beneath it another globe, similar, in shape and size, to that -which had been removed; but the inner bulb was manufactured of glass, of -a whiteness equally chrystallic and beautiful. He then took from beneath -his robes a little box of ebony, which he unlocked, and from which he -produced a head-piece, the face of which, instead of being hard steel or -iron, was of glass also, very thin, and quite transparent, through which -every muscle and motion of the features might be seen with the greatest -distinctness. To the thoughtless vulgar, such a shield seemed only a -mockery of that more solid furniture of metal, which, in those days, -thoroughly encased the warrior for battle. The inference, accordingly, -was very general, that if by any possibility, the accuser succeeded in -the combat, he would be indebted solely to supernatural agency for his -good fortune. His wand of brass, with its chrystal bulb—his glassy -vizor and helmet,—were only regarded as designed to divert the scrutiny -from the more secret agency which he employed. - -“I am ready,” said the accuser. - -“Hast thou prayed?” demanded his enemy in a mocking fashion. “If thou -hast not, get thee to thy knees quickly, and renounce the devil whom -thou servest. Verily, but little time is left thee.” - -“I have prayed and confessed to the Holy Father. Do thou likewise, and -make thyself humble and contrite. Repent thee,—for, of a truth, my -lord, if the King forbid not this combat, thou art doomed this day, to -go to judgment.” - -The heart of the accused was hardened within him. He replied with a hiss -of defiance and contempt to this last appeal; at the same moment he -declared himself in readiness also. They were then withdrawn from the -presence for a brief space, and were severally approached by their -friends and attendants. The Archbishop, and the King’s favorite went -aside with the accuser, and when the latter returned to the arena, in -order to the combat, the Archbishop led away with him the little girl, -upon whom, at parting, the old man bestowed many caresses, accompanied -by many tears. The spectators were all very much moved by this -tenderness, and now began to regard him as one set apart for -sacrifice—doomed to be separated forever, and by a violent death, from -the object of his affections. And when the opponents stood, at length, -confronting each other—with none to go between—awaiting only the word -for the combat _à l’outrance_;—when they regarded the strong -soldier-like frame, and the warlike bearing of the accused—beheld the -ease with which he strode the lists, and displayed his weapon;—and -contrasted this image of dire necessity and war, with the feeble, though -erect form of his venerable accuser,—habited in vestments like a priest -or woman—with the simple unmeaning wand within his grasp, and the frail -mask of brittle chrystal upon his face—a loud murmur of regret and -commisseration prevailed among the multitude. But this murmur was soon -quieted by the cry of the master of the tourney— - -“Laissez aller!” - -Then followed a painful silence. - -“Now, sorcerer,” cried the knight, raising his glittering sword, and -advancing as deliberately and with the confident manner of the -executioner. The aged accuser simply presented the bulbous extremity of -his wand, and before the accused could smite, the frail glass was -shivered against the bars of his enemy’s mouth-piece. At this moment the -knight was seen slightly to recoil; but it was for a moment only; in the -next instant he darted forward, and with a fierce cry, seemed about to -strike. The old man, in the meantime, had suffered his wand to fall upon -the ground. He made no further effort—offered no show of fear or fly, -but with arms folded, seemed in resignation to await the death-stroke of -his enemy. But while the weapon of the man of war was in air, and -seemingly about to descend, he was seen to pause, while his form -suddenly became rigid. A quick and awful shudder seemed to pass through -his whole frame. Thus, for a second, he stood paralyzed, and then a -thin, mistlike vapor, which might be called smoke, was seen to creep out -from various parts of his frame, followed by a thin but oily liquor, -that now appeared oozing through all the crevices of his armor. His arm -dropped nervelessly by his side; the sword fell from the incapable grasp -of his gauntleted hands, and in an inconceivable fraction of time, he -himself with all his bulk, sunk down upon the earth—falling, not at -length, prostrate, either backward or forward, but in a heap, even upon -the spot which he had occupied when standing; and as if every bone had -suddenly been withdrawn which had sustained them, the several parts of -his armor became detached, and rolled away—his helmet, his gorget, his -cuirass, his greaves, his gloves—disclosing beneath a dark, discolored -mass—a mere jellied substance, in which bones and muscles were already -decomposed and resolved into something less than flesh. Above this heap -might be seen a still bright and shining eye, which, for a single -second, seemed to retain consciousness and life, as if the soul of the -immortal being had lingered in this beautiful and perfect orb, reluctant -to the last. But in a moment it, too, had disappeared—all the -brightness swallowed up and stifled in the little cloud of vapor which -now trembled, heaving up from the mass which but a moment before had -been a breathing, a burning, an exulting spirit. A cold horror -overspread the field, followed by a husky and convulsive cry, as from a -drowning multitude. The people gazed upon each other and upon the awful -heap in unspeakable terror. It was annihilation which had taken place -before them. Awful was the silence that prevailed for several minutes; a -vacant consternation freezing up the very souls of the spectators. But -the reaction was tremendous. - -“Seize upon the sorcerer! Tear him in pieces!” was the cry from a -thousand voices. This was followed by a wild rush, like that of an -incoming sea struggling to overwhelm the headlands. The barriers were -broken down, the cries swelled into a very tempest, and the mammoth -multitude rolled onward, with souls on fire, eyes glaring with tiger -fury, and hands outstretched, clutching spasmodically at their victim. -Their course had but one centre, where the old man calmly stood. There -he kept his immovable station, calm, firm, subdued, but stately. How -will he avert his fate—how stay this ocean of souls, resolute to -overwhelm him. I trembled—I gasped with doubt and apprehension. But I -was spared the further contemplation of horrors which I could no longer -bear to witness, by the very intensity of the interest which my -imagination had conceived in the subject. There is a point beyond which -the mortal nature cannot endure. I had reached that point, and was -relieved. I awakened, and started into living consciousness, my face -covered with clammy dews, my hair upright and wet, my whole frame -agitated with the terrors which were due wholly to the imagination. - - * * * * * - -It would be easy, perhaps, to account for such a dream, assuming, as we -did at the outset, that the mental faculties never know abeyance—that -the thought never sleeps. Any speculation in regard to the transition -periods in English history, would give the requisite material. From a -survey of the powers of physical manhood to those rival and superior -powers which follow from the birth of art and science, the step is -natural enough, and the imagination might well delight itself by putting -them in contrast and opposition. But we have no space left for further -discussion. - - * * * * * - - - - - REQUIEM. - - - BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. - - - Forget the dead, the past? O yet - There are ghosts who may take revenge for it; - Memories that make the heart a tomb, - Regrets which glide through the spirit’s gloom - And with ghostly whisper tell - That joy, once lost, is pain. - —SHELLEY. - - When the warring voice of storm is heard - Across the sea goes the summer bird, - But back again the wanderer flies - When April’s azure drapes the skies, - With carol sweet - The morn to greet, - But the radiant girl whom we deplore - To the bower of Home will return no more. - - Decay, a loathsome bridegroom, now - Kisses with mildewed lip her brow; - Her heart is colder than the rill - When winter bids its tongue be still; - Yet Spring will come, - With song and bloom, - And unchain the silvery feet of waves, - But break no bonds in voiceless graves. - - Wasting away with a sad decline, - Far from these northern hills of pine, - She would wander back to them in dreams, - To hear the roar of their rushing streams; - And often spoke - Of a favorite oak - On the door-sill flinging pleasant shade, - And under which, a child, she played. - - When beat no more her snow-white breast, - Strange hands the lovely ruin-drest, - Smoothing, upon the forehead fair, - Loose, glittering flakes of golden hair; - And strangers gave - To our dead a grave, - Sprinkling above the frail remains - Mould, moistened by autumnal rains. - - Ah! since she died a wilder wail - Is uttered by the midnight gale, - And voices, mourning something gone, - Rise from the dead leaves on the lawn; - And sadness broods - Above the woods - Moaning as if endowed with soul, - For through their depths she loved to stroll. - - The lute that answered when she sung - Old airs, at twilight, is unstrung— - She wakes where the _sainted_ dwell alone - An instrument of richer tone; - And angel’s smile - On her the while, - And to garland her sinless brow of snow - The rarest blossoms of Heaven bestow. - - * * * * * - - - - - ST. VALENTINE’S DAY. - - - BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER - - [SEE ENGRAVING.] - - -Happiness, it appears to us, is _a_ cause, as well as _the_ effect of -virtue. When the heart is warmed with rational enjoyment, it is -naturally grateful to those that promote the pleasure. When it is -excited to the indulgence of generous feelings by the operation of -kindness in others, it pours out those feelings upon all within its -influence. It does not confine the reflection of pleasure to those from -whom the pleasure springs; but seeks to dispense it upon all within its -influence, as the planets, receiving their light from the sun, dispense -that light to all the stars in the system. And the effort to promote the -enjoyment of others—the true rational enjoyment of others—is a virtue. -Those, therefore, who create an occasion for such social intercourse as -produces rational pleasure, are promoting, in some degree, the cause of -virtue. - -It has been a common remark that there were not enough holydays in this -country—general holydays—those that are _holy_ or sacred to _all_. We -have indeed the CHRISTMAS, but that day, though it would seem to be -commended to the observance of all Christians, yet is not, for reasons -well understood by most of our readers, a general observance; not from -any want of respect to the event which the day is intended to celebrate, -but partly for a disagreement as to the mode or the time of the -celebration—and what is worse, perhaps, while one part of our -countrymen have grown up in a sort of doctrinal disrelish of any -celebration of the day, another part has extended its celebration -through many days, in a way which deprived the whole of all ideas of -sanctity, and gave to the rejoicings an appearance of those orgies which -paganism devoted to the honor of some impure divinity and the -gratification of some unclean appetite. - -Christmas, it may be remarked, however, is gradually coming into a more -appropriate appreciation; and, throughout the length and breadth of the -land there is a growing disposition to honor to the day, and to make it -a season of renewed thankfulness to God, and of the exercise of -good-will _to_, and among, men. So much the better, it is one day -redeemed and set apart for the exercise of high and holy feelings, and -the indulgence of domestic intercourse, enlarged by the temporary union -of various branches of the family-tree with the fruits thereof. - -WASHINGTON’S BIRTH-DAY was once more generally celebrated than it is -now; and even now when a celebration is had on that day, so sacred to -the dearest recollections of patriotism, and the sons of freedom -assemble together, Satan comes also among them to embitter the occasion -with the gall of party feeling, infused into every toast which is -offered, and squeezed into every glass that is emptied. So that -Washington’s birth-day has ceased to be a general holyday, or rather to -be celebrated with that community of feeling which makes a true holyday. - -THE FOURTH OF JULY, one would suppose, should be set apart for universal -celebration wherever an American can be found, or wherever national -freedom can be appreciated. But the day, even when celebrated without -reference to party politics is not inclusive. Patriotism has in it a -dignified reserve which asks for a _solemnity_ on the national -birth-day; and so instead of a general rejoicing, there is a special and -limited celebration—and when the celebration falls into party hands, -then the day is neither _holy_ nor sanctified. At best the Fourth of -July must be celebrated with pomp, show, military display, bonfires, and -eating and drinking. Appropriate as all these may be, they are not the -ingredients for a real general holyday in which the fancy, the feelings, -and the affections find play, and gravity is dismissed to the next sun -rise. - -We are not referring of course to SUNDAY, and other days set apart for -religious services; they are, as they should be, made specially -referable to our connection with, our dependence upon, and our duty and -obligations to, our God. May they be kept sacred from all worldly -intrusion, and by their holy character lend a sanctifying influence unto -all the other days of the week, so that whether we eat or drink, whether -we laugh or cry, whether mourn or rejoice, (for there is a time for each -of these,) we shall do all with a solemn deference to the duties which -we owe our Maker. - -There is a movement, or rather there has been a movement toward the -restoration of a _holyday_, in which childhood and youth have a direct -interest, and manhood and age may find, if not a direct, at least, a -reflected pleasure; and we shall think better of the age in which we -live for the restoration to homage and joyful devotion of good old St. -Valentine of blessed memory. Who, whether he was a bachelor or a -widower, gave encouragement to the good work of courtship, and became -canonized, if not for the miracles he wrought upon the bodies of his -devotees, at least for his wonderful work upon the hearts of those who -knelt at his shrine. It has always been a matter of regret that the -proceedings of the sacred conclave in which Valentine obtained -canonization were not made public. We are sure that the cardinal who -took the part of Devil’s advocate in the trial of the saint’s claim to -the honors, must have labored hard if he meant to obtain future fees; -for, of all the antagonism to real sanctity nothing is equal to hatred, -and of all the principles which the Evil Spirit would oppose nothing can -equal affection. No one could get Satan’s permission to promote loving -feelings. - -We are glad, on more accounts than one, that St. Dominic was not -selected, and even St. Augustine. They had their respective merits and -deserve special consideration, but dear old St. Valentine is commended -to the gentler affections of all, by the loveliness and beauty which his -own purity and grace threw around the affections of the human heart, and -the loftiness which his own goodness gave to the character of earthly -love, assimilating that passion with our affections for things divine, -and showing the intimate connection between the two—the difference -being only in degree consequent upon the objects. - -Valentine was one of the early Christians; whether he was a bishop or -only a presbyter, it is now difficult to ascertain; and, truth to say, -it does not make a button’s difference, for he would not be the better -for his mitre nor the worse for his stole in the good work of love to -which he devoted himself, and for which he is now distinguished and -remembered. He was a good man and full of affection, and so Claudius -caused him to be put to death, and for good reason too, we think, at -least on principles of consistency—what could the murderer find to -admire in the mild and lovely character of Valentine, and what but -exposure to the husband of Messalina must be the chaste and affectionate -teaching of the apostle of pure affection. - -We shall be told, we suppose, one day in February was set apart by the -pagan Romans for the celebration of their Lupercalia, when young men -drew from a box the name of some female favorite for the year. Well, -what then? Shall we not thank the returning sense of the people that -installs a Christian saint in the niche into which the pagans had thrust -their god Pan, who, by his ugly face and hideous howls, could drive away -wolves? Do we not all owe a tribute of thanks to those who instituted -the delightful festival of St. Valentine to supply the beastly orgies of -the Luperci? There is indeed some similarity in the merriment. The Roman -youth ran through the street with thongs, and the Christian youth hasten -with more agreeable presents; but in both ancient and modern times it -seems that the females were anxious, for various reasons, to be the -objects of the merriment. - -Before we issue another number of Graham, the high and the augmenting -festival of St. Valentine will be celebrated. Celebrated this year, we -venture to assert, with a pomp and circumstance very far beyond that of -any other February since the _office_ of Juno gave a name to the month. -Celebrated in a way to demonstrate the growing estimation in which the -kindly feelings are held. - -This will be as it should be. A day has been found in which all may have -an occasion for present pleasure; some (and most) to be active in the -circulation of those delicate compositions or handy-works which express -regard and sometimes promote affection; others will look back upon the -years past, and remember with a silent tear how the beautiful and -beloved ones, that made them happy by the transmission or the acceptance -of the token, are now mouldering in the earth, insensible to all those -affections which once made them happy, unconscious even of the regret -which their departure created and their absence keeps alive. Mournful -indeed is it to take from the secret ark, where affection has enshrined -it, the emblem of a love that death has severed; and still more painful -is it to gaze on the return of the anniversary of proffered vows, upon -that pledge which time never redeemed, and to feel that she who might -have been happy in ministering to your happiness, is miserable in a -union (the only point of union) with another. - -We saw a lad conveying to the residence of the loved one the Valentine, -whose form and decoration told of its donor—no record of name was made, -nor was it necessary to the receiver—none was _politic_ for the -witnesses. There was a secret love—a love unannounced to the world, yet -not unknown. The giver and the receiver of the Valentine were married -before July—yet not to each other. That Valentine was the cause of -misery. The new husband knew that she loved another, yet persisted in -his courtship, and with the influence of his wealth over the mother, -procured marriage. He knew during the honeymoon all that had ever -occurred, and yet was content with his winnings—the accidental -discovery of the Valentine, though not where it could have been hoarded -away, as if of value, not placed as a memento of affection, but as if -thrown aside, because useless, and left as forgotten—the accidental -discovery of that Valentine awakened the bitterness of jealousy—not -jealousy of honor, but that contemptible narrowness of selfish esteem, -which demands that the eyes of a wife should always _have been_ -closed—while the eyes and appetites of the husband _are_ always roving. -Was the Valentine then an evil? Nay—rather would not any object, or -rather no object, in two months have roused the unreasonableness of the -discoverer? Where there is much filth, spontaneous combustion will save -the application of the lighted match. - -One who is reading the preceding paragraph while we are preparing for -_this_, tells us she obtained the best husband in the world by means of -a Valentine, and she has never forgotten the saint’s day since. It -would, probably, be more germain to the matter to say, that her husband -got the best wife in the country by a Valentine—though on second -thought, she may be right—women generally know best, and remember most. - -We repeat our expression of pleasure, that there has arisen such a -general devotion to good St. Valentine, and we are sure that regard to -that canonized Christian’s memory will enlarge the spirit of true -devotion, so that if we had another saint in the calendar who stood in -the same relation to the pagan _Cupid_ which Valentine does to the -Luperci, that saint would find his shrine greatly enriched by those who -commenced their devotion on the 14th of February. - -We are glad to see that the regard to good St. Valentine is presenting -of works, and that the devotion does not pass away in the breath that -utters vows; but, beside the incense that springs from the burning -thurible, there are _offerings_ laid upon the altar—rich, tasteful, -elaborate, simple, magnificent or humble. Every kind may be had, and -will be had from those who minister to the wants of the Valentinans, as -of old did the sellers of doves in the temple provide the means of -sacrifice to the unprepared devotee. - -St. Valentine’s day then is becoming, nay, it has become, a national -holyday—one that brings smiles of pleasure to the young of both sexes, -and the joy of recollected pleasure to the old. It is a festival in -which the feelings need no stimulant, and in which it asks no boisterous -expression. Beautiful is the anticipation of such a season. Some hearts -beat quickly in the thought of what may be sent, and who will send it. -Some hopes will be excited by the manner of reception—all will be -joyful in preparing to give; all will be gratified in examining the -gift. Not all—one at least will go to the shrine where affection has -deposited the gift—and as she drops a tear upon the cherished memorial, -will send her thoughts far, far upward to the _home_ of the giver—or -backward to the hour in which it was given. Yet this is joy—this -sanctified Sabbath of the young heart seems doubly hallowed when its -light is reflected from the memorial of affection, an affection made -sure in _one_ by the icy hand of death; fixed undyingly in the other, by -a consecration which no change can divert from its hallowing purpose. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE PAST. - - - BY MISS CAROLINE E. SUTTON. - - - When the young bird goes from her early home, - Though the swift-winged moments in happiness fly, - Though the bridegroom is near with a gentle tone - And a truthful love in his deep dark eye— - Though the future is strewn with the roses of hope, - And peopled with phantoms too brilliant to last— - She turns with a tear to the friends of her youth, - To those who were dear in the past. - - The wanderer far, far from kindred and friends, - In fancy revisits his dear native cot; - He views the clear stream where the willow tree bends, - And the cowslips that brighten the spot. - He views the dark wood and the green sloping hill, - The porch, with its graceful white jessamine hung, - The half-open window that looks on the mill, - And the garden where honey-bees hum. - - And before him appear, as distinct as of yore, - His mother’s soft eye, and his sire’s furrowed brow; - His Mary’s light form, as when last on the shore - He bade her remember her vow; - His sister’s long hair, with its sunshiny gleam, - Like a banner of gold to the summer wind cast— - But one touch of the present dissolves the light dream, - And he sighs for the joys of the past. - - Though surrounded with blessings, and favored with all - That God in his bounty bestows, - We revert to the pleasures we ne’er can recall, - And the tear-drop unconsciously flows. - While roving, entranced, ’mid the fairest of scenes. - A cloud o’er our warm glowing hearts will be cast, - If we think of the blossoms, the birds and the streams - That were lovely and loved in the past. - - Creator and Father! Oh! teach me to live - With thy precepts divine for my guide, - Oh! let my young bosom thy lessons receive, - And divest it of folly and pride, - That, when this lithe form is decrepit and bent, - When my color is fading, my pulse waning fast— - I can look back with joy to the moments well spent, - And muse with delight on the past. - - * * * * * - - - - - A SONG. - - - BY RICHARD WILKE. - - - Dark clouds are hovering round me - With all their train of care: - A thousand woes surround me, - Drear shadows of despair! - But what are they?—a richer gem - Shines radiant from above: - It throws its sunshine over them, - And oh!—that light is Love! - - Then why should cares alarm me, - Though adverse fortune reign? - Why frowns of wo disarm me? - Why sorrow give me pain? - For what are all!—a richer gem - Shines radiant from above: - It throws its sunshine over them, - And oh!—that light is Love! - - * * * * * - - - - - A RECOLLECTION OF MENDELSSOHN. - - - BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. - - -Scarcely a year has elapsed since the musical world has been painfully -moved by the death of Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy. No loss, which the -divine art has sustained since that of Von Weber, will be so difficult -to replace, and probably no man of genius was ever more sincerely -mourned, _as a man_. He not only possessed that universal sympathy with -humanity, which is so noble a characteristic of the highest genius, but, -unlike many great men, whose very isolation of intellect creates an -atmosphere about them which the world is awed from seeking to penetrate, -the familiar scope of his warm nature descended to an equality with all -he met, and though all who named him as a composer, may not have -understood or appreciated him, all who knew him as a man, could not -choose but love him. The career of genius, unhappily, is not often -surrounded at the onset with the worldly advantages, nor watched and -cherished with the fostering care, which fell to his lot. His nature was -never embittered by early struggles with an unrecognizing world, nor was -his natural faith in man shaken by a keen encounter with selfishness and -persecution. The development of his moral nature thus calmly ripened in -harmony with his mind, each sustaining and ennobling the other. The -contemplation of such a character is in itself exalting, and seems to -give his memory a more than ordinary consecration. - -At this time, when we are still constantly reminded of his loss—when -those to whom his works have a voice and a power never mention his name -but with the unconscious sadness of a reverent heart, all which may help -to recall his living image possesses a universal interest. I trust, -therefore, that the relation of an interview, the recollection of which -is among those hours, for whose bestowal I am most grateful to the past, -will need no apology. On the contrary, it is rather the discharge of -that duty which we owe to art, as all her worshipers will acknowledge. - -A winter’s residence in Frankfort, which of late years is somewhat -distinguished for the excellence of its opera, and the high degree of -culture attained by its various musical unions, sufficed to make me -familiar with many of the great works of the German composers. -Fortunately, it was not until after I had learned to feel the -all-pervading soul of beauty which inspired Mozart, and paused in awe on -the borders of Beethoven’s vast and solemn realm, that I heard the music -of Mendelssohn. Thus prepared, in part, the simple and severe grandeur -of his style impressed me with a consciousness of its power, though I -could not always grasp the spirit of the sound, and follow it back to -the sublime conception—as, when a schoolboy, I first opened the pages -of Milton, and read with wonder and delight what it would have puzzled -me exceedingly to explain. Mendelssohn’s music is of a more purely -intellectual character than that of any modern composer, and his -greatest works are those which but few thoroughly appreciate. While, in -his “Songs without Words,” and the simple grandeur of his sacred -melodies, he comes nearer to the general sympathy, his “Walpurgisnacht,” -and “Fingal’s Cave,” creations of startling power and sublimity, which -stand alone in the character of their expression, are rarely produced, -except in those German cities where the taste for music has not been led -away from the standard set up by the schools of Bach and Hayden, by the -voluptuous melodies of the modern Italian opera. Frankfort is one of -these cities, and I was fortunate enough to hear the Walpurgisnacht -performed by the Cæcilien-Verein, or Society of St. Cecilia. The poetry -of Goethe and the music of Mendelssohn!—it was a sublime marriage of -genius. The works of the latter are as full of wild and stormy pictures -as those of the former, and he has described in music the crags and -breakers of the bleak Hebrides, with as much power as Goethe exhibits, -in painting the savage scenery of the Brocken. - -Mendelssohn was living in Frankfort during the winter I spent there, and -I was naturally anxious to see the face of a great man, whom there was -no probability of my ever being near again, in the course of my -wanderings. One sunny day in March, when all the population of Frankfort -seemed to have turned out upon the budding promenades which belt the -city, and the broad quays along the Main, to enjoy the first premonition -of spring, I went on my usual afternoon stroll with my friend and -countryman, W——, whose glowing talk upon the musical art was quite as -refreshing to me after the day’s study in the gloomy Marktplotz, as were -the blue mountains of Epessart, which are visible from the bridge over -the Main. - -There had been a great inundation the week previous, and the cold, -wintry storms which accompanied it, had just given place to sunshine and -milder air. The boatmen upon the flat, clumsy barges which come down -from Würzburg and the upper Main, were loosening their lashings and -preparing to trust themselves upon the swollen waters. The music of -Savoyards and bands of mountain singers was heard in every open space, -and brave, ruddy-looking Tyrolese, wild-eyed Bohemians in their quaint, -national costume, and the men of Suabia and the Black Forest, mingled -with the crowd, till it seemed like a holyday assemblage made up from -all the German provinces. We threaded the motley multitude, finding a -pleasant pastime in reading their faces and costumes, turning rapidly, -as it were, the leaves of a historical picture book. - -My eye was finally caught by a man who came toward us on the quay, and -whose face and air were in such striking contrast to those about him, -that my whole attention was at once fixed upon him. He was simply and -rather negligently dressed in dark cloth, with a cravat tied loosely -about his neck. His beard had evidently not been touched for two or -three days, and his black hair was long and frowzed by the wind. His -eyes, which were large, dark and kindling, were directed forward and -slightly lifted, in the abstraction of some absorbing thought, and as he -passed, I heard him singing to himself in a voice deep but not loud, and -yet with a far different tone from that of one who hums a careless air -as he walks. But a few notes caught my ear, yet I remember their sound, -elevated and with that scarcely perceptible vibration which betrays a -feeling below the soul’s surface, as distinctly now as at the time. -W—— grasped my arm quickly and said in a low voice, “Mendelssohn!” I -turned hastily, and looked after him, as he went down the quay, -apparently but half conscious of the stirring scenes around him. I could -easily imagine how the balmy, indolent sensation in the air, so like a -soothing and tranquilizing strain of music, should have led him into the -serene and majestic realm of his own creations. - -It was something to have seen a man of genius thus alone, and in -communion with his inspired thoughts, and I could not repress a feeling -of pleasure at the idea of having unconsciously acknowledged the -influences around him, before I knew his name. After this passing -glimpse, this _flash_ of him, however, came the natural desire to see -his features in repose, and obtain some impression of his personal -character. An opportunity soon occurred. The performance of his -“Walpurgisnacht,” by the Cæcilien-Verein, a day or two thereafter, -increased the enthusiasm I had before felt for his works, and full of -the recollection of its sublime Druid choruses, I wrote a few lines to -him, expressive of the delight they had given me, and of my wish to -possess his name in autograph, that I might take to America some token -connected with their remembrance. The next day I received a very kind -note in reply, enclosing a manuscript score of a chorus from the -“Walpurgisnacht.” - -Summoning up my courage the next morning, I decided on calling upon him -in person, feeling certain, from the character of his note, that he -would understand the motive which prompted me to take such a liberty. I -had no difficulty in finding his residence in the _Bockenheimer Gasse_, -in the western part of the city. The servant ushered me into a -handsomely furnished room, with a carpet, an unusual thing in German -houses; a grand piano occupied one side of the apartment. These struck -my eye on entering, but my observation was cut short by the appearance -of Mendelssohn. A few words of introduction served to remove any -embarrassment I might have felt on account of my unceremonious call, and -I was soon set entirely at ease by his frank and friendly manner. As he -sat opposite to me, beside a small table, covered with articles of -_vertù_, I was much struck with the high intellectual beauty of his -countenance. His forehead was white, unwrinkled, and expanding above, in -the region of the ideal faculties. His eyes were large, very dark and -lambent with a light that seemed to come through them—like the -phosphorescent gleam on the ocean at midnight. I have observed this -peculiar character of the eye only in men of the highest genius—the -sculptor Powers is another instance in which it has been frequently -remarked. None of the engravings of Mendelssohn which have yet been made -give any idea of the kindling effect which is thus given to his face. -His nose was slightly prominent, and the traces of his Jewish blood were -seen in this, as well as the thin but delicate curve of the upper lip, -and the high cheek-bones. Yet it was the Jewish face softened and -spiritualized, retaining none of its coarser characteristics. The faces -of Jewish youth are of a rare and remarkable beauty, but this is -scarcely ever retained beyond the first period of manhood. In -Mendelssohn, the perpetual youth of spirit, which is the gift of genius -alone, seemed to have kept his features moulded to its expression, while -the approach of maturer years but heightened and strengthened its -character. - -He spoke of German music, and told me I should hear it best performed in -Vienna and Berlin. Some remarks on America led him to speak of a grand -Musical Festival, which was then in the course of preparation in New -York. He had received a letter inviting him to assist in it, and said he -would have gladly attended it, but his duty to his family would not -permit of his leaving. He appeared to be much gratified by the -invitation, not only for the personal appreciation which it implied, but -as a cheering sign of progress in the musical art. My friend W——, who -had met with Mendelssohn the summer previous, at the baths of Kronthal, -said that he had expressed much curiosity respecting the native negro -melodies—which, after all, form the only peculiarly national music we -possess—and that he considered some of them exceedingly beautiful and -original. - -I did not feel at liberty to intrude long upon the _morning hours_ of a -composer, and took my leave after a short interview. Mendelssohn, at -parting, expressed his warm interest in our country’s progress, -especially in the refined arts, and gave me a kind invitation to call -upon him in whatever German city I should find him. I left Frankfort in -two or three weeks after this, and although I was never afterward -enabled to fulfill my promise and desire, I was often forcibly reminded -of his person and his genius—and never more gratefully than when I -stood beside the marble monument to Sebastian Bach, in the promenades of -Leipzic—raised to the memory of that patriarch of harmony, by the -generosity of Mendelssohn. - - * * * * * - - - - - JASPER LEECH. - - - THE MAN WHO NEVER HAD ENOUGH. - - -The hero of my sketch, Jasper Leech, was, to use the stereotyped -expression, born of poor but honest parents; his infancy exhibited no -remarkable diagnostics, by which to illustrate or establish any -peculiarity of character, saving, perhaps, the simple fact, that with -him the process of weaning was protracted to a curious extent, any -attempt to cut off or diminish the maternal supply being met with -obstinate resistance, in spite of all the ingenious artifices usually -resorted to on such occasions to induce a distaste, still he sucked and -sucked, until the female visiters, one and all, noted it; shameful in a -great fellow like that. - -At school, young Jasper was famous for the steady snail-pace at which he -crawled through the rudiments, and also for the extraordinary _penchant_ -he evinced for any thing in his proximity which was, or appeared to be, -unattainable at the moment; say that one of his school-mates was in -possession of a new toy, Jasper would first envy him, then covet it, -cunningly waiting the moment when, the novelty being past, the boy was -open to negotiation, then would he chaffer and diplomatize, almost -invariably gaining his desired end. Thus he went on steadily -accumulating, until what with a natural appetite for trading, and a -calculating eye to the profitable side of a bargain, he managed to shut -up the market altogether by exhaustion. The very springtime of life, -which generally passes by in gleesome sport, was to him a period of -anxiety and care; for while his mates were rioting in boisterous play, -he would sit apart, his whole brain wrapped in the maze of -speculation—a _swop_ is in progression, and he must have the advantage. - -Thus passed his boyhood; his schooling over, with his strong common -sense undulled by too much book-lore, he was duly inducted into the -mystery of shoe-craft. He served out his time with exemplary diligence, -working leisurely of days that he might keep reserve of strength to -spend the nights for his own profit, thereby saving a considerable sum -from the employment of his over-hours. - -Once his own master, he deliberated long what road he should travel in -the pursuit of the blind goddess, invisible as well as blind—that -intangible phantasma which men wear out life and energy in the seeking, -only when found to confess with tears of bitterness how misspent was -time in the attainment. - -At last our ambitious friend ventured humbly into trade on his own -account, declaring that should any thing approaching to success crown -his efforts, and that at the end of five or six years he could command a -thousand dollars, he would be the most contented, the happiest fellow on -earth. - -He was lucky, curiously lucky; it seemed as though, Midas-like, all he -touched turned to gold; money swept in, so that before he had been three -years in business, instead of the limited one thousand, he was master of -_five_. “Now,” said he to himself, “if I could but make that five _ten_, -I might not only be enabled to enlarge my stock, and thereby increase my -returns, but I think I might even venture to look about for a helpmate -with an equal sum;” for Jasper would just as soon have thought of -investing the best part of his capital in the establishment of a lunatic -asylum, as of marrying a portionless woman. - -The sun shone on—in less time than he could possibly have -anticipated—ten thousand was at his command. Very good, thought he; -this, with ten or fifteen thousand more, as a premium for encumbering -myself with a comforter of the snarling sex—for the ungallant Jasper -had a thoroughly mercantile business man’s opinion of the angelic -species—will be sufficient. I must investigate. - -So he set out on a tour of the watering-places, and such like -wife-markets, where Cupid, the most wide-awake of auctioneers—it’s a -libel to say he’s blind—knocks the little darlings down to the highest -bidder. Of course, Jasper stopped at the first-class hotels, where he -scrutinized the _habitués_ of the ladies ordinary with uncommon -interest. There’s no use in disguising the fact, he sought not a wife, -but a fortune; in extenuation, allow me to say, he was not at all -singular, there are plenty of those individuals extant, young, tolerably -good-looking fellows, _bien gante_, and redolent of whisker, who linger -about the ladies’ drawing-room, in the faint hope of fascinating -something available, (prudent maternity avoids this class with pious -horror,) middle aged beaux, who dress sedulously, and toady _chaperons_, -carry fans, are always _so_ attentive and so obliging, dine regularly, -and affect a Burgundy decanter, which looks easy circumstanced, but -which the poor waiter is tired of carrying backward and forward, -ticketed some hundred and something. - -These animals are generally great scandal-mongers, and always dangerous, -sweet-voiced but adder-tongued, their _modus operandi_ is to poison the -ear of the person addressed, against any other individual, hoping -thereby to elevate their own characters upon the slaughtered heap. Let -no woman suffer such pestilent breath to be a second time breathed -within her hearing. - -Jasper, though indefatigable as you may well suppose, met with strange -adventure during his wife-hunt. Pretty women, after short experience, he -avoided utterly, for he found that they were usually too extravagant in -their expectations with regard to _personnel_, and as Jasper could not, -by any stretch of his imagination, fancy that he ranked in the category -of Fredericks and Augustuses, he endeavored to make up the deficiency by -a liberal display of wealth-prefiguring ornament, a kind of strong-box -index, which he shrewdly suspected might tempt some ambitious innocent -to investigate the contents thereof. - -Perhaps it would be as well, at this period, as our hero is gotten up at -no small expense, to give a rough pen-and-ink outline of his appearance. -In the first place, he was twenty-eight years old, by his own account; -as he could scarcely be expected to know exactly himself, it’s not to be -wondered at that he and the parish register differed a few years; but -that was of little consequence, for he had an accommodating -peasant-colored complexion, which, as it made him look at least forty, -will no doubt return the compliment by making him look no more at sixty; -his hair was about as indefinite, being a factitious auburn, a dry, wiry -red, something like the end of a fox’s brush in hot weather, crisp and -tangible, like fine copper-shavings; one could not help fancying that if -he shook his head, each individual hair would jar audibly against the -other. The whole arrangement gave one an idea of intense heat, and an -involuntary hope that the poor fellow had but a sprinkle of -hydrocephalus, he was of undecided height also, varying from five feet -four-and-a-half to five feet four-and-three-quarters, at the option of -his boot-maker; but the most remarkable features, if we may use the -expression, in his conformation, were his hands, which were gaunt and -bony, of a tanned-leathery consistence, and of a streaky, mottled, -castile-soap color, covered with a straggling crop of light, sandy hair, -and ornamented with several _wedding_-rings—evidences of broken-hearts, -which some men are fond of displaying as certificates of gallantry. -Dressed in irreproachable black, and capped and jeweled in the most -orthodox style, it may be imagined that Jasper was an _object_ of no -small solicitude to the “anxious mothers of slenderly-portioned -daughters;” he certainly had an air _bien riche_, if not -_distingué_—and that’s the marketable _materiel_ after all. - -Months were unprofitably spent, and Jasper was beginning to think the -time irretrievably lost, when an occurrence of some little interest -varied the cateraceous-drinkability of hotel monotony. The Blodgerses -arrived, _en route_ to the fashionable ruralities. - -Now the Blodgerses were extensive people in their way. They were -originated somewhere in Pennsylvania, and affected the tone of the far -south; traveled with huge trunks, two lap-dogs, a parrot, and a liveried -African. The head of the family was a pursy, important, -chairman-of-an-election-committee-looking man, with a superabundance of -excessively white shirt-frill, and a great deal too much watch-chain; -the latter appendage he invariably swung round as he conversed, its -momentum indicating the state of his temper during an argument; let him -speak upon uninteresting topics—literature, for instance, or any of the -useless arts—you notice but a gentle apathetic oscillation, but let him -get upon the tariff; let him hurl denunciations against his political -enemies, or eulogize his particular presidential candidate, and round it -goes with astonishing velocity. - -Blodgers had been a grocer, or something of the kind, and having, during -a life of assiduous saving and scraping, accumulated a very large sum, -now flung himself with extraordinary _abandon_ upon the full stream of -gentility—and, to say the truth, most uncomfortable he found it; for -many a time would he acknowledge to his wife that “This flying about -from steam-car to steamboat, was far more fatiguing, and not quite so -profitable as quietly serving out lump sugar.” Then would Mrs. B. -indignantly check such compromising thoughts, for she was a person of -great pretension, had had a slight acquaintance with Mrs. Judge Pinning, -and once visited by accident Mrs. General Jollikins, so felt herself -bound to talk of “society.” “They don’t do this in our set;” or, “it’s -not the etiquette in _society_;” and such like sidewinded hints of her -position, formed the staple of her conversations. As for the heiress to -the wealthy grocer’s store, there was an indescribable something in her -air and manner which plainly indicated, “I am worth looking after!” She -talked loudly, stared mutely through a magnificent Parisian -double-glass, and in fact broke through all the recognized rules of good -breeding with that insolent familiarity which but poorly imitates the -_nonchalant_ ease of the really _distingué_. - -No description of deportment could have made so great an impression on -Jasper. She looked ingots, she spoke specie, and her _prestige_ was -altogether redolent of _roleaux_. He was struck, but the stricken deer -took the precaution to investigate realities before he advanced a step -toward acquaintanceship. Now, thought he, if she but happen to have some -ten or fifteen thousand, she’d be just the wife for me. The result was -satisfactory. He discovered that a larger sum was settled to be her -marriage-portion—and so laid vigorous siege instanter. - -Now Araminta Blodgers, although decidedly unqualified to grace the pages -of the book of beauty, had a strange predilection for “nice young men;” -so that at first Jasper met with decided, and not over-delicately -expressed, opposition. But he was not a man to retire from the first -repulse; he persevered, and finally so deceived the sympathetic Araminta -into the belief of his ardent affection, that, one fine summer evening, -she sighed forth an avowal that she and her expectations were at his -disposal. - -Fresh from this successful attack upon the heiress’ susceptibilities, -with a feathery heart, Jasper snapped his fingers at love, and danced -down the corridor of the hotel, to the infinite wonderment of the -waiters. Either from force of habit, or as a means of tempering the -exuberance of his spirits, he plunged into the mysteries of the -guest-book, where, alas! for Araminta Blodgers, and for true love! the -first name he saw was that of Mrs. Skinnington, the rich widow from his -own immediate neighborhood; she whom he had sedulously church-ogled from -the opposite pew every Sunday, astonished at the vastness of his -presumption; she, the _bona fide_ and sole possessor of nearly half his -native town. Here was the shadow of a shade of opportunity. She was -alone. Jasper hesitated. Araminta’s fortune was ample, but when there -was a chance of more, it wasn’t _enough_! Finally, he determined to wait -the first interview with the widow, and be regulated by her manner. - -They met at dinner, and she was singularly gracious. The fact is, those -eye-assaults had told a little; and I’m sorry to say, for the character -of the sex, that the widow, in case the siege should be renewed, had -predetermined on capitulation. - -The result may be anticipated. The endurable Araminta was thrown over -for the intolerable widow and her superior wealth. They were married in -a curiously short space of time; and when Jasper found himself master of -the widow’s hoards, “Now,” thought he, with a glowing heart, “a few -thousand dollars more, and I shall be content. One hundred thousand is -the acme of my desire; let me but achieve that, and I shall then retire -and spend the remainder of my days in quiet comfort.” - -In process of time he did realize the coveted amount; but did he keep -his word and retire. No! he had enough of that. Home was to him the -worst of all miseries, a sort of domestic Tartarus; the presiding fury, -his elderly wife, who, incapable of inspiring a sentiment of affection -herself, yet assumed all the caprice of a girl. Jealous to very lunacy, -she gave vent to the agonizing sensations of her soul by scribbling -heart-rending sonnets for the Fiddle-Faddle Magazine. Thin, withered, -romantic and exacting, you may suppose that to the unfortunately lucky -Jasper, home was no _dulce domum_. - -The consequence was, that he, dreading the _tête-à-tête_ domestic, -confined his attention to his monetary affairs. Retirement with an -unlovable and moreover intolerably suspicious companion as Mrs. L., or, -as she signed herself, Sappho, was out of the question; so he determined -to stick to the counting-house. And now a great idea filled his brain -almost to monomania, which was, to make his one hundred thousand _two_. -Once conceived, every thought and action was merged in that one -absorbing idea. Heedless of the domestic tornadoes that ever and anon -swept over his devoted head, he slaved, fretted, lied, I think I may -venture to say, cheated, but honorably, and in the way of business, -until after a few years of health-destroying worry, he beheld himself -within sight of the desired haven. But five thousand more, and the sum -would be accomplished; one stroke of luck—one piece of indifferent -fortune, and he would then be really content. - -Worn out by constant exertion, he fell dangerously sick. During his -illness, news arrived which brought him within a few hundreds of his -desired maximum. Notwithstanding his bad health, and in opposition to -all remonstrance, he called for his books, and with weak hand, and -weaker brain, attempted to calculate. After many hours labor, altogether -unaware that he was thus unprofitably expending his last flickering of -life, he gave a long sorrowful sigh, and gasping forth, “Not enough! not -enough!” expired. - -Not many days after, a few feet of earth were sufficient for THE MAN WHO -NEVER HAD ENOUGH. - - B. - - * * * * * - - - - - MY BIRD HAS FLOWN. - - - BY MRS. E. W. CASWELL. - - - [Written on reading “My Bird,” by Fanny Forester.] - - - My bird has flown, my gentle bird! - Four autumn suns gone by, - She left, to cheer our loneliness, - Her own dear native sky. - - With love, the precious treasure came; - I drew her to my breast, - Gazed in her heaven-lit eye of blue, - And felt—how richly blest! - - She grew in beauty day by day, - More dear each passing hour, - Until we came to feel our bird - Would never leave our bower. - - The rich, wild sweetness of her song, - Rung on the morning air, - And mildly, on the evening breeze, - It told the hour of prayer. - - We thought when darkness frowned above, - And wint’ry winds went by— - ’Twould still be summer _in our home_, - And sunshine _on our sky_. - - With our own sweet minstrel ever near - No sorrow could invade; - Her song of love would cheer us still, - And bless our woodland shade. - - Now, many a weary day hath passed - Since from my tearful eye - Her untaught pinion cleft the air, - And vanished in the sky. - - Why has she gone? Seeks she afar - Some green isle’s shadier bowers? - Some happier nest—serener airs— - And purer love than ours? - - Oh not on earth! not here—not here! - Clouds veil our brightest skies, - And summer’s mildest breezes, - Chill our bird of Paradise. - - The treasure which we deemed our own - Was briefly lent, not given. - _Our Father knew his spotless bird,_ - _And called her home to Heaven._ - - * * * * * - - - - - LESSONS IN GERMAN. - - - BY MISS M. J. B. BROWNE. - - - CHAPTER I. - -“Tut-tut-tut! don’t tell me ‘_it means nothing_,’ Sara,” said my uncle -Waldron, as he assumed quite an air of resentment, and seized in his -hand a cluster of cousin Sara’s beautiful ringlets, school-master -fashion, as if about to “pull her hair” for some just discovered -mischief. - -“Why uncle!” expostulated Sara, looking up in his face, with a smile -that would have melted an iceberg, so warm and sunny was it—much more -did it melt the feigned frown on the brow of my bachelor uncle—“do let -me assure you”— - -“I don’t _want_ any assurances niece—what need has a man of assurances -when he sees with his own eyes, especially if he has as much reason for -confidence in his visual organs as I have in _mine_,” smilingly retorted -uncle Theodore. “Don’t I catch him here most provokingly often? and is -there not such a commerce in books between you, as would justify the -suspicion that I have not a library of five thousand volumes, of all -sorts of books, in all sorts of languages, both living and dead, besides -shares in I know not how many circulating libraries”— - -“But uncle,” I interposed, “you must remember that Mr. Greydon is the -_minister_, and he comes to make cousin Sara _pastoral calls_, and to -impart spiritual counsel—” I left my apology unfinished, for I was -obliged to stop and laugh at its mis-placed sanctimony. - -“Yes, yes, yes, miss!” replied uncle The., fairly driven into one of his -merriest laughs—“and by all means his ‘spiritual’ what-did-you-call-it, -must be communicated in _German_—no medium but _German_ now—a little -while ago nothing but _French_—by and by it will be hocus-pocus, or -some other such gibberish!” - -“Dear uncle,” interrupted poor blushing Sara, “I’m _studying_ German, -and Mr. Greydon is so kind as to give me two lessons a week, out of his -very valuable time.” - -“Fol-de-rol, every word of it—if you wanted a German teacher, why -didn’t I ever hear of it, so I could have procured a genuine imported -one. But suppose he does come _twice_ a week to give you a lesson, he -comes the _other_ twice to—_what_, Sara? Help get it?” And Sara, -finding herself circumvented on that track, blushed redder, and uncle -Waldron laughed merrier than ever. - -My other apology for the frequency of Mr. Greydon’s visits, was so -nearly a failure, I concluded this time, _silence_ was the “better part -of valor,” so I left cousin Sara, to her own extrications from the -cross-examinations of a wily old lawyer. As soon as she could make -herself heard above uncle’s successive peals of merriment, she said, -rather imploringly— - -“Why, uncle Waldron, don’t make so much sport of me. You know I am so -much alone—I am sure I think Mr. Greydon is very kind.” - -“Yes, yes, niece—very kind, indeed—I see. ‘_Alone_ so much,’ did you -say? How comes that, pray? Isn’t here Maria, and isn’t she company -enough? You pay my guest but a wretched compliment, putting her society -down as nothing.” - -“O no, no, uncle,” said Sara, “I don’t mean _that_—indeed you are too -wicked to-night. Maria knows how truly I value her society. But she is -here only very little—didn’t I stay all winter alone, when you kept -promising me a cousin or friend to stay with me?” - -“Well, well, uncle,” said I, “there is one thing for your -assurance—cousin Sara has repeatedly declared she would not marry a -clergyman!” - -“That’s what she has—Sara,” said uncle Theodore, looking rather -equivocally in her face, as if he were prepared to overturn whatever she -might depose, “do you hold of that mind still?” - -“Certainly, sir,” responded Sara, with some ill-concealed hesitation, -and not a little confusion, “I am not wont to vacillate much in my -opinions.” - -“And you make a life-long bargain with me to retain your post as my -house-keeper, in presence of cousin Maria as witness, do you?” - -“Yes, sir, unless you release me some time, at your pleasure.” - -“You are a noble girl, Sara, darling—I’ll buy you that Arabian -to-morrow, and you shall have a groom on purpose to attend him;” and my -uncle laid his hand tenderly on cousin Sara’s beautiful head, in token -of his satisfaction. - -By this time it was his stated hour for retiring—he took the “big ha’ -Bible” from its place, reverently read a holy psalm, and then commending -his household to the care of an Almighty Protector, in a low and fervent -prayer, he bade us good night, and left the drawing room. - - - CHAPTER II. - -My uncle Waldron, or Judge Waldron, for he had been promoted to “the -bench,” was a bachelor—a hopelessly confirmed bachelor. Not that he -under-valued woman—no—he regarded her with the noblest, loftiest, and -most rational admiration of any man I ever knew. But his notions were -peculiar, and perhaps not a little fastidious in the matter of what a -_wife_ should be, so he never proposed himself as a husband to any lady -of his widely extended and really valuable circle of acquaintances, to -the infinite astonishment of some of them. In the course of _long years_ -he became thoroughly tired of being a _boarder_—of never realizing any -of the quiet pleasures and sympathies that cluster round the hearth and -the heart of home. So he erected a beautiful villa, just a delightful -drive from the city, adorned it within and without with all the -decorations and elegancies which could be suggested by the highest -refinement of taste, and a liberal expenditure of the amplest means, and -then we surely thought, as who would not, that having built his nest, my -uncle was about to choose his mate, and pass the winter of his life in -the calm sunshine of domestic bliss. But we “reckoned without our host,” -in that calculation. Uncle Waldron had other intentions. - -Now cousin Sara was the eldest niece in the family circle, and from her -very birth she had been uncle Theodore’s acknowledged favorite—even in -her extreme babyhood he had condescended to take her in his arms, and -rock her for half-an-hour—an instance of partiality, by which none of -us could boast of being distinguished. We all wished that we could have -been the eldest niece, so we could have been the favorite—how much more -we wished we could be _just like_ cousin Sara. - -Well, when his house was all complete, uncle Waldron proposed to Sara to -assume the responsibilities of its mistress, and threatened, in a way -she quite understood, to “cut her off with a shilling,” in case she -declined, so she followed her own inclination, and very readily -assented. - -Cousin Sara was a star of the first magnitude in one of the most elegant -and policed literary constellations in her native city. Faultlessly -lovely in person, in manners, and in mind, her heart over-flowing with -the freshest and most cheerful piety, woman’s brightest ornament, it was -a mystery to us all, how she happened to live till she was twenty-seven -years old, without taking those responsibilities which most of our sex, -without a _tithe_ of her attractions or her abilities, assume, long -enough before they have the maturity and richness of twenty-seven -invaluable years in their favor—especially strange we thought it, when -so many most enviable inducements had been urged upon her acceptance. -But nobody seemed to please our fastidious cousin Sara. - -When she had been some months at uncle Waldron’s, it became very evident -to _us_, quizzical spies of _cousins_, who took great pleasure in -spending a few weeks with her now and then, that she was more interested -in the society and person of the Rev. Robert Greydon, than she was -really willing we should discover. She hushed our impertinence in a -moment, if we undertook to rally her on the subject, by a peculiarly -imploring expression of countenance, which only made us think so all the -more. Mr. Greydon, as has been already intimated, was the clergyman of -the church where uncle Waldron worshiped. Cousin Sara had often declared -that she would not marry a _clergyman_ or a _widower_. Mr. Greydon, -though still a young man, united in his person _both_ those -disqualifications, so we managed, in the face of all indications to the -contrary, to conclude that we had nothing to fear. If he had _not_ been -a widower and clergyman, we should have chosen him, out of all the -world, for Sara’s husband—for he possessed all those rare and -invaluable excellencies of character, which Sara deserved, if ever a -lovely woman did, in the man of her choice. - -Mr. Greydon was a very prudent man in his pastoral and social -intercourse. He did not wish to give the “silly women” of his parish, -who, as in duty bound, would keep a very faithful look-out after him, -any occasion to tattle—but the arrangement of the German lessons was -just the thing—it afforded him the most unimpeachable excuse for -enjoying Sara’s society without sounding an alarum in any body’s ears. - - - CHAPTER III. - -“I would not light the lamp yet, Miss Hastings—this moonlight is so -magical,” said Mr. Greydon, as he sat in the bay window of uncle’s -drawing-room, one glorious evening in early summer. Indeed it was as -lovely an evening, and as fair a scene, as pencil of artist ever aspired -to sketch. I was sitting on the broad piazza, trying what my tyro pencil -could do with a landscape so wonderfully beautiful. - -“You are sad, to-night, Mr. Greydon,” said Sara, desisting from her -purpose, and taking a chair by the table that had been drawn near the -window. - -“No—not _sad_ exactly, Miss Hastings—only of a _doubtful_ mind,” -replied Mr. Greydon. - -“Indeed!” gayly responded Sara—“but that must not be—it is expressly -_forbidden_ in Scripture and—” - -“I know it Miss Hastings,” interrupted Mr. Greydon, with forced -playfulness in his tone, as if he were determined to rally himself—“but -it does not respect any matters of _doctrine_—rather of _practice_, I -might say. _You_ are always so cheerful and light-hearted, Miss -Hastings, it is almost a sin to be moody in your presence.” - -“If I had the burden of a pastoral charge”—Sara checked -herself—“indeed, I fear it is the advantage of circumstances rather -than of temperament, Mr. Greydon,” she concluded. - -There was a pause—the German lesson was finished long ago—Sara had -been singing, and Mr. Greydon accompanying her piano with the mellow -tones of his flute. There was a hush on the air, and a hush upon our -spirits. Perhaps it was the moonlight—perhaps it was the music—I don’t -know—but it became oppressive, and I began to feel that it was -somebody’s duty to relieve somebody’s embarrassment, by introducing a -new theme for conversation, and I was about to draw their attention to -some glorious shadows falling on the water in the distance, when Mr. -Greydon spoke. - -“Miss Hastings, I have heard—but I hope it is not true—that you have -declared your intention never to marry a clergyman.” - -“Indeed! Mr. Greydon—” stammered Sara, “I—who can have so mis—people -report so many—” Sara stopped; I never knew her self-possession so -completely recreant. Her heart assured her that if such had been her -resolution at any time, certain recent circumstances had essentially -shaken her purposes—so she could not assent; and to deny it just at -this point would make her more uncomfortable still. She was about to -conclude the remark as a very impertinent one, when Mr. Greydon -continued, - -“I hope that determination is not invincible, Miss Hastings; my future -happiness depends—” - -My sense of honor forbade my remaining in that neighborhood any longer. -I had innocently heard already more than was intended for the ears of a -third party; so I gathered up my drawing materials with what haste I -could, and without the sound of a foot-fall, made good my retreat to the -library. - -I did not see cousin Sara again till we sat at the breakfast-table the -next morning, and then she looked as if she had attained the acme of a -pure and rational happiness. I never saw her half so lovely—half so -cheerful—half so spiritual; the dream of her whole life seemed about to -unfold into a blessed reality. As we sat in her dressing-room, after -breakfast, with a simplicity and confidence that made me love and admire -her more than ever, she told me of her engagement with the Rev. Robert -Greydon. - -I opened my eyes and threw down my sewing in the most mischievous -surprise. - -“Why, Sara Hastings! you have said a thousand times you would not marry -a minister! How can I believe you?” - -“O, don’t, Maria—pray show me a little mercy; do you think, _uncle_ was -so wicked as to tell Mr. Greydon so! The truth is, young ladies had -better not make such resolutions, and if they do, it is better not to -express them. People cannot tell with much certainty what they _will_ -do, and what they _will not_, till the inducement is before them.” - -I assented to Sara’s philosophy, declared I never would say any such -thing, and with a kiss on her glowing cheek, I heartily congratulated -her, and told how sincerely I rejoiced at her choice, and her prospect -of earthly happiness. - - - CHAPTER IV. - -There is to be a wedding at Uncle Waldron’s early in September, and I am -to be the first bridemaid! Truly an enviable appointment. Sweet Sara -Hastings will be the bride—Mr. Greydon the proud and happy bridegroom. -My dear old uncle will give away his “treasure,” and with her his villa -and all its elegant arrangements, as “a marriage dower.” The villa is to -become the “manse,” and uncle has, of course, stipulated that he shall, -through his whole natural life, be regarded as one of the indisputable -fixtures of the establishment. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE PHANTASMAGORIA - - - A LEGEND OF ELD. - - BY A. J. REQUIER. - - - PART I. - - The morn is looking on the lake, - Beside the ruined abbey; - And its fingers white on the waters shake, - Like the quivering curls of a silver snake, - For the pale old moon it must keep its wake - In the dark clouds thick and shaggy! - The night-wind hath a moaning tone, - And it cometh moaning by; - The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone, - That years have crumbled, one by one, - Answereth—sometimes like a groan, - And sometimes like a sigh. - - A little light through the forest-trees - Is twinkling very bright, - Like a distant star upon waveless seas, - Or a glow-worm of the night; - ’Tis scarcely bigger than a pin, - The little light of the village inn! - - It is a parlor dimly lit, - And shadows on the arras flit; - Shadows here and shadows there, - Shadows shifting everywhere, - Very thin and very tall, - Moving, mingling on the wall— - Till they make one shadow all! - - An old clock in the corner stands, - Clicking! clicking! all the while; - And its long and shadowy hands - Would seem to say this hour is man’s, - But Life hath swiftly running sands, - And may wither in a smile. - - A fire is blazing upon the hearth, - And it crackles aloud as if in mirth; - By its flickering flames you may chance to see - There are six men sitting in groups of three; - They laugh and talk—they drink and drain - Their goblets, till to drink is pain, - And the eyes are brighter than the brain. - - Three gamble at the pictured vice, - And three upheave the rattling dice, - The cards go round— - The boxes sound— - A king!—an ace!!—a deuce!—a doublet!! - For luck a laugh—for loss a goblet; - An aching smile and a muttered curse, - A beating heart ’gainst a broken purse, - Ha! ha! ha! ha! how wild the din - Of hearts that lose and hearts that win! - - - PART II. - - Near the corner, and near the clock, - Sits a man in a dingy frock; - A slouchèd hat on his head wears he, - So sunken his eyes you cannot see; - His clothes are turned of a rusty hue, - All worn with age and damp with dew, - A traveler! I’ll be sworn he be, - This stranger man so strange to see, - Weary with driving adown the lea; - He hath ridden hard—he hath ridden long, - And would like a meal more than a song! - - The rattling dice come rattling down! - The pictured tablets glide; - But a deeper shade on the light hath grown - Of the parlor dim and wide, - And the embers utter a fitful blaze - On the forms that sit beside: - For three look white in its ghastly rays— - White as the corpse of ended days— - While three are dark, and yet darker gaze - On the cards and dice with which each one plays - In the parlor dim and wide! - - And near the corner—near the clock— - In silence sitteth still, - The stranger motionless as a rock— - The stranger man with a dingy frock— - Who entered the room without nod or knock, - As quietly as a rill. - - Clicking!—clicking!—all the while, - The old clock soundeth on, - As if it never had seen a smile, - But was kin to that in the abbey-aisle— - Chiming for mortals gone! - - Click—click! and hearts are beating - High with the fate of game; - Click—click! the clock is repeating - Its lesson still the same— - But one has uttered a fearful word, - And started up like a startled bird, - To dash the dice-box down; - And with the click of the ancient clock - Is heard the click of a pistol’s cock— - And then—the deep fall, in a sudden shock, - Of a body lifeless grown. - - The stranger is standing beside the board— - The stranger that entered without a word— - And to five who with cowardice quail and quake, - As white as the moon looking on the lake, - It was thus that the noiseless stranger spake:— - - “The blood which has ceased in the veins to run - Of this form that shall nevermore feel the sun, - This blood—a score of years ago— - Belonged to a noble hidalgo, - With a great estate and a greater name, - And a palace proud, and a beauteous dame, - And a little child—his only heir— - Soft as the dew in the morning air, - And as opening roses fresh and fair. - - “And it was this noble hidalgo - Who sat in this chamber dim and low, - But now a score of years ago, - With a youth who bore beside his name, - Which had never known the weight of blame, - A treasure placed in his trusty hand - By the sovereign lord of this mighty land. - - “And it was in this chamber dim and low, - As the pendulum wide swung to and fro, - That this youth and the high-born hidalgo - Rattled a cursèd horn; - That they played for the treasures of the king, - Played till the cocks began to sing. - And the youth had become a worthless thing— - A mark for shame and scorn. - - “The youth knelt down at the noble’s feet, - And, weeping, prayed that he should not meet - The eyes of his master, the injured king, - Who had trusted him well—a worthless thing! - Yet he turned, the wretch! to stalk away, - When a cry arrested his cruel way, - And he heard a voice in agony say— - A voice departing from its clay— - ‘It shall follow thy house—it shall blast thy pride— - It shall be as a thorn in thine aching side— - Yea, learn, unpitying child of sin, - Not always lucky are those who win; - For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod, - Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod, - Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!’ - The blood which has ceased in the veins to run - Of this form that shall nevermore feel the sun, - This blood—a score of years ago— - Belonged to a noble hidalgo, - And _I am_—” - - Here the ancient clock, - With a rusty, rumbling sound, - Shook as it struck—and the matin cock - Answered the solemn chime of the clock, - Till it echoed round and round! - - The embers that on the hearth-stone lay - Down into ashes dropped away, - While from the lattice worn and white, - In the moonshine waning with the night, - A steed was seen like the drifted snow - As it galloped across the plain below, - Swift as an arrow from its bow; - With the slouchèd hat and the dingy frock - Of the figure that sat near the corner and clock, - And which came and went without nod or knock. - - And they that remained on each other bent - Glances so dim and drear, - That neither could tell what the other meant, - Save that in all there was fear blent - With a something which told them Heaven-sent - Was the doom of the dead man there. - - One was a laborer tough and tanned, - With the toil of tilling his meager land; - The next, a veteran who did wield - The sword on many a bloody field; - The third, a friar grave or gay, - As chase or chancel led the way, - With shaven crown and cassock gray; - The fourth, a publican, sorry elf! - Who cared for no one but himself; - And the last, a chield, as we often ken, - Unknowing their ways in the walks of men. - - And these departed homeward all, - Far holier than they came; - For the sights which their visions did appall— - The signs and sights in the haunted hall— - Like to the writing on the wall, - Spoke with a tongue of flame. - - - PART III. - - Torches are gleaming to and fro, - In the abbey’s ancient vault; - While a mute procession slowly go - Into its mouldering depths below, - And, in solemn order, halt! - A monk hath chanted the midnight mass - For a soul that tempted its final pass; - And the little, gloomy sacristan - Striveth to soothe an aged man, - As they lift from the blazoned bier - The stately drooping pall; - And the old man sees him lying there - His son—his heir—his all! - - Thou canst not soothe him, sacristan, - Go to thy cord and corse— - It is a fiend which gnaws that man; - The worst of fiends—Remorse! - It is a fiend which whispereth still, - Or noon or night, or well or ill, - From the dark caverns of the past, - Through all their chambers dim and vast, - “For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod, - Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod, - Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!” - - The lights have vanished—and the gate - Of the abbey closed up desolate, - And all is silent as before - The key was turned in that rusty door, - To add a slumbering mortal more - To its never, never failing store; - All is silent save the owl - That moans like a monk from beneath his cowl, - As the moon is looking on the lake, - - Beside the ruined abbey; - And its fingers white on the waters shake, - Like the quivering curls of a silver snake, - For the pale old moon it must keep its wake - In the dark clouds thick and shaggy! - The night-wind hath a moaning tone, - And it cometh moaning by; - The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone, - That years have crumbled, one by one, - Answereth—sometimes like a groan, - And sometimes like a sigh. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BEATING OF THE HEART. - - - BY RICHARD HAYWARDE. - - - Heart that beateth, trembleth, yearneth, - Now with grief and pain assailed, - Now with joy triumphant burneth, - Now in sorrow veiled; - Moveless us the wave-worn rock - In the battle’s deadly shock, - When the charging lines advance, - Doom on every lance; - Yet melting at some mimic show, - Or plaintive tale of wo! - - Faint with love—of conquest proud— - Seared with hate—with fury riven, - Like the fire-armed thunder-cloud - By the tempest driven: - Hark! the chords with rapture swell, - Flood on flood melodious flowing, - Sudden! strikes the passing bell, - Swinging with reverbing knell, - While the soul is going! - - Though at times, “Oh, Death!” I cry, - “Ope the door, thy son entreateth!” - Though from life I strive to fly, - Still the heart-clock beateth— - No, not yet I wish for thee, - Gaunt and pale remorseless king! - Soon, too soon, thou’lt come for me, - O’er life triumphing. - - Glow and dance in every vein, - Crimson current, ruby river, - To thy source return again, - As the teeming summer-rain - Seeks again the parent main, - The all-bounteous giver; - Beat, dear heart, against my breast, - Tell me thou art there again— - Life and thee together rest - In that hold of joy and pain— - Stronghold yet of life thou art, - Restless, ever-working heart! - - Night comes draped in shadows sombre, - Morning robed in light appears, - Minutes, hours, withouten number, - Days and months and years - Pass like dreams; yet still thou art - Ever busy, restless heart! - - When his doom the captive heareth, - How thy summons, stroke on stroke, - Tells the fatal moment neareth, - Sounding like the heavy stroke - Distant heard as falls the oak! - - How the maiden fair would hide - Thee within her bosom white, - Still against her tender side - Throbs the soft delight; - Every pulse reveals the flame, - Every fibre softly thrills, - But how innocent the shame - That her bosom fills. - - In the hero, firm as steel, - In the virgin, soft as snow, - In the coward, citadel - Where the recreant blood doth go - Hiding from the sight of foe. - In the mother’s anxious breast - Who can picture thy unrest? - When her babe lies low— - With the fitful fever burning, - No relief—still restless turning - Ever to and fro! - In the bride what mixed commotion - When the words, “Be man and wife” - Thrill her with that soft emotion - Known but once in life. - - Priceless jewel! hidden treasure! - All the world to thee is naught; - Working loom of ceaseless pleasure, - Weaving without stint or measure - Woof and web of thought: - Hive of Life! where drone and bee - Struggle for the mastery, - In the never-ceasing motion, - Like a great star in the ocean, - Shines the soul! thy heavenly part, - Throbbing, life-assuring heart! - - * * * * * - - - - - DOCTOR SIAN SENG - - - OR THE CHINAMAN IN PARIS - - (FROM THE FRENCH OF MERY.) - - -[Illustration] - -I, the Doctor Sian Seng to Tching-bit-ha-ki. - -On receipt of this letter forthwith go to Houang-xa, to the yellow -temple of Fo, and burn upon the altar a stick of camphor for me, for I -have arrived safely at Paris. I have sailed five thousand three hundred -and twenty leagues since my embarkation at Hoang-Ho, with peril of life -beneath my feet the whole voyage—and Providence has protected me. - -May my ancestors deign to watch over me more than ever at this moment! -Paris is a field of battle, where bullets are represented by wheels and -horses; those who have neither carriage nor horses, perish miserably in -the flower of their age. There are seventeen hospitals for the wounded; -I saw one yesterday with this inscription, in large letters, “Hospital -for Incurables.” The wounded who are carried there, know when they enter -that they will never come out alive—they know their fate! It is very -charitable on the part of the doctors. You can now see that the -Barbarians understand civilization! - -Notwithstanding the sage precepts of Li-ki, and the law of Menu, I have -purchased a carriage on four wheels, drawn by horses, and have wept in -anticipation of the unhappy fate of those I am about to send to the -“Hospital for Incurables;” but there are but two modes of living in -Paris—you must crush others, or be crushed yourself. I think it most -prudent to do the first. - -I went down to the river to make my ablutions, and was about to commence -this holy act, when a policeman threatened me with his _baton_. In -looking at the water, I was consoled for the deprivation, as it had not -the pure and limpid flow of our own Yu-ho, which runs by Pekin under the -marble bridge of Pekiao. The Seine is a dirty yellow stream, which -descends to the ocean for a bath. I shall wait until it comes back! - -I was told that Christians take a bath at home, which costs two francs. -I called for one, and was furnished with an iron box, very much -resembling the coffins in the cemetery of Ming-tang-y; one gets into -them and lies upon the back, with the hands crossed upon the breast, -like a true believer who has died in the faith of Fo. - -In Paris, each house is governed by a tyrant, who is called a porter. -There are twenty thousand porters here, who make a million of -inhabitants unhappy and desolate. They sometimes make a Revolution to -overturn a poor devil, called a king; but they have never overturned the -twenty thousand porters. Mine receives my orders with loud explosions of -laughter, and when I threaten him, he says to me, “You are a Chinaman!” -Since he thinks to insult me by calling me by the name of my country, I -make the matter equal by crying, “And you are a Frenchman!” - -“_Render insult for insult_,” says the sage Menu. These things have most -astonished me in Paris. - -My first duty (in quality of my rank in the Ming tang, the greatest -society of _savans_ in the universe) has been to visit the Royal -Library, renowned here as “a vast depot of all human knowledge.” This -asylum of meditation, of reflection and study, is situated in the most -noisy street in the city; the millions of books it contains shake -continually with the passage of carriages and other vehicles. It is very -much as if you and I should go for instruction between the bridge -Tchoung-yu-Ho-Khias, where all the cats in Pekin are sold, and the -street Toung-Kiang-mi-Kiang, where salutes are fired night and day! - -One of the librarians received me with great politeness, and offered me -a chair. - -“Sir,” said I, in tolerable French, “I would be much obliged if you -could lend me, for a few moments, the ‘History of the Dynasties of the -Five Brothers Loung, and of the sixty-four Ché-ti’? You know that these -glorious reigns commenced immediately after the third race of the first -emperors—those of the Jin-Hoang, or the Emperors of Men, to distinguish -them from the second race, called Ti-Hoang, or Emperors of the Earth.” - -The _savant_ did not appear as if he knew it. He put into his nose some -of the forbidden opium, and after reflecting awhile, said, - -“Lao-yé, we have not that.” - -He appeared pleased to show me that he understood that “Lao-yé” was -equivalent to “sir,” and repeated it a thousand times during our -conversation. - -“You know, sir,” said I, continuing, “that after the glorious reigns of -Koung-san-che, of Tchen Min, of Y-ti-ché, and of Houx-toun-che, came the -reigns, still more glorious, of the seventy-one families, and that so -much glory was only effaced by the birth of the immortal Emperor Ki, the -greatest musician the world ever saw, and the inventor of Chinese -politeness. I would like to consult, in this ‘vast depôt of all human -knowledge,’ the history of the immortal Ki.” - -The nose of the _philosophe_ received a second time a pinch of the -forbidden opium. He then opened an enormous handkerchief of Madras, and -suddenly jerking the head, neck, and hand, made a great noise resembling -that of a prolonged stroke upon a gong. When this tempest of the brain -had passed by, he folded up his Madras, drew it five times across his -face, and said, - -“We have not the history of the immortal Ki, your emperor.” - -“You have nothing, then,” said I, with that calmness which arises from -wisdom, and which is humiliating to those Barbarians whom the genius of -_Menu_ has never enlightened. - -The learned man crossed his hands and inclined his head, shutting his -eyes, which means “Nothing,” in the language of the universe. - -Nevertheless, I continued my requests. - -“Since you have no books in this ‘vast depôt of all human knowledge,’ -have you any maps?” - -“Oh, maps!” said he, with the smile of a resuscitated _savant_, “we have -all kinds of maps, from the map of the Roman Emperor Theodosius to that -of ‘_dame de cœur_.’” - -This answer, I have since been told, is a _bon mot_, apparently made by -this man of study to relieve his mind of _ennui_. - -“Will you then show me,” said I, “the map of the Celestial Empire, -called Tai-thsing-i-thoung icki?” - -The Madras again covered the visage of the _savant_; the box of opium -was exhibited, and a shake of the head, covered with a white powder, -announced to me that the map I sought did not exist at this vast depôt. - -“Wait,” said he to me, with a joyous expression, “I can, nevertheless, -show you a few Chinese books which will please you. Follow me, lao-yé.” - -I followed him. - -We descended into some subterranean galleries, like to those of the -Indian temples of the “Elephant.” The air was infected with camphor and -whale oil. Right and left one could see by the twilight a great quantity -of busts, in plaster, of the great men of France, all dead—because, I -am told, there are never any living great ones there. - -“See!” said my conductor, “this is the shelf of Chinese books.” - -They were Persian. - -I thanked the _philosophe_ with that simple politeness which was -invented by our immortal Ki, and left the library. - -As I passed to my lodgings, I saw a crowd collected near some -scaffolding; and on inquiring of my coachman what was the cause of it, -was told that they were erecting a monument to a great man, dead two -hundred years ago, whose name was Molière. He composed _chefs-d’œuvre_, -which were hissed at their performance; he was persecuted by the court, -martyrized by his wife and his creditors, and died miserably at the -theatre between two suet candles. They refused the honors of burial to -his remains; and now, two hundred years after his death, his countrymen, -to show their gratitude, erect a monument to his memory, to recompense -his sufferings. - -In most things the French are lively and mercurial; but in the matter of -gratitude, they take two centuries for reflection. - -There is no great stone in the valley which has not “the ambition to -emulate Mount Tergyton,” says a verse of Li-Ki; so at Paris they have -taken it into their heads to imitate our large and endless Street of -Tranquillity, “Tchang-ngan-Kiai,” which runs the whole length of the -imperial palace at Pekin, and terminates at the most beautiful of the -seventeen gates of the city, “Thsiam Men,” the gate of “Military Glory.” - -I felt pride while traversing their Rue Rivoli, in thinking what a -miserable imitation it was of our incomparable “tchang-ngan-Kiai;” my -national vanity was appeased. - -It was in following this street that I came to another palace, inhabited -by the four hundred and seventy emperors who govern Paris, France, and -Africa, and whom they call “Deputies.” One must have a little dirty -piece of paper to gain admittance there. You give this little paper to a -man with a red face and a saucy-looking nose, who permits you to enter. -The four hundred and seventy emperors, each sit at the bottom of a dark -well, which seems lighted by the moon in her last quarter. An old -emperor, with a pleasing and paternal countenance, named Mr. Sosé, -governs the four hundred and seventy others, by playing tunes upon a -little silver bell. This spectacle is very amusing. The emperors are all -badly dressed and _coiffé_. They talk a great deal—walk about—play -tricks—sleep, or write letters to their wives, while an emperor, -perched up on a high seat, sings in a low voice something mysterious, to -a monotonous air, which resembles our “Hymn to our Ancestors,” without -the accompaniment of our national music. Each emperor has the right to -mount this seat, and sing to himself his favorite song, turning his back -upon Mr. Sosé. I asked a person sitting by me, “What they called this -play?” The “Representative Government,” he replied. - -Salutes are not fired at Paris, except on the birth-day of the king, -which renders a sojourn here almost insupportable. I suppose this -wonderful spectacle does not amuse the inhabitants, since they only give -it once a year; and if it does not, why do they have it even on the -king’s birth-day? I asked this question of a man whom one calls a friend -here, one Mr. Lefort, my neighbor at my unfurnished lodgings, who -answered, “I do not understand you.” - -This answer is made to me every day. One would imagine I spoke to them -in Chinese. - -Being deprived of these “_feux de joie_,” which delight us at Pekin, -each evening I go to spend a few hours at the Opera, which is a theatre -where they pay public screamers salaries of fifty thousand francs per -annum. When a young man frightens his family by his cries, they shut him -up in a place they call “the Conservatory,” where a professor of -screaming gives him lessons for twenty-four moons. The pupil then enters -the Opera, and acts a part before fifty copper instruments, which make a -thousand times more noise than he does himself. You can well comprehend -that a good Chinaman, habituated from infancy to the soft melody of the -“Hymn to Aurora,” does not feel inclined to have his ears bored twice by -these public screamers at the Opera; so I was about to make my adieu to -the theatre the first evening, but having learned that, with a -contradiction peculiarly French, they performed other pieces, in which -not a word was said, I continued my visits. I was delighted with this -spectacle, which they call the “_ballet_.” Nothing is so admirable at -Paris as this performance; so that when seeing it one does not even -regret Pekin. Figure to yourself fifty women, with Chinese feet, dancing -“_à ravir_” without uttering a word. I have taken a box for all the -“_ballets_.” - -There is a _danseuse_ among them called Alexandrine, and surnamed -_Figuranté_. I suppose on account of her fine figure. She has splendid -black hair, which flows down in torrents to her feet; and those feet so -small that, in her perpetual whirlpool of _pirouettes_ and _entrechats_, -they disappear from the sight. For ten nights, would you believe it, I -have watched this “_danseuse_” with particular attention, forgetting the -high mission with which I was entrusted, and the forty revolutions of -twelve moons which rest upon my head. - -One evening the door of my box opened and a man entered, bowing -profoundly, and with much respect, said, “Light of the Celestial Empire, -Star of Tien, I have a favor to ask.” - -I made him the universal sign which means, “Speak.” He did speak. - -“I am a decorator of the Opera,” said he, “and am at this moment putting -the finishing touches to a Chinese Kiosque for the new _ballet_ of -“China Opened, or the Loves of Mademoiselle Flambeau, of Pekin;” may I -request you to come, during the interval of the acts, and give a glance -at my work, and suggest any improvement that may strike you?” - -“Sir,” replied I, “your request is not disagreeable. Show me the way—I -will follow you.” - -We walked for some time along subterranean damp galleries until we -arrived in the “_coulisses_” of the Opera. The decorator showed me his -work, and I had nothing but praise to offer him; it was in the most -exquisite Chinese taste. - -There was a soft whispering near us of sweet and girlish voices, which -caused me to turn suddenly. It was a group of young _danseuses_, who -profited by the interval to gossip a little to relieve themselves, like -mutes delivered from a _régime forcé_. A blaze of light made me close my -eyes—Mademoiselle Alexandrine was there. - -I looked for my friend the decorator to keep me in countenance, but he -had disappeared. - -I invoked the spirits of my glorious ancestors, and asked of them -courage and calmness of mind, those two virtues so necessary in love and -war. - -Mademoiselle Alexandrine had the carriage of a queen; her well-rounded -and graceful person was sustained solely by her left foot, upon which -she stood proudly, while the right one undulated from right to left, the -heel and toe only touching the floor. My eyes followed that wonderful -foot and never left it. - -Imagine my astonishment when I heard the mellifluous voice of -Mademoiselle addressing me with a boldness worthy of a captain in our -Imperial Tiger Guard. - -“Will you do us the honor, sir, to assist at the first representation of -the _Ballet Chinois_?” - -I quitted the foot to look up at the face of the _danseuse_, and -answered with a well imitated Parisian accent, “I should be delighted to -be there, Mademoiselle, to put my eyes at your feet.” - -Mademoiselle Alexandrine took me caressingly by the arm, and made me -promenade with her behind the scene. - -“So it seems, sir, that China really exists, and that the Yellow river -is not a fable? Tell me, are not all Chinamen made of porcelain? Do they -really walk and talk like you and me? I did not know that there were any -other Chinamen than our Auriol de Franconi—do you know Auriol?” - -All these questions were asked so rapidly as to defy answer. At her last -word, the _danseuse_, called upon the stage by a signal, quitted -suddenly my arm, and bounded away with the grace and springiness of a -gazelle, humming the air to which she was to dance. I awaited her return -to answer her questions; but when she again took my arm, she had -apparently forgotten them; her gayety had disappeared—care contracted -her brow. - -“Have you noticed how cold the audience is this evening?” said she at -length. “Is there an Opera in your country?” - -“No, Mademoiselle.” - -“What a miserable country! Without an Opera! What do you do, then?” - -“One is miserable _s’ennuie_, Mademoiselle, because you are not there!” - -“That is very gallant. By the bye, you have beautiful fans in your -country; the nephew of a peer of France gave me a Chinese fan as a New -Year’s gift—_un bijou adorable_; the sticks were of ivory, with -incrustations of silver filigree work, and the picture of two yellow -cats playing with their tails as they ran in a circle; but I lost it at -‘Muzard’s.’” - -“It is very easy to replace it, Mademoiselle; I brought thirty-three -with me, made at the celebrated manufactory of Zhe-hol.” - -“Is it possible! And what will you do with such a collection?” - -“They are intended as presents for the wives of ministers and -ambassadors.” - -“Bah! the wives of ministers will laugh at your fans; and they are only -old withered faces! If I had your thirty-three fans, I would make all -the first _danseuses_ in Paris die of chagrin.” - -“Mademoiselle, they shall be at your door to-morrow morning.” - -“No one can be more French than you, sir; but who would have expected it -of a Chinaman. I will give you my address—“_Mademoiselle Alexandrine, -de Saint Phar, Rue de Provence, on the first floor._” My porter receives -my presents any time after seven o’clock in the morning, and places them -scrupulously in the hand of my chambermaid after mid-day.” - -She made a _pirouette_, and disappeared. - -Returning to my hotel after the Opera, I wished to meditate upon my -position, but my ideas wandered. You know my harem of Khé-Emil—it is -the most modest of harems—scarcely can one count in it fifteen women of -Zhe-hol of Tartar blood, and as many of Thong-Chou-fo, of pure Chinese -race, not to speak of some twenty or more _odalisques_, maintained -merely as decorations to the seraglio. Well, if Mademoiselle entered -that harem, she would eclipse my favorites among its women, as the light -of the full moon puts out the morning star. Yes, I have, unhappily, -discovered that her face charms me more than my whole thirty, shut up in -my modest harem. It is an unhappy fate! Happy are the three mandarins of -the seventh class, who have accompanied me to Paris. They dine at the -_Rocher de Cancale_; they eat beef in spite of the beard of Menu; they -attend the minister’s _soirées_, and know nothing of the exquisite foot -of Mademoiselle Alexandrine de St. Phar. - -The next morning at eight o’clock, I sent to her porter the thirty-three -fans, with a box of the delicious tea of “Satouran.” - -In the afternoon I dressed myself in court costume, my mandarin’s cap of -canary-yellow, ornamented with a plume of Leu-tze, and long robe of the -color _clair de la lune_, with gloves of citron-colored crape. My glass -told me I resembled the young Tcheon, the Prince of Light, and Son of -the Morning. Flattered by my mirror, I went to visit Mademoiselle -Alexandrine, and was introduced with the most surprising facility. - -Her dress costume only rendered her more beautiful; her foot alone was -always the same. It seemed to live in a perpetual motion; one might well -say that it contained the soul of the _danseuse_, and that she thought -with her dear little toes. - -“Sir,” said she, taking me familiarly by the hands, “I am the happiest -girl in the world! your present is truly royal. Sit down upon this -chair, and let us converse a little. I wish to present to you my little -sister, a perfect angel, as you’ll see.” - -A young girl about twelve years old, as graceful as a fawn, leaped into -my arms, and seized my mandarin’s cap from my head. - -“What do you think of her,” said the _danseuse_. - -“She is your sister,” said I, with an expressive glance. - -“Still gallant, dear doctor!” - -“What is her name, Mademoiselle?” - -“She has none yet, doctor; she waits for a godfather—it is the custom -at the Opera. Will you be hers?” - -“Very willingly, Mademoiselle.” - -“Give her, then, a pretty name—some name of your country.” - -“Very well; then I name her ‘Dileri,’ which is a Mogul name.” - -“What does it mean?” - -“_Light of the eyes._ Does it please you, Mademoiselle?” - -“Dileri is charming! Do the Moguls have such soft names, doctor?—and -they are still Moguls. It is wonderful! Mademoiselle Dileri, thank your -godfather.” - -With that marvellous refinement with which the spirit of the great Fo -has imbued his faithful followers, and which renders them superior to -all of human kind, I asked Mademoiselle Alexandrine, negligently, “if -she had any taste for marriage?” - -“Ah!” said she, crossing her beautiful feet upon a footstool of crimson -velvet, “it is not marriage that I fear, it is the husband. You do not -know French husbands, dear doctor. Such egotists! They marry a pretty -woman to have a slave, in spite of the law which forbids trading in -human flesh; and when they have her fast enchained, they show her as a -curiosity to their friends to excite their envy. Well, since China is -now opened, we will go to China to seek husbands. Dear doctor, you will -not find in all Paris a husband who would give his wife thirty-three -fans without any pretension, as if he merely said, ‘good-day!’ Are the -Chinamen good husbands, doctor?” - -“Mademoiselle, ’twas a Chinaman who invented the honeymoon!” - -“I do not doubt it. What a pity the Chinawomen have such queer eyes.” - -“For that reason we come to seek wives at Paris.” - -“Truly, doctor, you are _adorable_! and I am confused by your kindness. -I do not know how to express my sense of your compliments, and gratitude -for your splendid presents. May I not offer you a box in the fourth tier -for your suite? Giselle is performed to-morrow. My cousin has written a -play for the Theatre d’Ambigu; I will ask him for a box for you this -evening. Perhaps you will accept a free ticket for a month on the -railroad to Rouen.” - -“Thanks, Mademoiselle! I am as grateful for your kind offers as if I had -accepted them. But I have a favor to ask.” - -“It is already granted—speak.” - -“I have brought with me some Indian ink, and I beg you will permit me to -make a picture of your right foot.” - -“What a Chinese idea!” cried the _danseuse_, with a rich burst of merry -laughter. “Do you call that a favor? Take your crayon, dear doctor, I -give you up my foot; will you copy it _au naturel_, or in an odalisque’s -sandal?” - -“I will paint it as it is at this moment.” - -“As you like; meantime I will amuse myself and little sister by admiring -your thirty fans.” - -At the third fan I had a striking resemblance of the wonderful foot. The -_danseuse_ glanced at it and uttered a cry of admiration, saying, - -“Dear doctor, you have taken it with a dash of the pencil.” - -“Mademoiselle,” answered I, “it is said of me that I could copy the -wind, if I could see it pass. I have copied your foot which is more -agile than the wind.” - -“If you continue these compliments, doctor, I am afraid I shall fall in -love with you; I, who the other day shut my door in the face of a Greek -prince and two bankers.” - -The candor of innocence was imprinted on the features of the _danseuse_; -and I bowed my head in reverence before this ingenuous woman, who -unveiled her heart to me without reserve. In taking leave of her I was -allowed to touch with my lips the ends of fingers which rivaled her feet -in beauty. - -The Secretary for Foreign Affairs awaited me at five o’clock, to inquire -concerning the ceremonies used at Zhe-hol and at Pekin, at the reception -of European ambassadors, and to sound me in regard to certain political -secrets relating to the Chinese empire and Queen Victoria. - -During the audience I experienced many distractions and made many -mistakes. May Ti-en grant that my errors may not one day cause trouble -to the Celestial Empire. Whilst the great minister of the Christians was -speaking to me, I was thinking of the foot of Mademoiselle Alexandrine -St. Phar! You see that that foot will overturn Pekin yet! - -After dinner, a perfumed billet, the paper of which resembled a -butterfly’s wing, was brought to me, and I read as follows: - -“DEAR DOCTOR,—I hear that you have brought to this country numberless -Chinese curiosities. Dileri, your charming god-daughter, is so much -delighted in looking at your fans, that she longs to know all the wealth -of her godfather; a childish folly! But I have promised her to visit you -to-morrow at 12 o’clock. - -“Your god-daughter kisses you between the eyes, and I place you at my -feet. - - “ALEXANDRINE ST. PHAR.” - -You know, my dear Tching-bit-ha-ki, that I have not brought with me many -of our toys. I only provided a few as presents to attachés’ wives, and -perhaps ministers. Happily, when I received the billet of Mademoiselle -Alexandrine, I had not yet distributed any of them; nevertheless, I felt -that my collection was too contemptible to be honored with a glance from -the divine _danseuse_, and I resolved to add to it before showing it to -her. I obtained all the information I could, and then went to Darbo’s, -Rue Richelieu, and to Gamba’s, Rue Neuve de Capucines—two merchants of -celebrity in _Chinoiseries_. I purchased at these shops two screens, a -pagoda of rice, two boxes of cloves, four tulip vases, two complete -services of porcelain, with a chamber tea service, a table of sandal -wood, inlaid with cypress, four figures of mandarins in clay from -Pei-ho, twelve pairs of embroidered slippers, a shop in miniature, a -chamberlain with his wand of office, two leaves of tam-tam, a parasol, -two lions _frisés_, and a copy of the royal carriage of the brother of -the sun and moon, the Emperor Tsieng-Long. - -Most of these _Chinoiseries_ were made in Paris, and I doubted -particularly the royal carriage; but the imitation was so good, that a -mandarin only of the first class could distinguish the true from the -counterfeit. I did not cheapen these things, and paid the bill, an -enormous sum—thirty-seven hundred francs. - -Night arrived; I went to bed to enjoy dreams of happiness to come, and -slept with my copy of the divine foot in my hand. My first thought in -the early morning was to put my Chinese riches in order, to exhibit them -to the best advantage. What a happiness, said I to myself, if she will -deign to point her foot to some one of these _bagatelles_, and say, in -her flute-like tones, - -“Dear doctor, give me that for my boudoir.” - -At length 12 o’clock struck, and my door opened. - -Oh! the City of Houris will be one day destroyed for having forgotten to -produce Mademoiselle Alexandrine de St. Phar! I was thunderstruck at her -morning beauty. The divine _danseuse_ led her little sister by the hand. -She threw her hat and shawl upon the first chair, pressed my hands, ran -about the room, _pirouetting_ before each _Chinoiserie_ with cries of -pleasure and joy which went to my very heart. When she had exhausted -every exclamation of delight, she said to me, - -“Dear doctor, I am sorry to have brought your god-daughter with me—she -asks for every thing she sees. Oh, these children! one should never show -them any thing. It is true I am somewhat of a child in that way, too. If -I had to choose some one of these things, I should be in great -embarrassment, and would not dare to do it, lest I should to-morrow -regret that I had not taken something else.” - -In saying these words with delicious volubility, she pushed out her -right foot from the protection of the shortest of robes. She might have -seduced the most virtuous Lama of Lin-Ching. - -“Mademoiselle,” said I, “permit me to point out a plan to avoid that -difficulty.” - -“Ah, will you! Dear doctor, tell me this plan!” - -“Will you swear to act according to it?” - -“I swear it!” - -“You will keep your oath?” - -“I will.” - -“Well, Mademoiselle, take them all.” - -The divine _danseuse_ raised her arms gracefully, threw back her queenly -head, and her bosom of ivory palpitated with sudden gladness, like the -throat of a bird that sings with very happiness. - -“You are a rare fellow,” cried she; “after your death, your body should -be embalmed, and your tomb be a ‘Mecca’ for all true gallants from -thenceforth forever. But, dear doctor, remember that I am a woman. You -do not know to what you expose yourself. Suppose I were to take you at -your word?” - -“I should say you were a woman of your word, and knew how to keep an -oath.” - -“No, no, dear doctor, no joking! you wish to try me!” - -“Not in the least; I speak seriously. All these curiosities belong to me -no longer—they are yours.” - -“Then you must be the brother of the sun and moon and cousin to the -seven stars in disguise. Long live the Emperor!” - - [_Conclusion in our next._ - - * * * * * - - - - - THE HIGHLAND LADDIE’S FAREWELL. - - - BY AUGUSTA. - - -Come an’ sit thee doon langside me now, my ain, my darling Sue, -Let your laddie view those e’es, lass, that match yon heaven’s blue: -Dearie, pit that wee saft han’ in mine, whiles swear that ye’ll be true -To Willie when he’s gane awa’, to fight for hame an’ you. - -Here’s a bonnie sprig o’ broom, I plucked it yander on the lea, -Pit it in the auld ha’ Bible, ’twill mind thee aft o’ me, -Ken ye weel the motto o’ the broom? ’tis “hope an’ constancy;” -An’ dinna, lass, forgit me when I am far awa’ frae thee. - -Ye will roam where we hae roamed, lassie, langside the mountain rill, -An’ think how aft thegither we hae watched the brooklet fill: -Ye will miss my step come bounding ’mang the heather on the hill, -But in spirit I’ll be there, lass, an’ guard thee frae all ill. - -When the moon is saftly beaming, love, an’ a’ are wrapt in sleep, -When starlets frae the curtains o’ the sky come forth an’ peep, -When the heath-bell bends its tiny head, while dew-draps o’er it weep, -’Tis then my spirit shall its welcome vigil o’er thine keep. - -When the haly Sabbath morn comes roun’, an’ sweet the kirk bells ring, -When wee birds wake the dingle with the songs o’ praise they sing, -When ye bend before the throne o’ HIM to whom all praise we bring, -Oh! ask him then to guide me, lass, an’ guard me with His wing. - - * * * * * - - - - - A TWILIGHT LAY. - - - BY W. HORRY STILWELL. - - - This glorious sunset I behold, - This lovely closing scene of day, - The western sky embathed in gold, - The calm, low murmurings that play - Upon the quiet ear of eve;— - Yon fields, in waving beauty spread, - The summer-rose now paling here, - The sunflower’s gently drooping head, - Proclaim the day, the hour near, - O’er which, for aye, I vainly grieve! - - No more the rapture now, that grew - Within our hearts, pale sleeping _one_! - While dwelling on that gorgeous view - Unfolded by the setting sun— - No more thy loved, thy lonely flowers - Will bend to kiss the gentle hand - Outstretched to train their heavenward bloom; - No more that angel form will stand - Beside me, in the twilight gloom, - To light with love my darkened hours! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE CHAMBER OF LIFE AND DEATH. - - - BY PROFESSOR ALDEN. - - - CHAPTER I. - -A light was seen gleaming at an unusual hour, in one of the rooms of -—— college. The sole occupant of said room was Willard Carlton, a -member of the junior class. He was a diligent and successful student, -but was not wont to trim the midnight lamp. By a wise employment of -sunlight, by avoiding the loss of isolated moments, he accomplished as -much mental labor as the laws of health would allow, and devoted a large -portion of the night to refreshing sleep. - -The light attracted the attention of a friend and fellow student, who -was laying the foundation of a life of suffering, by prolonging his -night studies to the morning hours. He repaired to Carlton’s room, and -found him leaning upon his table, his countenance marked with deep -dejection. - -“Are you ill?” said Temple. - -“I am not,” said Carlton, pointing to a seat. - -“I knew there must be some cause for your being up at this late hour, I -thought it could be nothing less than sickness.” - -“It is something more than sickness.” - -“Is it any thing in regard to which I can be of any service to you? I am -entirely at your command.” - -“Thank you—you can do nothing for me. I have received a letter from -home.” - -“It contains bad news.” - -“Yes.” - -“Is your father ill?” - -“My father is well; but I am informed that another—friend has a mortal -disease.” - -“Another friend! a lady?” - -Carlton bowed his head in reply. - -Temple was silent. He knew that Carlton had no relative in his native -place except his father. He inferred at once the nature of his -connection with the invalid whose situation caused such deep solicitude. -He felt a little hurt at the reserve with which he had been treated. - -“Perhaps,” said Carlton, rightly divining what was passing in the mind -of his friend, “I should have informed you of my acquaintance with Miss -Warren. I have tried to do so more than once. My silence has not -resulted from a want of confidence, or from a desire of concealing my -engagement.” - -“I think,” said Temple, “I can understand and appreciate the reason. -Does Miss Warren live in your native place?” - -“Yes; her parents removed there just two years ago. I became acquainted -with her in the course of the first vacation after I entered college. We -have been engaged nearly a year. She has recently been traveling for -several months in hope of benefiting her health. My father incidentally -mentions that her lungs are diseased beyond hope of recovery.” - -“What is her age?” - -“She was eighteen yesterday. She has seen only eighteen summers, and yet -she must go down to the grave.” - -“May we not hope that the fears of her friends have led them to overrate -her danger?” - -“The error always lies in the other direction.” - -“Is it your purpose to go home?” - -“I have written to my father for permission to do so,” pointing to a -letter which lay on the table. “It is useless for me to stay here. When -she is gone, I shall have no motive to study. I have desired distinction -for her sake. I have lived for her alone.” - -Temple strove to think of some topic of consolation which he could -appropriately present. He knew his friend too well to suggest any thing -which did not fully meet his case. He was constrained to leave him to -his own reflections. Assuring him of his sympathy, and exhorting him to -seek repose, he withdrew to his own apartment. - -Carlton remained in his seat until his lamp was paled by the morning -light. He then vainly sought an hour of repose; then rose, and having -obtained leave of absence, seated himself in the morning stage-coach, -and was borne over the hills and plains toward his native village. - -The forests were putting on the scarlet and gold of autumn; but he saw -not their beauty. He was like the shipwrecked mariner whose eye is fixed -upon the bark which is fast receding in the distance. He was well nigh -insensible to every thing around him. - -His father was surprised and alarmed as the coach drew up at the door, -and his son alighted. The pale and anxious countenance of the son had no -tendency to dispel the fears which his sudden appearance had occasioned. -To the hurried inquiries made respecting his health, he gave -satisfactory replies, and then added: - -“I came home solely on account of Miss Warren. Have you heard from her -to-day?” - -“She is not quite so well to-day,” said the father, in a tone of -sympathy which went to the heart of his son. He comprehended at once the -state of the case. Sympathy for the evident suffering of his son, -prevented him from making even the mental inquiry, whether that son had -not failed in duty to him, by not seeking his approbation in a matter so -momentous in its influence. - -It was not from want of respect or regard for his parent, that Willard -had not made known to him the state of his affections. In all ordinary -matters, the wishes of his parent were a law to him; concealment was -foreign to his nature. But when those dreams, and longings, and -aspirations which the young heart is scarcely willing to confess even to -itself, began to cluster around a living object; when, ere he was aware -of it, all the wealth of his ardent soul was bestowed upon Eliza Warren, -he felt an almost invincible repugnance to speak of it to any one but -her. - -After attempting to partake of some refreshment, he directed his -footsteps toward the chamber of sickness, and to him of sorrow. His -father kindly offered to attend him, but he begged permission to go -alone. - -A chill autumnal wind swept through the branches of the shade-trees, -which were rapidly losing their foliage in consequence of the early -frosts. The hues of evening were falling upon the landscape, and it -seemed to him that it would never more be illumined by the morning sun. - -As he reached the door of Miss Warren’s dwelling, he met the physician, -who advised that she should not see him, or be apprised of his arrival -until morning. Willard turned and made his way slowly homeward. His -father, not expecting his speedy return, had gone out. The house was -desolate—his mother had died when Willard was an infant. - -He went to his chamber. Exhausted nature claimed repose. He slept till -the light of morning began to struggle for entrance through the window, -thickly shaded by the woodbine, which had not yet felt the influence of -the frost. - -At an early hour he presented himself at the door of the invalid. She -was dressed in a robe befitting the sick-chamber. She attempted to rise -as he entered, but her strength was not equal to the effort, and she -sunk back in her chair. The crimson attendant upon the attempt was -succeeded by a deadly paleness, which, however, did not drive the sweet -smile from her lips. He stood and gazed upon her, as if upon a statue of -surpassing loveliness, or a vision from another world. It was not till -her hand was extended to invite him to approach her, and the tears began -to fill her eyes, that the spell was broken, and he advanced to press -her thin hand to his aching heart. He sat down by her side without -speaking. - -“I am glad to see you,” said she, almost in a whisper, which to his ear -had a sepulchral hollowness. “When did you hear of my return?” - -“Have you a cough?” said he, not heeding her question. - -Before she could answer, a paroxysm of coughing, which she strove in -vain to repress, shook her delicate frame in a manner which caused him -to feel from that moment that there was no hope. He rose and paced the -room in agony. - -“Sit down,” said she, as soon as she had recovered strength to speak. “I -shall use no ceremony with you now—sit down here,” and she drew the -chair he had occupied closer to her own. “I have heretofore I -felt—shall I own it?” and here a smile, such as first won his heart, -lighted up her features—“a little afraid of you. I do not feel so now.” - -“You do not expect to get well,” said he, as he sat down and took her -hand in his. - -“I do not,” was her reply, but her countenance underwent not the -slightest change. A convulsive burst of grief on his part caused her to -weep in sympathy. - -“Do not,” said she, “make me weep. Dry your tears and let us talk -together.” He endeavored to obey her request. - -“Have you suffered much since I saw you?” - -“Not much physical pain.” She did not say how much she had suffered when -the darkness first fell upon all her prospects and hopes of life. She -did not tell him how much she had suffered in view of the anguish which -her early death would give to her friends, and most of all to him. - -“How can it be,” said he, as though speaking to himself. - -“It can, and must be,” said she, with entire composure, “and there is -one thought connected with this dispensation, which does more than all -other things relating to earth, to reconcile me to it.” - -“Nothing can reconcile me to it”—said he, in a manner indicating -disapprobation of the expression she had used. - -“You surely would not have me like the imprisoned bird which wounds -itself against the bars of its prison?” - -“Oh no, I was selfish in the remark. I was thinking only of myself.” - -“No, Willard, you shall not do yourself injustice, you were thinking of -me. But the thought I alluded to is this—all your hopes have had -reference to this world. They have not reached beyond the horizon of -time. You have loved me as I do not deserve to be loved. I know and -appreciate the depth of your love. The loss of your idol may cause you -to take off your thoughts from the earth, and fix them on an enduring -portion. If my death could be the means of your spiritual life, I think, -solemn and awful as is the change which it brings, I could willingly -meet it. And will it not have that effect? When I am gone will you not -seek a better portion—even an heavenly?” - -“When you are gone life will be utterly valueless to me.” - -“Do not say so. You cannot say so and be blameless. If I now speak with -calmness respecting our situation, you will not ascribe it to -indifference to life, and the objects it set before me. You are not less -dear to me than I am to you. Nothing has kept my heart from breaking in -view of the blighting of all my earthly prospects, but a firm conviction -that all events are ordered by Infinite Wisdom—that I am in the hands -of a Being whose tenderness far surpasses that of my earthly parents, -and whose power will cause all things to work together for my -everlasting good. This conviction, and the hope that you will be induced -to seek a better portion, enable me to go calmly forward by easy, but -somewhat rapid stages, toward the grave. I have ever been very anxious -on your account. Even in my happiest moments I have often trembled lest -I should be the means of your continuing to rest contented with this -world.” - -The entrance of the physician prevented further conversation. He found -her pulse accelerated, and advised that she should seek repose. - - - CHAPTER II. - -Young Carlton had not enjoyed the advantages of early instruction in -religious truth. His pious mother died while he was in his infancy. His -father took the utmost pains with the intellectual, social, and emotive -education of his son. The subject of personal religion was never -mentioned by him. He was not a disbeliever in Christianity; but he gave -little heed to its peculiar claims. He was much in public life, and a -reputation for high and honorable principle was all the religion to -which he aspired. It is not strange therefore that Willard was ignorant -of those consoling truths which formed the support of Eliza in her dark -hour of trial. - -In his view, she was a perfect being. He questioned the justice of the -decree which was about to consign her to an early grave. He questioned -the right of the Great Disposer to take from him his portion and destroy -his hope. His life had been marked by strict integrity. He had no -sympathy with the sensual. His aims had been purer and higher than those -of the great majority of men. Why should the scathing bolt fall upon -him, while the mercenary and abandoned passed on and realized their -ends? Thoughts like these passed through the mind of Carlton, and as he -walked to and fro in his chamber after the interview above described, -they had no tendency to calm his agitation. The tempest in his bosom at -length overpowered him. His father found him in a sleep bordering upon -insensibility. - -A day of illness intervened. On the next morning he again visited Eliza. -There was the game voice and smile—perhaps the one was a little -fainter—the other, if possible, a little sweeter than at the previous -interview. Eliza entered upon a series of cheerful inquiries respecting -his studies, his friends, and his purposes: she failed to chase away the -deep expression of sorrow that rested upon his brow. - -“It is useless,” said he, comprehending her purpose, “let us speak of -what concerns us more, or let us enjoy each other’s society in silence. -When with you I can even now speak of enjoyment.” - -“I hope you will speak of it and feel it when I am gone; but I know that -you cannot unless your affections are set in right tune by the hand of -God. You are different from all other men. In my young dreams I used to -fancy one whose whole life should consist in the exercise of affection. -I never expected to find such a being. I have found one. Those -affections will be to you ministers of sorrow, unless they are fixed -upon something more enduring than an earthly object.” - -“I can now think of nothing but you. If I am to have you but for a short -time longer, do not attempt to turn my thoughts to other things. If I -survive you, I will do all you wish.” - -“I shall insist on the fulfillment of that promise.” - -“Can you tell me,” said Willard, after a brief interval of silence, “why -the heartless and cruel are suffered to remain, while the pure and -gentle are taken away?” - -“I cannot. I cannot tell why the summer flower was not made to endure as -long as the mountain rock. We can only refer it to the wisdom and the -will of God. But I begin to feel too much fatigued to converse longer. -Will you read to me?” - -“From what book?” - -“From this, if you have no objection”—handing him a small copy of the -New Testament, which she drew from her bosom. He took it and pressed it -to his lips. He then read chapter after chapter, as she named them to -him. Occasionally he would steal a glance at her countenance as she -shaded her closed eyelids with her hand—beautiful as a statue, yet -revealing the priceless soul in every vein. - -“I wish you could pray with me,” she whispered, as he closed the volume -and rose to depart. - -“I cannot,” was the reply. This answer did not drive away the smile that -was upon her lips—it was transferred to his, as they met. - -“How long before you return to college?” - -“I shall never leave you again.” - -He retired. His last expression caused a flowing of tears more copious -and exhausting than had been shed during the whole period of her -decline. - -Day after day Carlton took his station in the chamber of the -consumptive, and watched her rapidly decaying strength. He spent much -time in reading to her, occasionally from their favorite poets, but -generally from the sacred volume. He thus became familiar with its -truths, and no longer wondered at the calm confidence with which his -beloved could look forward to lying down in the dark and narrow house. - -At length she became too weak to rise from her bed, except for a few -moments—usually at the close of the day. One evening she was sitting -supported by her lover. Lights had not yet been brought into the -apartment. The beams of a full October moon streamed through the -casement, and painted its outlines in silver upon the floor. They sat -and gazed in silence upon its soft brightness. For a few moments she -leaned upon him more heavily, as if in sleep; then partially raising -herself, she said: - -“I saw many bright beings all clothed in that silver light, and they -promised me that they would take care of you, and bring you to me.” - -“Where were you?” said he, a chill creeping over him as if the -inhabitants of the spirit world were around him. - -She did not seem to hear his question, but continued—“Oh, it was -beautiful—not an imperfect flower on all that plain—and such delicious -gales—and such a firmament—and they looked upon me as the eyes of -beloved friends, and I knew that they would watch over you for good.” - -“Where was this?” said Willard, almost with terror. Still she heeded him -not. - -“The stream was as smooth as glass, and the moonbeams covered it with -silver—it was wide, wide, and I could not see you. I looked in the far -distance and saw a boat swiftly gliding toward me, and I knew you were -in it, and were safe.” - -“You are dreaming, dearest.” - -She leaned more heavily upon him, and slept. He feared she was passing -away. He tried to still his heart while he listened. He heard her gentle -breathing. He laid his hand upon her heart. It still kept up its -workings. He laid her as gently as one would lay an infant upon her bed, -and summoned her attendants. She continued to sleep. The physician -assured him that death, though near, was not yet at the door. - -The next morning revealed a marked change in the condition of the -invalid. At first, she did not seem to recognize Carlton. The cloud, -however, soon passed from her mind, and she gave him her usual smile and -welcome. - -“I shall never rise from my bed again,” said she; “do not leave me -except when I sleep. My mind begins at times to give way. Remember your -promise to prepare to meet me in the better land.” - -“I will,” said he, nerving himself to composure for her sake. He then -read the Scriptures to her, and, unasked, kneeled and offered a prayer -in her behalf. - -Ere long the aged pastor of the village church entered the chamber. He -had been absent some time on a visit of mercy to a prodigal son of one -of his parishioners. He silently pressed the hand of Carlton, and -passing to the bedside, impressed a kiss upon the forehead of Eliza. His -experienced eye told him that the silver thread of life was well nigh -broken. - -“You are on the verge of Jordan,” said he. - -“Yes,” was the calm reply. - -“Its waves are not rough?” - -“Calm and peaceful.” - -“You have no fears of death?” - -“None.” - -“Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus -Christ. You can say Thy will be done?” - -Looking for a moment with unutterable tenderness upon Carlton, she -closed her eyes and said, in a low but thrilling tone, “_Thy will be -done._” - -Her parents were called in. After uttering, from the depths of his -experience, a few words of consolation, the pastor kneeled down and -offered a prayer, first for the dying girl, then for him who watched -over her, and then for her parents and friends. During the prayer -Carlton held her hand in his, and felt its feeble pressure as the -petitions had reference to him. - -She sunk into a brief slumber almost as soon as the prayer was ended. -Perfect silence was preserved, that she might not be disturbed. Carlton -still retained her hand. The mother was about to make a whispered -inquiry of the pastor, when the sleeper awoke. - -“Did you hear that music?” said she. - -“No, dearest.” - -“It was the sweetest I ever heard. It must have come from the golden -harps. Hark! hear it again.” - -She closed her eyes. Carlton felt her hand relax its feeble grasp. He -looked toward the pastor who came to the bedside. - -“She is with her God,” said the old man, bending down and imprinting a -kiss upon the cheek which felt not the warm tear that fell upon it, “and -you my friends”—turning to the parents—“can say, ‘the Lord gave, and -the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.’” - - - CHAPTER III. - -Carlton remained by the bedside of the departed one till the attendants -came to prepare the body for the grave. He then repaired with apparent -calmness to his chamber, and remained there till summoned to attend the -funeral. He took his seat in the church with the afflicted parents, and -with them followed the coffin to the grave-yard; but no tear fell from -his eye, nor, in view of the multitude, at least, did his countenance -wear the expression of deep sorrow. Some thought he was wonderfully -supported, and others doubted the strength of his affection for the -departed one. - -When the last sod had been laid upon the grave, he returned home, and -seated himself by his father’s side. - -“You will hardly be disposed to return to college this term, my son,” -said the sympathizing father. “Consult your own inclinations in relation -to the matter.” - -“I shall return to-morrow,” was the unexpected reply. The father made no -objection. He looked upon exertion as the great antidote of sorrow. - -Early the next morning Willard arose, and having visited the grave-yard, -and laid his head upon the sere turf of the new made grave, he set out -on his return to college. - -The evening found him at his room, surrounded by his friends, who came -to express their sympathy for his bereavement, or their joy at his -return. At an early hour he intimated his desire to be left alone. His -well-known habit of retiring early, and the painful scene through which -he had passed, formed, in the judgment of his friends, an ample apology -for any want of courtesy implied in the intimation. - -If there were any who thought that his affliction would weaken his -devotion to intellectual pursuits, they were disappointed. His friends -soon found that their society was not desired by him. Even Temple was -constrained to feel that his presence was irksome to his friend. He -seemed to desire to spend every moment in study. No light burned later -than that which threw its rays upon the page before him. Modes of mental -exertion, which he had formerly neglected, now received his earnest -attention. In the halls of debate which he had seldom visited, he was -now present on every occasion, and the energy with which he grasped -every question awakened the highest admiration. In whatever he undertook -there was an exhibition of power never before suspected even by his -partial friends. - -But the tense chord was at length broken. An impassioned burst of -eloquence, which, in the judgment of those present, surpassed any thing -they had heard from mortal lips, was followed by the ravings of lunacy. - -[Illustration: HOME TREASURES. - -Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine] - -Released from the control of the will, the mind revealed the thought -which had wrecked it. The name which had never passed his lips, since -she who bore it ceased to be an inhabitant of earth, was now constantly -repeated in tones which drew tears from eyes “unused to weep.” - -He was removed by his friends to a lunatic asylum. After a long and -dangerous illness, his brain began gradually to resume its proper -functions. Several relapses, however, were experienced, and it was not -till the spring and summer had passed, that his mind was fully restored. - -He then returned, feeble and wasted, to his native village. With the -consent of his father, he took up his abode with the parents of the lost -one, and occupied the chamber in which she breathed her last. He passed -the days sitting in her chair, looking out upon the landscape which she -had loved to gaze upon, and in reading the New Testament which had lain -in her bosom. - -For a few days his strength seemed to increase; but there was little to -justify the hope of his friends that he would be restored to health. - -The aged pastor visited him, and kindly inquired respecting the state of -his soul toward God. - -“He is too strong for me. I cannot contend with Him,” replied the -humbled sufferer. - -“It is well for us to be convinced of that truth. It should lead us to -acquaint ourselves with Him and be at peace.” - -“I am devoting all my time to the attainment of that knowledge and -peace.” - -“_He that seeketh findeth!_ What a blessed assurance!” - -After some further inquiries and appropriate counsels, the pastor -withdrew, strongly hoping that that chamber would be the scene of -spiritual birth, and as strongly fearing that it was again to bear -witness to the power of death. - -The apparent improvement in the health of Carlton was of short -continuance. Once only was he able to walk to the grave-yard, and rest -upon the turf which was now green upon the grave of Eliza. - -“Tell my father,” said he, one day to the physician, who had not -expressed his opinion upon the case, “that I shall not recover.” - -“Have you no desire to live?” said the pastor, who was present. - -“I think I can say with her, ‘_Thy will be done._’ I see that life is -altogether a different thing from what I supposed. If it were God’s will -that I should continue here, I could perform as an hireling my day. But -he excuses me, and I am content; though I have to regret that I have -been of no benefit to my fellow men.” - -His departure was much more sudden than was expected. On going to his -chamber in the morning, his friends found that his spirit had fled. Her -New Testament was between his hands, which were clasped upon his bosom. -Apparently he had passed away as gently as did the former owner of that -precious volume. - -The autumn leaves were falling as the procession wound its way to the -church-yard, and laid him to rest by the side of the grass-grown grave -made just twelve months before. - - * * * * * - - - - - EARTH-LIFE. - - - BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. - - - The breeze is blowing fresh and strong; - The rocking shallop chafes its chain, - And the billows are breaking in swells of song, - That call me forth to the deep again: - A fiery charger paws the sand; - A hound looks up with watching eye, - To scour the forest and valley land, - And bay with the winds on the mountain high! - - Let horns be heard in the gray ravine, - And stormy songs from off the sea! - There’s blood in my heart, where tears had been,[1] - And the blood of Youth is bold and free! - Leave, weary Soul, the hermit-lore - Which kept this arm from the Life of Earth— - Lie down to rest on the quiet shore, - While the dust, exulting, marches forth! - - Thou hast wasted weak and pale, oh frame, - That once wert ruddy as the dawn! - But the Earth, thy mother, is filled with flame, - Whose sturdy warmth to thee has gone. - Thy locks shall toss on the mountain air— - Thy limbs shall cool in the sparkling brine; - She will brace thy nerves with her forest-fare, - And warm thy veins with generous wine! - - Thy loins shall grow to a pard-like power, - On the wild slopes of craggy hills; - Thou shalt bore thy breast to the arrowy shower, - And catch in thine arms the icy rills: - Thy vigorous blood shall exult the same, - When fevered cares in the spirit start, - As a pine, when the mountain is swathed in flame, - Keeps green and fresh in his spicy heart! - - Thou shalt go where the battle clarions blare, - With the fierce, heroic rage of old; - The lust of the soldier thy brow shall wear— - Thy heart shall swell like a banner’s fold. - In the shrieking hail thou shalt stand, my frame, - Nor shrink from the path of thine arm’s employ, - When the thews are steel and the veins are flame, - And Death to thee is a terrible joy! - - Then, tighten the girth and loose the rein! - Unleash the keen, impatient hound, - And deep in the seething foam again - Let every quivering oar be drowned! - We will rock on the ocean’s solemn roll, - Or follow the charging music’s mirth, - And the vine’s bright blood shall crown the bowl - That brims for us with the Life of Earth! - ------ - -[1] Mon cœur, au lieu de sang, ne roule que des larmes. - - LAMARTINE. - - * * * * * - - - - - ELEONORE EBOLI. - - - A TALE OF FACT. - - BY WINIFRED BARRINGTON. - - - CHAPTER I. - -In the garret room of a little two-story house in Philadelphia, sat two -women, both of whom were foreigners. A child reclined in the lap of one -of them, who was haggard and thin, yet beautiful. Her features were of -the Grecian cast, with a most fascinating smile, and hair of a light -auburn, that curled naturally and in profusion around her finely modeled -head. - -The appearance of the other woman was common-place, but she had a frank -and kind expression that redeemed her bad looks. They were both French; -the _blonde_ had evidently a Parisian air, whilst the other as evidently -came from one of the provinces. - -“Ah, Madame Eboli!” said the latter, “now that I am going to join my -husband in New Orleans, what is to become of you? You must not stay in -this tiresome Philadelphia, where the women have no grace, no tournure; -and the men never wear a moustache! not even an imperial! It is not -astonishing that I should be able to bear it, having been condemned from -my earliest youth to a country-life, where I was sometimes compelled to -bring myself in contact with such rusticity! But you who come from our -dear Paris, what a blow to your feelings to be placed among these -savages! What a horror!” - -“My dear friend,” returned Madame Eboli, “the world has of late altered -in my eyes. The outward forms of men had once an effect on me; now, I -see little beauty in even the finest features where there is no -expression of sympathy for the unfortunate. As to remaining any longer -in this city it is impossible. My funds had been exhausted two days -previous to your sending me that last piece of sewing. I cannot get -sufficient employment by my needle to support myself and Eleonore, and -if I could I should fear the consequences. Bending over my work from -early morning till late at night, makes me very ill. I have now a -constant pain in my side. It is but nine months since I crossed the sea, -when my poor husband died, and I wish to be near the sea, for then I do -not seem so far away from him whose grave it is—” - -“You are a good musician, can you not teach the piano or the guitar?” - -“Ah, Madame Persaune! I have tried that, but no one would take lessons -of a stranger. My garb was an evidence of my poverty, and in their eyes -of my inefficiency; my face had the sufferings I have endured written -upon it.” - -“It is true that the ground is occupied by those of high reputation and -long standing, and I see no other means by which women can earn a -livelihood in this detestable country. Now in France you might go into -one of the shops kept by women, or make pastry in a confectionery. But -in this country men monopolize all the labor, with the exception of -sewing and taking care of the children. However, I must go now and pack -my trunks. God be with you and dear little Eleonore! You must accept -this from me. God bless you!” - -The good woman hurried away before Madame Eboli could speak. Her friend -had left her a well-filled purse. “There is money enough,” thought she, -“to take me to New York. In New York I shall find countrymen, and it may -be friends. If I die, they will then take care of Eleonore.” - -“Dear mother, kiss me!” said the little three-year-old Eleonore. - -“Yes, my child, and we will leave this place, and I will take my angel -to New York, where I may find some old friends. My aunt thought of going -there with my boy cousins. Were I only to see her dear face once more! -She always loved me, and when I married poor Gustave and my father and -mother cast me from them, she addressed me with words of kindness. Dear -aunt!—and my sweet sister too. Alas! I shall never see her more. Dear -sister Eugenie! so young and so beautiful. But come, Eleonore, bring thy -doll; we will go to New York this very day.” - -The poor woman was too ill, however, to accomplish this, so it was put -off till the following day. A good dinner gave her renewed strength, it -being the first she had eaten for many weeks. - -They were several days on the journey, and late on the afternoon of the -day of their arrival, Madame Eboli, with her child in her arms, stopped -at the door of a small house in Seventeenth street. By dint of gestures -and broken English, the Irish, who were its inhabitants, were induced to -relinquish a room to her. She had wandered the city through, until weary -and way-worn, her feet refused her further support. - -She sank on a bed exhausted with fatigue, anxiety, and want of food. Her -child she had fed with cakes, and the little creature had fallen asleep, -wearied by the excitement of the day. - -Many and bitter were poor Madame Eboli’s reflections. She cared little -for herself, but she thought that her tender and beautiful Eleonore was -without a home and without friends. Not a countryman had she seen that -whole day, and she had been followed by the jeers of the rude and -ignorant German and Irish who form our suburbs, and who felt no pity for -the poor stranger who could not make herself understood. - - - CHAPTER II. - -“_Maman veut du feu!_” said a little girl, as she pushed open the door -of an Irish shanty, and stood with a shovel in her hand. - -“Was there ever the like!” said Bridget, resting her fists on her hips. -“Now this be’s the third blessed day that the child has been here for -coals and said that same thing!” - -The child went quietly to the hearth, took some coals on her shovel, and -departed. - -“I’se been thinking it isn’t our language she’s a speaking, though she’s -such a bit of a thing one couldn’t tell rightly what she’d be afther? -I’ll follow her, belike she’s in mischief, though it isn’t in my heart -to think ill of such a purty little cratur!” - -So away ran Bridget, down one pair of stairs and up another, following -the child, who pushed open a door with her shovel; and there on the -naked bed she saw Madame Eboli, with no covering but a shawl. Madame -Eboli spoke, but so faintly that Bridget could not understand her; she -then laid Bridget’s hand on her forehead, when the Irish woman instantly -perceived that she was dying with fever. - -Bridget flew to a poor friend of hers, whom she knew was attended by an -eminent French physician of the city. He had been kind, she thought, and -done much for my sick friend, why should he not do the same for this -woman, who was also in distress? Fortunately he was at the bedside of -his patient when Bridget arrived. - -“Och, sir! an there’s a poor woman in Seventeenth street, what’s a -terrible faver on her, and no clothes to her bed, and nothing to ate; -maybe yees’d go and see her a bit! She’s a nice looking woman, and got -as purty a child as ever I see.” - -“I will come to her directly,” said Doctor Breton. - -“I think she’s a foreigner, maybe yees could talk with her, being one -yoursel; she’s so wake, poor thing! there’s no telling what she’d be -saying.” - -It was but a short ten minutes after Bridget’s summons when the doctor -opened the door of Madame Eboli’s room. The little girl was crying, and -making vain efforts to turn her mother toward her. As the child spoke in -French, he addressed the mother in that language, giving her at the same -time, some reviving medicine. After taking it, she was able to give him -an account of herself, and also to tell him of her anxiety concerning -Eleonore. - -The doctor left the house, promising to return in an hour or two. -Proceeding to the hospital, he procured an entrance for her, and by the -afternoon she had been carried there, placed on a nice clean bed, and -her wants well attended to—thanks to the generous kindness of a -Christian heart! He then exerted himself in behalf of the little one. He -related the strange history of the mother to all his French patients, -and raised a subscription to pay for the child’s board after her -mother’s death, which was evidently near. - -On his way to the hospital one morning, he over-took one Mr. Carron, and -told him Madame Eboli’s sad story, asking his aid. They had by that time -reached the door of the hospital, and Mr. Carron accepted Doctor -Breton’s invitation to enter and see the little Eleonore. - -Mr. Carron was a very impulsive man. He never hesitated, never -reflected, (never asked his wife’s opinion, as every reasonable man -should,) but went into raptures over little Eleonore’s beauty, and -offered on the spot to adopt the child as his own—an offer that was -thankfully accepted by the poor mother. - -It was but a week after this, that the doctor found Madame Eboli much -worse. On leaving her he requested to be called should any change take -place in her symptoms. - - - CHAPTER III. - -. . . . . It was ten o’clock. The night-lamp of the infirmary showed -with a horrible distinctness the haggard inmates who were tossing and -groaning on their pallets. The doctor sat beside the bed of Madame -Eboli. They were discoursing concerning Eleonore. - -“I conjure you,” said the doctor, “tell me the name of your family. It -is necessary to the future welfare of your child!” - -“My parents cast me from them. They loved me not—how should they love -my child? No! it is better that she should eat the bread of strangers, -and receive good and evil from their hands, than suffer only insult and -degradation from her mother’s parents.” - -“Then at least tell me your husband’s name, and where his relations are -to be found?” - -“Alas! Gustave Eboli was an orphan, and poor; therefore my father said I -should not love him. . . . But I feel very faint—you said I should see -my child soon?” - -At this very moment the sound of advancing steps was heard, and Monsieur -Carron entered with Eleonore in his arms. He placed her on the bed with -Madame Eboli. The little creature nestled close, kissing and embracing -her mother in a transport of delight; soon, however, the strange sounds, -the shadowy figures that flitted past with noiseless footsteps, startled -and awed the child. And then her mother looked so sadly on her, that she -wept, scarce knowing why, but in a subdued tone, as though some grief -swelled her little heart too deeply to be given utterance. - -“Poor child!” sighed the mother, “this is thy first real sorrow. . . . -But I have a request yet to make. In my basket you will find a miniature -of my sister, set in a pearl necklace; and a ring, my dear aunt’s gift. -Should she ever come to this country, which she has spoken of doing, her -first inquiries would be concerning me. The name of Eleonore Eboli and -these jewels, would be sufficient evidence. . . . . There are two -letters also, which I would have saved for Eleonore; they are her -father’s. . . . . . . My sister and my aunt are the only persons of my -family who knew that my destination was America.” - -Here she paused, as if exhausted. Little Eleonore had ceased crying, and -was gazing earnestly at her mother. - -“Fear not for your child,” said Mr. Carron, “I will take care of her. -You may trust in me.” - -Madame Eboli continued—“And now, my Eleonore, listen—you must be good, -and stay with this gentleman, who will love you like papa.” - -“It is not papa? Where is papa?” and the little lips quivered. - -“Where I shall soon see him, dear Eleonore! I am going to leave you. -Never forget your poor mother.” She then kissed the child several times. -“There is some of papa’s hair in the locket around my neck.” Then -addressing the gentlemen, she added: “Take it when I am gone—not till -then.” - -Madame Eboli then sank into a stupor, in which she lay for half an hour; -then opening her eyes, she only said: - -“Gustave says come! . . . . My child we will watch over thee. . . . . -Protect her, she is so young—so innocent. I come, Gustave—I come!” - -And the angel of death passed by and received her last breath. Sixteen -summers had found her a child, eighteen a woman, and at twenty she was -laid where the aged sleep. - - “Be her sleep calm and deep, - Like theirs who fell, not ours who weep.”[2] - ------ - -[2] That same night, in the adjoining room of the hospital, died the son -of Marmontel, from the effects of exposure and hunger. He had been -traveling over North America, when from some cause his remittances from -France were discontinued. He found himself at Albany utterly without -resources. Leaving his trunk there, he walked to New York in hopes of -finding the money, or of borrowing some from the French consul. His -journey was a lone and toilsome one, and the exposure to the cold -induced the return of a fever from which he had but lately recovered at -the West. The French consul treated him harshly, disbelieved his story, -and sent him to the hospital. The day after his death a large sum -directed to him, was received through a packet-ship, which had been -detained at sea by a succession of disasters, two months longer than her -usual time. - - - CHAPTER IV. - -Eleonore became at once, by the death of her mother, an inmate of the -Carron family. Mr. Carron petted the child for a short time, and then -she was given over to the servants, Madame Carron having something else -to do, as she said, beside taking care of orphans. - -Eleonore vegetated—I cannot use any other word—in the servants’ rooms -for six whole years. At the end of that time, fortunately for my -heroine, Mr. Carron’s affairs obliged him to leave this country -suddenly. It was rumored that he ran away from his creditors, but I know -nothing of the matter. The consequence to Eleonore was, that she was -left with Mr. Carron’s brother Jerome. - -This brother Jerome had a very sensible wife, who was quite shocked at -finding that the poor orphan had not been instructed even in the common -rudiments of knowledge. Her health was delicate, and as she could not -undertake the charge of Eleonore’s education, she placed her forthwith -at Mr. Delombre’s boarding-school, one of the best in the city of New -York. - -I remember perfectly well the first time that I saw her. She was led by -Madame Delombre into the school-room, and was there introduced to -numbers of children of every size, from her own up to the grown woman. -I, who write this memoir, was there among the rest. It was intermission, -and we were all amusing ourselves in the way we liked best. A desk next -to mine was empty, and Eleonore was placed there. She looked sad and -frightened, and was withal so pretty, that I felt attracted to her. I -essayed to make acquaintance by offering a part of my luncheon—she -declined. I then continued, the ice being broken. - -“Do you like going to school?” - -“I do not know. I never went.” - -I suppose my eyes expressed astonishment, for she blushed. “I wonder if -we shall be in the same class? How old are you?” - -“I am twelve years old,” answered Eleonore. - -“Oh dear! I am between ten and eleven years old. I am afraid they will -put you in the class above me!” - -“What will be my studies?” said the young girl, timidly. - -I gave her a catalogue of my own lessons, which made her look very -blank, and I then proceeded to tell her who the scholars were, and which -I liked the best; and I also gave her some information respecting the -rules and regulations of the school. - -“It is one o’clock,” said the teacher. “The intermission is over!” - -We hurried to our desks. I went to my lessons, and though Eleonore sat -beside me I could speak no more to her that afternoon. I saw, -nevertheless, that there would be no danger of her getting in the class -above me for a long time to come. - - - CHAPTER V. - -Two years and a half have passed since I introduced Eleonore as my -companion at the desk. She was now between fifteen and sixteen. A tall -and finely formed girl for her age, her personal appearance was so -pleasing that she attracted universal attention wherever she appeared. -Her hair still curled in the same long golden locks; she had the -straight Grecian nose, and the deep, large blue eyes of her mother, and -a noble forehead. Monsieur Delombre had more than fulfilled his promise. -She was his best scholar. - -Our intimacy had continued increasing, and we had become inseparable. -Every other Saturday had been spent with her uncle and aunt; but as I -was something of a favorite with Mr. Delombre, I was allowed to take her -with me on the intervening Saturdays to my mother’s house. - -Oh, how happy we were then! She was so gay and so cheerful, except when -we talked of France, for papa Carron had intimated in his letters to his -brother, that the time was approaching when Eleonore must leave America, -she being now of an age in which her services would be required by the -family. - -“She loved uncle and aunt Carron,” she said, “and she dreaded papa and -mamma Carron. She had kind friends in Mr. and Mrs. Delombre, and also in -my mother’s family. It was hard to be obliged to leave them, and live -with those who cared not for her. But she would try to gain their -good-will by all the means in her power.” - -Thus she talked as we were seated, one warm summer’s afternoon, side by -side on the green sward before my mother’s cottage. - -As the evening shadows fell, she grew more communicative, and gave me -the little history which I have here related. Since then it has been -attested to me by those who saw her mother. - -. . . . . . . . The next winter passed by, and when the spring came my -mother took her children to the country again for the summer. I bade -Eleonore a gay adieu, under the promise of a long visit from her during -the vacation. Alas! instead of a visit, I only received a brief but -affectionate note, stating that in two days the “_Silvie de Grace_” was -to take her as a passenger, and she should leave forever the shores of -America. - -Men and women usually laugh at the friendships of school-girls. It is -true they are often transitory and of a frivolous character, but they -are often, too, of a lasting nature, and founded on real esteem. I felt -and appreciated the worth of Eleonore, and for years regretted her loss. -Marriage, and a long residence abroad again brought me in contact with -her, but under very different circumstances. - - ELEONORE EBOLI TO WINIFRED BARRINGTON. - - _Paris, November 1st, 18—._ - - “MY DEAR WINIFRED,—Now that I am safely housed in Paris, I - shall give you a short account of my journey. We were but four - weeks on the ocean, and had no storms to boast of (at least the - captain maintained this,) though we were all much frightened one - windy night, when a gale arose that shattered our sails, and - tossed us about in a most unceremonious manner. - - “I was very sick, and as I lay in my berth I could feel each - wave as it upheaved the ship, and when she pitched, headlong - down its side, I wondered sometimes if we should ever see the - light again. But I felt no fear, I was too sad for that. I - thought of the happy home I had left behind, and its probable - contrast with that of Papa and Mamma Carron’s establishment, I - remembered that it was my mother’s birth-place, that I should - visit Paris. Paris was my goal! There every object would acquire - new interest in my eyes, each house would seem the one in which - my mother passed her girlhood, each beautiful girl my mother’s - darling sister, each man her brother, the aged her parents; ALL - AGES would have the charm of mystery to attract me, and my fancy - would quickly vision forth the family to which I was related! - But I will talk no more of this. - - “The captain of our ship conducted me to Paris. He was very - kind, and to gratify me, took the route up the Seine from Havre - to Rouen in the day-boat, that I might see picturesque Normandy, - with its lovely valleys, its cottages, with their thatched roofs - and gables; the varied costumes of its peasantry, and its giant - horses, which move with the power and majesty of elephants. - - “I was very inquisitive, and the captain often found a - difficulty in ascertaining the names of the villages and the - castles situated on the banks of the river, to reply to my - queries. A young gentleman seeing our trouble, obligingly - offered his guide-book, which contained all the information we - needed. He also gave us many anecdotes concerning the nobility - who lived in the chateaux. In the course of conversation he - mentioned that his father lived but fifteen miles from Rouen, - and that he was now on the way to visit him. His own name is - Lazun. - - “When he heard that I came from America, he immediately offered - to be our guide in visiting the cathedral, and other curiosities - of Rouen, an invitation which we gladly accepted. - - “On separating for the night, our traveling companion said that - we might expect him punctually at half-past ten the next morning - to escort us. But when the hour arrived Mr. Lazun did not - appear. The little French gilt clock on the mantel-piece struck - eleven o’clock, then twelve, then one. The captain was fairly - angry, and I must confess I was not at all pleased, for I had - imagined he would come earlier than the hour. I am afraid I have - but little penetration. - - “We sallied out alone, but the day was hot, and the city dirty. - We could not find the cathedral, and the captain would ask for - no directions; so we returned to the hotel, where we had but - just time to eat our dinner before the DILIGENCE arrived to take - us away to Paris. You see what civility we meet with! - - * * * * * - - “I cannot say that I am happy. Yet I do not complain, for I am - well fed and well clothed, but my heart and mind are oppressed - by my dependent situation, which is hinted at on every occasion. - I do _my best_ to assist the family, but they are never - satisfied with my efforts. Little Adele is at a boarding-school, - so that I have no one to love; but say nothing of all this to - any one. I would not have others know that I am unhappily - placed. - - “After my first communion, which is to take place next year, I - shall endeavor to gain my own living, though I do not know yet - in what way. - - . . . . . “Write to me soon dear Winifred, for I am very lonely, - and believe me, I remain always your sincerely attached friend, - - “ELEONORE EBOLI CARRON.” - - - CHAPTER VI. - -Two young men were walking in the _Rue de Rivoli_ one fine morning. - -“There is a grand figure before us with a majestic walk,” said one of -them. “Walk faster. I would see her face.” - -“What! _you_ run after a woman because she walks well? I thought you -only admired intellect. Beauty never possesses it, don’t you know that -yet, Victor Lazun?” - -“No; you don’t know any thing about the matter. Faith! ’tis the lady I -met on board the steamboat between Rouen and Havre! I could not then -ascertain her name, nor have I caught sight of her since till now. You -know my father’s illness compelled me to leave Rouen at a minute’s -notice, and you know I only arrived in time to bid him farewell. But I -will not now lose sight of her. I will know where she lives.” - -“You can easily do that!” - -Monsieur Lazun saluted the lady; gave the reasons for his singular -behavior at Rouen, which were kindly received, and taking leave, asked -permission to call upon her, which she granted. - -On returning from her walk she informed Madame Carron of having met Mr. -Lazun, and of her giving him her address. A storm of reproaches followed -this confession of her _indiscretion_, so that Eleonore concluded that -if she made any friends it would not be through the aid of Madame -Carron. In future she should not mention those she met. - -But a few days elapsed before Eleonore met Mr. Lazun again. She gave him -to understand, very delicately, that her guardian did not like to -receive strangers. Which he answered, by saying that he should wait upon -Mr. Carron at the earliest opportunity and show him some letters of -recommendation, and also bring a friend with him, who was one of the -first bankers in Paris, slightly acquainted with Mr. Carron. He thought -he could satisfy any one as to his character and social position. - -Eleonore heard this with pleasure, for she felt interested in Mr. Lazun, -and as she had so few opportunities of conversing with agreeable people, -looked upon the young man as quite a god-send. - -It was not long before Mr. Carron received a visit from the two -gentlemen, and upon the banker’s sending up his name, they were -immediately ushered into his study with great attention; but when the -object of the visit was made known, “mine host” changed his tone, and -rudeness took the place of courtesy. There was no mistaking his manner, -and Mr. Lazun knew that his acquaintance was not desired, and that he -must give up all thoughts of the fair Eleonore who had made so strong an -impression on his fancy. - -But fortunately, or unfortunately, my hero and heroine frequently walked -in the same direction, (drawn probably by some mesmeric attraction)—by -degrees they became strongly attached to each other, and finally, an -engagement of marriage took place. - -A hint from one of the servants, who had met the lovers in one of their -walks, made _madame_ send the young lady directly to the convent of St. -Germain, for her communion. She was ordered never to think of marriage, -(for Eleonore had immediately confessed her engagement,) she must make -herself useful in the family to whom she owed every thing, and work she -must and should for them all her life. - -Eleonore made no reply to all this, but afterwards, in the solitude of -her convent cell, she made this decision: “I _will_ marry Victor -Lazun—my debt of gratitude has been paid to my guardians. As a child, -my only expense to them was clothing of the poorest quality. My food was -not missed in the extravagant household which they kept. To their -brother and sister I owe much, and also to Mr. and Mrs. Delombre. _They_ -taught me _all_ that I know. Since my arrival in France I have -embroidered all madame’s collars, I have done the marketing, overlooked -all household affairs, made preserves, done up the muslins, beside -mending, sewing, and any little odd job which madame did not like -herself. - -“This has gone on for two years, and I have done it willingly, but now I -am old enough to choose my future course, and shall do so.” - -This passage I have copied from a note which she sent to Victor Lazun on -her departure for the convent. There, of course, he could not see her, -but he well knew that his pretty cousin Victorine La Graviere was at the -same convent, and with a little coaxing, he persuaded his aunt to take a -note to Victorine, in which he begged his cousin to show Eleonore some -kindness for his sake, though without mentioning his name or their -relationship. - -The acquaintance of the two girls soon ripened into friendship, and it -was not long before young Lazun thought his aunt sufficiently interested -in Eleonore through his own representations and Victorine’s eulogies, to -confide his secret to her care. Yes, dear reader! it was a secret, and -you would have laughed to see the dismay on the face of the gentle -Countess La Graviere when she learned of his intended marriage. - -“But you are not going to marry this poor orphan, are you, Victor? With -your rank and favor at court it is quite absurd?” - -“I certainly shall, my dear aunt. As to my rank she knows nothing of -that, nor my fortune either; so, thank God! she loves me for myself -alone.” - -“Is this indeed so, Victor?” - -“It is all settled. I am my own master, and will marry whom I please. I -do wish you would ask her to visit you at your country-seat during the -next month. You will be delighted with her. She is the very image of -your sister-in-law the Marchioness Eugenie.” - -“She must be very beautiful then. I will see her, Victor, and invite her -for your sake. But do not be hasty about the marriage. Think it over -coolly. Your relations will be mortified, and I fear that the king will -be much displeased.” - -“The king cares less for rank than most of his subjects. And as to my -relations, _I_ marry the girl, not they.” - - - CHAPTER VII. - -We must now allow six weeks to have passed by, and we shall find -Eleonore at the chateau La Graviere, dressing for a fête which is to -celebrate Victorine’s birth-day. Victorine is assisting Eleonore. - -“Only look at this pearl necklace of mine. It is beautiful, and you must -wear it this evening,” said Victorine. - -Eleonore returned—“I have also a pearl necklace, which I value highly. -It contains a miniature of my aunt. Here it is.” - -“What a resemblance to the marchioness. If I did not know that it was -impossible, I should say that your aunt and mine were one and the same -person. It is strange, now I perceive you have the regular Grecian La -Graviere nose. Papa will fall in love with you at once. He is always -looking at my nose, and wondering there is not danger that it will not -become one-sided. I believe if I were to fall from a carriage the first -question he would ask, would be, ‘Have you hit your nose?’” - -“Your father will soon be here, will he not?” asked Eleonore. - -“Yes, if the Duke of Orleans do not detain him. There will be eight -gentlemen beside from the court. But I hear carriages. The neighboring -guests have began to assemble, and I must help mamma to receive -them—come!” - -The ball-room was brilliantly lighted, and Eleonore’s beauty was the -theme of every tongue. Her dress was white satin, covered with white -lace and looped with white roses. The only ornament she wore was the -miniature necklace, clasped tightly around her throat. - -The countess was delighted with the appearance of her young guest, and -introduced her to all her particular friends. In about half an hour -there was a rush in the hall; the folding-doors of the ante-chamber were -thrown wide open, and the prince royal entered, leaning on the arm of -Monsieur La Graviere, and followed by his suite. - -Monsieur La Graviere, after saluting his wife and presenting her to the -prince, turned away to pay his compliments to some of the ladies -present, when his eye was suddenly caught by Eleonore’s face, as she -stood within a few feet of him. “Good God! my sister!” he exclaimed, -impetuously. - -“She does indeed resemble Aunt Eugenie! We all observed it,” said -Victorine. - -“Introduce me, my child. What is her name?” - -“Eleonore Carron.” - -“Carron—it was not his name. It is impossible.” - -The introduction was made, and the master of the castle was inquiring if -she was a native of Paris, when he stopped short—started, and then -said: - -“Forgive me, mademoiselle; but is not that a miniature of my sister -Eugenie in your necklace?” - -Eleonore trembled, but she stood erect, and answered firmly. “It is a -miniature of my aunt.” - -“And what was her name?” - -“You will excuse my not answering any further questions.” - -“I hope you will forgive my rudeness, when you see its likeness to my -sister,” continued the count. “Here she comes!” - -Eleonore turned pale, for she felt that the hour was at hand that would -reveal her name and kindred. Her self-command increased in proportion. -Pride forbade any manifestation of emotion before those who spurned the -mother who gave her birth; yet when she saw a face streaming with tears -before her, that she knew belonged to her mother’s only and dear sister; -when she received a warm embrace, and heard in a soft voice, these -words—“I know it is Eleonore Eboli, my beloved niece!” The poor child -sighed “Yes!” and then fainted. - -She was quickly carried out, and though soon restored to consciousness, -did not venture again into the saloon. She was in the arms of an aunt, a -cousin sat beside her; they both gave thanks to God that she had been -brought to them; they wept when she told them of her mother’s death. And -the poor marchioness said— - -“I will be your mother in future, dear child! you shall no longer be an -orphan. I am rich, and all that can be done to contribute to your -happiness will be freely bestowed.” - -Here Eleonore summoned courage, and with down-cast eyes and faltering -words, told her aunt that her destiny was decided, she should become the -wife of a young architect of Paris. He was poor in purse, but rich in -affection, and she begged her aunt to say nothing against their -marriage, till at least, she had seen the youth. - -“She is like her mother in heart as well as in form,” sighed the -marchioness. “But come, Eleonore, I think we must go to bed; we have had -happiness enough for one night, and you, Victorine, must return to the -ball; his royal highness will miss those bright eyes!” - -With many a kind embrace they then separated for the night. - - * * * * * - -About an hour before breakfast, Victorine and Eleonore were taking their -morning promenade on a terrace that overlooked the Seine, and Eleonore -was unburthening her heart to her cousin, when Victorine exclaimed— - -“Here comes the prince!” - -“Good God! he is arm in arm with Victor Lazun!” - -“Yes, that is _my_ cousin, but not _yours_.” - -“Your cousin!!! with the prince too. Ah! what will happen next; I hardly -know now what I am saying, my senses are bewildered, one strange scene -succeeds another till I almost doubt my own identity!” - -“I salute you, ladies,” said the prince. “My lord duke and I have been -rifling your flower-beds. May I present you this bouquet?” - -“My flowers will feel grateful for your highness’ attentions,” said -Victorine. - -“Forgive me, Eleonore,” said young Lazun, “you will not love me the less -now that I am a duke and peer of France. I am still Victor Lazun, as you -are Eleonore Eboli.” - - * * * * * - -I had recently arrived in Paris. A ball was given at the Tuilleries, and -many Americans were there. We stood in rows through which the royal -family passed, followed by several maids of honor and ladies of the -bed-chamber. - -I caught my breath as one passed near me. “Who is that?” said I to a -friend, who was well acquainted at court. - -“It is the Duchess of Lazun, the intimate friend of the Princess Marie -of Orleans. She is a great favorite with all the royal family, and her -husband also. But here she comes again.” - -Our eyes met, we recognized each other—my readers may guess the rest. - - * * * * * - - - - - HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN, - - - DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. - - BY FAYETTE ROBINSON. - - - (_Continued from page 72._) - -The costume of the Catholic church at the altar has always been -prominent and unchangeable, and even the secular garb of its priests has -undergone fewer mutations than that of any other class of the community. -All, however, will be struck with the marked difference between the -following portrait of a young abbé and the churchmen of to-day. - -[Illustration] - -We have to do, generally, in this and the following articles merely with -the fashionable dress of the day, and therefore might omit all that -related to what the noblesse were pleased to call the _bas peuple_; we -will, however, give a portrait of a famous French Intendant of that day, -filling an office the English call a steward. Except that the coat is -plainer, that there is no sword, and that the _coiffure_ is less -labored, it is almost identical with the first engraving given. - -[Illustration] - -An examination of the above will show that one great difference between -the costumes of that day and our own was the use of powder; a stupid -fashion which nothing but the confusion of the French revolution could -do away with, yet which was adhered to with the most wonderful tenacity. -Another whim was the habit of wearing the sword, which may be said yet -more positively to separate the eighteenth from the nineteenth century. -This habit, which had its use in the days of the _Ligne_ and the -_Fronde_, lasted till the commencement of the present century. Etiquette -absolutely required that all who presented themselves within the sacred -precincts of Versailles should be thus decked, and it became ultimately -a passport, so that the shopkeeper, dancing-master and _coiffeur_ had -only thus to deck themselves, and they might jostle in the stairway of -the palace gentlemen as noble as the king. This, however, all -disappeared amid the revolution, when the pike and musket usurped the -place of the gilded rapier. - -The materials of the fashionable coat of that day were Brussels’ camlet, -velvet or silk. At this time we can form little idea of the variety of -colors worn; black, green, blue, rose, yellow and violet all were seen. -The waistcoat was not a _gilet_, but reached the hip, extending below -which were breeches, which being worn like a sailor’s, without -suspenders, had from time to time to be hitched up by the hands. In the -cold winter of 1739 the English gaiters and over-coat were worn for the -first time, and to this new fashion an old French nobleman attributed -the decay of the monarchy. - -The fashions of the present time date from the days of Louis XVI. and -when we come to treat of his reign, we shall see the passing away and -development of the old and new modes. Nor do they disappear alone, for -classes go with them. Having been rejected as a livery unworthy of men, -the beings who had glittered in them disappeared like shadows, either -because they had really been annihilated, or had been regenerated under -the new order of things. Among the classes which thus disappeared was -the _Morgues_, the gilded type of French folly, not the creature, but -the butt of the wit of Moliere; a compound of pride, insipidity and wit, -of politeness and impudence, of gallantry and impertinence, of -affectation and good manners. Not even comedy preserves them. Dandies -are eternal—for such were the _Muscadins_, the _Mervelleux_ and the -_Incroyables_, but the _Morgues_ are gone. With the Morgues disappeared -their younger brothers, the abbés and _mousquetaires_, and with their -estates the _intendants_. - - [_To be continued._ - - * * * * * - - - - - WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA. - - - BY PROFESSOR FROST. - - -[Illustration] - THE MOCKING-BIRD. - -This noble songster, the pride of the American forest, is peculiar to -the New World. So greatly superior are its powers of melody to those of -any European bird, that long after the discovery of the western -continent, reports of its existence were treated as a mere fable, akin -to the other unnatural marvels with which an excited imagination peopled -our vast forests. And this skepticism will appear the more excusable -when we remember that few persons, who have never heard the -mocking-bird, have any sufficient conception of his powers of imitation, -the sweetness of his melody, or the wildness of his native tones. When -these are in full display, the forest resounds with a succession of -notes, as though from every warbler of the grove, so that the listener, -instead of believing that he hears only one bird, seems to be surrounded -with myriads. Nor is this power confined to imitations of song. With the -strains of the Thrush and Warbler, chime in the wail of the -Whippoor-will, the crowing of the cock, and the loud scream of the -eagle. The mewing of cats, the whistling of man, and the grating sounds -of brute matter, form variations to this singular chorus, blended and -linked together in so artful a manner as to surpass immeasurably every -performance of the kind in the whole range of animated creation. “With -the dawn of morning,” says Nuttall, “while yet the sun lingers below the -blushing horizon, our sublime songster in his native wilds, mounted on -the topmost branch of a tall bush or tree in the forest, pours out his -admirable song, which, amid the multitude of notes from all the warbling -host, still rises pre-eminent, so that his solo is heard alone, and all -the rest of the musical choir appear employed in mere accompaniments to -this grand actor in the sublime opera of nature.” Nor is the power of -the Mocking-bird confined to mere imitation. His native tones are sweet, -bold and clear; these he blends with the borrowed music in such a manner -as to render the whole a complete chorus of song. While singing he -spreads his wings, elevates his head, and moves rapidly from one -position to another. Some observers have even fancied a regularity in -his motions, as though keeping time to his own music. Not unfrequently -he darts high into the air with a scream which at once silences every -warbler of the grove. - -Writers on Ornithology have sometimes amused themselves by comparing the -powers of the Mocking-bird with those of the Nightingale. Barrington, a -distinguished British naturalist, who had heard the American bird, -declares him to be equal to the Nightingale in every respect, but thinks -the song spoiled by frequent mixture of disagreeable sounds. On this -opinion Wilson has the following remarks: - -“If the Mocking-bird be fully equal to the song of the Nightingale, and, -as I can with confidence add, not only to that, but to the song of -almost every other bird, beside being capable of exactly imitating -various other sounds and voices of animals, his vocal powers are -unquestionably superior to those of the Nightingale, which possesses its -own native notes alone. Further, if we consider, as is asserted by Mr. -Barrington, that one reason of the Nightingale’s being more attended to -than others is, that it sings in the night; and if we believe, with -Shakspeare, that - - The Nightingale, if she should sing by day, - When every goose is cackling, would be thought - No better a musician than a Wren, - -what must we think of that bird who, in the glare of day, when a -multitude of songsters are straining their throats in melody, overpowers -all competition, and by the superiority of his voice, expression and -action, not only attracts every ear, but frequently strikes dumb his -mortified rivals, when the silence of night, as well as the bustle of -the day, bear witness to his melody; and whenever in captivity, in a -foreign country, he is declared, by the best judges in that country, to -be fully equal to the song of their sweetest bird in its whole compass? -The supposed degradation of his song by the introduction of extraneous -sounds and unexpected imitations, is in fact one of the chief -excellencies of this bird, as these changes give a perpetual novelty to -the strain, keep attention constantly awake, and impress every hearer -with a deeper interest in what is to follow. In short, if we believe in -the truth of that mathematical axiom, that the whole is greater than a -part, all that is excellent or delightful, amusing or striking, in the -music of birds, must belong to that admirable songster, whose vocal -powers are equal to the whole compass of their whole strains.” - -Confinement does not seem to have much effect upon the Mocking-bird’s -song. In the cage it is a most agreeable pet, seeming to exert itself to -give pleasure. Even at night, when all else is hushed to rest, it pours -forth its magical notes, which ring along the solitary haunts of man -with strange cadence, and as echoes of a more beautiful sphere. Its -chief pleasure consists in deceiving the animals of the household. “He -whistles for the dog,” says the author quoted above, “Cæsar starts up, -wags his tail, and runs to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt -chicken, and the hen hurries about with hanging wings and bristled -feathers, clucking to protect her injured brood. The barking of the dog, -the mewing of the cat, the creaking of a passing wheelbarrow, follow -with great truth and rapidity. He repeats the tune taught him by his -master, fully and faithfully.” Those taken when wild are the best -singers; when raised by hand they should be kept perfectly clean, and at -first fed regularly every half hour, on milk thickened with Indian meal. -This should occasionally be mingled with cherries, strawberries, -cedar-berries, insects, especially spiders, and fine gravel. Meat, cut -very fine, is also given. Attempts, partially successful, have been made -to breed them in confinement. - -The Mocking-bird is found in all our forests from the Great Lakes to -Mexico. It was once abundant in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, but -has been driven thence by the amateur sportsman. It delights, however, -in a warm climate, and especially one like that of Carolina, low, and -near the sea. From the middle of April to the middle of May embraces the -time of building, the season varying with the climate and nature of the -spring. The nest is mostly placed upon a solitary thorn or cedar-bush, -often close to the habitation of man, whose society this bird seems to -court. The eggs are four or five in number, blue, with large brown -spots. The female rears two broods in a season, during which time she is -closely guarded, fed and enlivened by the male. The courage of these -birds in defending their young is astonishing. During the period of -incubation, neither cat, dog, animal nor man can approach the nest -without being attacked. Their great enemy is the black-snake. When the -male perceives this wily foe, he darts rapidly upon it, and to avoid its -bite, strikes rapidly about the head and eyes, until the enemy, blinded -and baffled, hastens to retreat. But his little antagonist pursues, -redoubling his efforts until the snake is killed. Then joining his mate, -the victor pours forth his loudest strains, seemingly in celebration of -his good fortune. - -The Mocking-bird is nine and a half inches long, and thirteen broad. The -upper parts of the head, neck and back are a brownish ash color. The -wings and tail nearly black, tipped with white. The male is -distinguished by having the whole nine primaries of the wings of a clear -white, while but seven are of that color in the female, with whom also -the color inclines to dun. The tail is cuneiform; the legs and feet -strong and black; bill of the same color; the eye yellowish, inclining -to golden. His plumage, like that of the nightingale, is sober and -pleasing, and his figure neat, active and inspiriting. - -A bird, called by Nuttall, the Mountain Mocking-bird, possesses -considerable powers of imitation. It is found on the vast table-lands of -Oregon and Mexico. It is smaller than its valuable relative, somewhat -different in shape and color, and possesses much power and sweetness of -tone. The eggs are emerald green. Little, however, is known of this -bird. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. - - - BY CLARA. - - - Here, on the threshold of the year, we feel - New thoughts. New plans perplex the mental view, - And fain would we endeavor thus to heal - The _Old Year’s_ disappointments in the _New_. - - As ends the year, to us all time must end— - As time’s knell soundeth, to our knell must toll— - Oh! may our lives so pass, that we may mend - The BODY’S sorrows in the RISEN SOUL. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LOST NOTES. - - - BY MRS. HUGHS. - - -“You could not have made your application at a more apropos time, my -good fellow,” said a pale, emaciated invalid, who was seated on an easy -chair in his own chamber, addressing a fine, intelligent-looking young -man near him; “I had exactly the sum you want paid to me very -unexpectedly yesterday. I had the good fortune some years ago to assist -a friend with a few hundred dollars, but though the money was -serviceable at the time, he eventually became a bankrupt, and as I had -only his note for the loan, I never expected to receive any thing from -him. Yesterday, however, he came and put into my hand two bank notes of -a thousand dollars each, which was the amount of my own money and the -legal interest upon it. I am very happy to be able to accommodate you, -though I am sorry at the same time to find you are under the necessity -of borrowing.” - -“It is a painful circumstance,” replied the other, “but happily it does -not arise from any fault of my own.” - -“I never imagined it did,” returned the master of the house, “and -consequently had no hesitation in promising to assist you. But pray, may -I ask what has occasioned so painful a necessity?” - -“I came with the full intention of explaining it to you,” said the young -man, whom we will here introduce to our readers by the name of Norman -Horton. “Do not leave the room, Lucy, I beg,” he continued, addressing a -lovely girl, who had hitherto sat sewing at a distant window, but who at -this moment rose to quit the apartment. “I have nothing to say that I -would not wish you to hear.” - -“I am sure you have not,” said Mr. Woodford, “so sit still, Lucy dear.” -Then turning, as his daughter resumed her seat and her work, to Horton, -he added, “My lease of life is so nearly expired that I am afraid to let -my nurse leave me even for a few minutes, lest my warning to quit should -come when she is away from me. The spasms to which I have for some time -been subject have of late increased so much in violence, that I believe -my physicians have little hope of my surviving another. But I am -interfering with your explanation, which I am anxious to hear; for, -though so nearly done with this world myself, I still retain my interest -in the welfare of those I esteem. So go on, Norman, and let me hear what -you were going to say.” - -“You are aware,” returned Horton, with an expression of countenance that -proved the subject to be a painful one to him, “that my poor father -frequently involved himself in difficulties. At one time he became so -embarrassed that his farm was condemned by the court, and would have -been sold by the sheriff, had not his friends, for my mother’s sake, -made great efforts in his favor. It is unnecessary for me to trouble you -with all the particulars; suffice it to say, that the person who had -intended to sell took a mortgage on the place, for two thousand dollars, -still retaining the right which the court had given, of making a sale at -any moment that he chose. This mortgage and privilege he last year -transferred to old Hinkley, and he, though his interest has been -regularly paid, and though he has never even asked for the principal, -is, I find, about to seize upon and sell the property.” - -“Is it possible? Are you sure of it? Have you heard it from himself?” - -“Yes; I went to him as soon as I had an intimation on the subject, and -found him determined; nor could I prevail upon him to promise to give me -any time to look about me, except on a condition, which he had before -proposed to me, but which I cannot possibly comply with.” - -“And what may that be?” asked the master of the house. - -“That I would consent to become his son-in-law,” replied Norman, whilst -his cheeks became tinged with a color not unworthy of a young girl. - -“Truly, I should suppose that would be no very unacceptable proposal,” -returned Mr. Woodford, with a smile. “Maria Hinckley is a very sweet, -pretty girl, and is generally thought a very amiable one. Beside which, -it is well known she will have a very handsome fortune.” - -“That is all very true, and I admire Maria exceedingly; but, -unfortunately, there is an insurmountable obstacle in the way.” - -“You mean, I suppose, that you are not in love, whatever she may be.” - -“I have no reason to imagine that she is any more in love with me than I -am with her.” - -“But may it not be worth while, my young friend,” said Mr. Woodford, in -a serious tone, “to consider whether this love which young people are so -apt to think indispensable, is really so essential as they imagine. I am -myself disposed to think that if there is care taken to choose a partner -with amiable dispositions and correct principles, there would be as much -real happiness found in the end, as if they allowed themselves to be -wholly guided by the love that is proverbially blind.” - -“But if the little god has happened to stumble in the way first,” said -Horton, laughing, “what is to be done then?” - -“Ah, true, that is another matter. I forgot at the time what was -whispered about that pretty little Miss Shirley, who paid your mother so -long a visit last summer. She was, indeed, a very fine girl, and as she -and Lucy have been such great friends ever since they became acquainted, -I would advise you, if you are not quite sure of your ground, to bespeak -the interest of your old school-fellow and playmate. What say you, Lucy? -You would do your best to aid Norman’s cause, would you not?” But Lucy, -who had before been sewing at a wonderful rate, just at the moment her -father appealed to her, happened to drop her needle, so that when he -paused for a reply, she was too much occupied in searching the carpet to -give it. - -“Let me assist you,” said Horton, but before he reached the place where -the needle had dropt, she had found it, and risen from her bending -posture. - -“Why, my child, you have sent all the blood of your body into your face, -by stooping to search for that foolish needle,” said her father. And, -indeed, the poor girl’s face was a perfect scarlet, and the beautifully -defined shades of white and red, which were amongst her striking -beauties, were completely destroyed. - -“You haven’t told us yet,” continued the father, as Lucy made a slight -effort to shake back the bright auburn tresses which seemed to try to -curtain her face till it recovered its usual hue, “whether you will give -Norman your vote and interest.” - -“Oh, certainly, papa! Norman knows well enough it will always give me -pleasure to be of service to him,” said the young girl, but in -consequence, perhaps, of the blood having been forced into her head, her -voice had not its sweet silvery sound, but seemed husky and scarcely -audible. - -“As soon as I have settled Hinckley’s affair, I believe I shall be -tempted to come and make a trial of your kindness,” said the young man; -“but as long as I am in his clutches, it would be inexcusable in me to -try to involve any other person in my fortunes.” - -“We will soon give him his quietus,” returned Mr. Woodford; “Lucy, dear, -where did I put those notes?” - -“I don’t know, papa, I never saw them. Indeed I didn’t know you had -received them till I heard you mention it just now.” - -“That’s strange! You are always with me, and know every thing I either -do or say.” - -“But you know you sent me yesterday morning to see brother Henry, when -sister sent word he was sick; and I suppose the gentleman came while I -was away.” - -“Ah, true, so he did; and where was I dear—what room was I in. Sickness -has destroyed my memory so entirely that I cannot remember any thing.” - -“I left you in the breakfast-room reading, and when I came back, you -were in this room lying down.” - -“Yes, I remember now, I felt what I thought were premonitory symptoms of -spasms, and hastened to lie down. But no doubt I put the notes by first, -though where I don’t recollect. Go, dear, and look in my desk. You will -probably find them in the large red pocket-book or in one of the little -drawers, or—” - -“I will look everywhere, papa,” interrupted Lucy, who had now recovered -her voice and natural color, and immediately left the room. - -“It seems a strange thing,” said Mr. Woodford, turning to his companion, -“that I should be so careless about such a sum of money; but the fact -is, I had already set my house in order, as far as money matters are -concerned, and was therefore almost sorry to have my mind called back to -such a subject, from things of so much higher importance.” - -“There is one thing, however, in the business,” said Norman, “which -cannot fail to be gratifying, and that is the proof your friend has -given of his honorable feelings.” - -“Yes, that gave me sincere pleasure; and, indeed, I don’t pretend to say -that the money itself was not very acceptable, for though we have had -enough to live upon comfortably whilst all together, it will be but a -small portion for each when divided amongst my large family.” - -Lucy now returned to the room, but with a look of disappointment. The -notes were no where to be found. Again and again she was sent on various -errands of search, but all proved equally fruitless. - -“I should not wonder, after all,” said the invalid, “if I merely put -them into my pocket till you came home;” and as he spoke he began to -draw one piece of paper out of his pockets after another—but the right -ones were not there. - -“Papa,” said Lucy, and the color almost forsook her cheeks, “you gave me -some paper out of your pocket last night to light the lamp with.” - -“And what sort of paper was it?” asked the father. - -“It was too dark for me to see it, but it felt soft and thin.” - -“Was it single or double?” - -“It was double; but I cannot tell whether it was in one or two pieces.” - -“What did you do with the part that was not consumed? If the number is -left, the money may still be obtained.” - -“I threw it into the fire,” replied Lucy, in a mournful tone. - -“Then I am afraid it is gone,” said the father “But keep up your -spirits, Norman, I have promised my aid, and you shall have it, unless -death overtake me before I have time to make the arrangement. I cannot -think of letting one so deserving be trodden on by the foot of -persecution.” - -“For myself,” returned Horton, “it would not be of much consequence to -have to begin the world again, even with very limited means. I am young -and healthy, and have had an education which has put many resources in -my power. But my poor mother! It would go hard, indeed, at her age, and -with her delicate health, to be turned away from the scene of all her -early pleasures, and which is endeared to her by a thousand tender -associations.” - -“It must not be,” said the invalid; “and I will see after the business -as soon as I have taken a little rest; but at present I feel rather -exhausted.” - -Horton then took leave, and Lucy, after assisting her father to lie -down, resumed her accustomed seat, and began to sew, her active mind -keeping pace with her no less active fingers. With painful anxiety she -dwelt on the state of her only surviving parent, and on the loneliness -and destitution in which she would be left were he to be taken from her. -It was true she had a brother older than herself, but she remembered -with a sigh, how little either he or his wife were calculated to fill up -the vacuum. The rest of the children were all younger than herself, and -were consequently of an age rather to require protection than to render -it. A sister of her father’s had promised to remain with the younger -branches of the family, but though a well-meaning woman, she was but a -poor substitute for the parent that was about to be taken from her. Then -her thoughts would turn to Norman Horton’s embarrassments, and to the -distress of his poor mother—and the tears of sympathy often filled her -soft beautiful eyes, though they were as often dashed away, lest they -should be observed by her father. Indeed, the gentle, self-denying girl, -had learnt to deprive herself, almost wholly, of the luxury of tears, -from an anxiety to keep her parent’s mind composed and tranquil. But -nature would sometimes have its course, and on this day it was unusually -imperative. “It would be strange if I did not feel for Mrs. Horton,” she -argued with herself, as if anxious to find an excuse for the tears which -in spite of her utmost efforts would course each other down her cheeks. -“It would be most ungrateful of me did I not do so, for ever since -mother’s death she has behaved to me with even maternal tenderness. It -is true I have not seen much of her of late, but that is certainly not -owing to any fault of hers.” The truth is that since the visit of Miss -Shirley to Mrs. Horton, Norman and Lucy had met much less frequently -than formerly. That young lady had hinted to Lucy the probability of an -engagement taking place between herself and Norman, and as he had since -that time been a much less frequent visiter at Mr. Woodford’s, Lucy -concluded that the engagement had actually taken place. It was a subject -which she had never ventured either to inquire into, or even to examine -her own bosom upon, for though in the habit of scrutinizing her thoughts -and feelings on all others, on this one she was a complete coward, and -preferred remaining in ignorance to risking the result of an -investigation. It was true that from what Norman had said that morning, -it was evident no actual engagement yet existed, but as it was equally -evident that it was a thing he desired, she was determined to use -whatever influence she had in forwarding his wishes, though she at the -same time felt ashamed of the strange sensations that the probability of -being called upon to perform such an office, excited in her mind. She -was, however, routed from these interesting though painful reveries by -the voice of her father. On going to his bed-side she was exceedingly -alarmed at the expression of his countenance, and the blueness round his -mouth, which always preceded one of his severe attacks. - -“Go, Lucy,” said he, in a feeble voice, “and look in the private drawer -in my writing-desk. I had my desk open to write a receipt, and I may -perhaps have put the notes in that drawer.” - -“But, papa, you will be left alone,” objected the daughter. - -“Send your aunt to me,” returned the invalid, “and look well, for I am -exceedingly anxious on poor Norman’s account.” - -Lucy did as desired, but with a faint and trembling heart; first, -however, dispatching one of her brothers to summon the doctor, for there -was a something about her father’s look that seemed to say, they would -soon be an orphan family. - -The writing-desk was diligently searched, and every paper it contained -carefully examined, but in vain, and she was just turning the key to -lock it again, when she was hastily called by her aunt, who said her -father had made two or three attempts to speak, but she could not -understand him. Lucy ran with all the speed of which she was capable to -the bed-side of the invalid, but could scarcely restrain a scream of -horror at sight of the frightful change that had taken place in the few -minutes she had been absent. The blueness that she had before observed -around his mouth had extended to his lips, and his whole face wore that -expression that all who have attended the bed of death know as the -indications of approaching dissolution. The moment she appeared he -motioned to her to put her head close to his mouth, when he said, in a -voice scarcely audible, “I know now, they are in the—” but the last -word, though evidently spoken, could not be heard. - -“Never mind the notes, dear papa,” cried Lucy, in an agony of distress, -“only keep yourself composed and let them take their chance.” - -But the dying man shook his head, and again attempted to speak. “Look in -the—” but again the word died away, and though the anxious girl laid -her ear close to the blue and stiffening lips, she was unable to catch a -shadow of the sound which they emitted. After lying a few minutes as if -to collect the small portion of strength yet remaining, the sufferer -made another effort, and again Lucy put her ear to his now cold lips, -and stretched every faculty to catch the sound, far more, however, for -the sake of satisfying him, than on account of the money itself; but the -word “in” was all she could distinguish. Distressed beyond measure at -seeing his ineffectual efforts, she cried, “Don’t attempt to speak, dear -papa, but let me guess, and if I am right only make a motion of assent.” -She then guessed the breakfast-table drawer, the drawer in her own -work-box, and a variety of similar places, but received no intimation in -return. Whilst thus engaged the physician arrived, who, struck with the -extreme stillness of his patient, endeavored to raise his head, but in -so doing he found that life was already extinct, and the spirit which -had made its last effort in an attempt to aid a fellow-creature, had -burst its prison bars. - -We pass over the grief of the mourning family. Those who have never -experienced such an affliction could have little idea of it from our -description, and those who have already tasted the bitter cup, have no -need of any thing to give clearness to their perceptions. Suffice it, -then, to say, that after the first paroxysms of grief were over, Lucy’s -mind reverted to the state of her friends from whom she had received -many kind and sympathizing messages, and assurances that nothing but -severe sickness would have prevented Mrs. Horton from offering them in -person. After some consideration about how she should act, Lucy -determined it would only be right to inform Norman of her father’s -ineffectual efforts to serve him, and for this purpose she sent a -request that he would call upon her. He was not long obeying the -summons, and entered the room with a countenance little less agitated -than her own. - -“I would not have waited to be told to come,” said he, in a tone of deep -feeling, “had I not been afraid of my visit being attributed to a -selfish motive.” - -“I know well that selfishness forms no part of your character,” replied -Lucy, making a strong effort to speak with composure; “but though my -poor father was deprived of the pleasure of serving you, I was anxious -you should know that his very last efforts were made in your behalf. -Could I have made out his last words, you might still have had the -assistance you require.” - -“I beg you will not trouble yourself any more about the matter,” -returned Horton, endeavoring to speak cheerfully. “The worst, I believe, -is now over, for the sheriff is already in possession of the place.” - -“And your mother?” said Lucy, raising her soft eyes in anxious suspense -to his face. - -“She has been, and is still ill, but I hope she is gradually becoming -more resigned. Transplantation, however, will, I fear, go hard with -her.” - -“Take care, Norman,” said Lucy, earnestly, “that you bring not severe -repentance upon yourself by exposing her to it.” - -“But what can I do? I have no alternative. I have left no stone unturned -to procure the money; and if a few months had been allowed me, I could -easily have obtained it, but this is just the time when everybody’s -money is locked up.” - -“Mr. Hinckley offered you an alternative,” said Lucy, timidly. - -“And is it possible that you can advise me to accept it, Lucy! Can you, -who know what it is to love, offer me such advice?” - -“Who told you I knew how to love?” asked Lucy, in a tone of extreme -alarm. - -“I scarcely know whether it is honorable in me to repeat what was told -me in confidence, but I had it from Emma Shirley that you had accepted -the addresses of Joseph Constant.” - -“Then she must have been trying the extent of your credulity,” returned -the young girl, with a look of ingenuousness that could not for a moment -be doubted, “for she knew very well that he was an object of actual -dislike to me.” - -“And yet he has visited you for a long time both regularly and -frequently,” said Horton, whilst his eyes began to sparkle, and the -cloud that had for months overspread his fine countenance was rapidly -dispersing. - -“He has come to the house both regularly and frequently, it is true, but -never with my consent. Brother Henry, I scarcely know why, has -undertaken to espouse his cause, and to bring him here. Though -exceedingly annoyed at the circumstance, I could not bear to complain of -it to papa, for fear of agitating him, and therefore satisfied myself -with taking good care that my own sentiments were clearly understood.” - -“Lucy,” said Horton, taking her hand tenderly, whilst a soul full of -happiness and affection beamed in his eyes, “as long as I believed your -heart to be disengaged, I used to flatter myself with the hope of one -day making it mine; and now that I find it is still at liberty, the same -fond hope is again swelling in my bosom and urging me to renew my -endeavors. Say, dearest Lucy, would the effort be altogether a hopeless -one?” - -We cannot pretend to say what was Lucy’s reply, but we know the hand he -had taken still remained in his possession, when an hour or two had -elapsed and they began to think about the passage of time. Never once -during that period had the thought of old Hinckley and his inveterate -persecution entered their heads; or if for a moment the circumstance of -having but little to commence life with obtruded itself on their -recollection, it was met without fear or apprehension. They were both -young, vigorous and active, and though they might have to work a little -harder, their toil would be sweetened by the delightful idea that they -mutually labored for each other. - -“It will still be a hard struggle for my poor mother,” said Horton, -after his full heart had so far found vent as to enable him to turn his -thoughts once more on his sorrowing parent; “but she loves us both too -well to grieve long when she sees us so happy.” - -“And though,” said Lucy, “she will have to live in a much smaller house, -and to exchange her large and beautiful garden for a very circumscribed -one, she will still have the rich garden of nature to look at; and -beside, she will have another child to watch over her, and administer to -her comfort.” - -The day of sale arrived, and it having been proposed by Lucy that Norman -should bring his mother to spend that day with her, that she might be -out of the way of the noise and bustle with which the house would -necessarily be surrounded. The old lady came at an early hour, and Lucy -exerted her every art to amuse her, and divert her mind from what was -going on at home. As she was still a great invalid, she was obliged to -recline almost constantly on the sofa, but she proved how much her -thoughts clung to the home that was about to be so cruelly taken away -from her, by the frequent questions she asked. - -“Are the people beginning to gather yet, Lucy?” she asked, as she -observed Lucy’s face turned toward the window which commanded a view of -the place. - -“Every thing seems very quiet yet,” returned her affectionate attendant. - -“I see two, three, nine, seven wagons,” said Lucy’s little sister. - -“And I see a great many men riding,” said a little fellow still younger -than she who had just spoken. Lucy, anxious to stop the children’s -remarks, enticed them away from the window by giving them a picture-book -to look at. Then turning to Mrs. Horton, she asked if she could not read -something to her to amuse her. - -“Amusement is out of the question, dear,” said the invalid, “but you may -read something that will give me a useful lesson. Take the Bible, my -child, and read the sermon on the mount. I always feel myself a better -woman after I have read it.” - -Lucy took her father’s large quarto Bible, and the children, leaving -their own pictures, came to stand by her as she did so, for it was -beautifully illustrated, and they were anxious to see the engravings, -which they had seldom a chance of doing, as it was too valuable a book -for them to be allowed to touch themselves. But just as Lucy was opening -it, the little boy, who happened to turn his head to the window, -exclaimed, “Look! look at that man standing up above all the rest, and -flourishing something in his hand!” Mrs. Horton heaved a deep sigh, and -turned her face toward the back of the sofa, whilst Lucy, making a -motion to the children to be silent, began to read. But just as she had -pronounced the words, “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be -comforted,” a servant came to tell her she was wanted, and giving the -children permission (by way of keeping them quiet) to look at the -pictures whilst she was absent, she left the room. She was not gone many -minutes, but when she came back she found that they had been disputing -which should turn over the leaves, and in the struggle they had let the -ponderous volume fall on the floor, where it still lay, with the leaves -doubled in all directions. Mortified to see a book that her father had -always forbidden the children to touch so abused, she ran to lift it up, -and as she did so, two pieces of paper fell from between some of the -leaves. But what was her surprise and delight, on looking at them, to -see they were the two lost notes. Uttering a scream of delight, she ran -out of the room, without even stopping to tell Mrs. Horton what she had -found, from the fear that the auctioneer’s hammer might fall before she -got within hearing. Camilla herself could scarcely have flown more -rapidly across the intermediate fields, and just at the moment that the -hammer was descending, evidently for the last time, she contrived to -make her cry of “stop! stop!” heard, and the auctioneer’s hand was -instantly arrested. The next moment Norman was at her side. The rest may -be easily imagined. There is none, we presume, who will not rejoice at -the defeat of Norman’s ungenerous persecutor; nor is there a heart so -cold as not to sympathize with the invalid mother at finding she was -still to remain in the home endeared to her by so many tender -reminiscences, or with the young lovers, at the happy prospect that was -opened out before them by the recovery of the lost notes. - - * * * * * - - - - - AN HOUR AMONG THE DEAD. - - - (WRITTEN IN A CEMETERY.) - - BY J. BEAUCHAMP JONES. - - - Alone, withdrawn from all the thoughtless throng, - I seek in solitude a peaceful hour, - Nor deem that others who are gay are wrong, - If midst multipled cares they have such power. - But I would commune with my heavy heart - Beneath the foliage of this lonely bower; - Perchance a soothing vision here may start, - Or at my feet may rise some tender flower, - Refreshing to the wounded spirit’s thirst, - Which for the moment I may call my own, - Unlike the hopes and buds that gladdened first, - And paled and withered ’neath the world’s rude frown. - But hope seems vain, for round me sleep the dead, - Who quaffed their pleasures, and at last laid down, - While all the aims and sweets of life have fled, - And twining grass is now their mournful crown. - - Yet there is something soothing in the air; - The thrush sings softly as it flits along; - The towering trees shut out the sun’s bold glare, - And round my temples breathes the wind’s low song: - A katy-did chirps on a marble urn, - The distant doves their plaintive moans prolong, - And sweet perfumes arise where’er I turn, - To woo a wand’rer from a world of wrong. - And why should one look further for a grave, - And seek vain pomps and plaudits ere he die? - Earth’s gold is venom, each great king a slave - To some vile passion, and enjoyments fly - We know not whither, but they ne’er return; - And memory brings but a tear or sigh - For moments lost, for bliss we once could spurn, - Bright dreams of youth, or friends that buried lie. - - Under yon willow bending near the brook, - Where crystal waters glide the shrubs among— - Where a lone mortal, with abstracted look, - Is brooding o’er some grief his heart hath stung - Methinks that one might bid a last farewell, - To all the foes that here his bosom wrung, - And like the martyr who, forgiving, fell, - Ask no sad requiem o’er his ashes sung. - O, in the final and oblivious rest, - I would recline beneath such hallowed sod, - Where flowers sweet might bloom above my breast, - No longer mark for Slander’s pointed rod! - And yet a day must come when e’en the dead - Will bid adieu to the dark valley’s clod, - And all the just, with spotless pinions spread, - Shall soar above to their effulgent God! - - * * * * * - - - - - GEMS FROM LATE READINGS. - - - * * * * * - - - BY E. L. BULWER. - -The soul really grand is only tested in its errors. As we know the true -might of the intellect by the rich resources and patient strength with -which it redeems a failure, so do we prove the elevation of the soul by -its courageous return into light—its instinctive rebound into higher -air—after some error that has darked its vision and soiled its plumes. - - * * * * * - - - BY G. H. BOKER. - - You tread on dangerous ground, - A mental bog that quakes beneath your feet. - These words would seem to come from humbleness, - And low opinion of yourself and man, - Yet are engendered by the rankest pride, - Arrayed in robes of meek humility— - Stop! the next step is infidelity! - Contempt for man begets contempt for God; - He who hates man, must scorn the source of man, - And challenge, as unwise, his awful Maker. - The next step, doubt—and then comes unbelief; - Last, you raise man above all else beside, - And make him chiefest in the universe. - So, from a self-contempt grows impious pride, - Which swells your first-thought pigmy to a giant, - And gives the puffed up atom fancied sway. - God is! Philosophy here ends her flight! - This is the height and term of human reason; - A fact that, like the whirling Norway pool, - Draws to its centre all things, swallows all. - How can you know God’s nature to Himself? - How learn His purpose in creating man? - Enough for you to know that here you are— - A thought of God made manifest on earth. - Ah, yet His voice is heard within the heart, - Faint, but oracular, it whispers there; - Follow that voice, love all, and trust to Him. - - * * * * * - - - BY MRS. D. ELLEN GODMAN. - -I never see a fairy girl, with health’s glow upon her cheek, and love’s -light in her beaming eye; I never hear her silvery laugh, and listen to -the echo of her sweet voice, but I think of the darkness of coming -years. I have seen so many a beautiful thing wither and fall to the -grave; I have watched the overthrow of so many earthly schemes, and -noted the death of so many earthly hopes, that I tremble for the -trusting, warm heart, which I know must ere long bleed over some faded -dream or withered idol. I have stood by the low, calm resting-place of -age, where the aged man, with his snowy locks, was sweetly sleeping; but -I shed no tear over his fate. For must it not be pleasant, after a long -life of care and toil, and it may be of suffering, to lie down at last -in the grave, to bid adieu to a changing world, and welcome the joys of -everlasting life? But my tears have watered the fresh sod beneath which -slumbered the young, the gay, the beautiful. I have wept, Heaven knows -how bitterly, over the blighting of youthful loveliness—over the faded -wreath of earthly love. But amid all the gloom, all the decay around, -there comes a soft, sweet whisper—a low, gentle breathing, as from an -angel’s lips, soothing the heart, and pouring into the bleeding bosom -the balm of consolation. - - * * * * * - -The following beautiful poem is taken from a volume recently published -in London, entitled, “Poems by a Sempstress,” and has never been -reprinted in this country. It possesses great merits, and if the -authorship be authentic, is certainly a remarkable production. - - THE DREAMER. - - - Not in the laughing bowers, - Where, by green twining arms, a pleasant shade, - A summer-noon is made; - And where swift-footed hours - Steal the rich breath of the enamored flowers; - Dream I—nor where the golden glories be, - At sunset paving o’er the flowing sea, - And to pure eyes the faculty is giv’n - To trace the smooth ascent from earth to heaven. - - Not on the couch of ease, - With all appliances of joys at hand; - Soft light, sweet fragrance, beauty at command, - Viands that might a god-like palate please, - And music’s soul-creative ecstasies; - Dream I—nor gloating o’er a wide estate, - Till the full, self-complacent heart, elate, - Well satisfied with bliss of mortal birth, - Sighs for an immortality on earth: - - But where the incessant din - Of iron hands, and roar of brazen throats, - Join their unmingling notes; - While the long summer day is pouring in, - Till day is done, and darkness doth begin; - Dream I—or in the corner where I lie, - On winter nights, just covered from the sky; - Such is my fate, and barren as it seem, - Yet, thou blind soulless scorner! yet, I dream. - - And, yet, I dream— - Dream what, were man more just, I might have been! - How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene, - Glowing of heart, and glorious of mien, - The conscious crown to Nature’s blissful scene; - In just and equal brotherhood to glean, - With all mankind, exhaustless pleasure keen: - Such is my dream. - - And, yet, I dream— - I, the despised of fortune, lift mine eye, - Bright with the lustre of integrity, - In unappealing wretchedness on high, - And the last rage of destiny defy; - Resolved, alone to live—alone to die, - Nor swell the tide of human misery. - - And, yet, I dream— - Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come; - My last, my first, my only welcome home! - Rest, unbeheld since life’s beginning stage, - Sole remnant of my glorious heritage - Unalienable, I shall find thee yet, - And in thy soft embrace, the past forget! - Thus do I dream. - - * * * * * - - - BY JOHN KEATS. - - MILTON AND WORDSWORTH. - - From “Life and Literary Remains of Keats,” by R. M. Milnes. - -With your patience, I will return to Wordsworth—whether or no he has an -extended vision or a circumscribed grandeur—whether he is an eagle in -his nest or on the wing; and, to be more explicit, and to show you how -tall I stand by the giant, I will put down a simile of human life, as -far as I now perceive it; that is, to the point to which I say we both -have arrived at. Well, I compare human life to a large mansion of many -apartments, two of which I can only describe, the doors of the rest -being as yet shut upon me. The first we step into we call the infant or -thoughtless chamber, in which we remain as long as we do not think. We -remain there a long while, and notwithstanding the doors of the second -chamber remain wide open, showing a bright appearance, we care not to -hasten to it, but are, at length, imperceptibly impelled by the -awakening of the thinking principle within us. We no sooner get into the -second chamber, which I shall call the chamber of maiden-thought, than -we become intoxicated with the light and the atmosphere. We see nothing -but pleasant wonders, and think of delaying there for ever in delight. -However, among the effects this breathing is father of, is that -tremendous one of sharpening one’s vision into the heart and nature of -man, of convincing one’s nerves that the world is full of misery and -heart-break, pain, sickness, and oppression; whereby this chamber of -maiden-thought becomes gradually darkened, and at the same time, on all -sides of it, many doors are set open—but all dark—all leading to dark -passages. We see not the balance of good and evil; we are in a mist, we -are in that state, we feel the “Burden of the Mystery.” To this point -was Wordsworth come, as far as I can conceive, when he wrote “Tintern -Abbey,” and it seems to me that his genius is explorative of those dark -passages. Now if we live, and go on thinking, we too shall explore them. -He is a genius and superior [to] us, in so far as he can, more than we, -make discoveries and shed a light in them. Here I must think Wordsworth -is deeper than Milton, though I think it has depended more upon the -general and gregarious advance of intellect than individual greatness of -mind. From the “Paradise Lost,” and the other works of Milton, I hope it -is not too presuming, even between ourselves, to say, that his -philosophy, human and divine, may be tolerably understood by one not -much advanced in years. In his time, Englishmen were just emancipated -from a great superstition, and men had got hold of certain points and -resting-places in reasoning which were too newly born to be doubted, and -too much opposed by the rest of Europe, not to be thought ethereal and -authentically divine. Who could gainsay his ideas on virtue, vice, and -chastity, in “Comus,” just at the time of the dismissal of a hundred -social disgraces? Who would not rest satisfied with his hintings at good -and evil in his “Paradise Lost,” when just free from the inquisition and -burning in Smithfield? The Reformation produced such immediate and great -benefits, that Protestantism was considered under the immediate eye of -heaven, and its own remaining dogmas and superstitions then, as it were, -regenerated, constituted those resting-places and seeming sure points of -reasoning. From what I have mentioned, Milton, whatever he may have -thought in the sequel, appears to have been content with these by his -writings. He did not think with the human heart as Wordsworth has done; -yet Milton, as a philosopher, had surely as great powers as Wordsworth. -What is then to be inferred? Oh! many things: it proves there is really -a grand march of intellect; it proves that a mighty Providence subdues -the mightiest minds to the service of the time being, whether it be in -human knowledge or religion. - - * * * * * - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “MARY BARTON.” - -The woes that cannot in any earthly way be escaped, are those that admit -least earthly comforting. Of all trite, worn-out, hollow-mockeries of -comfort that were ever uttered by people who will not take the trouble -of sympathizing with others, the one I dislike the most is the -exhortation not to grieve over an event, “for it cannot be helped.” Do -you think, if I could help it, I would sit still, content to mourn? Do -you not believe that as long as hope remained I would be up and doing? I -mourn because what has occurred cannot be helped. The reason you give me -for not grieving, is the very and sole reason of my grief. Give me -nobler and higher reasons for enduring meekly what my father sees fit to -send, and I will try earnestly and faithfully to be patient. But mock me -not, or any other mourner, with the speech, “Do not grieve, for it -cannot be helped. It is past remedy.” - - * * * * * - - What a single word can do! - Thrilling all the heart-strings through, - Calling forth fond memories, - Raining round hope’s melodies, - Steeping all in one bright hue— - What a single word can do! - - What a single word can do! - Making life seem all untrue, - Driving joy and hope away, - Leaving not one cheering ray, - Blighting every flower that grew— - What a single word can do! - - * * * * * - - - BY G. P. R. JAMES. - -There are certain classes of passions and vices which people often find -an excuse for indulging by persuading themselves that they are -invariably connected with some great or noble feeling. Now, of this -character is _revenge_, which men are apt to fancy must be the offspring -of a generous and vehement heart, and a fine, determined, and sensitive -mind. But this is a mistake. Revenge, in the abstract, is merely a -prolongation throughout a greater space of time, of that base -selfishness which leads us to feel a momentary impulse to strike any -thing that hurts or pains us either mentally or corporeally; and the -more brutal, and animal, and beast-like be the character of the person, -the greater will be his disposition to revenge. But we must speak one -moment upon its modifications. Revenge always proceeds either from a -sense of real injury, or a feeling of wounded vanity. It seldom, -however, arises from any real injury; and when it does, it would (if -possible to justify it at all,) be more justifiable; but in this -modification, a corrective is often found in the great mover of man’s -heart, and vanity itself whispers, it will seem nobler and more generous -to forgive. The more ordinary species of revenge, however, and the more -filthy, is that which proceeds from wounded vanity—when our pride or -our conceit has been greatly hurt—not alone in the eyes of the world, -but in our own eyes—when the little internal idol that we have set up -to worship in our hearts, has been pulled down from the throne of our -idolatry, and we have been painfully shown that it is nothing but a -thing of gilt wood. Then, indeed, revenge, supported by the great mover -of man’s heart, instead of being corrected by it, is insatiable and -everlasting. But, in all cases, instead of being connected with any -great quality, it is the fruit of a narrow mind, and a vain, selfish -heart. - - * * * * * - -Oh, if people would but take as much pains to do good as they take to do -evil—if even the well-disposed were as zealous in beneficence, as the -wicked are energetic in wrong—what a pleasant little clod this earth of -ours would be for us human crickets to go chirping about from morning -till night. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _Poems. By John G. Whittier. Illustrated by Hammott Billings. - Boston: B. B. Mussey & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._ - -This is a beautiful and highly decorated volume, splendidly bound, and -well printed. It is illustrated with engravings after original designs -by H. Billings, a Boston artist of great and peculiar merit, whose fine -and fertile genius we should like to see oftener employed in the -illustration of the poets. - -Whittier is a positive force in the community, and has popularity as -well as reputation. As a poet of sentiment and imagination he is known -wherever American literature is read, and has been recognized as an -originality by criticism. But even if the critics had denounced, it -would have made little difference with his popularity, for his burning -lyrics have been sung and declaimed by thousands who know nothing and -care nothing for questions relating to style and rhythm. A man with so -grand and large a heart—a heart that instinctively runs out in sympathy -with his fellow men, must necessarily exercise influence. But this -sensibility, though an important and noble element in Whittier’s genius, -occasionally does more than its portion of the work of production. -Passion, of itself, is not a high peculiarity of a poet, but impassioned -imagination is, perhaps, the highest. Now Whittier has passion and has -imagination, but they are not always combined. Sensibility is only -valuable as it gives force and fire to thought, and the grandest poems -in the present collection are those in which conceptions are penetrated -with emotions, and the least valuable are those in which emotions get -the start of conceptions and roll out on their own account. The reader -of the present volume, however, will find a class of poems in it -essentially different from those which are intellectually vehement or -passionately vehement—a class which are pure utterances of the author’s -soul in its most contemplative moods. These are exquisitely tender and -beautiful, giving evidence of a mind which to all lovely objects in the -material world can - - “——Add the gleam, - The light that never was on sea or land. - The consecration and the poet’s dream.” - -No one can read the present volume without being struck with the vigor -and variety of the author’s mind, the breadth and intensity of his -sympathies, and the true manliness of his character. The success of such -a work is certain. - - * * * * * - - _Remarks on the Science of History; Followed by an A Priori - Autobiography. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This is one of the most original and striking books ever published in -the United States, and if it were not marred by some needless -obscurities in the preface and notes, would be likely to obtain a -popularity commensurate with its merits. It evinces a mind of great -power in the region of pure thought, and of great acquisitions in -metaphysical science. The leading object of the volume is to present -universal history under the form of biography, and its hero is a person -who lives the life of the race. It is assumed that he who thoroughly -understands the present epoch must have reproduced, and lived through, -in his private experience, all the religions, dispensations and -civilizations which preceded it; and accordingly the author supposes the -case of a man whose mind, in its development, passes through all the -leading systems of philosophy which have successively appeared in the -world, and lives them in thought as in different ages they have been -lived in action. His hero accordingly lives and outlives sensuality, -diabolism, atheism, deism, pantheism, Platonism, necessitarianism, -transcendentalism, until he arrives at the belief of a living God and a -Christian dispensation. The mental moods as well as the opinions of -these different systems are represented, and an almost audacious -expression given to some of them. Though the work is deficient somewhat -in artistical as distinguished from logical completeness, and is too -condensed in passages where expansion would have aided the reader, no -person who avoids the notes and adheres to the autobiography, can fail -to notice the clearness as well as the depth and force of mind it -evinces. We are aware of no other book in which so much knowledge of -mental philosophy is conveyed in so small a space. The exposition of -Plato’s theory of Ideas—the stringent logic applied to the doctrine of -necessity—the keenness with which the weak points of atheism are -detected, and the remorseless analysis with which they are probed, and -the masterly power of impassioned argumentation, fierce, rapid and -close, with which the subject of the Will is cleared from its -obscurities, all indicate a mind of no common order. The author is -evidently a man destined to leave his mark on the philosophical -literature of the country. In the present volume there are important and -original ideas which will sooner or later become influential. - - * * * * * - - _Remarks on the Past and its Legacies to American Society. By J. - D. Nourse. Louisville: Morton & Griswold. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -Those of our readers who have any taste for the philosophy of history, -and who are desirous to see how an American writer can handle the -problems which have tasked the acutest and most comprehensive European -intellects, had better procure this work. It is written in a style of -much energy, beauty and clearness, and is the result of forcible and -patient thinking on a wide basis of historical facts and principles. The -author is a Kentuckian and a scholar in the true sense. Although the -book evidences a familiarity with the productions of others in a similar -department of letters, it is still original as well as powerful. There -are sentences in it which deserve to pass into maxims; and through the -whole volume none can fail to observe the steady and almost triumphant -march of an independent and forcible intellect. We do not know how the -work has succeeded at the west, but if it has failed to attract notice -there, it shows that Kentucky is not so ready to recognize marked -ability in letters as in politics. The author, from his position as an -American, really holds an advantage over his European rivals; and the -felicity and comprehensiveness of his grasp of some great principles, -and the power with which he wields them, are in a considerable degree -referable to his freedom from many prejudices which beset the largest -minds abroad. This volume ought to give Mr. Nourse a name, and we trust -it will have that large circulation which its importance and usefulness -so richly merit. - - * * * * * - - _Romance of Yachting. By Joseph C. Hart. New York: Harper & - Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This is a sprightly book, written in a dashing and defiant style, -bristling with paradox and sparkling with whimsicalities. The -peculiarity of the book consists in its dogmatism, and like all -dogmatists the author gives as confident expression to the extravagances -of his caprice as to the deductions of his understanding. Many topics -are discussed which the title of the book would never suggest. Such are -the remarks on the Puritans, Shakspeare, and the Moors in Spain. With -regard to the first, the author chimes in with the opponents of the -Puritans, and administers twenty lashes to “New England Conceit.” We do -not know but that our Eastern friends have dilated a little too much on -their ancestors, and been too prone to consider every thing excellent as -dating from the Puritans, but certainly the style in which our New York -brethren are now bragging about their progenitors, promises to outshine -in pretension and impertinence every thing of the kind we have had in -Massachusetts or Virginia. Mr. Hart, especially, fairly crows a note -higher than any antiquarian chanticleer of ancestry it has ever been our -fortune to meet in literature. There is a long passage in the book on -Shakspeare, in which the author attempts to prove that in the plays -published under Shakspeare’s name, there is little property belonging to -him but the rant and obscenity. If Mr. Hart means his dissertation on -this topic as badinage, it is rather tedious joking; and if he is in -earnest, he shows a strange ignorance of facts and arguments which are -as familiar to every student of English letters as his alphabet. -Seriously, to combat such a clumsy specimen of irony would only turn the -laugh against the critic, and no honor could possibly be gained in -proving that the sun shines, or that “eggs is eggs.” - -Apart from some extravagances of the kind we have noticed, the book is a -grand and exhilarating one, and cannot fail to prove interesting to -almost all classes of readers. To seamen, and to all who go out upon the -sea in ships or yachts, it is an invaluable companion. The vigor, -elasticity and decision of the style are in fine harmony with the frank, -cordial, and somewhat chivalric nature of the author. - - * * * * * - - _The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By W. M. Thackeray. New York: - Harper & Brothers._ - -We believe that this novel was published before Vanity Fair, and it -certainly cannot compare with that brilliant work in incident or -characterization; but it is still well worthy a diligent reading. It -relates principally to that pinchbeck class of English swells, known as -“gents,” and represents English society, as seen through the medium of a -cockney’s mind. Mr. Sam Titmarsh, the worthy autobiographer, is a vain -but innocent gent, and tells his story with delicious simplicity, and -occasionally with much pathos. His little wife is a gem. The scene in -which she obtains the office of nurse to Lady Tiptoff’s child, is -exquisitely natural and pathetic. Every reader is inclined to echo Mr. -Yellowplush’s opinion, even as expressed in his original orthography. -“You see, Tit, my boy,” he remarks to the happy husband, “I’m a -oonnyshure, and up to enough; and if ever I see a lady in my life, Mrs. -Titmarsh is one. I can’t be fimiliar with her as I am with you. There’s -a somethink in her, a jennysquaw, that haws me, sir.” - - * * * * * - - _The Forgery; a Tale. By G. P. R. James. New York: Harper & - Brothers._ - -It is a common charge against critics that they do not read the books -they review. We acknowledge the charge in the case of Mr. James’s latest -novel, with a feeling akin to exultation. We have read some twenty of -his romances, more to verify an opinion than to gratify a taste, and -certainly the man is to be praised for doing so large an amount of -business on so small a capital. Though his mind is exceedingly limited -in its range, he has contrived to fill more space with his books than -the most comprehensive and creative of intellects would be justified in -occupying. His success must be mortifying to all novelists who really -possess original power, and who consider that a new character is -something else than an old one with a new name. If Mr. James possessed -sufficient force to stamp any character, incident or description, on the -imagination, he would miserably fail in the application of his science -of repetition and philosophy of dilution. His salvation from popular -martyrdom is owing to the very feebleness of the impression he makes on -the popular mind. - - * * * * * - - _Moneypenny; or the Heart of the World. A Romance of the Present - Day. Illustrated by Darley. New York: Dewitt & Davenport. 1 - vol._ - -This book has passed to a second edition, and promises to take a high -rank among American romances. It is so altogether above the general run -of novels published in a cheap form, that it is important for the public -to understand that though in yellow covers, it has none of the nonsense, -stupidity, and ribaldry commonly associated with yellow-covered -literature. The author not only understands practical life practically, -but he is a scholar and a man of original power. The work is exceedingly -interesting, evinces a strong grasp of character, is well written, and -while it deserves and will reward the attention of the more tasteful -class of readers, it will tend to give a more important, because more -numerous and sensitive class, a higher notion of the requirements of -romance. We cordially wish the author success. - - * * * * * - - _Model Men, Women and Children. Modeled by Horace Mayhew. New - York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This little volume is crammed with shrewd and diverting satire, and -illustrated by appropriate cuts. The series originally appeared in -Punch. The author evidently understands all the fooleries and deviltries -as well as most of the humanities of practical life; and he has -commented upon them in a style which is universally appreciable. There -is a sort of percussion-cap explosion of wit and satire which keeps -attention constantly awake. The book, apart from its brilliancy and -readableness, is a good medicine for “snobism” of all sorts. - - * * * * * - - _Greyslaer; or a Romance of the Mohawk. By Charles Penno - Hoffman. Fourth Edition. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. - 12mo._ - -The sturdiest champion of literary nationality must concede to Mr. -Hoffman the merit of being an American writer. He knows the country, is -familiar with its scenery, sympathises with the events of its history, -and understands its people, aboriginal and imported. The present novel, -which has now reached its fourth edition—an honor enjoyed by few -fictions—is a pregnant illustration of the author’s thorough -nationality. He is an American without being an Americanism. We have not -the least doubt that this edition of Greyslaer will receive a cordial -welcome from all who are capable of appreciating the grand and -chivalrous spirit which breathes through and animates the fine talents -and large acquirements of the author. - - * * * * * - - _Mirror of Nature: A Book of Instruction and Entertainment , - Translated from the German of G. H. Schubert, by William H. - Furness, pp. 497. Philadelphia: Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co._ - -Here is a good book, full of practical instruction, and of information -that makes other knowledge practical. A German writer, a good man, has -brought a well-stored mind to the task of preparing a volume that shall -give the great authors on natural study, without the minuteness of a -class-book, or the elaborate development of a thorough treatise. He has -opened up the beautiful operations of Nature and her works, and has not -neglected to recognize the soul as the antecedent of the body. So that -while one is studying about the mighty gatherings of mineral wealth, the -wonderful effects of chemical operations, and the instincts of animal -life, he is constantly kept above his theme by the declared truth of his -superiority to all these, in the possession of an immortal soul. A -Christian American has given the work in an English form—good, pure, -simple, expressive English—no Germanisms to offend the ear—and yet an -occasional adaptation of a German mode of expressing thoughts shows the -intimacy of the translator with the original, and his power to select -the most expressive forms. - -In this volume man is considered, and his power of mental and physical -existence developed. The outreaching of the human mind is regarded as -worthy of consideration, and lessons of usefulness derived therefrom. -The volume before us is admirably suited to the classes of our public -schools and to the general reader—and when furnished as it will be with -a set of questions suited to the text, it will be a handbook for the -classes, of immense usefulness. - - * * * * * - - _Poems. By Charles G. Eastman. Montpelier: Eastman & Danforth. 1 - vol. 18mo._ - -This volume is a collection of songs and short poems from the pen of one -of the ablest political editors in Vermont. The book shows that the -author’s heart is in what is called the right place, in spite of the -stir and fret of politics. The characteristic of the volume is -simplicity in the expression of emotion. There is no parade of ornament, -and very little fanciful decoration, but the author contrives still to -express a variety of moods in a most genuine way. The verse has a spring -and elastic vigor in its movement, which continually suggests the notion -of impromptu composition. The finest poem in the volume is the first, -entitled “The Picture,” and certainly no poet could begin a collection -with a piece more calculated to propitiate the reader, and make him look -lovingly on what follows. - - * * * * * - - _Foot-Prints. By R. H. Stoddard._ - -A copy of this neat little volume has been laid upon our table, and we -have read it with great pleasure. The poems it contains are, generally, -good. Some of them are marked with great felicity of thought and power -of expression. Mr. Stoddard is familiar to the readers of “Graham’s -Magazine,” as one of the contributors to its pages, and we have now on -hand some of his poetical articles which we design publishing in due -order. His contributions are favorite ones with our readers, who, if -they wish to have a collection of the author’s writings, cannot do a -better thing than obtain from the publishers, or at any of the principal -bookstores, a copy of “Foot-Prints.” - - * * * * * - - - - - EDITOR’S TABLE. - - -THE MIRROR OF LIFE.—We have caused to be prepared, as one of the -embellishments of our Magazine for the present mouth, a picture entitled -“The Mirror of Life.” As a picture, we think it good, excellent indeed, -artistically considered; and the face of the female, the mother, nay, -the whole form so far as visible, may be considered as beautiful. We -had, in truth, some stronger terms to use with regard to this figure, -but we forbear them now, and refer our male readers to the picture -itself, to say whether they have seen any thing more handsome, more -really beautiful, than that for a long time. And to the ladies we appeal -with equal confidence, whether any one of them has seen so beautiful a -representation of the female face and form for years—excepting only -that which she sees reflected from her own mirror. - -As for the little boy, we will confess, that though he has grown more -comely under the burin of Mr. Tucker, we do not mean to claim any -particular credit for his beauty; the truth is, the child looks like his -father. - -But the lesson of the picture is what concerns us. The _prima facia_ -evidence of this picture is against the character of the mother for -proper discipline; she has given her child a mirror for a plaything, a -hammer would complete the picture and the mirror. But that would be to -regard the representation physically. The child is looking into the -mirror with earnestness. Do our readers mark the Johnsonian cast of the -little philosopher’s head? Do they see how he has set his eyes and -mouth, as if he would see and taste what of life lies before him. And -with no less intensity does the mother gaze into the mirroring eyes of -her child; and as he gathers from the glass in front of him the shadows -which coming events cast before them, she collects the facts from his -eyes, and is wrapt into the future, not of herself, but of her child. - -What would one give to learn that future? to gaze into the mirror of -life, and discover its terrible lessons in advance! Could we prevent -them by learning?—Alas! no—if we could, we could not learn. Can we -look into the future and see what _is_ to take place, and then by -efforts prevent the occurrence? If we could prevent that which we saw, -how could we see it? - -But the little fellow is peering down the vista of time, and he is -seeing care and anxiety dogging his heels; he is looking at the -antagonistic movements of his life, and wondering how life can _be_, and -_be_ thus opposed. He is seeing his future self, bowing down to the -object of affection, and he is hearing _her_ calculations of the -advantages which his offer had over that of another; and his young heart -sickens at the mercenary selfishness of the idea. - -But if the mirror reflects or prefigures truly, his own _heart_ had made -the same calculations before it was offered. And this is the common -experience of life. Men pause in the midst of their business or their -pleasure, and begin to think about marriage; they are reminded of this -by the movements of others, or the customs of their kind. Do they look -about and see where they can bestow the most of benefit, or confer the -greatest amount of good? Do they say, “I have wealth and position, here -is a lovely female, poor and humble, the ascentive power of my -possessions will take _her_ up?” Or do they set down and make the -calculations as to the amount of personal benefits which they would -derive from the match? - -Ninety-nine times in the hundred the calculations upon a wife and her -uses, are as carefully and as selfishly made by man, as are those upon -the purchase of real estate, or stock for a stable or a farm. And we do -not mean to say that on the whole marriages resulting from such -calculations are not productive of as much _content_ as those which seem -to be made with all the disinterestedness which novelists ascribe to -their favorite heroes and heroines. - -Well, when the calculation is complete, the gentleman hastens off and -_proposes_ to the lady; if the female is found to pause upon the -proposal, and to ask herself, or to ask some one who knows, what are the -means which this lover possesses to make her happier than she is now, or -as happy as twenty other young men who are ready (when they have -finished _their_ calculations) to make the same offer; if she pause thus -and inquire, she is set down as a cold-hearted, selfish, intereste girl, -with no force of affection, with no ideas of a married life beyond the -bargaining of the shopman. - -Yet if two months _after_ marriage that same woman should be found -holding such discourse with herself about any of the affairs of life in -which she or her husband may have an interest, the whole world would -pronounce her a woman of sound principles, of good common sense, and a -pattern of wives. Yet, in the transaction which of all others most -concerns her, she must not urge advantages, must not calculate the -probable chances, must shut her eyes, and leap into a gulf which can -never restore her to the situation which she left. Perhaps some of our -young female readers will look over the shoulder of the child, and see -what the mirror says about such parts of life. - -Doubtless the mirror of life furnishes much of pleasure, much of high -distinction to the young gazer into its vaticinating depths; for what -child of such a mother ever lived long without desirable distinction? -All that we have of value in our character, and even in our later -condition, seems to spring from our mother. Wealth and consequent -position may be derived from the father, but unless the gentle -monitions, the constant watchfulness, the careful mind-moulding and -character-forming devotion of the mother prepare the child to retain and -exalt his position and augment his wealth, the legacy from the father -will waste away; wealth will be dissipated and position lost in the -early encounters of the youth with the world. But from infancy to -adolescence, from youth to manhood, and onward to age, the legacy of the -mother has continual increase; the beauties of mind which she imparted -augment with development, and the lofty lessons of virtue which she -gave, comes in man’s intercourse to be the rule of his conduct, and -means of his distinction. - -Is it not probable that the mother is now giving one of her lessons to -the child, imparting some instruction which shall hereafter be fruitful -of good? - -It does not seem that the heavenly look which rests upon her face is the -consequence of a mother’s love for the fame and fortunes of her child. -She is just entertaining the bright idea of the immortality of her son. -She is looking deep into his heart through his eyes, and she is thinking -how she shall impart that mighty thought to the boy; how she shall make -him comprehend her views about the antecedence of his soul, that -doctrine upon which must rest all her lessons of life, and all her hopes -of good from these lessons. - -The mother has caught the idea (whether true or false it matters not) -that her infant has some high remembrances of a former existence, and -that struck with what he sees in the mirror of life, he is attempting to -recall something of that state from which he came to animate the body -where youth seems to overshadow the past in his soul and clog its -movements toward the communion it once enjoyed. She sees, or thinks she -sees, something of this, and she catches the ennobling thought that the -antecedent of that soul, its primary and indefeasible right to -consideration, demand her utmost care, and that the cultivation of the -higher powers of the intellect must be made subservient to this still -_higher_ power—the immortal principal—where this union of soul and -body shall be made profitable to both. That is the mission of the -mother; her reward is not in the wealth, the honor, or the happiness of -her child—circumstances, consequent though these be upon her -teachings—her great reward, the certain and abiding compensation to the -virtuous mother for rearing her son to virtue, is found in that state -where virtue has its full appreciation, and affection its perfect work. -“The mirror of life” is full of lessons; it reflects truths that need -only appropriate display to make them profitable; and happy will it be -for all, if, catching some of the foreshadowings of the mirror of life, -we adapt our conduct to the events; and though we may not be able to -change an order of Providence, we can at least make the effect of that -Providence beneficial to ourselves. - - G. - - * * * * * - - - “GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.” - -MY DEAR JEREMY,—Do you ever think of our boarding-school loves, and -wonder where all those bright eyes, which used to blaze as from a -battery upon us from that pyramid of laughing faces, rising one above -the other to the topmost pane of those ample windows, are weeping or -laughing now? Do you promenade on the west side, as of yore, without a -sigh, and gaze into those deserted windows, from which smiles and -rose-tinted notes were showered down upon us with such munificence, -without a thought of the fair hands and glad hearts which then gave a -sort of sunlight to our devotion—the Mecca to which we turned in our -morning prayers and evening rambles? Is it not a sad thought, that as we -journey through life, the very innocency of boyhood, the first fresh -feelings of the heart, are things of which it is conventional to be -ashamed? As if it were a happiness, which we should call a conquest, to -learn the bitter lessons of life, at a sacrifice of all the fond -recollections of youth, a triumph to know the secret of deceiving with -smiles, and of wringing the hand kindly, of people we despise. Yet must -we learn the uses of adversity by time, and feel that the brightest of -_our_ days are passed forever; that hope, having cheated us for a -thousand times, has become bankrupt in our esteem, while the past, -brilliant and certain in joys experienced, recalls with the flitting -present, doubts of true happiness for us again. It is a stern -lesson—that which experience teaches us as we advance in years, to live -a life of distrust and doubt, to believe all goodness assumed, and -friendship but a cheat; to think that every man’s hand is either raised -against his brother, or is thrust into his pocket, and that there is no -such thing as self-sacrifice, except among the Hindoos. - -But, Jeremy, not to speak of instances, all of which must be as fresh to -your memory as to mine, I come back to the first question—do you ever -think of our boarding-school loves? and mingle with the remembrance -those unexpressed hopes and fears which flutter in the hearts of all of -us. My falcon towered above yours in ambition then; nothing less than a -mistress of rhetoric and _belles_ letters tempted the magnificent swoop -of my poetry and ambition; yours had a fierce and Byronic generality, -which made it dangerous for the whole covey of lesser birds. How many -were you in love with, _Jeremy_? At least, how many were made goddesses -by your poetry? “You decline,” under present circumstances matrimonial. -Well, a man with a growing family, I suppose, owes something to -appearances and to example. I have no such excuse to plead, and can be -as open as the day. - -_I_ really was in love then, Jeremy. Don’t you think so? But I was as -jealous as a Turk—a passion which you, from a lack of concentration, -thought very unreasonable. It _was_, too, considering that it was -engendered _before I_ _had ever spoken to the lady_, and finally -exploded very foolishly, and harmlessly, too, I believe, upon the head -of an innocent old teacher of Latin Grammar, or something of that sort, -old enough to be the lady’s grandfather, who _would_ be looking over her -album. I wrote my last piece of poetry after that, which _did my -business_ in that quarter, for the lady refused to see me or my poetry -any more. The loss, I think, was hers in the long run, though I suffered -with a heart-ache and prospective suicide for a month or two. I was very -much like the poor man in the story book, however, - - “For when I saw my eyes were out, - With all my might and main, - I jumped into another bush, - And scratched them in again.” - -The process was a rough one, and left a scar behind. I never saw the -lady but once afterward, and that was at Niblo’s. I confess to a -heart-fluttering, Jeremy, and some of that Spanish fierceness for making -declarations, which you used to laugh at; but fortune or fate denied me -means and opportunity; when the Vaudeville was over she was led off by -her party—_and I lost her_. - - “I saw her depart as the crowd hurried on, - Like the moon down the ocean, the graceful was gone! - On my ear her adieu, with its dulcimer swell, - Like the gush of cool waters in melody fell. - - “Starry stranger! so dazzlingly distant—unknown— - And observed in thy luminous transit alone; - By what fiat supreme must thy brilliancy quiver - O’er the depths of my darkened existence forever!” - -But our old friend C——, he’s married now, and is the happy father of -eight children, I believe. He always _had_ an insane passion for crowds. -Do you remember the night he escorted the whole boarding-school home -with his umbrella; he always _would_, like the author of “Calavar,” have -his umbrella with him—_a green one_—and this night the gods were -propitious. It blew a hurricane, and the rain came pitching down in -sheets, as if Niagara had attached a spout to the passing clouds. C—— -plied between the concert-room and the boarding-school, with the -regularity and precision of a Brooklyn ferry-boat, showing his regard -for the _fair_. After having deposited the fifteenth damsel safely, he -totally upset the propriety of an elderly lady who opened the door with -a polite invitation for him to “walk in”—an open sesame worth a -ducat—with the information that “_he was afraid_ _some more of the -folks were without umbrellas, and he must_ _see them home!_” A spirit of -self-denial and enlarged philanthropy worthy of a martyr. - -Do you remember the exploits of S—— with those gay girls? He was a -determined dandy and lady-killer, and resolved to take the whole school -by storm, and to punish the refractory. But some how or other they -wouldn’t be taken; so after firing into the flock a dozen times, with -his most distinguished bow, and letting off a whole volley of passionate -verses upon imprisoned damsels generally without execution—for no -enamored Julia threw herself at his feet, or replied—he resolved to -pick his bird. S—— had a cousin who visited a Miss T——, who was -immured in that dungeon which frowned most terrifically, in S.’s mind, -upon those within as well as those without; and he made, through this -channel, her acquaintance. A walk to church in company with his cousin -and Miss T—— perfected his little plot of taking the whole castle by -this entrance; but a simple incident destroyed the forces of the enemy, -and routed him, horse, foot, and dragoons. A violent storm came on while -they were at church one Sunday evening, and the streets were flooded -when they came out. The storm had passed, however, and a dull moon lent -but a feeble light to the escort. S—— dropped his cousin at her -door—it was the first chance he had, and starting on with Miss T——, -opened the batteries of the sentimental upon his victim in most -magnificent strength and style. As they crossed Canal street, S——, who -had been carefully piloting the way, releasing the lady’s arm gently -from his, and taking hold of the tips of those taper fingers with a -grace that D’Orsey could not have excelled, requested her to “please -step upon that stone,”—which the dull moon had _made_ in the -water—and, _presto!_ the lady stepped into a pool which would have -discolored the _belt_ of a grenadier of six feet; and in his horror at -his mistake, S—— missed his footing, and plunged in with a dive that -would have gained him admirers in _frogdom_. - -You remember the wit of Miss T——; she was out of the water almost -before he was in it, and turning round with a gay laugh at the -discomfited dandy, begged that “_if his thoughts of suicide were -confirmed, to try the river the next time, but she must decline being -either the disconsolate mourner, or a party to the folly!_” and with a -light trip was off, up the steps, and had rung the bell before S—— -could gasp an apology. - -This, with most men, would have been a settler, but S——’s vanity was -water and bullet-proof both. He dispatched the whole affair, to his -_own_ satisfaction, in a sonnet; and the next day, at two, strode past -the school with the step of a conqueror, the mark of a score of -quizzing-glasses and laughing faces. S—— bore the infliction _this -once_ with a nerve that would have taken any man to the cannon’s mouth. -But he grew fiery and retaliatory under its repetition. “I will settle -this business with a twenty-four pounder,” said he; and he did. The next -day S—— begged the spy-glass of an old pilot, and walking calmly down -with his dexter-eye on the enemy, surprised his forces by a cool, -steady, deliberate gaze through his blunderbuss with glasses. The -mistress ended the flirtation and supposed conquest by a threat, -delicately conveyed, that “any future conduct of the kind would be -intimated to the police.” - -S—— determined to “die game,” and marched by with his Spanish mantle -on each particular cold day, with the step of a grenadier; but fate, -jealous of his valor, tripped him up one exceedingly wintry afternoon, -when boys were experimenting with skates upon the side-walk. Poor S——, -who had given his cloak an extra turn over his shoulders, fell at full -length exactly opposite the window of the boarding-school, and -floundered in his vain attempts to extricate himself, like a salmon -thrown upon the land, his “Oakford” most ruinously crushed by a passing -omnibus; and to crown his confusion, in the midst of a dozen windows -suddenly thrown up, an Irish cabman hastened to his rescue, and having -unrolled him and placed him on his feet, considerately asked, within -hearing of two score of ears, “_whether he had been long there?_” The -glory of the conqueror was gone! - - “So fades, so languishes, grows dim, and dies, - All that this world is proud of.” - -The bright faces, laughing eyes, and happy hearts of our youth, with its -early friendships, have been replaced with sadder views of life, and you -and I, Jeremy, are older—the world would say, wiser—but are we -happier, Jeremy, think you? - - G. R. G. - - * * * * * - -MRS. DAVIDSON.—We present our reader this month with a well engraved -portrait of Mrs. Davidson, the mother of the celebrated and talented -girls Margaret and Lucretia Davidson, made immortal as well by their own -genius as by the beautiful volumes of their works, edited by Washington -Irving and Miss Sedgwick, and published by Lea & Blanchard in 1841. -Lucretia was born in Plattsburg, New York, on the 27th of September, -1808, and died on the 27th of August, 1825, just one month before her -17th birth-day. Margaret was born at the same place, on the 26th of -March, 1823, and died on the 25th of November, 1838, at the early age of -fifteen years and eight months. The early fate and singular genius of -these youthful poets occupied for so long a time the attention and -sympathy of the literary world, that it is needless for us to say much -here, but we cannot refrain from quoting two passages from a -distinguished critic upon their works. - -“The name of Lucretia Davidson is familiar to all readers of poetry. -Dying at the early age of 17, she has been rendered famous not less, and -certainly not more, by her own precocious genius than by three memorable -biographies, one by President Morse of the American Society of Arts, one -by Miss Sedgwick, and a third by Robert Southey. Mr. Irving had formed -an acquaintance with some of her relatives, and thus, while in Europe, -took great interest in all that was written or said of his young -countrywomen. Upon his return to this country, he called upon Mrs. -Davidson, and then, in 1833, first saw the subject of the memoir, a -fairy-like child of eleven. Three years having again elapsed, the MSS., -which formed the basis of his volume, were placed in his hands by Mr. -Davidson, as all that remained of his daughter. Few books have -interested us more profoundly. Yet the interest does not appertain -solely to Margaret. In fact, the narrative, says Mr. Irving, ‘will be -found almost as illustrative of the _character of the mother as the -child;_ _they were singularly identified in taste, feeling and -pursuits_: tenderly entwined together by maternal and filial affection, -they reflected an inexpressibly touching grace and interest upon each -other by this holy relationship, and, to my mind, it would be marring -one of the most beautiful and affecting groups in modern literature to -sunder them.’ In these words the biographer conveys no more than a just -idea of the loveliness of the picture here presented to view.” - - * * * * * - -“In the way of criticism upon these extraordinary compositions, Mr. -Irving has attempted little. . . . In respect to a poem entitled “My -Sister Lucretia,” he thus speaks, ‘We have said that the example of her -sister Lucretia was incessantly before her, and no better proof can be -given of it than the following lines, which breathe the heavenly -aspirations of her pure young spirit, in strains quite unearthly. We may -have read poetry more artificially perfect in its structure, but never -any more truly divine in its inspiration.’” - - * * * * * - -“Lucretia Maria Davidson, the elder of the two sweet sisters, who have -acquired so much fame prematurely, had not, like Margaret, an object of -poetical emulation in her own family. In her genius, be it what it may, -there is more of self-dependence—less of the imitative. _Her mother’s -generous romance of soul may have stimulated_ but did not instruct. -Thus, although she has actually given less _evidence_ of power than -Margaret—less written proof—still its _indication_ must be considered -at higher value. Margaret, we think, has left the better -poems—certainly the more precocious—while Lucretia evinces more -unequivocally the soul of a poet.” - -We had intended to have said more of the mother—since deceased—of -these remarkable girls, but our space warns us, that in this number, it -is impossible. Enough has been indicated above, to show her strong -sympathy with her daughter’s tastes, and how much she aided in forming -them. - - * * * * * - -THE JANUARY NUMBER.—We confess to a great degree of pride, from the -reception of our January number, by the newspaper press all over the -country, and from the regular subscribers to the work. It has been -pronounced, indeed, in several influential quarters, “The best number of -a monthly magazine ever issued in the language,” and this not alone from -the number and beauty of the embellishments—every one of which imparted -a value as a work of art to the number—but from the worth, variety and -_amount_ of literary matter. In issuing a _double number_ to our -readers, we were fully aware that we were repaying but a part of what we -owe them, for the liberal encouragement extended to us for a period of -ten years, without deviation or diminution; but we were scarcely -prepared for the large increase to our list of new friends which, in two -cities alone, extended to over three thousand new names. - -From every part of the country each mail comes freighted with clubs from -persons with whose subscriptions we have not heretofore been honored, -and our old friends, with astonishing unanimity, continue to cling to -“Graham as the best and only good Magazine” amidst the mass of -periodicals which now make up in noise and promises, what they lack in -merit and ability to perform. To say that we are not flattered by this -mark of favor extended to us by the readers of this country would be -useless, but so far from this fact lessening our exertions, it only -spurs us on to new endeavors to maintain that ascendancy over all others -which we have always held, by issuing a Magazine incomparably better -than any that attempts to rival it. - -Our February number, we think, will show no falling off in our -exertions, and the two numbers of the volume are an earnest of what our -readers may expect during the whole year of 1849. May it prove a -prosperous and happy one to our subscribers, as it has opened -auspiciously for ourselves. - - * * * * * - -A NEW SEA STORY.—We are gratified to be able to announce a new Sea -Story for the pages of Graham’s Magazine, by W. F. Lynch, of the navy, -whose recent explorations of the Dead Sea and vicinity, have so much -occupied the attention of the newspapers and scientific bodies -generally. The story is written with marked ability, and will be quite -an attraction in the coming numbers of Graham. - - * * * * * - -OUR PREMIUM PLATE.—We shall forward promptly to clubs and subscribers -entitled to our large premium plate, copies, carefully done up for -preservation, as soon as the artist completes it. It will be a very -beautiful parlor ornament when properly framed. - - * * * * * - -Our Fashion Plate for this month has been delayed by the ocean steamer, -and as we issue this number early, we postpone it till next month. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: Painted by Cook Eng^{d} by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch - -(OUR CONTRIBUTORS) - -_Mrs. M. M. Davidson_] - - Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BELLS OF OSTEND. - - - WRITTEN ON A BEAUTIFUL MORNING AFTER A STORM, - - BY W. L. BOWLES, - - THE MUSIC COMPOSED AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO - - SAMUEL MOFFAT JR. ESQ. OF ALBANY, - - BY J. HILTON JONES. - -[Illustration] - - No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end, - Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend! - The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud, - And rung as it pass’d thro’ each - -[Illustration] - - murmuring shroud. - - My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray, - My heart sighed in secret for those far away; - When slowly the morning advanc’d from the east, - The toils and the noise of the tempest had ceased: - The peal from a land I ne’er saw seemed to say, - Let the stranger forget all his sorrow to-day. - - SECOND VERSE. - - Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain— - I thought of those eyes I should ne’er see again; - I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave, - And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave; - I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned, - Of the trees, of the towers of my own native land; - But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled on the air - Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear; - And I never, till life and its shadows shall end, - Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend. - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to -condition of the originals available for preparation of the ebook. In -the story The Wager of Battle, the Chapter VI heading is missing due to -being absent from the original publication. Hyphenation and archaic -spellings have been retained. Punctuation has been corrected without -note. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as noted below. - -page 90, leaves are sear, ==> leaves are sere, -page 93, to make their ==> to make to their -page 104, whispered a page ==> whispered to a page -page 106, cylinders and guaging ==> cylinders and gauging -page 107, for the _denouément_ ==> for the _dénouement_ -page 107, I glad ==> I am glad -page 110, from all wordly ==> from all worldly -page 111, none was _politec_ ==> none was _politic_ -page 111, of their Lupercalla ==> of their Lupercalia -page 113, the wordly advantages ==> the worldly advantages -page 113, Mendelsshon’s music ==> Mendelssohn’s music -page 114, Druid chorusses ==> Druid choruses -page 119, Greydon, then she ==> Greydon, than she -page 121, tonge of flame ==> tongue of flame -page 125, from a _regime forcé_ ==> from a _régime forcé_ -page 127, merchans of celebrity ==> merchants of celebrity -page 128, ask him them ==> ask him then -page 132, sod have been ==> sod had been -page 132, sear turf of ==> sere turf of -page 145, havn’t told us ==> haven’t told us -page 146, physican arrived ==> physician arrived -page 150, maiden-thought be- becomes ==> maiden-thought becomes -page 151, style and rythm ==> style and rhythm -page 152, invaluabte companion ==> invaluable companion -page 153, with the orginal ==> with the original -page 154, down and mak ==> down and make -page 155, was her’s ==> was hers -page 155, an open sessame ==> an open sesame - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 1849 *** - -***** This file should be named 53949-0.txt or 53949-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - https://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/9/4/53949/ - -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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