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diff --git a/old/53963-0.txt b/old/53963-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0b3d483..0000000 --- a/old/53963-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6870 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXIV, No. 6, June -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'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXIV, No. 6, June 1849 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - J. R. Patterson - J. B. Taylor - -Release Date: January 14, 2017 [EBook #53963] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JUNE 1849 *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net from -page images generously made available by Google Books - - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - VOL. XXXIV. June, 1849. No. 6. - - - Table of Contents - - The Picture of Judgment; or The Grotta Del Tifoné - Thoughts - Stanzas - Deaf, Dumb and Blind - Raffaelle d’Urbino - Turn Not Away - Cousin Fanny - The Sleep of the Dead - From the Greek Anthologia - The Battle of Life - Fifty Suggestions - May Lillie - The New Search After Happiness - Night - Passages of Life in Europe - Stanzas for Music - For and Against - My Study - The Birth-Place of Benjamin West - Dreams of Heaven - The Young Dragoon - Wild-Birds of America - Vincente Filicaja’s Sonnet to Italy - Review of New Books - Editor’s Table - I Can’t Make Up My Mind - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: LE FOLLET - -PARIS, Boulevart S^{t.} Martin, 61 -_Robes & mantelet de M.^{me}_ Forgue, _boul. Bonne Nouvelle, 17_;—_Etoffes - de la_ Chausée-l’Autin, _N.^{o} 9_; -_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. de Choiseul, 2 bis_;—_Chapeaux de M.^{me}_ - Beaudry, _r. Richelieu, 87_; -_Fleurs de_ Chagot;—_Ombrelles de_ Cazal, _boulev.^{t} des Italiens, 23_; -_Mouchoir de_ Chapron, _r. de la Paix, 7_—_Essences & flacons de_ - Guerlain, _r. de la Paix, 11_] - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: W. Drummond Addison - -THE STAR OF THE NIGHT. - -Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - * * * * * - - VOL. XXXIV. PHILADELPHIA, June, 1849. NO. 6. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE PICTURE OF JUDGMENT; - - - OR THE GROTTA DEL TIFONÉ. - - A TALE OF THE ETRURIAN. - - - BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR of “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD - HURDIS,” &c. - - - Ma se conoscer la prima radice - Del nostri, amor, tu hai cotanto affetto, - Faro come colui che piange e dice. - DANTE. - - - CHAPTER I. - - _Introductory. The Sepulchres of Etruria._ - -The “Grotta del Tifoné”—an Etruscan tomb opened by the Chevalier Manzi, -in 1833—discovered some peculiarities at the time of its opening, which -greatly mystified the cognoscenti of Italy. It was found, by certain -Roman inscriptions upon two of the sarcophagi, that the inmates belonged -to another people, and that the vaults of the noble Tarquinian family of -Pomponius, had, for some unaccountable reasons, been opened for the -admission of the stranger. No place was so sacred among the Etruscans as -that of burial; and the tombs of the Lucumones of Tarquinia, were held -particularly sacred to the immediate connections of the chief. Here he -lay in state, and the scions and shoots of his blood and bosom were -grouped around him, being literally, as the old Hebrew phraseology hath -it, “gathered to their fathers.” It was not often, and then only under -peculiar circumstances, which rendered the exception to the rule proper, -that the leaves of stone which closed the mausoleum were rolled aside -for the admission of foreigners. The “Grotta del Tifoné,” so called from -the Etruscan Typhon, or Angel of Death, which appears conspicuously -painted upon the square central pillar, was the last resting-place of -the distinguished family of Pomponius. It is a chamber eighteen paces -long, and sixteen broad, and is hewn out in the solid rock. The -sarcophagi were numerous when first discovered. The ledges were -full—every place was occupied, and a further excavation had been made -for the reception of other tenants. These tombs were all carefully -examined by the explorers with that intense feeling of curiosity which -such a discovery was calculated to inspire. The apartment was in good -preservation; the paintings bright and distinct, though fully twenty-two -centuries must have elapsed since the colors were first spread by the -hands of the artist. And there were the inscriptions, just declaring -enough to heighten and to deepen curiosity. A name, a fragment—and that -in Latin. That a Roman should sleep in a tomb of the Etruscan, was -itself a matter of some surprise; but that this strangeness should be -still further distinguished by an inscription, an epitaph, in the -language of the detested nation—as if the affront were to be rendered -more offensive and more imposing—was calculated still further to -provoke astonishment! Why should the hateful and always hostile Roman -find repose among the patriarchs of Tarquinia?—the rude, obscure -barbarian, in the mausoleum of a refined and ancient family? Why, upon -an Etruscan tomb, should there be other than an Etruscan inscription? -One of the strangers was a woman! Who was she, and for what was she thus -distinguished? By what fatality came she to find repose among the awful -manes of a people, between whom and her own, the hatred was so deep and -inextinguishable—ending not even with the entire overthrow of the -superior race? The sarcophagus of the other stranger was without an -inscription. But he, too, was a Roman! His effigy, betraying all the -characteristics of his people, lay at length above his tomb; a noble -youth, with features of exquisite delicacy and beauty, yet distinguished -by that falcon visage, which so well marked the imposing features of the -great masters of the ancient world. - -The wonder and delight of our visiters were hardly lessened, while their -curiosity was stimulated to a still higher degree of intensity, as their -researches led them to another discovery which followed the further -examination of the “Grotta.” On the right of the entrance they happened -upon one of these exquisite paintings, in which the genius of the -Etruscan proves itself to have anticipated, though it may never have -rivaled the ultimate excellence of the Greek. The piece describes a -frequent subject of art—a procession of souls to judgment, under the -charge of good and evil genii. The group is numerous. The grace, -freedom, and expression of the several figures is beyond description -fine; and, with two exceptions, the effect is exquisitely grateful to -the spectator, as the progress seems to be one to eternal delights. Two -of the souls, however, are not freed, but convict; not escaping, but -doomed; not looking hope and bliss, but despair and utter misery. One of -these is clearly the noble youth whose effigy, without inscription, -appears upon the tomb. He is one of the Roman intruders. Behind him, -following close, is the evil genius of the Etruscan—represented as a -colossal negro—brutal in all his features, exulting fiendishly, in his -expression of countenance, and with his claws firmly grasped in the -shoulders of his victim. His brow is twined with serpents in the manner -of a fillet, and his left hand carries the huge mallet with which the -demon was expected to crush, or bruise and mangle, the prey which was -assigned him. The other unhappy soul, in similar keeping, is that of a -young woman, whose features declare her to be one of the loveliest of -her sex. She is tall and majestic; her carriage haughty even in her wo, -and her face equally distinguished by the highest physical beauty, -elevated by a majesty and air of sway, which denoted a person accustomed -to the habitual exercise of her own will. But, through all her beauty -and majesty, there are the proofs of that agony of soul which passeth -show and understanding. Two big drops of sorrow have fallen, and rest -upon her cheeks, the only tokens which her large Juno-like eyes seem to -have given of the suffering which she endures. They still preserve their -fires undimmed and undaunted, and leave it rather to the brow, the lips, -and the general features of the face to declare the keen, unutterable wo -that swells within her soul, triumphant equally over pride and beauty. -Nothing can exceed in force the touching expression of her agony -unutterable, unless in the sympathizing imagination of him who seeks for -the sources of the painter’s pencil into the very bosom of the artist. -Immediately behind this beautiful and suffering creature is seen, close -following, as in the case of the Roman youth already described, the -gloomy and brutal demon—the devil of Etruscan superstition—a negro -somewhat less dark and deformed than the other, and seemingly of the -other sex, with looks less terrible and offensive, but whose office is -not less certain, and whose features are not less full of exultation and -triumph. She does not actually grasp the shoulders of the victim, but -she has her nevertheless beneath her clutches, and the serpent of her -fillet, with extended head, seems momently ready to dart its venomous -fangs into the white bosom that shrinks yet swells beneath its eye. - -Long, indeed, did this terrible picture fix and fascinate the eyes of -the spectators; and when at length they turned away, it was only to look -back and to meditate upon the mysterious and significant scene which it -described. In proceeding further, however, in their search through the -“Grotta,” they happened upon another discovery. They were already aware -that the features of this beautiful woman were Roman in their type. -Indeed, there was no mistaking the inexpressible majesty of that -countenance, which could belong to no other people. It was not to be -confounded with the Etruscan, which, it must be remembered, was rather -Grecian or Phœnician in its character, and indicated grace and beauty -rather than strength, subtlety and skill, rather than majesty and -command. But, that there might be no doubt of the origin of this lovely -woman, examining more closely the effigy upon the sarcophagus first -discovered—having removed the soil from the features, and brought a -strong light to bear upon them—they were found to be those exactly of -the victim thus terribly distinguished in the painting. - -Here, then, was a coincidence involving a very curious mystery. About -the facts there could be no mistake. Two strangers, of remarkable -feature, find their burial, against all usage, in the tumulus of an -ancient Etruscan family. Both are young, of different sexes, and both -are Roman. Their features are carved above their dust, in immortal -marble—we may almost call it so, which, after two thousand years, still -preserves its trust—and, in an awful procession of souls to judgment, -delineated by a hand of rare excellence, and with rare precision, we -find the same persons, drawn to the life, and in the custody, as doomed -victims, of the terrible fiend of Etruscan mythology. To this condition -some terrible tale was evidently attached. Both of these pictures were -portraits. For that matter, all were portraits in the numerous -collection. With those two exceptions, the rest were of the same family, -and their several fates, according to the resolve of the painter, were -all felicitous. They walked erect, triumphant in hope and consciousness, -elastic in their tread, and joyous in their features. Not so these two: -the outcasts of the group—_with_ but not _of_ them—painfully -contrasted by the artist—terribly so by the doom of the awful -providence whose decree he had ventured thus freely to declare. The -features of the man had the expression of one whom a just self-esteem -moves to submit in dignity, and without complaint. The face of the -woman, on the contrary, is full of anguish, though still distinguished -by a degree of loftiness and character to which his offers no -pretension. There were the portraits, and there the effigies, and -beneath them, in their stone coffins, lay the fragments of their -mouldering bones—the relic of two thousand years. What a scene had the -artist chosen to transmit to posterity—from real life—and with what -motive? By what terrible sense of justice, or by what strange obliquity -of judgment and feeling, did the great Lucumo of the Pomponii, suffer -the members of his family to be thus offensively perpetuated to all -time, in the place of family sepulture? Could it have been the -inspiration of revenge and hatred, by which this vivid and terrible -representation was wrought; and what was the melancholy history of these -two strangers—so young, so beautiful—thus doomed to the inexpiable -torments of the endless future, by the bold anticipatory awards of a -successor, or a contemporary? To these questions our explorers of the -“Grotta del Tifoné” did not immediately find an answer. That they have -done so since, the reader will ascribe to the keen anxiety with which -they have groped through ancient chronicles in search of an event which, -thus wondrously preserved by art for a period of more than twenty -centuries, could not, as they well conjectured, be wholly obliterated -from all other mortal records. - - - CHAPTER II. - - _The Etrurian Captive at Rome._ - -The time had passed when Etruria gave laws to the rest of Italy. Lars -Porsenna was already in his grave, and his memory, rather than his -genius and spirit, satisfied the Etruscan. The progeny of the She -Wolf[1] had risen into wondrous strength and power, and so far from -shrinking within their walls at the approach of the vulture of Volterræ, -they had succeeded in clipping her wings, and shortening, if not wholly -arresting her flight. The city of the Seven Hills, looking with triumph -from her eminences, began to claim all within her scope of vision as her -own, and paralyzed at their audacity, their success, and their wonderful -genius for all the arts of war, the neighboring cities began to tremble -at the assertion of her claims. But the braver and less prudent spirits -of young Etruria revolted at this assumption, and new wars followed, -which were too fierce and bloody to continue long. It needs not that we -should describe the varying fortunes of the parties. Enough for our -purposes that, after one well-fought field, in which the Romans -triumphed, they bore away, as a prisoner, with many others, Cœlius, the -youthful Lucumo of the Pomponian family. This young man, not yet -nineteen, was destined by nature rather for an artist, than a soldier. -He possessed, in remarkable degree, that talent for painting and -statuary, which was largely the possession of the Etrurians; and, though -belonging to one of the noblest families in his native city, he did not -think it dishonorable to exercise his talent with industry and devotion. -In the invasion of his country by the fierce barbarians of Rome, he had -thrown aside the pencil for the sword, in the use of which latter weapon -he had shown himself not a whit less skillful and excellent, because of -his preference for a less dangerous implement. His captivity was -irksome, rather than painful and oppressive. He was treated with -indulgence by his captors, and quartered for a season in the family of -the fierce chief by whose superior prowess he had been overthrown. Here, -if denied his freedom, and the use of the sword, he was not denied a -resumption of those more agreeable exercises of art to which he had -devoted himself before his captivity. He consoled himself in this -condition by his favorite studies. He framed the vase into grace and -beauty, adorned its sides with groups from poetry and history, and by -his labors delighted the uninitiated eyes of all around him. The fierce -warrior in whose custody he was looked on with a grim sort of -satisfaction at the development of arts, for which his appreciative -faculties were small; and it somewhat lessened our young Etruscan in his -esteem, that he should take pleasure in such employments. At all events, -the effects, however disparaging, were so far favorable that they tended -to the increase of his indulgencies. His restraints were fewer, the old -Roman not apprehending much danger of escape, or much of enterprise, -from one whose tastes were so feminine; and the more gentle regards of -the family, in which he was a guest perforce, contributed still more to -sweeten and soften the asperities of captivity. As a Lucumo of the first -rank in Etruria, he also claimed peculiar indulgences from a people, -who, conscious of their own inferior origin, were not by any means -insensible to the merits of aristocracy. Our captive was accordingly -treated with a deference which was as grateful to his condition as it -was the proper tribute to his rank. The wife of the chief whose captive -he was, herself a noble matron of Rome, was as little insensible to the -rank of the Etrurian, as she was to the equal modesty and manliness of -his deportment. Nor was she alone thus made aware of his claims and -virtues. She had a son and daughter, the latter named Aurelia, a -creature of the most imposing beauty, of a lofty spirit and carriage, -and of a high and generous ambition. The brother, Lucius, was younger -than herself; a lad of fifteen, but he, like his sister, became rapidly -and warmly impressed with the grace of manner and goodness of heart -which distinguished the young Etrurian. They both learned to love him; -the youth, probably, with quite as unreckoning a warmth as his sister. -Nor was the heart of Cœlius long untouched. He soon perceived the -exquisite beauties of the Roman damsel, and, by the usual unfailing -symptoms, revealed the truth as well to the family of the maiden as to -herself. The mother discovered the secret with delight, was soon aware -of the condition of her daughter’s heart; and the relations of the -several parties being thus understood, it was not long before they came -to an explanation, which ended to their mutual satisfaction. Cœlius was -soon released from his captivity, and, to the astonishment of all his -family, returned home, bearing with him the beautiful creature by whom -his affections had been so suddenly enslaved. - ------ - -[1] Rome. - - - CHAPTER III. - - _The Brother and the Wife._ - -His return to Tarquinia was hailed with delight by every member of his -family but one. This was a younger brother, whose position had been -greatly improved by the absence and supposed death of Cœlius. He cursed -in the bitterness of his heart the fate which had thus restored, as from -the grave, the shadow which had darkened his own prospects; and though -he concealed his mortification under the guise of a joy as lively as -that of any other member of the household, he was torn with secret hate -and the most fiendish jealousy. At first, however, as these feelings -were quite aimless, he strove naturally to subdue them. There was no -profitable object in their indulgence, and he was one of those, cunning -beyond his years, who entertain no moods, and commit no crime, unless -with the distinct hope of acquisition. It required but a little time, -however, to ripen other feelings in his soul, by which the former were -rather strengthened than diminished, and by which all his first, and, -perhaps, feeble efforts to subdue them were rendered fruitless. In the -first bitter mood in which he beheld the return of his brother, the deep -disappointment which he felt, with the necessity of concealing his -chagrin from every eye, prevented him from bestowing that attention upon -the wife of Cœlius which her beauty, had his thoughts been free, must -inevitably have commanded. With his return to composure, however, he -soon made the discovery of her charms, and learned to love them with a -passion scarcely less warm than that which was felt by her husband. -Hence followed a double motive for hating the latter, and denouncing his -better fortune. Aruns—the name of the younger brother—was, like -Cœlius, a man of great talent and ingenuity; but his talent, informed -rather by his passions than by his tastes, was addressed to much humbler -objects. While the one was creative and gentle in his character, the -other was violent and destructive; while the one worshiped beauty for -its own sake, the other regarded it only as subserving selfish purposes. -Cœlius was frank and generous in his temper, Aruns reserved, suspicious -and contracted. The one had no disguises, the other dwelt within them, -even as a spider girdled by his web, and lying secret in the crevice at -its bottom. Hitherto, his cunning had been chiefly exercised in -concealing itself, in assuming the part of frankness, in appearing, so -far as he might, the thing that he was not. It was now to be exercised -for his more certain profit, in schemes hostile to the peace of others. -To cloak these designs, he betrayed more than usual joy at the -restoration of his brother. His, indeed, seemed the most elated spirit -of the household, and the confiding and unsuspecting Cœlius at once took -him to his heart, with all the warmth and sincerity of boyhood. It gave -him pleasure to perceive that Aurelia, his wife, received him as a -brother, and regarded with delight the appearance of affection that -subsisted between them. The three soon became more and more united in -their sympathies and objects, and the devotion of Aruns to the Roman -wife of Cœlius was productive of a gratification to the latter, which he -did not endeavor to conceal. It was grateful to him that his brother did -not leave his wife to that solitude in her foreign home, which might -sometimes have followed his own too intense devotion to the arts which -he so passionately loved; and, without a fear that his faith might be -misplaced, he left to Aruns the duty which no husband might prudently -devolve upon any man, of ministering to those tastes and affections, the -most delicate and sacred, which make of every family circle a temple in -which the father, and the husband, and the master, should alone be the -officiating priest. - -Some time had passed in this manner, and at length it struck our Lucumo -that there was less cordiality between his brother and his wife than had -pleased him so much at first. Aurelia now no longer spoke of Aruns—his -name never escaped her lips, unless when she was unavoidably forced to -speak it in reply. His approaches to her were marked by a timidity not -usual with him, and by a _hauteur_ in her countenance which was shown to -no other person. It was a proof of the superior love of Cœlius to his -wife that he reproached her for this seeming dislike. She baffled his -inquiry, met his reproaches with renewed shows of tenderness, and the -fond, confiding husband resumed his labors on the beautiful, with -perhaps too little regard to what was going on around him. Meanwhile, -the expression in the face of Aurelia had been gradually deepening into -gravity. Care was clouding her brow, and an air of anxiety manifested -itself upon her cheek—a look of apprehension—as if some danger were -impending—some great fear threatening in her heart. This continued for -some time, when she became conscious that the eye of her husband began -to be fixed inquiringly upon her, and with the look of one dissatisfied, -if not doubtful—disturbed if not suspicious—and with certain -sensibilities rendered acute and watchful, which had been equally -confiding and affectionate before. These signs increased her disquiet, -and deepened her anxiety. But she was silent. The glances of her husband -were full of appeal, but she gave them no response. She could but retire -from his presence, and sigh to herself in solitude. There was evidently -a mystery in this conduct, and the daily increasing anxieties of the -husband betrayed his doubts that it might prove a humiliating one at the -solution. But he, too, was silent. His pride forbade that he should -declare himself, when he could only speak of vague surmises, and perhaps -degrading suspicions. He was silent, but not at ease. His pleasant -labors of the studio were abandoned. Was it for relief from his own -thoughts that he was now so frequently in company with Aruns, or did he -hope to obtain from the latter, any clue to the mystery which disturbed -his household? It was not in the art of Aurelia so to mould the -expression of her countenance, as to hide from others the anxiety which -she felt in the increasing and secret communion of the brothers. She -watched their departure with dread, and witnessed their return together -with agitation. She saw, or fancied she saw, in the looks of the younger -a malignant exultation, which even his habitual cunning did not suffer -him entirely to conceal. - - - CHAPTER IV. - - _The Secret Picture._ - -At length the cloud seemed to clear away from the brow of her husband. -He once more resumed his labors, and with an eagerness and an avidity -which he had not betrayed before. His passion now amounted to intensity. -He gave himself no respite from his labors. Late and early he was at his -task—morning and night—without intermission, and with the enthusiasm -of one who rejoices in the completion of a favorite and long-cherished -study. Aurelia was not unhappy at this second change; to go back to his -old engagements and tastes seemed to her to indicate a return to his -former equanimity and waveless happiness. It was with some surprise, -however, and not a little concern, that she was not now permitted to -watch his progress. He wrought in secret—his studio was closed against -her, as, indeed, it was against all persons. Hitherto it had not been so -in her instance. She pleasantly reproached him for this seclusion, but -he answered her—“fear not, you shall see all when it is done.” There -was something in this reply to disquiet her, but she was in a state of -mind easily to be disquieted. She was conscious also of a secret -withheld from her husband—and her reproaches sunk back upon her heart, -unuttered, from her lips. She could not, because of what she felt, -declare to him what she thought; and she beheld his progress, from day -to day, with an apprehension that increased momently, and made her -appearance, in one respect, not unlike his own. She was now aware that -he was the victim of a strange excitement, in which his present artist -labors had a considerable share. He seemed to hurry to their prosecution -with an eager impatience that looked like frenzy—and to return from his -daily task with a frame exhausted, but with an eye that seemed to burn -with the subtlest fires. His words were few, but there was a strange -intelligence in his looks. His cheeks had grown very pale, his frame was -thinned, his voice hollow, in the prosecution of these secret labors; -and yet there was a something of exultation in his glance, which fully -declared that, however exhausting to his frame might be the task he was -pursuing, its results were yet looked to with a wild and eager -satisfaction. At length the work was done. One day he stood before her -in an attitude of utter exhaustion. “It is finished!” he exclaimed. “You -shall see it to-morrow.” - -“What is it?” she asked. - -“Nay, to-morrow! to-morrow!” - -He then retired to sleep, and rested several hours. She looked on him -while he slept. He had never rested so profoundly since he had begun the -labor from which he was now freed. The slumber of an infant had never -been less disturbed, never been softer, sweeter, or purer. The beauty of -Cœlius was that of the most peaceful purity. She bent over him as he -slept, and kissed his forehead with looks of the truest devotion, while -two big tears gathered in her large eyes, and slowly felt their way -along her cheeks. She turned away lest the warm drops falling upon his -face might awake him. She turned away, and in her own apartment gave -free vent to the feelings which his pure and placid slumbers seemed -rather to subdue than encourage. Why, with such a husband—her first -love—and with so many motives to happiness, was she not happy? Alas! -who shall declare for the secret yearnings of the heart, and say, as -idly as Canute to the sea, “thus far shalt thou go, and no farther—here -shall thy proud waves be stayed.” Aurelia was a creature of fears and -anxieties, and many a secret and sad presentiment. She was very far from -happy—ill at ease—and—but why anticipate? We shall soon enough arrive -at the issue of our melancholy narrative! - -That night, while she slept—for grief and apprehension have their -periods of exhaustion, which we misname repose—her husband rose from -his couch, and with cautious footsteps departed from his dwelling. He -was absent all the night, and returned only with the dawn. He re-entered -his home with the same stealthy caution with which he had quitted it, -and it might have been remarked that he dismissed his brother, with two -other persons, at the threshold. They were all masked, and otherwise -disguised with cloaks. Why this mystery? Where had they been—on what -mission of mischief or of shame? To Cœlius such a necessity was new, and -scarcely had he entered his dwelling than he cast aside his disguises -with the air of one who loathes their uses. He was very pale and -haggard, with a fixed but glistening expression of the eye, a brow of -settled gloom, from which hope and faith, and every interest in life -seemed utterly to be banished. A single groan escaped him when he stood -alone, and then he raised himself erect, as if hitherto he had leaned -upon the arms of others. He carried himself firmly and loftily, his lips -compressed, his eye eagerly looking forward, and thus, after the -interval of a few seconds, he passed to the chamber of his wife. And -still she slept. He bent over her, earnestly and intently gazing upon -those beauties which grief seemed only to sadden into superior -sweetness. He looked upon her with those earnest eyes of love, the -expression of which can never be misunderstood. Still he loved her, -though between her heart and his a high, impassable barrier had been -raised up by the machinations of a guilty spirit. Tenderness was the -prevailing character of his glance until she spoke. Her sleep, though -deep, was not wholly undisturbed. Fearful images crossed her fancy. She -started and sobbed, and cried, “Save, O save and spare him—Flavius, my -dear Flavius!”—and her breathing again became free, and her lips sunk -once more into repose. But fearful was the change, from a saddened -tenderness to agony and despair, which passed over the features of -Cœlius as he listened to her cry. Suddenly, striking his clenched hands -against his forehead, he shook them terribly at the sleeping woman, and -rushed wildly out of the apartment. - - - CHAPTER V. - - _Progress to the Sepulchre._ - -It was noon of the same day—a warm and sunny noon, in which the birds -and the breeze equally counseled pleasure and repose. The viands stood -before our Cœlius and his wife, the choicest fruits of Italy, and cates -which might not, in later days, have misbeseemed the favorite chambers -of Lucullus. The goblet was lifted in the hands of both, and the heart -of Aurelia felt almost as cheerful as the expression on her face. It was -the reflection in the face of her husband. His brow was gloomy no -longer. The tones of his voice were neither cold, nor angry, nor -desponding. A change—she knew not why—had come over his spirit, and he -smiled, nay, laughed out, in the very exultation of a new life. Aurelia -conjectured nothing of this so sudden change. Enough that it was -grateful to her soul. She was too happy in its influence to inquire into -its cause. What heart that is happy does inquire? She quaffed the goblet -at his bidding—quaffed it to the dregs—and her eye gleamed delighted -and delightfully upon his, even as in the first hours of their union. -She had no apprehensions—dreaded nothing sinister—and did not perceive -that ever, at the close of his laughter, there was a convulsive -quiver—a sort of hysterical sobbing, that he seemed to try to subdue in -vain. She noticed not this, nor the glittering, almost spectral -brightness of his glance, as, laughing tumultuously, he still kept his -gaze intently fixed upon her. She was blind to all things but the -grateful signs of his returning happiness and attachment. Once more the -goblet was lifted. “To Turmes (Mercury) the conductor,” cried the -husband. The wife drank unwittingly—for still her companion smiled upon -her, and spoke joyfully, and she was as little able as willing to -perceive that any thing occult occured in his expression. - -“Have you drank?” he asked. - -She smiled, and laid the empty goblet before him. - -“Come, then, you shall now behold the picture. You will now be prepared -to understand it.” - -They rose together, but another change had overspread his features. The -gayety had disappeared from his face. It was covered with a calm that -was frightful. The eye still maintained all its eager intensity, but the -lips were fixed in the icy mould of resolution. They declared a deep, -inflexible purpose. There was a corresponding change in his manner and -deportment. But a moment before he was all life, grace, gayety and great -flexibility; he was now erect, majestic, and commanding in aspect, with -a lordly dignity in his movement, that declared a sense of a high duty -to be done. Aurelia was suddenly impressed with misgivings. The change -was too sudden not to startle. Her doubts and apprehensions were not -lessened when, instead of conducting her to the studio, where she -expected to see the picture, he led the way through the vestibule and -into the open court of the palace. They lingered but for a moment at the -entrance, and she then beheld his brother Aruns approaching. To him she -gave not a look. - -“All is right,” said the latter. - -“Enter!” was the reply of Cœlius; and as the brother disappeared within -the vestibule, the two moved forward through the outer gate. They passed -through a lovely wood, shady and hidden, through which, subdued by -intervening leaves, gleamed only faintly the bright, clear sun of Italy. -From under the huge chestnuts, on either hand, the majestic gods of -Etruria extended their guiding and endowing hands. Tina, or Jupiter, -Aplu, or Apollo, Erkle, Turmes, and the rest, all conducting them along -the _via sacre_, which led from the palaces to the tombs of every proud -Etruscan family. They entered the solemn grove which was dedicated to -night and silence, and were about to ascend the gradual slopes by which -the tumulus was approached. Then it was that the misgivings of Aurelia -took a more serious form. She felt a vague but oppressive fear. She -hesitated. - -“My Cœlius,” she exclaimed, “whither do we go. Is not this the passage -to the house of silence?” - -“Do you not know it?” he demanded quickly, and fixing upon her a keen -inquiring glance. “Come!” he continued, “it is there that I have fixed -the picture!” - -“Alas! my Cœlius, wherefore! It is upon this picture that you have been -so deeply engaged. It has made you sad—it has left us both unhappy. Let -us not go—let me not see it!” Her agitation was greatly increased. He -saw it, and his face put on a look of desperate exultation. - -“Ay, but thou must see it—thou shalt look upon it and behold my -triumph, my greatest triumph in art, and perhaps my last. I shall never -touch pencil more, and wilt thou refuse to look upon my last and noblest -work. Fie! this were a wrong to me, and a great shame in thee, Aurelia. -Come! the toil of which thou think’st but coldly, has brought me peace -rather than sadness. It has made of death a thing rather familiar than -offensive. If it has deprived me of hopes, it has left me without -terrors!” - -“Deprived you of hopes, my Cœlius,” said the wife, still lingering, and -in mortal terror. - -“Even so!” - -“And, wherefore, O, my husband, wherefore?” - -“Speak not, woman! See you not that we are within the shadow of the -tomb?” - -“Let us not approach—let us go hence!” she exclaimed entreatingly, with -increasing agitation. - -“Ay, shrink’st thou!” he answered; “well thou may’st. The fathers of the -Pomponii, for two thousand years, are now floating around us on their -sightless wings. They wonder that a Roman woman should draw nigh to the -dwellings of our ancient Lucumones.” - -“A Roman woman!” she exclaimed reproachfully. “My Cœlius, wherefore -this?” - -“Art thou not?” - -“I am thy wife.” - -“Art sure of that?” - -“As the gods live and look upon us, I am thine, this hour and forever!” - -“May the gods judge thee, woman,” he responded slowly, as he paused at -the gate of the mausoleum, and fixed his eyes intently upon her. Hers -were raised to heaven, with her uplifted hands. She did not weep, and -her grief was still mixed with a fearful agitation. - -“Let us now return, my Cœlius!” - -“What, wilt thou not behold the picture?” - -“Not now—at another season. I could not look upon it now!” - -“Alas! woman, but this cannot be. Thou must behold it now or never. Hope -not to escape. Enter! I have a tale to tell thee, and a sight to show -thee within, which thou canst not hear or see hereafter. Enter!” As he -spoke, he applied the key to the stone leaf, and the door slowly -revolved upon the massy pivots. She turned and would have fled, but he -grasped her by the wrist, and moved toward the entrance. She carried her -freed hand to her forehead—parted the hair from her eyes, and raised -them pleadingly to heaven. Resistance she saw was vain. Her secret was -discovered. She prepared to enter, but slowly. “Enter! Dost thou fear -now,” cried her husband, “when commanded? Hast thou not, thou, a Roman, -ventured already to penetrate these awful walls, given to silence and -the dead—and on what mission? Enter, as I bid thee!” - - - CHAPTER VI. - - _The Chamber of Death—The Catastrophe._ - -She obeyed him, shuddering and silent. He followed her, closed the -entrance, and fastened it within. They were alone among the dead of a -thousand years—alone, but not in darkness. The hand of preparation had -been there, and cressets were burning upon the walls; their lights, -reflected from the numerous shields of bronze within the apartment, -shedding a strange and fantastic splendor upon the scene. The eyes of -Aurelia rapidly explored the chamber as if in search of some expected -object. Those of Cœlius watched them with an expression of scornful -triumph, which did not escape her glance. She firmly met his gaze, -almost inquiringly, while her hands were involuntarily and convulsively -clasped together. - -“Whom dost thou seek, Aurelia?” - -“Thou know’st! thou know’st!—where is he? Tell me, my Cœlius, that he -is safe, that thou hast sped him hence—that I may bless thee.” - -He smiled significantly as he replied, “He is safe—I have sped him -hence!” - -“Tinai, (Adonai,) my husband, keep thee in the hollow of his hand.” - -“How shameless! dost thou dare so much!” - -“What mean’st thou, my Cœlius?” - -“Sit thou there,” he answered, “till I show thee my picture.” He pointed -her, as he spoke, to a new sarcophagus, upon which she placed herself -submissively. Then, with a wand in his hand, he, himself seated upon -another coffin of stone, pointed her to a curtain which covered one of -the sides of the chamber. “Behind that curtain, Aurelia, is the last -work of my hands; but before I unveil it to thine eyes, let me tell thee -its melancholy history. It will not need many words for this. Much of it -is known to thee already. How I found thee in Rome, when I was there a -captive—how I loved thee, and how I believed in thy assurances of love; -all these things thou know’st. We wedded, and I brought thee, a Roman -woman, held a barbarian by my people, into the palace of one of the -proudest families of all Etruria. Shall I tell thee that I loved thee -still, that I love thee even now, when I have most reason to hate thee, -when I know thy perjury, thy cold heart, thy hot lust, thy base, -degrading passions!” - -“Hold, my lord—say not these things to my grief and thy dishonor. They -wrong me, not less than thy own name. These things, poured into thine -ear by some secret enemy, are false!” - -“Thou wilt not swear it.” - -“By all the gods of Rome—” - -“And of what avail, and how binding the oath taken in the names of the -barbarian deities of Rome.” - -“By the Etrurian—” - -“Perjure not thyself, woman, but hear me.” - -“Go on, my lord, I will hear thee, though I suffer death with every word -thou speak’st.” - -“It is well, Aurelia, that thou art prepared for this.” - -“Thy dagger, my Cœlius, were less painful than thy words and looks -unkind.” - -“Never was I unkind until I found thee false.” - -“Never was I false, my lord, even when thou wast unkind.” - -“Woman! lie not; thou wert discovered with thy paramour, here, in this -tomb; thou wert followed, day by day, and all thy secret practices -betrayed. This thou ow’st to the better vigilance of my dear brother -Aruns—he, more watchful of my honor than myself—” - -“Ah! well I know from what hand came the cruel shaft; Cœlius, my Cœlius, -thy brother is a wretch, doomed to infamy and black with crime. I have -had no paramour. I might have had, and thou might’st have been -dishonored, had I hearkened to thy brother’s pleadings. I spurned him -from my feet with loathing, and he requites me with hate. Oh! my -husband, believe me, and place this man, whom thou too fondly callest -thy brother, before thine eyes and mine!” - -“Alas! Aurelia, this boldness becomes thee not. I myself traced thee to -this tomb—these eyes but too frequently beheld thee with thy paramour.” - -“Cœlius, as I live, he was no paramour—but where is he, what hast thou -done with him?” - -“Sent him before thee to prepare thy coach in Hades!” - -“Oh, brother!—but thou hast not! tell me, my lord, that thy hand is -free from this bloody crime!” - -“He sleeps beneath thee. It is upon his sarcophagus thou sittest.” - -She started with a piercing shriek from the coffin where she sat, knelt -beside it, and strove to remove the heavy stone lid, which had been -already securely fastened. While thus engaged the Lucumo drew aside with -his hand the curtain which concealed the picture. - -“Look,” said he, “woman, behold the fate which thou and thy paramour -have received—behold the task which I had set me when first I had been -shown thy perjuries. Look!” - -She arose in silence from her knees, and turned her eyes upon the -picture. As the curtain was slowly unrolled from before it, and she -conceived the awful subject, and distinguished, under the care of the -good and guardian genii, the shades of well-known members of the -Pomponian family, her interest was greatly excited; but when following -in the train and under the grasp of the Etrurian demon, she beheld the -features of the young Roman who was doomed, she bounded forward with a -cry of agony. - -“My brother, my Flavius, my own, my only brother!” and sunk down with -outstretched arms before the melancholy shade. - -“Her brother!” exclaimed the husband. She heard the words and rose -rapidly to her feet. - -“Ay, Flavius, my brother, banished from Rome, and concealed here in thy -house of silence, concealed even from thee, my husband, as I would not -vex thee with the anxieties of an Etrurian noble, lest Rome should hear -and punish the people, by whom her outlaw was protected. Thou know’st my -crime. This paramour was the brother of my heart—child of the same sire -and dame—a noble heart, a pure spirit, whose very virtues have been the -cause of his disgrace at Rome. Slay me, if thou wilt, but tell me not, -O, Cœlius, that thou hast put the hands of hate upon my brother!” - -“Thy tale is false, woman—well-planned, but false. Know I not thy -brother? Did I not know thy brother well in Rome? Went we not together -oft? I tell thee, I should know him among a line of ten thousand -Romans!” - -“Alas! alas! my husband, if ever I had brother, then is this he. I tell -thee nothing but the truth. Of a surety, when thou wert in Rome, my -brother was known to thee, but the boy has now become a man. Seven years -have wrought a change upon him of which thou hast not thought. Believe -me, what I tell thee—the youth whom I sheltered in this vault, and to -whom I brought food nightly, was, indeed, my brother—my Flavius, the -only son of my mother, who sent him to me, with fond words of entreaty, -when the consuls of the city bade him depart in banishment.” - -“I cannot believe thee, woman. It were a mortal agony, far beyond what I -feel in the conviction of thy guilt, were I to yield faith to thy story. -It is thy paramour whom I have slain, and who sleeps in that tomb. His -portrait and his judgment are before thee, and now—look on thine own!” - -The picture, fully displayed, showed to the wretched woman her own -person, in similar custody with him who was her supposed paramour. The -terrible felicity of the execution struck her to the soul. It was a -picture to live as a work of art, and to this she was not insensible. -She clasped her hands before it, and exclaimed, - -“Oh! my Cœlius, what a life hast thou given to a lie. Yet may I bear the -terrors of such a doom, if he whom thou hast painted there in a fate -full of dreadful fellowship with mine, was other than my brother -Flavius—he with whom thou did’st love to play, and to whom thou did’st -impart the first lessons in the art which he learned to love from thee. -Dost hear me, my Cœlius, as my soul lives, this man was none other than -my brother.” - -“False! false! I will not, dare not believe thee!” he answered in husky -accents. His frame was trembling, yet he busied himself in putting on a -rich armor, clothing himself in military garb, from head to foot, as if -going into action. - -“What dost thou, my lord?” demanded Aurelia, curious as she beheld him -in this occupation. - -“This,” said he, “is the armor in which I fought with Rome when I was -made the captive of thy people, and thine. It is fit that I should wear -it now, when I am once more going into captivity.” - -“My husband, what mean’st thou—of what captivity dost thou speak?” - -“The captivity of death! Hear me, Aurelia, dost thou feel nothing at thy -heart which tells thee of the coming struggle when the soul shakes off -the reluctant flesh, and strives, as it were, for freedom. Is there no -chill in thy veins, no sudden pang, as of fire in thy breast. These -speak in me. They warn me of death. We are both summoned. But a little -while is left us of life.” - -“Have mercy, Jove! I feel these pains, this chill, this fire that thou -speak’st of.” - -“It is death! the goblet which I gave thee, and of which I drank the -first and largest draught was drugged with death.” - -“Then—it is all true! Thou hast in truth slain my brother. Thou -hast—thou hast!” - -“Nay, he was not thy brother, Aurelia. Why wilt thou forswear thyself at -this terrible moment? It is vain. Would’st thou lie to death—would’st -thou carry an impure face of perjury before the seat of the Triune God! -Beware! Confess thy crime, and justify the vengeance of thy lord!” - -“As I believe thee, my Cœlius—as I believe that thou hast most rashly -and unjustly murdered my brother, and put death in the cup which, -delivered by thy hands, was sweet and precious to my lips, so must I now -declare, in sight of Heaven, in the presence of the awful dead, that -what I have said and sworn to thee, is truth. He whom I sheltered within -the tombs of thy fathers, was the son of mine—the only, the last, best -brother of my heart; I bore him in mine arms when I was a child myself. -I loved him ever! Oh, how I loved him! next to thee, my Cœlius—next to -thee! Could’st thou but have spared me this love—this brother!” - -“How knew I—how know I now—that he was thy brother?” was the choking -inquiry. - -“To save thee the cruel agony that thou must feel, knowing this, I could -even be moved to tell thee falsely, and say that he was not my -brother—but, indeed, some paramour, such as the base and evil thought -of thy brother has grafted upon thine; but I may not, thy love is too -precious to me at this last moment, even if death were not too terrible -to the false speaker. He was, indeed, my Flavius, dear son of a dear -mother, best beloved brother, he whom thou did’st play with as a boy, to -whom thou gav’st lessons in thy own lovely art; who loved thee, my -Cœlius, but too fondly, and only forbore telling thee of his evil plight -for fear that thou should’st incur danger from the sharp and angry -hostility of Rome. Seek my chamber, and in my cabinet thou wilt find his -letters, and the letters of my mother, borne with him in his flight. -Nay,—oh! mother, what is this agony?” - -“Too late! too late! If it be truth thou speakest, Aurelia, it is a -truth that cannot save. Death is upon us—I see it in thy face—I feel -it in my heart. Oh! would that I could doubt thy story!” - -“Doubt not—doubt not—believe and take me to thy heart. I fear not -death, if thou wilt believe me. My Cœlius, let me come to thee and die -upon thy bosom.” - -“Ah! should’st thou betray me—should’st thou still practice upon me -with thy woman art!” - -“And wherefore? It is death, thou say’st, that is upon us now. What -shall I gain, in this hour, by speaking to thee falsely. Thou hast done -thy worst. Thou hast doomed me to death, and to the eyes of the -confiding future!” - -She threw her arms around him as she spoke, and sunk, sunk sobbing upon -his breast. - -“Ah!” he exclaimed, “that dreadful picture! I feel, my Aurelia, that -thou hast spoken truly—that I have been rash and cruel in my judgments. -Thy brother lies before thee, and yonder tomb is prepared for thee. I -did not yield without a struggle; and I prepared me for a terrible -sacrifice. Upon this bier, habited as I am, I yield myself to death. -There is no help—no succor. Yet that picture! Shall the falsehood -overcome the truth? Shall that lie survive thy virtues, thy beauty, and -thy life! No! my Aurelia, this crime shall be spared at least.” - -He unwound her arms from about his neck, and strove to rise. She sunk in -the same moment at his feet. “Oh, death!” she cried, “thou art, indeed, -a god! I feel thee, terrible in thy strength, with an agony never felt -before. Leave me not, my Cœlius—forgive—and leave me not!” - -“I lose thee, Aurelia! Where—” - -“Here! before the couch—I faint—ah!” - -“I would destroy,” he cried, “but cannot! This blindness. Ho! without -there! Aruns! It is thy step I hear! Undo, undo—I forgive thee all, if -thou wilt but help. Here—hither!” - -The acute senses of the dying man had, indeed, heard footsteps without. -They were those of the perfidious brother. But, at the call from within, -he retreated hastily. There was no answer—there was no help. But there -was still some consciousness. Death was not yet triumphant. There was a -pang yet to be felt—and a pleasure. It was still in the power of the -dying man to lift to his embrace his innocent victim. A moment’s return -of consciousness enabled her to feel his embrace, his warm tears upon -her cheek, and to hear his words of entreaty and tenderness imploring -forgiveness. And speech was vouchsafed her to accord it. - -“I forgive thee, my Cœlius—I forgive thee, and bless thee, and love -thee to the last. I know that thou would’st never do me hurt of thy own -will; I know that thou wert deceived to this—yet how, oh, how, when my -head lay upon thy breast at night, and I slept in peace, could’st thou -think that I should do thee wrong!” - -“Why,” murmured the miserable man, “why, oh, why?” - -“Had I but told thee, and trusted in thee, my Cœlius?” - -“Why did’st thou not?” - -“It was because of my brother’s persuasion that I did not—he wished not -that thou should’st come to evil.” - -“And thou forgiv’st me, Aurelia—from thy very heart thou forgiv’st me?” - -“All, all—from my heart and soul, my husband.” - -“It will not, then, be very hard to die!” - -An hour after and the chamber was silent. The wife had yielded first. -She breathed her last sigh upon his bosom, and with the last effort of -his strength he lifted her gently and laid her in the sarcophagus, -composing with affectionate care the drapery around her. Then, -remembering the picture, he looked around him for his sword with which -to obliterate the portraits which his genius had assigned to so -lamentable an eternity; but his efforts were feeble, and the paralysis -of death seized him while he was yet making them. He sunk back with -palsied limbs upon the bier, and the lights, and the picture, faded from -before his eyes, with the last pulses of his life. The calumny which had -destroyed his hopes, survived its own detection. The recorded falsehood -was triumphant over the truth; yet may you see to this day, where the -random strokes of the weapon were aimed for its obliteration. Of himself -there is no monument in the tomb, though one touching memorial has -reached us. The vaulted chamber buried in the earth was discovered by -accident. A fracture was made in its top by an Italian gentleman in -company with a Scottish nobleman. As they gazed eagerly through the -aperture, they beheld an ancient warrior in full armor, and bearing a -coronet of gold. The vision lasted but a moment. The decomposing effects -of the air were soon perceptible. Even while they gazed, the body seemed -agitated with a trembling, heaving motion, which lasted a few minutes, -and then it subsided into dust. When they penetrated the sepulchre, they -found the decaying armor in fragments, the sword and the helmet, or -crown of gold. The dust was but a handful, and this was all that -remained of the wretched Lucumo. The terrible picture is all that -survives—the false witness, still repeating its cruel lie at the -expense of all that is noble in youth and manhood, and all that is pure -and lovely in the soul of woman. - - * * * * * - - - - - THOUGHTS. - - - BY MARIE ROSEAU. - - -I have thoughts that like the eagle soar to a daring height, -That boldly revel in the glare of strong and dazzling light, -That glory in such brightness, and wish ’twas ever day, -That in unclouded brilliancy life’s hours might pass away. -I have thoughts that bow me to the dust in stupor-like despair, -That bind my soul with fetters to keep it always there; -That whisper I can never rise, that my spirit has no wings, -But must ever be content to lie amid earth’s blighted things. - -I have gentle, holy thoughts that come with sweet and soothing power -Instilling vigor in my heart, as dew upon the flower; -And then I feel that I would give the world if I could be -From all of human frailty and earthly passion free. -I have thoughts that breathe unholy air, that bring a chilling blight -Upon each better feeling, each principle of right: -Vain, foolish, envious, wicked thoughts that fill my heart with pain; -That pour wild tumult in my breast, and fever on my brain. - -I have thoughts that come like zephyrs in the spring-time of the year, -That bear sweet memories of my friends—those who are ever dear; -And some who at another time might seem but friends in name, -Are made by those same gentle thoughts a friendship true to claim. -I think me of the kindly deeds, the pleasant word or smile, -Which sometimes served in sadder hours a sorrow to beguile; -Oh, then I raise my heart in prayer for every one I know, -And ask our common God to bless and shield them from each wo; -And there is naught of sacrifice too great for me to bear, -If so I might but glad their hearts, or free their souls from care. - -I have thoughts that spread deep shadows of unholy, dark distrust, -That like a fearful whirlwind lay high hopes within the dust; -That recall forgotten mem’ries to a gloomy, clouded mind, -Of broken friendships, trusts betrayed, and words and looks unkind. -Ah, then suspicion dark and drear spreads forth her chilling blight, -And sick at heart I turn away, as withers in my sight -Bright hopes of future happiness—sweet friendships held most dear. -And I seem to live ’mid shattered wrecks, in strange, unearthly fear; -And I start to hear a kindly word, and my spirit dreads a smile, -Lest the word should be deceitful, or the smile be meant in guile: -And I deem that the wide world contains no friend who loves me well, -And I long to go away from earth to where the faithful dwell. - -I would not have them ever glad, those many thoughts of mine— -I would not with unclouded beams life’s sun should ever shine: -For He who sends the clouds and rain knows when they are needed best, -And I would upon his guiding care with firm reliance rest: -But I would my thoughts were ever right—were ever firm and strong, -Such thoughts as nerve the heart in might to conquer what is wrong, -I would not that my spirit breathe the taint of impure air, -But that only holy, heaven-sent thoughts should have an influence there. - - * * * * * - - - - - STANZAS. - - - BY MRS. O. M. P. LORD. - - - There’s music in thy voice, love; - Such notes have never been - Since years and years ago, love, - God’s angels talked with men; - It never chides nor blames, love, - But always seeks to praise. - In truth such gentle speech, love. - Thy native land betrays. - - Like summer cloud thy brow, love. - And hue of summer sky, - As ocean gives it back, love, - Dwells in that tender eye; - The heaven without looks in, love, - And sees its image there; - The heaven within looks out, love, - So wondrous clear and fair. - - Soon, soon, we all must sleep, love, - Through long and dreamless night; - And, waking, find these robes, love, - So changed, so clear and white; - But thou, so pure and free, love, - Thy garb from earthly stain, - E’en as thou laid’st it down, love, - Will take it up again. - - * * * * * - - - - - DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND. - - - OR THE NABOB UNCLE. - - - BY AGNES L. GORDON. - - -“Well, girls, prepare your sweetest smiles, and best behavior, for your -uncle has arrived at last, and I have just received this note, dated at -the Astor, announcing his coming, and accepting my invitation to make -our house his home; so, to use his own expression, we may expect him, -‘bag and baggage,’ this evening.” - -These words were addressed by Mrs. Medway to her daughters, as they sat -at breakfast, in an elegant apartment in a fashionable street up town. - -“That means, I suppose, that he comes with an ebony serving-man, in an -immense turban, half a dozen hookahs, innumerable packages, and -self-indulging contrivances, and all the et cæteras of an eastern -nabob,” replied Matilda. “I wonder where we are to stow away all the -trash that he will undoubtedly pour in upon us? I wish, mamma, you had -not invited him here; but if his coming prove but a golden one to us, I, -for one, am perfectly willing to play the agreeable, with so bright a -prospect in store.” - -“Not so with me,” exclaimed her younger sister Sophy, “I am determined -to do as I please, and not be like an automaton, at the will of a cross -old invalid, as I have no doubt he is. I suppose we must have great -fires built up all summer, and be content to be baked, and browned to -crisps, in ovens of rooms, while old yellow-face shivers with cold, and -swears at the climate. And then we must live on curries, and spices, and -pilaus, and all sorts of horrid nauseous messes, until we are as yellow -and bilious as himself. I boldly protest against all such proceedings, -and thus, once for all, good people, declare myself free and -independent.” - -“But recollect, girls,” said their mother, while she laughed at Sophy’s -declaration, “he is your father’s brother, and as such entitled to at -least an appearance of respect. I wish he was less afflicted to be sure, -for it will be a sad drawback, I fear, upon your amusements; but keep up -your courage, and remember that to be co-heiresses of an Indian nabob is -a distinction very much to be coveted, and worthy some sacrifices to -attain.” - -“I am sure his deafness will be a great relief to us all,” chimed in -Matilda, “so as we play propriety and have plenty of delicate -attentions, and wreathed smiles, in readiness, we can indulge once in a -while in a theatrical aside of impatience, which will be quite a safety -valve to the temper.” - -“But if he is an invalid he must necessarily be cross,” answered Sophy, -“and as his sight is impaired, he will probably want some one to read to -him; _that_ task I absolutely refuse to perform; for as to reading any -thing more than the last magazine, it is an effort I never was equal to. -We will appoint Grace reader to his Indian majesty. What say you, Grace, -are you not overwhelmed with the honor?” - -This question was addressed to a quiet girl, who had hitherto taken no -part in the conversation, but who replied with a smile, “If your uncle -is in reality the disagreeable person you describe, I shall not be -emulous of the honor you design me; but if he is in truth an invalid, I -will wait on him with cheerfulness, for you know I am accustomed to a -sick chamber.” - -“That’s just like you, Grace, always ready and willing to do for every -one,” answered Sophy. “Of course he is an invalid—all nabobs are. He -has the gout, and we must all creep on tip-toe about the room, lest an -unlucky jar might give him a twinge, and bring down a volley, not of -blessings, upon our devoted heads. Then the liver complaint is a -necessary appendage, and blue pills and calomel will abound. Bah! what a -house it will be to be sure, I should not wonder if he has a pet monkey -and half a dozen macaws, and we shall have a menagerie and hospital -combined. If such _is_ the case, I shall run off and get married; so -don’t wonder if some morning I am missing.” - -“And thus forfeit your claim to the fortune in store,” said her sister; -“for my part I am willing to take a pill every other day, in the hope -that it will prove at last a gilded one, and will feed the macaws to a -surfeit—” - -“In fact, kill them with kindness,” interrupted Sophy, laughing. “Well, -you are welcome to all you can get, the pill will be bitter if it _is_ -gilded; I love my ease too well to be shackled even with golden fetters; -so Grace and you may divide the labor and the reward.” - -“Grace will of course do whatever is required of her,” said Mrs. Medway -gravely, “but as she has no claim of kindred upon your uncle, she will -not expect any other return than my approval. And now girls we have -spent a long time chatting; I must go and prepare for our newly arrived -relative’s coming, and remember, Sophy, that you treat him with all -deference and respect; you might have a little natural feeling—” - -“All fudge, mamma,” laughed Sophy, rising from her seat; “talk of -natural feeling, indeed, for a cross old fidgety fellow one never saw, -and scarcely ever heard of, except when he sent you that superb India -shawl. I tell you, mamma, it is a natural feeling for his presents and -his rupees that inspires you and Matilda; I will none of them except -they come in a _natural_ way, without any force put on my inclination. -You know I am a little Pickle, and I intend to be as sour as vinegar.” - -“And I as sweet as honey-water,” cried Matilda, as she left the room. - -“Yes, and as insipid, too,” replied her sister, following. “As for you, -Grace,” she added, looking back, “as you fortunately have no selfish -considerations, you can afford to be, as you always are, ‘Simple Grace, -gracious and graceful,’” so saying, the noisy girl slammed the door -after her, leaving Grace to her daily duty of washing the breakfast -things, and arranging the room. - -Mrs. Medway was the widow of a merchant who had left his family -possessed of a moderate income, which they contrived should, like a thin -plate of gold, cover a large surface. They lived up to their means in -every sense. Mrs. Medway gave parties, kept several servants, lived in a -large house, showily furnished, and dressed herself and daughters -splendidly. All this could not be done without strict economy somewhere; -and while the soirées of Mrs. Medway were pronounced delightful, the -servants made many complaints of their daily fare. Mrs. Medway was only -one of a class; there are hundreds who, to use a vulgar phrase, “rob -Peter to pay Paul,” and fast at home, that they may appear to feast -abroad. - -The coming of Jacob Medway, an elder brother of her husband, who had -spent his life in India, and now returned to his native land, to enjoy -his fortune and find an heir, was an important event to Mrs. Medway. She -would rather, to be sure, have him unacquainted with certain parts of -her household arrangement, but she hoped to reap a golden harvest, and -wished to give her daughters an opportunity of ingratiating themselves -in his favor. These daughters were handsome, showy girls. Matilda, the -elder, had been a decided belle for several seasons. She was tall and -slender, with very fine dark eyes, rather long face, and that -distinguished air and manner that stamps the woman of fashion. She was -very anxious to secure her uncle’s favor, for she argued that a fine -fortune might secure her the alliance that her fine person had hitherto -failed to win. - -The younger daughter, Sophy, with less beauty than her sister, was still -much admired. She had a rattling, dashing way of saying pert, and -sometimes shrewd things, that passed for wit, among the idlers who -surrounded her, though they often winced under the keenness of her -remarks. She was not amiable, but possessed a sturdy independence that -was a redeeming trait, and though often displaying it in a most -disagreeable manner, was in reality much less selfish than her -soft-lipped sister. - -The other inmate of the family whom we have mentioned, was Grace -Addison—“little Grace,” as she was wont to be affectionately termed in -her own happy home, but now, “Simple Grace,” as Sophy loved to call her. -The mother of Grace was a cousin of Mrs. Medway; she had been left a -widow in very straitened circumstances, her husband dying when Grace was -just fifteen. Grief and anxiety threw her in a consumption, and she died -two years after, leaving her orphan child to the care of her cousin, -Mrs. Medway, who had herself been tenderly reared under the roof of Mrs. -Addison’s father, and upon whom the grand-daughter of her benefactor -certainly had a claim. - -Mrs. Medway was a selfish woman, and the charge was irksome, but the -circumstances of her own early life and adoption were so extensively -known, that she dared not brave the censure of her friends by refusing -it; and thus whilst Grace was ostensibly cared and provided for, she was -made to feel her dependence, and had resolved in her own heart to seize -the first opportunity of releasing her self from this thraldom, -preferring to earn her daily bread, than to receive it as a favor while -she toiled for it as a menial. But her gentle and pliant nature dreaded -to offend or grieve Mrs. Medway, for she knew that she was really -essential to her, whilst for Sophy, rude as she at times appeared, she -felt a warm attachment, for she alone acted toward her as an equal and a -friend. - -Grace Addison was not beautiful, but she had charms enough to have made -her a dangerous rival, had she appeared on equal terms with the sisters. -She shrunk, however, from society, and seldom appeared at Mrs. Medway’s -_soirées_, very much, it must be confessed, to that lady’s satisfaction. -We have said Grace was not beautiful—lovely is the epithet properly -belonging to her. Scarcely above the middle height, her slender form was -inexpressibly graceful in all its attitudes; there were no angles about -her, Sophy said. Every accidental position was a study for a -sculptor—and never was the gentle name of Grace more fitly applied. Her -deep, thoughtful blue eyes were shaded by long black lashes, that rested -on a cheek whose deepest tint never exceeded the glow on the lip of a -sea-shell, and the delicate features, and rich mass of dark hair, gave -that air of refinement so rare and so indescribable. Such was the family -of which the nabob, Jacob Medway, was expected to become an inmate. - -In Mrs. Medway’s drawing-room the family was assembled to receive the -expected guest. Sophy was ridiculing her sister, and imitating the -welcome which she said Matilda had learned by rote, when the noise of -carriage-wheels were heard, and presently a loud ring of the bell -announced the arrival. Mrs. Medway arose, and went into the hall, and -then came the sound of trunks unstrapped, and packages thrown in, and -next, enveloped in cloaks, the rich uncle stepped from the carriage, and -being welcomed by Mrs. Medway, was shown at once to his room, where -every accommodation for his comfort had been made. He had a colored -servant, and as many packages as even Matilda expected, but no pet -monkey or macaws as yet appeared. - -“Well, mamma, what is he like?” exclaimed both daughters in a breath, as -she re-entered the room. - -“You shall judge for yourselves presently,” she answered. “He does not -appear to be gouty, however, for he stepped quite firmly into the hall, -and his voice is pleasant and not at all cross.” - -“So, perhaps, Matilda will not have the gratification of being a martyr -after all,” cried Sophy, laughing; “her honey-water will sour by -keeping, and my vinegar become flat; well, after all, I am a little -disappointed. I don’t believe he is at all rich, Matilda, unless he is -gouty, cross, and every thing bad; it would be too much of a good thing -if he were.” - -Matilda did not much relish her sister’s raillery, and a sharp reply -rose to her lips as the door opened and her uncle entered. Mrs. Medway -immediately rose, and introduced him to her daughters, and Grace offered -him the arm-chair which he politely accepted, and then expressed, in a -very few words, his thanks for her courtesy. - -He was, of course, an object of great interest to the little group, and -did not altogether answer their expectations. - -Uncle Medway was tall, and rather stout, with a fine open countenance, -yellow and brown, to be sure, in its hue, but the expression of his -mouth contradicted at once all idea of ill-nature. His eyes were small, -with a keen, shrewd, searching expression; and one could scarcely credit -that their vision was impaired, so that without glasses he could not -distinguish minute objects. He carried an ear-cornet in his hand, and -apologised for his infirmities, speaking in a nervous and abrupt manner. - -“You will find me a troublesome inmate, I fear, madam,” he said to Mrs. -Medway; “my infirmities make me a poor companion. I am a man of few -words, and my loss of hearing renders it almost impossible to enjoy the -conversation of others, while even the pleasure of reading is in part -denied me.” - -“My daughters will be delighted to serve you in every way,” said Mrs. -Medway, graciously. - -“Now is your chance,” loudly whispered Sophy, to her sister, “lay your -eyes, ears, and tongue, at the feet of your golden idol.” - -“Sophy!” exclaimed her mother, in an agony, but the sight of the -ear-cornet calmed her fears. - -The evening passed slowly away; Uncle Medway retired early, and the -young ladies, after exchanging opinions of him, went to rest, to dream -golden dreams, as Sophy maliciously said. - -Uncle Medway did not appear at breakfast on the following morning, but -during the forenoon, while the young ladies were occupied at their -several employments, he unexpectedly entered, and with an apologetic -smile and bow, took the seat which Matilda hastened to offer, tendering -at the same time very affectionate inquiries regarding his health. The -old gentleman quietly put on his glasses and lowered his ear-cornet, -requesting her to repeat her words, while Sophy maliciously offered to -prompt her, in case she forgot her lesson. Matilda looked thunder at her -sister, and sunshine at her uncle as she repeated her questions. - -“I rested well, thank you,” said her uncle, “and as I hope to become -better acquainted in time, you will not, I trust, be offended at my -scrutiny.” He took Matilda’s hand as he spoke, and looked earnestly in -her countenance. - -“Do you consider me like papa?” she inquired with her most engaging -smile, and speaking in the cornet, without which it was evident he could -hear nothing. - -“Humph, not much; your sister there is more like him,” he answered, -pointing with his ear-trumpet to Sophy. - -“There, Matilda, is ten thousand lost to you,” laughed the giddy girl. - -“What does she say?” asked the old gentleman, casting a shrewd look at -her; “come here, merry one, and tell me yourself.” - -Sophy rose and courtesied before him, as she said to Grace, “Your turn -next—so prepare. I wonder if the old Indian thinks he can turn us about -as he would some China ornaments, while we stand bobbing like so many -mandarins before him?” then turning to her uncle, she added, “I am -delighted that you think I resemble my father, sir, although Matilda is -counted the beauty, and I the fright.” - -“Oh, Sophy, how can you rattle so,” exclaimed Grace. - -“Now hush, Grace, until your time comes. You know I always speak out -what I think.” - -“Especially when you know one party at least cannot hear,” said her -sister, sarcastically. - -“You all seem to be chattering away among yourselves like so many -magpies,” said the old gentleman. “But who is this young lady in the -corner?” - -“Our cousin, Grace Addison,” screamed Sophy, at the top of her voice, -“and the dearest, best, kindest cousin in the world. She makes all our -dresses, copies Matilda’s music, waters her flowers, sketches in her -album, and does a thousand things for which others get the credit; and -more than all, she bears all my impertinences, and never gets out of -patience. Now, Grace,” turning toward her, “you are properly introduced, -come and speak for yourself. I think I have made _one party at least_ -hear this time,” she added, to her sister; “and if old yellow-face has -half as much generosity as he should have, there is a nice little plum -in store for Simple Grace.” So saying, she ran out of the room. - -When the party met at dinner, there were several dishes cooked to suit -Uncle Medway’s taste, among the rest a curry. Mrs. Medway and Matilda -accepted some of the proffered viand, but when the old gentleman -politely turned to Sophy, she exclaimed, - -“No, I thank you, none of your nauseous messes for me—the very smell of -them takes away my appetite. Mamma, after this, I think I shall dine in -my own room.” - -“What does the young lady say?” asked Uncle Medway, elevating his -cornet, “that she has no appetite?” - -“I say I can’t bear curry,” screamed Sophy. - -“Oh, Sophy, how can you be so rude?” said her mother, in despair. - -“Because I hate hypocrisy,” answered the other, angrily. “There sits -Matilda, striving to appear to eat what I know she abhors, afraid to say -what her likes or dislikes are; it would not be worth the effort she -makes to swallow it, if the hateful curry-powder was gold-dust. See, she -is pale now—and sick, too, I dare say; for shame, Matilda. Uncle -Medway, must, indeed, be deaf, dumb, and blind, not to discover in a -short time all your false pretences.” Sophy spoke rapidly, despite of -both mother and sister’s attempts to stop her, and Grace’s appealing -looks. Secure in their guest’s entire deafness, she railed severely at -the deceit she despised. Uncle Medway cast a searching look toward -Matilda, and then turning to Grace, who sat next him, invited her to -partake of his favorite dish. Grace thanked him, but declined. - -“What,” said he, with a smile, “can’t you bear curry either? Perhaps you -have never tasted it.” - -“I am not fond of it, I confess,” answered Grace. “I have often seen it -on my grandfather’s table, and he tried in vain to induce me to like -it.” - -Again those shrewd eyes of Uncle Medway rested on Grace’s countenance, -and no further discussion arising, the dinner passed pleasantly off. - -After dinner Grace was left alone with the old gentleman, while the -sisters took their usual promenade, when suddenly turning toward her, he -said, in his peculiarly abrupt manner, “Who _was_ your grandfather?” - -Grace looked up in surprise, but immediately answered, “My grandfather’s -name was Maurice Addison.” - -“And your father’s?” - -“Jacob Addison; he was born in India—” and then, with a sudden impulse, -she exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Medway, did you know my grandfather? Are you not -the old friend I have so often heard him mention, who went out to India -with him, and who was so true and kind to him in illness and trouble? -You _are_, I am sure, and my father was named after you, Jacob Addison.” -It was unusual for the quiet Grace to be roused to such enthusiasm, but -she rose from her seat, and laying her hand on the old gentleman’s -chair, looked into his face with such an affectionate and expectant -gaze, that his heart must have been adamant, indeed, to resist it. And -as his was, in reality, a loving and unselfish heart, he drew Grace -gently toward him, and a pleasant smile lighted up his face, as he said, - -“And _are_ you Maurice Addison’s own little merry pet, Grace, he so -often mentioned in his letters to me? _You are_, I am sure; and you are -the daughter of my little god-son, Jacob, who was only knee-high when I -saw him last. And now, my dear child, for surely I have a right to call -you so, why are you living here? Where are your parents?” - -Tears started in Grace’s eyes as she related the circumstances of her -parents’ death, and her admission into Mrs. Medway’s family, adding, -that though they were all very kind to her, she would remain no longer -than until she could procure an independent situation, as she feared, in -Mrs. Medway’s circumstances, she was a burden. - -“Humph!” was the only reply; and then the old gentleman added, “Say -nothing about this conversation, if you please, until I give you -permission.” - -Grace willingly acceded; she knew that Mrs. Medway would not like to -believe she possessed any claim, however slight, on Uncle Medway’s -regard; and although feeling an attachment to him for her grandfather’s -sake, had not the slightest idea of endeavoring to rival her cousins. - -One morning Uncle Medway expressed a desire to drive through the city, -and wished one of the ladies to accompany him as a _cicérone_. Matilda’s -services were instantly offered, and politely accepted. On their return, -Matilda threw herself on a sofa, exclaiming to her mother, - -“Well, I never was so wearied in all my life; and I consider this -splendid dress, which uncle purchased for me at Stewart’s, as very -hardly earned. Never will I consent to be driven about, shut up in a -carriage with such a perverse, questioning old codger again for a dozen -dresses. Why the old man seemed to think I must know the whole history -of the city, from its first settlement—we will have to lend him -Diedrich Knickerbocker’s book. And then such stopping to admire the -churches and other buildings, while groups of fashionables passed and -stared; it is an ordeal I never will pass through again.” - -“The honey-water is exhausted, is it?” asked Sophy. “You gave it in too -great quantities at first; well, for my part, I might be induced to take -one drive with such a reward in view.” - -“What is that,” asked the uncle, turning sharply around, “don’t Matilda -like her dress?” - -“Shall I answer for you?” said Sophy. - -“Oh, yes,” interrupted Mrs. Medway, “she was expressing her admiration -and gratitude; but she says she will fear to go with you again, lest you -should think her motives interested.” - -“Humph! the motives are apparent enough!” muttered the old gentleman; -then turning to Grace, he said, “Will _you_ accompany me to-morrow, -Grace. I promise faithfully that you shall have no reward, save the -consciousness of obliging a troublesome old man?” - -Grace gladly assented, and Mrs. Medway’s consent being given, Grace -became the almost daily companion of the old gentleman, who seemed, -however, to bestow but little notice on her, lavishing all his -preference on Matilda, who was elated with her success. - -A few days after, Uncle Medway brought down a closely-written letter of -several pages, which he asked Matilda to copy for him, as she had so -often expressed the pleasure it gave her to do any thing for her dear -uncle. Matilda received the document with a gracious smile, and promised -it should be done by the following morning. That evening the sisters -went out with their mother, and Mr. Medway retired early to his own -room, but having occasion to come down again for his glasses, he saw -Grace bending over a table, on which were spread writing materials. She -leaned her head on her clasped hands and sighed heavily. As he entered -the room she looked up, and hastily drew a blank sheet over the page she -had written. - -“You look pale, child,” said the old gentleman, as he put on his -spectacles. “What are you doing there?” - -“Only writing a little—but I have a severe headache,” answered Grace. - -“Go to bed, then—what are you poking your eyes out there for? I dare -say some long letter to a sentimental friend, eh?” He approached the -table as he spoke. - -“You shall not see it, if it is,” said Grace, playfully putting her hand -on the paper, “and I must finish it to-night, because I have promised—” -she paused. - -“Well, well,” said the old man, kindly, “promises must be kept, of -course. I hope Matilda has kept her promise of copying my letter—do -_you_ think it will be finished by to-morrow morning, Grace?” And -without waiting a reply, he left the room. - -The following morning, the letter and copy were laid by Uncle Medway’s -plate, and the old gentleman, examining it with an approving glance, -took a fifty dollar note from his pocket-book, and said, “I do not wish -to offend, by offering a remuneration for this correct and beautiful -copy; but I know you ladies have always some charitable object of -interest, and the fair writer of this must have devoted many hours to -its accomplishment. It will gratify her to have the power of doing good -in every way—a power which will, perhaps, ere long be unlimited. Will -you accept it, Matilda, as to you it justly belongs, and be my almoner?” - -Matilda’s eyes sparkled; this speech inferred much, and as she -gracefully took the note, she thanked her uncle, and promised to dispose -of it in charitable donations. - -After breakfast, Uncle Medway was deeply engrossed in a paper, which he -was endeavoring to decipher, and the sisters were sitting together, when -Sophy said, - -“Well, Matilda, what charitable institution do you intend to benefit by -uncle’s donation; as you earned the money so honorably, you will, of -course, disburse it with equal honesty and justice.” - -Matilda colored slightly, but laughed, saying, “I shall do myself the -charity to purchase that superb head-dress, and several costly et -cæteras that I want for Mrs. Dayton’s ball; and if you are a good girl, -and hold your tongue, you shall be an object of charity, too.” - -“Now, Matilda, that is too mean, even for you,” exclaimed the other, -indignantly. “Shame on you, as Grace really copied the letter, she -should at least have the privilege of distributing the money; here she -comes now. Grace, in what way ought uncle’s donation to be applied—you -are the proper person to decide, and prevent Matilda from the -selfishness she contemplates, in bestowing it all upon herself and me.” - -Her sister crimsoned with anger, but Grace spoke. - -“I am sure you do Matilda injustice, Sophy; she would never act so -deliberate a falsehood; as she told her uncle it should be applied to -charity, she will certainly keep her word. And there is poor Mrs. Brown, -the laundress, it would, indeed, be a charity to assist her—” - -“And begin by paying her bills,” interrupted Sophy. - -But her sister, rising angrily, exclaimed, “I will not be dictated to by -either of you,” and hastily left the apartment. - -Uncle Medway had now been domesticated in the family for several weeks, -and must, indeed, have been deaf, dumb and blind, to remain ignorant of -the by-play going on around him. Secure in his entire deafness, Matilda -frequently made use of her safety-valve aside; and once, when requested -by her uncle to play, and she said to her sister, “I hope to have the -pleasure of playing the Dead March for him ere long,” she caught his eye -fixed upon her with such a severe glance, that a momentary doubt of his -inability to hear made her tremble; but again assured by his bland -manner toward her, she plied her fulsome flatteries more assiduously -than ever. Grace often wondered how one so clear-headed in all other -things, should be so easily imposed upon, while Sophy regarded her -sister with undisguised contempt; and by way of offset, became more rude -and impertinent than ever. - -The rich uncle had been a great assistance to the household; his -generous heart was continually prompting him to make those presents -which he saw were required—and this was done in the most delicate -manner. It was with mingled feelings, therefore, that Mrs. Medway met -the information he one day gave, that he had purchased a house in one of -the most fashionable squares, and desired the taste of the ladies to -assist him in furnishing it. He intended to celebrate his installation -in his own home, by a splendid ball and supper, to which, as he had few -acquaintances, he begged the ladies to invite those friends whose -society was desirable. He also told Mrs. Medway, in confidence, that if -she would part with one of her fair charges, he wished on the appointed -evening, publicly to announce his choice of one of them as his heiress -and adopted daughter, on condition that she resided with him to cheer -his lonely old age. Mrs. Medway gave a delighted assent. She had no -doubt on whom the choice would fall, and immediately congratulated -Matilda, and caused it to be whispered among her confidential friends -that her eldest daughter would be the heiress of the Indian nabob. -Matilda declared the infliction of residing with such a horrid bore a -severe penalty, but promised herself the satisfaction of spending his -money at pleasure, while Sophy maliciously advised her to practice the -“Groves of Blarney” preparatory to the “Dead March.” - -The important evening arrived, and the three young ladies, elegantly -attired in dresses of embroidered crape over India satin, presented by -Uncle Medway, took their places in his splendid saloon to receive their -guests. Matilda evidently took the precedence; and very handsome she -looked in her stately beauty, doing the honors with all the grace which -the future mistress of so superb an establishment should possess. While -Grace, looking perfectly lovely in her pure and tasteful dress, shrunk -abashed from the admiring gaze bestowed upon her, and was confused by -the attention she excited. Uncle Medway went cheerfully among his -guests, ear-cornet in hand, and spectacles on nose, quizzed by some, -respected by many, and flattered by all. - -Just as supper was announced, and the musicians had left the ball for -the supper-room, Uncle Medway, supporting Mrs. Medway on his arm, and -followed by the young ladies, stepped into the midst of the brilliant -circle, and said, - -“My guests are aware, I suppose, of my intention to adopt one of these -fair young ladies as my sole heiress, my sister-in-law having kindly -consented to spare one from her bright circle. I am a lonely old man, -with many peculiar notions, and I require, therefore, a cheerful, yet -gentle and patient spirit, to support my whims. Such an one I have found -in the person of Grace Addison, the grandchild of my oldest friend, and -the daughter of my namesake and godson. I therefore declare her my -adopted child and heiress.” - -A murmur of surprise ran through the assembly, Mrs. Medway and Matilda -seemed ready to sink with confusion, Sophy clapped her hands, and Grace, -pale and trembling with surprise and emotion, suffered herself to be led -forward by the old gentleman, who continued, - -“I have met with much kindness and attention beneath the roof of my -sister-in-law, in token of which I shall bequeath to my niece, Matilda, -the sum of thirty thousand dollars, when she has the pleasure of playing -the Dead March for me. And to her sister, whose opinions were at least -frankly avowed, I shall leave a similar amount. My ear-cornet and -glasses have served me a trusty part, and I now lay them aside, I hope -forever, trusting that the ladies have profited by the lesson they have -themselves taught me, that appearances are often deceitful, and one need -not be deaf, dumb and blind, though he is a Nabob Uncle.” - -Whether Mrs. Medway and her daughters stayed to the splendid supper -prepared, and swallowed their mortification and the delicacies together, -this record sayeth not; but that the beautiful heiress, Grace Addison, -became at once a star of the first magnitude in the fashionable world, -is to be expected; but the bright star ever found her happiness in -enlivening the home of the eccentric but kind old man, who found in his -adopted daughter the delight and solace of his old age. - - * * * * * - - - - - RAFFAELLE D’URBINO. - - - BY W. H. WELSH. - - - ’Twas night in Florence! - - Pale the eve had come, - And flung o’er Nature’s form a sable shroud. - With step as light as joy the day had gone, - And sunk into his jeweled couch, o’erhung - With crimson canopy and crystal sheen. - The rosy-colored clouds, with emerald fringed, - That veiled the blushing sky, had faded far— - And as the night crept on with noiseless tread, - Bright starry eyes looked on the sleeping Earth, - And smiled that then it was so like their home. - Through latticed bower and tesselated hall, - The zephyr danced with wild and airy wing; - And spirit-songs sighed on the startled air - That blew as fragrant as in Araby! - The night was holy! - - On the arching sky - The Painter turned and saw its thousand fires. - Around his peaceful form the breezes stole - With viewless pinions from Æolus sent, - While ever and anon a passing breath, - More eager than its fellow, rippled up - The curls that gathered on his glorious brow. - Like one whose spirit-form was not of Earth - He seemed that hour, for o’er him halos hung, - Such only as the vales of Paradise - Enclose around the beings of their birth. - And as he gazed upon the star-lit hall, - And then with straining sight looked on the sky, - As if to catch from it some angel glance, - He sat him down and buried up his face. - With agony oppressed, his very heart - Was shrunk and withered, e’en as when a bird - Whose little life has been a holyday, - Is overwhelmed as summer clouds have wept. - Why thus did shadows press upon his soul, - And with their awful wings fright hopes away? - Why thus disturbed? Fame in his way had strewn - With reckless hand, her fairest, proudest gifts— - Had taught his name to echo far amid - The ages yet unborn, as though a God - From high Olympus he’d been missioned forth! - And yet his heart was sad—for in his dreams - There broke upon his fancy such a form - As dwelleth only in the Elfin-land. - For her he pined—for her he breathed a sigh— - And prayed to God that she might come to him, - And in his waking moments bid him live. - And as, with gloom and darkness thick’ning round, - He sat and wept for joys that might not be, - From out the dim and mystic land of dreams, - There came to him entranced such visioned sights - As never mortal eye had seen before. - Back on the crumbling path of Time he went, - And stood amid the light of ancient days— - Amidst the treasures of the mighty dead! - The seal that held the past was shriveled up, - And from the breathing ruins wondrous forms - Swept by, and walked again the sea of Life. - The young and beautiful of olden time— - The giant habitants whose genius swayed - The visible creation at its dawn, - All gathered there in that fantastic realm, - To swell that ghostly throng! - - And as they came, - One form arose so matchless in its grace, - That all, amazed, shrank tremblingly away. - With queenly step she trod the ravished turf, - And with her winsome foot the lovely buds - In very ecstasy of rapture played, - That one so gentle sought their perfumed home. - A veil of silver-tissue, mottled o’er - With sparkling stars, hung round her sylphid form, - And tresses, rich like Autumn’s golden grain, - Fell down, and nestled on her snowy breast. - Too exquisite for earth—of mould too fine— - She seemed a herald from the beaming sky, - Sent down to whisper of the spirit-land. - Such sight, I ween, had painter never seen; - And e’en the charméd breath of poesy, - Whose blissful cadences the enwrapt ear - Of wondering mortals caught with silent joy, - Had conjured up in wild and weird-like spell, - No face that ever was so fair and bright. - One look she gave the painter as he gazed, - That made to him a desert of the world— - A look so full of passion and of love, - It turned the memory of the past a blank, - And in the future left him naught but her. - His soul was all afire, and his brain - Swam round, as when the throbbing heart of man - Is burst for happiness it cannot hold; - And as he strove to break the mortal chain - That bound him where he lay, a mist arose - And envious bore that being from the spot. - Far from his sight she fled! and passed away - With floating witcheries of wildest song, - Into the twilight land where spirit forms - Like phantoms mingled with the swelling gale. - Far from his sight she fled! and like a barque - Whose guiding star has left its native sky, - The painter drifted on with heedless sail! - . . . . . . - The morning breeze crept in the painter’s hall! - And near the window ledge, with pallid brow, - He lay like one whose very pulse had gone. - With tips of gold the princely spires and domes - Of Florence gleamed, and on her throne she sat - A queen in pride—queen of the Tuscan land! - The morning grew apace, and fleecy clouds, - The children of the dawn, trailed o’er the sky. - Still Raffaelle slept. - - Near by his side - Were rudely strewn the handmaids of his toil; - And on his easel hung a picture full - Of beauty as the glow on Dian’s front. - No human eye had ever turned its gaze - Upon that fair and sacred thing, save one, - And little recked he now of bliss in store. - The morning breeze crept in the painter’s hall, - And catching its fresh scent he woke and stared - Upon the sky that blazed with living light; - And then again around the hall he cast - A look that spoke of sorrow and of pain. - And while he tried to chase away the clouds - That brooded o’er him like a fearful spell, - The radiant image of that lovely one - That was his nightly dream, flashed on his sight; - With wonderment he stood and scarcely breathed, - For fear a lightsome sound might fright her far. - Ay! there she beamed—a rainbow in the storm— - For in his sleep his mighty genius woke, - And gave embodiment to face and form; - And joy clung round his overburdened heart, - Like sunlight on the drooping bud, when storms - Have rocked its tender petals in the breeze! - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: Painted by Gainsborough - Engraved by F. Humphreys - -THE COTTAGE DOOR. - -_Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine_] - - * * * * * - - - - - TURN NOT AWAY. - - - BY HENRY MORFORD. - - - If a voice from the far and happy land - Ever echoed over thy cradle bed; - If a mother’s voice and a mother’s hand - Ever laid a blessing upon thy head; - If a golden truth from the sacred page, - Ever was thine in an earlier day, - And still lives on in thy riper age— - Turn not away. - - If hope beat high when thy youth began— - Bright hope and love for thy human kind— - And cares have pressed on the heart of man - Till love is weary and hope is blind; - If still one star of all the host, - Burns with an old remembered ray, - Believe not all of thy life is lost— - Turn not away. - - If sickness calls thee with feeble cry, - Or suffering moans from its bed of pain; - If a pleading comes from the sunken eye, - Or madness shrieks from the fevered brain; - Oh! watch, as the angels watch above, - Oh! pray for them as the angels pray; - Bring heart and hand to the labor of love— - Turn not away. - - If poverty stands at thy cottage door— - Squalid poverty, faint and weak— - Begging a crust from thy little store. - Or the poor, cheap rest that the weary seek; - Remember thou, that the mighty wheel - Of fortune changes, day by day; - Never be deaf to the poors’ appeal— - Turn not away. - - If thy brother fall in the slippery path, - And his hands are stained with human sin, - If the sword of the world is raised in wrath, - And no city of refuge invites him in; - If his pitiful cry come up to thee, - Remember that all men go astray, - Still let thy heart his refuge be— - Turn not away. - - If life grows dark as thy years roll by, - And Heaven is veiled in cloud and storm, - Oh! still look up with a trusting eye, - For a beckoning smile from an angel form; - So shall thy heart keep its holy laws, - Fulfilling its mission day by day, - And God, when thou pleadest thy final cause— - Turn not away. - - * * * * * - - - - - COUSIN FANNY. - - -BY M. S. G. NICHOLS, AUTHOR OF “UNCLE JOHN,” “THE WORLD AS IT IS,” ETC. - - - CHAPTER I. - -A pale, wan woman, with a young girl by her side, walked quickly along -Chatham street, just as the twilight was deepening into darkness. She -was very thinly clad, her light shawl was only a covering—it was no -protection from the keen autumn air. It had once been an elegant and -fashionable silk, but its fashion had long since passed away. It had -been colored and colored again, until its substance had well-nigh -disappeared. Her straw bonnet had been renovated many times, but not for -a long time, and its faded ribbon was passed plainly over the crown, for -it would have been mockery to make such ribbon into bows. Every thing -that covered this young creature was passing away, and as she entered a -pawn-broker’s shop, you might have seen by the light of the lamp that -fell on her face, that she, too, was passing from a world that had given -her small welcome, at least for many years. It would have been a comfort -to any benevolent person, who had looked into that pale face, to have -seen the red spot on one of her cheeks, and to have heard her cough. - -What had she to do in a world so cold, with that miserable shawl to wrap -around her ulcerated lungs, that smarted like fire with every breath of -cold air they inhaled. She might as well have wrapped herself in -cobwebs, as in clothes such as hers. - -She went into the shop, her poor, little, shadowy child clung close to -her mother. She had little knowledge of the place or the people, though -she had many times been there, but she knew that after many tears, her -mother went there, and then that for a brief space they had food. - -The poor lady took from her pocket two miniature pictures—the golden -setting had been removed sometime before. They were by a master’s hand, -worth at least one hundred dollars each, and infinitely precious to her, -being the likenesses of her father and mother. - -“What will you give me for these?” said she, trembling in every nerve as -she spoke. - -The hard money-getting son of Israel, whose trade was pawn-broking, and -whose business made him look on misery three hundred and thirteen days -in the year, answered, “They are worth nothing to me, madam.” - -The lady shrunk into herself as if she had been shriveled. Her face and -lips became deadly pale. She supported herself against the side of the -box in which she stood, to conceal herself from view; and her little -girl held her hand and clung to her garments in great fear. Very soon -she began to cough, and in a moment her thin, tattered, white -handkerchief was saturated with the blood she raised. - -The Jew looked at her with a mingling of kindness and fear. She must not -bleed to death there. The pictures he knew were of much value, though -there was a good deal of risk in taking them. He pitied the bleeding -woman. Yet, pawn-broker and Jew as he was, he pitied her. - -“I will give you four dollars on them,” said he, and he hastily ticketed -them, and handed her the money, to her infinite relief. She felt that -she and her child had now a reprieve from death. The Jew selected some -bills that bore a discount of ten per cent., and yet he pitied the -woman, and she was so grateful to him that she could have pressed his -hand, and wept hot tears upon it. She hurried away to her attic in -Frankfort street. It was dark, and she feared insult. New York was worse -lighted and worse cared for then than now. We had no gas and no star -police then, but we had plenty of Jews and pawn-broker’s shops. - -As she passed along she raised the blood that pressed into her throat as -fast as possible, but still it almost strangled her. Well-dressed -people, men of business, returning home, and men and women hurrying to -the theatre, the concert-room, or the prayer-meeting, or to the varied -business or amusement of life, passed her without notice. She was their -sister, but how were they to know that she was dying—that her scanty -life-current was staining the pavement on which they stepped. - -She reached the last landing-place, and thought that she could go no -further, but it was not seemly to die there, and she made a last effort -and entered her room. She was startled by a bright light in the -room—light at night she had not had since she made the last dozen of -shirts at ten cents a piece. Stranger still, there was a good, bright -fire in the grate. Her husband stood before it, with his face toward the -door, and his hands behind him, showily dressed as usual. She had not -seen him for many days. - -“O, Edward!” said she, “I am so glad you are come”—and she fainted, and -would have fallen to the floor if he had not caught her in his arms. He -laid her upon the meagre bed that had long since been robbed of every -valuable article for the pawn-broker. - -“Fanny,” said he, with a choking voice, “my poor Fanny!” He sprinkled -water on her face, and she opened her eyes. - -“I am going, Edward,” said she. - -“No, no!—you will not die now. O, don’t die till you have forgiven me -for being your mur—” - -“Don’t say that—I forgive as I would be forgiven. Our child—” - -A hard fit of coughing and copious bleeding hindered her from speaking -for some time. - -“Our poor Marie—give her to your Cousin Charles; he has wealth and none -to care for. Promise me that you will do this.” - -The husband, trembling with fear, gave her the required promise, when -she strangled from an excessive rush of blood into the trachea, and died -with her daughter clinging madly around her neck. - -Edward Evans, the gambler and man about town, was alone with his dead -wife, who, fourteen years before, he had persuaded to elope from her -parents, and to marry him. She had gone through every gradation of -suffering and poverty, and but for a strange run of luck that he had had -for two or three evenings, she would have died in that dark, cold room, -alone with her child, and have been buried in Potter’s Field. As it was, -Evans had a basket of coal, a pound of candles, some food, and money to -buy his wife a grave. And wretched as he was, we must do him the justice -to say that he was glad to be able to bury his wife decently. And he did -it. - -And now he bethought him of her last request. He must make the effort to -give away the child, who had clung to the corpse of her mother to the -last moment, and who had not seemed to see or hear at all, since that -mother was buried out of her sight. - - - CHAPTER II. - -A patient, plodding man was Charles Evans—a man who had made his own -fortune, and was perfectly sure that every man might do the same who -chose to mind his own business and keep at work, and not spend money or -time. He went to election and voted, and went home without drinking a -“brandy-smasher,” or a “whiskey-toddy.” He was a democrat when he had no -property to protect, and when he had acquired wealth, he had got in the -habit of being a democrat—and his democracy was his religion, his Faith -in Human Brotherhood. He immured himself in a living tomb in Wall street -all day, and worked half the night at his home in William street, -beside. It was here that Edward Evans found him, the evening after his -wife’s funeral. - -“How are you, Ned?” said Charles, glancing at him to see if he were -sober, and then continued to fold and direct letters, seeming a little -nervous under the infliction of a visit from his worthless cousin. - -“I have been very unfortunate,” said Ned, a good deal troubled how to -penetrate his thick-skinned cousin. - -“I never knew you otherwise,” said Charles, and he wrote on. - -“I mean, I have had the bad fortune to bury my wife.” - -“Very good fortune for her,” said his cousin, but he dropped his pen and -regarded the weed on Ned’s hat. “I did not notice that you were in -mourning. So Fanny is dead. It is a long time since I have seen her. She -died of a broken-heart, I suppose, you will allow.” - -“She bled to death from her lungs.” - -“All the same. Pity it had not been you.” - -“I came to see you about the child. She wished me to give her to you.” - -“To ME,” said his cousin, starting with real astonishment. “What could I -do with a child, and a child who could never see her father again if she -were to live with me? How old is she?” - -“I don’t justly remember,” said Ned. - -“Is there a race-horse in the city whose age you don’t remember? How -long did it take you to kill your wife—do you know that? How long have -you been a drunkard and a devil? How long have you eaten when your wife -and child starved? How long have you hid them where even I could not -find them—can you tell me that, you decently dressed vagabond? I’ll -warrant your wife is clad as warmly in her grave as she was out of it.” - -Ned could answer nothing. He was a wretch—and he had the good sense to -know it. He had not the slightest respect for himself, but he wanted his -child taken care of; then, if he had a pint of brandy, and six feet of -rope, he _thought_ he would comfort himself with the brandy, and hang -himself with the rope; but then he had a great liking for cards and a -decent rig, and it is probable that while luck, or loaded dice, gave him -broadcloth and brandy, he would have laid up the rope against a lack of -either, which he would have considered a decided reverse of fortune. - -“I promised my wife that I would give the girl to you. If you will take -her, I will go to the South, and never show my face here again.” - -“What on earth am I to do with a child? My old blind aunt can’t see to -herself and me—how is she to take care of another? But it is a -temptation to be rid of you. How does the girl look?” - -The father was again at a loss. - -“Oh, you don’t know—what color is Kenny’s horse, Eclipse? How many -hands high is he, and how old? How far can he run in ten minutes and -thirteen seconds?” - -“Once for all—will you take the girl?” said the man whose life was -exhausted by dissipation and excitement into an apathy that resembled -patience. “She will have to go to the Almshouse if you don’t, and your -blood is in her veins. She is your grandmother’s grandchild.” - -“I _would_ like you to be the only one of our blood who should die in -the Almshouse; but I say again—what am I to do with the child? I can -only take her as a servant.” - -“Make a slave of your own blood if you like,” replied the father, whose -stupid apathy was pierced at last. “She had better serve you than serve -the devil. She is a good, serviceable child.” - -“O, you know that, do you? No doubt you know all about that. Look you, -Ned Evans, I owe you no service. I have earned every dollar I have, -whilst you have squandered a fortune twice as large as mine, of your -own, and another for your wife, whilst you have been a sponge to soak -brandy, a gambler and a stool-pigeon for gamblers, and have made -acquaintance with every horse-dealer and all the horse-flesh in the -Union, and have murdered your wife by inches, till at the age of 29 -years, an age when she should be as fresh as a new-blown rose, and with -her fortune living as well as any lady in the land, you have done her -the last and only kindness you ever did her—you have bought her a pine -coffin, and have seen her buried. But though I know you ought to be -hung, I will make a bargain with you. I will see you on board a vessel -bound for New Orleans, with your passage paid, and take your child. You -agree to go to New Orleans. When once you are there, I have no fear of -you or your ghost ever appearing to me again. On these conditions I will -take the child.” - -“When must I sail for New Orleans? I’ll go after Monday. The race with -Eclipse and Black Bess comes off then. I have agreed to ride for Kenny. -I know the horse better than anybody else. Besides, a fellow must keep -his word.” - -“Very good,” said Charles, after a moment’s thought. “You _may_ break -your neck, and save me the passage-money. I agree to that—any thing -more?” - -“When may I bring the girl?” - -“To-morrow morning at 6 o’clock.” - -“That’s too early to wake her,” mumbled Ned. - -“Then, or not at all. You can keep sober one night, and get up in decent -season one morning in your life, for the sake of getting your child a -situation.” - -If a particle of Ned Evans’ old spirit had been left, this taunt of -getting his daughter a situation would have roused it. But his life was -crushed. He was hopelessly besotted and exhausted, though now he had -decent clothes, for which he had sacrificed the last remnant of decent -feeling he possessed. These clothes belonged to the keeper of the vilest -Hell in New York; and Ned was his “decoy-duck,” and did any job the -fellow set him about. - -He was as craven before his cousin as possible. He had one instinct of -his nature left—he wanted to provide for his child. - -“I will be here at the time, so help me God,” said he—and he kept his -word. It was the last right act of his life. As if to make his cousin -out a prophet, he rode Eclipse, and broke his neck in earnest, though -not in “_sober_ earnest.” - -When Charles Evans heard of it, he only said, “One poor devil less in -the world;” but he murmured to himself, as he turned away, “Poor Cousin -Ned!” - - - CHAPTER III. - -“Send the little girl to my room to-night, aunty, when you have made her -decent. I must see what she is fit for, and what she looks like. -Remember, she is to have good warm clothes, but no gewgawry.” - -At 8 o’clock precisely, Marie came into Mr. Evans’s room with a waiter, -on which was spread the most frugal sort of a supper. Rye bread and -butter and black tea, it was his sovereign pleasure to be served with at -night. - -Mrs. Evans had had time only to extemporise an amelioration in the -girl’s dress. She was at that very awkward age when a girl is not a -child or a woman. She had a heavy burden of deep-red hair, and all her -bones showed through their scant covering of flesh—and they seemed hung -on wires, and very loosely hung, too. Her eyes were a very deep blue, -but she had been somewhat “cross-eyed” from infancy, and now the defect -was much aggravated by her constant weeping. She was very timid, -shrinking from every one. What had she ever found in her lot to assure -her or give her confidence? - -Poor, forlorn, ill-dressed, cross-eyed, red-haired, little one—all your -defects are so many commendations to Charles Evans. In the deep -selfishness of his benevolence he could love just such a child—one whom -others would only pity and never think of loving. And he felt a sort of -secure property in her when he saw that no one else would be likely to -care for her; but he would be very certain not to let her know that he -had any kind feelings for her. He was a scraggy limb of the law, and one -would think that all the sap of his life had been written out in deeds -and documents that brought him dollars, and that all the warmth of his -heart had been expended on the Loco Foco candidates from his ward, -district, city, county, etc., etc., during the time he had been a legal -voter, which had now reached the term of fourteen years. He had amassed -a large property, and had neither “chick nor child” to leave it to, as -his friends said, all and singular of said friends having made up their -minds that he would never marry, though he had only reached the mature -and well-judging age of thirty-five. - -He liked to be thought well of, as who does not; and there was a -delicate flattery to him in the thought that Fanny Evans trusted her -child to _him_ before any of her own or her husband’s relatives. To any -one of these relatives he would have spoken of the burden of bringing up -other folks’ brats, but in his heart he thought “it was very wise, and -well-judged, and kind of Fanny, to leave the girl to me; and when Ned is -out of the way, I shall have nothing to interfere with my plans for the -child’s welfare.” - -When Marie had set his waiter upon the table, she stopped and timidly -raised her cross-eyes to Mr. Evans, to see if he wanted any thing more. - -“Sit down, Marie,” said he. “I wish your name was Fanny, I don’t like -fancy names and flummery.” - -“I was named for my mother, Frances Maria,” said she, in the sweetest -and softest voice that Evans remembered ever to have heard. Her voice -penetrated his heart—and then her name was Fanny. He had always -cherished a cordial friendship and a true respect for her mother—and he -wished the girl to bear her mother’s name. - -“I would like very much to be called Fanny,” said the child. - -“Well, then, Fanny, how do you like your new home?” - -“I am very glad of it,” said Fanny, and the tears filled her eyes. - -“Don’t cry—there’s a good girl. Do you wish to go to school?” - -“I don’t know how I would like school. My dear mother always taught me.” - -“Well, you must go and see how you will get on. You will be a good girl, -I dare say. You will obey Mrs. Evans in all she asks of you. If you want -any thing, come to me. You will call me Cousin Charles when you speak to -me, and Mr. Evans when you speak of me. When you speak to Mrs. E. call -her aunty, and Mrs. Evans when you speak of her.” - -And thus little Fanny began her life at her cousin’s comfortable home. -When she was told of her father’s death, she shuddered and felt -relieved. Fanny loved her mother as we always love when we have few -objects for our affections to rest on. But with the blessed faith of a -child and a Christian, she believed she was now in heaven, where she -would be perfectly happy forever, and she became strangely happy in her -new home. All her studies and occupations were so many changing joys. -From morning till night she was like some bright bird that knew not -where to bestow the fullness of its brilliant and merry carolings. -Everybody saw as the months passed away, how she wound herself around -the heart of Charles Evans; and the friends began to prophesy that he -would adopt her as his child, and make her his heir. - -Mrs. Evans was a woman of great goodness, very old, and very pious. She -had now but one wish ungratified, and that was that Charles Evans and -his ward should be converted. This seemed a hard matter to accomplish as -far as Evans was concerned. He was rather a hopeless subject, for he -boasted that he was a temperance man, that he never drank any thing -stronger than black tea, that he never chewed tobacco, took laughing -gas, or went to a protracted meeting. - -“Go to church with aunty enough to keep the peace,” said he to Fanny. -“You and I will not quarrel about it as long as it tends to aunty’s -comfort.” - -“I would not like you to quarrel with me if I went for my own comfort,” -said Fanny. - -This touch of his own independence pleased him, and he said, “Go along, -you gipsy—thistles and lilies never quarrel.” - -“Red-haired girls are never lilies, though cross cousins are very sharp -thistles,” said Fanny, who, a year ago, would as soon have indulged in -repartee with her cousin as the lily he likened her to. - -“You have grown very bold, if not very handsome,” he replied—and Fanny -went to church with her aunt. She was never disturbed there, however -much good Mrs. Evans prayed for such result. Some of her prayers had -been answered. She had prayed for many years that all the theatres might -be converted into chapels, and at last _one_ of them was, and she had -the pleasure of hearing the divine Mr. Kirchard preach in it, from -Sunday to Sunday, and various week days and evenings beside. He was an -earnest preacher, and it was surprising the quantities of green tea, -cayenne and cavendish that he converted into gospel. The ladies of his -church presented the pulpit with an elegant cushion and spittoon, and -never mortal minister had more use for both than the Rev. Mr. Kirchard. -The way he beat the cushion and filled the other article, when he -alarmed the sinners, _was_ plentiful. - -But Fanny was never disturbed with the powerful preaching of the -reverend gentleman. Like a man who tends a saw-mill half the time, and -sleeps soundly when relieved by his companion who tends it the other -half, so Fanny was always very peaceful in church, if she was not -sleepy. I believe she had a conscience against sleeping, though what she -kept awake for, perhaps she was not herself aware. But it was very -exemplary of her, and very gratifying to good Mrs. Evans. - - - CHAPTER IV. - -There are some good people who deny the doctrine of total depravity, who -don’t see how it is possible for a man deliberately to be a hypocrite. -They say that a man can’t live unless he has some good in him. I shall -not dispute with these worthy people, because, in a free country, every -man has a right to his own opinion, provided he does not happen to think -that he may buy tickets in lotteries out of Wall street, and appropriate -his neighbor’s goods without the formalities made and provided in the -righteous common law of our social code; but I must say that if goodness -is necessary to keep people alive, some folks have the gift of living on -“small means;” and it becomes my duty to introduce a young gentleman -eminently gifted in this particular. - -Sylvester Wilson was a young man who had a laudable wish for his own -advancement, but, unfortunately for his piety, he was entirely -indifferent to the means that contributed to his getting ahead, provided -the world made no complaint of him. The opinion of those about him, with -two-thirds the facts concealed from them, was a moral law for him, and -he had no other. His father was a bad, ambitious and unscrupulous man, -and the hereditary transmission of qualities would have charmed Fowler, -though the qualities proved that he was “bad, born bad, and had no -business here” but to make mischief. He was, however, an excellent -dissembler, and passed for a pious and exemplary young man, punctual at -church, and designed for the ministry. His family were friends of the -Evans family. - -“Well, mother, have you wormed any thing out of old Aunty Evans about -that red-haired horror’s adoption?” said Sylvester Wilson, to his mother -one day, when she had been taking an old-fashioned cup of tea with Mrs. -Evans. - -“How _can_ you, Sylvester!” said his mother, a good deal disturbed. “The -child is very well, I am sure.” - -“Frights generally have good health.” - -“I meant that she was very well-looking. She has changed much in the two -years she has lived with her cousin. Her hair is deepening its color, -her eyes do not squint any more, and she is very plump and fresh.” - -“All the better for me—fourteen, is she? She will get better still, -perhaps, in two or three years. But about the cash, mother—will that -old hunks of a cousin portion her? If so, I am his man.” - -“Mrs. Evans thinks he considers her as good as his own child now,” said -Mrs. Wilson. “You are to be three years in the University, my child, and -you can’t think of a wife till that time is past.” - -“I don’t know what harm _thinking_ is to do a fellow. I am not in the -University yet, and I don’t exactly see how I am to be there, unless I -find a gold mine. If I could get employed to give lessons to that -fox-pate, I might earn some money, and borrow more, and get an education -and independence at last. One can’t expect beauty and tin together.” - -Success was all Mrs. Wilson asked for her son, and his life-plans did -not seem to her at all profane. And he succeeded in obtaining the place -he sought. He gave Fanny lessons in music and mathematics. It was a -great triumph when Fanny got leave of Cousin Charles to learn music. She -had thought of a piano, and dreamed of one, and thumped on one that -belonged to a young friend for a long time—but she had no idea of ever -being the happy possessor of a mine of music. - -At Christmas, just about two years from the time when she came to live -with her cousin, she made a little “Christmas box” for her best friend. -It contained a pair of slippers, a watch-holder, and a lamp-mat, all -worked by herself. They had grown very pretty under her skillful -fingers, but the coarse canvas had not changed more under her hands than -she had changed since she had lived in this happy home. And she was -daily improving. When Charles Evans found this Christmas gift on his -table, he resolved to give Fanny just what she should ask for, and so he -said, “I have only got you a book for Christmas, Fanny, but if you think -of any thing else that you want, you must tell me.” - -“And will you really give it me?” said Fanny, and her deep-blue eyes -seemed melting in their own lustre. - -“To be sure I will, because I have said so.” - -“Well, then, dear, good Cousin Charles, buy me a piano.” - -“Buy you a winter full of thunder storms—why you will bang me deaf.” - -“But not dumb, I’ll bet any thing—you will always be able to scold your -poor Cousin Fanny. But I shall play when you are away.” - -“I rather think you will when you get a piano. Why do you know what a -deal of money one of those thunderers costs?” - -Fanny began to be frightened. She did not know, but she was really like -the child who cried for the moon. The tears came into her eyes as she -thought of herself two years ago. She looked up at her cousin, with her -grateful soul beaming from her beautiful eyes, and smiling through her -tears, she said, “Cousin, I was very wrong to ask such an impossible -thing—will you buy me a canary-bird?” - -“Do you give up all claim to the piano if I do?” - -“O, yes, to be sure. Please to forget it. Indeed, I did not mean to be a -silly girl.” - -Thus ended the talk of the piano; but the next afternoon an elegant -piano and a beautiful canary-bird, were domesticated in Mr. Evans’s -quiet parlor—and Fanny was perfectly wild with delight. That was a -wonderful era in her life—a time to date from forever after—though -Cousin Charles brushed her off as if she had been a whole swarm of black -flies, when she ran to his room, on his return in the evening, to -overwhelm him with thanks, and tears, and crazy rejoicings. - -“Bless me, Fanny,” said he, “you had better make up your mind whether -you are going to melt, or fly away, or go to a lunatic asylum; and when -you have concluded, just come and let me know, will you? I can do -without you till then.” - -The next thing to the piano must be a music-teacher. Young Wilson had -played his cards skillfully. He had interested Charles Evans in his -fortunes, and he engaged him from motives of benevolence, to teach -Fanny. To do him justice, he was a good teacher. But Evans was cheated. -He did not think it possible that the fellow could have thought but to -teach Fanny, that he might mend his small means—a most praiseworthy -object in the young man, and one that Evans felt anxious to assist him -in attaining. Though Fanny had grown very pretty, and was daily -improving, yet her cousin was hardly conscious of it. He thought of her -as a mere child as she was, and a very ugly child as she had been; and -it never once entered his mind that any young man could have designs -upon the heart of the little one. Young Wilson interested him, not -because he knew him, but because he did not know him. He saw him -struggling to get an education, and pay for it himself, and he was glad -to have an excuse to offer him assistance. - -Evans had small love for music, but mathematics was a pet of the first -magnitude with him, and for the sake of this branch of study, he -compromised and gave the girl her music. So he said; but the truth was, -he wished Fanny to be happy. And he had his wish. The bird and the piano -were all the time new, and she could never for a moment, asleep or -awake, cease to rejoice in either. She kept her word not to play when -Mr. Evans was at home. But then this was no great privation, for the -bird sang like mad all the morning, and he went away early, and she -managed to tire herself so thoroughly during the day, that she was very -willing to go patiently and quietly into figures for the evening. Mr. -Evans was quite satisfied, for as he said he saw Fanny always at her -“sums,” and never was disturbed by drums or thunder. - -Wilson found himself of just as much social importance to Fanny as a -piano or an algebra. She would have been just as much interested in a -calculating machine; and if her piano could have taught her to play on -it, she would have been neither better or worse pleased than now. To be -sure she was glad when her Aunt Evans told her of the struggles of young -Wilson to educate himself that she had him for a teacher, but she never -thought enough of him to mention him to Mr. Evans; first, because she -seldom needed his help in her mathematical studies, and of music she -never spoke to her cousin. - -Wilson was prudent and careful. He had good hope of getting into the -University—in time of a pulpit, and a rich wife. No word, or look, or -overt act ever revealed to Fanny or her friends, that he had designs on -the fortune of Mr. Evans, through a marriage with his ward. For months -he labored assiduously, when an accident occurred that changed the face -of his fortune, though, perhaps, it did not materially affect Fanny. A -merchant uncle of Wilson, who lived at New Orleans, found himself in -need of an assistant, in consequence of failing health. He was a man of -wealth, and Wilson considered his fortune assured by this chance—and so -the church lost the chance of adding to her ornaments another of those -paste gems that bring the real jewels into disrepute. - - - CHAPTER V. - -Seventeen! sweet, gay, laughing seventeen had come to Fanny—and she had -never once thought of getting married. Not she. She would have been -obliged to contemplate marriage as something that must separate her from -the only home she had ever known; and she would as soon have stepped out -of her skin some cold night, as have gone away from her dear friends. -She liked everybody and loved nobody, and wanted to hug the whole world, -as she forcibly said, because she was so happy. - -“Christmas Eve, to-morrow, Cousin Charles; I hope all my presents are -purchased and directed.” - -“And what are you going to give _me_, little Miss Fairy?” - -“Myself, to be sure,” laughed Fanny. “What else have I to give away?” - -“No, that you wont. You will keep yourself for some worthless fellow, -I’ll warrant.” - -“No, I thank you. I had rather be excused. I intend to make your black -tea as long as you live, if you don’t conclude to leave the tea out, and -take water with me.” - -“I tell you, you will marry a scamp the day after you are eighteen—that -is the way with all the women.” - -“There must be a prodigious number of scamps, then, cousin; and if you -had only been one of them, you might have been _happily married_, -instead of being the nicest bear of a bachelor at large.” - -“I think I might get married even now, if I were only fool enough.” - -“But as you are very wise, you shall be my Cousin Charles, and nothing -else—and I would not exchange you for a pet porcupine. Don’t you see -how I prize you? So don’t think of getting married—I should quarrel -with your wife, to see which should love you best; and that would be -very inconvenient for us all.” - -Christmas was a merry time at Charles Evans’s. The man of deeds and -documents always relaxed and came out of the world of business, or, as -he said, “allowed the world to mind its own business” at Christmas and -New Year. But something very serious happened to Mr. Evans from this -year’s Christmas merry-making. A pretty girl needed some one to see her -home, and glowing and perspiring from the last game at “Blind Man’s -Buff,” Mr. Evans attended her on a bitter night, which made him run home -as rapidly as possible, with chattering teeth, and a chill that seemed -to go quite to his heart. Next morning he awoke with a quaking headache -and pains through all his bones, and great heat and cold chills, and all -the concomitants of a bad fever about him. Thanks to the exhaustion of -unremitting and most unreasonable labor, such as a great many men -perform who do the head-work for the headless multitude, and thanks also -to the lancet of a certain doctor, who held to letting the bad blood out -of a man, and poisoning what remained to purify it, Mr. Evans became -dangerously sick. What an invaluable treasure was Fanny now. Her foot -was the lightest—her hand was the softest and coolest—her eyes never -closed in slumber, unless she left the best of watchers in her -place—and she threw quantities of physic to the dogs, or some equally -prudent place, and she nourished the patient carefully when he began to -get well; and at last, in spite of all the evils in the patient, and out -of him, doctors and drugs included, she saw Mr. Evans convalescent. - -At length he came down stairs, and when he thought how long Fanny had -left her piano locked, and not even listened to her canary, he asked her -for a song. It was in very kindness to her, and in accordance with his -benevolent character—for he thought that he disliked music, and it is -probable that he had the good taste to dislike the heathen discord that -had been christened music, where he had happened to be the victim. - -The Battle of Prague, thumped with indenting emphasis on a piano sadly -out of tune, had given Mr. Evans his ideas of melody; and it is small -wonder that he had as great dislike for music as prudent regard for his -ears. - -It was a great surprise to Mr. Evans when Fanny’s melodious voice fell -on his ear, appropriately accompanied by the instrument, which was one -of the softest and sweetest in the world. He had expected the Battle of -Prague, and it seemed to him, so great was the contrast, like -humming-birds amid the flowers. - -Fanny sung a song of her own composing, descriptive of her own life, -first in its great sadness and trials and deep grief with her sainted -mother, and then her bereavement, and then her adoption by her cousin, -and the calm flow of her life since then. At the close of her song she -alluded to her best friend’s illness, and spoke of her joy that he was -now safely recovering. The song and the music were her own, and they -came from the depth of her heart. The sad, sweet murmur of her soul’s -sorrow in the first verses, was succeeded by the calm happiness and -bird-like joy of the years passed in her cousin’s home, and again the -sorrowful notes spoke of his illness, and the winged joy burst forth in -the happy conclusion. - -It was a triumph to Fanny when she saw at the close of the piece tears -rolling over Mr. Evans’s face, and he said, with a voice rendered -indistinct by emotion, “Sing it again, Fanny”—and she was only too -happy to comply with his request. - -When the song was ended, he conquered his emotion, and laughing through -his tears, he said, - -“You shall be my nightingale, Fanny.” - -“Thank you, I accept the appointment—what salary do you intend to -give?” said Fanny, as she sat down on the sofa by the invalid, and -passed her hand over his high, white forehead, to see if any fever were -warning her to send her patient away to rest. - -“I will give you myself and all that I have,” said he, again bursting -into tears. - -A flood of new thoughts rushed through the mind of Fanny. She paused to -think what to say. “You are weak, cousin, and must not sit up too long. -Will you go to your room, or will you rest and sleep on the sofa here?” - -Mr. Evans was frightened at what he had said. He was sure Fanny could -never love him only as a father or elder brother; and now he thought he -had broken the freedom of that relation, and he blamed himself, and -troubled himself, and well-nigh fretted himself into a relapse of his -fever. But his naturally strong constitution triumphed, and in a few -weeks he was perfectly restored. - -Meanwhile Fanny had become grave and thoughtful; and, truth to tell, she -shunned her cousin more than she ought. She had not known how dear he -was to her till his illness—during the time that he was considered -dangerous she had neither eaten nor slept. She had watched over him as a -mother watches her first born. She felt that if he should die, life, -which had always seemed so full of joy and blessing, would be a blank to -her. She had not asked herself if this were love. She had supposed it -was only the interest she ought to feel in her cousin. Now she was put -upon examining her own heart. She fully believed that her cousin was by -no means in love with her, but that his tender confession was owing to -the weakness induced by his severe illness and his gratitude to his -fortunately successful nurse. - - - CHAPTER VI. - -“And now, mother, tell me all about the Evanses. Is my flame as foxy as -ever? She must be quite a young lady. Heaven forgive me for not being -thankful enough for all mercies in general, and for the particular one -that I am not obliged to marry red hair.” Thus spoke the fortunate -Wilson, the morning after his arrival from New Orleans, bringing the -welcome news that his relative was dead, and that he was his heir. - -“Don’t be too hasty, Sylvester,” said his mother. “Miss Evans has -changed more than any one you ever saw. She is a perfect beauty, bating -her freckles. Her hair is no more red than a chestnut. She is plump and -round as an apple; she is white as snow, and her eyes are as pretty as -possible.” - -“Amen, mother! One would think you were her lover instead of your -hopeful son. But I will see for myself. I shall not take your word or -your bond for that girl’s beauty.” - -And so Mr. Wilson, armed for conquest, presented himself before Miss -Evans. She had never cared enough for him to be very glad to see him, -but she received him politely and kindly, as was her nature. He was a -very good-looking, stylish young man, and he talked well on common -topics, and soon succeeded in interesting Fanny. He was quite -unprepared, notwithstanding all his mother had said, for the beauty that -had grown upon Fanny. He loved beauty just as he loved roast pig and -canvas-backs—and he was smashed at once—Fanny had made an impression. -He asked her to play and sing for her _cidevant_ teacher, and the -impression was fixed. - -Wilson was sure at the end of an hour that he should marry Fanny Evans; -and Fanny thought him a very good-looking, interesting young man, and -she rejoiced in his good fortune; their musical tastes formed a bond -between them, and it soon seemed very natural and proper to Fanny that -she saw young Wilson daily. She was sad, and singing diverted her. His -voice was good, and they sung duets. He played finely, and this was very -pleasant. She had become estranged from her cousin, and she wanted some -company. Fanny had never been so unhappy since she first came to live -with her cousin. Finally, Wilson offered himself to her. This was an -event to Fanny entirely unexpected. - -“Don’t speak of such a thing,” said she, earnestly. “Pray excuse me, Mr. -Wilson,” and she went straight out of the room. When she reached her -chamber, she felt very sorrowful, and, truth to tell, very sick. She had -been worn down by labor and watching during Mr. Evans’s illness, and her -sadness in being estranged from him. She had got nervous, and began, for -the first time in her life, to have the _blues_. She almost persuaded -herself that she was become a burden to her cousin, and that she ought -to marry Wilson. She wept till she had a dreadful headache, and when the -servant came to call her to make Mr. Evans’s tea, she was really too ill -to go down—and with swollen eyes, red face, and dabbled and disarranged -curls, she looked into the glass, and dared not present herself before -her cousin. - -“Tell Mr. Evans that I have a bad headache, and if he will excuse me, I -will go early to bed. Make every thing very nice for him, Norah. Were -his slippers warm when he came in?” - -“I don’t know, Miss, but I will get his supper good”—and she went to -carry Fanny’s excuse to Mr. Evans. - -“Go back, Norah, quickly, and ask Miss Evans if I may come up.” - -Fanny had wheeled her sofa to the fire, and had just buried her face in -a velvet cushion to weep as long and as much as she wished. Mr. Evans, -in his concern for her, had followed Norah, and stood outside the door. - -“Tell him not to trouble himself to come up. I shall do very well as -soon as I have slept.” - -“If you had asked me to take the trouble to stay down stairs, I might -have thought of it; but seeing I am here, it is no trouble to come; and -you are so bright and cosy, suppose you let the girl bring the waiter up -here and make my tea for me.” - -Mr. Evans was quite sure that something beside sickness had happened to -Fanny, and he intended to be confessor or doctor, as the case might be. - -“Norah, bring Mr. Evans’s supper to my room,” said Fanny, more -cheerfully than she would have thought possible a few minutes before. -And she passed into her bed-room and bathed her face and her eyes, and -arranged her hair, and came back to make tea for Mr. Evans very much -improved. But she could not talk—she had fairly lost her tongue. - -Mr. Evans seemed more unconstrained and more fully himself than since -his unfortunate offer of himself to Fanny. - -“Fanny,” said he, after the tea things were taken away, “I would like to -ask you what is the matter, if I thought you would like to tell me. It -is no common headache that is tormenting you; I would sooner guess it is -a heartache.” - -“And what if it is a heartache?” said Fanny. - -“You mean to ask what I should have to do with the diseases of your -heart. I tell you, Fanny, I am not as bad as you may think, or so big a -fool either. For instance, though I love you a great deal better than -Heaven, and would sooner have you for my wife than an angel, yet knowing -that you can’t love an old codger like me, I want to see you happy with -the man of your choice, and I tell you now, for the cure of your -headache, or heartache, that you have my consent to marry Mr. Wilson.” - -Fanny burst into so violent and uncontrolled a fit of weeping, that Mr. -Evans was alarmed and puzzled. - -“Speak to me, Fanny, tell me what is all this. I thought to give you -great joy, and I only set you weeping. Tell me, what does all this -mean?” - -“Dear Cousin Charles,” said Fanny, “you have given me the greatest joy -of my life.” - -“Then you love Wilson, as I thought,” said Mr. Evans. - -“No, no—not Wilson, but you, Cousin Charles; and you said you would -rather have me for your wife than an angel.” And Fanny threw her arms -around Charles Evans’s neck; and there is not a shadow of doubt that he -would cheerfully have exchanged all the pleasures of his long -bachelorate in a lump, for the kisses of the next five minutes. - -They were a happy couple that evening; but Wilson’s prospects were worse -damaged than his heart. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD. - - - BY HENRY S. HAGERT. - - - Sweet is the tomb—the all-forgetting tomb— - The dreamless couch round which no phantoms glide, - To harrow up the soul, or read a doom, - Of yore on their dread Sabbath prophesied. - Calm are its slumbers—never more shall pride, - Hatred or malice, wound the sleeping clay; - Wrong not the dead—they should be deified— - They lived and suffered, and have passed away; - Here be all feuds forgot—ye, too, shall have your day. - - Your day of trouble, when the cup of Grief, - Full of its Marsh-waters must be drained - E’en to the dregs—when ye will need relief - From those upon whose head your lips have rained, - Curses; when they who were by you disdained, - Shall offer in their mockery, to dry - The hot dew of your brows by anguish strained - Through the parched skin. Ah! then, in grief to fly - For refuge to the grave, and find but calumny. - - Let the dead rest—if ye must “snarl and bite,” - Turn to the living—there your venom spill; - Put on Deception’s mask, then vent your spite, - Sharpen your fangs, and gnaw, and rend, and kill— - ’Tis a sweet banquet—eat and drink your fill; - Ye can thrive well on malice—but forbear - To stir the ashes of the dead, your skill - Can never fan a glowing ember there, - At which the hated torch of vengeance to repair. - - Look on the dead, and if ye cower and quail - To think that ye shall be like them one day— - That the cold coffin-worm, with slimy trail, - Shall crawl across your forehead, or from play - Within your eyeless sockets forth shall stray, - To feast upon your rottenness, your hair - Shall drip the sick’ning grave-damps, and the gray, - Dry dust of the rank sepulchre, for air, - Fill up your nostrils—then by the cold grave _forbear_! - - Think on your last dark hour, when a gaunt form, - Spectral and shadowy, shall stoop and set - A mystic seal upon you; when the storm - Of conscience rages, till its spray has wet - Your brow; when, like the doom in Venice met, - The walls of your lone chamber seem to close - Upon you, crushed and bleeding, dying, yet - Never to die—from torments such as those, - Would you be free? Withhold—break not the dead’s repose. - - * * * * * - - - - - FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGIA. - - - PARAPHRASE. - - - BY RICHARD PENN SMITH. - - - A stalwart blind man trudging through the mud, - O’ertook a cripple; side by side they stood. - “Cripple, you’re stall’d,” cried Blinky, “in this clay.” - Cripple replied, “Can Blinky see his way?” - “Not a d—d inch,” the poor blind man replies, - “But mount my shoulders, boy, lend me your eyes; - Keep them wide open, let their light be mine, - Cling to my shoulders, and my legs are thine. - And with clear eyes, strong shanks and shoulders good - We need no more to travel through this mud.” - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BATTLE OF LIFE. - - - BY LEN. - - -A sigh steals down the smiling valley—a gentle sigh of breezes, wafting -happiness over the face of nature, and at the sound from out their beds -of earth, myriads of things of beauty wake into existence;—meadow and -plain and hill-side glisten in fairest verdure—flowers fling their -fragrance on the gale—stately trees wave their foliage to the passing -wind—while streams beneath dance onward to the ocean—and the -dream-like hum that fills the air and swells in chorus to the arch of -heaven, tells of the blooming Spring—of the transcendent pleasures of -Life. - -What a glorious earth has man for a habitation! what scenes surround him -to ennoble the soul—what examples to elevate and incite the mind to -strive for the goal of Happiness. That goal, alas! how distant and hard -to reach; thorns hedge the road the aspiring one would tread, and weeds -spring rank and choking in the pathway, or often, when the seeming -height is won, the eminence fades to a common level, and Happiness is as -distant as ever! But the soul must toil, though success is but a -vision—the mind must work, although its labors be fruitless; for there -is a Higher power controlling the actions of man—guiding his impulses -and passions, and girding him for the conflict around him and within -him—the struggle that is ceaselessly waging—the Battle of Life! - -How sweet is Fame! Even now, upon men’s tongues there dwells some name -whose every syllable is a charm, thrilling to adoration. Here, a patriot -spirit, whose fires have smouldered long beneath wrong and malice, rises -superior to ills, and grasps—almost the consummation of his wishes; -there, a warrior from the laureled field, receives the homage of a -grateful people; or some philosopher, with potent wand, discloses to a -wondering world a new discovery in Science. They stand aloft upon the -pinnacle of Fortune, and eager crowds beneath echo their praises or envy -their success; and upward still they gaze, blind to the rugged crags -that lie between—blind to the slippery height they covet—blind to the -thousands round them on the same great plain, breathless and bleeding -from their vain attempts to climb the dazzling steep—or happy in an -humbler sphere. - -Ah! had they seen that lofty mind on the chill yesterday of Adversity, -with naught but obstacles before him; who knew that Country was upon -men’s lips only as a substitute for self, and yet heard his own efforts -slandered as false and recreant, and whose high purposes had bent before -the storm only to rise unbroken—they would not undergo the patriot’s -trials, even for his rewards. The soldier’s hardships in the camp, with -night’s cold shadows closing round him, and no pillow for his head save -the still colder earth; or ’mid the battle’s carnage, or on the -ensanguined field, strewn alike with friends and foes, would look not -half so pleasant to their eyes as that exulting warrior; or had they -watched the student through long years of vain research, poring o’er -musty tomes till the stars paled before the light of day, with fevered -brow and aching heart, filled with strong hopes that time still dashed -to earth—though Time at last was destined to fulfill; the marvels -wrought thus dearly, thus hardly given to the world, the car with wings -of fire, the thought, borne as on the lightning’s shaft, the shadow that -no longer vanishes, when won at such a cost, would lose their value, and -the philosopher stand unenvied though pre-eminent. - -Men judge too oft by outward show, the glitter hides the dross which -lies beneath, the peasant would seek happiness in palaces, the rich, -perchance, see pleasures ’mid the poor; all err, all causelessly -despond, for place nor circumstance alone can make life happy; there is -no lake with breast by winds unruffled, no sea by billows always -unconvulsed—even so is it with man. How many noble minds are crushed -beneath adversity, and pulses that ere-while warmed with a kindred glow -to kindred energies, throb now to sorrow and bereavement? How many -hearts that loved—loved, oh, how fondly—are doomed, alas! to live, and -live alone? How many breathing beings toil and travail on to gain -wherewith they may drag out existence—how many lots that look the -brightest, are fraught with bitterest wo! - -And still the strife goes on, still the throng heaves and swells -tumultuously, as waves that surge against the rocks which bind them, and -one unceasing current flows turbulently onward, bearing with it the joys -and sorrows, the hopes and passions of a world—onward ever, to the -trackless ocean of Eternity. - -But fields are green and flowers are fair—then is no warfare on the -hills, nor in the groves, nor on the plains; the elements break in -fearful grandeur above; the seasons come and go—yet sunshine follows -storms as day the night, and Winter yields to Spring. No murmur is -heard, save that which trembles through the air, of rippling streams and -stirring leaves, and songs of sweetest music; and the works of Nature -stand forth in majestic harmony, unmoved by the strivings around them, -regardless alike of the fears and longings, the griefs and tumults -raging in the breasts of men—serene and placid, despite the contest, -and at Peace, though amid the throes of The Battle of Life. - - * * * * * - - - - - FIFTY SUGGESTIONS. - - - BY EDGAR A. POE. - - - (_Concluded from page 319._) - - 26. - -The taste manifested by our Transcendental poets, _is_ to be treated -“reverentially,” beyond doubt, as one of Mr. Emerson’s friends -suggests—for the fact is, it is Taste on her death-bed—Taste kicking -in _articulo mortis_. - - 27. - -I should not say, of Taglioni, exactly that she dances, but that she -laughs with her arms and legs, and that if she takes vengeance on her -present oppressors, she will be amply justified by the _lex Talionis_. - - 28. - -The world is infested, just now, by a new sect of philosophers, who have -not yet suspected themselves of forming a sect, and who, consequently, -have adopted no name. They are the _Believers in every thing Odd_. Their -High Priest in the East, is Charles Fourier—in the West, Horace Greely; -and high priests they are to some purpose. The only common bond among -the sect, is Credulity:—let us call it Insanity at once, and be done -with it. Ask any one of them _why_ he believes this or that, and, if he -be conscientious, (ignorant people usually are,) he will make you very -much such a reply as Talleyrand made when asked why he believed in the -Bible. “I believe in it first,” said he, “because I am Bishop of Autun; -and, secondly, _because I know nothing about it at all_.” What these -philosophers call “argument,” is a way they have “_de nier ce qui est et -d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas_.”[2] - - 29. - -The goddess Laverna, who is a head without a body, could not do better, -perhaps, than make advances to “La Jeune France,” which, for some years -to come at least, must otherwise remain a body without a head. - - 30. - -Mr. A—— is frequently spoken of as “one of our most industrious -writers;” and, in fact, when we consider how much he has written, we -perceive, at once, that he _must_ have been industrious, or he could -never (like an honest woman as he is) have so thoroughly succeeded in -keeping himself from being “talked about.” - - 31. - -H—— calls his verse a “poem,” very much as Francis the First bestowed -the title, _mes déserts_, upon his snug little deer-park at -Fontainebleau. - - 32. - -K——, the publisher, trying to be critical, talks about books pretty -much as a washerwoman would about Niagara falls or a poulterer about a -phœnix. - - 33. - -The ingenuity of critical malice would often be laughable but for the -disgust, which, even in the most perverted spirits, injustice never -fails to excite. A common _trick_ is that of decrying, impliedly, the -higher, by insisting upon the lower, merits of an author. Macaulay, for -example, deeply feeling how much critical acumen is enforced by cautious -attention to the mere “rhetoric” which is its vehicle, has at length -become the best of modern rhetoricians. His _brother_ -reviewers—anonymous, of course, and likely to remain so forever—extol -“the acumen of Carlyle, the analysis of Schlegel, _and_ the style of -Macaulay.” Bancroft is a philosophical historian; but no amount of -philosophy has yet taught him to despise a minute accuracy in point of -fact. His _brother_ historians talk of “the grace of Prescott, the -erudition of Gibbon, _and_ the pains-taking precision of Bancroft.” -Tennyson, perceiving how vividly an imaginative effect is aided, now and -then, by a certain quaintness judiciously introduced, brings this -latter, at times, in support of his most glorious and most delicate -imagination:—whereupon his _brother_ poets hasten to laud the -imagination of Mr. Somebody, whom nobody imagined to have any, “_and_ -the somewhat affected quaintness of Tennyson.”—Let the noblest poet add -to his other excellences—if he dares—that of faultless versification -and scrupulous attention to grammar. He is damned at once. His rivals -have it in their power to discourse of “A. the true poet, _and_ B. the -versifier and disciple of Lindley Murray.” - - 34. - -That a cause leads to an effect, is scarcely more certain than that, so -far as Morals are concerned, a repetition of effect tends to the -generation of cause. Herein lies the principle of what we so vaguely -term “Habit.” - - 35. - -With the exception of Tennyson’s “Locksley Hall,” I have never read a -poem combining so much of the fiercest passion with so much of the most -delicate imagination, as the “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship” of Miss -Barrett. I am forced to admit, however, that the latter work _is_ a -palpable imitation of the former, which it surpasses in thesis as much -as it falls below it in a certain calm energy, lustrous and -indomitable—such as we might imagine in a broad river of molten gold. - - 36. - -What has become of the inferior planet which Decuppis, about nine years -ago, declared he saw traversing the disc of the sun? - - 37. - -“Ignorance _is_ bliss”—but, that the bliss be real, the ignorance must -be so profound as not to suspect itself ignorant. With this -understanding, Boileau’s line may be read thus: - - “Le plus fou _toujours_ est le plus satisfait,” - -—“_toujours_” in place of “_souvent_.” - - 38. - -Bryant and Street are both, essentially, descriptive poets; and -descriptive poetry, even in its happiest manifestation, is _not_ of the -highest order. But the distinction between Bryant and Street is very -broad. While the former, in reproducing the sensible images of Nature, -reproduces the sentiments with which he regards them, the latter gives -us the images and nothing beyond. He never forces us to feel what we -feel he must have felt. - - 39. - -In lauding Beauty, Genius merely evinces a filial affection. To Genius -Beauty gives life—reaping often a reward in Immortality. - - 40. - -And this is the “American Drama” of ——! Well!—that “Conscience which -makes cowards of us all” will permit me to say, in praise of the -performance, only that it is not quite so bad as I expected it to be. -But then I always expect too much. - - 41. - -What we feel to be _Fancy_ will be found fanciful still, whatever be the -theme which engages it. No _subject_ exalts it into Imagination. When -Moore is termed “a fanciful poet,” the epithet is applied with -precision. He _is_. He is fanciful in “Lalla Rookh,” and had he written -the “Inferno,” in the “Inferno” he would have contrived to be still -fanciful and nothing beyond. - - 42. - -When we speak of “a suspicious man,” we may mean either one who -suspects, or one to be suspected. Our language needs either the -adjective “suspectful,” or the adjective “suspectable.” - - 43. - -“To love,” says Spencer, “is - - “To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run, - To speed, to give, to want, to be undone.” - -The philosophy, here, might be rendered more profound, by the mere -omission of a comma. We all know the _willing_ blindness—the -_voluntary_ madness of Love. We express this in thus punctuating the -last line: - - To speed, to give—_to want to be undone_. - -It is a case, in short, where we gain point by omitting it. - - 44. - -Miss Edgeworth seems to have had only an approximate comprehension of -“Fashion,” for she says: - -“If it was the fashion to burn me, and I at the stake, I hardly know ten -persons of my acquaintance who would refuse to throw on a faggot.” - -There are _many_ who, in such a case, would “refuse to throw on a -faggot”—for fear of smothering out the fire. - - 45. - -I am beginning to think with Horsely—that “the People have nothing to -do with the laws but to obey them.” - - 46. - -“It is not fair to review my book without reading it,” says Mr. M——, -talking at the critics, and, as usual, expecting impossibilities. The -man who is clever enough to _write_ such a work, is clever enough to -read it, no doubt; but we should not look for so much talent in the -world at large. Mr. M—— will not imagine that I mean to blame _him_. -The book alone is in fault, after all. The fact is, that “_er lasst sich -nicht lesen_”—it will not _permit_ itself to be read. Being a hobby of -Mr. M——’s, and brimful of spirit, it will let nobody mount it but Mr. -M——. - - 47. - -It is only to teach his children Geography, that G—— wears a boot the -picture of Italy upon the map. - - 48. - -In his great Dictionary, Webster seems to have had an idea of being more -English than the English—“_plus Arabe qu’en Arabie_.”[3] - - 49. - -That there were once “seven wise men” is by no means, strictly speaking, -an historical _fact_; and I am rather inclined to rank the idea among -the Kabbala. - - 50. - -Painting their faces to look like Macaulay, some of our critics manage -to resemble him, at length, as a Massaccian does a Raffäellian Virgin; -and, except that the former is feebler and thinner than the -other—suggesting the idea of its being the ghost of the other—not one -connoisseur in ten can perceive any difference. But then, unhappily, -even the street lazzaroni can feel the distinction. - ------ - -[2] Nouvelle Héloise. - -[3] Count Anthony Hamilton. - - * * * * * - - - - - MAY LILLIE. - - - OR LOVE AND LEARNING. - - - BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER. - - -It was a most provoking thing that young Harry Warren should have fallen -in love with pretty May Lillie—he simply a village school-master whom -nobody knew—and she the only daughter of the richest and proudest man -in the whole county of Erie, whom every body knew! It was not only very -provoking, but it was also very unfortunate for the poor fellow, as he -might as well have aspired to wed yon bright evening star, as to lead to -the altar the daughter of Diogenes Lillie, Esq., Ex. M. C. - -See the maliciousness of Fate! If May had been but the child of some -poor widow or parson—or had Harry claimed descent from some lordly -aristocrat, the course of true love might not have run so crooked. -Leander swam the Hellespont to reach his love, breasting bravely the -surging billows, which parting before him, bore him exultingly to the -feet of Hero—but how shall Harry force the adamantine chains with which -Mammon bars the way to happiness! Assist him ye gods of hapless lovers. - -My hero was the son of a farmer, more rich in children than in acres, -and who could only afford them in schooling, value received for a few -bushels of wheat, rye, or potatoes. - -Young Harry had no taste for agriculture. The plough furrowed his -handsome countenance, and the harrow harrowed his soul. Neither did he -fancy mechanics—he turned from the anvil, the carpenter’s bench, the -awl, and the scissors, with equal repugnance. Books, books alone were -his passion. For these all else were neglected, the cattle strayed loose -in the fields, the pigs crept through to the garden, the wheat remained -unshocked, and the grass uncut, while Harry under a tree lost himself -amid the tattered leaves of an old book, which every breath of wind -threatened to sweep far from him. This was a sore trial to his father, -but after fruitlessly exhausting all his arguments to dissuade his son -from the folly of “_larning_,” he finally gave it up, and left Harry -unmolested to follow his bent. The clergyman of the village admiring the -perseverance of the young farmer-boy, and wishing to encourage such -laudable zeal, kindly volunteered to assist him in his studies, and with -unwearied toil by night and by day, Harry Warren was finally prepared to -enter college. - -At the age of twenty-one he graduated honorably, and left the college -walls, his head well-stored with knowledge—a light heart—a lighter -purse, and a strong will to persevere in the path he had marked out for -himself, a path which, after many crooked windings, was, as his sanguine -imagination assured him, to lead him eventually on the high road to -fame. - -To put a little money in his pocket, and at the same time gain some -leisure for study, he offered himself as a candidate for the school in -the beautiful village of G——, some fifty miles distant from his native -town. He was accepted, and entered upon the duties of his new office -with hope and energy. And then—the very first thing he did was to fall -in love! foolish fellow—instead of teaching the young idea to shoot—he -suffered himself to be shot—through the sparkling roguish eyes of -little May Lillie did Cupid aim his dart—_twang_—he was gone! - - * * * * * - -Diogenes Lillie, Esq., professed to be a very learned man, an immensely -learned man, and his library accordingly occupied one whole wing of his -large and costly mansion. No one far or near could boast of so many -square feet of knowledge. He patronized the arts and sciences, and -hinted at many wonderful inventions at work in his brain, which were in -time to burst forth and astonish the world. He also courted the muses, -and was convinced that should he once plume his flight to Parnassus, -there would be an immense fluttering among all soaring poets, whom he -should distance at once by his bold and flashing imagery. - -Could the eyes of poor old Dominie Sampson have rested upon the -countless volumes which like “Alps on Alps” arose to the lofty ceiling, -would not his meagre, bony jaws have ushered in—“pro-di-gious!” for -there was one compartment devoted to theology, another to geology, and -spaces for all the _’ologies_—then there were divisions for astronomy, -for botany, for history, for travels—there was the poet’s corner, and -the niche of romance. There were books in French, and German, and -Spanish, and Russian, and Italian, and a mausoleum for the dead -languages. I cannot vouch that “one poor head could carry” all this, -that the brain of the great Diogenes contained as many chambers as his -library divisions—but it was a very pleasant thing for him to gaze up -and down, and down and up, upon their costly gold-lettered backs! Then -there were also busts, and statues, and globes, and blow-pipes, and -barometers, and thermometers scattered around, and here in this hall of -inspiration, devoted to the “sisters three and such branches of -learning,” did Mr. Lillie spend the most of his invaluable time. - -Now great wisdom is said to bestow upon its possessor a contempt for -wealth proportionate, which, by the way, may be the reason why so many -learned writers and men of genius have died in a garret. If so—there -was no fear that the last breath of Diogenes Lillie, Esq., would be -drawn in an attic, for he lost not sight of his gold in the depths of -his wisdom, but so skillfully managed his financial concerns, that -though apparently paying little heed to business, as he sat there -ensconced amid his books and papers, the ball was kept constantly -rolling and constantly accumulating. - -Yet what militated most against the love of Harry Warren, he had -resolved from the time when pretty May slipped her leading-strings, that -she should be the wife of some great man wielding authority; and pray -what virtue was there in the petty birch-twig, or the twelve inch ruler, -which were the only symbols of authority the young school-master -wielded! - -“However, there is no need of my troubling myself upon that head yet!” -would Mr. Lillie year after year say to himself—“May is but a child—it -will be time enough years hence to pick out a husband for her.” - -_Pick out a husband!_ just as if the bright eyes of May were not capable -of selecting for themselves—or that the eyes of sixty could see for -those of sixteen. - -But there is in reality no need of Mr. Lillie’s troubling himself, for -the deed is done, and the little gipsy May engaged in as pretty a -flirtation, as ever spread the rosy light of love around the hearts of -youth. - - * * * * * - -Let me exculpate my unfortunate hero from all attempts to win the -affections of his beautiful pupil. On the contrary, it seems a mystery -that his oddities and awkwardness should have awoke any other emotion -than pity in the heart of May—for he was so terribly ungraceful in her -presence—why if he merely spoke to her his voice was so low and -tremulous, that she had really to approach her little head quite near to -catch a word he said—and as for his scholarship, you would have thought -him a dunce, so many egregrious blunders did he commit in hearing her -recitations—and he could no more guide her little hand in making those -pretty and delicate strokes which marked her copy-book, than he could -fly to the moon. You would have been amazed that such a fine, handsome -young fellow, could have made such a booby of himself! - -However, never were scholars blessed with so indulgent a master, and his -popularity rose in proportion, while as your lovers are for the most -part but little given to the “flesh-pots of Egypt,” he was pronounced by -all economical housewives upon whose hospitality he was semi-monthly -thrown, to possess the most accommodating taste, and could dine from -beef and cabbage, pork and parsnips, peas porridge, or mush and milk, -with equal relish. - -I am sorry to say, that at first May joined in the laugh with her -mischievous school-mates at the oddities of the master, and contrived -many little tricks to vex him. Yet if she raised her eyes a moment from -her book, she was sure to encounter those of Harry fixed upon her, with -an expression so mournful, yet so tender, as bathed her cheek with -blushes, and her eyes with tears of contrition. Her frolicks therefore -soon yielded to a more pensive mood. She could not tell why, but the -thoughtless mirth of her companions vexed and annoyed her—she no longer -joined in those idle pranks, which had for their object the ridicule of -the master, but gave way to sudden fits of musing and abstraction. When -she heard his footstep approaching, her heart beat audibly, and in her -class she no longer raised her saucy eyes to _mis_construe her lesson, -but scarcely lifted their drooping lids as she answered in faint tones -the questions put to her. - -In short, Love had conquered the merriest and most mischievous maiden -that ever laughed at his wiles! - -One day in early spring, ere the snow-drop or the crocus, had dared to -lift their pretty heads above the snowy mantle in which old winter had -so long kept them snug and warm, May placed in her bosom a bright and -beautiful rose-bud. It was the first her little conservatory had -yielded, and as she that morning for the first time discovered it -peeping through the rich green leaves, she thought she had never seen -any thing so fresh and beautiful. Carefully plucking it from the -luxuriant branch, she bore off the fragrant trophy to exhibit to her -young companions. - -Well to be sure it was only a rose-bud—but as Harry descried it sitting -so proudly upon its pure and lovely throne, something whispered that -with that tiny rose his fate was linked—was it thornless, or should he -wounded and complaining henceforth bid adieu to happiness! - -May caught the glance of the master, and blushed and trembled just as if -she perfectly comprehended what was passing through his mind, and as -suddenly the little rose-bud was invested with new and tenfold value. -She would fain have hid it next her heart from the careless gaze of her -young associates, for she felt that it had now become a sacred thing -which their touch would profane. - -Suddenly, May bent her head over her desk, and shook her long raven -curls over her blushing cheek, as she heard a well-known step behind -her, and felt that the large eloquent eyes of the master were fixed upon -her. But for the throbbing of her own little heart, she could have heard -the rapid pulsation of his, while his breath almost stirred the -beautiful ringlet which rested upon her bosom. Rapidly her little hand -now moved over the slate, glancing to the right and left, tracing figure -upon figure, as though its mistress had not a thought, but was occupied -in deciphering the rules of Coleman. It was a most puzzling sum—never -had she attempted one so difficult—in vain she erased—in vain began -again. Of course it was all wrong, and so Harry, as in duty bound, took -the pencil and sat down by her side to extricate her from her -difficulties—as a school-master you know, there was no other way! - -But, dear me—instead of looking upon the slate, his eyes never fell a -bit lower than that little rose-bud—a pretty teacher, to be sure! - -“_Ahem_—that is a beautiful rose, Miss May!” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“You—you are fond of flowers, I see.” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“They are a favorite study of mine—are you much versed in the language -of flowers, my—_ahem_—Miss May?” - -“They always speak to me of God’s love and goodness,” replied May, as -demurely as if she had been answering her minister. - -“True, dear Miss May,” said Harry. “They are indeed, as the poet -says—‘the smiles of angels’ blessing and cheering us on our earthly -pilgrimage—but aside from this heavenly mission, the poet has also -bestowed upon them another language: - - “‘In eastern lands they talk in flowers, - And they tell in a garland their loves and cares, - Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, - On its leaves a mystic language bears.’ - -“Is it so—do you believe this, May?” - -May made no answer, but bent her head still lower over the book before -her, and the little rose-bud trembled as though moved by some breath of -summer. - -“The—the rose, May,” continued Harry, “seems to have been ever a -favorite and expressive flower of this mystic garland: - - “‘The rose is the sign of joy and love, - Young blushing love in its earliest dawn.’” - -There was a pause. - -“May—May, will you give me the rose?” - -May timidly raised her eyes to his—they were filled with tears. - -“Will you, May—will you give me the rose?” - -The next moment the little bud was in the hand of the transported Harry, -accompanied with a look of such innocent, confiding love, as made his -heart dance with rapture. - -Was there ever in after life a moment of such pure and exquisite -happiness as then filled the hearts of the lovers! - -But the rose-bud, the poor rose-bud, bitterly did it rue the change from -its lovely resting-place to the great hand of the school-master—besides -coming very near being crushed to pieces between that and the dainty -little fingers of May as she placed it therein! - -Well, it must have been a puzzling sum indeed to keep the master so long -at May Lillie’s desk! and taking advantage of his inattention, the -mischievous scholars carried on a pretty little by-play of their -own—there was tittering in corners, and whispering behind torn -covers—and soft, soft tiptoeing from one seat to another, and little -paper pellets flying like hail-stones from side to side. Ah, dear, happy -children—there is no danger—you might knock the master’s head off, and -he would never know it! - -“Young ladies—children—I give you a holyday,” quoth Harry, rapping his -desk with the dread ferule, insignia of his power. - -“A holyday—_huzza—huzza_—a holyday!” shouted the girls and boys, -rushing from the school-room. - -But the older girls looked slyly at each other, and then at the blushing -May. - -“Look—look!” exclaimed half-a-dozen in a breath. “The master is walking -home with May Lillie!” - - * * * * * - -Diogenes Lillie, Esq., sat in his study. Around him were gathered all -those powerful incentives necessary to call forth that great masterly -genius which lay hid somewhere in his brain—somewhere—from whence, -though many times coaxed and flattered, it had as yet resolutely refused -to stir. - -Upon the table before him, bearing at each corner respectively a bust of -Plato, of Shakspeare, Homer, and Milton, were pamphlets, reviews, -folios, quartos and duodecimos, thickly strewn—but what was more to the -purpose, there was drawn up close to the elbow of Mr. Lillie, a quire of -hot-pressed letter-paper, with edges of gold—a silver standish, bearing -the golden pen ingrafted in a feather of pearl, and the cerulean ink -with which genius should indite the virgin page, whenever said genius -should deign to issue from its dark hiding-place. - -The lips of Diogenes were closely pressed together—his eyes upturned -with a frenzied glare to the ceiling, and deep indentations, like the -rind of a musk-melon, corrugated his brow. - -Reader—he was conceiving. - -Bringing down his clinched hand with a force which made old Homer nod, -he exclaimed: - -“I will write. Yes, I will write a poem—I will astonish the world—my -talents shall no longer remain under a bushel, but shall go forth like -the sword of Gideon to hew down all minor poets! Upon what theme shall I -first spend my genius—let me consider,” (drawing the paper still nearer -and dipping the golden pen into the flowing liquid,) “gold—the Age of -Gold—the Golden Age—yes, ‘The Golden Age’ it shall be. My sublimity -shall throw Milton into the shade,” (with a look at the blind bard)—“my -glowing pictures of rural life shall startle the lovers of Homer,” (a -bow to the god)—“my wit shall cut with the keen sarcasm of Shakspeare,” -(looking glorious Will full in the face)—“while the _tout-ensemble_ -shall form such a completeness of wisdom, as might honor even the head -of a Plato!” (a triumphant glance at the old philosopher.) - -And thus encouraged, the gold pen capered, and flashed, and flourished -from side to side like a mad thing—pointing notes of admiration here, -dotting and scratching there, and then diving deep into the sea of ink, -plumed its pearly pinion for new and higher flights. - -For three weeks did the poet bury himself in his library with dead and -living authors. - -And every morning he kissed his pretty May-flower as she tied on her -little bonnet: - -“There, there—go along child; be a good girl and obey the master.” - -And then as she came to bid him good-night: - -“There, there; go to bed, child, and don’t forget your lessons.” - -Not she, bless her! Why she never forgot a single lesson the -school-master taught her—she had every word by heart! - -At length the Golden Age was ready to burst like a blazing star upon -this dull coppery world, and was the most sublime thing, in the opinion -of its author, that was ever written—and who, pray, could be a better -judge! - -Now Mr. Lillie having some conception of the ignorance of the critics, -having once (although it is a great secret,) sent a huge MSS. to the -Harpers, which was pronounced “_stuff_”—it might have been very good -stuff notwithstanding—resolved that ere he essayed the publishers, he -would give his unique poem in all its unfledged beauty to his native -village. It was a capital idea. It should be delivered before the Lyceum -to an astonished audience. He could then have some faint idea perhaps of -the applause which awaited its appearance in 12mo., calf and gilt. - -One evening he dispatched a hasty note to our young school-master, and -requested to see him immediately upon business of a private nature. - -Heavens how poor Harry trembled as he perused this terrible summons! All -was discovered then—Mr. Lillie knew of his presumptuous love, and had -sent to banish him forever from the presence of May. And then our little -heroine—into what an agony of doubt and apprehension was she thrown, as -she read the billet which Harry contrived to slip into her hand. - -At the hour appointed, with an unsteady hand, Harry knocked at the door -of Mr. Lillie’s library. The great Diogenes himself appeared at the -threshhold—and imagine the surprise of our hero to be greeted with: - -“Come in, come in, my dear sir—I am most happy to see you,” (shaking -him warmly by the hand.) “Sit down, Mr. Warren,” (motioning to a seat at -the table of the gods.) “It has long been my wish to know you better -than my very limited time would allow—my pursuits” (glancing -complacently around him,) “are a great bar to social intercourse. The -muses, Mr. Warren, the muses I find are very jealous ladies—do you -cultivate their acquaintance? No? Ah, I am surprised, for I assure you I -have formed a very high opinion of your talents.” - -Harry bowed, and said something about honor, &c., &c. - -“My daughter, Mr. Warren,” (ah! now it is coming! thought poor Harry,) -“my daughter, I am inclined to believe, has made great proficiency under -your instruction—you have my thanks for initiating her into some of the -more abstruse sciences which she never before attended to.” - -Did Harry dream, or was the wrath of Mr. Lillie veiled under the most -cutting irony! He could only bow, and smile “a ghastly smile.” - -“And speaking of the Muses, my dear young sir,” continued Mr. Lillie, “I -have just been amusing myself with a trifle—a mere flight of fancy—if -you have a few moments leisure now, I will read you a few passages.” - -Of course our hero considered himself favored—and accordingly with true -bombastic style Mr. Lillie read several stanzas from the closely written -pages of his poem. Never had Harry listened to such trash—he could -hardly credit his senses that any man should be so inflated with vanity -as to deem it even passable! - -“Ah, it strikes you I see,” said Mr. Lillie. “I knew it would. Yes, I -see it hits your vein exactly—this convinces me that our tastes are -congenial.” - -Again Harry bowed—not daring to trust his voice, he was forced to nod -his head continually like a Chinese mandarin in a toy-shop. - -“Mr. Warren,” proceeded the author, wheeling his chair round and -regarding our hero with great benignity, “I have imbibed a great regard -for you, and mean to make your fortune—to smooth your path to eminence. -Yes, I like you, and am convinced there is no one more worthy than -yourself to receive——” - -Harry started—his face radiant with hope, he bent eagerly forward to -catch the rest of the sentence. - -“But, by the way, my young friend, this conversation must be strictly -confidential.” - -“Certainly, my dear sir!” exclaimed Harry, almost breathless. - -“Yes, Mr. Warren, there is something about you which pleases me, and -therefore I am about to confer upon you a most precious gift—to bestow -upon you my—ah, can’t you guess what it is?” smiling archly. - -“O, my dear sir,” said Harry, seizing his hand, “if I might dare to -hope!” - -“Yes, Mr. Warren, I am about to give you my—poem!” - -“Your poem!” - -“My poem.” - -“Your poem!” - -“Yes, my poem—that is, the reputation of the thing.” - -Harry started up and paced the room as if pursued by all the furies. - -“Ah, I thought I should surprise you,” cried Mr. Lillie. “Come, sit down -again. I said I would make your fortune, and I will. Now this poem, Mr. -Warren, you shall have the honor of delivering before the Lyceum as your -own—think of that—as your own production.” - -Poor Harry was struck aghast. “But, my dear sir,” he exclaimed, “I can -never consent to such a gross imposition!” - -“I honor you the more for your delicacy young man,” replied the poet; -“but banish it—there is no need of it between friends, we perfectly -understand each other you know—you shall deliver this poem.” (“The Lord -deliver me!” mentally prayed Harry.) “Listeners will applaud—copies -will be solicited—your fame will reach the city—Morris and Willis will -rank you among their favorite young poets—the——” - -“But, Mr. Lillie, why not deliver this poem yourself—why not wear your -own laurels?” interrupted Harry. - -“_Ahem_—Mr. Warren, I am averse to popularity—notoriety of any kind I -detest—I prefer to quaff stealthily at the fount of Helicon, and tread -with felted footsteps the Parnassian hill—stop, that’s a new idea, I’ll -note it. So long as I have the mental satisfaction of knowing the _poem -is mine_, what matters it whether you or I have the reputation! Say no -more—you accept my proposition of course.” - -“Mr. Lillie—” - -“Not a word, my dear sir—I will take care that you are invited to -deliver the next Lyceum lecture—two weeks hence remember. That gives -you ample time to study the poem and conceive my meaning. Come here -every evening—you shall have my assistance. I will not detain you -longer—good-night. You will find May somewhere—in the drawing-room -most probably; she will be glad to see you, for I dare say she is -puzzling her little head about something which you can explain. -Good-night.” - -This latter clause sufficed to check all further opposition from Harry, -for the moment at least, and with rapid steps he now sought the -drawing-room. - -“Dear Harry!” cried May, springing toward him as he entered, and looking -up in his face as if to read there the stern mandate which was to -separate them forever. - -“Dearest May, do not tremble thus,” replied Harry, leading her to a -seat; “believe me you have no cause.” - -“Ah—does he then approve of our love!” exclaimed May, her sweet young -face illumined with hope. - -“Your father has been kind, my dear girl, and that he does not even -suspect our love I am convinced, or he would have been less so. His -kindness, however, if it may be called so,” (and the lip of Harry curled -doubtingly,) “has placed me in a most awkward predicament. Listen, dear -May, and help me if you can.” - -He then as briefly as possible related the conversation he had just held -with her father, and the strange proposition made him. No wonder he felt -provoked at the merry laugh with which the little maiden closed his -rueful communication. - -“Confess now, Harry, you deem papa’s poem most execrable stuff!” she -said, looking him archly in the face. - -“Dear May, you know I—” - -“Confess, confess Harry—no equivocation!” cried May, shaking her little -finger. - -“Well, May, I will be honest then—you know, dear one, I would not for -worlds wound your feelings, but really I must confess I never listened -to more senseless jargon!” - -“That’s excellent—the more absurd the better,” said May, laughing; “and -you will deliver it, Harry.” - -“May!” exclaimed her lover reproachfully, “_you_ surely cannot ask me to -make myself ridiculous!” - -“_Hem_—do you love me, Harry?” - -“Can you doubt, it dearest May?” - -“Then if you love me, as Hamlet says, ‘speak the speech I pray you.’ No -doubt it will be hissed—so much the better—you will be laughed -at—better still—” - -“May, May!” cried her lover, turning away from her, “if you loved me you -would not say this!” - -“Ah—not if it gains papa’s consent to our union!” - -“That indeed—but, dearest May, to become a laughing-stock—to have the -finger of derision pointed at one—to feel the lash of the critic, -and—” - -“To call little May your own!” added the coaxing gipsy. - -Who could resist such an appeal from such a pair of rosy lips? or -unrelenting behold the mute eloquence of those beautiful eyes! Not -Harry; no, nor any other young lover I am sure. - -From that evening, dear reader, only imagine my unlucky hero imprisoned -hour after hour with the learned author, declaiming that—“infernal -poem,” (I quote Harry’s own words.) Do you not pity him? - -But then—the stolen half hour below, assisting little May in her -lessons—do you not envy him! - -In the meantime Mr. Lillie had not been idle. He had forwarded letters -to some of the most influential men of the neighboring towns, inviting -them to attend the next Lyceum, where as he informed them, a young -author, a poet, was to make his _début_ before their intelligent -community. In confidence he assured them they would be astonished at the -depth and power of his genius. He had himself looked over the poem, and -although he would not wish to forestall their admiration, thus much he -would say, that he had never read such a production! - - * * * * * - -The eventful evening arrived, and from every turnpike and cross-road -people came flocking in to listen to the young author—some because of -the favor of Mr. Lillie, others to compliment their favorite—the -school-master. - -Escorted by the great and learned Diogenes Lillie, Esq., and a few of -the leading members, Harry was conducted to the hall, and seated within -the inclosure of the platform. - -To depict his feelings would be impossible—he knew he was about to make -himself ridiculous, and was tempted more than once to turn his back and -quit the scene of his approaching disgrace. Notwithstanding the tempting -reward he had in view, the alternative was a hard one—but his eye -turned to a distant corner of the hall where the sweet face of May -smiled upon him, and her fair hand waved encouragement. He wavered no -longer. - -Resolving to meet his fate like a hero, Harry now arose, and after a few -preliminaries introduced—“The Golden Age.” - -The two first stanza elicited a general smile from the audience, the -third and fourth exerted a different influence—influenza became -universal, to judge from the coughing and _hem-ming_! Between the fifth -and sixth, many persons left the house, and as Harry with the energy of -despair drew near the close of the first canto, the hissing and hooting -of boys outside and in the building was almost deafening, while one of -the committee arose and advised the orator to sit down! - -With the self-satisfaction of a martyr he was preparing to do so, when -his eye suddenly fell upon the _author_, whom he detected at a glance to -be the most active in the war of ridicule which was waging against him. -Rage for the moment overcame his discretion. Hurling the manuscript upon -the floor, he sprang from the desk, made one leap down the steps, and -rushed upon his deceitful patron! - -“Do you dare to laugh at me!” he exclaimed, pale with anger, “do you -dare to utter a word, you—you who are yourself the—” - -A little hand was on his arm, and a soft voice whispered: - -“Harry, dear Harry, come away.” And obeying the gentle mandate our hero -suffered himself to be led from the scene of his mortification. - -“Poor fellow!” cried Mr. Lillie, recovering from the alarm of Harry’s -onset, “poor fellow, he is almost beside himself I see—well, it is -pitiful trash after all, and I fear I gave him too much encouragement, -my friendship got the better of my judgment—yet his delivery is the -worst—why I am not sure gentlemen but his ranting and mouthing would -render even Shakspeare ridiculous. The poem _reads_ well—depend upon it -gentlemen there is genius after all where that poem came from.” - -When Mr. Lillie reached home he found Harry awaiting him, storming and -raving to and fro in the library like a madman. Rushing upon the great -Diogenes he seized him by the collar: - -“Your conduct is unbearable!” he exclaimed. “You shall do me justice, -sir—by heaven you shall! I am not to be treated in this way! After -palming off your wretched stuff upon me, do you think I am going to -submit to your ridicule! No, sir—either go forward and acknowledge -yourself openly as the author, or I will post you at every corner!” - -“Be calm, pray be calm—we’ll settle it all in a moment,” said Mr. -Lillie, pale and trembling—“I am really sorry your first essay should -have been so unsuccessful.” - -“My first essay!” interrupted Harry indignantly. “I am not to be trifled -with—no, sir—I will expose you at once—it is you who shall bear the -ridicule, not me!” and Harry rushed to the door. - -“Stop—stop—my dear young friend,” cried Mr. Lillie, catching his -arm—“listen a moment; for heaven’s sake don’t expose me, it will be my -ruin. I will give you any thing you ask if you will only spare me—you -shall have money—” - -“_Money!_ Can money repair the disgrace you have heaped upon me—talk of -money to a man who feels his future hopes blasted!” exclaimed Harry -scornfully. “Sir, there is but one way to save your reputation.” - -“And what is that dear sir?” eagerly demanded the author. - -“Give me the hand of your daughter,” he replied firmly. - -“My daughter, Mr. Warren—why you astonish me—my daughter!” and Mr. -Lillie paused and pondered, bit his lips and rubbed his eyebrows. “Why -bless my soul, Mr. Warren, May is but a child!” - -“No matter,” was the answer, “will you or will you not accept my -proposition?” - -“Will not five hundred dollars, Mr. Warren—” - -“No—nor five hundred thousand dollars.” - -“Well, Mr. Warren, only don’t expose me; only pledge me your word of -honor that my secret shall be inviolate and May is yours!” - -Harry calmed down wonderfully quick, considering he had been in such a -passion, and very obligingly made all the pledges his father-in-law that -was to be required. - -“But there is one thing, Mr. Warren, which I must leave to your -generosity,” said Mr. Lillie. “May is my only, and a motherless -child—if this arrangement should be repugnant to her feelings, I trust -you will not press your claim—we may perhaps find some other way to -adjust this little difficulty. I will call May down, we may as well know -at once what her feelings are.” - -Harry coughed, and walked to the window to conceal a smile, feeling at -the same time more respect for Mr. Lillie for this last clause in favor -of his child, than he thought him capable of inspiring. - -One glance at the happy countenance of her lover informed May the day -was theirs. - -And so she immediately took a great many airs upon herself—pouted her -pretty lips, and protested she thought it really absurd the idea of -marrying a man who had made himself so ridiculous—she doted on poets, -that she was willing to allow—but not such a conceited fellow as wrote -that poem—she knew! - -Harry meanwhile whistled “Rory O’More,” and walked the room with an air -as much as to say—“It is perfectly indifferent to me, Miss, which ever -way you decide.” - -“But, foolish child!” whispered her father, “the poem is _mine_!” - -“Yours, dear papa—oh that alters the case—then you wrote that stup—” - -“Hush—hush May. The public are fools, and cannot appreciate true -genius—the poem is a good poem.” - -“I think it has point, papa.” - -“Yes, and if those stupid ignoramuses had not made such an outcry, they -would have seen that it terminates most felicitously.” - -“True, papa—one certainly could not wish for a happier termination.” - -“But you see, May, I have particular reasons for not wishing to be known -as the author—and this poor young man feeling much chafed by the -treatment he has received, and which is perfectly natural you know—” - -“Certainly, papa—the school-master is very sensitive. Mercy, if you -only knew—” - -“Well, no matter now—and feeling as I said, greatly incensed, he -threatens to expose me. You can save me May—your hand will make all -secure.” - -“Very well, dear papa—Mr. Warren has always been kind to me in school, -and I like him very well—I do papa, and so to oblige you I will do as -you wish,” said the arch maiden. - -Taking her hand, her father now led her up to Harry, and placed it -within that of the enraptured lover. And May, dropping a little -courtesy, very gravely assured him that she would endeavor to make as -obedient a wife as she had a pupil. - -Madam Rumor is a prying gossip. How she found out the secret was never -known—but away she went gadding from house to house, whispering the -school-master had obtained his charming young wife by fathering the -literary bantling of the learned Mr. Lillie! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE NEW SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS. - - - A BUCOLIC. - - - BY E. FOXTON. - - - When with glances far and free - My Spirit stood at Childhood’s knee, - And gazed and smiled with careless glee, - To see the fateful spinsters three - Draw deftly out from carded naught - Its first soft rainbow thread of thought, - My playmate true, delight and joy, - Was a tiny wingéd boy. - Nightly nestled in my breast, - His legends lulled me to my rest; - Thence his voice awakening gay - Trilled back the early linnet’s lay; - In the bird’s nest, in the tree, - By the purling rill sat he; - From wind-rocked blue-bells flashed his eye; - He floated round the butterfly; - His little golden head rose up - In the water-lily’s cup; - His saucy breath, with nectar fed, - Puffed at me from the violet’s bed. - Half in sport and half caress; - Oh, dear artless Happiness! - - Womanhood one day me found, - And my brows with roses crowned. - In a naiad’s glass I saw, - Pleased, my graces touched with awe; - And “These royal flowers shall be - Forged to links, my boy, for thee,” - So I said. From morn till eve - Through my haunts the shepherds grieve; - But the urchin bursts amain - Shouting from my bloomy chain, - Bursts and leaves me all forlorn, - Pricked and bleeding with a thorn. - “Why thus wrong my gentleness, - Light, inconstant Happiness!” - - All in tears to bring me ease, - Back he flew, and made his peace; - And my every art I tried - Aye to keep him at my side; - April floods of tears and smiles, - Soft confessions, simple wiles; - Then I seized my harp and sang; - Far and wide the chorus rang; - (Round me flocked the grave, the gay, - But the rover would not stay;) - “Peerless, wronged, thy votaress, - Cruel, fleeting, Happiness.” - - Oft and oftener still his flight; - Longer still he shunned my sight; - Till I left my woodlands dim, - And set forth in quest of him - To the tourney, feast and ball, - (In their turn I peeped at all,) - Court, and hermitage, and camp, - Still halls where burns the midnight lamp, - And the sunk-eyed scholar delves - Slowly through the groaning shelves, - Where old souls, that erst were men, - Speak and teach the young again, - And, while creation’s bounds they track, - Cast their endless shadows back; - Vainly still I sought to find - Him I sought among mankind. - Still his semblance proved to be - Garish Mirth or Vanity; - And still of all I sought in vain - Good tidings of the lost to gain. - The scholar said, “In poet’s book;” - The poet, “In some leafy nook;” - “Oh, which?” “I know not yet,” he says, - “Go thou and seek—’mid clustering bays;” - The lawyer, “In the judge’s gown;” - The judge, “In ermine’s lordly down;” - The peer, “He’s in my liege’s crown;” - The king, “He rides the victor’s glaive;” - And he, “In peaceful Lethe’s wave, - Or, haply, in the hermit’s cell;” - The hermit said, “I know him well, - Seek him in the house of prayer;” - “Nay, I know he can’t be there! - Pride shall bravely fill thy place, - False and treacherous Happiness!” - - Prim sat Pride, then dropped asleep, - Leaving me to watch and weep. - Round my dimpled shoulders clung - My dewy locks at random flung; - Wildered strayed my fleecy band; - Loosed the crook my listless hand, - Playing with the dreary rue - At my cavern’s mouth that grew, - And forgot its tuneful craft. - At my plight the shepherds laughed; - “She is sick at heart, you know; - She loved,—wise maidens do not so; - So fare all idle fools who chase - The subtle, coy sprite, Happiness!” - - Dropped its silver balls from sight - The starry clepsydra of night; - And the morn brought jocund glee - To the world, and not to me, - “Would I ne’er had seen thy face, - Happiness, lost Happiness!” - - Stung with swarms of wretchedness, - I plunged into the wilderness; - Toward the Eastern land of spells - Me some secret power impels; - “There some wily witch,” I thought, - “In her toils the boy has caught.” - Through the shadows, through the sun, - And surging sands I journeyed on, - Till the sun his gold lance set - In rest to prick from Olivet. - Glorious light the morrow showed. - Nor to him its lustre owed. - Up the steep of Zion’s hill - Rose a being brighter still. - Silvery white the garb she wore, - And a cross of flowers she bore; - From vulgar gaze her charms, amid - A dark, enshrining mask, she hid, - Lighted up like midnight skies - With the splendor of her eyes; - Her dainty feet, with sandals shod, - Scarce touched the ragged road she trod, - And a pearly scallop-shell - Gleamed her pilgrim state to tell. - Dully, long I strove to see - What that which bore her train could be; - Now on this side, now on that, - Now it met a chiding pat, - For resting on her skirts to impede, - Impishly, her upward speed, - From frowning cliff and wayside stone, - Flitting far, as bribes, it won - Blossoms fair and held before, - As her constancy to lure. - Graciously she marked its play; - Steadfastly she held her way. - Changed of mood, with tender gloom - It hung its garlands o’er a tomb. - Full in view thence reared its head, - Looked at me and beckoned, - Then, as if perforce, again - Fled and bore the lady’s train; - Thick my heart’s full throbs confess - “Surely that was Happiness!” - - Panting, staring, faint, I stood, - Then with foot and tongue pursued; - “Sorceress, fiend—whate’er ye be— - Tear not thus my fere from me! - I defy the loathly charms - That keep him from his poor maid’s arms! - I will rend thy mask away! - I will give those charms to-day!” - My whirlwind race was won, and lo! - I tore it from her blushing brow, - My foster-sister’s, Holiness! - And her page was Happiness! - - Oh, I owned her might too well! - Groveling in the dust I fell! - Then wondering heard a whisper low, - “Let’s be friends, my causeless foe.” - Doubtfully I raised my eyes; - Down she gazed with mild surprise. - Naught to fear I saw was there, - But purity and beauty rare. - As she raised me with a kiss, - Through her veil laughed Happiness. - - When I slumber at her feet - Light pinions scatter odors sweet; - While her step keeps pace with mine - Round my neck soft fingers twine; - If I chase him, he is gone; - But the rogue returns anon, - Charged with heavenly fruit, to bless, - The handmaid meek of Holiness. - - * * * * * - - - - - NIGHT. - - - BY MISS AUGUSTA. C. TWIGGS. - - - Brightly the moonshine - Gleams on the flower, - Sweetly the woodbine - Twines round the bower; - Lowly the lover - Whispers his love, - Angel forms hover - Around from above. - - Purple-robed foxglove - Is deep in the dell, - Where the night-fays love - To wind their dark spell; - Beauty is hurled - O’er meadow and lea, - The sails are all furled, - The ship sleeps at sea. - - The night-breeze now sighs - So sweet and so sad; - Bright gems deck the skies, - So blue and so glad; - The lapwing that brushed - The dew from the hill, - Now sleeps—all is hushed, - ’Cept the laughing rill. - - Moonlight’s soft glances - On every thing smile, - Pure water dances - Out laughing the while; - The cricket’s chirp shrill - Most merrily sounds, - The fisher’s barque still - O’er moonlit wave bounds. - - Trees bathed in moonbeams - Wave gracefully low, - With beauty all teems - ’Neath its silvery glow; - All nature’s at prayer. - The holy thoughts rise, - On wings of the air, - Up, up to the skies. - - The cricket has hushed - Now his chirp so sweet. - Rare perfume has gushed - From the new-cut wheat; - The lily has bent - Down its head in sleep, - Its odor is lent - To the winds to keep. - - Mortals are slumb’ring, - Long hours fly past, - Old Time is numb’ring - The seconds so fast, - Fears him no mortal, - For slumber has tight - Closed the portal - Of thought—it is Night. - - * * * * * - - - - - PASSAGES OF LIFE IN EUROPE. - - - BY BAYARD TAYLOR. - - - NO. II.—A LONELY WEEK. - -One of the loneliest hours I felt in two years of absence from my -country, was on an afternoon in April, after leaving the gate of Cassel, -in Northern Germany. There I had parted from Carl K——, a young -student, whom I had met for the first time two days before, on entering -the city. We met, strangers though we were, and ignorant of each other’s -name or condition, like old acquaintances who had been long separated; -an invisible link seemed at once to attach us in friendship and -confidence. He was a boy of seventeen, but already a poet, possessing a -nature full of enthusiasm and the sorrowful inspiration of song. His -heart beat with all true and tender impulses, and in its yet unfathomed -depths there was a capacity for boundless passion. In those two days we -were constantly together; we climbed the slopes of the Wilhelmshöhe, -fragrant with early cowslips; we wandered among the giant ruins of the -Katzenberg; we sat in the rich library, poring over the old illuminated -pages of the Song of Hildebrand. When the time of parting came, it was a -struggle for both of us, and as we gave the last warm pressure of hands -at the gate of Cassel, his dark, mournful eyes were full of tears, and I -turned away with a mist gathering over my own. I climbed the long hill -which was to shut out all sight of the valley, with a feeling amounting -to bitterness, heightened by the languid and feverish sensations of -approaching illness. - -The hazy sunshine shone warmly on the bare, bleak fields beside the -road, and as the day wore away, my spirits sank down, down, into a -bottomless gulf of despondency. The coolness of the woods into which the -road finally led as it descended the hills of the Weser, made me shiver, -though my veins were parched with heat. I threw myself down on the -grass, and looked up into the gray sky, that I might lose the feeling of -loneliness in its vast and sympathizing presence. This is always an -encouraging contemplation, and I was aided by it in the present -instance. I made out to reach the city of Münden before dark, and slept -as I best could, a disturbed, unrefreshing sleep. - -The next day, feeling unable to walk, I took the _eilwagen_ to -Göttingen, where I remained two days, and in spite of medicine and a -physician, grew no better. It rained continually, and shut up in my -chamber with no company but my own thoughts, which were by no means -entertaining companions, I looked back with regret to the home-like -comforts of Frankfort and Heidelberg. Sickness is synonymous with -impatience in my vocabulary, and after two days’ trial of repose, I -determined to continue my journey, trusting to the influences of scenery -and exercise. Accordingly I took the _eilwagen_ to Nordheim, twenty -miles nearer the Hartz, as it was raining heavily. In the capacious and -cushioned vehicle, traveling was tolerable enough and I reached Nordheim -at nightfall in better spirits. - -In the damp, gloomy inn, after the stage rolled off, my fever returned. -I went to bed, and lay awake for hours, listening to the rain beating on -the windows and the monotonous wail of the wind down the valley. The -rest of the night must have been passed either in the wildest dreaming, -or in a waking fever bordering on delirium. My head throbbed painfully, -and imaginary voices seemed calling me from a distance. Strange figures -walked through the room and stood long, looking out the window. Some -were familiar faces—faces of friends far away—and some that I knew -not, spoke to me, or talked with each other till my brain was confused -with the noises, and toward morning I slept. - -The next day the sky was dark, without rain. I was weak, though no -worse, and set out on foot, aided by a stout staff, toward the Hartz. In -spite of the labor of plodding along the muddy roads, I was refreshed by -the cool damp atmosphere and inspired by the scenery, which grew wilder -and lonelier as I advanced. Spring, although late for Germany, had -already covered the forests with their first light green foliage, and -the meadows were luxuriant with grass and flowers. Whenever I grew -weary, there was always a bank of moss somewhere under the pine-trees -which the rain had not reached, and like Uhland with his apple-tree, I -greeted the pine as my landlord, who, if he could spread me no board -from his juicy larder, at least kept for me his best arm-chair, and with -the thatch of his roof protected me from the frequent showers. - -So passed the day, with no incident except the challenge of a gend’arme, -who could read no part of my passport but the name “America,” in honor -of which he made a stiff military salute and wished a pleasant journey. -In the old, decaying village of Osterode, sunk deep among gypsum -quarries in the valley of the Oder, I made a dinner of milk and black -bread, and as it was late in the afternoon, pushed on to reach Herzberg, -at the entrance of the Hartz. As the black and gusty sky deepened into -night, I was joined by a traveling handwerker, who made the way shorter -by his cheery conversation, half talk and half singing. We stopped at a -little one-story inn, called, even in that unknown corner of the world, -the “London House.” The peasants employed by the landlord, who was rich -in possessing several acres of barren meadow land, had just collected -for supper, and we sat down with them at the table. An immense wooden -bowl, filled with steaming potatoes, was placed in the middle, and a -choppin of beer set before each one. They used neither knife, fork nor -plate, but took the potatoes in their fingers, and salted them from -another dish with the same convenient appliances. I was civilized enough -to ask for a plate and to call for tea instead of beer, at which these -stout men and maidens were greatly amused. There was considerable doubt -at first whether the last article could be had, but the _frau_, after -some search, produced a package of the kind called Russian tea, which is -brought overland to Russia through Tartary, and retains the delicate -aroma of the shrub in a much greater degree than that which reaches us -by a long sea-voyage from Canton. At least, it seemed to me, in my -exhausted state, nothing short of nectar, and after some talk with the -good people of the inn, who, enjoying only the merest necessities of -life gave me a new lesson in the requisites of happiness, I went to bed -in the loft and slept till my companion, the handwerker, awoke me at -breakfast-time. - -Our roads, unfortunately, were different. He was bound to Alexisbad on -the southern edge of the Hartz, while I was for a visit to His -Phantomship, the Spectre of the Brocken. So we parted, with mutual -wishes of good luck, and I plunged into the grand mountain defile in -front of Herzberg, my knapsack heavier by a loaf of bread. Thenceforward -my way was solitude itself. The steeps on either side were clothed to -the summit with woods of black pine, with here and there a single larch, -of a pale and misty green, like the ghost of a tree. The brawling river -ran over cold black rocks, and even where the hills left a little eddy -of meadow between them, the winter floods swept it bare and prevented -the peasant from planting his scanty harvest. The only houses were those -of the woodmen and mountain herdsmen—the only sounds of human life the -stroke of axes among the pines and the shout of men and boys driving -their cattle up to the cleared places, which were already covered with -thick grass. Snow-drifts still lay in the clefts of the rocks and under -the boughs of trees which had been felled. Over this stern and lonely -region was a dark and lowering sky and the only things that were truly -bright and joyous were the crimson pinks that grew by the wayside. - -I overtook a herdsman with his two boys driving their cows and goats up -the valley, and we walked some time in company. With a frank curiosity -he asked me why I traveled alone in the Hartz. It was too early, he -said, to climb the Brocken, and then nobody went there without company. -People said there were still spirits and witches among the hills, and I -might easily lose the path and wander about till after night-fall, when -I would be in their power. The boys listened to his warnings with -perfect belief in their faces. I asked them if they had ever seen those -witches, “No,” they answered, but they had never been further than -Andreasberg; yet the miners had told them of kobolds who guard the veins -of ore and smothered them to death when they came too near their -dwellings. The old herdsman said he had climbed the Brocken many years -before, in the summer time, and added, “but we took good care to come -down again before night.” I promised him to be careful about the road -and not to be belated when the witches were abroad, but he still seemed -unwilling that I should go alone. “Here are the cattle to take care of,” -said he, “but Ernest and Gottlieb could do that; if it were not for the -wood I must cut, I would go with you myself the whole way.” If my purse -had been a little heavier, I would have paid him for the lost work, and -taken him along. This I could not do, and when he reached the path which -led to his pasturage, I shook hands with him and repeated my promises. -“I hope you may be lucky,” was the last he said, “but I wish I could go -along.” - -Still climbing beside the stream, the road finally grew rough and -narrow, hemmed by mountains too high and bleak as yet for pasture. I -reached a pass where it was completely covered by an overhanging rock, -and sat down to compare the directions of my guide-book with the -appearances around me. I had come to the conclusion that I was in the -wrong path, when two or three miners came under the other end of the -rock. They confirmed my suspicions, but told me they were going to -Andreasburg by a path over the mountain on our right and if I followed -them I should gain what I had lost. This was a fortunate chance; I -shouldered my knapsack and took the path, which was so steep and narrow -that we climbed single file through the woods. It was half an hour -before we reached the summit and I felt like sinking to the earth from -fatigue, for my guides were strong-winded and athletic and went steadily -forward, without taking breath. I kept pace with them in the descent, -and learned from them something of their under-ground life and the -extent and productiveness of the mines. This part of the Hartz is very -rich in minerals, the mines producing gold, silver, lead, copper and -iron. Some of them have been worked seven or eight centuries, and the -deep shafts extend more than two thousand feet under the earth’s -surface. The great mine at Andreasberg, called the _Sampson_, is said to -be twenty three hundred feet deep, and the town is inhabited entirely by -the workmen. I have since regretted that I did not spend a day there in -visiting these remarkable subterranean works. - -The town is built near the summit of the mountain and commands a -singularly wild and dreary view over that part of the Hartz district. -Bleak hills, on which the snow still lay in patches, rose on every side, -and the valleys they enclosed looked dim and gloomy in the distance. The -Brocken was before me, but its top, fifteen miles off, was covered with -clouds. I pushed on, hoping to reach it before night, but while I was -tracing the course of the canal which carries water from the dammed -mountain springs to the mines, the air grew dense and damp, and a wreath -of cloud, trailing like a scarf along the cliffs far below me, portended -that night and storm were coming together. When I reached the dam, on -the side of the Brocken, it began to rain dismally. The wind whistled -through the long dead grass and soughed in the wet pines with a -monotonous sound. No sign of house or human being was visible, but I -kept on till twilight, when I reached a large solitary building standing -by the road. It was inhabited by some forest superintendent or other -functionary, and is the second highest dwelling in the Hartz. As the -office of landlord was also included in the occupant’s duties, I -determined at once to spend the night there. The only residents were the -landlord and his wife, two servants and a young man of polished manners, -yet of quiet and reserved appearance, who seemed to be living there as -much for the solitude of the place as any other cause. After supper he -was more communicative, and by drawings and descriptions gave me a very -good idea of the remaining eight miles to the summit of the Brocken, -which I was to try alone on the morrow. All night the winds howled -around the house as if all the witches were abroad. It was the second of -May, the night after their yearly conclave. - -I have related elsewhere my ascent through snow-drifts and -snow-clouds—up rocky ravines and over mountain marshes—till I reached -the Brocken House drowned with rain, a most woful-looking traveler. -After drying beside a stove like a furnace, and a dinner which sent the -blood warm and tingling through my limbs, I put the Brocken-nosegay of -moss and lichens in my knapsack and passing the witches’ cauldron, took -the path for Schierke. It led down the southern side of the mountain, -and the Brocken host (Herr Nese, who for fifty years past has introduced -his Spectre to poets, peasants, philosophers and princes) showed me a -pile of rocks just under the summit, where a few weeks before, his dogs -had found a handwerker buried in a snow-drift and on the point of -perishing. A half-hour’s walk brought me below the region of snow, but -not that of rain, for the clouds were gathered over the mountains to the -right. As I reached the first forests they rolled up black and swift and -the drops began to fall hard and heavily. Observing a little thicket of -scrubby pines, I lay down on the ground and crawled under it, where I -coiled myself up in the close and fragrant covert, just as the -floodgates were opened. A perfect deluge succeeded; the trees roared and -battled in the wind; the gullies on either side were full of foaming -water and the air was nearly as dark as night. But scarcely a drop found -its way through my shelter. I lay there warm and snug in the midst of a -wild and dreary storm, and never shall I forget my exquisite sense of -happiness while it lasted. - -Just before sunset I came out upon a slope of rich green pasture where -several boys were tending a flock of cattle. The sky was then partially -clear but cold, and as I was anxious to reach a village before dark, I -left the road to ask them my nearest way. One question succeeded -another, and having told them to what country I belonged, I must needs -stay with them awhile and tell them about it. We sat on a rock and -talked until the shadow of the opposite mountain fell over us, when I -left them. They had friends in America, and one of them thought he might -visit them when he grew older. - -They delayed me so long that the foot-path I had taken, through a deep -and rocky hollow, was very gloomy, and in the dim light, almost fearful. -Vast masses of rock clung to the side of the mountain, - - “Even as a wretched soul, hour after hour, - Clings to the mass of life, yet clinging, leans; - And leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss - In which it fears to fall;” - -over and through the crevices were twisted the bony roots of the pines, -and down in the chasms I heard the foaming of the swollen streams. This -is the path by which Faust and Mephistopheles ascended the Brocken, and -the storm which heralded my descent into it reminded me of Goethe’s -description: - - “The night with mist is thick and black; - Hark, how the forests roar and crack! - The hooting owls affrighted fly. - Shivered full the columns tall - Of the palaces of pine. - See the uniting boughs entwine— - The mighty trunks that bend and groan— - The hard roots grating on the stone! - Mingling confusedly and madly, all - Over each other are heaped in the fall, - And around the crags, so wet and foul, - The winds in fury hiss and howl!” - -I thought of this ghostly passage and remembered the caution given me by -the old herdsman. But no wrinkled hag, coursing on her he-goat the -haunted paths of the Brocken interrupted my progress, and the cheerful -lights of Elbingerode soon glimmered through the wood. - -The next day I set out for the Rosstrappe, but again went astray and -came to a village on the river Bode, deep down under steep mountains and -the abode of miners. The people told me of two noted caves within half -an hour’s walk, but the rain had again set in, and I hastened forward -toward the Rosstrappe, the greatest wonder of the Hartz. The scenery was -no longer so lonely and exciting in its character. Open, upland plains, -with occasional forests, skirted the road, and the men and women at work -in their scanty fields and gardens saluted me with many a shout of -laughter as I trudged along through the wood. Roads branched off in all -directions from the main one, and left to my own judgment as to the -proper course, I continued on till I reached the river, and saw a little -hamlet on its banks. At the only inn—a hut with two rooms—an old -grandam told me I had missed the way. The Rosstrappe was two hours -distant, and I could not find it without a guide. The men were all away -in the woods, but a neighbor of hers would go with me if I would give -her a few groschen. To this I willingly consented, and the kind old -woman dried my blouse carefully by the fire and brought me a dinner of -bread and milk. - -After dinner the neighbor made her appearance, with a large empty basket -and announced herself ready to start. My landlady rolled up in a paper a -large slice of bread and thrust it into my pocket, charging me two -groschen (6 cents) for my dinner. I was about to shoulder my knapsack, -when my guide asked for it, saying she had brought her basket on purpose -for it. I hesitated at first; the thought of walking unencumbered, with -a woman carrying my baggage seemed unchivalric, to say the least. I made -a rapid comparison between my weakness and fatigue and the distance -still to be traversed, and decided by placing the knapsack in her basket -and assisting her to lift it upon her head. Off we went, under a clear -sky, for the first time since I entered the Hartz. Through fine open -forests and along precipices overhanging the Bode—past the -hunting-grounds of the Dukes of Brunswick and across dells fragrant with -spring flowers—so we walked, for nearly two hours, till the cottage-inn -of the Rosstrappe was visible through a vista of trees. Here I took the -knapsack and dismissed my guide with a ten-groschen-piece, which I had -been told was the usual fee. It was evidently much more than she -expected. - -After I had seen the Rosstrappe, and hung over the fearful chasm where -the Bode thunders and foams seven hundred feet below, not forgetting to -note the marvelous giant hoof-mark in the rock, I went back to the inn. -The landlady gave me the whole story of the Rosstrappe while she brought -and uncorked a bottle of _birkensaft_ or birch sap, for which the Hartz -is celebrated. This beverage, which is made in no other part of the -world, consists of the sap of the birch tree, sweetened and suffered to -ferment slightly. It is of a bright pink color and delicious taste. I -had the table brought to the door, where I could see the savage defile -below, while the landlady seated herself opposite with her knitting and -gave her tongue full play. Such a tongue! the words came in an -everlasting stream, and the faster she talked the harder she knit; so -that one yarn kept pace with the other, and my visit increased the -growth of her stocking considerably. - -“There was once a pack of wild students here,” said she, among the other -marvelous stories she related; “though all students are wild enough, as -is quite natural; but these fellows (I remember every one of them) made -a terrible noise all afternoon, with their songs and their wine-bottles, -and what not. They climbed down the rocks to the Bode and up again, and -I must needs tell them the story of the Rosstrappe twice over. When -night came they were still here under the trees, drinking, and as it -began to rain and they were not able to find their way, the dear Lord -knows, what was to be done but keep them? We have no rooms for so many -here, you see; so I told them to take this chamber where we are sitting -and sleep as they best might. But no sleep had I nor my good man; there -was nothing but singing and yelling the whole night. About midnight -there was a terrible rap on my door. ‘Himmel!’ I cried, ‘what is the -matter?’ and I started up in great fright. ‘O mein Gott!’ said one of -the students, ‘there are wolves at the door.’ Now there never was a wolf -near the house, but I feared it might be a spirit, or something as -frightful, so I put on my gown as quick as I could and lit my lamp, for -they had overturned theirs in their fright. When I came into the room I -found them all in one corner, looking very wild and pale. ‘There are no -wolves here,’ said I. Just then a night-owl among the trees began to -hoot. ‘There it is, there it is again!’ they cried, but I laughed, -although I was very angry, to be called up for an owl. ‘Go to sleep, you -fools!’ I said to them, ‘do you not know better than to be frightened by -a _hoo-hoo_!’ The next morning they were very much ashamed, as they -truly might be, for I tell about their fright to every body who comes -here.” - -At the Rosstrappe, I had reached the eastern extremity of the Hartz, and -after I descended the mountain my way was enlivened by bloomy orchards -and springing grain. At sunset I was so far out in the plain of the Elbe -that I could see the snowy top of the Brocken, free from clouds. This -was my last view of the bleak and spectral mountain. After a night of -terror at Halberstadt, (an account of which the reader will find in my -narrative of travel,) I took the cars for Leipsic, which I reached the -next night, and where I found a companion waiting for me. So ended my -Lonely Week of Travel in Northern Germany. - - * * * * * - - - - - STANZAS FOR MUSIC. - - - BY MRS. HARRIET S. HANDY. - - - Oh! the bright and sunny days that long, long since were ours, - Will they ne’er return again, with their wealth of summer flowers; - The sweet approving smile—the low, soft gentle tone, - With its murmured words of love, are they forever flown? - And from thy heart are banished all memories of me. - As a cloud upon the summer sky, a shadow o’er the sea? - - Oh! deeply have I trusted, while I listened to thy vow, - And dreamed not that deceit _could_ rest upon so fair a brow; - But well unto my heart the bitter lesson has been taught - That oft love’s words, when sweetest, with deceitfulness are fraught— - And though the slighted heart may hide its bitterness of wo, - There is yet a fount of sorrow, the world may never know. - - Then ask me not thy love and _faithlessness_ so coldly to forget, - Or that our early destinies have once so sadly met. - Can the sea blot out the burning stars reflected on its breast, - Or the caged bird forget the haunts where first it built its nest? - The wildest storm that rocks the one, gives place to stars again, - And though the captive bird sings on, ’tis a lovèd green-wood strain! - - The ocean-shell forgets not its low, sweet plaintive moan, - Nor the human harp the tones that once were all its own; - But quivering on its strings, there ever will be found - An echo-tone of memory—an unforgotten sound— - And though the chords be broken—its glad music at an end, - With its murmured melody, a strain of other years will blend! - - * * * * * - - - - - FOR AND AGAINST. - - - FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE - - - WALTER HERRIES, ESQ. - - -I don’t think I ever really loved but once; fancies I have had, and fond -ones, too; but now when the cold, gray twilight of age is dimming the -visions of the past, memory still recalls, with wonderful power, one -bright face from the fair picture gallery of my early loves—the face of -Edla Fane, the schoolmaster’s daughter. Beautiful she was not, and yet I -loved her, as I learned too late. She seemed to bind me by some spell of -witchery that I could not withstand, and yet against which I rebelled, -because it appealed not to my outer senses. I understand it now; she -bound me by the might of a lofty, spiritual love; and I blindly cast -aside that gem of countless price to grasp the dross of earth. - -High-toned, and pure-minded, tender, and confiding as a child, yet with -a sweet womanly pride, and withal a dash of quiet humor, Edla Fane kept -me vacillating near her for a many months. At one time feeling as though -I could fall at her feet and worship her, at another fearing I had -expressed too much, and withdrawing in cold reserve. - -One evening a cold mood came over me; I feared I had committed myself in -my ardent protestations to Edla, and now spoke with the calmness of -friendship or platonic affection. She listened with a slight curve of -her expressive lip, and assented to my proposal of affectionate -friendship so readily, that my self-love was aroused, and with -characteristic variableness my feelings gained immediate force again. -But Edla remained unmoved. The next day I received the following lines -in a blank envelope. - - You say that you love me, yet are not a lover; - As you know not yourself what it is you intend; - And right sorry are you, I have chanced to discover, - That you’re _less_ than a _lover_, and _more_ than a _friend_! - For you know you’re a ranger, - And think there is danger, - That when you are weary, and wish to depart, - _I_, believing you true, - May have learned to love you, - And you’ll leave me all lonely, without any heart! - - You have cautioned me well, and have done but your duty; - The proverb says truly, “Forearmed, when forewarned,” - And though I can boast not of wealth or of beauty, - I yield not one feeling, I think would be scorned. - When a lover I find - Who _knows his own mind_! - I will give up my heart in return for his vow; - I must have _all_ or _none_, - Must be wooed to be won— - And now I’ll advise _you_, if you will allow. - - You at once must restrain all expression of feeling, - Not only of words, but of glances and sighs, - Lest by some odd mischance the strange secret revealing, - Your friendship should prove to be—“love in disguise!” - Remember, take care, - I bid you beware, - For Cupid’s a sly, little mischievous elf, - When you think your heart free - He may bind it to me, - And make you prove constant in spite of yourself. - - Then, when I have plighted my vows to another, - You will sue for one glimpse of old feeling in vain; - For when once the bright flame of affection you smother, - You never can kindle its brilliance again; - I’ll turn proudly away, - And will calmly say nay, - (While I look on you coldly, not seeming to see,) - I esteem, and admire, - _That_ is all you desire— - Think well of me always, but never love me! - -Provoking! thus to have my own words turned against me, at the close of -these unexpected verses. I saw Edla frequently after this; but my -evanescent vows, were never after tolerated even for a moment, and thus, -when too late, her prophecy was fulfilled—I loved her. But Edla Fane is -now a happy wife and mother, and I—a Bachelor. - - * * * * * - - - - - MY STUDY. - - - BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. - - - The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day - Is crept into the bosom of the night. - SHAKSPEARE. - - I love the circuit of thy narrow bounds - While my pale lamp gives light, - And, unattended by tumultuous sounds, - Presides the holy Night. - - A quiet nook for revery thou art - In the dim hour of shade, - When that wild, wondrous instrument, the heart, - Is lulled, and tranquil made. - - My books—old friends that know not frigid change— - When come the evil days, - Unfold their lettered treasures, rich and strange, - To my enamored gaze. - - While Folly wastes in lust and midnight wine, - Manhood and moral health, - True wisdom seeketh jewels in the mine - Of intellectual wealth. - - Haunt, sacred to retirement and thought! - At night’s dark noon alone, - Within thy hallowed precincts I have caught - Gleams of that world unknown, - - Where the soul harbors when this life is o’er, - And closed our war with Time, - And the hushed belfry of the heart no more - Rings with a numbered chime. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE BIRTH-PLACE OF BENJAMIN WEST. - - - [SEE ENGRAVING.] - -We present our readers with an engraving of the birth-place of the -celebrated American painter, Benjamin West, from an original drawing -made by Mr. Croome, in the year 1845. The house is situated in the -township of Springfield, Pennsylvania, about four miles north of -Chester, on a considerable farm belonging to Mr. Peter Stewart. It will -be perceived that the house is in rather a dilapidated condition, one of -the posts of the portico being deficient. The house is substantially -built of brick, and, at the time of its erection, must have been -considered rather an elegant country residence; but its antiquity and -state of decay will probably prevent any future attempt to put it in -repair. The spot, however, will always be interesting to Americans, from -its having been the scene of West’s childhood, to which are referred -those delightful and well known anecdotes, of his early life, which -display the dawnings of that brilliant genius which was destined to -astonish the world by its achievements in the graphic art. - - * * * * * - - - - - DREAMS OF HEAVEN. - - - BY M. E. THROPP. - - - IRREGULAR LINES. - - From orient climes to the lands that glow - In the last red light of even, - Indian, Paynim, Moslem, Jew— - All have their dreams of Heaven. - - The Moslem dreams of a green, fair clime, - Lit up by the sun’s broad beams, - Where flowers gaze down at their own bright forms - In still transparent streams; - - Where soft winds sigh, and gay birds sing, - In tones so sweetly clear; - Where palm groves rustle cool and still, - And bright-eyed Houries cheer; - - Where the banquet waits, with its viands crowned, - And the wine-cup’s rosy gleam, - While soft luxuriant bowers around, - Invite to recline and dream: - - Such is the vision of future bliss - To the Prophet-followers given— - The “true-believer’s” goal of hope, - The Moslem’s dream of Heaven, - - The Indian dreams of a sunset land, - Where the great Manitto reigns; - Where deer and stately bison roam - O’er broad, uncultured plains. - - A land whose giant lakes and streams, - With gleaming fish abound; - Where forests wave, and mountains tower— - A boundless hunting-ground. - - ’Tis his dream, as he calmly looks abroad - On the sunset glow, at even— - A hunting-ground, where that sun sinks down, - Is the Indian’s dream of Heaven. - - The Jew of his New Jerusalem dreams, - With its streets of shining gold, - And temples, that rival the regal fane - On Moriah’s brow of old. - - Still dreams, that Judah’s harps shall sound, - And Judah’s pennons stream, - Where now muezzin’s calls are heard, - And Moslem crescents gleam. - - Zion rebuilt, and the land restored, - To his forefathers given, - Is the Hebrew exile’s guerdon high, - His earnest here of Heaven. - - The Norseman chief, in the olden times, - Sprang up, with Valkyriur calls - Ringing shrill and clear in his dreaming ear— - “Up! come to ‘Valhalla’s Halls!’” - - Would ye know how the chieftain sought those halls? - —Away to the battle-plain— - The warrior sleeps on the ghastly heaps, - His own red sword has slain! - - Visions of blood, in that dying hour, - To his stormy soul were given— - Feasts, and victorious battle-fields, - Were the Norseman’s dreams of Heaven. - - The Greek had high, ambitious dreams, - Of Elysium’s fabled clime; - The Druid too—ah, many and strange, - Were the dreams of olden time. - - How will those dreams accord with thee, - When time exists no more, - Unseen, unknown, unpictured realm - Beyond the silent shore? - - Now, shines the gospel sun, the mists - Of Error roll away; - And earth, from pole to central zone, - Rejoices ’neath its sway. - - Like some tired wanderer of the deep, - The Christian struggles on; - While day and night, in calm or storm, - How yearns his heart for home! - - Dreams he of sensual joys? the chase? - Some ruined city, lone? - Of feasts and battle-fields? Not so— - His is a spirit-home. - - To Him, who formed yon glorious sky, - This green enameled sod, - The Christian trusts his future home— - His architect—is God. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: COL. WASHINGTON AT THE BATTLE OF COWPENS. - -Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine by S. H. Gimber] - - * * * * * - - - - - THE YOUNG DRAGOON. - - - A STORY OF THE COWPENS. - - - BY CHARLES J. PETERSON. - - - [SEE ENGRAVING.] - - - CHAPTER I. - - There is a thing—there is a thing, - I fain would have from thee; - I fain would have that gay, gold ring. - THE SPECTRE LADY. - -The period of our revolutionary history immediately succeeding the -defeat at Camden, is still remembered in the Carolinas with horror. The -British, elated with their success, and regarding the South as now their -own, proceeded in the work of confiscation and massacre with pitiless -severity. In that terrible crisis many a family was deprived of its head -either by exile or by execution. Yet larger numbers were shorn of their -property and reduced to comparative indigence. In a word, terror reigned -paramount. - -But the common events of life still went on. The transactions of -business, the struggle for wealth, the toils of the husbandman, births, -deaths, marriages, cares, hopes, fears—all followed each other down the -deep current of existence, almost wholly unaffected by the storm of war -which agitated the surface. It is an error to suppose that great -convulsions disturb the whole order of society. Men will still hate, -though the entire nation be turned into a camp; will still strive for -the dross of earth; will still, if young and generous, risk their -heart’s happiness in love. - -It was toward the close of a winter evening that a youth of noble mien -and handsome face stood at the foot of one of those long avenues of -trees, which, in South Carolina, lead up from the road to the mansions -of the wealthier proprietors. For nearly half an hour he had been there, -as if awaiting the approach of some one from the house: now looking -anxiously up the long avenue, now restlessly walking to and fro. During -that interval but one person had passed along the highway, and the -notice of this one the youth had skillfully avoided by concealing -himself behind some dwarf trees within the plantation-fence. This act, -as well as his whole demeanor, proved that he was awaiting some secret -interview. - -At last, just when the dusk began to deepen into night, the flutter of a -white dress was seen coming down the avenue. A minute more, and a -beautiful girl of eighteen summers appeared on the scene. - -“Albert,” said the new comer, as the youth, seizing her hand, -passionately kissed it, “I have not a second to stay. It was with -difficulty I could leave the house unseen, and my absence has doubtless -been noticed before this; what we have to say, therefore, must be said -at once; why have you sought this interview?” - -“I have sought it, Ellen,” he replied, still holding her hand, “because, -despairing of gaining your consent, I have volunteered in Capt. -Washington’s cavalry corps, and to-morrow set forth. Perhaps you will -never see me more. I could not leave the neighborhood without seeing you -once more, and bidding you an eternal farewell; and, as your father’s -orders had banished me from the house, there was no method of giving you -my adieux except by soliciting an interview.” - -The tears had started to the eyes of his listener, but she turned away -her head to conceal them; and for some time neither spoke. - -“Ellen, dear Ellen,” said the young soldier, earnestly, “will you not -now, in this solemn moment, say you love me? I once hoped you did, but -since your father has forbidden me the house, you have been less kind; -and I fear that I have lost your heart—that you, too, have ceased to -care for me, now that I am beggared—” - -His hearer suddenly turned her face full upon him, with a look of -tearful reproach that cut short his words. - -“Bless you, Ellen, for that look,” he said. “Though my father’s estate -is confiscated, and he and I both indigent, it is not on that account -that you have seemed so cold to me lately. Say then, dearest, only say -that I have been mistaken in thinking you at all altered.” - -Another look, equally eloquent, answered him; but still his hearer did -not speak. - -“Oh! Ellen,” he continued, “when I am far away fighting my country’s -battles, what bliss it would be to know that you sometimes think of me; -and that if I should fall, you would shed a tear for me.” - -His listener, at these words, wept freely, and when her agitation had -somewhat passed, spoke. - -“Albert,” she said, “you have conquered. Know then that I do love you.” -At these words the impetuous young man clasped her in his arms, but she -disengaged herself, saying, “But, while my father opposes your suit, I -can never be yours. The consciousness of his disapproval has made me -affect a coldness to you which my heart belied, in the hope that you -would think of some one more worthy of you—but—but,” she hesitated, -then quickly added, “in a word, if it will comfort you, when away, to -know that I think of you, and pray for you, go forth happy—the misery -is for us who stay behind, and who are hourly anxious for the fate of -the absent.” - -The tears fell fast as she spoke, and, concluding, she suffered her head -to be drawn to her lover’s shoulder, while a deep and holy silence -succeeded, as these two young and already unhappy beings held each other -in a first embrace. - -It was only for a moment, however, that Ellen yielded to weakness. -Raising her head and brushing the tears from her eyes, she said, while -crimson blushes overspread her face, - -“And now farewell—perhaps all this is wrong—but I could not see you -leave me in anger.” - -“God bless you for those kind words,” said Albert. “But, Ellen, before -you go, one more request. That miniature that hangs around your neck—is -it too much to ask for it?” - -She hesitated: then, as steps were heard in the road, suddenly gave it -to him. He drew a heavy signet-ring from his finger, and said, tendering -it in exchange, - -“Take this, and let us be true to each other—so help us God!” - -And with this parting adjuration, he sprang over the fence to conceal -himself behind the brushwood, while Ellen, hastening up the avenue, was -soon lost to sight in the obscurity of the hour. - -The wind sighed mournfully through the pine woods as this betrothal was -consummated, and the dark, starless sky overhead looked down with its -weird and melancholy face. - - - CHAPTER II. - - Heard ye the din of battle bray, - Lance to lance, and horse to horse. - GRAY. - -It is well known that, after the defeat of Gates, Congress hastened to -supersede that general, and appoint Greene to succeed him. At the period -of the incidents narrated in the last chapter, the new -commander-in-chief had arrived in the South, and was organizing his -forces. - -His very first proceeding showed the resources of an intellect, which, -in military affairs, was second only to that of the “father of his -country.” Aware that the initiatory step toward redeeming the South was -to arouse the confidence of its people, he determined to divide his -force. While, therefore, he moved with one portion down the Pedee, he -despatched Morgan, with the remainder, west of the Catawba, in order to -encourage the inhabitants in that quarter. Morgan’s corps was -accompanied by Capt. Washington’s light dragoons, of which our hero had -already become a conspicuous member. - -This division of his army, in the face of an active foe, would have been -a capital error, but for the political advantages it offered, and which -over-balanced the military ones. Cornwallis, then in command of the -royal army, determined to frustrate the success of Greene’s plan, by -cutting off Morgan’s detachment; and accordingly ordered Col. Tarleton, -with his renowned dragoons, accompanied by a competent force of -infantry, to give pursuit. - -It was on the 14th of January, 1781, a day ever to be remembered in the -annals of our country, that the heroic Morgan learned the danger in -which he stood. He determined immediately to give battle. For this -purpose he halted at a place called the Cowpens, and having drawn up his -troops, awaited, though not without anxiety, the appearance of the foe. - -The attack of Tarleton, as usual, was impetuous, and for awhile the -American militia were driven helplessly before it; but soon they -rallied, under cover of a few continentals belonging to Morgan’s -command, and in turn forced the British to give ground. These brave -soldiers of the line, led by their colonel, now charged with the -bayonet, when the route of the royal infantry became complete. - -Washington, with his cavalry, had been waiting impatiently a chance to -participate in the fight; but having been stationed as a partial -reserve, the order for him to engage did not for some time arrive. His -troops shared his enthusiasm. Composed chiefly of young men of family, -and mounted on thorough-bred animals, they presented a formidable -appearance, as they stood, awaiting the order to engage, the horses -champing at the bit, and the riders nervously fingering their swords: -they saw the onset of the British, the flight of the first line, and the -partial panic that extended through the foot soldiers with horror; but -still their leader remained unmoved. Many had never been in battle -before, and such believed the day lost; among these was Albert. - -At last the confusion became so great around them that troops so -undisciplined, if less brave, would have taken to ignominious flight; -for the defeated militia were pouring down upon them from all sides, -almost compelling them to break their ranks, or see the fugitives perish -under the hoofs of their horses. But now Washington seemed to rouse from -his inaction. Ordering his men first to allow the flying militia to gain -their rear, he then directed them, his sharp, quick tones showing that -the moment for action had come, to close up and prepare to charge. - -As he spoke, he pointed with his sword ahead, and our hero beheld the -renowned regiment of Tarleton coming down upon them at full gallop, and -amid a cloud of dust, driving before a mass of dismayed fugitives. The -keen eye of Washington measured, for an instant, the distance between -them, and then said, - -“I want no fire-arms used to-day, my lads. Stick to the cold steel. And -now, for God and your country—charge!” - -Away went the troop, like a thunder-bolt suddenly loosed from a cloud, -with every scabbard jingling, every steed snorting with excitement, and -the solid earth shaking under them. In full career they burst upon the -flank of the enemy, who, disordered by his pursuit, could make but a -feeble resistance. Horse and rider went down before the impetuous charge -of the Americans, who for awhile fairly rode down their foes. But -British valor soon proved too weak for the combined patriotism and -courage of Washington’s cavalry; and the royal troops, taming their -bridles, took to ignominious flight. - -“On, on,” cried Washington, waving his sword for his men to follow, -“remember the cruelties of these myrmidons. Revenge for our slaughtered -countrymen!” - -At the word, his men, thus reminded of the butchery of the Waxhaws and -of the other atrocities perpetrated under the eye of Tarleton, spurred -their horses afresh, and dashed on in pursuit. A complete panic had now -taken possession of the royal cavalry, who hurried on at full gallop, -each man thinking only of himself. Close on their heels followed the -indignant Americans, cutting down mercilessly every red-coat they -overtook, until the road was strewed with the dead. Foremost in this -pursuit rode Washington, a precedence he owed, not only to his superior -steed, but to his eagerness to overtake an officer just ahead, whom he -judged to be Tarleton himself from his effort to rally the fugitives. - -The tremendous pace at which Washington rode, at last carried him so far -ahead of his men, that, at a bend in the highway, he found himself -totally alone. At this moment, the British, looking back, perceived his -situation, and immediately turned on him, his principal assailants being -Tarleton and two powerful dragoons. - -Knowing, however, that assistance must be close at hand, Washington -resolutely advanced to meet the enemy, determined to seize Tarleton for -his prisoner. But, before he could reach the colonel, the two dragoons -dashed at him, the one on the right, the other on the left. He saw only -the first of them, however, and accordingly turned on him, clove him -down with a single blow of his sabre, then rushed at Tarleton himself. - -But, meantime, the other dragoon was advancing, totally disregarded, -upon him, and with upraised blade would have cut him down, had not our -hero, who had pressed close after his leader, at this instant wheeled -round the corner of the wood. At a single glance he took in the whole -scene. Albert saw that before he could come up Washington would be -slain, unless fire-arms were employed. In this emergency he did not -hesitate to disobey the orders of his leader. Jerking a pistol from his -holster, he aimed full at the dragoon, just as the sabre of the latter -was sweeping down on Washington’s head. The man tumbled headlong from -his saddle, his sword burying itself, in the dust. - -“Ha! who is that?” said Washington, sternly, so astonished to find his -orders disobeyed, that he turned; a movement which Tarleton took -advantage of to make good his escape. “You, Albert!—you!” - -“There was no other way,” answered our hero, and he pointed to the dead -dragoon, “to save your life. His sabre was within six inches of you when -I fired.” - -“It could not be helped, then, I suppose,” answered Washington, who now -comprehended the event, and saw that he owed his life to the quickness -of thought of his young friend; “but stay, you are yourself hurt.” - -As he spoke, he saw blood issuing from the sleeve of Albert, and -immediately afterward the young soldier reeled and fell senseless to the -ground. - -Two pistol shots had been discharged from the enemy, Washington now -recollected, immediately after Albert had fired. On examination, one -ball was found in the arm of our hero. The other had perforated the -coat, immediately over the heart. - -“He is dead,” cried the leader, “that second shot has touched a vital -part.” - -He tore away the garments as he spoke, but uttered a cry of joy when he -exposed the chest, for there, right over the heart, lay a miniature, -which had stopped the ball. - -Washington looked at the picture, and muttered, “Ha! I have heard of -this—and now I will see if I cannot serve my young friend a good turn.” - - - CHAPTER III. - - Marry never for houses, nor marry for lands, - Nor marry for nothing but only love. - FAMILY QUARRELS. - -When our hero, after a long interval of unconsciousness, opened his -eyes, he found himself, to his surprise, in a large and elegantly -furnished apartment, entirely strange to him. He pulled aside the -curtains of his bed with his uninjured arm, and looked out. An aged -female servant sat watching him. - -“What massa want?” she said. - -“How did I get here?” he asked. - -“Captain Washington heself left you here, massa, after de great battle. -De surgeon staid to dress your arm, and den follow arter de troops, who -had lick de red-coats, dey say, all to pieces.” - -“Yes! I know—then the army has pursued its march to the Catawba.” - -“It hab, massa; and you be to stay here till you well.” - -“But where am I?” - -The old negro woman smiled till she showed all her teeth. - -“You no know, massa?” - -“I do not.” - -“You forgit me, Massa Albert—me, Missus Ellen’s maman?” - -“Good God!” cried our hero, scarcely believing his senses, and -scrutinizing her features, “can it be? You are indeed she. And this is -Mr. Thorndike’s house.” - -He had started up in bed, and was now confronted by the figure of the -owner of the mansion himself, who entered at an opposite door; but who, -instead of wearing the angry air which Albert had last seen upon him, -smiled kindly upon him. - -“I was passing along the corridor,” he said, seating himself on the -bedside familiarly, and taking the hand of his wounded guest, “and -hearing your voice, learned for the first time that you were awake. -Accordingly I made bold to enter, in order to assure you of a welcome. -When we last parted, Mr. Scott,” he said, noticing our hero’s look of -astonishment, “it was with ill-feeling on both sides. Let all that be -forgotten. Whatever I may have said then I now recall. In saving the -life of Capt. Washington, who is my dearest friend, you have laid me -under infinite obligations, and at his request I have consented to -overlook the past, and to give you my daughter. I only make a single -stipulation, which is that you will not ask her hand until this war is -over, which,” he added, lowering his voice, “can not be long, now that -things have begun to go so auspiciously.” - -Our hero well understood the character of Mr. Thorndike, who was noted -for his prudent adherence to whichever side was uppermost, and he -attributed this sudden change not only to Capt. Washington’s -intercessions, but also in part to the prospect there now was of the -triumph of the colonial cause, in which case the confiscated estates of -the elder Mr. Scott would be restored. He kept this to himself, however, -and expressed his thanks for Mr. Thorndike’s hospitality. - -“But I shall owe you even more,” he added, “for the happiness with which -your promise has filled me, and I cheerfully accept your terms. -Meantime, let me rise, and pay my respects to the ladies in person—I am -sure I am well enough.” - -Our hero, however, was compelled to keep his bed for two entire days, in -consequence of the fever, a period which appeared to him an age. - -We shall not attempt to describe his meeting with Ellen. Let us pass -over the first few minutes of the interview. - -“I have but one thing to regret,” he said at last, in a low whisper, for -Mr. and Mrs. Thorndike were at the other end of the apartment, “and that -is the loss of your miniature. I had it around my neck when I went into -battle, but have not seen it since.” - -Ellen smiled archly, and drew it from her bosom. - -“How did it reach your possession?” he said in surprise. And, taking it -in his hand, he added, “What means this dent, so like the mark of a -ball?” - -Tears gushed to Ellen’s eyes, as she said— - -“Capt. Washington, who gave it to me, said that it lay over your heart, -and that but for it, Tarleton’s pistol-shot would have killed you. Oh! -Albert, I sometimes thought, after I gave it to you, that I had done -wrong, knowing that my parents would not approve of the act; but when I -heard that it had saved your life, I saw in it the hand of Providence.” - -“Yes! for it not only preserved me from death, but was the means of -interesting Washington in our favor, and thus bringing about this happy -re-union,” said Albert, after a pause. - -We have no more to tell. On recovering from his wound, our hero rejoined -his corps, with which he continued until the expulsion of the British -from the Carolinas. - -After that happy event he was married to Ellen, and with her spent a -long life of felicity. - -Their descendants still preserve the battered miniature as an heir-loom. - - * * * * * - - - - - WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA. - - - BY PROFESSOR FROST. - - -[Illustration] - - - MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT. - -This species is widely spread over the United States, Mexico and the -West Indies. Trappers have found it in abundance amid the wild solitudes -of Oregon and the gorges of the Rocky Mountains. The great body of these -birds winter within the tropics, from whence they reach the Southern -States early in spring, and Pennsylvania in April. They begin to build -in May, choosing for this purpose either the thickest parts of the -forest or a low meadow, retired from the intrusion of man. The nest is -constructed of dry leaves and grass, and always concealed by thick -grass, heaps of brush or other undergrowth. Indeed few of our songsters -are more shy or modest than the Yellow-Throat, and he seems to be devoid -of the apparent vanity evinced by most birds of handsome or gaudy -plumage. The lonely banks of a small stream, overgrown with reeds and -bushes, is his favorite haunt; and here, with his sober mate, he whiles -away the long sultry days of our summer’s heat. The eggs are five in -number, either entirely white or of a pale pink tint, varied by minute -specks and lines, mostly toward the greater end. After being hatched, -which occurs in June, the young birds join the parent pair, and all live -as one family, roving along creeks and marshes, and defending each other -from enemies. Sometimes, however, a second brood interrupts this -connection. In August the lively song of the male ceases to be heard, -and the whole party continue their pursuits in silence until warned by a -scarcity of food to depart for the South. - -The Maryland Yellow-Throat is nearly five inches long, and more than six -across the spread wings. The upper parts are a light olive; the throat -and breast yellow; the wings and tail brown, mixed with black; the legs -are pale flesh-color, and remarkable for their delicacy. The young -resemble the female at first, but the male of the season, before his -departure in autumn, exhibits the brilliant yellow throat, as well as -some appearance of the gray and black which ornament the sides of the -face in the adult. Small insects form the almost exclusive prey of this -bird, and in capturing them he often displays much art and agility. His -song is a plaintive whistle, varying in power and cadence, and sometimes -associated with partial imitations of other birds. In September, small -flocks depart for the South, only a few stragglers being seen after that -month. A few pass the winter in the Southern States, but as already -stated, the greater portion retire within the Tropics. - -[Illustration] - - - SUMMER YELLOW-BIRD, OR WARBLER. - -Few birds are more common, or more widely spread than this well known -species. According to Richardson, it is found as far north as the 68th -degree of latitude, from whence it ranges throughout the entire North -American continent, the West Indies, Bahamas, Colombia, Peru, Guiana, -Brazil and other portions of South America. These latter countries are -their winter residence. In the early part of March they arrive in -Carolina, and two months later in Pennsylvania, New England, etc. Here -they pass the summer, and leave for the South about the beginning of -September, the time of departure varying with the season and latitude. - -The Yellow-Bird is a general favorite with the farmer. In summer he may -be seen upon almost every tree, but especially among the willows along -water-courses, where his brilliant plumage forms a fine relief with the -deep glossy green. Being familiar and playful, he often approaches so -near as to be captured. His favorite food is larvæ and small -caterpillars, which he searches for with much industry, enlivening the -hardship of his labor by a cheerful whistle or song. About the time of -building, and even after, the female sings almost as well as the male. -Both these birds display great ingenuity and solicitude in the -construction of their nest, which is usually placed on a small bush -close to the ground. Instances are rare where they build on the ground -or on a high tree. The nest is constructed externally of dried leaves, -fine bark and fern, and within of down, wool, fine grass, and similar -materials. Occasionally they forsake the woods, and build in the hedge -or bushes of the garden, suiting the construction of their small home to -the change of residence. “The labor of forming the nest,” as Nuttall -observes, “seems often wholly to devolve on the female. On the 10th of -May, I observed one of these industrious matrons busily engaged with her -fabric in a low barberry-bush, and by the evening of the second day the -whole was completed to the lining, which was made at length of hair and -willow down, of which she collected and carried mouthfuls so large, that -she often appeared almost like a mass of flying cotton, and far exceeded -in industry her active neighbor, the Baltimore, who was also engaged in -collecting the same materials. Notwithstanding this industry, the -completion of the nest, with this and other small birds, is sometimes -strangely protracted, or not immediately required.” - -The eggs of the Yellow-Bird are four or five in number, white, with -small spots of brown. After they are hatched, or even while sitting, the -female often feigns lameness at the approach of a stranger, falling down -near him and uttering pitiful cries, or perhaps fluttering along the -ground. It is frequently annoyed by the intrusions of the Cow Troupial, -which, building no nest of her own, makes use of the Yellow-Bird’s. The -little builder being too weak to remove the incumbrance, generally -builds a partition over it, thus preventing its being hatched. Nests -have been found in which a second story has been raised in a similar -manner. - -The Yellow-Bird is five inches long, and seven across the wings. -Greenish yellow above; below, with crown and front golden, and orange -spots on the breast; wings and tail brown, and the bill blue. The female -is without any variation of color on the breast. - -[Illustration] - - - BLACK-THROATED GREEN WARBLER. - -The Green Warbler arrives in Pennsylvania about the beginning of May, -and in New England somewhat later. When observed for the first time in -spring, it is generally alone, seated on a fruit-tree, and industriously -searching for the small insects and larvæ which constitute his food. The -species is somewhat rare, rarely more than a single pair, as it is -asserted, being seen together, except in the fall, when scattered -individuals collect to prepare for migration. Except during the period -of incubation, they are not very shy of man, often permitting him to -approach within a few feet. They are supposed to wander in summer as far -north as Canada and Hudson’s Bay, but the larger portion remain in the -Middle and New England States. - -Little is known of the precise time of building, since the habits of -this songster are then retired. They appear to prefer low, dry -situations, and build on bushes, not far from the ground. A nest -examined by Nuttall contained four eggs, of a light flesh-colored tint, -variegated with pale, purplish points of various sizes, interspersed -with other large, brown or blackish spots. The outside was formed of -fine strips of the inner bark of juniper, with another tough, fibrous -bark, the whole lined with soft feathers, horse hair, and bent grass. - -The Green Warbler is four and a half inches in length, and seven across -the wings. The chin and throat are black, with spots of the same color -on the sides under the wings. The breast and belly are white, the wings -and tail dusky, with some white, and the legs and feet pale brown. A -bird called by Latham and Pennant the Yellow-Fronted Warbler, is -probably but a variation of the same species. The song of the Green -Warbler is a somewhat plaintive note, not unlike that of the Chicadee, -uttered at short intervals, in a slow manner and with some variation. -Owing to its solitary habits, it rarely mingles in the chorus of our -summer groves. - - * * * * * - - - - - VINCENTE FILICAJA’S SONNET TO ITALY. - - - “_Dove Italia il tuo braccio._” - - Where is thy might, oh Italy! and why - Now dost thou humbly kneel to other powers? - They are thy foes, for both in bygone hours - Subject before thy throne were forced to lie. - And is it thus thy honor is preserved? - And is it thus thy glory is maintained? - Thine old escutcheon thou hast darkly stained, - Widely from ancient valor hast thou swerved. - Well—be it so: yet cast the crown aside, - Put on the shame, the languor and the chains - Of slaves, and sleep while all mankind deride— - Sleep as the hireling harlot sleeps, who stains - Her bridal-bed with guilt, till in thy side - Avenging fate the glittering steel shall hide. - F. R. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _Selections from the Writings of James Kennard, Jr. With a - Sketch of His Life and Character. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 - vol. 12mo._ - -This volume is printed for private circulation, and we should not have -thought of making it the subject of a notice, were it not for the -interest which attaches to the name of the author. Mr. Kennard was -stricken early in life with a disease in his knee—was compelled, at the -age of twenty-two, to have his leg amputated—and from that time to his -death, ten years after, he was afflicted with a series of diseases, -frightfully accumulating one upon another, which at last deprived him of -all power of motion, and sparing not even his eyes. Yet though thus -seemingly cut off from all enjoyments, and doomed to the peevishness as -well as the pain of the sick chamber, he bravely surmounted by force of -will the mental effects of his ailments, and developed in physical agony -and deprivation one of the most beautiful and loveable characters we -have had the fortune to meet in literature or in life. Serene, cheerful, -hopeful, affectionate—uncomplaining in the midst of miseries, any one -of which might well have quelled a strong spirit, and which, combined, -seemed impossible for any spirit to bear—he not only was a genial -companion, ready to talk of every thing but his own pains and -deprivations, but a voluminous writer. The present volume, consisting of -essays, reviews and poems, contributed to the Knickerbocker, the -Christian Examiner, and various newspapers and periodicals, indicates -not merely the degree of excellence to which by self-culture he had -trained his talents for composition, but also the wide range of his -studies, and the wider range of his sympathies. For every holy and -beneficent enterprise started to alleviate the miseries of the -unfortunate, to assist the poor and the ignorant, or to champion the -oppressed, this self-forgetful valetudinary had a word of cheer warm -from his heart. There is also a sunny, almost frolicksome and dancing, -spirit of enjoyment in many of his pieces, which is usually -characteristic only of the highest physical health. The article on our -“National Poets” is especially teeming with the very exuberance of fun. -That on Alison’s History of Europe is one of the most judicious and -brilliant papers on the subject published on either side of the -Atlantic. Indeed the whole book preaches on every page the most -scorching rebukes to indolent and self-indulgent health, and the most -inspiring hope to despairing sickness. The reading of such a book, in -connection with the character of such a man, is enough to create -courage, and cheer under the very “ribs of death.” - - * * * * * - - _Mardi, and a Voyage Thither. By Herman Melville. New York: - Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo._ - -Mr. Melville has given us here an acknowledged romance, and those who -doubted the veracity of “Typee” and “Omoo,” may now have an opportunity -of noticing the difference between Mr. Melville recording what he has -observed, and Mr. Melville recording what he has imagined. It appears to -us that the two processes in the author’s mind have little in common, -and the best evidence of the truthfulness of his former books is the -decidedly romantic character of much of the present. - -“Mardi” is altogether the most striking work which Mr. Melville has -produced, exhibiting a range of learning, a fluency of fancy, and an -originality of thought and diction, of which “Typee,” with all its -distinctness and luxuriance of description, gave little evidence. At the -same time it has defects indicating that the author has not yet reached -the limits of his capacity, and that we may hope from him works better -even than the present. “Mardi” is of the composite order of mental -architecture, and the various rich materials which constitute it are not -sufficiently harmonized to produce unity of effect. It has chapters of -description, sketches of character, flashes of fanciful exaggeration, -and capital audacities of satire, which are inimitable, but confusion, -rather than fusion, characterizes the book as a whole. Of the two -volumes the first is by far the best, but both contain abundant evidence -of the richness, strength and independence of the author’s mind, and are -full of those magical touches which indicate original genius. - - * * * * * - - _Nineveh and Its Remains. With an Account of a Visit to the - Chaldean Christians of Kurdistan and the Yezidas, or - Devil-Worshipers; and an Inquiry into the Manners and Arts of - the Ancient Assyrians. By Austen Henry Layard, Esq., D.C.L. New - York: Geo. P. Putnam. 2 vols. 8vo._ - -Private letters from England confirm the reports in the public journals -of the great sensation which this work has excited in Great Britain. It -divides with Macaulay’s brilliant history the attention of the reading -public. The American publisher, with commendable enterprise, has issued -it in a style of great elegance, and has given all the illustrative -engravings which decorate the English edition. The work, when we -consider the expense of its mechanical execution, is placed at a very -low price. - -These volumes belong to a class of books which may be called the geology -of history—the exhibition of a nation’s history and social life through -its monuments. The greatest work of this kind in English is doubtless -Wilkinson’s on the Ancient Egyptians, and the production of Mr. Layard -is next in rank. It introduces us to the Assyrians through a process -which enables us to comprehend their material and mental life—to see -them as they ate, dressed, warred, thought and prayed. Their fine and -useful arts, their costume, their amusements, their military system, -their private life, their religion, are all brought directly before the -eye and mind of the reader, and he is enabled to discern that peculiar -combination of the elements of human nature which constituted the -Assyrian mind and heart, and to reconcile the apparent anomalies in the -national character. The picture is one of engrossing interest, and -cannot fail to enlarge every mind which contemplates it. It is almost -needless to say that the course Mr. Layard has pursued is the only -possible mode by which authentic information can be obtained of an -extinct people, who left no historical records, and who were almost -forgotten before history began. The illustrations given in the work of -the truth of many passages in the Old Testament, are not the least -interesting and remarkable portions of a most interesting and striking -book. - - * * * * * - - _The Gold Mines of the Gila. A Sequel to Old Hicks the Guide. By - Charles W. Webber. New York: Dewitt & Davenport. 2 vols. 12mo._ - -This work possesses a double interest; first, as a most stirring and -graphic delineation of life, character and scenery on the borders of -Texas, and second, as indicating an almost unknown region of the -Continent, rich in gold mines and wealth of various kinds, and tempting -both curiosity and cupidity to its exploration. Mr. Webber proposes to -head an expedition of some sixty men, to be called the “Centralia -Exploring Expedition to California, via the valleys of the Pecos, the -Gila, and Colorado of the West,” for the purpose of discovery and -profit; and in the course of this delightful book of adventure, he -spreads before his readers the evidence he possesses of the existence of -the region into which he desires to penetrate. If his expedition succeed -we have little doubt that it will be one of the most interesting and -romantic since the time of Cortez; and the leader himself has qualities -of valor, endurance and chivalric sentiment, sufficient to carry him -through the difficulties of any enterprise, however arduous. - -Apart from the information relating to a new gold region, Mr. Webber’s -volumes possess an engrossing interest as records of adventure. The -author has a sureness and vividness of conception, and a power of -expression, which combined make his delineations singularly fresh and -life-like. To read this book is the next best thing to viewing the -objects it describes. It displays a representative genius of a high -order, and if the author would concentrate his energies, he might -produce a novel which would give him a place in the front rank of our -original minds. - - * * * * * - - _Rural Letters and other Records of Thought at Leisure, written - in the intervals of more hurried Literary Labor. By N. Parker - Willis. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -The publication of this delightful volume was well-timed, appearing as -it did with the new grass and the first flowers; and we doubt not it -will be the companion of many a city tourist during the summer months. -It is, perhaps, the most fascinating of Mr. Willis’s prose works, -evincing more than his usual graceful facility of expression and fluency -of thought, and variegated with the cosiest fancies and most genial wit. -The author shakes hands with nature, and though the gleam of his jeweled -fingers sometimes suggests that he is merely a visiter to her dominions, -his beautiful audacity of manner forces the old lady to tell him some of -her finest secrets—secrets which she has not always confided to her -unconventional adorers. We hardly know whether the book is more -calculated to delight the citizen or the countryman, but certainly there -is a sweet fusion of nature and convention in it which must win the -hearts of both. The volume contains “Letters from Under a Bridge,” -“Open-Air Musings in the City,” “Invalid Rambles in Germany,” “Letters -from Watering Places,” and “A Plain Man’s Love.” It is dedicated to -Imogene, the author’s daughter, in five of the best pages that Mr. -Willis ever wrote. The book is elegantly printed, and cannot but reach -that wide circulation which it so richly merits. - - * * * * * - - _Philosophy of Religion. By J. Morell, A. M. New York: D. - Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -The subject of this valuable volume is one to task the energies of the -strongest intellect, and Mr. Morell seems to have exerted his to its -utmost capacity in its production. Though it may not be in all cases -sound and practical it evinces a wide knowledge of philosophical -systems, is eminently suggestive, and thoroughly imbued with the spirit -both of philosophy and religion. Mr. Morell is a metaphysician of the -Scotch school, a follower of Reid and Hamilton, and from the latter -especially he has drawn a good deal of his inspiration. Indeed, Sir -William Hamilton’s dissertations and notes annexed to the late edition -of Reid, are destined to have a wide if not a deep influence on -contemporary thought. The present volume indicates how important are his -distinctions of presentative and representative knowledge, for from -Hamilton’s philosophy of perception a good portion of the book is drawn. -Mr. Morell is well adapted to popularize the principles of more -scientific and original thinkers than himself, and we hardly know of two -works better calculated to initiate the reading public into the nature -of the problems which vex metaphysics and metaphysical theology than his -history of Philosophy and his present volume on the Philosophy of -Religion. - - * * * * * - - _Les Confidences. Confidential Disclosures. By Alphonse de - Lamartine. Translated from the French, by Eugene Plunket._ - -This curious volume is the commencement of an autobiography, in which -Lamartine confides to the public the thoughts and events of his life. -Like all the other productions of the accomplished author it is written -in a charming style, and with an abundance of captivating sentiment, but -it gives no evidence of that robustness and solidity of nature we are -accustomed to expect in a great man after the Saxon type. The -sentimental dogmatist and egotist is predominant throughout, and with -all its merit it seems to us one of those books which convey -intellectual disease into the public mind, and enfeeble while they -please. It would not, perhaps, be just to test its excellence by its -agreement with English or American codes of taste, or object to some of -its disclosures as puerile and unmanly, because so stigmatized by the -canons of a particular nation, but we think on general principles of -human nature it cannot stand a sharp examination. There is no evidence -of any intrinsic greatness and grandeur of mind or heart in the book, -nothing which justifies the author in making his weaknesses and vices, -his virtues and fine notions, the subject of a particular work, and -cramming the public mind with himself. There is really no addition made -to our knowledge of ethics or metaphysics, to society or psychology, by -the exhibition here made of the interior nature of Alphonse de -Lamartine. He “wears his heart upon his sleeve” to no other purpose than -to gratify a ravenous vanity or to fill an empty purse—two of the -poorest objects a man can have in view in exhibiting himself. - - * * * * * - - _The American Bee-Keepers Manual. By T. B. Minor. New York: C. - M. Saxton._ - -Mr. Minor here presents us with a very complete practical treatise on -the history and domestic economy of the honey-bee, embracing a full -illustration of the whole subject, with the most approved method of -managing this insect through every branch of its culture. The work is -the result of many years careful notings of personal observation and -experience, and abounds in agreeable as well as useful matter. It is a -very readable volume, and opens a pleasant leaf of knowledge to the -student of nature. - - * * * * * - - _The Spirit World, a Poem; and Scenes in the Life of Christ. By - Joseph H. Wythes. Philadelphia, 1849._ - -This is a very beautifully printed little volume, embracing the author’s -first efforts—and very creditable they are. The design of the poem is, -to unite the discoveries of astronomical science with consistent and -Scriptural ideas of the powers, condition, and probable employment of a -future state. We commend the volume to our readers. - - * * * * * - - - - - EDITOR’S TABLE. - - - AN EARLY FLOWER. - -Last month direct reference was made by our contributors to the beauties -of May. Poets have felt the inspiration of the season from the first, -and all the beauties and all the odors of the month have seemed -transfused to their verse, rich in metrical excellence, and redolent of -the sweets it embalmed. But we have taken a range among the hills and -valleys, and, unable to express in poetry those sentiments which the -season inspired, we must, though a month later, appeal to humble prose, -and make a record of what we saw and felt, with no hope of suggesting -high thoughts to others, or of awakening that feeling which, in the -gifted and the good, may be aroused by eloquence. - -The chill of April winds does not prevent the greenness of herbage which -the fecundating power of April rains provokes. And hidden in among the -relics of last year’s vegetation, and the nascent herbage of young -spring, little flowers had nestled away; little, but beautiful flowers, -decorating the narrow space between the new-born child and the dead -parent. I plucked a few of those modest gems, almost afraid that I -desecrated the altar of Nature, in thus taking its scanty decorations; -but they did their office, since they awakened in me a remembrance of -Him whose hand planted the towering oak that makes the forest majestic, -and whose fingers scattered the seed that produced these minute -ministers of his will, these records of his omnipotence and -omnipresence. - -“All things are full of God”—it is the language of the heathen poet, it -is the language of divine inspiration, it is the language of the heart -touched with the truths of Nature, and connecting them with Nature’s -Author. “Hill and dale are of thy dressing.” And as I stood in the dale, -amid the delicate outpouring of the beauties there, and looked upward to -the hills studded with the time-marked trees, I said to myself, “Here is -that volume of truth that speaks of the unknown, yet not unreverenced, -God, whose will and providence are revealed in the volume of -inspiration.” - -I had, almost insensibly, got within the enclosure of a burying-ground, -which is situated near the Frankford Road, only a few miles from the -city, and was transferring my thoughts from the beautiful objects of -Nature to the specimens of human ingenuity that transmit the date of -birth and death, with the name of the mortal, from one generation to the -other. No one, I believe, passes through a burying-ground without -pausing to read the little story, and thinking over the events which -marked the life of the deceased. It is good when standing thus to think -that he who is below was of like passions with ourselves—that he had -all the social and domestic feelings which we possess, and was -influenced by the events of life as we are. What a world do we animate -when we thus think of each individual—thus place him in connection with -social, domestic, political life. How we multiply interests, augment -joys, and increase the pangs to which human existence is liable. - -At the turning of one of the little avenues that “lead to the tomb,” -making an easy path to the grave, I saw that a new head-stone had been -erected, and it bore the name of one whom I had known in her childhood. -She was beautiful—but more lovely in mind than person. She married -early, and gave birth to an infant, and died—a short biography. She was -not forgotten. The memorials testified to the yet existing memory of her -husband—and a nurse leading a little child toward the mound signified -that her virtues were to be kept in remembrance by the child she had -borne. - -A little flower had sprung up on the very top of the grave. It had -probably been planted in the autumn, but it was now beautiful in its -solitude. Its colors were as rich as if the roots had struck down and -drawn nutriment from the heart that mouldered below, and its odors were -as rich as if they were imparted by the spirit that had gone upward. I -know not when I have seen thus placed a more lovely flower; perhaps it -owed a part of this estimate to its loneliness, a part to its connection -with the beauty and purity of her over whom it expanded. - -The little child on leaning over the grave fell prostrate, and -manifested no disposition to rise. After a few moments delay, I gently -raised her in my arms, and placed her on her feet. She seemed not -pleased at first with my interference. - -“It is my mamma’s grave,” said she, with much emphasis, “and she is down -there now.” - -“But lying on that moist ground might expose you to take cold.” - -“Yet I love to throw myself there,” she said. “I must do it, for I loved -her much.” - -I tried to persuade her to desist, but she stepped toward the grave with -a view of repeating her fall. Her attendant stooped down, and said in a -low voice, - -“But your dear mother would not be pleased to see you do wrong, even if -it was in token of your love for her.” - -“Then I will not do it.” - -If there had been no good seed planted in the child’s heart, at least -the soil had been beautifully prepared for the planting—what could have -been better done than this reverence for the name and virtues of a -mother, and this obedience to her supposed will? I had, I thought, -lighted on another truly lovely spring flower. - -“Do you come often to visit your mother’s grave?” I asked of the little -one. The child looked up as if the inquiry should be repeated. - -“We make frequent visits hither,” said the attendant. “We come almost -daily in good weather.” - -“Oh, yes!” said the child, “we come every fine day to visit where mother -lies—and I am not afraid.” - -“Why should you fear?” said I. - -The child looked confused at the question. - -“You will some day _meet_ your mother if you are constant in your love, -and thus seek to do whatever your friends tell you she would have -desired, and to avoid what she would not have approved.” - -“I will endeavor to do so—but—I shall not meet her—we are going to -Europe again, and shall not return.” - -“To Europe—but, my child, God is everywhere.” - -“Yes, sir; but my mother is not.” - -“But, my dear child, your mother’s spirit, her soul, that which is loved -in your mother, is, I hope, in Heaven; it is not in the grave to moulder -into dust—the body takes that course, but the spirit returns to God who -gave it.” - -“Sir,” said the attendant, “they do not teach the child such things, and -they do not approve of them.” - -“Who does not?” - -“Her father and a cousin—they are good people, but are unbelievers in -all such matters; and though they seldom dispute with others, they never -admit of any instruction to their child about religion.” - -“But,” said I, “she must know something about it.” - -“Not at all, sir; she does not know what you mean by a spirit or a soul. -How should she know—the cousin is her teacher, and she never refers to -the subject, and forbids it to me.” - -“But the child has been taught something of the kind.” - -“Who taught her, sir?” - -“Perhaps God. But I will see whether she has any idea of the matter.” - -“Do you know, my child, what the soul is?” - -“No sir—do you?” - -I did not like to reply to her query—so I proceeded, “Your mother has -yet an existence, and if she was good—” - -“Oh, my mother was very good—always good.” - -“Then the spirit which animated her body is in the enjoyment of all the -good belonging to its present state, which the body could enjoy on -earth—it is happy.” I was ashamed of the explanation. - -“Would it be like her, if I could see it?” - -“Probably exactly like her.” - -“And could I see or know of her real existence in that state?” - -“Yes, though not usual. All is possible with God.” - -“Then I understand you. I have seen her often—often at night; and I -have started as if I had been asleep. But at night I see my mother just -as she looked when I saw her before her death, only there seemed to be -light around her head, and she moved easily and rapidly. Oh, how night -after night I have been with her, toiling on to overtake her steps, or -carried rapidly forward; sometimes she seems to give me -instruction—sometimes I rise in the morning and think I will pray to -her, or I will pray God to give her to me again; and I have made known -my feelings to cousin, and she has laughed at me or chid me for being so -babyish as to be thoughtful about dreams. But I see now that this was -truly my mother, and I will watch to-night, and when she comes again, I -will ask her about her soul—have we all souls?” - -I think, _now_, that I could have placed the child in a position to -comprehend these things a little better; but _then_ I was confused with -the extraordinary state of the child’s mind. - -“Did God teach her that?” said the attendant. - -“Did he not teach her that?” I turned away as I saw some one coming down -the walk. - -Did God teach that child? Was it the yet unfaded visions from which her -soul was drawn, ere it became a tenant of the clayey tabernacle that was -overshadowing her mind; the recollections of heaven illuminating its -little earthly experience, growing dimmer and dimmer with time—was that -the mother in the child, or was there, indeed, an appeal to its mind -through its affections? Had she, shut out from all instructors during -the day, denied all the knowledge which is the true foundation of a -Christian’s life—denied it by father and relative—had she, in her bed, -been met as little Samuel was met, by the voice of God, calling up the -mind to its high destiny, and instructing it in the things that were to -come? - -I could not solve this enigma. But how innocent, how attractive to the -spirit of goodness must have been the mind of that little girl; and it -would not be strange, at least it would seem most meet, that her -guardian spirit should find means to awaken in her a sense of her -importance, and to invite her to goodness by her love for a departed -mother. I turned round before I left the ground, and saw the little -child standing beside the grave. She looked down steadily upon the -uplifted earth, and then turned her face upward, and seemed to gaze with -intense interest into the blue sky above. I would have given much to -know the thoughts that had occupied her mind, to have seen how love for -the perishing object below, how reverence for the purified spirit above -were alternating in her mind. I am sure that her thoughts had in them -more of maturity and truth relative to those objects of her -contemplation, than they had of the things of this life. - -I passed onward to the road, full of the idea of the child, who could -not be deprived of knowledge. I had found an early flower—the chill of -winter, its snows and its frosts, had forbidden its development—but a -gentle ray from the sun of truth had called it forth; it was blossoming -for man, delightful now, to be transplanted to its native heaven -hereafter. - - C. - - * * * * * - -THE SEWING GIRL.—The inequality of social life and domestic comfort in -large cities, is, we presume, inseparable from a state of society as at -present organized, and the bold reformer, even while he is preaching, is -illustrating its incapacity for sudden change. So long as capital -possesses supreme power, and the inherent quality of reproduction, there -must be dependents and laborers. We cannot all ride in carriages, or -there would be none to build them, and the present stock, we think, -would in time grow ricketty upon the hands of the most adroit leveler. -And if we descended into a race of pedestrians, we fear that we should -in time, even if we divided the last dollar with a needy brother, be -looked upon as soulless and decidedly shabby. We do not know that -Fourier, even in his maddest dreams of social reformation and equality, -ever seriously contemplated an era when boots should grow upon trees, -without the aid of human hands, and coats come down like snow-flakes to -cover our nakedness. We think not. And even if he had, there are certain -disagreeable anticipations—aside from want of modesty—in wandering -about on a wintry day, hunting for garments—to say nothing of having -our beef killed and cooked to stay our appetites the while. - -We suppose then we must have sewing girls—but we see no necessity of -forgetting that they are girls—and neither horses nor mules—that they -are human beings—noble women, with as warm hearts, and as good blood as -ourselves, feeling the same yearnings after sympathy, the same keenness -of suffering under insult, neglect or wrong. There is no necessary -humiliation in labor. It is in itself of the highest dignity and of the -loftiest nobility of extraction. She who, by assiduous industry, makes -her little home happy, clothes her infant brothers, and administers to -the wants of an aged and decrepit parent, has clothed herself in the -holiest of garments, and though their texture may not be of the finest, -she may stand up proudly beside the purple of a queen, and if she sees -but the trembling of scorn upon the royal lip, may say, “_Stand off! I -am nobler than thou!_” The treatment, however, which some of them -receive from very fashionable and very silly young ladies, who have been -badly educated by ignorant and vulgar mothers, is humiliating to witness -occasionally, and must be very hard to bear continually. - - “Hark! that rustle of a dress, - Stiff with lavish costliness; - Here comes one whose cheek would flush - But to have her garment brush - ’Gainst the girl whose fingers thin - Wove the weary broidery in, - And in midnight’s still and murk - Stitched her _life_ into the work, - Bending backward from her toil, - Lest her tears the silk might soil, - Shaping from her bitter thought - Heart’s-ease and forget-me-not. - Satirizing her despair - With the emblem woven there.” - -And yet the fashionable young lady may number among her accomplishments -a smattering of French, or a villainous enunciation of Italian; may -thrash the piano, with all discordancy, and nurse her poodle dog with -infinite grace, and call it very fatiguing, and be obliged to take a nap -after dinner, for fear her strength may fail her in the evening, in the -waltz with Mr. Alfred Fitzhuggens, who labors under the accomplishments -of an imperial and a dandy cane; while the young sewing girl may be -devoting diligently sixteen hours out of the weary twenty-four, in -earning the most indifferent food for a family of dependents. - -We wonder if these young ladies while thumbing their gilt prayer-books -on Sunday, and lisping over the prayer, “From all blindness of heart, -from pride, vain glory, and hypocrisy; from envy, hatred, and malice, -and all uncharitableness, _Good Lord, deliver us_,” ever think of the -meaning and solemn import of the words they are using. We doubt it. Or -in the more direct adjuration, “That it may please thee to strengthen -those who stand, _and comfort and help the weak hearted_,” they ever -think how little their heartlessness to dependents justifies them in -putting up the prayer. Or still further, do they ever think of the -obligations of that sublime command, in which Christianity sparkles like -a divine light, “As ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to -them.” We fear that at many a table where grace is said, the hearts who -hear it are utterly graceless in this regard, and that many who are very -rigid in paying the formalities of prayer to God, forget the divine -injunction, “feed my lambs,” and would rather add an additional hour to -the day of toil, and a shilling less to the pay of the toil-worn sewing -girl, than to lighten her burdens by a cheerful word or token of -encouragement. - -Not that we wish for a moment to be supposed as intimating that this -lack of enlarged charity is wanting in well trained hypocrites only—who -do not dishonor religion, but by daily acts prove its truth and beauty, -by showing that they are none of Christ’s. The haughty assumption and -vulgar domineering is far worse where _all_ restraint is thrown off, and -worldliness unmitigated and shameless, in scarlet and effrontery, rides -purse proud over the decencies as well as the charities of life, and -makes dependency a worse slavery than that of the poor Indian in the -mines. - -The character of a lady is in no way more surely tested than in -treatment of her domestics—and, _generally_, in the frequency with -which she changes them. Depend upon it—the house in which _nobody_ can -be happy, must be a miniature of existence in a darker world. - - G. R. G. - - * * * * * - -CAPE MAY SEASON.—As the warm weather steals upon us, our friends begin -to talk of “the Capes,” and to look up straw hats and bathing-dresses. -Cape May has in its very sound a charm pleasingly familiar to almost -every Philadelphia ear. Here visits the merchant in the summer months, -for relaxation from the counting-room—the clerk for his holydays—the -man of pleasure for enjoyment—the idle for luxurious indolence. It is -Philadelphia in miniature, and full of life—lively, chatty, gossipy, -and hilarious—disposed to enjoyment, and determined to have it. A -family reunion at holyday times. - -The old gentleman has a reputation abroad for great simplicity of -manner—wearing his coat of the very purest material, and of the very -plainest cut—and a hat of undeniable beaver, of great amplitude of -brim; a sturdy old chap, with a benevolent face, who gives his simple -and emphatic “No!” to the allurements and pressing solicitations of -folly. The younger shoots have departed greatly from the plainness of -the primitive tree, and flourish in the luxuriousness of magnolia and -orange blossoms, and show a strong tendency to burst out in all the -beauty and splendor of hot-house “japonicadom.” Yet under the eye of the -old gentleman, in these holyday times, the youngsters seem to scorn the -borrowed aid of laces, satins and jewelry, and give tight boots, -dandy-coats, and perfumery the go-by; for it is whispered, that he shuts -his money-box rather tightly to such of his heirs as run after worldly -vanities; so that here you may see them in blouses and straw-hats, in -dressing-gown and slippers, perfectly unrestrained with tight lacing, -luxuriously happy, and indescribably gay. They go about with an honest, -hearty, unrestrained laugh—snapping their fingers at care, and -perfectly unconcerned at the imputation of having let down their -dignity. The family improves evidently under this relaxation from -brocades and stiff ceremonies. They have a more hearty expression of -face, a more thoroughly robust and vigorous frame, and though the cheek -may be a little browner, the eye is brighter, and the heart happier. - -The regular visiter at these times is a black-eyed, cherry-cheeked -cousin from Baltimore, a little given to flirting and dangerously -fascinating, as graceful as a young fawn, and as frolicksome as a -kitten. She always appears to have come down purposely for a romp, -having left city affectations at home, and brought her graces with her. -Then she wont go home until she has half a dozen of her cousins—from -the third to the sixth remove—desperately in love with her, to keep -them in mind of Cape May. - -Then “Tom”—“Our Tom”—he is always there; Tom wouldn’t miss Cape May, -in the season, for a £100—and the sly dog knows how to show off the -attractions of his beautiful cousins. He is sure to decoy them into the -Archery every bright morning, and has so many neat and appropriate -remarks in regard to the health and gracefulness of the exercise—and -the bows are so inviting, and the arrows so neat—the gold and crimson -target so tempting that you do not wonder to see a cloud of arrows -filling the air, and a crowd of lounging _beaux_, filled with shafts -more dangerous. Then “Tom”—sad Tom—knows that his fair cousins are as -fearless as beautiful, and fire off pistols with quite a soldierly -air—that is, when Tom loads them; and the sly scamp, speaks in so low a -tone—so softly and so kindly—when he hands the pistol with the -hair-trigger, that you are amazed to find that there was powder in it -when it goes off—and at the first crack “Tom” has the whole family -there; then he is such a lover of enjoyment himself—is good, honest, -manly Tom Barrett—that it delights him to see them. Then he has his -Bowling Saloons in tiptop order; his Billiard-room, too; his dogs and -guns for crack shots at woodcock, and ambitious young sportsmen after -curlew; and then he has—In short, it wouldn’t _be_ Cape May, if Tom -wasn’t there—and there’s an end of it. Well, well, Tom! we shall not -try your pistols nor your archery this summer, but shall take a crack at -Cape May, in a story, which we have in type. So let the surf come -tumbling in with its musical roar—its wild waves wash out no memories. -Our loves and our hates keep time in the heart which beats on proudly, -yet bides its time hopefully. In the roar of the wilder ocean, where men -go down battling unregretted, how many who now spread their bright sails -to the favoring breeze, shall, ere the voyage is ended, find sail and -cordage gone, their vessels wrecked, and the happy hearts of merry -companions, one after the other, swept by the remorseless wave forever -under—who shall tell, Tom! But so the side toward heaven has been -ripened by the sunlight of kindness to man, what matters the breakers, -Tom, to you or to me? - - “Dipping his feathers in the briny foam; - Not less quick o’er the white wave Hermes rode.” - - G. R. G. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: WAITING AT PANAMA FOR THE STEAMER.—_The Sun going down -on their Hopes._] - - - WAITING AT PANAMA. - -The sad effects of an insane haste to grow rich by chasing gilded -shadows, instead of taking the secure path of industry, are exemplified -in the fact, that hundreds of our countrymen who have abandoned places -of profit for the dazzling placers of speculation, and business, which -afforded a decent competency, for wild and uncertain adventure, are now -crowding the shore of the Pacific at Panama, with exhausted means and -dissipated hopes. The all-absorbing desire for speedy fortune precluded -even the common and most ordinary caution as to probabilities. At the -first sound of the horn, the hunter was off, regardless of obstacles, -defiant of fate, and with a recklessness unpardonable, the comforts of -home were sacrificed, and all the dangers of a doubtful, hardy, and -perilous enterprise were imprudently braved. The sad uncertainty of -fortune—the more than doubts of her existence for them—has been -cruelly thrust into their faces, and impressed upon their hearts. The -return of that tremendous tide, which seemed to sweep wise men and -madmen together resistlessly upon its bosom, comes freighted with the -first fragments of hopes wrecked, and wealth, and perhaps health -dissipated and lost. Time and opportunity here—more valuable than -gold—are gone, and the adventurer comes back with unstrung nerves and -faded visions of greatness, to battle again in the busy and -uncompromising marts of trade, for bread. The illusion has -vanished!—the cheat is transparent! “The sober second-thought” has come -with its impressive lesson. The blanks turn out in this, as in all -lotteries, the most numerous and certain—the prizes equally few and -unreliable. When the voice of that vaster multitude now filling the -streams and plains of California shall have been heard, we shall have a -sonorous echo of the despairing wail of the impoverished and deluded at -Panama. Mark it! - - * * * * * - -“Be sure you are right, and then go ahead” is a maxim so universally -current in this country, that one would suppose that its practice would -be more common. But no! in the rush of excitement, the go-ahead spirit -takes the lead, leaving at home old father Caution to play with his -thumbs, and to wonder at his relations. “Get out of the way!” “Take -care!” “Clear the track!” “Off she goes!”—_whiz!_ and the young -generation is cut from leading-strings, and half-way on the road to -fortune before Grandfather has rubbed his eyes, and opened them to the -true state of affairs around him—no, not _around_, before him, but -completely out of sight. Talk of Rome not having been built in a day, -old Graybeard! You are behind the times. Kingdoms shoot up in a night, -and nations are born between two breakfasts. Don’t speak of the -ingratitude of relations, old man; the thing is absurd. While you are -hunting genealogies, the parties have belted the world, and are walking -with their heads down directly beneath you, or are half-way to the -Pacific on an air-line in the light that marks the horizon—skimming -through the clouds in a flying machine. “Friendly ties.” “Home -affection!” Poh! you are in your dotage, old fellow! We have no time to -waste on silly abstractions! Good bye! Take care of _yourself_! Will -write you from the other side! So we go! - -But are we happier for all this fiery impetuosity of disposition—this -ginger-beer effervescence of intellect—this fussing, fretting, fuming -wrath of haste to get on, to get off, to be going? Is _this_ the true -enjoyment of LIFE! after all, to go whirling along in a state of high -excitement without a moment’s pause, with a sort of insane heat and -fierceness of intellect, restless, roaming, and parched up with the -fever of desire for wealth—to be enslaved by the eternal, all-absorbing -all-engulphing _I_—the monster self, grown Colossal, insatiate, and -fiend-like. Is there nothing worth loving, that we may pause to cherish? -No enjoyment worth a cool moment, in which the fevered lust of money may -be forgotten? Pile up your gold, young man! Give your imagination its -most boundless desire! Spread the base of your pyramid over an area of -acres! Pile up!—pile high! oh, avarice and pride! Let its peak touch -the skies! ay, higher still! And now we point you to that little cluster -of bleached bones, whitening but a spot beside the gigantic god you -worship, and to that young, pale face, sitting sighing by yonder -fire-side, thousands of miles away—would the wealth that might cover -the Cyclops, compensate _her_ for the chilled heart, the desolate days -which are hers. Ah no! with but a crust to break with you, in a home of -humbleness and peace, how that heart would bound with pride, those sad -eyes sparkle with pleasure, and those pale cheeks regain their roses and -bloom with health. And if all the wealth of India and Peru were hers, -how poor a gift would she esteem it to clothe those bones of yours once -again with manly beauty, and to sit once again confidingly by your side, -her hand in yours, her eyes lifted to your dark gaze, as to the heaven -of her dreams. Ah! but you will not die, you will take the risk. Pause -awhile! think of it wisely! think of it well! - -We are not talking in the language of statesmen. Ah, no! statesmen and -warriors estimate men in masses—marshal them in squadrons and platoons; -they form a State—they fill a list of 10,000 killed and wounded. Ours -is the humbler view—the domestic ties lacerated—the friendships -dissipated—the few hearts broken. The dead of the ten thousand slain -upon the battle-field return no more—the thrice ten thousand hearts -that mourn, bleed on, but form no part of the estimate of war’s -disaster. The thousands of brothers, young, impetuous, adventurous, are -gone! they are the State’s, and of it. The sister weeps—the mother -droops and dies, as the long years roll on, and the lost ones return no -more; and the proud page of history swells with the triumph, the pen -grows eloquent as it records the foundation and the growth of empire, -and bright names live and flash along the glowing line; but the desolate -heart, and the desolate hearth, are forgotten and unknown. These are the -sadder views of conquest—the inevitable results of adventurous -migration. “And yet,” cries the brawling patriot who is never _self_ -devoted, “you oppose the march of empire—the growth of nations!” By no -means, good friend! If the thousands who are now pouring as a flood into -California, or even a tythe of them, were whole families, with farming -utensils, and domestic implements, seeking a far off and productive -soil, where they might again erect their household gods, and live -happily to a green old age, under their own vine and fig-tree, extending -rationally and naturally the benefits of civilization, we should wish -them God speed, and give them joy at their going. But how is it? Reader, -we ask _you_—how is it with the adventurers, who are now rushing -thoughtlessly, desperately from home? How few, even with the best -success, will realize their dreams? and of those few, how many will -really be personally benefited by the wealth thus achieved? But the vast -army of the disappointed—what of them? With morals contaminated, hearts -sickened, hopes crushed—how many will return useful members of society? -How many settle quietly down as hardy tillers of the soil? We fear, oh, -most wise politician! that this last is a work to be done by another -class of emigrants, and by but few of the gold hunters, and desperate -land speculators who now crowd the vessels of the Pacific. Our advice, -deeply pondered, and calmly given, to those who have a longing for that -far-off and fertile region, is, to sit earnestly down to business here, -and amass a few hundreds, or a few thousands, and when the scorn of that -boiling, seething cauldron shall have passed off—when the thousands -which have been made—_on paper_—in land speculations and gold mining, -shall be no more heard of—you will find a few quiet acres still -untilled, a population improved, and a certainty of comfort and -happiness awaiting you there. Until then, we think, you may make life -bearable here, by diligent application to business, a devotion to your -family, to home duties and affections, and to careful improvement of -your mental capacity, and of such opportunities as God may furnish you -for doing good. Think of it, reader! - - G. R. G. - - * * * * * - -THE FAMILY MESSENGER.—This old and sterling family newspaper, we see, -has been brought out in a suit of new and beautiful type, and is -otherwise improved and adorned. It has had, too, an accession of -editorial force, and the new pen, with the aid of Mr. Seckel, its old -editor, makes the sheet sparkle again. We predict for the old favorite a -new lease of popular favor, and a circulation unequaled by any paper of -its class. Various other additions, in the mechanical as well as the -literary department, are still to be added, when the office is removed -to the new building in Chestnut street—the movements of beauty on that -delightful promenade, will, of course, be duly chronicled hereafter, in -the piquant style of the editors. - - * * * * * - -A POWERFUL NOVEL.—We shall commence in the July number, a powerfully -written story from the pen of H. W. Herbert, Esq., author of “Cromwell,” -“Ringwood the Rover,” etc., which we pronounce the most brilliant of all -the able novels of that accomplished and vigorous writer. It is entitled -“JASPER ST. AUBYN; _A Story of Passion_,” and for strength and beauty of -expression, thrilling and intense interest, and high moral and tragic -effect, our readers will regard it as the _best story_ we have given -them for many a day. - - * * * * * - -BIRDS BEAUTIFULLY COLORED.—We purpose to introduce into Graham’s -Magazine, in the coming volume, a series of Wild and Cage Birds, -exquisitely designed and colored, and our artists are already at work. -We think that this feature of the Magazine will be highly popular with -our readers, and as the plates will be accompanied with carefully -prepared letter-press descriptions; they will be found useful to the -many who cultivate a taste for these beautiful subjects. This, we have -no doubt, will be _imitated_ as every thing has been in the Magazine -world which has originated with us. - - * * * * * - -THE OLDEST MAGAZINE.—Our correspondent, “History,” is informed that he -is right in his conjecture, that “Graham’s Magazine” was based upon -“_The Casket_,” and hence is the oldest of the illustrated monthlies. It -is our proud satisfaction that ours is the _best_, as well as the oldest -Magazine. It does not require continued puffing, either hired or -solicited, to make people aware of its existence. - - * * * * * - -OUR OWN ARTISTS ABROAD.—In order to keep the high position of this -Magazine, as a work of art, fully up to the standard it has attained, we -have sent our excellent engraver and designer, W. E. Tucker, Esq., to -Europe to make careful drawings of such subjects as he may find upon the -walls of the Academies, or in private collections, and to engage such -American artists as he may find abroad, who may be useful in carrying -out our grand design of being _the first to introduce new subjects to -the American eye_. Our cotemporaries content themselves with -re-engraving stale prints which may be found in the windows, or in using -such cast-off English plates as may be offered here cheap; but the vast -circulation and profit of this work returns to our readers in such -liberal arrangements to keep them advised of the freshest and most -beautiful works of art as may be found in the wide range of the world. - -For several years our Fashion Plates have been brought freshly from -Paris, and their beauty of design and coloring has been the subject of -universal praise. Now, by having _our own artists_ employed, both abroad -and at home, we not only defy competition, but laugh at it. - - * * * * * - -THE NEW VOLUME.—With the next number we commence a new volume of -Graham’s Magazine, which, we do not hesitate to promise our readers -shall be one of rare excellence and beauty. Our past volume, closing -with this number, was exhausted very early, and we have consequently -been obliged for two months past to refuse all orders for the work from -January last. We shall therefore furnish our subscribers with a title -page for the coming volume in our next issue. All our arrangements for -the next six months are perfected, and from July to December our readers -may expect a succession of brilliant numbers in every respect. Our -increase for the past six months has been unexampled, and with the -steady flow of new names, coming with every mail, we look forward to -being compelled greatly to amplify our means of producing our edition. -Our printers now run their presses both night and day—keeping us -frequently waiting for copies to supply the demand. Hoe certainly must -invent a _book-press_ to run 10,000 per hour for us, and at our demise -we shall leave him the copyright of Graham. - - * * * * * - -RIVALS.—We see a great deal about the rivals of Graham, going the -rounds in the way of paid notices. Does the oldest inhabitant remember a -time when such notes were not given out? We have a brood of these -rivals, freshly fledged every spring, who die somehow of the praise of -the penny-a-liners in literature, - -Snooks has an article in the “Great Monthly Thundergust,” calculated to -make a noise. - -“I will write a first rate notice,” says Snooks, “and mark it for the -benefit of country members, and if that doesn’t _settle_ Graham and -Godey, I’ll write you an article for nothing.” - -“Goodness!” says the new editor—“but—but do you think it is exactly -fair to break down their business all at once, in that way? Remember -their interesting families, Mr. Snooks.” - -“Families, sir! who talks about families when we commence a Thundergust! -Get up a breeze! Pile on the agony, sir! You are too meek, sir!—too -tame!—chicken-hearted, sir!—too tender!—too—too—will you oblige me -with $20 till to-morrow? _Settle_ is the word!” - -An awkward one it is, too—this settling with Indians, when they turn on -you. - - * * * * * - -The fishermen of Philadelphia recently turned out in opposition to the -firemen. They kept themselves closely concealed in covered wagons. -_Sell-fish_ fellows! - - * * * * * - -Du Solle turned out a poor number of his new paper, “The Extra,” lately. -“Extra?” inquires a wag—“this is extra-_ordinary_.” - - * * * * * - - - - - I CAN’T MAKE UP MY MIND: - - - THE WORDS FROM HOOD’S MAGAZINE, - - ADAPTED TO A MELODY - - BY F. OTTO, - - AND ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO - - BY CHAS. GROBE. - -Presented by G. Willig, No. 171 Chestnut St. Published by G. Willig Jr. - Baltimore. - - [Entered according to act of Congress, by G. Willig, Jr., in the year - 1848, at the Clerk’s Office, of the District Court of Md.] - -[Illustration] - - 1st Verse. - - I can’t make up my mind, mamma, - In such unseemly haste; - Nor pick from all my dying swains - A husband to my taste. - There’s gay Charles Dash, a charming man, - Most affable and kind - Who loves me so de- - -[Illustration] - - vo-ted-ly, - But I can’t make up my mind. - - SECOND VERSE. - - And, next, there’s frank, young Harry West, - So fond, so true, so clever, - Who though I scold him all the day, - Adores me more than ever. - There’s Roger Snipe, the pink of beaux, - Or else your daughter’s blind, - And yet when Snipe grows serious, I - I can’t make up my mind. - - THIRD VERSE. - - There’s lawyer Keen, and poet Good, - Exemplars of their sort; - Still, still I can’t make up my mind - There’s no accounting for’t! - “Yes, yes, there is,” stern truth replied; - “Your vanity imparts - That false delight in flatt’ring tongues, - Which forfeits loving hearts.” - - FOURTH VERSE. - - On purpose to make up her mind, - So long this fair one tarried, - Her lovers, loath to hang themselves, - Sought other maids and married! - And, though mamma is growing old, - Her daughter looks much older, - E’er since her coquetry and pride - In the Old Maids Corps enroll’d her. - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some -spellings peculiar to Graham’s. Punctuation has been corrected without -note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For -illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to -condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook. - -page 339, and paralized at their ==> and paralyzed at their -page 340, the port of frankness, ==> the part of frankness, -page 344, hast thou give to ==> hast thou given to -page 347, cross old fidgetty fellow ==> cross old fidgety fellow -page 348, rare and so indiscribable. ==> rare and so indescribable. -page 350, lend him Deidrich Knickerbocker’s ==> lend him Diedrich - Knickerbocker’s -page 351, will not be be dictated ==> will not be dictated -page 353, and like a bark ==> and like a barque -page 353, And gave embodyment ==> And gave embodiment -page 359, labored assidiously, when ==> labored assiduously, when -page 363, the somethat affected ==> the somewhat affected -page 363, of faultless vesification ==> of faultless versification -page 370, to and fro the ==> to and fro in the -page 372, those charms to day!” ==> those charms to-day!” -page 372, fisher’s bark still ==> fisher’s barque still -page 374, Sickness is synonimous ==> Sickness is synonymous -page 375, a most woful-loooking ==> a most woful-looking -page 377, a blank envelop. ==> a blank envelope. -page 385, is usually characterestic only ==> is usually characteristic - only -page 385, as they eat, dressed, ==> as they ate, dressed, -page 388, Stiched her _life_ into ==> Stitched her _life_ into -page 392, Jasper St. Albyn ==> Jasper St. Aubyn - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXIV, No. 6, -June 1849, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JUNE 1849 *** - -***** This file should be named 53963-0.txt or 53963-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/9/6/53963/ - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net from -page images generously made available by Google Books - -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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