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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. XXXVII, No. 1, July 1850 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George Rex Graham - -Release Date: January 17, 2017 [EBook #53980] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JULY 1850 *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net from -page images generously made available by Google Books - - - - - -[Illustration: GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. -1850. -GEO. R. GRAHAM, EDITOR. - -_Devereux, del._ _Hogan and Thompson, pr._ -_Lake of Como._] - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XXXVII. July, 1850. No. 1. - - - Table of Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - The Vital and the Mechanical - For’ard and Aft - Jenny Lind - The Bride of the Battle - Stories from the Old Dramatists - Lucy Leyton - George R. Graham - The Genius of Burns - The Gambler’s Daughter - Woodcock and Woodcock Shooting - The Shark - Review of New Books - Editor’s Table - - Poetry, Music, and Fashion - - Sonnets - Dara - A Legend of Tyrol - The Lady of Castle Windeck - The Young Mother’s Lament - The Poet’s Prayer - Implora Pace:—A Version - The Fall of the Fairies - The Spirit Lovers and the Spirit Bridal - Lines Written at Night in Cave Hill Cemetery - A Song for a Down-Trodden Land - To Jenny Lind - A Requiem by the Sea - Jenny Lind’s American Polka - Details of the New Fashions in Sacques and - Mantelets - Le Follet - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - - - - CONTENTS - - OF THE - - THIRTY-SEVENTH VOLUME. - - JUNE, 1850, TO JANUARY, 1851. - - A Romance of True Love. By Caroline H. Butler, 100 - A Visit to Staten Island. By Mrs. Lydia H. 149 - Sigourney, - Bridget Kerevan. By Enna Duval, 116 - Bay Snipe Shooting. By Frank Forester, 126 - Blanche of Bourbon. By Walter Brooke, 348 - Coquet _versus_ Coquette. By Caroline H. Butler, 177 - Chateaubriand and His Career. By Fayette Robinson, 356 - Doctrine of Form. By E. 170 - Edda Murray. By Enna Duval, 238 - Early English Poets. By James W. Wall, 250 - Enchanted Beauty. By E. 265 - For’ard and Aft. By S. A Godman, 8 - Familiar Quotations from Unfamiliar Sources. By A 312 - Student, - George R. Graham. By C. J. Peterson, 43 - Jenny Lind. By Henry T. Tuckerman, 15 - Lucy Leighton. By Caroline H. Butler, 37 - Music and Musical Composers. By R. J. De Cordova, 73 - Mandan Indians, 195 - Music. By Henry Giles, 223 - Minnie De La Croix. By Angele De V. Hull, 294, 339 - Nettles on the Grave. By R. Penn Smith, 311 - Of and Concerning the Moon. By Calvin W. Philleo, 329 - Pedro de Padilh. By J. M. Legare, 92, 144, 231, - 305, 372 - Quail and Quail Shooting. By Henry Wm. Herbert, 317 - Rail and Rail Shooting. By H. W. Herbert, 190 - Ruffed Grouse Shooting. By H. W. Herbert, 382 - Stories from the Old Dramatists. By Enna Duval, 31 - Shakspeare. By Henry C. Moorhead, 137 - The Vital and the Mechanical. By P. 1 - The Bride of the Battle. By Wm. Gilmore Simms, 23, 84, 163 - The Genius of Burns. By Henry Giles, 45 - The Gambler’s Daughter. By Henry C. Moorhead, 53 - The Shark. By L. A. Wilmer, 64 - The Chase. By Charles J. Peterson, 79 - The Fine Arts, 132 - The Genius of Byron. By Rev. J. N. Danforth, 185 - The Fine Arts, 193 - The Slave of the Pacha. From Santaine, 201 - Thomas Johnson. By Thomas Wyatt, A. M. 245 - Teal and Teal Shooting. By H. W. Herbert, 256 - The Fine Arts, 259 - The Vision of Mariotdale. By H. Hastings Weld, 273 - Tamaque. By Henry C. Moorhead, 277 - The Sunflower. By Major Richardson, 285 - Two Crayon Sketches. By Enna Duval, 314 - Thistle-Down. By Caroline Chesebro’, 361 - The Comus of Milton. By Rev. J. N. Danforth, 367 - Woodcock and Woodcock Shooting. By H. W. Herbert, 61 - Wordsworth. By P. 106 - What Katy Did. By Caroline Chesebro’, 121 - Woodlawn. By F. E. F. 152 - “What Can Woman Do?” By Alice B. Neal, 158 - - - POETRY. - - A Legend of Tyrol. By J. T. Fields, 7 - A Song for a Down-Trodden Land. By Wm. P. 36 - Mulchinock, - A Requiem by the Sea. By Helen Irving, 60 - A Health to My Brother. By R. Penn Smith, 157 - A Sea-Side Reverie. By Enna Duval, 162 - Audubon’s Blindness. By Park Benjamin, 169 - A Night at the Black Sign. By T. B. Read, 220 - Alone—Alone! By Mrs. I. W. Mercur, 230 - Charlotte Corday. By Mrs. E. J. Eames, 310 - Dara. By James R. Lowell, 7 - Hylas. By Bayard Taylor, 271 - Implora Pace. By Elizabeth J. Eames, 20 - Impulse and Principle. By A. B. Street, 105 - Inspiration. By Wm. P. Brannan, 237 - I Dreamed. By Wm. M. Briggs, 293 - I Think of Thee. By Geo. D. Prentice, 381 - Lines Written at Night in Cave Hill Cemetery. - By Geo. D. Prentice, 35 - Lines in Memory of My Lost Child. By Geo. D. 143 - Prentice, - Lines to a Bird. By T. Buchanan Read, 355 - Manuella. By Bayard Taylor, 78 - Memories. By Geo. D. Prentice, 83 - Moral Strength. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 276 - Ode. By R. H. Stoddard, 142 - On a Portrait of Cromwell. By J. T. Fields, 162 - On the Death of General Taylor. By Robert T. Conrad, 175 - Outward Bound. By T. Buchanan Read, 189 - On San Francisco’s Splendid Bay. By T. G. Spear, 370 - “Psyche Loves Me.” By T. Dunn English, 176 - Picture of Childhood. By Wm. Alexander, 338 - Red Jacket. By W. H. C. Hosmer, 91 - Riverside. By Geo. Canning Hill, 129 - Sonnets. By Alfred B. Street, 6 - Sonnets. By Mary Spenser Pease, 169 - Sonnets. By Miss A. D. Woodbridge, 221 - Spring Lilies. By Mrs. Mary G. Horsford, 229 - Sonnet. By Wm. Alexander, 236 - Sin No More. By R. T. Conrad, 237 - Sonnets. By Mrs. E. J. Eames, 244 - Sorrow. By Alfred B. Street, 276 - Sonnet. By R. T. Conrad, 310 - The Lady of Castle Windeck. By William Cullen 14 - Bryant, - The Young Mother’s Lament. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 14 - The Poet’s Prayer. By Emma C. Embury, 20 - The Fall of the Fairies. By Henry B. Hirst, 21 - The Spirit Lovers. By Miss L. V. Smith, 29 - To Jenny Lind. By J. R. Fry, 42 - The Mariner’s Tale, By R. Penn Smith, 97 - The Wasted Heart. By L. Virginia Smith, 156 - To the Lost One. By Duncan Moore, 176 - The Bright New Moon of Love. By T. H. Chivres, M. D. 195 - To a Friend. By Miss L. Virginia Smith, 222 - The Earth. By R. H. Stoddard, 230 - The Name of Wife. By Mrs. A. M. F. Annan, 236 - Thinking of Minna. By Ellis Martyn, 244 - The Maiden’s Lament for her Shipwrecked Lover. 249 - By Wm. Albert Sutliffe, - The Gift of a Rose. By Geo. D. Prentice, 253 - The Reconciliation. By L. Virginia Smith, 283 - The Wife’s Last Gift. By Julia C. Dorr, 293 - Theodora. By Geo. Canning Hill, 304 - The Spectre Knight and His Ladye Bride. By Fanny 320 - Fielding, - To L——. By Grace Greenwood, 321 - To Miss Martha Griffith. By Grant Danby Polworth, 338 - To a Celebrated Singer. By R. H. Stoddard, 347 - To J. F. H. By J. R. Lowell, 360 - To a Summer Haunt. By H. T. Tuckerman, 360 - The Death of Wordsworth. By Wm. Sydney Thayer, 366 - The Grave’s Pale Roses. By C. F. Orne, 370 - The Quiet Arbor. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 371 - Unhappy Love. By Geo. D. Prentice, 284 - Wood Violets. By Alice B. Neal, 83 - Wordsworth. By James T. Fields, 237 - Wordsworth. By Wm. Alexander, 321 - - - REVIEWS. - - The Life and Correspondence of R. Southey. - Edited by his son, Rev. C. C. Southey, 65 - Historic View of the Languages and Literature - of the Sclavic Nations. By Talvi, 66 - Indiana. By George Sand, 67 - Latter-Day Pamphlets. By Thomas Carlyle, 133 - Webster’s Dictionary, 133 - Eldorado. By Bayard Taylor, 134 - In Memoriam, 198 - Chronicles and Characters of the Stock Exchange. - By John Francis, 199 - Evangeline. By Henry W. Longfellow, 199 - Elementary Sketches of Moral Philosophy. - By Rev. Sidney Smith, A. M. 261 - Confessions of an English Opium Eater. By - Thomas De Quincy, 262 - Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell. - Edited by William Beattie, M. D. 263 - The Prelude. By William Wordsworth, 322 - Christian Thought on Life. By Henry Giles, 323 - Specimens of Newspaper Literature. By J. T. 324 - Buckingham, - Songs of Labor and Other Poems. By J. G. Whittier, 324 - Memoirs of the Life of Anne Boleyn. By Miss Benger, 326 - Lynch’s Dead Sea Expedition, 326 - Astræa. By Oliver Wendall Holmes, 385 - Five Years of a Hunter’s Life in the Far Interior - of South Africa. By R. G. Cumming, 387 - - - MUSIC. - - Jenny Lind’s American Polka, 68 - Chant of the Nereides, 130 - Barcarole, 196 - Ah, Do Not Speak so Coldly, 254 - Come Touch the Harp, My Gentle One, 388 - - - ENGRAVINGS. - - Portrait of Jenny Lind, engraved by Mote, London. - Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. - Portrait of the Editor, engraved by Armstrong. - Lake of Como, executed in colors by Devereux. - Woodcock Shooting, engraved by Brightly. - Designs for Mantelets, engraved by Brightly, Thomas, - and Talfer. - The Shark, engraved by Brightly. - The Origin of Music, engraved by Tucker. - Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. - The Sisters, engraved by Thomas B. Welch. - He Comes Not, engraved by Holl. - Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. - Dance of the Mandan Indians, engraved by Rawdon, - Wright & Hatch. - Rail Shooting, engraved by Brightly. - The Slave of the Pacha, engraved by J. Brown. - The Way to Church, engraved by T. McGoffin. - Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. - Portrait of Thomas Johnson, engraved by Brightly. - Teal Shooting, engraved by Brightly. - The Highland Chase, engraved by T. B. Welch. - The Angel’s Whisper, engraved by T. Illman & Son. - Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. - American Quail, engraved by Brightly. - Catskill Mountain House, engraved by Smillie. - The Home of Milton, engraved by W. E. Tucker. - Mariner’s Beacon, engraved by H. Smith. - Paris Fashions, engraved by David. - Ruffed Grouse, engraved by Brightly. - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XXXVII. PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1850. No. 1. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE VITAL AND THE MECHANICAL. - - -It may be universally affirmed that every thing having shape either -grows or is put together, is a living organism or a contrived machine; -and the radical distinction between minds in all the modes of their -operation, and between things in all the forms of their manifestation, -is expressed in the antithesis of vitality and mechanism. To suggest, in -a manner necessarily imperfect and rambling, some of the important -consequences involved in this distinction, is the object of the present -essay. - -And first, in regard to minds, it may be asked, to what faculties and -operations of the intelligence do you apply the term vital, as -distinguished from other faculties and operations indicated as -mechanical? The answer to this question may be spiritually true without -being metaphysically exact, and we shall hazard a brief one. The soul of -man in its essential nature is a vital unit and person, capable of -growth through an assimilation of external objects; and its faculties -and acquirements are all related to its primitive personality, as the -leaves, branches, and trunk of a tree to its root. In the tree there are -sometimes dead branches and withered leaves, which constitute a part of -the tree’s external form without participating in the tree’s internal -life. The same thing occurs in the human mind. Faculties, originally -springing from the soul’s vital principle, become disconnected from it, -lose all the sap and juice of life, and dwindle from vital into -mechanical powers. The customary vocabulary of metaphysics evinces the -extent of this decay in its division of the mind into parts, each part -with a separate name and performing a different office. It is plain that -no organism, vegetable, animal, or human, admits of such a -classification of parts, for the fundamental principle of organisms is -unity in variety, each part implying the whole, growing out of a common -centre and source, and dying the moment it is separated. When, -therefore, we say that the mind has faculties which are not vitally -related to each other, that the whole mind is not present in every act, -that there are processes of thought in which a particular faculty -operates on its own account, we assert the existence of death in the -mind; what is worse, the assertion is true; and, what is still worse, -this mental death often passes for wisdom and common sense, and mental -life is stigmatized as fanaticism. - -Now, this antithesis of life and death, vitality and mechanism, the -conception of the spirit of things, and the perception of the forms of -things, is a distinction available in every department of human thought -and action, and divides minds into two distinct classes, the living and -the lifeless. The test of the live mind is, that it communicates life. -The only sign here of possession is communication; and life it cannot -possess unless life it communicates. Spiritual life implies a -combination of force and insight, an indissoluble union of will and -intelligence, in which will sees and intelligence acts. A mental -operation, in the true meaning of the phrase, is a vital _movement_ of -the mind; and although this movement is called a conception or an act -according as it refers to meditation or practice, it cannot in either -case be a conception without being an act, or an act without being a -conception. Conception, in the last analysis, is as truly an act of the -mind as volition; both are expressions of one undivided unit and person; -and the only limit of conception, the limit which prevented Kepler from -conceiving the law of gravitation, and Ben Jonson from conceiving the -character of Falstaff, is a limitation of will, of personality, of -individual power, of that innate force which is always the condition and -the companion of insight. All the vital movements of the mind are acts -whether the product be a book or a battle; and that is a singular -philosophy of the will which calls Condé’s charge at Rocroi an act, and -withholds the name from Shakspeare’s conception of Othello. - -As this spiritual force is ever the characteristic of vital thought, -such thought is both light and heat, kindles as well as informs, and -acts potently on other minds by imparting life as well as knowledge. -There are many books which contain more information than Paradise Lost, -but Paradise Lost stimulates, dilates and enriches our minds by -communicating to them the very substance of thought, while the other -books may leave us as poor and weak as they found us, with the addition -only of some names and forms of things which we did not know before. The -great difference, therefore, between a vital and mechanical mind is -this, that from one you obtain the realities of things, and from the -other the mere appearances; one influences, the other only informs; one -increases our power, the other does little more than increase our words. -The action of a live mind upon other minds is chiefly an influence, and -the true significance of influence is that it pierces through all the -formal frippery of opinion and speculation lying on the surface of -consciousness, and touches the tingling and throbbing nerve at its -centre and soul; rousing the mind’s dormant activity, breathing into it -a new motive and fresh vigor, and making it strong as well as wise. As -regards the common affairs of the world, this influence is as the blast -of an archangel’s trumpet, waking us from the death of sloth and custom. -In the fire of our newly kindled energies the mean and petty interests -in which our thoughts are ensnared wither and consume; and, discerning -vitalities where before we only perceived semblances, a strangeness -comes over the trite, a new meaning gleams through old appearances, and -the forms of common objects are transfigured, as viewed in the vivid -vision of that rapturous life. Then, and only then, do we realize how -awful and how bright is the consciousness of a living soul; then -immortality becomes a faith, and death a delusion; then magnanimous -resolves in the heart send generous blood mantling in the cheek, and -virtue, knowledge, genius, heroism, appear possibilities to the lazy -coward who, an hour before, whined about his destiny in the hopeless -imbecility of weakness. Although this still and deep ecstasy, this -feeling of power and awe, is to most minds only a transient elevation, -it is still a revelation of the vital within them, which should at least -keep alive a sublime discontent with the sluggish apathy of their common -existence. “Show me,” says Burke, “a contented slave and I will show you -a degraded man,”—a sentence right from the hot heart of an illustrious -man, whose own mind glowed with life and energy to the verge of the -tomb, and who never knew the slavery of that sleep of mental death, -which withers and dries up the very fountains of life in the soul. - -The usual phrases by which criticism discriminates vital from mechanical -minds, are impassioned imagination and logical understanding. This -vocabulary, though open to objections, as not going to the root of the -matter, is still available for our purpose. It draws a definite line -between genius and talent. The man of impassioned imagination is vital -in every part. The primitive spiritual energy at the centre of his -personality permeates, as with warm life-blood, the whole of his being, -vivifying, connecting, fusing into unity, all his faculties, so that his -thought comes from him as an act, and is endowed with a penetrating and -animating as well as enlightening power. The thoughts of Plato, Dante, -Bacon, Shakspeare, Newton, Milton, Burke, not to mention others, are -actors in the world—communicating life, forming character, revealing -truth, generating energy in recipient minds. These men possess -understanding as far as that term expresses an operation of the mind, -but understanding with them is in living connection with imagination and -emotion; they never use it as an exclusive power in themselves, they -never address it as an exclusive power in others. To understand a thing -in its external qualities and internal spirit, requires the joint -operation of all the faculties; and no fact is ever thoroughly -understood by the understanding, for it is the person that understands -not the faculty, and the person understands only by the exercise of his -whole force and insight. The man of understanding, so called, simply -perceives the forms of things and their relations; the man of -impassioned imagination perceiving forms and divining spirit, conceives -the life of things and their relations. The antithesis runs through the -whole realm of thought and fact. The man of understanding, when he rises -out of sensations, simply reaches abstractions; and in the abstract -there is no life. Ideas and principles belong as much to the concrete, -to substantial existence, as the facts of sensation; the law of -gravitation is a reality no less than the planet Jupiter; but to the man -of mechanical understanding, ideas subside into mere opinions, and -principles into generalities; and as by the very process of his thinking -he disconnects, and deadens by disconnection, the powers by which he -thinks, he cannot exercise, conceive or communicate life, cannot invent, -discover, create, combine. This is evident from the nature of the mind, -and it is proved by history. In art, religion, science, philosophy, -politics, the minds that organize are organic minds, not mechanical -understandings. - -The principle we have indicated, applies to all matters of human -concern, the simplest as well as the most complicated. Let us first take -a familiar instance from ordinary life. In the common intercourse of -society we are all painfully conscious of the dominion of the -mechanical, prescribing manner, proscribing nature. In the Siberian -atmosphere of most social assemblies the soul congeals. The tendency to -isolation of mind from mind, and heart from heart, is most apparent in -the contrivances by which society brings its members bodily -together—the formal politeness excluding the courtesy it mimics. -Hypocrisy, artifice, non-expression of the reality in persons—these are -apt to be the characteristics of that dreary solitude which passes under -the exquisitely ironical appellation of “good society.” The universal -destiny of men and women who engage in this game of fashion as the -business of life, is frivolity or ennui. They either fritter to pieces -or are bored to death. Nothing so completely wastes away the vitality of -the mind, and converts a person into a puppet, as this substitution of -the verb “to appear,” for the verb “to be.” Whatever is graceful in -manner, carriage and conversation, is natural; but the art of -politeness, as commonly practiced, is employed to deaden rather than -develop nature, from its ambition to reduce the finer instincts to -mechanical forms. In the very term of gentleman there is something -exceedingly winning and beautiful, expressing as it does a fine union of -intelligence and courtesy; but in genteel society the word too often -means nothing more than foppish emptiness, and Sir Philip Sidney gives -way to Beau Nash. - -Even here, however, the moment a person with a genius for society -appears, it is curious to see how quickly the different elements are -fused together, by a few flashes of genuine social inspiration. -Convention is at once abolished, each heart finds a tongue, giggling -turns into merriment, conversation occurs and prattle ceases, and a -party is really organized. A little sincerity of this sort in social -intercourse would infinitely beautify life. - -In one of the most important matters connected with the welfare of men, -that of practical ethics, we have another example of the despotism of -the mechanical and disregard of the vital, in human life. A true writer -on morals should understand two things, morality and immorality; but a -mechanical mind can do neither. He neither communicates the life of -moral ideas, nor discerns the life of vicious ideas, but simply has -opinions on morals, and opinions on vice. The consequence is that most -of the “do-me-good” books are lifeless as regards effect—are -contemptuously abandoned by men to children, and by children are learned -only to be violated. At last it becomes the sign of green juvenility to -quote an abstract truism against a concrete vice, and no person in -active life considers himself at all bound to accommodate his conduct to -axioms. Indeed, common writers on ethics have become unenviably -notorious for expending the full force of their feebleness in statements -of generalities, which are universally assented to, and almost as -universally disregarded. Complacently perched on the chill summits of -abstract principles, these gentlemen appear to experience a grim -satisfaction in sending down into the warm and living concrete a storm -of axiomatic snow and sleet. Having no practical grasp of things, they -emphasize duties without possessing any clear insight of practices, and -accordingly their indignant blast of truism whistles shrilly over the -heads of the sinners it should lay prostrate. Wanting the power to pass -into the substance and soul of existing objects and living men, they -content themselves with applying external rules to external appearances, -glory in the gift of invective as divorced from the secret of -interpretation, and being thus shrews rather than seers, they do that -worst of injuries to the cause of morality which results from denouncing -the devil without understanding his deviltry. In the republic of -delusion and democracy of transgression there are certain errors -deserving the name of “popular,” errors which mislead three quarters of -the human race; and the analysis and exhibition of these should be a -leading object of practical morality. Thoroughly to comprehend one of -these impish emissaries of Satan, and clearly to demonstrate that the -rainbow bubbles he sports in the sun are begotten by froth on emptiness, -might not be so grand a thing as to strut about in the worn-out frippery -of moral commonplaces, but it would expose one fatal fallacy which -assists in misguiding public sentiment, distorting human character, and -impelling reasonable men into those expeditions after the unreal, which -are every day wrecked on the rocks of nonsense or crime. But to do this -requires a vital mind, and in matters of morals society is very well -content not to be pricked and probed in conscience by the sharp -benevolence of truth. The mechanical moralists disturb no robber or -murderer, no cheat or miser, no spendthrift or profligate, no man who -wishes to get what he is pleased to call a living by preying on his -neighbors. They neither expose nor reform wickedness, but simply toss -words at it, for a consideration. Yet from such moral machines it is -supposed that, in the course of education, ingenuous youth can get moral -life; and real surprise is often expressed by parents, when their -children return from academies or colleges, that the only vital -knowledge, in form and in essence, that the dear boys have mastered, -relates to sin and the devil. - -If the mechanical moralists are to be judged by their effects—by their -capacity to do the thing they attempt—and thus judged, have terrible -sins of omission resting on their work, what shall we say of the -mechanical theologians?—There is against each of three liberal -professions a time-honored jest, adopted by “gentle dullness,” all over -the world, and from its universality almost worthy of a place in Dugald -Stewart’s “fundamental principles of human belief.” The point of these -venerable facetiæ consists in associating law with chicane, medicine -with homicide, and preaching with Dr. Young’s “tired nature’s sweet -restorer, balmy sleep.” A joke which seems to be thus endorsed by the -human race carries with it some authority, and it would be presumptuous -to touch never so gently the subject of theology, without a preliminary -remark on this question of dullness. Sin is sarcastic, sin is -impassioned, sin is sentimental, sin is fascinating, sin swaggers in -rhetoric’s most gorgeous trappings and revels in fancy’s most enticing -images, and why should piety alone have the reputation of being feeble -and dull? The charge itself, while it closes to the general reader -Jeremy Taylor’s wilderness of sweets equally with Dr. Owen’s “continent -of mud,” is not without its benumbing effect upon the preacher, for -bodies of men commonly understand the art of adapting their conduct to -the public impression of their character, and are not apt to provide -stimulants when readers only expect soporifics. The truth is that -sermons are never dull as sermons, but because the sermonizer is weak in -soul. No man with a vision of the interior beauty and power of spiritual -truths, no man whom those truths kindle and animate, no man who is truly -alive in heart and brain, and speaks of what he has vitally conceived, -can ever be dull in the expression of what is the very substance and -doctrine of life. The difficulty is that clergymen are apt to fall into -mechanical habits of thinking; then ideas gradually fade into opinions; -truths dwindle into truisms; a fine dust is subtly insinuated into the -vitalities of their being; the holy passion with which their thoughts -once gushed out subsides, and “good common sense” succeeds to rapture; -and thus many an inspiring teacher, originally a conductor of heaven’s -lightning, and exulting in the consciousness of the immortal life -beating and burning within him, has lapsed into a theological drudge, -dull in his sermons because dull in his conceptions, neither alive -himself nor imparting life to others. This decay often occurs in -conscientious and religious men, who sufficiently bewail the torpor of -soul which compels them to substitute phrases for realities, and to whom -this mental death, as they feel it stealing over them, is at once a -spell and a torment. The clergyman, who does not keep his mind bright -and keen by constant communion with religious ideas, is sure to die of -utter weariness of existence. He has once caught a view of the promised -land from the Pisgah height of contemplation—wo unto him if it “fades -into the light of common day.” - -But leaving such perilous topics as ethics and divinity to wiser heads, -and passing on to the subjects of philosophy and science, it may be -asked—does not the mechanical understanding hold undisputed sway in -these? Has impassioned imagination any thing to do with metaphysics, -mathematics, natural philosophy, with the observation and the reasoning -of the philosopher who deals with facts and laws? The answer to this -question is an emphatic yes. That roused, energetic and energizing state -of mind which we have designated as impassioned imagination, is as much -the characteristic of Newton as of Homer. The facts, direction and -object are different, but the faculty is the same. A man of science -without a scientific imagination, vital and creative like the poetical -imagination, belongs to the second or third class of scientific men, the -Hayleys and Haynes Baileys of science. Men of mechanical understandings -never discover laws and principles, but simply repeat and apply the -discoveries of their betters. Nothing but the fresh and vigorous -inspiration which comes from the grasp of ideas, could carry such men as -Kepler and Newton through the prodigious mass of drudgery, through which -ran the path which led to their objects; for genius alone is really -victorious over drudgery, and refuses to submit to the weariness and -deferred hope which attend upon vast designs. Indeed, in following the -processes of scientific reasoning, whether inductive or deductive, we -are always conscious of an element of beauty in the impression left on -the mind, an element which we never experience in following the steps of -the merely formal logician. Take the discussion, for instance, between -Butler and Clarke on the à priori argument for the existence of God, and -no reader who attends to the progress of the reasoning can fail to feel -the same inner sense touched which is more palpably addressed by the -poet. All the great thinkers, indeed, in all the branches of speculative -and physical science, are vital thinkers, and their thoughts are never -abstract generalities, but always concrete conceptions, endowed with the -power to work on other minds, and to generate new thought. Bacon, the -greatest name in the philosophy of science, was so jealous of the -benumbing and deadening effect of all formal and mechanical arrangement -of scientific truth, that he repeatedly opposes all systematization of -science, and in his Natural Philosophy followed his own precepts. In the -Advancement of Learning he says: “As young men, when they knit and shape -perfectly do seldom grow to a further stature, so knowledge, while it is -in aphorisms and observations, it is in growth; but when it is once -comprehended in exact methods, it may perchance be further polished and -illustrated, and accommodated for use and practice; but it increases no -more in bulk and substance.” And again he remarks: “The worst and most -absurd sort of triflers are those who have pent the whole art in strict -methods and narrow systems, which men commonly cry up for their -regularity and style.” In illustration of this we may adduce Whewell’s -celebrated works, The History and Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences. -Here are great learning, logical arrangement, a complete superficial -comprehension of the whole subject; but life is wanting. Most of the -great discoveries and inventions with which such a book would naturally -deal have been made since the publication of Bacon’s Novum Organon; but -more mental nutriment and inspiration, more to advance the cause of -science, can be found in one page of the Novum Organon than in Whewell’s -whole five volumes. Such is the difference between a vital and -mechanical mind in the history and philosophy of science; and the -difference is more observable still when we come to consider the deep -and constant enthusiasm, the persisting, penetrating genius of the -practical discoverer, as contrasted with the cold and uncreative -memory-monger and reasoning machine, who too often passes himself off as -the real _savant_. The only great man of science who has detailed his -processes in connection with his emotions is Kepler, and everybody has -heard of the “sacred fury” with which he assaulted the fortresses in -which nature long concealed her laws. His page flames with images and -exclamations. His operations to conquer the mystery in the motions of -the planet Mars are military. His object is as, he says, “to triumph -over Mars, and to prepare for him, as one altogether vanquished, tabular -prisons and equated eccentric fetters.” When “the enemy left at home a -despised captive, had burst all the chains of the equations, and broken -forth of the prisons of the tables,” and it was “buzzed here and there -that the victory is vain,” the war rages “anew as violently as before,” -and he “suddenly brings into the field a new reserve of physical -reasonings on the rout and dispersion of the veterans.” A poet can thus -vitalize mathematics, and “create a soul under the ribs” of physical -death. - -In politics and government, the most practical objects of human -interest, the men who organize institutions and wisely conduct affairs, -are men of vital minds; while the whole brood of ignorant and scampish -politicians, whose vulgar tact is but a caricature of insight, and who -are as great proficients in ruining nations as statesmen are in -advancing them, are men of mechanical minds. In politics, perhaps, more -practical injury has resulted from the dominion of formal dunces, than -in any other department of human affairs—politics being the great field -of action for all speculators in public nonsense, for all men whose -incompetency to handle things would be quickly discovered in any other -profession. But a great statesman, no less than a great poet, discerns -the life of things in virtue of having himself a live mind, and, not -content with observing men and events, divines events in their -principles, and thus reads the future. When he proposes a scheme of -legislation, all its results exist in his mind as possibilities, and if -an effect is produced not calculated in the conception, he is so far to -be accounted a blunderer, not a statesman. Perhaps of all the statesmen -that ever lived, Edmund Burke had this power of reading events in -principles in the greatest perfection; and certainly there are few -English poets who can be said to equal him in impassioned imagination. -This imagination was not, as is commonly asserted, a companion and -illustrator of his understanding, appending pretty images to strong -arguments, but it included understanding in itself, and was both impetus -and insight to his grandly comprehensive and grandly energetic mind. -Fox, Pitt, and all the politicians of his time, were, in comparison with -him, men of mechanical intellects, constantly misconceiving events; mere -experimenters, surprised at results which they should have predicted. -There is something mortifying in the reflection that, in free countries, -the people have not yet arrived at the truth, that great criminality as -well as great impudence are involved in the exercise of political power -without political capacity. A politician in high station, without -insight and foresight, and thus blind in both eyes, is an impostor of -the worst kind, and should be dealt with as such. - -In art and literature the doctrine of vital powers lies at the base of -all criticism which is not mere gibberish. It is now commonly understood -that the creative precedes the critical; that critical laws were -originally generalized from poetic works; and that a poem is to be -judged by the living law or central idea by which it is organized, which -law or idea is as the acorn to the oak, and determines the form of the -poem. The power and reach of the poet’s mind is measured by his -conception of organic ideas, of ideas which, when once grasped, are -principles whence poems necessarily grow, and are eventually realized in -works. The universality of Shakspeare is but a power of vital -conception, not limited to one or two ideas, but ranging victoriously -over the world of ideas. These celestial seeds, once planted in a poetic -nature, germinate and grow into forms of individual being, whose -loveliness and power shame our actual men and actual society by a -revelation of the real and the permanent. Chaucer, Shakspeare, Spenser, -Milton, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, in virtue of their power to -realize and localize the ideal, give us “poor humans” a kind of -spiritual world on earth. - -The schoolmasters of letters, those gentlemen who frame laws of taste, -and manufacture cultivated men, commonly display a notable oversight -instead of insight of the distinction between vital and mechanical -minds, between authors who impart power and authors who impart -information. They judge the value of a book by its external form instead -of internal substance, and altogether overlook the only important office -of reading and study, which plainly is the acceleration of our faculties -through an increase of mind. Mind is increased by receiving the mental -life of a book, and assimilating it with our own nature, not by hoarding -up information in the memory. Books thus read enrich and enlarge the -mind, stimulating, inflaming, concentrating its activity; and though -without this reception of external life a man may be odd, he cannot be -original. The greatest genius is he who consumes the most knowledge, and -converts it into mind. But a mechanical intellect merely attaches the -husks of things to his memory, and eats nothing. It is for this reason -that heavy heads, laden with unfertilizing opinions and dead facts which -never pass down into the vitalities of their being, are such terrific -bores. Considering literature not as food but as luggage, they cram -their brains to starve their intelligence—and wo to the youth whom they -pretend to instruct and _in_form! A true teacher should penetrate to -whatever is vital in his pupil, and develop that by the light and heat -of his own intelligence—like the inspiring master described by Barry -Cornwall’s enthusiast:— - - He was like the sun, giving me light; - Pouring into the caves of my young brain - Knowledge from his bright fountains. - -A man who reads live books keeps himself alive, has a constant sense of -what life means and what mind is. In reading Milton, a power is -communicated to us, which, for the time, gives us the feeling of a -capacity for doing any thing, from writing a Hamlet to whipping Tom -Hyer. “My ——, sir,” said the artist who had been devouring Chapman’s -Homer, “when I went into the street, after reading that book, men seemed -to be ten feet high.” This exaltation of intelligence is simply a -movement of our consciousness from the mechanical to the vital state, -and to those whose common existence is in commonplaces such an -exaltation occasions a shock of surprise akin to fear. - -In an art very closely connected with one of the highest forms of -literature, the art of acting, we have another illustration of the -fundamental antithesis, in processes and in results, between vitality -and mechanism. Few, even among noted performers, have minds to conceive -the characters they play; and it consequently is a rare thing to see a -character really embodied and ensouled on the stage. The usual method is -to give it piece by piece, and part by part, and the impression left on -the audience is not the idea of a person, but an aggregation of personal -peculiarities. Mr. Macready, for instance, has voice, action, -understanding, grace of manner, felicity in points: but each is -mechanical. His mind is hard and unfusible, never melts and runs into -the mould of the individuality he personates, never imparts to the -audience the peculiar life and meaning embodied by his author. His -energy is not vital but nervous; his mode of arriving at character is -rather logical than imaginative. He studies the text of Hamlet, infers -with great precision of argument the character from the text, and plays -the inference. Booth, on the contrary, who of all living actors has the -most force and refinement of imagination, _conceives_ Hamlet as a -person, preserves the unity of the person through all the variety in -which it is manifested, and seems really to pass out of himself into the -character. Macready leaves the impression of variety, but of a variety -not drawn out of one fertile and comprehensive individuality: Booth -gives the individuality with such power that we can easily conceive of -even a greater variety in its expression without danger to its unity. -The impression which Macready’s Hamlet leaves on the mind is an -impression of Mr. Macready’s brilliant and versatile acting; the -impression which Booth stamps on the imagination is the profound -melancholy of Hamlet, underlying all his brilliancy and versatility. A -man can witness Booth’s personation of Macbeth, Hamlet, Lear and -Othello, with great delight, and with great accession of knowledge, -after reading the deep Shakspearian criticism of Goethe, Schlegel and -Coleridge: but every one feels it would be unjust to bring Macready to -the test of such exacting principles. - -In these desultory remarks on a variety of suggested topics, we have -attempted to illustrate the radical distinction between vitality and -mechanism, impassioned imagination and logical understanding, the -communication of mental life and the imparting of lifeless information, -as that distinction applies to all things which occupy human attention -and stimulate human effort. We have indicated, in a gossiping way, the -dangerous ease with which the mechanical supersedes the vital in those -departments of knowledge and affairs which originated in the mind’s -creative and organizing energy; in society, in governments, in laws, -literature and institutions, in ethical, mental and physical science; -and have tried to show that such an usurpation of torpor over activity -dulls and deadens the soul, makes existence a weakness and weariness, -and mocks our eyes with nothing but the show and semblance of power. A -man of mechanical understanding can but exist his four-score years and -ten, and a dreary time he has of it at that, bored and boring all his -few and tiresome years; but a live mind has the power of wonderfully -condensing time, and lives a hundred common years in one. From the -phenomena presented by men of genius we can affirm the soul’s -immortality, because they give some evidence of the joy, the ecstasy, -involved in the idea of life; but to a mechanical being, endowed with a -spark of vitality sufficient only to sting him with rebuking -possibilities, an endless existence would be but an endless ennui. The -ground for hope is, that man, using as he may all the resource of stupid -cunning, cannot kill the germ of life which lies buried in him; hatred -and pride, the sins of the heart, may eat into it, and his “pernicious -soul” seem, like Iago’s, to “rot half a grain a day;” mechanism, the sin -of the head, may withdraw itself into “good common sense,” and -contentedly despise the joyous power of vital action; but still the -immortal principle constituting the Person survives—patient, watchful, -persistent, unconquerable, refusing to capitulate, refusing to die. - - P. - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNETS. - - - BY ALFRED B. STREET. - - - I.—CELINE. - - Those deep, delicious, heavy-lidded eyes - Oh, I could bask forever in their light! - What raptures, sweet, heart-thrilling raptures, rise - Whene’er I pierce their depths with eager sight! - The profile pure and soft—the bright full face— - The cupid mouth with rows of flashing pearls— - The waist so dainty—step of gliding grace— - White brow—curved hair, more beautiful than curls, - All make her sweetest, loveliest of girls. - Her breath is balmier than May’s downiest breeze; - Rosier than rose-buds are her moist, plump lips; - Than the pure nectar there, no purer sips - The clinging bee—all beauty’s harmonies - Are in her sweetly blent—all hearts her graces seize. - - - II.—THE LESSONS OF NATURE. - - Nature in outward seeming takes the hue - Of our chance mood; if sad, her tones and looks - Are full of grief; if glad, her winds and brooks - Are full of merriment. But piercing through - Her outward garb, her sadness whispers “Peace— - Peace to thee, mourner! day succeeds to night, - Sunshine to storm!” Her brightest mirth says “Cease - This thoughtless rapture! flowers must suffer blight, - Change is my law of order.” Then a voice - Swells from her deep and solemn heart, “Rejoice - With purer joy, ye mirthful! and be glad - With a sustaining, steadfast faith, ye sad! - In this swift, changeful life, whate’er befall - (Blest truth) a watchful God of love is over all!” - - * * * * * - - - - - DARA. - - - BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. - - - When Persia’s sceptre trembled in a hand - Wilted by harem-heats, and all the land - Was hovered over by those vulture ills - That snuff decaying empire from afar, - Then, with a nature balanced as a star, - Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills. - - He, who had governed fleecy subjects well, - Made his own village, by the self-same spell, - Secure and peaceful as a guarded fold, - Till, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees, - Under his sway, to neighbor villages - Order returned, and faith and justice old. - - Now when it fortuned that a king more wise - Endued the realm with brain and hands and eyes, - He sought on every side men brave and just, - And, having heard the mountain-shepherd’s praise, - How he renewed the mould of elder days, - To Dara gave a satrapy in trust. - - So Dara shepherded a province wide, - Nor in his viceroy’s sceptre took more pride - Than in his crook before; but Envy finds - More soil in cities than on mountains bare, - And the frank sun of spirits clear and rare - Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds. - - Soon it was whispered at the royal ear - That, though wise Dara’s province, year by year, - Like a great spunge, drew wealth and plenty up, - Yet, when he squeezed it at the king’s behest, - Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest, - Went to the filling of his private cup. - - For proof, they said that wheresoe’er he went - A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent, - Went guarded, and no other eye had seen - What was therein, save only Dara’s own, - Yet, when ’twas opened, all his tent was known - To glow and lighten with heapt jewels’ sheen. - - The king set forth for Dara’s province straight, - Where, as was fit, outside his city’s gate - The viceroy met him with a stately train; - And there, with archers circled, close at hand, - A camel with the chest was seen to stand; - The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain. - - “Open me now,” he cried, “you treasure-chest!” - ’Twas done, and only a worn shepherd’s vest - Was found within; some blushed and hung the head, - Not Dara; open as the sky’s blue roof - He stood, and “O, my lord, behold the proof - That I was worthy of my trust!” he said. - - “For ruling men, lo! all the charm I had; - My soul, in those coarse vestments ever clad, - Still to the unstained past kept true and leal, - Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air, - And Fortune’s heaviest gifts serenely bear, - Which bend men from the truth, and make them reel. - - “To govern wisely I had shown small skill - Were I not lord of simple Dara still; - That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way!” - Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright, - And thrilled the trembling lids; before ’twas night - Two added provinces blessed Dara’s sway. - - * * * * * - - - - - A LEGEND OF TYROL. - - - BY JAMES T. FIELDS. - - - In a green sheltered nook, where a mountain - Stood guarding the peace-haunted ground, - Lived a maiden whose smile was the sunlight - That gladdened the hill-sides around. - - Her voice seemed a musical echo, - Whose notes wandered down from above, - And wherever she walked in her beauty - Sprang blossoms of joy and of love. - - As she stood at her door in the morning, - The hunter below, riding by, - Cried out to his comrades, “we’re early! - For look, there’s a star in the sky!” - - At the chapel, when good men were praying - That angels of God would appear, - Every heart turned to her, lowly kneeling, - And felt that an angel was near. - - Thus radiant and pure in her presence, - A blessing she moved, day by day, - Till a proud lord beheld her, and loved her, - And lured her forever away. - - He bore this bright bird of the mountain, - Watched over and shielded the best, - From the home of her youth and her kindred, - Away to his own haughty nest. - - And lo! the grim idols in waiting - Beset her for worship, and won; - And the light of her beautiful childhood - Went down like the swift-fading sun. - - And sudden as rises the black cloud, - When tempests the thunder-gods start, - Strange wishes encircled her bosom, - And Pride swept the halls of her heart. - - And once, when o’ermastered by anger, - Her golden-haired boy sought her side, - In her fury she smote down her first born, - And he fell like a lily and died. - - There were tears, burning tears, to recall him, - And anguish that scorches the brain, - But the harp-strings of life never answered - The touch that would tune them again! - - She sleeps in a dark mausoleum, - And ages have rolled o’er her head, - But her name is remembered in Tyrol - As when she was laid with the dead. - - And to-day, as the traveler sits weary, - And drinks from the rude fountain-bowl, - They tell the sad story, and whisper - The warning that speaks to your soul. - - * * * * * - - - - - FOR’ARD AND AFT; - - - OR THE CAPTAIN’S SON AND THE SAILOR BOY. - - A SEA STORY. - - - BY S. A. GODMAN. - - - CHAPTER I. - - Fortune, the great commandress of the world, - Hath divers ways to enrich her followers: - To some, she honor gives without deserving; - To other some, deserving without honor; - Some wit—some wealth—and some wit without wealth; - Some, wealth without wit—some, nor wit nor wealth. - Chapman. - -“Rouse up, rouse up, my hearty! Bear a hand and be lively for that -little devil-skin abaft, has been hailing for you this five minutes.” - -Thus spoke, with a rough voice, but in a kind tone, a tall and -powerfully built sailor, as he descended the forecastle-ladder, to a boy -of some ten years of age, who, lying stretched upon his back on a -mess-chest, was fast asleep. Loud as were the tones of the speaker, they -made no impression upon the boy. Wrapped in the deep, sweet slumber of -childhood, his body fatigued, his conscience clear, and his mind at -ease, he was enjoying one of those refreshing rests that are only -permitted to the young and contented—the sleep that manhood longs after -but seldom experiences. - -A beautiful picture would that forecastle and its inmates have made, -could they have been transferred to canvas. The boy, a noble one, as he -reposed with closed eye-lids and upturned face, over which bright smiles -were flitting—the reflection of pleasant, hopeful dreams—seemed an -embodiment of intelligence and innocence; notwithstanding the coarse -canvas trowsers and striped cotton-shirt which formed his only attire. -The man, with his muscular and strongly-knit figure, his bronzed cheeks, -huge whiskers, brightly gleaming eyes and determined expression of -countenance, was the personification of bodily strength, physical -perfection and perfect self-reliance. The one looked as if he were a -spirit from a higher sphere, who had by chance become an inmate of that -dark, confined, triangular-shaped and murky apartment; and appeared all -out of place amidst its mess-chests, bedding, and other nautical -dunnage, and its atmosphere reeking with the odors of bilge-water, tar, -and lamp-smoke. The other was in keeping with the surrounding objects; -his bright red flannel shirt, his horny hands, his very attitude showed -him one to ease and comfort unaccustomed, whose only home was a -forecastle, his abiding-place the heaving ocean. - -Wearied with awaiting the result of his verbal summons, the seaman -reached down to awaken his companion with a shake; and as he did, a beam -of affection so softened the expression of his countenance, and lent so -much tenderness to his eye, that with all his roughness and uncouthness, -the weather-beaten tar became really handsome; for, than love, there is -no more certain beautifier. Though undisturbed by noise, no sooner was -the sailor-boy touched, than, true to the instinct of his calling, he -sprung from his resting-place, as wide awake, and with his faculties as -much about him, as if he had always been to sleep a stranger—and -exclaimed, - -“Is it eight bells already, Frank? I thought I had just closed my -peepers.” - -“Just closed your peepers, my little lark! I began to think your -eye-lids were battened down, it seemed such a hard pull for you to heave -them up. You haven’t had much of a snooze though, for it’s only four -bells; but that young scaramouch astern wants you to take him in tow. So -you had better up-anchor and make sail, Tom, for the cabin, or the -she-commodore will be sending the boatswain after you with the colt.”[1] - -Scarcely waiting to hear the completion of the sentence, the lad hurried -up the ladder to the deck, and in a few seconds was at the door of the -cabin. Standing just inside the entrance, a drizzling rain preventing -him from coming further, stood the youth to whom Frank had referred, by -the not very flattering appellations of devil-skin and scaramouch. There -was but little difference in the age of the two boys. Not the slightest -resemblance or similarity, however, existed between them in any other -respect. - -The sailor-boy was large for his years—with a figure that gave promise -of symmetry, grace, and an early maturity; his head was in keeping with -his body—admirably developed, well balanced, and covered with a -profusion of rich, dark brown hair; his forehead, broad and -intellectual, lent additional beauty to his full, deep-blue eyes; and -with his ruddy cheeks, giving evidence of vigorous health, he was just -such a boy as a prince might desire his only son and heir to be. - -The captain’s son was slight and rather under-sized, with a sickly look, -produced apparently more by improper indulgences than natural infirmity; -sparkling black eyes, black hair, and regular features, added to a -well-shaped head and fine brow, would have rendered him good-looking in -spite of his sallow complexion, had it not been for a peevish, -discontented and rather malignant expression, that was habitual to him. - -The _physique_ of the lads did not differ more than their dress. The one -was clothed in a suit of the most costly broadcloth, elegantly made, -with boots upon his feet, and a gold chain around his neck to support -the gold watch in his pocket. The other, bare-footed, bare-necked, -jacketless, was under no obligations to the tailor for adding to the -gentility of his appearance. Yet any person, even a blind man, could he -have heard their voices, would at once have acknowledged that the -roughest clad bore indellibly impressed upon him the insignia of -nature’s nobility. - -No sooner did the captain’s son see the boy of the forecastle, than he -addressed him in a tone and style that harmonized with the sneering -expression of his face: - -“So, you good-for-nothing, lazy fellow, you’ve made me stand here -bawling for you this half hour. What’s the reason you did not come when -I first called?” - -“Why, Master Charles, I would not have kept you waiting if I had known -you wanted me; but I was asleep in the forecastle, sir. Frank Adams woke -me up—and I’ve come as quick as I could.” - -“Asleep this time in the afternoon! Why don’t you sleep at night? I -never sleep in the afternoons. But you had better not make me stand and -wait so long for you another time, or I’ll tell my mamma, and she’ll get -father to whip you.” - -At this threat a bright flush overspread the face and neck of the -sailor-boy, and for an instant his eye assumed a fierce expression that -was unusual to it; but suppressing his feelings, he replied in his -accustomed tone, - -“I was up all night, Master Charles, helping to reef top-sails, and -lending a hand to get up the new fore-sail in place of the old one that -was blown out of the bolt-ropes in the mid-watch. This morning I could -not sleep, for you know I was playing with you until mess-time.” - -“Well, Tom, come into the cabin and let’s play, and I wont say any thing -about it this time,” said Charles, as he walked in, followed by his -companion. - -What a difference there was between the apartment in which the lads now -were, and the one which Tom had left but a few moments before. It was -the difference between wealth and poverty. - -The vessel, on board of which our scene is laid, was a new and -magnificently-finished barque of seven hundred and fifty tons, named the -Josephine. The craft had been built to order, and was owned and -commanded by Lewis Barney Andrews—a gentleman of education and -extensive fortune, who had been for many years an officer in the United -States navy. Getting married, however, and his wife’s objecting to the -long cruises he was obliged to take in the service, whilst she was -compelled to remain at home, he effected a compromise between his better -half’s desire that he should relinquish his profession, and his own -disinclination to give up going to sea entirely, by resigning his -commission in the navy, and purchasing a ship for himself. The Josephine -belonged to Baltimore—of which city Captain A. was a native, and was -bound to the East Indies. She was freighted with a valuable cargo, which -also belonged to the captain, and had on board besides the captain, his -wife, son and servant-girl, a crew consisting of two mates, and a -boatswain, fourteen seamen, a cook, steward, and one boy. - -Her cabin—a poop one—was fitted up in the most luxurious style. Every -thing that the skill of the upholsterer and the art of the painter, -aided by the taste and experience of the captain, could do to make it -elegant, beautiful and comfortable, had been done. Extending nearly to -the main-mast the distance from the cabin-door to the transom was full -fifty feet. This space was divided into two apartments of unequal size, -one of twenty, the other thirty feet, by a sliding bulkhead of highly -polished rosewood and superbly-stained glass. - -The after-cabin was fitted up as a sleeping-room, with two mahogany -bedsteads and all the appurtenances found in the chambers of the wealthy -on shore. The forward-cabin was used as a sitting and eating-room. On -the floor was a carpet, of whose fabric the looms of Persia might be -proud—so rich, so thick, so magnificent was it, and deep-cushioned -ottomans, lounges and rocking-chairs were scattered along the sides and -were placed in the corners of the apartment. - -Not far from the door, reclining on a lounge, with a book in her hand, -was the wife of the captain, and the mother of Master Charles. She was a -handsome woman, but one who had ever permitted her fancies and her -feelings to be the guides of her actions. Consequently her heart, which -by nature was a kind one, was often severely wrung by the pangs of -remorse, caused by the recollection of deeds committed from impulse, -which her pride would not permit her to apologize or atone for, even -after she was convinced of her error. - -As the two boys entered the cabin she looked at them, but without making -any remark, continued the perusal of her book, whilst they proceeded to -the after-cabin, and getting behind the bulkhead were out of her sight. -For some fifteen minutes the stillness of the cabin was undisturbed; but -then, the mother’s attention was attracted by the loud, angry tones of -her son’s voice, abusing apparently his play-fellow. Hardly had she -commenced listening, to ascertain what was the matter, ere the sound of -a blow, followed by a shriek, and the fall of something heavy upon the -floor, reached her ear. Alarmed, she rushed into the after-cabin, and -there, upon the floor, his face covered with blood, she saw the idol of -her heart, the one absorbing object of her affection, her only son, and -standing over him, with flashing eyes, swelling chest, and clenched -fists, the sailor-boy. - -So strong was the struggle between the emotions of love and revenge—a -desire to assist her child, a disposition to punish his antagonist—that -the mother for a moment stood as if paralyzed. Love, however, assumed -the mastery; and raising her son and pressing him to her bosom, she -asked in most tender tones, “Where he was hurt?” - -“I ain’t hurt, only my nose is bleeding because Tom knocked me down, -just for nothing at all,” blubbered out Charles. - -The mother’s anxiety for her son relieved, the tiger in her disposition -resumed the sway; letting go of Charles, she caught hold of Tom, and -shaking him violently, demanded, in shrill, fierce tones, how he, the -outcast, dared to strike her child! - -Unabashed and unterrified, the sailor-boy looked in the angry woman’s -face without replying. - -“Why don’t you answer me, you cub! you wretch! you little -pirate!—speak! speak! or I’ll shake you to death!” continued the lady, -incensed more than ever by the boy’s silence. - -“I struck him because he called my mother a hussy, if you will make me -tell you,” replied Tom, in a quiet voice, though his eye was bright with -anger and insulted pride. - -“Your mother a hussy! Well, what else was she? But you shall be taught -how to strike your master for speaking the truth to you, you good for -nothing vagabond. Run and call your father,” she continued, turning to -Charles, “and I’ll have this impertinent little rascal whipped until he -can’t stand.” - -In a moment Captain Andrews entered; and being as much incensed as his -wife, that a sailor-boy, a thing he had always looked upon as little -better than a block or rope’s end, had had the audacity to strike his -son, he was furious. Taking hold of Tom with a rough grasp, he pushed -him out on deck, and called for the boatswain. That functionary, -however, was slow in making his appearance; and again, in louder and -more angry tones, the captain called for him. Still he came not; and, -spite of his passion, the captain could but gather from the lowering -expressions of the sailors’ countenances, that he was at the -commencement of an _emeute_. - ------ - -[1] Colt.—A rope with a knot on the end. Used as an instrument of -punishment in place of the cat-o’-nine-tails. - - - CHAPTER II. - - The deepest ice that ever froze - Can only o’er the surface close; - The living stream lies quick below, - And flows, and cannot cease to flow. - Byron. - -Accustomed to have his commands always promptly obeyed, the wrath of -Captain Andrews waxed high and furious at the dilatoriness of the -boatswain. Without any other exciting cause, this apparent -insubordination on the part of one of his officers, was enough to arouse -all the evil passions of his heart. Educated under the strict discipline -of the United States service, he had been taught that the first and most -important duty of a seaman was obedience. “Obey orders, if you break -owners,” was the doctrine he inculcated; and to be thus, as it were, -bearded on his own quarter-deck, by one of his own men, was something -entirely new, and most insulting to his pride. Three times had he called -for the boatswain without receiving any reply, or causing that -functionary to appear. - -When the captain first came out of the cabin, his only thought was to -punish the sailor-boy for striking his son; but his anger now took -another course, and his desire to visit the boatswain’s contumacy with a -heavy penalty was so great, that he forgot entirely the object for which -he had first wished him. Relinquishing his hold on Tom’s shoulder, the -captain hailed his first officer in a quick, stern voice, - -“Mr. Hart, bring aft Mr. Wilson, the boatswain.” - -“Ay, ay, sir,” responded the mate, as he started toward the -forecastle-scuttle to hunt up the delinquent. “Hillo, below there!” he -hailed, when he reached the scuttle, “You’re wanted on deck, Mr. -Wilson!” - -“Who wants me?” was the reply that resounded, seemingly, from one of the -bunks close up the ship’s eyes. - -“Captain Andrews is waiting for you on the quarter-deck; and if you are -not fond of tornadoes, you had better be in a hurry,” answered the mate. - -Notwithstanding the chief dickey’s hint, the boatswain seemed to -entertain no apprehensions about the reception he would meet at the -hands of the enraged skipper; for several minutes elapsed before he made -himself visible on deck. - -As soon as the captain saw the boatswain, his anger increased, and he -became deadly pale from excess of passion. Waiting until Wilson came -within a few feet of him, he addressed him in that low, husky voice, -that more than any other proves the depth of a person’s feeling, with, - -“Why have you so long delayed obeying my summons, Mr. Wilson?” - -“I was asleep in the forecastle, sir, and came as soon as I heard Mr. -Hart call,” replied Wilson. - -But the tone in which he spoke, the look of his eye, the expression of -his countenance, would at once have convinced a less observant person -than Captain Andrews, that the excuse offered was one vamped up for the -occasion, and not the real cause of the man’s delay. - -“Asleep, sir! Attend now to the duty I wish you to perform—and be -awake, sir, about it! And you may, perhaps, get off easier for your own -dereliction afterward—for your conduct shall not remain unpunished,” -answered the captain. - -“Captain Andrews, boy and man, I have been going to sea now these -twenty-five years, and no one ever charged Bob Wilson with not knowing -or not doing his duty before, sir!” rejoined the boatswain, evidently -laboring under as much mental excitement as the captain. - -“None of your impertinence, sir! Not a word more, or I will learn you a -lesson of duty you ought to have been taught when a boy. Where’s your -cat,[2] sir?” continued the captain. - -“In the razor-bag,”[3] replied the boatswain. - -“Curse you!” ejaculated the captain, almost beside himself at this -reply, yet striving to maintain his self-possession; “one more insolent -word, and I will have you triced up. Strip that boy and make a -spread-eagle of him; then get your cat and give him forty.” - -During this conversation between the captain and the boatswain, the crew -had been quietly gathering on the lee-side of the quarter-deck, until at -this juncture every seaman in the ship, except the man at the wheel, was -within twenty feet of the excited speakers. Not a word had been spoken -amongst them; but it was evident from the determination imprinted upon -their countenances, from their attitudes, and from the extraordinary -interest they took in the scene then transpiring, that there was -something more in the boatswain’s insubordination than appeared on the -surface; and whatever it was, the crew were all under the influence of -the same motive. - -Mr. Wilson, the boatswain of the Josephine, was a first-rate and -thorough-bred seaman. No part of his duty was unfamiliar to him; and -never did he shrink from performing any portion of it on account of -danger or fatigue. Like many other simple-minded, honest-hearted sons of -Neptune, he troubled himself but little about abstruse questions on -morals; but he abhorred a liar, despised a thief, and perfectly detested -a tyrant. And though he could bear a goodly quantity of tyrannical -treatment himself, without heeding it, it made his blood boil, and his -hand clench, to see a helpless object maltreated. - -Ever since the Josephine had left port, there had been growing amongst -the crew a disposition to prevent their favorite, Tom, the sailor-boy, -from being imposed upon and punished, as he had been, for no other -reason than the willfulness of the captain’s son, and the caprice of the -captain’s wife. Not a man on board liked the spoiled child of the cabin. -No fancy, either, had they for his mother; because, right or wrong, she -always took her son’s part, and oftentimes brought the sailors into -trouble. The last time Tom had been punished a grand consultation had -been held in the forecastle, at which the boatswain presided; and he, -with the rest of the crew, had solemnly pledged themselves not to let -their little messmate be whipped again unless, in their opinion, he -deserved it. - -This was the reason why the boatswain, one of the best men in the ship, -had skulked when he heard the captain’s call: he had seen him come out -of the cabin with Tom, and rightly anticipated the duty he was expected -to perform. Such great control does the habit of obedience exercise over -seamen, that although he was resolved to die before he would suffer Tom -to be whipped for nothing, much less inflict the punishment himself, the -boatswain felt a great disinclination to have an open rupture with his -commanding officer. The peremptory order last issued by the captain, -however, brought affairs to a crisis there was no avoiding; he either -had to fly in the face of quarter-deck authority, or break his pledge to -his messmates and his conscience. This, Wilson could not think of doing; -and looking his captain straight in the face, in a quiet tone, and with -a civil manner, he thus addressed his superior: - -“It does not become me, Captain Andrews, so be as how, for to go, for to -teach my betters—and—and—” here the worthy boatswain broke down, in -what he designed should be a speech, intended to convince the captain of -his error; but feeling unable to continue, he ended abruptly, changing -his voice and manner, with “Blast my eyes! if you want the boy whipped, -you can do it yourself.” - -Hardly had the words escaped the speaker’s lips, before the captain, -snatching up an iron belaying-pin, rushed at the boatswain, intending to -knock him down; but Wilson nimbly leaped aside, and the captain’s foot -catching in a rope, he came down sprawling on the deck. Instantly -regaining his feet, he rushed toward the cabin, wild with rage, for the -purpose of obtaining his pistols. Several minutes elapsed before he -returned on deck; when he did he was much more calm, although in each -hand he held a cocked pistol. - -The quarter deck he found bare; the crew, with little Tom in their -midst, having retired to the forecastle, where they were engaged in -earnest conversation. The second mate was at the wheel, the seaman who -had been at the helm having joined his comrades, so that the only -disposable force at the captain’s command was the chief mate, the -steward and himself, the cook being fastened up in his galley by the -seamen. On the forecastle were fifteen men. The odds were great; but -Captain Andrews did not pause to calculate chances—his only thought was -to punish the mutinous conduct of his crew, never thinking of the -possibility of failure. - -Giving one of his pistols to Mr. Hart, and telling the steward to take a -capstan bar, the captain and his two assistants boldly advanced to -compel fifteen sailors to return to their duty. - ------ - -[2] An instrument used for punishment. - -[3] The technical name of the bag in which the cats are kept. - - - CHAPTER III. - - They were met, as the rock meets the wave, - And dashes its fury to air; - They were met, as the foe should be met by the brave, - With hearts for the conflict, but not for despair. - -Whilst the captain, mate and steward, were making their brief -preparation for a most hazardous undertaking, the men of the Josephine, -with that promptness and resolution so common amongst seamen when they -think at all, had determined upon the course they would adopt in the -impending struggle. - -Although the numerical discrepancy between the two parties seemed so -great, the actual difference in their relative strength was not so -considerable as it appeared. The sailors, it is true, had the physical -force—they were five to one; but the captain’s small band felt more -confidence from the moral influence that they knew was on their side, -than if their numbers had been trebled, without it. - -Habit ever exercises a controlling influence, unless overcome by some -powerful exciting principle, and men never fly in the face of authority -to which they have always been accustomed to yield implicit obedience, -but from one of two causes—either a hasty impulse, conceived in a -moment, and abandoned by actors frightened at their own audacity; or, a -sense of wrong and injustice so keen and poignant, as to make death -preferable to further submission. - -Aware of custom’s nearly invincible power, having often seen seamen -rebel, and then at the first warning gladly skulk back to their duty, -the captain unhesitatingly advanced up the weather-gangway to the break -of the forecastle, and confronted his mutinous crew. The men, who were -huddled around the end of the windlass, some sitting, others standing, -talking together in low tones, only showed they were aware of the -captain’s presence by suddenly ceasing their conversation—but not a man -of them moved. - -Captain Andrews, though quick tempered, was a man of judgment and -experience; and he saw by the calmness and quietness of his men, that -their insubordination was the result of premeditation—a thing he had -not before thought—and he became aware of the difficulties of his -position. He could not, for his life, think of yielding; to give up to a -sailor would, in his estimation, be the deepest degradation. And moral -influence was all he could rely upon with which to compel -obedience—feeling that if an actual strife commenced, it could but -result in his discomfiture. His tone, therefore, was low and determined, -as with cocked pistol in hand he addressed his crew: - -“Men, do you know that you are, every one of you, guilty of mutiny? Do -you know that the punishment for mutiny on the high seas is death? Do -you know this? Have you thought of it?” Here the captain paused for an -instant, as if waiting for a reply; and a voice from the group around -the windlass answered— - -“We have!” - -Rather surprised at the boldness of the reply, but still retaining his -presence of mind, the captain continued: - -“What is it then that has induced you to brave this penalty? Have you -been maltreated? Do you not have plenty of provisions? Your regular -watches below? Step out, one of you, and state your grievances. You know -I am not a tyrant, and I wish from you nothing more than you promised in -the shipping articles!” - -At this call, the eyes of the men were all turned toward Wilson, the -boatswain, who, seeing it was expected from him, stepped out to act as -spokesman. Respectfully touching his tarpaulin, he waited for the -captain to question him. Observing this, the captain said, - -“Well, Wilson, your messmates have put you forth as their speaker; and -it strikes me that you are the ringleader of this misguided movement. I -am certain you have sense enough to understand the risk you are running, -and desire you to inform me what great wrong it is that you complain of. -For assuredly you must feel grievously imposed upon, to make you all so -far forget what is due to yourselves as seamen, to me as your captain, -and to the laws of your country!” - -“I ain’t much of a yarn-spinner, Captain Andrews, and I can turn in the -plies of a splice smoother and more ship-shape than the ends of a -speech; and it may be as how I’ll ruffle your temper more nor it is now, -by what I have to say—” commenced the boatswain. - -“Never mind my temper, sir,” interrupted the captain, “proceed!” - -“We all get plenty of grub, Captain Andrews, and that of the best,” -continued Wilson; his equanimity not in the least disturbed by the -skipper’s interruption. “We have our regular watches, and don’t complain -of our work, for we shipped as seamen, and can all do seamen’s duty. But -sailors have feelings, Captain Andrews, though they are not often -treated as if they had; and it hurts us worse to see those worked -double-tides who can’t take their own part, than if we were mistreated -ourselves; and to come to the short of it, all this row’s about little -Tom, there, and nothing else.” - -“Is he not treated just as well as the rest of you? Has he not the same -quarters, and the same rations, that the men are content with? Who works -him double-tides?” answered the captain, his anger evidently increasing -at the mention of Tom’s name; and the effort to restrain himself, being -almost too great for the choleric officer to compass. - -“You can’t beat to wind’ard against a head-sea, Captain Andrews, without -a ship’s pitching, no more than you can reef a to’s-sail without going -aloft.” Wilson went on without change in manner, though his voice became -more concise and firm in its tone. “And I can’t tell you, like some of -them shore chaps, what you don’t want to hear, without heaving you -aback. We ain’t got any thing agin you, if you was let alone; all we -wants is for you to give your own orders, and to keep Mrs. Andrews from -bedeviling Tom. The boy’s as good a boy as ever furled a royal, and -never skulks below when he’s wanted on deck; but he stands his regular -watches, and then, when he ought to sleep, he’s everlastingly kept in -the cabin, and whipped and knocked about for the amusement of young -master, and that’s just the whole of it. We’ve stood it long enough, and -wont return to duty until you promise—” - -“Silence, sir!” roared the captain, perfectly furious, and unable longer -to remain quiet. “Not another word! I’ve listened to insolence too long -by half, already! Now, sir, I have a word to say to you, and mind you -heed it. Walk aft to the quarter-deck!” - -The boatswain, though he heard the order plainly, and understood it -clearly, paid no attention to it. - -“Do you hear me, sir?” asked the captain. “I give you whilst I count -ten, to start. I do not wish to shoot you, Wilson; but if you do not -move before I count ten, I’ll drive this ball through you—as I hope to -reach port, I will!” - -Raising his pistol until it covered the boatswain’s breast, the captain -commenced counting in a clear and audible tone. Intense excitement was -depicted on the faces of the men; and some anxiety was shown by the -quick glances cast by the chief mate and steward, first at the captain, -and then at the crew. Wilson, with his eyes fixed in the captain’s face, -and his arms loosely folded across his breast, stood perfectly quiet, as -if he were an indifferent spectator. - -“Eight! Nine!” said the captain, “there is but one left, Wilson; with it -I fire if you do not start.” - -The boatswain remained motionless. “Te—” escaped the commander’s lips; -and as it did, the sharp edge of Wilson’s heavy tarpaulin hat struck him -a severe blow in the face. This was so entirely unexpected, that the -captain involuntarily threw back his head, and by the same motion, -without intending it, threw up his arm and clenched his hand enough to -fire off the pistol held in it; the ball from which went through the -flying-jib, full twenty feet above Wilson’s head. - -The charm that had held the men in check, was broken by the first -movement toward action, and they made a rush toward the captain and his -two supporters. Bravely, though, they stood their ground; and Frank -Adams, the sailor introduced with Tom in the forecastle, received the -ball from the mate’s pistol in the fleshy part of his shoulder, as he -was about to strike that worthy with a handspike. Gallantly assisted by -the steward, the captain and mate made as much resistance as three men -could against fifteen. The odds were, however, too great; spite of their -bravery, the three were soon overpowered and the contest was nearly -ended, when a temporary change was made in favor of the weaker party by -the appearance in the fray of the second mate. He, during the whole -colloquy, had been at the wheel, forgotten by both parties. His sudden -arrival, therefore, as with lusty blows he laid about him, astonished -the seamen, who gave back for an instant, and allowed their opponents to -regain their feet. They did not allow them much time, however, to profit -by this respite, for in a few seconds, understanding the source from -whence assistance had come, they renewed the attack with increased -vigor, and soon again obtained the mastery. But it was no easy matter to -confine the three officers and the steward, who resisted with their -every power, particularly as the men were anxious to do them no more -bodily injury than they were compelled to, in effecting their purpose. - -So absorbed were all hands in the strife in which they were engaged, -that not one of them noticed the fact that what had been the -weather-side of the barque at the commencement of the affray, was now -the lee; nor did any of the men—all seamen as they were—observe that -the vessel was heeling over tremendously, her lee-scuppers nearly level -with the water. A report, loud as a cannon, high in the air, first -startled the combatants; then, with a rushing sound, three large, heavy -bodies, fell from aloft, one of which striking the deck near the -combatants, threatened all with instant destruction, whilst the other -two fell with a loud splash into the sea to leeward. - -In the new danger, both the victors and vanquished were equally -interested, and at the same instant looked aloft to discover the cause. -The first glance convinced every one of the necessity for prompt and -vigorous action. Their position was, indeed, one fraught with imminent -danger. Left without a helmsman, by the second mate going to the -assistance of the captain, the barque, close-hauled with a stiff breeze -blowing, had come up in the wind, and was now flat aback; that is, the -wind, instead of blowing against the sails from behind, was before them. -The fore and main-royal, and top-gallant masts, with all their gear, had -been carried away; and the ship was gathering stern-way at a rate that -would soon run her under. - -The natural desire for self-preservation, combined with the instincts -and habits of both officers and men to cause them entirely to forget the -fierce contest in which they had just been engaged—their thoughts were -changed from each other, to the ship and its situation—and the officers -were at once permitted to regain their feet. - -No sooner did Captain Andrews find himself at liberty, than he at once -assumed command, and issued his orders as loud and clear as if nothing -had interrupted his authority. - -“To the wheel! to the wheel! Mr. Hart! All hands ware ship!” were his -first words; and the men with alacrity hurried to their stations, whilst -the mate ran to the helm. - -The captain’s wife and son had been in the cabin, anxiously awaiting the -result of the controversy on the forecastle, but alarmed by the failing -spars, they had hurried on deck and were now on the poop. In the hurry -and confusion consequent upon the ship’s hazardous position, all hands -were so busy that no one paid attention to Charles and Mrs. Andrews; and -they were too much alarmed to take due care of themselves, else would -they have sought a less exposed situation. As the spanker jibed, Charles -was standing nearly amidships on the deck, and before he even had time -to shriek, the boom struck him and hurled him over the monkey-rail into -the sea. His mother, who was close to the mizzen-mast, saw him just as -he went over, and terror-stricken, sunk to the deck in a swoon, without -uttering a sound. Unable to swim, a puny child in the angry waves of the -rough Atlantic, the case of Charles seemed a hopeless one; but rescue -came from a source he could have least expected. Tom, the sailor-boy, -who was on the tafferel belaying the spanker-sheet to windward, -recognized the captain’s son as he floated clear of the stern; and -actuated by that generous, gallant spirit that had so endeared him to -his messmates, he shouted to the mate that Charles was over-board! and -fearlessly sprang into the sea to his assistance. Tom was an excellent -swimmer, and he found no difficulty in supporting Charles’ delicate form -until the barque hove round, when they were both picked up and taken on -board. - -The joy of the mother at having restored to her the idol of her heart; -the grateful feelings she and the father felt toward the deliverer of -their child, we will not attempt to describe; only the results will we -give of this heroic action. Tom was treated by the captain as a son; the -crew were forgiven for their mutinous conduct, and cheerfully returned -to duty; and Tom, now a distinguished naval officer, dates his first -step upon the ladder that leads to eminence, from the day he so narrowly -escaped a severe whipping. - - _Laurensville, South Carolina._ - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LADY OF CASTLE WINDECK. - - - (FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO.) - - - BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. - - - Rein in thy snorting charger! - That stag but cheats thy sight; - He is luring thee on to Windeck, - With his seeming fear and flight. - - Now, where the mouldering turrets - Of the outer gate arise, - The knight gazed over the ruins - Where the stag was lost to his eyes. - - The sun shone hot above him; - The castle was still as death; - He wiped the sweat from his forehead, - With a deep and weary breath. - - “Who now will bring me a beaker - Of the rich old wine that here, - In the choked up vaults of Windeck, - Has lain for many a year?” - - The careless words had scarcely - Time from his lips to fall, - When the Lady of Castle Windeck - Come round the ivy-wall. - - He saw the glorious maiden - In her snow-white drapery stand, - The bunch of keys at her girdle, - The beaker high in her hand. - - He quaffed that rich old vintage; - With an eager lip he quaffed; - But he took into his bosom - A fire with the grateful draught. - - Her eyes unfathomed brightness! - The flowing gold of her hair! - He folded his hands in homage, - And murmured a lover’s prayer. - - She gave him a look of pity, - A gentle look of pain; - And quickly as he had seen her - She passed from his sight again. - - And ever, from that moment, - He haunted the ruins there, - A sleepless, restless wanderer, - A watcher with despair. - - Ghost-like and pale he wandered, - With a dreamy, haggard eye; - He seemed not one of the living, - And yet he could not die. - - ’Tis said that the lady met him, - When many years had past, - And kissing his lips, released him - From the burden of life at last. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE YOUNG MOTHER’S LAMENT. - - - BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY. - - - Oh, what is all this world to me, - Now that my babe is gone— - From every thing I hear, or see, - The light of life has flown! - - It is not summer to my eyes, - For summer’s sun is hid— - He, who made fair the earth and skies, - Sleeps ’neath a coffin-lid. - - There is no verdure to be seen— - No flowers upon the lea; - For he, whose smile made all things green, - Hath no more smiles for me. - - Now all things wear the sickly-hue - Of my own spirit sad, - And nothing can that charm renew - Which made the earth look glad. - - Oh, he was such a lovely boy— - So innocent, so fair; - His every look so full of joy— - Such sunlight in his hair! - - That when he nestled to my breast, - And looked up lovingly, - I thought no mother half so blest - In all the world as I. - - But now, alas! since he has died, - All day and night I pine, - And never was a heart beside - So desolate as mine. - - Here are the toys his little hands - So sportively did use, - And here his empty cradle stands, - And here his tiny shoes: - - Oh, take them, take them from my sight! - Each sends a cruel dart— - Sharpened by fatal memories bright— - Into my bleeding heart. - - Take all away, since _he_ is gone— - Save one of his fair curls, - And that shall on my breast be worn, - Set round with costly pearls. - - But, like the diamond glistening bright - Upon a withered wreath, - ’Twill make more dreary by its light - The wasted heart beneath. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: _Jenny Lind_ - -(IN LA SONNAMBULA) -Engraved in London for Graham’s Magazine by W. H. Mote after the original - Painting by J. W. Wright] - - * * * * * - - - - - JENNY LIND. - - - BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. - - - [WITH A PORTRAIT.] - - Sure something holy lodges in that breast, - And with mere rapture moves the vocal air, - To testify its hidden residence. - How sweetly did they float upon the wings - Of Silence, through the empty-vaulted night, - At every fall smoothing the raven down - Of darkness till it smiled. Comus. - -The Life of the North is to us a fresh revelation; and, by a striking -coincidence, one after another of its phases have come upon our -transatlantic vision, in rapid succession. To many Americans Thorwaldsen -was the only name associated with art, but a few years since; and to -those who had visited Rome, the benign and venerable man was a vivid and -pleasing reminiscence, appropriate to the idea of his grand apostolic -figures, and the affectionate honor in which his native Denmark held -their noble sculptor. But with Ole Bull fairly commenced our knowledge -of the genius of Northern Europe. The play of the wind through her -forests of pines, the glint of her frozen streams, the tenderness of her -households, and the solemnity of her faith, seemed to breathe in the -wizard tones of his violin; while her integrity was written in the form, -the manners, and the very smile of the musician. Then the spirit of her -literature began slowly to win its gentle but impressive way to the -American heart. Longfellow’s translation of Bishof’s Tegnér’s Children -of the Lord’s Supper, with the graphic introduction descriptive of moral -life in Sweden, touched the same chord in New England breasts, that had -vibrated to the religious pathos of Bryant, Dana, and Hawthorne; while -not a few readers became simultaneously aware of a brave Danish poet -recently followed to the tomb by the people of Copenhagen, with every -token of national grief. The dramas of Œhlenschläger, from their union -of familiar expression with the richest feeling, though but partially -known in this country, awakened both curiosity and interest. Then, too, -came to us the domestic novels of Miss Bremer, portraying so heartily -the life of home in Sweden, and appealing to the most universal -sympathies of our people. Finally, Hans Andersen’s delicious story-books -veiling such fine imaginative powers under the guise of the utmost -simplicity, raised up for him scores of juvenile admirers, while -children of a larger growth enjoyed the originality of his fictions with -equal zest, as the offspring of rare human sympathy and original -invention. The pictures wafted to our shores by the late revolutionary -exigencies of the Continent, have often yielded glimpses of northern -scenery. Norwegian forests, skies and mountains, attracted the eye at -the Dusseldorf gallery; and thus through both art and literature, the -simple, earnest, and poetic features of life in the north, were brought -within the range of our consciousness. It developed unimagined -affinities with our own; and now, as it were, to complete and consecrate -the revelation, we are to hear the vocal genius of Northern Europe—the -Swedish nightingale, Jenny Lind, is coming! - -From an unpretending edifice in one of the by-streets of the city of -Stockholm in Sweden, a quarter of a century ago, a troop of children -might have been seen to emerge, at noon, and break the silence that at -other hours invested the place, with the lively chat and quick laughter -natural to emancipated scholars. In a few moments they dispersed to -their several homes, and early the next day were again visible, one by -one, disappearing, with a more subdued bearing, within the portal of the -humble domicil. - -Stockholm is justly regarded as the most elegant city of Northern -Europe. It is situated at the junction of the lake Mälar with an inlet -of the Baltic. Although usually described as founded on seven isles, it -is, in point of fact, mainly situated on three; the smallest and most -central having been the original site, and still constituting the most -populous and active section. The irregularity of its form, and the -blending of land and water, renders the appearance of the city -remarkably picturesque. From the elevated points, besides the various -buildings, craft of all kinds in motion and at anchor, numerous bridges -and a fine back-ground of mountains are discernible, and combine to form -a beautiful panorama. The royal palace is exceeded in magnificence only -by that of Versailles. Through this busy and varied scene, on a pleasant -day, there moved rapidly the carriage of one of those useful, though -unrecognized beings, who seem born to appreciate the gifts which God so -liberally dispenses, but whom the insensibility and selfishness of -mankind, in general, permit to languish in obscurity until a fortunate -circumstance brings them to light. Some time previous, the good lady, in -passing the seminary to which we have alluded, had been struck with the -beauty of a child’s voice that rose blithely from the dwelling. She was -induced to alight and enter; and her astonishment was only increased -upon discovering that this cheerful song came from a diminutive girl, -busied in arranging the school-room, during a temporary recess. She -learned that this maiden was the daughter of the school-mistress; and -the somewhat restricted air of homely comfort visible in the -establishment, and the tinge of severity in the manners of the mother, -contrasted forcibly in the lady’s imagination with the apparently -instinctive soaring of the child’s spirit into the atmosphere of song, -from her dim and formal surroundings, as the sky-lark lifts itself from -a lowly nest among the dark weeds up to the crystal heavens. It was a -sweet illustration of the law of compensation. - -The air the child was singing, as she busied herself about the room, was -a simple, native strain, quite familiar and by no means difficult of -execution; it was the quality of the voice, the natural flow of the -notes, the apparent ease, grace and earnest sweetness of the little -songstress, that gained the visiter’s ear and heart; and now she had -come to urge upon the parents the duty of affording every encouragement -to develop a gift so rare and beautiful; she expressed her conviction -that the child was born for a musical artist, and destined not only to -redeem her parents from want, but to do honor to her country. This -impression was deepened when she learned that this musical tendency -manifested itself as early as the age of three, and that the little girl -had long awakened the wonder of the family by repeating accurately even -intricate airs, after having heard them but once; that she had thus sung -habitually, spontaneously, and seemed to find of her own volition, a -peculiar consolation in the act for the dry routine of her life, though -from without, not a single circumstance gave any impulse or direction to -this vocal endowment. - -She exhibited also to the just perception of Madame Lundberg, herself a -celebrated Swedish actress, as well as a benevolent woman, the usual -conditions of genius, in backward physical growth, precocious mental -vigor, and mature sensibilities. The latter, indeed, were so active, -that her mother, and even her kind adviser doubted if she possessed -sufficient energy of character for so trying a profession as that of an -artist; and this consideration added to the prejudice of the parents -against a public, and especially a theatrical career, for a time, -chilled the hopes of the enthusiastic patroness. At length, however, -their consent was obtained that the experiment should be tried, and the -diffident little girl, only accustomed to domestic privacy, but with a -new and strange hope wildly fluttering in her bosom, was taken to -Croelius—a veteran music-master of Stockholm; who was so delighted with -her rare promise that one day he led her to the house of Count Pucke, -then director of the court theatre. Her reception, however, did not -correspond with the old man’s desires; for the nobleman coldly inquired -what he was expected to do with such a child? It must be confessed that -the absence of beauty and size did not, at the first glance, create any -high anticipations in behalf of the demure maiden. Croelius, though -disappointed, was quite undismayed; he entreated the director to hear -her sing, and declared his purpose to teach her gratuitously, if he -could in no other way secure the cultivation of her voice and talents. -This earnestness induced the count to listen with attention and candor; -and the instant she had finished, he exclaimed, “She shall have all the -advantages of the Stockholm Academy!” Such was Jenny Lind’s initiation -into the life of an artist. - -She now began regularly to appear on the stage, and was soon an adept in -juvenile parts. She proved widely attractive in vaudevilles, which were -written expressly for her; and it is remarkable that the charm did not -lie so much in the precocious intelligence, as in the singular geniality -of the little actress. Nature thus early asserted her dominion. There -was an indefinable human interest, a certain original vein that -universally surprised and fascinated, while it took from the child the -_eclat_ of a mere infant phenomenon, by bringing her from the domain of -vulgar wonder into the range of that refined sympathy one touch of which -“makes the whole world kin.” In a year Croelius reluctantly gave up his -pupil to Berg, who to kindred zeal united far more energy; and by him -she was inducted thoroughly into the elements of her art. - -Probation is quite as essential to the true development of art as -encouragement. The eager, impassioned, excitable temperament needs to be -chastened, the recklessness of self-confidence awed, and that sublime -patience induced through which reliable and tranquil energy takes the -place of casual and unsustained activity. By nature Jenny Lind was -thoughtful and earnest, disposed to silence, and instinctively reserved; -while the influence of her early home was to subdue far more than to -exhilarate. The change in her mode of life and prospects was so -unexpected, her success as a juvenile prodigy so brilliant, and the -universal social favor she enjoyed, on account of the winsome amiability -of her character, so fitted to elate a youthful heart, that we cannot -but regard it as one of the many providential events of her career, that -just at the critical moment when the child was losing herself in the -maiden, and nature and education were ultimately shaping her artistic -powers, an unexpected impediment was allowed to check her already too -rapid advancement; and a pause, sad enough at the time, but fraught with -enduring benefit, gave her occasion to discipline and elevate her soul, -renew her overtasked energies, and plume her wings while thus aware of -the utility of her trial, we can easily imagine its bitterness. The loss -of a gift of nature through which a human being has learned to find both -the solace and the inspiration of existence, upon which the dearest -hopes were founded, and by which the most glorious triumphs were -achieved, is one of those griefs few can realize. Raphael’s gentle heart -bled when feebleness unnerved the hand that guided the pencil to such -lovely issues, and big tears rolled down Scott’s manly cheek when he -strove in vain to go on with his latest composition. How desolate then -must that young aspirant for the honor, and the delights of the vocal -art, have felt when suddenly deprived of her voice! The dream of her -youth was broken in a moment. The charm of her being faded like a mist; -and the star of hope that had thus far beamed serenely on her path, grew -dim in the cold twilight of disappointment—keen, entire and apparently -irremediable. This painful condition was aggravated by the fact that her -age now rendered it out of the question to perform childish parts, while -it did not authorize those of a mature character. The circumstances, -too, of her failure were singularly trying. She was announced to appear -as Agatha in Weber’s Frieschutz—a character she had long regarded as -that in which her ability would be genially tested. To it her young -ambition had long pointed, and with it her artistic sympathies were -familiarly identified. The hour came, and that wonderful and delicate -instrument—that as a child she had governed so adroitly, that it seemed -the echo of her mind;—that subtle medium through which her feelings had -been wont to find such ready and full vent, refused to obey her will, -yielded not to the pleadings of love or ambition; was hushed as by some -cruel magic—and Jenny Lind was mute, with anguish in her bosom; her -friends looking on in tearful regret, and her maestro chagrined beyond -description! Where had those silvery tones fled? What catastrophe had -all at once loosened those invisible harp strings? The splendid vision -of fame, of bounteous pleasure, of world-excited sympathy, and of -triumphant art, disappeared like the gorgeous cities seen by the -traveler, from the Straits of Messina, painted in tinted vapor on the -horizon. Jenny Lind ceased to sing, but her love of art was deepened, -her trust in nature unshaken, her simplicity and kindliness as real as -before. Four long years she lived without the rich promise that had -invested her childhood; but, with undiminished force of purpose, she -studied the art for which she felt herself born, with patient, acute, -earnest assiduity, and then another and blissful episode rewarded her -quiet heroism. The fourth act of Robert le Diable had been announced for -a special occasion; and it so happened that in consequence of the -insignificant _role_ of Alice, consisting of a single solo, no one of -the regular singers was disposed to adopt the character. In this -emergency, Berg was reminded of his unfortunate pupil. She meekly -consented to appear, pleased with an opportunity to be useful, and -oblige her kind maestro. While practicing this solo, to the delight and -astonishment of both teacher and pupil, the long-lost voice suddenly -re-appeared. It seemed as if Nature had only withdrawn the gift for a -season, that her child might gather strength and wisdom to use it -efficiently, and in an unselfish spirit; and then restored it as a -deserved recompense for the resignation and truth with which the -deprivation had been borne. We can fancy the rapturous emotions of the -gentle votary that night, when she retired from the scene of her new and -unanticipated triumph. The occasion has been aptly compared to the -memorable third act of the Merchant of Venice on the evening of Kean’s -_debut_ at Drury Lane. Jenny Lind immediately reverted to her cherished -ideal part—that of Agatha. She was now sixteen years of age—her -character rendered firm by discipline, her love of music deepened by -more comprehensive views and a better insight, and her whole nature -warmed and softened by the realization of the fondest and earliest -hopes, long baffled, yet consistently cherished. The most experienced -actors were struck with wonder at the facility and perfection of her -dramatic style; in this, as in her vocalism, was, at once, recognized -that peculiar truth to nature which constitutes the perfection of -art—that unconsciousness of self and circumstance, and that fresh idea -of character, at once so uncommon and so delightful. She drew the -orchestra after her by her bold yet true execution; and seemed possessed -with the genius of the composer as well as with the idiosyncrasies of -the character she sung, so complete and individual was the result. -Already the idol of her native city, and the hope of the Swedish stage, -her own ideas of art and aims as an artist remained unchanged. Her first -desire was to seek the instruction of Garcia, with a view to perfect her -method and subdue some vocal difficulties. She gracefully acknowledged -the social homage and theatrical distinction awarded her; but these were -but incidental to a great purpose. She had a nobler ambition to satisfy, -a higher ideal to realize, and pressed on her still obstructed way, -unallured by the pleasures of the moment and undismayed by the distance -of the goal. In order to obtain the requisite means for a sojourn at -Paris, she made excursions through Norway and Sweden, with her father, -during the vacations of the theatre, to give concerts, and when -sufficient had thus been acquired, she obtained leave of absence from -the Stockholm director, and left home for Paris, notwithstanding the -dissuasion of her parents. They confided, however, as before, in her own -sense of right; and she hastened to place herself under the instruction -of Garcia. Here another keen disappointment subdued her reviving hopes. -At the first trial, her new teacher said: “My child, you have no voice; -do not sing a note for three months, and then come and resume again.” -Once more she wrapt herself in the mantle of patience, went into -studious retirement, and, at the prescribed time, again returned to -Garcia, whose cheering words now were, “My child, you can begin your -lessons immediately.” Simple words, indeed, but more welcome to that -ardent child of song, intent on progress in the art she loved, than the -wildest plaudits. She returned with an elastic step, and entered with -joyful enthusiasm upon her artistic career. Meyerbeer immediately -offered her an engagement at Berlin. The consummate skill of her -teacher, and her own enlarged experience and high resolves, made her -advancement rapid and genuine. Thenceforth a series of musical triumphs -unexcelled in the history of the lyrical drama, attended the life of -Jenny Lind. We might repeat countless anecdotes of the universal -admiration and profound sympathy she excited at Berlin, Vienna, Dresden, -Bremen, Munich, Aix la Chapelle, and, indeed, wherever her voice was -heard on the stage and at concerts. The testimonies of the highest -private regard, and public appreciation, were lavished upon her in the -shape of costly gifts, wreaths of silver, poetic tributes, philosophical -criticisms, the breathless silence or overwhelming applause of entranced -multitudes, and all the signs of enthusiastic delight at the advent of a -true child of nature and of song. To us the record of her two visits to -England are yet vivid, and it is needless to reiterate the extraordinary -demonstrations which there attested her singular merits, and unequalled -attractiveness. The population of Berlin and Vienna assembled at -midnight to bid her adieu; and when she last left her native city, every -ship in the harbor was manned and every quay crowded to see her embark -in the presence of the queen. Nor are these spontaneous tributes to be -exclusively ascribed to the love of novelty and the excitement of -renown. Heroes and heroines the world cannot do without, unless it -lapses into frigid and selfish materialism; admiration for talent and -sympathy with genius are but human instincts. It is seldom, however, -that these sentiments are upheld and sanctioned by reverence for worth. -Therefore is it beautiful to witness the voluntary oblations which -attend the great artist whose expression, however eloquent, is the true -manifestation of a pure, noble and disinterested spirit. It is not Jenny -Lind in her personality, but as a priestess of art, an interpreter of -humanity, a gifted and loyal expositer of feelings, that lend grace to -life and elevation to the soul, that draws the common heart toward her -with such frank and ardent gratulation. Her well-known and -unostentatious charities, her simplicity of life, her sympathy with her -fellow-creatures, and unaffected manners, so accord with the glorious -art she so rarely illustrates as to justify to reflection the impulsive -admiration she excites. - -It is not in sublimity that Jenny Lind excels; and whatever excellence -her Norma may possess, it is not of that characteristic species which -renders her impersonations of _La Figlia del Regimento_, of _Alice_, of -_Lucia_, and of _Amina_, so memorable. In the former character she makes -innocence play through the rude habits acquired in the camp, in a way so -exquisite as to enchant as by the spell of reality. In the Bride of -Lammermoor, there is a melancholy beauty which haunts the listener. It -is her greatest tragic part. The pathos of the third act seems -re-produced from the very genius which created the romance. Her Amina is -Bellini’s; and this is saying all that praise can utter. We may realize -her versatility by comparing the comic jealousy so archly displayed in -the _Noces de Figaro_, with the tenderness of the sleep-walking scene in -_La Somnambula_. It has been well observed of her that, in the former -opera, “she adheres to the genius of Mozart with a modest appreciation -of the genius of that master”—a commendation as high as it is rare. One -of the most remarkable traits of her artistic skill is its exquisite and -wonderful discrimination—a quality no description can make obvious. - -The peculiar charm of Jenny Lind, as an artist, is her unconsciousness. -We are disposed to regard this as one of the most reliable tests of -superior gifts. It at least proves the absorption of self in what is -dearer—a condition essential to all true greatness. The most acute -observers of this beautiful vocalist fail to detect the slightest -reference either to her audience or herself while engaged in a part. For -the time being her very existence seems identified with the character -she represents; it is the after-thought, not the impression of the -moment that brings us to the artist; infected by the complete -realization of the scene, we think of it alone; and only when it has -passed away do we become aware that the genius of another has, as it -were, incarnated a story or a sentiment before us, through will, -sympathy and talent. The process is quite as unthought of as that by -which a masterpiece of painting or sculpture has been executed, when we -stand before it rapt in that harmonious spell that permits no analysis -and suggests no task-work, any more than the landscape of summer, or the -effulgence of a star. We feel only the presence of the beautiful, the -advent of a new creation, the irresistible appeal to the highest -instincts of the soul. Carlyle says “the unconscious is the alone -complete”—an aphorism which Jenny Lind robs of all mystery; for her -superiority consists in the wholeness and unity of her effects, and this -is produced by a kind of self-surrender, such as we rarely see except in -two of the most genuine phases of humanity—genius and childhood; in -this tendency they coalesce; and hence the freshness that lingers around -the richly endowed nature, and the universal faith which it inspires. -The secret is that such characters have never wandered far from nature; -they have kept within sight of that “immortal sea that brought us -hither;” they constitute an aristocracy spontaneously recognized by all; -and they triumph as poets, artists, and influential social beings, not -through the exercise of any rare and wonderful gift, but from obedience -to the simple laws of truth—to the primal sympathies, and to a kind of -innate and glorious confidence which lifts them above ignoble fear and -selfish tricks. The true hero, poet, artist, the true man or woman, who -seem to the multitude to be peculiarly endowed, differ from those who do -them voluntary homage, chiefly in this unconsciousness of self; this -capacity to be ever “nobler than their moods;” this sympathetic breadth -of life that enables them to go forth with a kind of elemental power and -enter into other forms of being; the principle of their existence is -faith, not dexterity; sentiment, not calculation. - -It will be seen that we recognize a moral basis as the source of Jenny -Lind’s fascination; and if we were obliged to define this in a single -word, perhaps the lexicon would furnish none so expressive as the homely -one—_truth_. But we use it as significant of far more than the absence -of falsehood; we mean by it candor, trust, spontaneity, directness. We -believe that Jenny Lind inspires sympathy in spite of her petite figure, -not altogether because she warbles enchantingly, and has amiable -manners, but also on account of the faith she at once excites. We -perceive that love of approbation is not her ruling impulse, although -her profession might excuse it; but that she has an ideal of her own, an -artistic conscience, a love of art, a musical ministry to satisfy and -accomplish, and that these considerations induce a nobler ambition than -co-exists with mere vanity. It is said that the remarkable novel of -Consuelo, by George Sand, is founded on the character and history of -Jenny Lind. Whether this be so or not, the theory of the tale, the -guileless devotion to art as such, which stamps the heroine with such -exalted grace, finds a parallel in this famed vocalist of the North; the -same singleness of purpose and intact clearness of soul, the same firm -will and gentle heart are evident. Much, too, of her success is -attributable to the philosophy of Consuelo’s _maestro_—that to reach -the highest excellence in Art, the affections as well as the mind must -be yielded at her shrine. There is a subtle and deep relation between -feeling and expression, and the biographies of those who have achieved -renown in the latter, under any of its artistic forms, indicate that it -has embodied that within them that found no adequate response in actual -life. The highest efforts of the poet and musician, are confessedly the -result of baffled or overflowing emotion; disguised, perhaps, as to the -form, but clearly evident in the tone of their productions. Mozart and -Raphael, Bryant and Paganini, have illustrated this most emphatically. -Jenny Lind seems to have kept her better feelings alive by the habitual -exercise of benevolence, and a diffusive friendliness, while her -concentrated and earnest activity finds utterance in her art. Hence the -sway she has gained over countless hearts, each absorbed in its own -dream or shadowed by its own regrets, that glow again in the kindling -atmosphere of song, which gushes from a soul over which no overmastering -passion has yet cast a gloom, and whose transparent waters no agitation -of conflicting desires has ever made turbid and restless. Jenny Lind has -been a priestess at the shrine of Art, and therefore interprets its -oracles “as one having authority.” - -In this country the idea of fashion and the mere relish of amusement, -have blended so exclusively with the support of the Opera, that we -seldom realize its artistic relations and influence. The taste for the -Italian Opera seems to have extended in the ratio of civilization; and -although it is, after all, an exotic among the Anglo-Saxons—a pleasure -born in the “sweet South,” and in its very richness of combination, -suggestive of the impassioned feeling and habitual luxury of those -climes—yet, on the other hand, it is typical of the complex life, wants -and tendencies of modern society. The old English tragic drama, robust, -fierce-hearted and unadorned, has faded before it; the theatre, as a -reunion of wits, and an arena for marvelous histrionic effects, as a -subject of elegant criticism, and a nucleus for universal sympathy, may -be said not to exist; while the Opera has become the scene of display, -elegance, and pleasure on the one hand, and of the highest triumphs on -the other. The sentiment of the age has written itself in music—its -wide intelligence, its keen analysis, its revolutionary spirit, its -restlessness, and its humanity, may be traced in the rich and brilliant -combinations of Rossini, in the grand symphonies of Beethoven, in the -pleading tenderness of Bellini, and in the mingled war-notes and -sentiment of Verdi. The demand for undisguised and free expression, -characteristic of the times, finds also its requisite scope in the -lyrical drama. Recitation is too tame, pantomime too silent, scenic art -too illusive, costume too familiar, music too unpicturesque; but all -these combined are, at once, as romantic, exciting, impressive, and -melo-dramatic as the varied aptitudes, the exacting taste, and the -broad, experimental genius of the age. The gifts of nature, the -resources of art, the gratification of the senses, the exigencies of -fashion and taste, and the wants of the heart and imagination find in -the Opera a most convenient luxury. The lyrical drama has thus gradually -usurped the place of tournament and theatre; it is a social as well as -an artistic exponent of the day; and those who have best illustrated it -are justly regarded as public benefactors. Few, however, have ministered -in this temple, with the artless grace, the pure enthusiasm, the vestal -glory of Jenny Lind. The daughters of the South, ardent and susceptible, -but capricious and extravagant, heretofore won its chief honors; their -triumphs have been great but spasmodic, gained by impulse rather than -nature, by glorious gifts of person rather than rare graces of soul. -Jenny Lind, with her fair hair and blue eyes, her unqueenly form, and -child-like simplicity, has achieved almost unparalleled success, by -means quite diverse. Her one natural gift is a voice of singular depth, -compass, flexibility and tone. This has been, if we may be allowed the -expression, mesmerized by a soul, earnest, pure and sincere; and thus, -with the clear perception and dauntless will of the North has she -interpreted the familiar musical dramas in a new, vivid, and original -manner. One would imagine she had come with one bound from tending her -flock on the hill-side, to warble behind the foot-lights; for so -directly from the heart of nature springs her melody, and so beyond the -reach of art is the simple grace of her air and manners, that we -associate her with the Opera only through the consummate skill—the -result of scientific training—manifested in her vocalism. The term -warbling is thus adapted peculiarly to express the character of her -style; its ease, fluency, spontaneous gush, and the total absence of -every thing meretricious and exaggerated in the action and bearing that -accompanies it. It is like the song of a bird, only more human. Nature -in her seems to have taken Art to her bosom, and assimilated it, through -love, with herself, until the identity of each is lost in the other. - -The union of such musical science—such thoroughly disciplined art with -such artlessness and simplicity, is, perhaps, the crowning mystery of -her genius. To know and to love are the conditions of triumph in all the -exalted spheres of human labor; and in the musical drama, they have -never been so admirably united. Her command of expression seems not so -much the result of study as of inspiration; and there is about her a -certain gentle elevation which stamps her to every eye, as one who is -consecrated to a high service. Her ingenuous countenance, always -enlivened by an active intelligence, might convey, at first, chiefly the -idea of good-nature and cleverness in the English sense; but her -carriage, voice, movements, and expression in the more affecting moments -of a drama, give sympathetic assurance of what we must be excused for -calling—a crystal soul. In all her characters she transports us, at -once, away from the commonplace and the artificial, if not always into -the domain of lofty idealism, into that more human and blissful domain -of primal nature; and unhappy is the being who finds not the unconscious -delight of childhood, or the dream of love momently renewed in that -serene and unclouded air. - -In accordance with this view of Jenny Lind’s characteristics, the -enthusiasm she excited in England, is alluded to by the leading critics, -as singularly honest. No musical artist, indeed, was ever so fitted to -win Anglo-Saxon sympathies. She has the _morale_ of the North; and does -not awaken the prejudice so common in Great Britain, and so truly -described in Corinne, against the passionate temperament and tendency to -extravagance that mark the children of the South. No candidate for -public favor was ever so devoid of the ordinary means of attaining it. -There is something absurd in making such a creature the mere nucleus of -fashionable vanity, or the object of that namby-pamby criticism that -busies itself with details of personal appearance and French terms of -compliment. Jenny Lind is not beautiful; she does not take her audiences -by storm; she exercises no intoxicating physical magnetism over their -sensitive natures. She is not classic either in form or feature, or -manner, or style of singing. Her loveliness as a woman, her power as an -artist, her grace as a character, lies in expression; and that -expression owes its variety and its enchantment to unaffected truth to -nature, sentiment and the principles of art. - -And now that Jenny Lind is hourly expected among us, let a word be -ventured as to what self-respect and the love of art make appropriate -for her reception. Let not so charitable a soul be mortified by a -tasteless hospitality; let not this genuine artist be seized upon by the -remorseless purveyors of meretricious Fashion; and, above all, let not -her gentle and candid nature be subjected to the vulgarism of the -lionizing mania! As a priestess of Art, in its highest and sweetest -form, as a fair ministrant to the spirit of Beauty, as a true musical -interpreter of humanity—let the people welcome her with sincere and -grateful recognition. This is the most acceptable tribute an unperverted -soul can receive or bestow. It is that intelligent sympathy due from a -free and educated society, and cheering to a discriminating recipient. -Far from Nature’s minstrel be the critical affectation of the professed -amateur, and the empty adulation of the coxcomb. Let her pure and -exquisite vocalism—the result of such discipline, faith, and rare gifts -of heaven, find a response in the American heart unprofaned by absurd -excitement, and truly indicative of a genuine and cordial appreciation -of the beautiful in art, and the excellent in character. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE POET’S PRAYER. - - - BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. - - - Leave me not, Love! ’twas thus a poet chanted - His heart’s fond pleadings to the midnight air— - Leave not the dwelling by thy presence haunted, - The home thou long hast filled with visions fair. - - Oh, leave me not! although thy fleeting pleasures - Are but as snow-flakes in the sun’s warm ray; - Though thy best gifts are only fairy treasures, - A golden glitter flung o’er things of clay; - - Yet leave me not!—all earthly hopes have perished, - And e’en thine hour of promise has gone by, - But I would fain the fond illusion cherish - Which still in joy or sorrow brought thee nigh. - - Perhaps my hand, like hers[4] in olden story, - Let fall the burning drop that broke thy rest, - Marring by base distrust thy veiléd glory, - And scaring thee too rudely from my breast; - - Yet leave me not!—although thy shrine be broken, - Though all its votive wreaths are long since gone, - Faith lingers there, albeit the prayer, unspoken, - Dies on her lip like sorrow’s half-breathed moan. - ------ - -[4] Psyche. - - * * * * * - - - - - IMPLORA PACE:—A VERSION. - - - BY MRS. ELIZABETH J. EAMES. - - - Oh, Rest! serenest rest! - Mild evening of the soul— - Thou soft and silent Hesperus - Whose influences control - The pulses of the weary-hearted— - How often have our warm tears started - At mention of thy name, - When pictures blest of days departed - Our memories overcame! - Oh, Rest! serenest rest! - That by the sun of Truth - Art standing firm and fast, - Sought after from our youth— - Through all the changes of life’s lot, - But oh! sad truth, we find _thee_ not! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FALL OF THE FAIRIES. - - - BY HENRY B. HIRST. - - - The night was clear and cool and calm, - The evening wind, exhaling balm - From spicy Caribbean isles, - Perfumed the forest’s deep defiles. - - The mournful sister Pleiades - Arose from oriental seas; - Lyra no more, as once, in old, - Shook harmony from her harp of gold. - - Silence, like God, was every where: - There was no sound in earth or air: - An omnipresent quietude - Reposed on field and flood and wood. - - Serenely calm, the waning moon - Rose, dreaming of the nights of June, - And silently, from weeping eyes, - Shed tears of silver down the skies. - - She seemed to walk her pilgrimage - Like one who, in the frosts of age, - Totters on toward the Holy Land, - Impelled by some pale phantom hand. - - Wan August _in extremis_ lay: - He knew that the approaching day - Consigned him to the solemn tomb - Which yawned upon him through the gloom. - - The summer flowers were on their wane; - And silently, like one in pain, - Who hides his pangs from loving eyes, - The brooks looked calmly toward the skies. - - A little circle in a wood— - The heart of the old solitude— - Lay wrapped in something more than sleep— - A boding silence, stern and deep. - - Suddenly, from a distant bell, - Ten several sounds fell, like a knell, - And like a sigh (which was despair) - A shudder thrilled the tremulous air. - - The leaves fell rustling from the trees, - The grasses shivered in the breeze, - As Saturn, with complacent eye, - Walked coldly up the central sky. - - Slowly among the quivering limbs - Come hollow moons, like funeral hymns; - The trees, aroused from slumber, wail - Before the occidental gale. - - The clouds, in horror, hurry by; - Unusual darkness drowns the sky; - The moon moves with suspended breath, - Like one who dreads the approach of death. - - The stars expire, the moon grows dim, - The wind has ceased to be a hymn, - And through the arches of the wood - Roars, like a lion scenting blood. - - Above the wind, whose surging sound - The brazen tumult almost drowned, - Pealing and ringing as it passed, - A clarion’s clamor filled the blast. - - Along the earth, among the elms - Who shook and clanged their hoary helms, - And waved their arms in wild despite, - Again that summons filled the night. - - Up, piercing space, again it rung - Where fair-haired Lyra sat and sung - Like Sappho, in a passionate trance, - Stunning her with its dissonance. - - The little vista of the wood - Suddenly in the darkness stood - Flushed with a wild, unusual light, - Which filled the filmy eyes of night. - - From oak and elm, from beech and larch, - That crowned the vista, like an arch, - Between whose leaves, like frowning eyes, - Came glimpses of the gloomy skies; - - From Asia’s sultry hills and vales, - From far Topróbanè’s dells and dales, - From Ganges’ source, from Niger’s side, - And turbid Nile’s eternal tide; - - From England’s fields, from Scotland’s glens, - From Ireland’s mosses, bogs and fens; - From sunny France, from swarthy Spain, - As if the skies shed golden rain, - - Flashing, like streams of falling stars, - A myriad million minim Lars, - With terror painted on each face, - Stood, shuddering in that solemn place. - - And from the farthest sphere of even, - From every sun (whose name is heaven, - And whose inhabitants are kings,) - Was heard the rushing of their wings. - - Some stood attired in elfin steel, - With sword on hip, and spur at heel, - And crimson cheeks, and brows aflame; - Some in long, flowing garments came,— - - Sages, whose sunken eyes had caught - From ceaseless study quenchless thought— - Maidens, with timid, trembling lips, - Their beauties purple with eclipse; - - Mothers, within whose matron eyes - Dwelt all the depth of tropic skies, - Clasping their offspring, as the rose - Enfolds its heart at evening close. - - Some stood alone, with drooping wings; - Some gathered here and there in rings, - But each one felt, though far apart, - The beating of his neighbor’s heart. - - And each one, with a sad surmise, - Gazed wistfully in his fellow’s eyes, - And turned, and doubtfully bowed his head, - Despairing at the lore he read. - - Each seemed to wonder why that hour - Beheld them in that ancient bower, - Where tree, and leaf, and grass, and stone, - Spoke audibly of ages gone. - - Where shining, ghostly, through the trees, - Were idols, fern-clad to the knees, - And scattered round, in pale decay, - The ruins of old temples lay. - - Altars of many a mythic age, - Forgotten even on history’s page, - With sacrificial knife and brand, - Arose, like tombs, on either hand. - - And each one seemed to ask, though not - A word disturbed that haunted spot, - For some one, who, with eye of lynx, - Would read this riddle of the Sphynx; - - And with oracular voice and air - Declare why they were summoned there— - Why called from worlds that felt no flood - To tremble in that ancient wood— - - That wood which from the birth of time - Had gone on growing, through the chime - Of falling spheres,—a Druid sage, - Unwearied with life’s pilgrimage. - - While standing thus in mute amaze, - Sadly, along the forest ways - Came slowly toward the appointed place - The Fathers of the Fairy Race. - - And as, by sacred instinct urged, - From gloom to light their forms emerged, - It seemed as if unnumbered years - Of elfin lore had made them seers. - - And each one seemed to walk the sod, - Clothed in his wisdom, like a god; - But in his step, and in his air, - Were mingled terror and despair. - - Even as they came, the distant bell - Again proclaimed its solemn knell; - Eleven deep sounds, which, one by one, - Through every shuddering bosom run. - - The night grew light, and on the skies - Each one in wonder fixed his eyes, - And saw, encircled with his rays, - Cold Saturn, like a comet, blaze. - - Saturn, who on the zenith stood, - Freezing, it seemed, their very blood; - So cold, so thin it grew, they shook - As if by sudden palsy strook. - - Each gazed in terror on the other; - Sister sought sister—brother brother— - But over all had come a strange, - Unprecedented—horrid change. - - A moment did the work of years; - And gazing through their blinding tears, - They felt that centuries had passed - Since they saw one another last— - - That what was youth was wrinkled age, - Sere, hoary, palsied, trembling age: - The very babe, so great the charm, - Grew gray upon its mother’s arm. - - Suddenly, on the gloom of night, - Leaving a trail of silvery light, - Six coursers, with disheveled hair, - Swept madly through the fields of air. - - Their argent manes, in separate threads, - Streamed from their bony necks and heads; - The crooked lightnings of their eyes - Flashed fitfully athwart the skies; - - Behind a sparkling chariot shone, - Burning with many a precious stone - And flaming on the eyes of all— - A planet trembling to its fall! - - Erect, while sobbing, at his side - Reclined his once immortal bride, - Sat Oberon, with pallid brow, - And tresses white as winter’s snow. - - Pale Hecatè, peering from a cloud— - A maiden, lying in her shroud— - Less pale were than the Fairy Queen, - Less cold, less motionless of mien. - - Heart-broken Titania, wan with age, - Leant feebly on her Indian page, - Looking as if all hope was gone;— - Than even Death himself more wan. - - “Subjects,” said Oberon, “gentle friends, - This night our long dominion ends; - Stern Saturn, with his stony eyes, - Smiles grimly on his sacrifice.” - - “Henceforth all poetry is dead!” - And as he spoke, above his head - In masses rolled the weltering clouds; - The stars still lay within their shrouds; - - Save Saturn, whose untroubled light - Almost made daylight of the night. - With groans the myriad mourners said— - “Henceforth all poetry is dead!” - - “The Ideal age, the lyric strain - Expire; with them the fairy reign; - The Real comes with iron tread:— - Henceforth all poetry is dead!” - - So said the king, and as he spoke - Long, heavy, rolling thunders broke - Above them, rattling through the spheres, - Whose eyes were drowned with pitying tears. - - The wind arose and struck the wood; - The rain descended in a flood; - Hither and thither rushed the leaves - Along the ruined temples’ eaves. - - But Saturn shone as cold and stern - As death beside a funeral urn, - Looking as though his lustre said— - “Henceforth all poetry is dead!” - - And now the storm was at its height; - The trees rolled to and fro in fright; - The lurid lightnings blazed and played - Demoniac through the eternal shade. - - While far above the tempest’s plash, - Above the thunder’s deafening crash, - Twelve sounds fell, fainting, on the blast - Which rushed in eddying whirlwinds past. - - Even as the last sound rent the air - A hopeless shriek of fierce despair - Shook earth and heaven! and all was calm— - Unutterably, coldly calm. - - The stars came out; the moon once more - Shone bright as on its birth of yore; - Lyra alone looked down in pain: - Her golden chords were rent in twain. - - But Saturn, smiling, seemed to say— - “The Ideal Age has passed away; - I have devoured my sons,” he said— - “_Henceforth all poetry is dead!_” - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE. - - - A SOUTHERN NOVELET. - - - BY W. GILMORE SIMMS. - - - CHAPTER I. - -To the reader who, in the pursuit of the facts in our national history, -shall confine himself only to those records which are to be found in the -ordinary narrative, much that he reads will be found obscure, and a -great deal absolutely untruthful. Our early historians gave themselves -but little trouble in searching after details. A general outline was all -that they desired, and, satisfied with this, they neither sought after -the particular events which should give rise to the narrative, nor into -the latent causes which gave birth to many of its actions. In the -history of South Carolina, for example, (which was one brimming with -details and teeming with incidents,) there is little to be found—as the -history is at present written—which shall afford to the reader even a -tolerably correct idea of the domestic character of the struggle. We -know well enough that the people of the colony were of a singularly -heterogeneous character; that the settlers of the lower country were -chiefly Cavaliers and Huguenots, or French Protestants, and that the -interior was divided into groups, or settlements, of Scotch, Irish, and -German. But there is little in the record to show that, of these, the -sentiment was mixed and various without degree; and that, with the -exception of the parishes of the lower country, which belonged almost -wholly, though with slight modifications, to the English church, it was -scarcely possible to find any neighborhood, in which there was not -something like a civil war. The interior and mountain settlements were -most usually divided, and nearly equally, between their attachments to -the crown and the colony. A Scotch settlement would make an almost -uniform showing in behalf of the English authority—one, two, or three -persons, at the utmost, being of the revolutionary party. An Irish -settlement (wholly Protestant, be it remembered) would be as unanimous -for the colonial movements; while the Germans were but too frequently -for the monarchical side, that being represented by a prince of Hanover. -The German settlements mostly lay in the Forks of Edisto, and along the -Congarees. The business of the present narrative will be confined -chiefly to this people. They had settled in rather large families in -Carolina, and this only a short period before the Revolution. They had -been sent out, in frequent instances, at the expense of the crown, and -this contributed to secure their allegiance. They were ignorant of the -nature of the struggle, and being wholly agricultural, could not well be -taught the nature of grievances which fell chiefly upon commerce and the -sea-board. Now, in Carolina, and perhaps throughout the whole south, the -Revolution not only originated with the natives of the country, but with -the educated portions of the natives. It was what may be termed the -gentlemen of the colony—its wealth and aristocracy—with whom and which -the movement began; and though it is not our purpose here to go into -this inquiry, we may add that the motives to the revolutionary movement -originated with them, in causes totally different from those which -stimulated the patriotism of the people of Massachusetts Bay. The pride -of place, of character and of intellect, and not any considerations of -interest, provoked the agricultural gentry of the south into the field. - -It was the earnest desire of these gentry, at the dawning of the -Revolution, to conciliate the various people of the interior. At the -first signs of the struggle, therefore, an attempt was made to influence -the German population along the Edisto and Congaree, by sending among -them two influential men of their own country, whose fidelity to the -_mouvement_ party was beyond dispute. But these men were unsuccessful. -They probably made few converts. It is enough, if we give a glimpse at -the course of their proceedings in a single household in the Forks of -Edisto.[5] George Wagner and Felix Long arrived at the habitation of -Frederick Sabb, on the 7th day of July, 1775. Frederick was an honest -Dutchman of good character, but not the man for revolution. He was not -at home on the arrival of the commissioners, but his good _vrow_, -Minnicker Sabb, gave them a gracious reception. She was a good -housekeeper, with but one daughter; a tall, silent girl, with whom the -commissioners had no discourse. But Minnicker Sabb, had _she_ been -applied to, might have proved a better revolutionist than her spouse. It -is very certain, as the results will show, that Frederica Sabb, the -daughter, was of the right material. She was a calm, and sweetly-minded -damsel, not much skilled in society or books—for precious little was -the degree of learning in the settlement at this early period; but the -native mind was good and solid, and her natural tastes, if -unsophisticated, were pure and elevated. She knew, by precious -instincts, a thousand things which other minds scarcely ever reach -through the best education. She was what we call, a good girl, loyal, -with a warm heart, a sound judgment, and a modest, sensible behavior. We -are not seeking, be it remembered, a heroine, but a pure, true-hearted -woman. She was young too—only seventeen at this period—but just at the -season when the woman instincts are most lively, and her -susceptibilities most quick to all that is generous and noble. She made -the cakes and prepared the supper for the guests that evening, and they -saw but little of her till the evening feast had been adjusted, and was -about to be discussed. By this time old Frederick Sabb had made his -appearance. He came, bringing with him three of his neighbors, who were -eager to hear the news. They were followed, after a little space, and in -season for supper, by another guest—perhaps the most welcome of all to -the old couple—in the person of a favorite preacher of the Methodist -persuasion. Elijah Fields, was a man of middle age, of a vigorous mind -and body, earnest and impetuous, and represented, with considerable -efficiency, in his primitive province, the usefulness of a church which, -perhaps, more than any other, has modeled itself after that of the -Primitive Fathers. We shall see more of Elijah Fields hereafter. In the -course of the evening, three other neighbors made their appearance at -the farm-house of Frederick Sabb; making a goodly congregation upon -which to exercise the political abilities of Messrs. Wagner and Long. -They were all filled with a more or less lively curiosity in regard to -the events which were in progress, and the objects which the -commissioners had in view. Four of these neighbors were of the same good -old German stock with Frederick Sabb, but two of them were natives of -the country, from the east bank of the north branch of the Edisto, who -happened to be on a visit to an adjoining farmstead. The seventh of -these was a young Scotchman, from Cross Creek, North Carolina, who had -already declared himself very freely against the revolutionary movement. -He had, indeed, gone so far as to designate the patriots as traitors, -deserving a short cord and a sudden shrift; and this opinion was -expressed with a degree of temper which did not leave it doubtful that -he would gladly seek an opportunity to declare himself offensively in -the presence of the commissioners. As we shall see more of this person -hereafter, it is only right that we should introduce him formally to the -reader as Matthew or Mat Dunbar. He went much more frequently by the -name of Mat than Matthew. We may also mention that he was not entirely a -politician. A feeling of a tender nature brought him to the dwelling of -old Sabb, upon whose daughter, Frederica, our young Scotchman was -supposed to look with hungry eyes. And public conjecture did not err in -its suspicions. - -But Mat Dunbar was not without a rival. Richard Coulter was the only -native of the country present, Parson Fields excepted. He was a tall, -manly youth, about the same age with Dunbar. But he possessed many -advantages over the latter, particularly in respect to person. Tall, -while Dunbar was short, with a handsome face, fine eye, and a luxuriant -shock of hair, and a massive beard of the same color, which gave quite a -martial appearance to his features, otherwise effeminate—the spectator -inevitably contrasted him with his rival, whose features, indeed, were -fair, but inexpressive; and whose hair and beard were of the most -burning and unmitigated red. Though stout of limb, vigorous and -athletic, Mat Dunbar was awkward in his movement, and wanting in dignity -of bearing. Mentally, the superiority of Coulter was not so manifest. He -was more diffident and gentle than the other, who, experienced by -travel, bold and confident, never exhibited himself at less than his -real worth. These preliminaries must suffice. It is perhaps scarcely -necessary to say that Frederica Sabb made _her_ comparisons between the -two, and very soon arrived at one conclusion. A girl of common instincts -rarely fails to discover whether she is sought or not; and the same -instincts lead her generally to determine between rivals long in advance -of the moment when they propose. Richard Coulter was certainly her -favorite—though her prudence was of that becoming kind which enabled -her easily to keep to herself the secret of her preference. - -Old Sabb treated his guests with good Dutch hospitality. His wife and -daughter were excellent housekeepers, and the table was soon spread with -good things for supper. Butter, milk, and cream-cheeses, were not -wanting; pones and hoe-cakes made an ample showing, and a few boiled -chickens, and a large platter of broiled ham, in the centre of the -table, was as much a matter of course in that early day, in this -favorite region, as we find them among its good livers now. Of course, -supper was allowed to be discussed before the commissioners opened their -budget. Then the good _vrow_ took her place, knitting in hand, and a -huge ball of cotton in her lap, at the door, while the guests emerged -from the hall into the piazza, and sweet Frederica Sabb, quietly, as was -her habit, proceeded to put away the _debris_ of the feast, and to -restore the apartment to its former order. In this she was undisturbed -by either of her lovers; the custom of the country requiring that she -should be left to these occupations without being embarrassed by any -obtrusive sentiments, or even civilities. But it might be observed that -Richard Coulter had taken his seat in the piazza, at a window looking -into the hall, while Mat Dunbar had placed himself nearly at the -entrance, and in close neighborhood with the industrious dame. Here he -divided himself with attentions to her, and an occasional dip into the -conversation on politics, which was now fully in progress. It is not our -purpose to pursue this conversation. The arguments of the commissioners -can be readily conjectured. But they were fruitless to persuade our -worthy Dutchman into any change, or any self-committals, the issue of -which might endanger present comforts and securities. He had still the -same answer to every argument, delivered in a broken English which we -need not imitate. - -“The king, George, has been a good king to me, my friends. I was poor, -but I am not poor now. I had not a finger of land before I came hither. -Now, I have good grants, and many acres. I am doing well. For what -should I desire to do better? The good king will not take away my -grants; but if I should hear to you, I should be rebel, and then he -would be angry, and he might make me poor again as I never was before. -No, no, my friends; I will sign no association, that shall make me lose -my lands.” - -“You’re right!” vociferated Mat Dunbar. “It’s treason, I say, to sign -any association, and all these rangers here, in arms, are in open -rebellion; and should be hung for it; and let the time come, and I’m one -to help in the hanging them!” - -This was only one of many such offensive speeches which Dunbar had -contrived to make during the evening. The commissioners contented -themselves with _marking_ the individual, but without answering him. But -his rudely expressed opinions were not pleasing to old Sabb himself, and -still less so to his worthy _vrow_, who withdrew at this into the hall; -while the stern voice of Elijah Fields descended in rebuke upon the -offender. - -“And who art thou,” said he, abruptly, “to sit in judgment upon thy -brethren? And who has commissioned thee to lend thyself to the taking of -human life. Life is a sacred thing, young man—the most precious of -human possessions, since it depends on the time which is allowed us -whether we shall ever be fit for eternity. To one so young as thyself, -scarcely yet entered on thy career as a man, it might be well to -remember that modesty is the jewel of youth, and that when so many of -the great and good of the land have raised their voices against the -oppressions of the mother country, there may be good reason why we, who -know but little, should respect them, and listen till we learn. If thou -wilt be counseled by me, thou wilt hearken patiently to these worthy -gentlemen, that we may know all the merits of their argument.” - -Dunbar answered this rebuke with a few muttered sentences, which were -hardly intelligible, making no concessions to the preacher or the -commissioners, yet without being positively offensive. Richard Coulter -was more prudent. He preserved a profound silence. But he was neither -unobservant nor indifferent. As yet he had taken no side in the -controversy, and was totally uncommitted among the people. But he had -been a listener, and was quietly chewing the cud of self-reflection. - -After a little while, leaving the venerable signiors still engaged in -the discussion—for Wagner and Long, the commissioners, were not willing -to forego the hope of bringing over a man of Sabb’s influence—the young -men strolled out into the grounds, where their horses had been fastened. -It was almost time to ride. As they walked, the Scotchman broke out -abruptly: - -“These fellows ought to be hung, every scoundrel of them; stirring up -the country to insurrection and treason; but a good lesson of hickories, -boys, might put a stop to it quite as well as the halter! What say you? -They ride over to old Carter’s, after they leave daddy Sabb’s, and it’s -a lonesome track! If you agree, we’ll stop ’em at Friday’s flats, and -trice ’em up to a swinging limb. We’re men enough for it, and who’s -afraid?” - -The proposition was received with great glee by all the young fellows, -with one exception. It was a proposition invoking sport rather than -patriotism. When the more eager responses were all received, Richard -Coulter quietly remarked: - -“No, no, boys; you must do nothing of the kind. These are good men, and -old enough to be the fathers of any of us. Besides, they’re strangers, -and think they’re doing right. Let ’em alone.” - -“Well, if you wont;” said Dunbar, “we can do without you. There are four -of us, and they’re but two.” - -“You mistake,” replied Coulter, still quietly, “they are three!” - -“How! who!” - -“Wagner, Long, and Richard Coulter!” - -“What, you! Will you put yourself against us? You go with the rebels, -then?” - -“I go with the strangers; I don’t know much about the rebellion, but I -think there’s good sense in what they say. At all events, I’ll not stand -by and see them hurt, if I can help it.” - -“Two or three boys,” continued Dunbar, “will make no difference!” - -This was said with a significant toss of the head toward Coulter. The -instincts of these young men were true. They already knew one another as -rivals. This discovery may have determined the future course of Coulter. -He did not reply to Dunbar; but, addressing his three companions, he -said, calling each by his Christian name, “You, boys, had better not mix -in this matter before it’s necessary. I suppose the time will come, when -there can be no skulking. But it’s no use to hurry into trouble. As for -four of you managing three, that’s not impossible; but I reckon there -will be a fight first. These strangers may have weapons; but whether -they have or not, they look like men; and I reckon, you that know me, -know that before my back tastes of any man’s hickory, my knife would be -likely to taste his blood.” - -Dunbar replied rudely for the rest; and, but that Coulter quietly -withdrew at this moment, seemingly unruffled, and without making any -answer, there might have been a struggle between the two rivals even -then. But the companions of Dunbar had no such moods or motives as -prompted him. They were impressed by what Coulter had said, and were, -perhaps, quite as much under his influence as under that of Dunbar. They -accordingly turned a cold shoulder upon all his exhortations, and the -commissioners, accordingly, left the house of old Sabb in safety, -attended by young Coulter. They little knew his object in escorting them -to the dwelling of Bennett Carter, where they staid that night, and -never knew the danger from which his prompt and manly courage had saved -them. But the events of that night brought out Richard Coulter for the -cause of the patriots; and a few months found him a second-lieutenant in -a gallant corps of Thompson’s Rangers, raised for the defense of the -colony. But the commissioners parted from Frederick Sabb without making -any impression on his mind. He professed to desire to preserve a perfect -neutrality—this being the suggestion of his selfishness; but his heart -really inclined him to the support of the “goot King Jorge,” from whom -his grants of land had been derived. - -“And what dost thou think, brother Fields,” said he to the parson, after -the commissioners had retired. - -“Brother Sabb,” was the answer, “I do not see that we need any king any -more than the people of Israel, when they called upon Samuel for one; -and if we are to have one, I do not see why we should not choose one -from out our own tribes.” - -“Brother Fields, I hope thou dost not mean to go with these rebels?” - -“Brother Sabb, I desire always to go with my own people.” - -“And whom callest thou our own people.” - -“Those who dwell upon the soil and nurse it, and make it flourish, who -rear their flocks and children upon it, in the fear of God, and have no -fear of man in doing so.” - -“Brother Fields, I fear thou thinkst hardly of ‘goot King Jorge,’” said -our Dutchman, with a sigh. “Minnicker, my _vrow_, got you de Piple.” - ------ - -[5] So called from the branching of the river at a certain point—the -country between the two arms being called the Forks, and settled chiefly -by native Germans. - - - CHAPTER II. - -We pass over a long interval of quite three years. The vicissitudes of -the Revolution had not materially affected the relations of the several -parties to our narrative. During this period the patriots of South -Carolina had been uniformly successful. They had beaten away the British -from their chief city, and had invariably chastised the loyalists in all -their attempts to make a diversion in favor of the foreign enemy. But -events were changing. These performances had not been effected but at -great sacrifice of blood and treasure, and a formidable British invasion -found the State no longer equal to its defense. Charleston, the capital -city, after frequent escapes, and a stout and protracted defense, had -succumbed to the besiegers, who had now penetrated the interior, -covering it with their strongholds, and coercing it with their arms. For -a brief interval, all opposition to their progress seemed to be at an -end within the State. She had no force in the field, stunned by repeated -blows, and waiting, though almost hopeless of her opportunity. In the -meantime, where was Richard Coulter? A fugitive, lying _perdu_ either in -the swamps of Edisto or Congaree, with few companions, all similarly -reduced in fortune, and pursued with a hate and fury the most -unscrupulous and unrelenting, by no less a person than Matthew Dunbar, -now a captain of loyalists in the service of George the Third. The -position of Coulter was in truth very pitiable; but he was not without -his consolations. The interval which had elapsed since our first meeting -with him, had ripened his intimacy with Frederica Sabb. His affections -had not been so unfortunate as his patriotism. With the frank impulse of -a fond and feeling heart, he had appealed to hers, in laying bare the -secret of his own; and he had done so successfully. She, with as frank a -nature, freely gave him her affections, while she did not venture to -bestow on him her hand. His situation was not such as to justify their -union—and her father positively forbade the idea of such a connection. -Though not active among the loyalists, he was now known to approve of -their sentiments; and while giving them all the aid and comfort in his -power, without actually showing himself in armor, he as steadily turned -a cold and unwilling front to the patriots, and all those who went -against the monarch. The visits of Richard Coulter to Frederica were all -stolen ones, perhaps not the less sweet for being so. A storm sometimes -brought him forth at nightfall from the shelter of the neighboring -swamp, venturing abroad at a time when loyalty was supposed to keep its -shelter. But these visits were always accompanied by considerable peril. -The eye of Matthew Dunbar was frequently drawn in the direction of the -fugitive, while his passions were always eager in the desire which led -him to seek for this particular victim. The contest was a well-known -issue of life and death. The fugitive patriot was predoomed always to -the halter, by those who desired to pacify old revenges, or acquire new -estates. Dunbar did not actually know that Coulter and Frederica Sabb -were in the habit of meeting; but that they had met, he knew, and he had -sworn their detection. He had become a declared suitor of that maiden, -and the fears of old Sabb would not suffer him to decline his attentions -to his daughter, or to declare against them. Dunbar had become -notoriously an unmitigated ruffian. His insolence disgusted the old -Dutchman, who, nevertheless, feared his violence and influence. Still, -sustained by good old Minnicker Sabb, his _vrow_, the father had the -firmness to tell Dunbar freely, that his daughter’s affections should -remain unforced; while the daughter herself, seeing the strait of her -parents, was equally careful to avoid the final necessity of repulsing -her repulsive suitor. She continued, by a happy assertion of maidenly -dignity, to keep him at bay, without vexing his self-esteem; and to -receive him with civility, without affording him positive encouragement. -Such was the condition of things among our several parties, when the -partisan war began; when the favorite native leaders in the South—the -first panic of their people having passed—had rallied their little -squads, in swamp and thicket, and were making those first demonstrations -which began to disquiet the British authorities, rendering them doubtful -of the conquests which they had so lately deemed secure. This, be it -remembered, was after the defeat of Gates at Camden, when there was no -sign of a Continental army within the State. - -It was at the close of a cloudy afternoon, late in October, 1780, when -Mat Dunbar, with a small command of eighteen mounted men, approached the -well-known farmstead of Frederick Sabb. The road lay along the west bank -of the eastern branch of the Edisto, inclining to or receding from the -river, in correspondence with the width of the swamp, or the sinuosities -of the stream. The farm of Sabb was bounded on one side by the river, -and his cottage stood within a mile of it. Between, however, the lands -were entirely uncleared. The woods offered a physical barrier to the -malaria of the swamp; while the ground, though rich, was liable to -freshet, and required a degree of labor in the drainages which it was -not in the power of our good Dutchman to bestow. A single wagon-track -led through the wood to the river from his house; and there may have -been some half dozen irregular foot-paths tending in the same direction. -When within half a mile from the house, Mat Dunbar pricked up his ears. - -“That was surely the gallop of a horse,” he said to his lieutenant—a -coarse, ruffianly fellow like himself, named Clymes. - -“Where away?” demanded the other. - -“To the left. Put in with a few of the boys, and see what can be found.” - -Clymes did as he was bidden; but the moment he had disappeared, Dunbar -suddenly wheeled into the forest also, putting spurs to his horse, and -commanding his men to follow and scatter themselves in the wood. A keen -suspicion was at the bottom of his sudden impulse; and with his pistol -in his grasp, and his teeth set firmly, he darted away at a rate that -showed the eagerness of the blood-hound, on a warm scent. In a few -moments the wood was covered with his people, and their cries and -halloes answering to each other, turned the whole solitude into a scene -of the most animated life. Accustomed to _drive_ the woods for deer, his -party pursued the same habit in their present quest, enclosing the -largest extent of territory, and gradually contracting their _cordon_ at -a given point. It was not long before a certain degree of success seemed -to justify their pursuit. A loud shout from Clymes, his lieutenant, drew -the impetuous Dunbar to the place, and there he found the trooper, with -two others of the party, firmly confronted by no less a person than -Frederica Sabb. The maiden was very pale, but her lips were closely -compressed together, and her eyes lightened with an expression which was -not so much indicative of anger as of courage and resolve. As Dunbar -rode up, she addressed him. - -“You are bravely employed, Captain Dunbar, in hunting with your soldiers -a feeble woman.” - -“In faith, my dear Miss Sabb, we looked for very different game,” -replied the leader, while a something sardonic played over his visage. -“But perhaps you can put us in the way of finding it. You are surely not -here alone?” - -“And why not? You are within hail of my father’s dwelling.” - -“But yours, surely, are not the tastes for lonely walks.” - -“Alas! sir, these are scarcely the times for any other.” - -“Well, you must permit me to see that your walks are in no danger from -intrusion and insult. You will, no doubt, be confounded to hear that -scattered bands of the rebels are supposed to be, even now, closely -harbored in these swamps. That villain, Coulter, is known to be among -them. It is to hunt up these outlyers—to protect you from their -annoyances, that I am here now.” - -“We can readily dispense with these services, Captain Dunbar. I do not -think that we are in any danger from such enemies, and in this -neighborhood.” - -It was some effort to say this calmly. - -“Nay, nay, you are quite too confident, my dear Miss Sabb. You know not -the audacity of these rebels, and of this Richard Coulter in particular. -But let me lay hands on him! You will hardly believe that he is scarce -ten minutes gone from this spot. Did you not hear his horse?” - -“I heard no horses but your own.” - -“There it is! You walk the woods in such abstraction that you hear not -the danger, though immediately at your ears. But disperse yourself in -pursuit, my merry men, and whoso brings me the ears of this outlaw, -shall have ten guineas, in the yellow gold itself. No Continental sham! -Remember, his ears, boys! We do not want any prisoners. The trouble of -hanging them out of the way is always wisely saved by a sabre-cut or -pistol-bullet. There, away!” - -The countenance of Frederica Sabb instantly assumed the keenest -expression of alarm and anxiety. Her whole frame began to be agitated. -She advanced to the side of the ruffianly soldier, and put her hand up -appealingly. - -“Oh! Captain Dunbar, will you not please go home with me, you and your -men? It is now our supper hour, and the sun is near his setting. I pray -you, do not think of scouring the woods at this late hour. Some of your -people may be hurt.” - -“No danger, my dear—all of them are famous fox-hunters.” - -“There is no danger to us, believe me. There is nobody in the woods that -we fear. Give yourself no trouble, nor your men.” - -“Oh! you mistake, there is surely some one in this wood who is either in -your way or mine—though you heard no horse.” - -“Oh! now I recollect, sir, I did hear a horse, and it seemed to be going -in that direction.” - -Here the girl pointed below. The tory leader laughed outright. - -“And so he went thither, did he? Well, my dear Miss Sabb, to please you, -I will take up the hunt in the quarter directly opposite, since it is -evident that your hearing just now is exceedingly deceptive. Boys, away! -The back track, hark you—the old fox aims to double!” - -“Oh, go not! Go not!” she urged, passionately. - -“Will I not!” exclaimed the loyalist, gathering up his reins and backing -his steed from her; “Will I not! Away, Clymes—away, boys; and remember, -ten guineas for that hand which brings down the outlaw, Richard -Coulter!” - -Away they dashed into the forest, scattering themselves in the direction -indicated by their leader. Frederica watched their departure with an -anxious gaze, which disappeared from her eyes the moment they were out -of sight. In an instant all her agitation ceased. - -“Now, thank Heaven! for the thought!” she cried. “It will be quite dark -before they find themselves at fault; and when they think to begin the -search below, he will be wholly beyond their reach. But how to warn him -against the meeting, as agreed on? The coming of this man forbids that. -I must see! I must contrive it!” And with these muttered words of half -meaning, she quietly made her way toward her father’s dwelling, secure -of the present safety of her lover from pursuit. She had very -successfully practiced a very simple _ruse_ for his escape. Her -apprehensions were only but admirably simulated; and in telling Dunbar -that the fugitive had taken one direction, she naturally relied on his -doubts of her truth, to make him seek the opposite. She had told him -nothing but the truth, but she had told it as a falsehood; and it had -all the effect which she desired. The chase of the tory captain proved -unsuccessful. - - - CHAPTER III. - -It was quite dark before Captain Dunbar reached the cottage of Frederick -Sabb, and he did so in no good humor. Disappointed of his prey, he now -suspected the simple _ruse_ by which he had been deluded, and his first -salutation of Frederica Sabb, as he entered the cottage was in no -friendly humor. - -“There are certain birds,” said he, “Miss Sabb, who fly far from their -young ones at the approach of the hunter, yet make such a fuss and -outcry, as if the nest were close at hand, and in danger. I see you have -learned to practice after their lessons.” - -The girl involuntarily replied, “But, indeed, Captain Dunbar, I heard -the horse go below.” - -“I see you understand me,” was the answer. “I feel assured that you told -me only the truth, but you had first put me in the humor not to believe -it. Another time I shall know how to understand _you_.” - -Frederica smiled, but did not seek to excuse herself, proceeding all the -while to the preparations for supper. This had been got in readiness -especially for the arrival of Dunbar and his party. He, with Clymes, his -first officer, had become inmates of the dwelling; but his troopers had -encamped without, under instructions of particular vigilance. Meanwhile, -supper proceeded, Sabb and his _vrow_ being very heedful of all the -expressed or conjectured wants of their arbitrary guests. It was while -the repast was in progress that Dunbar fancied that he beheld a -considerable degree of uneasiness in the manner and countenance of -Frederica. She ate nothing, and her mind and eyes seemed equally to -wander. He suddenly addressed her, and she started as from a dream, at -the sound of her own name, and answered confusedly. - -“Something’s going wrong,” said Dunbar, in a whisper to Clymes; “we can -put all right, however, if we try.” - -A significant look accompanied the whisper, and made the second officer -observant. When supper was concluded, the captain of the loyalists -showed signs of great weariness. He yawned and stretched himself -amazingly, and without much regard to propriety. A like weariness soon -after exhibited itself in the second officer. At length Dunbar said to -Old Sabb, using a style of address to which the old man was familiar, -“Well, Uncle Fred, whenever my bed’s ready, say the word. I’m monstrous -like sleep. I’ve ridden a matter of fifty miles to-day. In the saddle -since four o’clock—and a hard saddle at that. I’m for sleep after -supper.” - -The old man, anxious to please his guest, whom he now began rather to -fear than favor, gave him soon the intimation which he desired, and he -was conducted to the small chamber, in a shed-room adjoining the main -hall, which had been assigned him on all previous occasions. Old Sabb -himself attended his guest, while Lieutenant Clymes remained, for a -while longer, the companion of the old lady and her daughter. Dunbar -soon released his host from further attendance by closing the door upon -him, after bowing him out with thanks. He had scarcely done so, before -he approached one of the two windows in the chamber. He knew the secrets -of the room, and his plan of operations had been already determined -upon. Concealing his light, so that his shadow might not appear against -the window, he quietly unclosed the shutter so as to fix no attention by -the sound. A great fig-tree grew near it, the branches in some degree -preventing the shutter from going quite back against the wall. This -afforded him additional cover to his proceedings, and he cautiously -passed through the opening, and lightly descended to the ground. The -height was inconsiderable, and he was enabled, with a small stick, to -close the window after him. In another moment he passed _under_ the -house, which stood on logs four or five feet high, after the manner of -the country, and took a crouching attitude immediately behind the steps -in the rear of the building. From these steps to the kitchen was an -interval of fifteen or eighteen yards, while the barn and other -outhouses lay at convenient distances beyond. Shade trees were scattered -about, and fruit trees, chiefly peach, rendering the space between -something like a covered way. We need not inquire how long our captain -of loyalists continued his watch in this unpleasant position. Patience, -however, is quite as natural as necessary a quality to a temper at once -passionate and vindictive. While he waited here, his lieutenant had left -the house, scattered his men privily about the grounds, and had himself -stolen to a perch which enabled him to command the front entrance to the -cottage. The only two means of egress were thus effectually guarded. - -In a little time the household was completely quiet. Dunbar had heard -the mutterings, from above, of the family prayers, in which it was no -part of his profession to partake; and had heard the footsteps of the -old couple as they passed through the passage-way to the chamber -opposite the dining hall. A chamber adjoining theirs was occupied by -Frederica Sabb; but he listened in vain for her footsteps in that -quarter. His watch was one calculated to try his patience, but it was -finally rewarded. He heard the movement of a light foot over head, and -soon the door opened in the rear of the dwelling, and he distinguished -Frederica as she descended, step by step, to the ground. She paused, -looked up and around her, and then, darting from tree to tree, she made -her way to the kitchen, which opened at her touch. Here, in a whisper, -she summoned to her side a negro, an old African, whom we may, at the -same time, mention, had been her frequent emissary before, on missions -such as she now designed. Brough, as he was called, was a faithful Ebo, -who loved his young mistress, and had shown himself particularly -friendly to her _affaires de cœur_. She put a paper into his hands, and -her directions employed few words. - -“Brough, you must set off for Massa Richard, and give him this. You must -creep close, or the soldiers will catch you. I don’t know where they’ve -gone, but no doubt they’re scattered in the woods. I have told him, in -this paper, not to come, as he promised; but should you lose the -paper—” - -“I no guine loss ’em,” said Brough, seemingly rather displeased at the -doubt, tacitly conveyed, of his carefulness. - -“Such a thing might happen, Brough; nay, if you were to see any of the -tories, you ought to destroy it. Hide it, tear it up, or swallow it, so -that they won’t be able to read it.” - -“I yerry, misses.” - -“Very good! And now, when you see Massa Richard, tell him not to come. -Tell him better go farther off, across the fork, and across the other -river; for that Mat Dunbar means to push after him to-morrow, and has -sworn to hunt him up before he stops. Tell him, I beg him, for my sake, -though he may not be afraid of that bad man, to keep out of his way, at -least until he gathers men enough to meet him on his own ground.” - -The startling voice of Dunbar himself broke in upon the whispered -conference. “Mat Dunbar is exceedingly obliged to you, Miss Sabb.” - -“Ah!” shrieked the damsel—“Brough—fly, fly, Brough.” But Brough had no -chance for flight. - -“His wings are not sufficiently grown,” cried the loyalist, with a -brutal yell, as he grappled the old negro by the throat, and hurled him -to the ground. In the next moment he possessed himself of the paper, -which he read with evident disappointment. By this time the sound of his -bugle had summoned his lieutenant, with half a dozen of his followers, -and the kitchen was completely surrounded. - -“Miss Sabb, you had best retire to the dwelling. I owe you no favors, -and will remember your avowed opinion, this night, for Mat Dunbar. You -have spoken. It will be for me yet to speak. Lieutenant Clymes, see the -young lady home.” - -“But, sir, you will not maltreat the negro?” - -“Oh! no! I mean only that he shall obey your commands. He shall carry -this note to your favorite, just as you designed, with this difference -only, that I shall furnish him with an escort.” - -“Ah!” - -Poor Frederica could say no more. Clymes was about to hurry her away, -when a sense of her lover’s danger gave her strength. - -“Brough;” she cried to the negro; “you won’t show where Massa Richard -keeps?” - -“Never show the tories not’ing, missis.” - -The close gripe of Dunbar’s finger upon the throat of the negro, stifled -his further speech. But Frederica was permitted to see no more. The hand -of Clymes was laid upon her arm, and she went forward promptly to save -herself from indignity. She little knew the scene that was to follow. - - [_To be continued._ - - * * * * * - - - - - THE SPIRIT LOVERS - - - AND THE SPIRIT BRIDAL. - - - BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH. - - - The twilight deepened—and its dusky shades - Crept through the crimson of the sunset clouds, - To nestle darkly where some shining star - Looped up the gorgeous foldings, as they hung - Like Eden-banners, waving far around - The purple arches of a southern sky. - From the deep forest aisles came up the wind, - Low singing in its wand’ring, with the voice - Of softly chanting waves, and whisp’ring leaves. - The silver moon came floating from the east, - Like a young angel sleeping on the wing, - Whose dream-smile glittered o’er the dewy earth, - And trembling through an open casement, kissed - A brow of maiden beauty slumbering there. - The velvet drapery of her couch was tossed - In crimson waves around her, and above - Fell snowy veilings, bending like a wreath - Of silvery vapor o’er a rosy sea; - Carelessly graceful in her sweet repose, - She rested like a lily on the stream, - When drooping gently ’neath its own perfume. - The dew of early youth was gleaming yet - Upon her pure heart-blossoms, and the first - Faint blush of love within her spirit, wrought - Rich blazonry upon their mystic leaves. - In slumber, through her softly rounded limbs - A radiant soul in bright expression stole, - Like glimpses of the evening star amid - The pure white veiling of a pearly cloud. - She watched the sunlight fade upon the hills, - And star-flames kindle in the dusky sky— - But now she rested in the land of dreams, - To wait the coming of her Spirit-Love. - He came—a vision whose bewildering eyes - Seemed light ineffable in midnight skies— - While plumes of waving frost-work, dashed with flakes - Of golden sunbeams, glittered ’mid the folds - Of woven radiance floating round his form, - Snow-flake and fire-drop wreathing into life, - His gorgeous pinion shadowed o’er his Bride, - His breath upon her cheek—his lightning glance - Stole through the visions of her dreaming soul, - As when the passion of the dying sun - Glows o’er the bosom of a sleeping cloud, - Till love’s wild worship wakes returning flame, - And each in burning blushes dies away! - As a fair volume, and a golden lyre, - Wreathed by the tendrils of an opening rose, - Her Mind, and Soul, and fresh expanding Heart, - Lay bright before his spirit-searching ken, - As one by one he softly laid aside - The crimson petals of that folded heart, - To drink the honied fragrance of its love, - The rose-bud thrilled and trembled into bloom, - Its breeze his sigh—its sun his burning glance— - Its dew-drop life his kisses wild and warm. - He lingered o’er the pure, unsullied leaves - Of Mind’s mysterious volume, and there came, - Where’er he breathed upon the virgin page, - Bright gems of glowing fancy, and deep thought, - As magic characters come stealing forth - In loveliness before the breath of flame! - His being brightened with a God-like smile, - As, closely blended with each pictured thought, - _His_ image, flashing into glorious life, - Smiled back upon him from the glowing page - So truthfully—then with the soft excess - Of dreamy rapture ’wildered, fainting bowed, - And blessed the sweet love-mirror, silently. - Her soul in beauty, an Æolian lyre, - Gleamed forth before him, where the voice of Song - Slept like its spirit in a singing shell. - His light caressing pinion swept its chords, - And Joy’s bird-carol—Hope’s aerial tone— - Pride’s sounding anthem—and the pæan wild - Of young Ambition rolled in glory forth. - He breathed upon it—and anon there swelled - (As tears will gush from rapture-laden hearts) - Her pure religion’s diapason deep;— - Sweet under-tones of dreamy melancholy— - And chords of feeling that erewhile had slept - In voiceless music, and o’er all the theme - An ever-changing, ever-sounding tone, - Was deep, immaculate, immortal _Love_! - - - THE SPIRIT-BRIDAL. - - The Night had closed her eye of softest blue, - And, like a wearied infant, sank to rest - On Nature’s gentle bosom—Silence, pale, - With a white finger on her marble lip, - From which no lightest whisper ever came, - Was bending o’er the dim and murmured death - Of every sound—and even Echo dreamed, - As though a spirit’s wand had charmed her there - To slumber deep as that Creation held - When Night was in the heavens! - Still as the moonlight quivered through the vines - That overhung the casement, it revealed - The rosy couch, beneath its silvery veil, - As by its side the maiden knelt to pray. - Oh! if there be on earth one blessing left— - One leaf from out our faded Paradise— - One ray of glory from the heaven we lost— - It is, that we may pray for those we love! - Without it _man_ may live—his nature knows - No soft dependence—panoplied in self, - His haughty heart may burn to dash aside - The hand that formed it—and he may defy - The love that made him what he is—a god! - But _woman_ never—for her ivy soul - Must have an oak to cling to; proud and high - Its crest may be, or ruined, lightning-scathed, - It matters not—and for it she must pray! - Prayer is her nature’s pure necessity, - To calm the sorrow that with lava streams, - Pours its bewildering torrent o’er the soul, - And when she feels it crushing darkly through - A bosom all too soft to stem its tide - Of bitter, burning waters—then, for power - To “suffer and be still,” that bosom prays. - And oh! when human love has taught her heart - To dream of _one_ and _Heaven_, how pants her soul - To pour that gushing feeling freely forth, - In all its truth and deep intensity, before - The “God of love” who gave it! - ’Twas for this - The gentle maiden meekly knelt to God - Till each pure love-beam from her violet eye - Seemed melting into passion’s orison. - Warm feeling folded up its starry plumes - To bow before the altar-shrine of faith, - And holy hopes looked from the golden shades - That lay upon her soul, as angels bend - O’er the bright foldings of the summer clouds, - To woo us to the sky, from whence they come. - Her eye grew dreamy, and her bosom heaved, - As though within its cell some pleasant thought - Were singing, and it rose and fell upon - The waves of that delicious melody. - Her loosened hair swept o’er the sacred page, - And, as her soul went forth in whispers low, - It stirred the shadows with the breath of prayer. - She oped the holy book, and as her lip - Trembled upon the words, they sank within - Her woman’s nature as the snow-flake falls - And melts away into the earth’s warm bosom. - Time, as he wandered by, had sighed the hour - Of “twelve,” and for a moment midnight’s hush - Grew tremulous, and echo as it fell, - Swept o’er the tension of her listening ear - Softly and thrillingly, and like to Love’s - First breathings o’er an unawakened heart. - Her voice grew fainter, as a music-vow - Stole sweetly in the cadence of her own— - She felt the glory of an angel-wing - Around her waving, and she knew the hour— - Her Spirit-Lover claimed his Spirit-Bride! - With pinions intertwining, arms enwreathed - And fervid glances bathed in passion’s dream, - They swept along the cloud-land pathway, where - The constellations, from their silver urns, - Poured incense light far down the “Milky-Way,” - And o’er its misty pavement Cynthia flung - A thousand rainbows, like the wreathed bloom - Of bridal blossoms. Still they floated on, - Far through the starry armaments that sweep - In endless circle round the battlements - Of Paradise—an everlasting guard - High flaming round the Infinite;—at length, - Within the presence-chamber of the Blest, - They knelt before the Great Unchangeable, - Whose love and mercy whispered audibly, - “_Forever be ye one—as God is One!_” - - * * * * * - - - - - STORIES FROM THE OLD DRAMATISTS. - - - NO. 1.—MASSINGER’S GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE. - - - BY ENNA DUVAL. - - - “I cannot pretend in these succinct narrations to have rivaled - Charles Lamb and his excellent sister in the art of turning - drama into narrative. The “Shakspeare Tales” is an unique book, - the beauty of which all can perceive who are worth pleasing; but - few who have not tried the like, can appreciate the difficulty, - the matchless skill of its execution.” - - Hartley Coleridge. - -Cozimo, duke of Florence, a noble and virtuous prince had the misfortune -to lose, by death, his duchess, Clarinda, a lady of such rare and -matchless virtues, that, as he said, the whole world could not produce -one worthy to be her second. In her grave he buried all thoughts of -woman. - -His courtiers, and ministers of state, repeatedly urged him to a second -marriage, for they feared that after his death, he being childless, -distraction might breed in the state, and cause the downfall of his -noble house. Residing at the court was a beautiful and wealthy orphan, -Fiorinda, duchess of Urbin, the ward of Cozimo, and she was the one that -his counsellors desired him to wed. Kindly, but sadly, he always waived -aside their counsel, telling them, that the lovely Fiorinda should have -a more fitting mate, and that as regarded the welfare of the state, his -princely care would provide one worthy to succeed him. - -This “worthy successor,” was his nephew Giovanni, his sister’s son, an -orphan, dependent on his bounty. This youth he loved for his dear -sister’s sake, and he spared no pains or trouble to render him worthy of -his future high position. The more to further this, Cozimo placed -Giovanni under the sole charge of a noble, and highly educated -Florentine gentleman, Carolo Charomonte by name, who lived retired on an -estate five hours distance from Florence. This gentleman discharged, to -the utmost of his power, the duty the duke committed to him, and by -means of his rare experience, using great care, he trained the young -Giovanni up in all those arts, peculiar and proper to future greatness; -therefore it was no wonder, but rather a necessity, that when this young -prince had grown to be a man, he should make good the princely education -he had derived from his accomplished tutor. - -His uncle had studiously kept him away from court, during the perilous -season of youth; but as the young Giovanni approached manhood, he gave -such great promise of ability, that Cozimo could no longer withstand his -tender desire for his company. Report filled the duke’s ears with -stories of his nephew, which, if true, would have made him a miracle—a -wonder in arts and arms; and in order to test the verity of this fine -account, he sent his secretary, Contarino, to summon Giovanni to his -presence. - -This secretary came to Charamonte’s house, bearing compliments, and -courtly thanks, and promises of munificent reward, from the duke. These -the noble Charamonte received with dignified, courteous gratefulness; -and although it was a sweet thought to him, that nature had so well -aided him in his great duty as to enable him to return to his royal -master a phœnix of grace and goodness, in the person of his nephew, this -very yielding up of his charge, filled his breast with sadness. The -young Giovanni had a disposition so gentle and sweet by nature, that it -won on all appointed to attend him, insomuch that it made them rivals, -even in the coarsest office, to get precedency to do him service; no -wonder then, that his guardian, who had always found him obedient, -loving, and reverential as a son, should have unconsciously permitted -his affections to twine around him with a parent’s fondness. Nor did -Giovanni receive his uncle’s summons with pleasure; as he read the -duke’s letter the frequent changes of his countenance, manifested how -strongly his unwillingness contended with his duty. - -He loved his guardian, regarded him with as much respect and service as -would have been due to the one who gave him life; but still more fondly -did he love the good Charamonte’s incomparable daughter—the fair Lidia. -She had been his companion from childhood; the partner of his studies -and his pleasures. The commands of his uncle revealed to him in an -instant the nature of his regard for her; but, at the same time, he felt -the misery and hopelessness of such a love. His high station he felt -would be a barrier to honorable love, and this thought deepened tenfold -his anguish. In sweet, tender words he bewailed his sad fate, when he -bade farewell to her, describing, in touching language, their future lot -had he been born in a more humble state. - -“Ah! Lidia,” he exclaimed, “then I might have seen and liked with mine -own eyes, and not as now, with others. I might still continue my -delights with you, that are alone, in my esteem, the abstract of -society. We might walk in solitary groves, or in choice gardens, and in -the variety of curious flowers, contemplate nature’s workmanship and -wonders; then for change, near to the murmur of some bubbling fountain, -I might hear you sing, and from the well tuned accents of your tongue, -in my imagination, conceive the melody of Heaven’s harmony; then with -chaste discourse we would return imp feathers to the broken wing of -time. But all this I must part from—I might after continued innocence -of love and service have been your husband—” - -Here Lidia checked him, and reminded him that she was, and ever would be -his servant; that it was far from her, even in a thought, to cherish -such saucy hopes as these. Had she been heir to all the globes and -sceptres, that mankind bows to, then, at her best, she might have -deserved him; but now, in her humble state, she could only wish that he -might find a partner—a princess equal to him, who would make it the -study of her life, with all the obedience of a wife, to please him. For -her own part, she would be content to live and be their humblest -handmaid. So humble and childlike doth love show itself in a pure, -gentle nature. - -In this sweet sorrowful manner they parted from each other, and Giovanni -hastened to do his uncle’s bidding; but first he embraced his good old -guardian, saying, farewell, and assured him that should he ever reach -his high destination their fortunes should be shared—then joining the -secretary, he repaired to the Florentine court. - -Duke Cozimo had a favorite, Lodovico Sanazarro by name, and he loved him -so dearly that he used to say Sanazarro’s merits were so great that -should he divide his dukedom with him, he would still continue his -debtor. Princes’ favorites are apt to be undeserving men, -notwithstanding they may be set off with all the trim of greatness, -state, and power; for princes are men, not gods, and though they can -give wealth and titles, they cannot give virtues, that is out of their -power. But Duke Cozimo had proved the correctness of his judgment in the -choice of his friend. Sanazarro’s nature was like pure, tried gold, and -any stamp of grace the duke was pleased to give him, to make him current -to the world, did but add honor to the royal bestower. Even the -courtiers felt no envy against him, for he was no lazy drone, but an -industrious bee. He fought the enemies of the state, and displayed great -valor; then, after returning crowned with conquest, he labored in the -service of his royal master, sharing in the cares and burthen of the -government. - -Duke Cozimo’s secret design was to wed this favorite with his wealthy -ward, Fiorinda. This noble princess was not averse to this plan, for -Lodovico being a handsome and brave gentleman, had quite won her heart -and she loved to dwell on his exploits in the field, and abilities -displayed in the council. Sanazarro, however, was very modest, and never -dared to lift his thoughts so high as to woo so rich and noble a dame as -the Princess Fiorinda. - -Encouraged by her guardian, Fiorinda endeavored by courteous, but -delicate advances, to remove this diffidence. She always received him -with distinction, and took occasion repeatedly to send him gifts, which -he received with the reverent gratefulness of a subject; expressing more -ceremony in his humble thanks, than feeling of the favor—appearing -almost willfully ignorant, and blind to the tender feeling which -prompted these courteous condescensions. But true love is patient, and -forbearing, and as Sanazarro displayed no love for any other lady, she -used to comfort herself with the thought, that it was the light of her -high estate that made him blind, and taxed her woman’s wit for means to -lessen the difference between them. The frequent dangers that he was -exposed to, however, in the service of the state, made her unhappy, and -after the young Prince Giovanni came to court, she took occasion to -interest him in Sanazarro’s favor, begging that he would be suitor to -the duke not to expose this brave, noble gentleman to so much peril, but -rather to command him, after his great labors, to take rest. - -Prince Giovanni received this request with delight, for he also had a -boon to ask of the duchess. So great was his love for the fair Lidia -Charomonte, that he could no longer bear the separation from her, and -after describing her with a lover’s colors to the princess, he begged -she would take occasion to ask permission of the duke, to add this -matchless virgin to her train of ladies. She promised to effect his -desire, right quickly; and they parted from each other with bright -hopes. - -Soon after Giovanni’s return to court, the secretary who had brought -him, while reporting to the duke an account of his journey, gave an -enthusiastic description of Charomonte’s daughter, and in doing this, -implied that the prince loved her. Straightway, but quietly, the kind -duke conceived the design of securing also his dearly loved nephew’s -happiness, but fearing that this object of his love might not be worthy -of so high a fortune, he resolved to send his trusty favorite, -Sanazarro, to Charomonte’s house, to see this paragon of beauty and -virtue. - -This he did without acquainting Sanazarro with his reasons, and the -favorite fulfilled his master’s orders, thinking the duke wished to -contract a marriage with this humble maid. But after seeing the fair -Lidia he was so struck with her beauty, modesty, and wit, that he forgot -his duty to his master and his honor. The recollection of past favors -from the duke, even the beautiful, kind, forbearing Duchess Fiorinda, -seemed as nothing to him, under the influence of this wild infatuation. -He returned to court, resolved to find some means of blinding the duke, -and turning him aside from pursuit of the fair Lidia. The secretary he -knew he could silence, and the Prince Giovanni, the only one who could -disclose his falsehood, he hoped to quiet, by telling him of the duke’s -purpose of marriage, which would of course endanger his prospect of -succeeding to the dukedom. - -How weak and wicked are the best of men when exposed to some trials. -Here was this loyal, noble, honorable gentleman, who had withstood the -weakening effects of princes’ favor, yielding truth and allegiance at a -moment when he should have been most strong—at a moment when he felt -most confidence. He forgot the honors and glories by Cozimo’s grace -conferred upon him; he deceived his trust and made shipwreck of his -loyalty. Did he not deserve ruin? - -Prince Giovanni received the news of his uncle’s projected marriage with -indifference, answering most nobly, that he had no right, because he had -received benefits from his uncle’s hands, to prescribe laws for his -pleasure. But when he heard who his uncle purposed to wed, then his own -love raised the standard of rebellion in his heart, and he willingly -united with the false Sanazarro in decrying the charms of his loved -mistress. Both singly and together they spoke disparagingly of this -beautiful lady, and Cozimo believed them, although it caused him some -surprise, but, as he said, he had never found them false. - -But falsehood in weaving its net, always forgets to leave a loop-hole -for its own escape. Too late Giovanni remembered the favor he had asked -of the Duchess Fiorinda, and he hastened to request her to be silent in -the matter. But while he was seeking her fruitlessly, she was already -with the duke moving him, with all a woman’s eloquence, to command the -presence of Charomonte’s fair daughter at the court, saying, that his -nephew had given her such an abstract of perfection in his description -of this maiden, that she did not wish to employ her as a servant, but to -be by her instructed, and use her as a dear companion. - -Duke Cozimo listened with amazement, and then, almost doubting his -senses, made the princess repeat all that Giovanni had told her. This -she did, using his very words: that she possessed all that could be -wished for in a virgin. That she had rare beauty, her discourse was -ravishing, she had quickness of apprehension, with choice manners and -learning too, not usual with women. - -This account was so unlike the report given by Giovanni and Sanazarro to -him, that the duke saw with anger he had been deceived. This wounded him -deeply, for he could not bear the thought of insincerity and falsehood -in his nephew and bosom friend. He felt that he had been trifled with, -and resolved to examine into the matter himself, then, if he found they -had played him false, he would punish them with rigor. But he smothered -his wrath, meaning to act quietly without their knowledge. He told the -duchess her suit was granted; that the fair Lidia should come to her; -but in return he would ask her to go with him the following morning on a -short journey to the country. As he made this request, Giovanni and -Sanazarro entered just in time to hear it. The duke greeted them coldly -and left them. Joyfully the duchess hastened to communicate to Prince -Giovanni her success. He dissembled his confusion awkwardly, and essayed -to thank her for her kindness. She courteously received his thanks, and -then with sweet condescension greeted Sanazarro, begging him to accept -of a diamond from her, and wear it for her sake. Saying this, she bade -them both adieu, and hastened to be in readiness for the duke’s journey. - -The young prince and Sanazarro gazed at each other in consternation. -Something must be done, however, and that right quickly, for they both -felt certain that it was the duke’s intention to see Lidia with his own -eyes, and that the journey of the following day was to Charomonte’s -house. Hastily Giovanni decided upon sending his serving man that night -with a letter to Lidia. In this letter he told her that the duke, his -uncle, had heard of her, and her beauty, and was about to seek her he -feared, with unlawful love. “If he see you, as you are, fair Lidia,” he -concluded, “my hoped-for happiness will be changed into an everlasting -night. Let your goodness find some means to prevent my uncle seeing you, -and thus you will save two lives, your own and the honorer of your -virtues, Giovanni.” - -Giovanni’s messenger found the young Lidia in the midst of her father’s -household, who with the kind, old Charomonte, were devising all manner -of merry-makings, in order to divert the sadness which had hung over her -since the departure of the young prince. She received the letter with -joy, and retired to read it in secret, that no one might witness her -emotion. So soon as she read his request, the very means of -accomplishing it flashed quickly into her mind. As the duke had never -seen her, she resolved upon presenting to him another in her place. Her -maid, Petronilla, was the person decided upon. This girl was -ill-favored, coarse and rude. The only difficulty she had to surmount, -would be her father’s opposition, but she thought she would contrive -with the servants’ aid, to have Petronilla presented to the duke when -her father was not present. This difficulty the duke unconsciously -relieved her from, for he came to Charomonte’s mansion in anger; and so -soon as he arrived he dismissed his train, desiring to see Charomonte -alone. Then he upbraided him with treason—for he suspected the old man -of dishonor. He feared that Giovanni had become entangled with this -Lidia, and not knowing Sanazarro’s suspicions, he attributed Giovanni’s -double dealings, to a dishonorable illicit connection with this girl, -connived at by her father. - -Poor old Charomonte listened to his royal master’s reproaches with angry -amazement. So soon as the duke had ended, he replied with words that -proved how his loyalty and outraged feelings contended for mastery. In -speaking of his daughter, the light of his eyes, the comfort of his -feeble age, he described her so lovingly and tenderly that the duke -commanded she should be shown to him. - -“But,” said he, “you shall not prepare her to answer these charges. We -will see her immediately, and to prevent all intercourse, we do confine -thee close prisoner to thy chamber, till all doubts are cleared.” - -Lidia was summoned, and in her place came Petronilla, escorted by -Giovanni and Sanazarro, followed by the servants, bearing a sumptuous -banquet. At the sight of her coarse appearance the duke felt that the -manners of her mind must be transcendent to defend so rough an outside. -She received him boisterously, and at the banquet, behaved rudely and -indelicately, and drank so freely of the wine, that she had to be -carried away from the duke’s presence. The imposture, however, was so -gross, that the duke began to suspect some cunning deceit or trick had -been played upon him; but he dissembled this suspicion, and sent out -Giovanni and Sanazarro with his train, saying he would soon join them; -that he wished first to see the Signor Charomonte in private, that he -might, with a few kind words of comfort, take leave of the poor old man. - -It appeared to him unlikely that both Charomonte and Contarino, his old -secretary, could be so blinded. “It may be,” he said to himself, “that -the daughter, for some ends unknown, has personated this rude behaviour, -which seems so ridiculous and impossible. Whatever be the riddle, -however, I will resolve it, if possible.” - -Charomonte, on being summoned, came to him; but when he heard the duke’s -pitying description of the pretended Lidia, he instantly went to his -daughter’s chamber, where she was feigning illness, and forced her into -the presence of Cozimo. The beautiful Lidia trembling, and in tears, -knelt before him and besought his mercy. - -“Ah,” exclaimed the duke, “this is the peerless form I expected to see;” -then turning to Charomonte, he commanded that Sanazarro and his nephew, -Giovanni, should straightway be imprisoned in separate chambers, -guarded, until he should pronounce sentence against them as traitors. - -In tender, touching language, Lidia pleaded for the prince, and asked -that whatever punishment he deserved, to inflict it on her, as she was -the sad cause of his offence. - -“I know,” she said, “that the prince is so far above me that my wishes -even cannot reach him, and to restore him to your wonted grace and -favor, I’ll abjure his sight forever, and betake myself to a religious -life, where, in my prayers, I may remember him, but no man will I ever -see but my ghostly father. Be not, O sire, like the eagle that in her -angry mood destroys her hopeful young for suffering a wren to perch too -near them.” - -Cozimo listened with admiration, and raising her tenderly put her suit -off with courteous compliments, telling her that if she would cheer her -drooping spirits, bring back the bloom of health to her pale cheek, and -let him see the diamond of her beauty in its perfect lustre, there could -be no crime that he would not look with eyes of mercy upon if she -advocated it. - -Already in his mind had he thought of a fitting punishment for his -nephew. He resolved to make them all believe that he intended himself to -wed the fair Lidia, and acted accordingly. - -Poor Sanazarro, in the solitude of his prison, awakened too late to a -sense of his wicked, disloyal treachery. He remembered the duke’s -kindness and love, in making him almost his second self. The influence -of Lidia’s charms faded away, and he recalled the loving favors he had -received so carelessly from the beautiful Duchess Fiorinda. Now, he -stood without friends, and no one dared or even cared to make -intercession to the duke for him. As he thought of the Duchess -Fiorinda’s love and past kindness, he resolved to appeal to her, and -sent a message to her, begging her mediation in his favor, although he -acknowledged himself most unworthy. - -But true love forgetteth and forgiveth all injuries, and so soon as the -lovely Fiorinda heard his sad plight, she repaired to the duke and -entreated of him to be merciful and gracious to his poor servant, -Sanazarro. Cozimo reminded her of his infidelity to him, his kind -master; and then, to move her still more to anger, he recalled how -coldly Sanazarro had always received her courtesies, and how easily he -had yielded to the charms of another, and that other beneath her in -rank. - -The poor lady for a moment struggled with her pride, which whispered to -her that, to endure a rival, and one also who was an inferior, betokened -poverty of spirit, but her noble heart obtained the mastery, and she -replied, - -“True love must not know degrees or distances. Lidia may be as far above -me in her form as she is in her birth beneath me; and what I liked in -Sanazarro he may have loved in her. Vouchsafe to hear his defense.” - -The duke consented, and said that both Sanazarro and the young prince -should have a speedy trial, in which he would not only be judge, but -accuser; and then expressed himself in such courteous, gallant words -about the fair Lidia, that Charomonte and the courtiers stared in -amazement. They could scarcely credit what he wished to make them -believe—that he, the faithful, mourning widower, who had remained -constant so many years, purposed a second marriage with this young -maiden, so unfit for him in station and age. - -The trial commenced, and the prisoners, almost hopeless of mercy, -presented themselves, with their lovely advocates, the duchess and -Lidia, before the duke. Cozimo, at the sight of Lidia, professed to -forget every thing in the rapture her beauty caused him; and after -exhausting love’s sweet language in describing her charms, he turned, -with looks of rage, to the prince and Sanazarro, and told them they -knelt too late for mercy. But Lidia and the duchess reminded him he had -promised a gracious hearing to his prisoners, before passing sentence. - -Duke Cozimo descended from the chair of state, and placing the two -ladies in his seat, told them they should be his deputies; but they must -listen to his accusation which would justify the sentence he was about -to pronounce on these traitorous heads. First, he reminded Sanazarro of -his cold indifference to Fiorinda’s condescending love, and his -unfaithfulness to her; but the duchess interrupted him, and told him -that charge was naught; she had already heard the count’s confession, -and had freely pardoned him. - -The duke courteously bowed, but continued and upbraided Sanazarro with -his treachery to him, his indulgent master. Then he turned to Giovanni -and reminded him of how careful of his interests he had always been; how -he had remained unwedded, to secure to a thankless nephew a throne. “We -made you both,” continued the duke, “the keys that opened our heart’s -secrets, and what you spoke we believed as oracles. But you, in -recompense of this, to us, who gave you all, to whom you owed your -being, with treacherous lies endeavored to conceal this peerless jewel -from our knowledge. Look on her,” he said, pointing to the blushing -Lidia, “is that a beauty fit for any subject? Can any tire become that -forehead but a diadem? Even should we grant pardon for your falsehood to -us, your treachery to her, in seeking to deprive her of that greatness -she was born to, can ne’er find pardon.” - -As the duke finished, the ladies quickly descended from the chair of -state, and kneeling, with the prince and Count Sanazarro before him, -besought his mercy, which Charomonte reminded him, was more becoming in -a prince than wreaths of conquest. The courtiers and old councillors -united their entreaties, but the duke remained inflexible. Turning to -Charomonte, he said, - -“You, Carolo, remember with what impatiency of grief we bore our Duchess -Clarinda’s death, and how we vowed—not hoping to see her equal—never -to make a second choice. We did not know that nature had framed one that -did almost excel her, and with oaths, mixed with tears, we swore our -eyes should never again be tempted. Charomonte, thou heardest us -sware—are those vows, thinkest thou, registered against us in heaven?” - -Charomonte told him that if he were to wed a woman who possessed all -woman’s beauties and virtues united, he had already sworn so deeply, -that the weight of his perjury would sink him. - -“This is strong truth, Carolo,” replied the duke, “but yet it does not -free them from treason.” - -“But,” answered the good old Charomonte, who began to suspect the duke’s -design, “the prince, your nephew, was so earnest to have you keep your -vows to heaven, that he vouchsafed to love my daughter.” - -The duke turned to Lidia, as if for assurance of this, who blushingly -replied, “He told me so, indeed, sire.” - -“And the count has averred as much to me,” said the Duchess Fiorinda, -with a playful air and a merry laugh, for she saw by the duke’s manner -that he had only been feigning this stern severity as a punishment to -the young men. - -“Ah,” said Duke Cozimo, smiling, “you all conspire to force our mercy -from us.” - -Then he placed the gentle, lovely Lidia’s hand in Giovanni’s, and as he -pronounced the pardon of the prince and count, he told them they must -merit their forgiveness by service and love to their mistresses, the -duchess and the beautiful Lidia. - -Thus ends this story, courteous reader, and - - “May the passage prove, - Of what’s presented, worthy of your love - And favor, as was aimed, and we have all - That can in compass of our wishes fall.” - - * * * * * - - - - - LINES - - - WRITTEN AT NIGHT IN CAVE HILL CEMETERY. - - - BY GEO. D. PRENTICE. - - - One evening, dear Virginia, in thy life, - When thou and I were straying side by side - Beneath the holy moonlight, and our thoughts - Seemed taking a deep hue of mournfulness - From the sweet, solemn hour, I said if thou, - Whose young years scarcely numbered half my own, - Should’st pass before me to the spirit-land, - I would, on some mild eve beneath the moon, - Shining in heaven as it was shining then, - Go forth alone to lay me by thy grave, - And render to thy cherished memory - The last sad tribute of a stricken heart. - Thine answer was a sigh, a tear, a sob, - A gentle pressure of the hand, and thus - My earnest vow was hallowed. A thin cloud, - Like a pole winding-sheet, that moment passed - Across the moon, and as its shadow fell, - Like a mysterious omen of the tomb, - Upon our kindred spirits, thou didst turn - Thine eye to that wan spectre of the skies, - And, gazing on the solemn portent, weep - As if thy head were waters. - - Weary years - Since then have planted furrows on my brow, - And sorrows in my heart, and the pale moon, - That shone around us on that lovely eve, - Is shining now upon thy swarded grave, - And I have come, a pilgrim of the night, - To bow at memory’s holy shrine and keep - My unforgotten vow. - - Dear, parted one, - Friend of my better years, dark months have passed - With all their awful shadows o’er the earth, - Since this green turf was laid above thy rest, - ’Mid sighs and streaming tears and stifled groans, - But oh! thy gentle memory is not dim - In the deep hearts that loved thee. We have set - This sweet young rose-tree o’er thy hallowed grave, - And may the skies shed their serenest dews - Around it, may the summer clouds distil - Their gentlest rains upon it, may the fresh - Warm zephyrs fan it with their softest breath, - And daily may the bright and holy beams - Of morning greet it with their sweetest smile, - That it may wave its roses o’er thy dust, - Dear emblems of the flowers that thou so oft - In life didst fling upon our happy hearts - From thy own spirit’s Eden. Yet we know - ’Tis but an humble offering to thee, - Who dwellest where the fadeless roses bloom, - In heaven’s eternal sunshine. - - To our eyes - Thy beauty has not faded from the earth; - We see it in the flowers that lift their lids - To greet the early spring-time—in the bow - The magic pencil of the sunshine paints - Upon the flying rain-clouds—in the stars - That glitter from the blue abyss of night— - And in the strange mysterious loveliness - Of every holy sunset. To our ears - The music of thy loved tones is not lost; - We hear it in the low, sweet cadences - Of wave and stream and fountain, in the notes - Of birds that from the sky and forest hail - The sunrise with their songs, and in the wild - And soul-like breathings of the evening wind - O’er all the thousand sweet Eolian lyres - Of grove and forest. Yet no sight or sound - In all the world of nature is as sweet, - Dear, lost Virginia, as when thou wast here - To gaze and listen with us. The young flowers - And the pure stars seem pale and cold and dim, - As if they looked through blinding tears—alas! - The tears are in our eyes. The melodies - Of wave and stream and bird and forest-harp, - Borne on the soft wings of the evening gale, - Seem blended with a deep wail for the dead— - Alas! the wail is in our hearts. - - Lost one! - We miss thee in our sadness and our joy! - When at the solemn eventide we stray, - ’Mid the still gathering of the twilight shades, - To muse upon the dear and hallowed past - With its deep, mournful memories, a voice - Comes from the still recesses of our hearts - “_She is not here!_” In the gay, festive hour, - When music peals upon the perfumed air, - And wit and mirth are ringing in our ears, - And light forms floating round us in the dance, - And jewels flashing through luxuriant curls, - And deep tones breathing vows of tenderness - And truth to listening beauty, even then, - Amid the wild enchantments of the hour, - To many a heart the past comes back again, - And, as the fountain of its tears is stirred, - A voice comes sounding from its holiest depths, - “_Alas! she is not here!_” The spring-time now - Is forth upon the fresh green earth, the vales - Are one bright wilderness of blooms, the woods, - With all their wealth of rainbow tints, repose, - Like fairy clouds upon the vernal sky, - And every gale is burdened with the gush - Of music, free, wild music, yet, lost one, - Through all these wildering melodies, that voice - As from the very heart of nature comes, - “_Alas! she is not here!_” But list! oh, list! - From the eternal depths of yonder sky, - From where the flash of sun and star is dim - In uncreated light, an angel strain, - As sweet as that in which the morning stars - Together sang o’er the creation’s birth, - Comes floating downward through the ravished air, - “_Joy! joy! she’s here! she’s here!_” - - ’Tis midnight deep, - And a pale cloud, like that whose shadow fell - Upon our souls on that remembered eve, - Is passing o’er the moon, but now the shade - Falls on one heart alone. I am alone, - My dear and long-lost friend. Oh! wheresoe’er - In the vast universe of God thou art, - I pray thee stoop at this mysterious hour - To the dark earth from thy all radiant home, - And hold communion with thy weeping friend - As in the hours departed. - - Ah, I feel, - Sweet spirit, thou hast heard and blessed my prayer! - I hear the rustling of thy angel-plumes - About me and around—the very air - Is glowing with a thousand seraph thoughts, - Bright as the sparkles of a shooting star— - A hand from which the electric fire of heaven - Seems flashing through my frame is clasped in mine— - Thy blessed voice, with its remembered tones - Softened to more than mortal melody, - Is thrilling through my heart, as ’twere the voice - Of the lost Pleiad calling from its place - In the eternal void—and our two souls - Blend once again as erst they used to blend— - The heavenly with the earthly! - - Fare thee well! - Sweet spirit, fare thee well! the blessed words - That thou, this night, hast whispered to me here, - Above the mound that hides thy mortal form, - Will purify my soul, and strengthen me - To bear the ills and agonies of life, - And point me to an immortality - With thee in God’s own holy Paradise. - - * * * * * - - - - - A SONG FOR A DOWN-TRODDEN LAND. - - - BY WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK. - - - Air—“Some love to roam o’er the dark sea-foam.” - - Fill high to-night, in our halls of light, - The toast on our lips shall be - “The sinewy hand, the glittering brand, - Our homes and our altars free.” - Ho! ho! ho! etc. - - Though the coward pale, like a girl may wail, - And sleep in his chains for years, - The sound of our mirth shall pass over earth - With balm for a nation’s tears. - Ho! ho! ho! etc. - - A curse for the cold, a cup for the bold, - A smile for the girls we love; - And for him who’d bleed, in his country’s need, - A home in the skies above. - Ho! ho! ho! etc. - - We have asked the page of a nobler age - For a hope secure and bright, - And the spell it gave to the stricken slave - Was in one strong word—“Unite.” - Ho! ho! ho! etc. - - Though the wind howl free o’er a single tree - Till it bends beneath its frown— - For many a day it will howl away - Ere a _forest_ be stricken down. - Ho! ho! ho! etc. - - By the martyred dead, who for Freedom bled, - By all that man deems divine, - Our patriot band, for our own dear land, - Like brothers shall all combine. - Ho! ho! ho! etc. - - Then fill to-night, in our halls of light, - The toast on our lips shall be— - “The sinewy hand, the glittering brand, - Our homes and our altars free.” - Ho! ho! ho! etc. - - * * * * * - - - - - LUCY LEYTON. - - - BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER. - - -I have been induced to a brief series of heart-histories by a remark of -Longfellow, in Kavanagh. In speaking of the ever sanguine yet irresolute -schoolmaster, who was “forced to teach grammar when he would fain have -written poems,” he says, “Mr. Churchill never knew that while he was -exploring the Past for records of obscure and unknown martyrs, in his -own village, ——, the romance he was longing to find and record, had -really occurred in his neighborhood, among his own friends.” Again, -Emerson says, “Every roof is agreeable to the eye until it is lifted, -and then we find tragedy, and moaning women, and hard-eyed husbands, and -deluges of lethe.” - -There is truth in this. Beneath every roof-tree some romance is at -work—some heart-history compiling. The evening lights twinkle from -cottages sleeping peacefully upon the hill-sides and valleys—music and -mirth break on the air from brilliantly illuminated dwellings—then the -night wears on—the cottage-lights no longer gleam—silence wraps the -abode of wealth—and from out the majesty of the heavens encircling all, -the gentle moon and bright, flashing stars look down alike on sheltered -cot or marble dome. Yet, “lift the roof,” lay bare the heart which -pulsates in every bosom, and we shall find each has its own tale of -romance woven from life’s mingled threads of grief, of love, of -happiness—perhaps of shame. - -Let me, then, from out the “simple annals” of a quiet country town, -sketch, with a faithful pen, these heart-histories—these romances from -real life. - -The little village to which they may be traced, I must forbear to name. -That it does not exist merely in the imagination, let it suffice the -incredulous reader. There are bright, dancing rills spangling its broad -meadows—the “sweet south wind” plays over innumerable fields of billowy -grain, and the tinkle of the cow-bell is heard within the sweet-scented -pine forests which crown the summit of each rising hill. The roots, some -of which I am about to “lift,” cover no costly edifices. They are for -the most part humble and unpretending, yet so embosomed among fruit and -forest-trees as to render each cottage of itself a coup d’œil of beauty. -There are, to be sure, two or three exceptions; the large, three-story -brick house of Judge Porter, for instance, with its long, winding -avenues, and, as Mrs. Malaprop would say, its “statutes” placed in awful -frigidity about the grounds, frightening the children of the -neighborhood as so many sheeted ghosts. The beautiful villa, too, of Dr. -Bartine, (these names are, of course, fictitious,) which stands on a -gentle eminence somewhat remote from the village. It was built by a -gentleman of wealth and cultivated taste, who lived only to see it -completed. It was then knocked down under the hammer of Tom Pepper, the -village auctioneer, to the highest bidder, a worthy farmer, with as many -children as barn-door fowl. For six months, droning spinning-wheels, and -rattling looms, made music in the classic rooms—squashes and -red-peppers hung on the frescoed walls, while the conservatory, with its -marble fount, served admirably for the dairy of the notable Mrs. -Grimes—pots of butter, and round, yellow cheeses, taking the place of -rhododendrons and fragrant jessamines. Fortunately for the preservation -of this tasteful dwelling, at the end of six months, it was purchased by -young Doctor Bartine, who, after putting it in complete repair, and -removing the unseemly pig-stye and other excrescences from the face of -the beautiful lawn, brought hither his pretty young bride. There is the -parsonage sequestered from the street by elms a century old; and the -venerable church, from whose well-worn portals a narrow foot-path -conducts to that peaceful spot where, “when life’s fitful fever ended,” -the villagers come one by one and lie down to their dreamless rest. -There all is hushed. The wind, as it softly sweeps the pliant willow, -seems to whisper a requiem for the peaceful dead; a few birds flit -noiselessly about, but no song of gladness trills from their little -throats, their notes are low and plaintive, as if they mourned for the -hand which once fed them, but will never feed them more. - -Such are the prominent local features of the little village, into whose -quiet precincts I have wandered. And there are many such primitive towns -nestling among our hills and valleys, some even less pretending; and -there are lone cottages scattered by the road-side, and huts of squalid -poverty, and the thrifty homestead of the farmer, all of which have -their heart-histories. - -Love’s autocrasy must form the theme of my first romance from the real; -and, indeed, if the truth was known, there are but few heart-histories -in whose compilation that troublesome little sprite has not more or less -interfered. - -Lucy Leyton, with that bright, roguish eye of hers, and her sunny smile -shall attest the truth of my words. - -The proprietor of the great Leyton farm which covers more than a hundred -acres of the richest land in New England, is a true specimen of her -stalwort sons, her independent, industrious farmers—a noble race, -uniting integrity, sound sense, and a high standard of moral worth, -under manners the most plain and unpretending—keenly sensitive for the -public weal, hospitable, kind, and thrifty—not over generous, not over -prodigal of their means, yet far removed from that selfish avarice which -would refuse a helping hand to those who would rise in the world if they -had the means to start with, (and how many such there are,) or close -their doors upon the weary wayfarer, vagrant though he might be. Of this -class is Andrew Leyton. - -A few words upon the domestic economy of Leyton farm. Mr. Leyton is a -widower, and my little heroine, Lucy, his only child. People wondered, -as people always will, why such a young-looking, hale, hearty man as -Andrew Leyton, did not take a second wife; but when asked about it, he -always had two answers ready—first, he was too much hurried about his -farm-work to spend time in courting and marrying; second, old Dinah, who -had lived with his father before him, though she was old, was a -first-rate manager; and Heaven forbid he should unloose her tongue by -talking about bringing a second Mrs. Leyton into the house. And so year -after year old Dinah stood her ground, holding undisputed sway in -kitchen and hall, doing pretty much as she pleased with her master, -looking, in fact, upon the strong, athletic, six-foot Andrew Leyton as a -mere child, “_the boy_,” as she termed him, when speaking to her -cronies; and as for Lucy, she would have held her in leading-strings to -this day probably, if Mr. Leyton had not sent her from home to acquire -more advantages of education than the village-school could offer. - -Lucy was a bright, darling little child, saying and doing a thousand -witty things; and Mr. Leyton made up his mind that she was a perfect -prodigy even at four years old—parents are pretty apt to imagine just -such things—so he determined, from the time she could first lisp her -letters, that she should have the very best education his means would -afford; and when in process of time she came to know more than the -schoolmaster, (in farmer Leyton’s opinion,) he resolved to part with his -darling for a little while, that she might have the benefit of a -fashionable boarding-school. In selecting the establishment of Mrs. -Tracy, situated some thirty miles from Leyton farm, he proved himself -more fortunate than many who send forth their children to gather “apples -of wisdom,” but who return with thistles. - -At the end of two years Lucy was pronounced “finished,” and returned -home. If Mr. Leyton had thought her a prodigy at four years old, what -must he have considered her at seventeen, for she had contrived to store -away a goodly amount of knowledge in her little head, even if she was at -times a little flighty. Yes, and notwithstanding she must have been so -hurried at Mrs. Tracy’s with her algebra, and her French, and her -philosophy, and her history, she had somehow managed to commence a -little heart-history of her own; but then she did not let any one read -it, not she. Farmer Leyton himself never knew a word about this -unbargained for accomplishment. - - * * * * * - -One day when Lucy had been at home about a week, Mr. Leyton had occasion -to go down into the village with a load of his renowned potatoes for -Judge Porter. - -“Dear father, will you please see if there is not a letter in the -post-office for me?” cried Lucy, running out to the gate. - -“Ha! ha!—a letter for you! that’s a new idea! Yes, but come and kiss -me.” - -And poising one little foot upon the hub of the cart-wheel, Lucy sprang -lightly to the side of her father, gave him a hearty smack upon each -sunburned cheek, and then alighted again like a bird upon the soft, -green turf. - -Now the farmer was no great scribe. Unless to announce a marriage or a -death, it was a rare thing for him either to indite or receive a letter. -The post-office revenue of Uncle Sam was but little benefitted by Andrew -Leyton. He was somewhat pleased, therefore, that his Lu should expect a -letter; so, after unloading, he brought his team to a stand-still in -front of the tavern, which, beside offering entertainment for man and -beast, served also for the post-office. Sure enough, there was a -letter—a very thick one too—for “Miss Lucy Leyton,” directed in an -elegant flowing hand—a gentleman’s hand. - -“Hum!—What does this mean!” thought Farmer Leyton, turning the letter -over and over, and looking at the seal,—“_L’Amour_,” “_Fidelité_.” - -Lucy was watching for his return; and as soon as she saw the well-known -team rise the hill, she flew swiftly along the road to meet it. Her -father held up the letter. Ah! what a bright, happy face was hers, as -she caught it from his hand; and seating herself under a shady tree by -the road-side, she eagerly tore off the envelope, and pressed the -insensible chirography to her lips. - -“Hum!—what does this mean!” again thought the farmer, eyeing Lucy -keenly. “Gee-haw, Darby—Gee-up, Dick!” he cried, sweeping his cart-whip -above the sleek hides of his oxen, yet all the time noting uneasily the -bright blush, the happy smile of Lucy, all absorbed as she was in the -contents of her letter. - -In less than a week there came another. - -“Hum!” said Mr. Leyton, putting it in his pocket, “I must see what this -means.” - -He went home, foddered the cattle, and then walked into the house. - -“Come here Lu, sit down by me.” - -Lucy laid aside her work, and drawing a low foot-stool to the side of -her father, folded her dimpled hands upon his knees, and looked up -smiling into his face. - -“Well, Lu, you had a nice time, didn’t you, at Mrs. Tracy’s?” said Mr. -Leyton, smoothing back the long, golden curls from her white upturned -brow. - -“Indeed I did, my dear father. I am sure, although I was so anxious to -see you, I was sorry to come away.” - -“Hum! Mrs. Tracy used to keep you pretty strict, I suppose—never let -you go out, did she?” - -“O yes, we walked every day—an hour in the morning, and an hour after -school at night; it was very pleasant, sometimes Mrs. Tracy would go -with us, and sometimes—O, it was _so_ pleasant!” and Lucy heaved a sigh -as she concluded. - -“I take it for granted you never saw any boys there, Lu, did you?” - -Lucy blushed, and wondered what in the world possessed her father to -talk so; at last she answered, very demurely: - -“Why, father, it was a school for girls you know; it would have been -very strange, I am sure, to have seen a set of rude boys in our pleasant -school-room.” - -“That is not what I mean, you little puss you—did any young men ever -visit at Mrs. Tracy’s?” - -“Mercy, no, Mrs. Tracy would not even let Edward invite—” - -“Edward—who is Edward?” - -“Mrs. Tracy’s nephew, father,” replied Lucy, stooping to tie her little -slipper, which just at that particular moment it seemed necessary for -her to attend to. - -“Hum—and I suppose Edward walked with you, didn’t he?” said Mr. Leyton. - -“Yes, father, when Mrs. Tracy could not go.” - -“I thought so. Who is he? What is he? What is his name—this Edward?” - -Poor Lucy, how she tried not to blush, and yet what a glow instantly -suffused the tell-tale countenance she averted from the scrutinizing -glance of her father. - -“His name is Bartine—Edward Bartine—he is a very fine young man, -father—every body loves him.” - -“Hum!” - -“All the girls loved him, just like a brother.” - -“And you loved him just like a brother, I suppose.” - -“Sir.” - -“Hum—well go on—what was this very fine young man doing at a young -ladies’ boarding-school?” - -“He only came up from New Haven to pass a few months with Mrs. Tracy, -and to pursue his studies with Dr. Heber—he is going back to college -very soon, I suppose.” - -“Going back to college! Ah, I understand, I understand—some wild -scapegoat, I’ll be bound, suspended for misdemeanor—never will be worth -a straw—never will be good for any thing, not he—wasting the money -which his father has toiled hard to earn, I’ll warrant you!” - -“No, indeed, father, Edward Bartine is no such person, indeed he is -not!” eagerly interposed Lucy. - -“How do you know? I tell you he is. See here Lu—who is this from?” and -putting his hand in his ample coat-pocket Mr. Leyton drew forth the -letter, holding it up, however, at arm’s length. - -“O, dear, dear father, please give it to me, please do—that’s a dear -father!” cried Lucy, springing up, her face radiant with joy, and -extending her hand for the precious missive. - -“Not so fast, little Miss Lucy Leyton—sit down again—there is your -letter—now open it and read it to me,” said Mr. Leyton, passing his arm -around her waist to prevent her flight. - -“O, father, please let me go—indeed I cannot read it to you!” urged -Lucy, the tears trembling like dew-drops on her long fringed eye-lids. - -“Well, then, I’ll read it myself—it must be very fine; I should like to -read a letter from such a nice young man,” said Mr. Leyton, attempting -to take it. - -“Father, please don’t, it is only about—about—” - -“Never mind, I will see what it is about. Lucy, you must either give me -the letter or read me the contents—_I must know them_!” and this time -Mr. Leyton spoke sternly. - -The poor girl dared not disobey. With a trembling hand she broke the -seal, and, in a voice scarcely audible, read: - -“My dearest, sweet Lucy.” - -“Hum—puppy! go on.” - -“My dearest, sweet Lucy—To-morrow—to-morrow I leave for—for—” Lucy -could proceed no further, but covered with blushes hid her face in her -father’s bosom. - -“Well, well Lu, don’t cry; I don’t want to hear any more of such silly -stuff. There give me the letter, it will serve nicely to light my pipe,” -said Mr. Leyton, twisting it in his fingers. - -“Father, wont you let me have the letter—wont you, father?” pleaded -Lucy. - -“No, Lucy. Now go and get pen, ink, and paper; this must be answered.” - -Quite pale and frightened, Lucy brought her little desk and placed it on -the table. - -“Are you ready?” said Mr. Leyton, “well then, begin, Mr. Edward—what’s -his name—Bartine—” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“You are a base designing young man—” - -“Must I say so, father? indeed, he is no such thing!” interrupted Lucy, -looking up all in tears. - -“I say he is—go on—‘you are a base designing young man, so, although I -am but a farmer’s daughter, never presume to address another letter to -me.’ Have you wrote that—very well, now add, ‘My father desires his -compliments, and would like to try the strength of his new raw-hide upon -your shoulders.’” - -Lucy sobbed aloud. - -“Now, say, ‘Respectfully, very, Lucy Leyton.’” - -Mr. Leyton took up the blotted page, read it, sealed and directed it, -and put it in his pocket. Then taking Lucy in his arms and kissing her, -he said: - -“My darling, I would not grieve you for the world; what I am doing is -for your good, my child, though I know you think me very cruel, but you -will thank me one of these days. There—now go to your chamber and lie -down awhile; kiss me, dear Lu.” - -Lucy pressed her lips to his with a loud sob, and then hastening to her -little chamber, she bolted the door, and throwing herself upon the bed, -gave way to her affliction—for the first time a tear had blotted her -heart-history! - - * * * * * - -“What the mischief ails the girl I wonder? she don’t eat—she don’t -sleep, and half the time there are tears in her pretty eyes; her rosy -cheeks are all gone, and every now and then she sighs enough to break -one’s heart! Hang me if I can stand it! she thinks I don’t see it—when -I am by she tries to smile and sing as she used to—she thinks I haven’t -any eyes—but I have. Confound that fellow—I wish I had kept her at -home—well, well, poor Lu—something must be done, or else she’ll die!” - -Thus soliloquized Andrew Leyton, a few weeks after the scene just -related. Now, Mr. Leyton was neither a severe nor an obstinate -man—there was never a more tender father, nor a kinder master. He was -little connusant of the great world, it is true, but enough so to render -him keenly apprehensive for his daughter. He knew there were -unprincipled young men enough, who solely from vanity, and for -self-gratulation would not scruple to win the affections of a young, -artless girl like Lucy, and his jealous fears imputed the same unworthy -motive to the professions of young Edward Bartine. Thus it was his love -for his only child, amounting almost to idolatry, which had caused him -to take the perhaps somewhat hasty step he had done—he was a father, -and who can blame him? Yet it cut him to the heart when he saw how -deeply poor Lucy suffered from his well meant kindness. - -“Something must be done!” again exclaimed Mr. Leyton, slowly pacing to -and fro the little porch, and watching, with a sad, perplexed -countenance, the slight figure of Lucy strolling pensively through the -garden, and at length the “something” took upon itself a shape which -mightily pleased his fancy. - -Mr. Leyton had one sister who, in his boyhood, had emigrated, together -with almost every member of the Leyton family, to the far west. She had -married there, but had been early left a widow, with one son. Andrew had -several times offered her a home in his house; but the distance was -great—new friends and associations had been formed to supplant earlier -ties, and the widow, though grateful for her brother’s kindness, -preferred the banks of the Ohio to the fertile vale of the Connecticut. -Now, Mr. Leyton had no son, and a vague idea had now and then seized him -to unite Lucy to his sister’s child. Thus the great Leyton farm would be -continued in the family, when he was dead and gone. True, he had never -seen him—but what of that—he was certain he must be a fine fellow, a -good honest lad, for all the Leytons were so from the beginning. - -“Yes, I will write this very night!” said Mr. Leyton, stopping suddenly -in his walk, as this bright thought suggested itself. “I’ll just invite -Reuben to come on and see the old homestead, where his grandfather, and -his great grandfather lived and died, and then if he only takes a fancy -to Lu, which of course he cannot fail of doing, I shall be happy as a -lord—he will soon drive this college scape-grace from her mind!” - -“Lu, how do you like your Cousin Reuben?” said Mr. Leyton, knocking the -ashes from his third evening pipe. - -Lucy looked up from her work and smiled faintly, as she replied: - -“My dear father, you know I have never seen him.” - -“True, true, neither have I, but I tell you what, Lu, I am going to -write out to Reuben to come on and make us a visit, and bring his mother -too, if she will; how should you like it?” - -“Very much, indeed, I shall be delighted to see Aunt Richards, whom you -have so often talked to me about.” - -“And Cousin Reuben too?” - -“Yes, of course I should.” - -“Well, Lu, I hope you will like Reuben, for do you know I have quite set -my heart upon having him for a son-in-law—what say you?” said Mr. -Leyton, abruptly. - -Lucy at once burst into tears, and went on to protest, in the most -earnest manner, that she should never marry—she would not marry for the -world, she could never love anybody—she wished her father would not -talk so—she was very happy as she was—O, very happy, indeed! - -However, Mr. Leyton wrote the letter, and it took him three good hours -to do so. Then in the morning, as he was very busy, for it was haying -time, he told Lucy he wished she would walk down into the village and -put it in the post-office. - -What could have put it into Lucy’s little head to do as she did, I am -sure I don’t know. I will not pretend to exculpate such a piece of -mischief, not I, I will only state facts. - - “_Dear Mr. Edward Bartine_,—I have thought of you a great many - times since I wrote those few lines to you, which you must have - considered very strange. My father made me write them, for he - does not know you, or I am sure he would never have done so. You - will forgive him, wont you? If you would like to come here - during the vacation, as you said you should, I shall be very - happy to see you, and I dare say my dear father will like you - very much; I don’t see how he can help it. If you have a wish to - come, please take a hint from the enclosed letter to my Cousin - Reuben Richards. - - “Lucy Leyton.” - - “P. S. If you have no use for the enclosed, please forward it to - the address.” - -Just think, now, of Lucy Leyton writing such a letter—but she did! And -then she neatly folded it, and enclosing the one designed for Mr. Reuben -Richards, with a glowing cheek, and palpitating bosom, she directed it -to Mr. Edward Bartine, Yale College, New Haven, and putting on her -bonnet and shawl, tripped fleetly to the office and deposited it. - -“Ah, she’ll come round—all right yet!” said Mr. Leyton, a few days -after, as he overheard Lucy caroling one of her lively songs. - - * * * * * - -In due time, allowing for the speed of steam-boats, rail-cars, and -stages all the way from the Ohio, a young man, with a ponderous leather -trunk, alighted at Mr. Leyton’s gate. It was after dinner, and the -farmer was enjoying his afternoon pipe, while Lucy, sitting very quietly -by his side, was reading the village news. But all of a sudden, as she -saw the young man approaching, she sprung up in the strangest confusion -and ran into the house. Mr. Leyton rose up, put down his pipe, and -hastily advanced to meet the youth. - -“This must be my dear nephew, Reuben!” he said, extending his hand; “I -know the true Leyton look. I am glad to see you, my lad!” - -“Thank you, Uncle Leyton, how are you—how is Lucy?” replied the -stranger, warmly shaking hands. - -“She is well, Reuben, and will be very glad to see you; come into the -house—you must be weary after such a long journey. Lucy! Lucy! why -where has she flown to? Lucy! O, here she comes. Well Lu, we have got -him at last—this is your Cousin Reuben—give her a kiss—that’s right.” - -Lucy turned very pale when she first cast her eyes upon her cousin, who, -with very red hair and a somewhat limping gait, advanced to salute her, -then a rosy blush, and an arch smile, but half suppressed, stole over -her pretty face. But she blushed still deeper, and drew back timidly -from the tender embrace her young relative would fain have bestowed upon -her. - -“My own, dear Lucy!” was softly whispered in her ear. - -“So your mother wouldn’t venture with you,” said Mr. Leyton, “well, I am -sorry, for it is many a long year since we met; I hope she is strong and -healthy, Reuben.” - -“Not very, she is greatly troubled with the rheumatism.” - -“That’s bad. And how are all the rest of the folks—how is Uncle Bill, -and Deacon Gracie?” - -“Dead.” - -“Bless me, dead! you don’t say your poor Uncle Bill is dead!” exclaimed -Mr. Leyton, aghast at such news of an only brother. - -“N—not exactly dead—half killed with the rheumatism, I mean, and the -deacon, O, the deacon has gone to California.” - -“What! Deacon Gracie gone to California—well that beats all! I’ll -warrant old Mr. Stubbs is living!” - -“Dead, a year ago.” - -“Dead, is he? what killed him? I should like to know, for I thought him -good for a hundred years.” - -“Rheumatism, uncle.” - -“Rheumatism again! what in the world do you live in such a climate for? -Well, Reuben, how do you like your Cousin Lucy’s looks? I think she is -some like your mother, who resembled the Darlings more than the -Leytons.” - -“I think Lucy is a decided Darling!” replied Cousin Reuben, with a -mischievous glance at the fair object in question. - -“But you look more like the Leytons, all but your hair; none of the -Leytons ever had red hair!” continued the farmer, “and, excuse me, but I -must say I could never abide it; however, I guess you will reconcile me -to it. What makes you limp so, nephew, nothing serious I hope.” - -“O, no, nothing but rheumatism, Uncle Andrew.” - -“Good gracious, rheumatism again! Now make yourself at home, will you, -for I must go and look after my men. Lucy take good care of your cousin, -I will soon be back.” - -“Don’t hurry, uncle, I am quite at home!” and as Mr. Leyton closed the -door, Cousin Reuben sprung to the side of Lucy, and stealing his arm -around her waist, imprinted a kiss upon her blushing cheek. - -“I say, nephew, we must bathe your rheumatics in beef-brine,” said Mr. -Leyton, re-opening the door. Then hastily closing it again, he snapped -his fingers, exclaiming, “Ah, it will do! it will do! he is a fine young -fellow, I see, only that confounded red hair—he got that from the -Richards.” - -A week and more passed on. Lucy and her cousin agreed wonderfully, and -Mr. Leyton was in perfect ecstasy at the recovered bloom and spirits of -his daughter. - -“Ah, Lu,” said he one day, slyly pinching her cheek, “what do you think -of Cousin Reuben now; a’nt he worth a dozen of your college fellows?” -and Lucy protested she really liked Reuben just as well as she had ever -done Mrs. Tracy’s nephew. - -Cousin Reuben, who was now perfectly domesticated, made himself not only -very agreeable, but useful to his Uncle Leyton in various ways, and the -farmer regretted more and more every day that he had not known him -before. Reuben was a geologist, and he explained to Mr. Leyton how some -portions of his farm, which he had thought the most unproductive, might -be made to yield good crops; he was an architect, and he drew the plan -of the new house which Mr. Leyton designed to erect in the spring. He -was a botanist, a geometrician, an astromer, - - “And Latin was no more difficile, - Than for a blackbird ’tis to whistle.” - -“Why, how in the world did you pick up so much learning out West? I -should think you had been to college by the way you talk!” said Mr. -Leyton, one evening, addressing his nephew, who had just been expounding -some knotty point. - -“Yes, uncle, and I have just taken my degree,” replied Reuben, looking -at Lucy. - -“_You_, the deuce you have. Why where did your mother raise the money to -send you to college?” - -“My education was provided for by my grandfather’s will.” - -“It was, eh! well, I am glad of it, and so the Richards family were a -good stock after all. I am sure I never dreamed you had been to college, -though I thought from the first you knew considerable for your years.” - -“Thank you, Uncle Andrew.” - -“And what are you going to do now?” - -“My dear uncle, I shall soon receive my diploma for the practice of -medicine; then, if you will give me dear Lucy for a wife, I will buy -that pretty cottage at the foot of the hill, and commence business.” - -“You buy it! No, no, I am able to buy it myself, and give it to Lucy on -her wedding-day. I am sorry you don’t like the farm better, for I had -set my heart upon seeing you settled upon the old family estate, but no -matter. Come here Lu, will you marry your Cousin Reuben? Ah, I see you -will; here take her nephew she is yours—God bless you!” - -Lucy burst into tears, and for a moment her lover also appeared much -agitated. He then took Mr. Leyton’s hand: - -“Then you really like me, uncle?” - -“First rate, lad.” - -“And you don’t know of any one else whom you would prefer for a -son-in-law!” - -“Always had my eye upon you, Reuben.” - -“But suppose you have been imposed upon; suppose that I am not your -nephew after all!” - -“Ho, ho! imposed upon—not my nephew! don’t talk to me—imposed upon, -pooh, don’t I know the Leyton look—all but the red hair—I wonder where -you got that from!” - -“I bought it of Frizeur and Frizette, French barbers, Broadway, New -York, it is a capital wig, don’t you think so?” replied the young man, -coolly taking it off, and handing it for the inspection of Mr. Leyton. - -“Hey! why, what’s all this—who are you—what does this mean?” exclaimed -Mr. Leyton, starting up in astonishment, wig in hand, and staring at the -fine looking youth with dark-brown locks, who was now bending so -tenderly over Lucy. - -“Mr. Leyton, why should I hesitate to confess who I am,” was the answer, -“since you have already assured me of your affection, and of your -willingness to bestow upon me this dear hand. My name is Edward -Bartine.” - -“Bartine—Bartine—why, that is the same fellow—” - -“That you was going to try your new raw-hide upon, my dear sir!” - -“Hum, and if I had it here I would try it now!” - -“O, no, you wouldn’t, father!” interposed Lucy. - -“Grant me your patience a moment, Mr. Leyton,” resumed Edward, “with -your prejudice against me, I was very certain you would never allow me -to visit Lucy. You must believe me, when I assure you that the -imposition I have practiced upon you has been most repugnant to me, and -nothing but the hope of gaining your favor, under the guise of your -nephew, could have tempted me to act the part I have.” - -“My nephew! but how did you know any thing about my nephew? Lucy, did -you—” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Say, Mr. Leyton, will you forgive me, will you still confer upon me -your dear Lucy, may I, as Edward Bartine, again receive the priceless -gift you but now bestowed upon ‘Cousin Reuben?’” - -“You have deceived me, young man,” replied Mr. Leyton, “although I -acknowledge I was wrong to harbor such prejudice against a stranger. -Would there was not so much depravity in the world as to warrant my -suspicions—but so it is, and upright, noble-minded young men must -sometimes suffer for the unprincipled libertinisms of those who best -serve the devil by beguiling the purest and fairest of God’s creatures! -But I forgive the deception. You were no less a stranger to me as Edward -Bartine than as Reuben Richards, and I have learned to love you. Yes, -you shall have Lucy, and the pretty white cottage to boot. Once more I -give her to you, and again I say, God bless you and make you both happy, -my dear children!” - -In a few moments Lucy raised her head from her father’s shoulder, and -looking archly in his face, said: - -“Dear father, here is that letter for Cousin Reuben, shall we send it?” - -“Ah, you little jade, now I understand! send it, yes, and we will have -them all here to the wedding; if—_the rheumatism will permit_! ha, ha, -what a lame concern you made of them, _eh_!” - -“Yes, my dear sir, but the plot has not proved a lame one!” replied -Edward, laughing. - - * * * * * - -Dr. Bartine and the charming Lucy, reside in the beautiful villa noticed -in the commencement of this sketch, which, however, Edward insisted upon -purchasing himself. - -Mrs. Richards, and her son Reuben, accepted the invitation of Andrew -Leyton, and now reside altogether at the farm. Reuben is a great -favorite with his uncle, who, however, acknowledges that Edward pleases -him best for a son-in-law. It is said Reuben will soon be married to a -pretty girl in the neighbourhood, and will, without doubt, succeed to -the Leyton farm. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO JENNY LIND: - - - ON SEEING HER PORTRAIT FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - - BY J. R. FRY. - - - World-worshiped Jenny! if this counterfeit - Of woman be not only Art’s ideal; - If when in ecstasy we gaze on it - We know that all its loveliness is real— - That in this face, by guileless rapture lit, - We see the reflex of thy living features; - And if thy voice this seraph-face befit, - No marvel ’tis that over genial natures - Thy power is felt as more than of the earth— - A gift, among the myriads of God’s creatures, - To prove how much may spring from human birth - Of attributes, which faith or fancy blendeth - With visions only of celestial worth! - Not impiously then the warm heart bendeth - In homage at the altar of thy fame, - Where Virtue jealous of thy smile attendeth, - To watch the burning of its vestal flame - And share with Art the honors of thy name! - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: EDITOR OF GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE - -_Geo. R. Graham_ - -Engraved by W.G. Armstrong from a painting by T.B. Read] - - * * * * * - - - - - GEORGE R. GRAHAM - - - [WITH A PORTRAIT.] - - - BY CHARLES J. PETERSON. - - -When a man, left a friendless orphan in boyhood, overcomes every -obstacle of fortune, and rises to wealth and station, we justly conclude -that he is possessed of no common abilities. But when the same -individual, beggared by unforeseen events, retains still the confidence -of his fellow men, and finally conquers fate a second time, and resumes -his lost position, we do not exaggerate if we call him an extraordinary -man. Yet such, unless the partiality of friendship deceives us, is -George R. Graham. - -The father of Mr. Graham was a gentleman of education and fortune, -resident in Philadelphia, where he was known, about thirty years ago, as -an enterprising shipping merchant. At one period he was a partner of the -late Robert Fleming, then carrying on an active trade between Charleston -and Ireland. Subsequently he entered largely into commerce on his own -account, but disastrous times approaching, he shared in the general -ruin, and ultimately, not only his fortune, but his life sunk under the -blow. He left two children, of whom the eldest, the subject of our -memoir, was born on the 18th of January, 1813. The early death of the -father materially affected the interests of the son. Mr. Graham had been -designed for the bar, and all his studies were directed to that end; the -preliminary arrangements had even been made for him in the office of the -Hon. Charles Jared Ingersoll; but the reverses and death of the parent -frustrated the scheme, and the young orphan, who had been born -apparently to a life of comparative ease, was left penniless and almost -friendless, to carve his way to distinction alone. - -But, even at this early age, he did not despair. Of a sanguine -temperament and determined will, he resolved to re-construct the -shattered fortunes of his family. He had been placed, on his father’s -death, and when only fifteen years of age, with his maternal uncle, Mr. -George Rex, an opulent farmer of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, after -whom he had been named; and with this gentleman, and in the country he -remained until he was nineteen. The time, however, was not lost. On the -contrary, it was to this period of his life he is indebted for that -robust constitution which afterward enabled him to endure the severe -application to which he addressed himself. During these four years he -omitted no opportunity to improve his mind. He read every thing that -came in his way. But books, fortunately, were not so abundant then as -now, so that what he read he digested, and thus acquired habits of -correct thought, so rare among the hasty students of the day. - -In 1832, Mr. Graham returned to the city, and commenced to learn the -trade of a cabinet-maker. But he had already resolved that he would yet -be a lawyer, as his father had intended; and accordingly, to effect this -object, he now addressed himself with that untiring energy which has -ever characterised him. His first object was to discipline his mind, to -improve his tastes, and to enlarge his stores of knowledge. For this -purpose he began a course of literary study, and, for three years, -prosecuted it with undiminished ardor, exhibiting, during the entire -period, a perseverance amid difficulties which entitles him to a high -place among self-taught men. His trade requiring his attention for ten -or twelve hours daily, he had but a short interval to spare for -recreation and sleep, but having resolved to devote six hours out of the -twenty-four to literary pursuits, he rigidly adhered to his plan, -gaining the time, when necessary, by rising before dawn. - -At the age of twenty-two he made the acquaintance of a son of the late -Judge Armstrong, of Philadelphia, and by him was introduced to the -judge, who at once arranged to receive him as a student. For the three -years, during which he studied law, he continued laboring at the bench, -devoting the early morning hours and the evening to Coke and Blackstone. -By the regulations of the Pennsylvania courts, the last year of a -student’s course has to be spent in the office of some practicing -attorney; and this he was enabled to effect by rising at four o’clock in -the morning, laboring until nine, then visiting the office, and often -returning to the bench in the evening. The writer of this happened to be -a student with the same preceptor at this period, and writes of facts to -which he was an admiring eye-witness. - -The natural bent of the mind, in all well-balanced natures, triumphs in -the end over the plans of parents and the exigencies of circumstances -alike. Under the influence of a commendable pride, Mr. Graham had -resolved notwithstanding his early misfortunes, to fulfill his father’s -wish, and become a member of the bar; but now, he discovered that his -tastes led him toward a literary life. He accordingly began to -contribute a series of papers to the Philadelphia press, which, at once -attracted attention by the vigor of their thought, not less than the -freshness of their style. He persisted, however, in his intention of -entering the bar, and, in 1839, was admitted to practice. - -His inclination for literature continuing instead of diminishing, he -resolved to abandon the active pursuits of his profession, and embark in -avocations more suitable to his tastes. Accordingly, in the same year he -became editor of the Saturday Evening Post, a well-known weekly journal, -at that time published by Samuel C. Atkinson. In the following year, he -became joint proprietor as well as editor. He continued, in connection -with his partners, to publish this journal for several years, but -finally, in 1846, parted with his entire interest in it. - -It is as a magazine editor and publisher, however, that Mr. Graham has -made himself especially famous. In 1839, at the time he became editor of -the Post, he purchased of Mr. Atkinson the Casket, a monthly magazine of -respectable ability and circulation. This periodical he continued to -publish, under its old name, until December, 1840, when he bought the -list of the Gentleman’s Magazine, and united the two monthlies as -Graham’s Magazine, issuing the first number in January, 1841. The -success of this new enterprise was unprecedented. Having spared no -expense to procure able writers and elegant embellishments, the result -was that he produced a periodical of unexampled merit and beauty; and, -at once, thousands were added to his list. A new spirit was infused into -magazines. Before this period, the monthlies had been filled with -second-hand English stories, or indifferently written original tales; -while their poetry, except what was taken from well-known authors, was -such as “both gods and men abhor.” The illustrations were few and -indifferent. - -The freshness, beauty, and ability of Graham’s Magazine at once placed -it before all others in the popular favor, and though its rivals -hastened to imitate the example it had set, it continued to maintain, -and maintains to this day, the supremacy. - -The success of Mr. Graham’s Magazine was such, that, by January, 1842, -it had attained a circulation of more than thirty thousand. Meantime no -expense was spared to increase its excellence, both literary and -pictorial. Mr. Sartain, the celebrated engraver, was kept busily -employed in furnishing mezzotints for it: and some of the engravings -then executed by that artist, and by Smillie, Rawdon and Tucker, have -certainly never been since surpassed. The most eminent authors in the -United States were, at the same time, sought for its pages. At first, -these writers were incredulous that any American magazine could afford -them adequate remuneration; but the success which had already attended -Mr. Graham’s improvements convinced him that the public would sustain -him in his effort to raise the character of our periodical literature, -and accordingly he persevered in his design. No sooner were Longfellow, -Bryant, Cooper, and others of our leading authors, discovered to be -permanent contributors to Graham’s Magazine, than thousands, who had -heretofore looked with contempt on an American monthly, hastened with -their subscriptions, to encourage the enterprising publisher. The -benefit thus done to popular literature cannot be calculated. But it was -such that it will be long, perhaps, before any one man will have it in -his power to do again as much. - -The demand of a large business, and the watchfulness necessary to keep -the lead, left Mr. Graham but little time for literary composition. He -had, however, increased his own reputation as a writer, of occasional -articles contributed to his newspaper and magazine, but principally to -the latter. Thoroughly read in Bolingbroke, Addison, Burke, and others -of the classic authors of the language, his style was distinguished by a -finish, yet an idiomatic force such as is rarely found among the -careless writers of the day. A clear, sound thinker; with a fervid -imagination; possessing a keen sense of the ridiculous; and having a -great command over the resources of language, he always wrote to the -point, in a racy, nervous style, mingling eloquence and satire by turns, -and never, as hackneyed writers so often do, drowning the idea with -“excess of words.” His choice of terms was singularly felicitous. He -wrote the language as the translators of the Bible wrote it, with a -large mixture of Saxon derivations, yet with purity. In invective, as in -sarcasm, he was especially powerful. A series of editorial articles -contributed to the newspaper under his management, and still remembered, -are instances of the former: his letters to Jeremy Short, are examples -of the latter. In a word, as a terse, and even eloquent writer, Mr. -Graham holds a high rank. As a critic his judgment is always generous, -but just. - -In 1846, Mr. Graham purchased the North American, a daily newspaper of -standing and influence in Philadelphia. He had no sooner embarked in -this new enterprise than it exhibited proofs of his energy and tact: -and, in a very short while, the ability with which the journal was -conducted made it a name throughout the entire Union. In 1847, he still -further extended the influence and reputation of his newspaper, by -purchasing, in connection with his partners, the United States Gazette, -and consolidating it with the North American. But he had now attained, -at least for awhile, the summit of his successes. Having been induced to -engage in certain stock speculations, he entered into them with all the -ardor of his character, and though for a time successful, eventually -impaired his fortune to such a degree that he was forced to part -temporarily with the Magazine and North American. This misfortune -happened in July, 1848. A man of his energy, however, could not be kept -down: fortune might depart, but failed to overcome him. He continued to -edit his Magazine, even after parting with the proprietorship of it, -until March, 1850, when circumstances having induced the retirement of -Samuel D. Patterson, he succeeded in regaining his interest in his -favorite periodical; and from that period has added the duties of -publisher to those of editor. This restoration to his old position is -the result of indomitable energy, which he possesses in a degree that is -as rare as it is praiseworthy. With men of his stamp nothing is -impossible. - -As a man Mr. Graham inspires general affection. The warmth of his heart, -and the frankness of his manners make for him friends wherever he goes. -Generous to a fault, forgetful of injuries, conciliating in his -deportment, he is one to be alike popular with the many and loved by the -few. His faults, where he has them, are those of a noble nature. His -sense of honor is keen. He could do no man wrong intentionally. In all -his actions, even to the most trivial, the energy of his character, and -the kindness of his heart are equally discernible. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE GENIUS OF BURNS. - - - BY HENRY GILES. - - -In a cottage on the banks of Doon, near the town of Ayr, in Scotland, in -1759, Robert Burns, one of the world’s sweetest poets, first saw the -light of life. The peasant-child soon learned to know existence in toil -and sorrow; torn at an early age from study to labor, grief went hand in -hand with glory through his remaining years. We find him amidst the wild -eccentricities of an irregular youth, without any settled aim, as he -himself declares, but with some stirrings of ambition, that were only as -the blind gropings of Homer’s Cyclops around the walls of his cave. With -characteristic ardor, and with more zeal than wisdom, he mingled in the -theological and political squabbles of the times, and by the destructive -boldness of his satire, and the shafted power of his ridicule, he -created many enemies whom it was easier to provoke than to propitiate. -Nor must we hold him blameless. In the prodigality of wit, and the -wildness of laughter; in the madness of merriment, and the pride of -genius, he treated opinions and persons with an unsparing levity which a -more thoughtful experience would have taught him to regard with -reverence or forbearance. That his genius went too frequently in company -with his passions, and that the glory of the one was sometimes wrecked -in the delirium of the other, it is not allowed us to deny; but these -follies had their penalties; and if it were possible, they were better -now forgotten in the ashes of his early grave. Burns was a man that -sinned, and one that suffered; but he was not a man that sinned -callously, or that suffered meanly; and it is not for the living to -write in marble errors which the departed repented in tears. - -Incidents of romance and anguish checker the opening of his poetic fame -with sadness as well as sunshine. His “Highland Mary,” the love of his -youth, and the dream of his life is wrenched from his heart by death. -Then comes the melancholy episode of his attachment to Jean Armor, with -its heavy retribution of wretchedness. His name has begun to gather -honor among his native hills; the small provincial edition of his poems -is hailed with proud enthusiasm; but yet, with poverty and a bleeding -spirit, he looks across the ocean to foreign exile. Suddenly his purpose -is turned aside, and we behold him in Edinburgh among the exclusives and -magnates of the land. There, as at the plough, we find him still the -true and sturdy man. In the throng of Highland chieftains and border -barons, in the full blaze of pride and beauty, he felt within him a -humanity beyond the claim of titles; genius had given him a -superscription more impressive than device of heraldry; the patent of -nobility was written with fire in his heart, and the proud ones of earth -became poor before the aristocrat of heaven. In that day of classic -propriety, a poet from the plough, full of passionate earnestness, must -have been in Edinburgh a startling phenomenon. But nature made herself -heard in the very citadel of art; cavil was silent, and admiration -offered willing homage. The wealthy marveled at the inspired peasant; -and wherever the eloquent ploughman appeared, there were the nobles -collected together. Dukes gave him their silken hands; duchesses -received him with sweetest smiles; earls pledged him in the wine-cup; -and for the moment, the haughty and the high-born recognized the -presence of a greatness superior to their own. But Burns was not a man -to hold popularity long in circles such as these. He was too stoutly -individual for the apathy of elegant mediocrity, and he was too sternly -independent for the sensibility of patronizing grandees: he saw nothing -to venerate in a title when it was but the nickname of a fool; and he -was undazzled by a star when it glittered on the breast of a ruffian or -a dunce. But though Burns escaped the danger of aristocratic delusion, -he did not escape the danger of aristocratic feasts. These were the -times of night-long carousals, and pottle-deep potations. Burns had -neither the firmness to resist such dissipation, nor the constitution to -endure it; and he carried from it impaired health and impaired -habits—an irritable discontent with his condition, and an instability -of purpose fatal to a life of labor. Having placed a tomb over the -neglected remains of poor Ferguson, the poet, he retired to the country, -shared his success with his brother Gilbert, met his mother steeped in -tears of honest joy, married his Jean, and gave peace to a wounded -spirit. - -From this era of light in his course; from this day, bright with fame -and conscious virtue, we trace him along a path devious and clouded. We -follow him through the toil of a profitless farm, to the struggles of a -country gauger, and from these to a destitute death-bed. In all his -follies and his sufferings, we behold him true to a manly nature, loyal -to noble principles; and however seamed and deformed may have been the -surface of his life, virtue remained unshaken in the centre of his soul. -With a large family, and only seventy pounds a year, he had an open hand -for the poor, and a hospitable roof for stranger and for friend; and -although he died owing no man any thing, yet he has been stigmatized as -a prodigal and a spendthrift. He gave the world his immortal songs -without money and without price; and with the generosity of benignant -genius, he sympathized with every effort of the humble men around him -for a nobler life, he ministered to their intellectual wants, and he -aided their intellectual struggles. Accordingly, we observe him at a -time when he was harassed with cares and overcome with toil on a barren -farm, establishing a book club in his neighborhood, forming its rules, -and directing its operations. To estimate this in the true spirit, we -must remember that it was sixty years ago, when as yet there had been no -“Mechanics’ Institutions” in the land, and when Lyceums were not; when -cheap editions of standard works had not arisen even on a printer’s -dream, and “Societies for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge” were -enfolded, as the poets say, in the mighty womb of futurity. Dr. Currie, -of Liverpool, a genial and eloquent (though patronizing) biographer of -Burns, in narrating this portion of his life, questions the utility of -literary studies for the great masses of the people. Strange questioning -this, in a life of Burns—the cottage-boy, whom the little knowledge of -a rustic school awakened for eternity; raised from the clods of the -valley to a place among the stars, a burning and imperishable light; and -who, but for that little knowledge, might have been as nameless clay as -any that nurtures the grass of a village church-yard. - -The ideas of Currie have almost vanished with his times; still even yet -we occasionally hear some small-souled cynic, some snail-shell -philosopher, who thinks himself of those sages with whom wisdom is to -perish, sneer scornfully at popular knowledge. Popular knowledge, it is -true, is not the wisdom of Solomon; it has not the depth of Bacon, or -the sublimity of Newton; still, so far as it goes, it is a good, and -though the pedant may deride, the philanthropist will rejoice. And what, -after all, is the ground of Mr. Pedant Wiseacre’s pride? Perhaps some -learned investigation on the contraction of the Greek kai, or the tail -of the Greek gamma. Seriously, the critic and the scholar, when true to -their noble office, deserve our admiration and our gratitude; but those -who grub merely for withered roots, which never produce either fruits or -flowers; and, then, with insect vanity, give themselves airs of scorn, -are themselves saved from contempt, only because all creatures have -their uses. It is well for society that there should always be men of -great and solid learning; and evil would be the day when slight -acquirement should be a substitute for laborious thought; but it is also -desirable that these accumulated treasures should be widely and -bountifully distributed. It is good to have deep fountains in our -munitions of rocks, but it is not good that these fountains should waste -themselves in darkness; it is not good that they should merely feed the -gorgeous river, and the mighty cataract, they should also steal along in -the sunny streamlet, and give beauty to the secluded nook. Let there be -rich men, and let them rejoice in their riches; let there be great men, -and let them exult in their greatness; let there be men of strong -intellect, but let them in their strength be merciful; it is not, -however, the great, the noble, or the strong, that are ever of -destructive nature; it was the lean kine of Egypt that became the -devourers—and yet were as skinny as before; so there are poor, lean, -hungry animals of the critic species—unproductive as they are -voracious, that are naturally the most unsparing and the most ferocious. - -When Burns went first to Edinburgh he was the rage, and homage to him -became the cant of certain circles. But it is seldom that such homage -survives a season. Poor Burns lived not long; but he lived long enough -to understand in bitterness the hollowness of drawing-room applause. On -a second visit to the Scottish metropolis, the enthusiasts of the first -had disappeared. It is ridiculous enough now to us to think of any lord -or lady of bedizened mediocrity supposing they could do honor by their -notice to such a man as Robert Burns; but ridicule deepens to contempt, -when we read of paltry provincials in Dumfries looking ascant at their -mighty townsman, our indignation chokes our laughter at the record of -treatment which small fashionables could offer to a great poet. Mr. -Lockhart gives an anecdote from a gentleman who told him that he was -seldom more grieved than when riding into Dumfries, one fine summer’s -evening, to attend a country ball, he saw Burns walking alone on the -shady side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side -was gay with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn -together for the festivities of the night—not one of whom appeared -willing to recognize him. The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who, -on his proposing to him to cross the street, said, “Nay, nay, my young -friend, that’s all over now,” and quoted, after a pause, some verses of -Lady Grizzle Baillie’s pathetic ballad. - -Burns, amidst poverty and sorrow, when needful comforts had almost -failed him in his sickness, and his children nearly wanted bread, in the -thirty-eighth year of his age, quitted a world that was not soon to look -upon his like again. Burns, the gladdener of so many hearts, was at last -outwrestled, and the mighty fell—Burns, who had so deeply felt the -rapture of genius, and the misery of life. - -The retribution with which the errors of Burns chastised him, holds out -impressive warning to all who are capable of drawing wisdom from -example. If happiness could have found a resting-place in one of the -most honest hearts that ever struck against a manly bosom; if happiness -had been with noble poetry, with an eloquence that never failed, with an -imagination rich as the breast of nature, and bright as the stars in -heaven; if happiness could have been brought down from the sky by lofty -and aspiring sentiments, or fixed upon earth by generous and gentle -affections; then happiness would have been the lot of Burns. But Burns -had contracted habits to which peace soon becomes a stranger; and he who -has such habits, be he bard, or be he beggar, has already entered on the -evil day; he may say in all the bitterness of his soul, “Farewell the -tranquil mind.” It would seem as if Burns pictured by anticipation his -own sad fate when he wrote the Bard’s Epitaph. “Whom did the poet -intend?” asks Wordsworth, as quoted by Allan Cunningham, “who but -himself—himself anticipating the too probable termination of his own -course. Here is a sincere and solemn avowal—a public declaration from -his own will—a confession at once devout, poetical and human—a history -in the shape of a prophesy!” What more was required of the biographer -than to have put his seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding -had been realized, and the record was authentic. - - Is there a whim-inspired fool, - Owre fast for thought, or hot to rule, - Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, - Let him draw near; - And owre this grassy heap sing dool, - And drap a tear. - - Is there a bard of rustic song, - Who, noteless, steals, the crowds among, - That weekly this area throng, - O, pass not by, - But with a frater-feeling strong, - Here heave a sigh. - - Is there a man whose judgment clear, - Can others teach the course to steer, - Yet runs himself life’s mad career, - Wild as the wave; - Here pause, and through the starting tear, - Survey this grave. - - The poor inhabitant below - Was quick to learn, and wise to know, - And keenly felt the friendly glow, - And softer flame, - But thoughtless follies laid him low, - And stained his name. - - Reader, attend, whether thy soul - Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole, - Or darkly grubs this earthly hole, - In low pursuit, - Know prudent, cautious, self-control - Is wisdom’s root. - -Thus much I thought I might venture on our poet’s life; I shall now -proceed to offer some remarks upon his genius. - -Burns was a true child of nature; thence his growing power, and thence -the promise of his lasting fame. But though the child of nature, he was -not the offspring of mere rude or uncultivated nature. The Scottish -peasantry were a class of men among whom such a mind as that of Burns -could perhaps receive its most fitting development. Without the -refinement which tends to repress spontaneous expression, they had -sufficient of moral and intellectual education to give that expression -variety and strength. Their country, their history, and their religion, -were all such as to train a serious and reflective imagination. -Therefore it is that no peasantry have furnished so much to national -literature as the Scottish, and especially to national poetry. Within a -period by no means extensive in their annals, they have given to the -world such writers as Ferguson, simple and full of music; Allan Ramsay, -in his “Gentle Shepherd,” the very genius of pastoral poetry; Tannahill, -a lowly spirit of melody and pathos, a sweet voice of truth and -tenderness; Hogg, the glorious wizard of the mountains, coming down from -his shepherd’s wilderness, his memory peopled with all olden legends, -and his fancy teeming with all fairy dreams. Burns, then, though -mightiest, is but one of an honorable family; though greatest and -grandest among them, they are his kindred; of some he is the heir, of -others, he is the progenitor. - -Burns is a poet true, as I have said, to nature, and therefore true to -art. Burns is not mechanically artificial, but he is patiently -artistical. He had none of that indolent vanity which shrinks from -careful preparation, which trusts all to sudden excitement, and -undigested emotions. He looked, as every man of genius does, to the -ideal; he knew it was not to be comprehended in a passing glance, or -reached in a rapid bound, or embodied in a single effort; and he knew -that in the endeavor to unfold it, no execution could be too thoughtful, -and no labor too great. It is not the consciousness of power, but the -conceit of vanity, which relies presumptuously upon momentary impulse, -which mistakes the contortions of a delirious imbecility for the -movements of celestial agitation. The very creation of God, which -required but the will and word of Omnipotence for instant and perfect -existence, has been gradually constructed—the earth on which we stand, -so fair to look upon, so robed with beauty, so radiant with life and -light, has been evolved from chaos through innumerable formations and -even the thunder so astounding in its crash, and the lightning so sudden -in its stroke, have long been generating in the womb of heaven. The man -of genius, the man of creative power, is at once inspired and -industrious; at once a man of passion and a man of patience; at once a -constructor and analyser, a man of enthusiasm, but also a man of wisdom. -Genius is not intoxication, and it is even more than rapture; it is -capacity subject to the law of truth and beauty; the intense action of -the soul, exalted, harmonious, and illuminated. The dash of noble -thoughts may come suddenly on the brain; the torrent of enkindled -feeling may rush upon the heart, but the spirit of order and of art must -move over the face of this brilliant chaos, ere it is shaped into that -perfection which the world does not willingly let die. All mighty souls -know this; the rustic Burns knew it, not less than the godlike Milton. - -The genius of Burns is now, by that instinctive appreciation which forms -the supreme tribunal, placed in the highest order. Whence is this? All -he has written may be contained in a moderately sized volume. If -quantity of production therefore were needed to exalt a writer, which it -is not, Burns should remain in the region of mediocrity. Neither has he -composed as critics would seem to require, a work of elaborate and -faultless excellence; for he has not even attempted a tragedy or an epic -poem. But critics cannot decide this point, and that common heart which -decides for all has decided for Burns. The depth and extent of his -humanity has gained him his distinction, and it is that humanity which -gains distinction for any who outlive their age. It is this spirit of -love and sympathy which evinces the kindred that all men recognize; it -is this spirit that reaches the truth of nature below all changes, -custom and convention; below all colors which climates paint upon the -skin; it is this which outlives all facts and fashions, and abides -forever in the immortal heart. Whoever has this spirit must live; -whoever has it not must die; whoever has this spirit must live, defiled -though he may be with many evils; whoever has it not must die, no matter -how excellent he may be besides; no matter what his brilliancy, his -sagacity, his talent, the generations will outlast them all; will give -them to as deep oblivion as they do the tongues of Babel. The world -cherishes Boccacio, notwithstanding the offences of his tales; so it -likewise preserves Chaucer; Rabelais and old Montaigne continue in -literature despite of their impurities; and to think of Shakspeare dying -would be to conceive the extinction of letters or our race. All these -men are deathless brothers, and Burns is amongst them. His poetry is -thoroughly human; a poetry which reproduces as we read it all the -feelings of our wayward nature; which shows how man was made to be -merry, and how he was made to mourn; which enters the soul on its sunny -or its gloomy side, expands the heart with laughter or chastens it with -melancholy. - -In knowledge of man, Burns strikes us with wonder unspeakable, when we -consider the narrow circle in which he lived, and the early age at which -he died. A single song is like a compressed drama; and within the circle -of these songs we have impulses from every stage of life, from the -perturbations of youth to the chill of age. To every shade of sentiment -and affection; to every change and turn of inward experience, to every -oddity and comicality of feeling, he has given a voice of musical and -energetic utterance. - -Man, and man directly—man in the play of all his passions, is, with -Burns, the great object of interest. The descriptive and the picturesque -for their own sake have therefore no place in his writings. A picture -with him is never more than the drapery of a passion. The chivalric past -has none of his veneration; and the past, in any form, only kindles him -when he associates it with the movements of humanity or the struggles of -liberty. The conflicts of feudalism, the rivalry of dynasties, the -gorgeous falsehoods of departed ages, had no enchantment to warm his -fancy or to rule his pen. In this respect, the writings of Scott and -those of Burns are as opposite as are their characters. The brilliancy -of descriptive narrative glows over the poems of Scott—the strong life -of passion throbs in those of Burns. Even in the record of a tour this -contrast is observable. Scott has the eye of an antiquarian and a -map-maker united. Burns glances along as if space were a tiresome -obstruction to his fiery nature: Scott surveys every baronial castle, -and notes all its chronicles. Burns raves with inspired fury on the -field where the invader was struck down, where “tyrants fell in every -blow.” Scott imagined that genius owed homage to rank; Burns gave the -obligation another version, and conceived that rank should do reverence -to genius. Peasant-born, he was too proud in his humanity to covet -titles: almost morbidly jealous of individual independence, hereditary -aristocracy was not to him poetically impressive; its outward glare -provoked his scorn, and its deeper abuses sickened his imagination. - -Two most _human_ qualities in all poets are pre-eminent in Burns—I mean -pathos and humor. - -His pathos is profound but kindly. No writer is less gloomy than Burns, -and yet none for the extent of his compositions has more pathos. No -writer within the same compass has grander thoughts or deeper beauty; -and, by some magic of the heart, grand thoughts and deep beauty are -always allied to melancholy. The canopy of the blue heavens, when not a -cloud swims in its brightness, makes our rapture sad: so it does when -the stars stud it with ten thousand lights: the mountain’s majesty and -the ocean’s vastness subdue our souls to thought, and in this world of -ours thought has ever something of the hue of grief. It would seem as if -a mysterious connection existed between great objects and pensive -feelings, between lofty sentiments and deep regrets, a kind of struggle -in our higher nature against the limits of its condition: a -disappointment at the long interval that separates our aspirations from -the ideal, tinges with sorrow all our sensations of the beautiful. -Pathos such as this imbues all the graver poetry of Burns. Scarcely is -there a wo which wrings the bosom between the cradle and the grave which -has not an expression in the solemn music of his verse, from the -gentlest whisper of feeling to the frenzies of every pain and the -agonies of every passion. But though deep, his melancholy is not morbid. -It is the melancholy of great capacities and of real suffering; of error -reacting on itself a just infliction; or glorious desires yearning for -their congenial objects. The muse of Burns was a rustic maiden; a maiden -healthful and hardy. Fits of vapors she might occasionally have, but the -heather of her native mountains soon restored the elasticity of her -step, and the breeze of her pleasant valleys quickly recalled the bloom -to her cheek and the lustre to her eye. At times she sought the -solitudes; but she returned ere long to human homes, and sang her wild -and simple songs to the friendly circle. She loved, it is true, to -meditate under the green shadow of the forest, and to look up in -raptured spirit to the lurid and darkened heavens; but she loved no less -the blessed sunshine on the harvest hill, and the cottage smoke that -floated in the evening sky. If occasionally she wept amidst the graves -of her heroes, she came from the places of the dead, more boldly to -proclaim liberty in the places of the living. - -This pathos is neither maudlin nor misanthropic. It does not make the -head giddy with paradox; nor whirl the heart upon a wild and chaotic -tempest of doubt and selfishness; it does not dissect out the evils of -human nature, and gloat over them with a diseased voluptuousness; it -does not lead you to sit at the feast of despair, with the spectres and -skeletons around you of unsocial horrors. It is no mawkish pretence of -sentiment. Burns is true to what he feels; and, right or wrong, he -speaks it as it is. He maintains this course in his good and his evil. -It saved him from groveling and bombast; it saved him from intellectual -cant, and from literary quackery. No language is so eloquent as honest -language. Truth goes direct to its purpose, while affectation is -crawling around its petty circumlocutions; and, as the straight line is -the shortest, the most sincere words are the most resistless. As the -poet had honesty in himself, he had faith in others. His appeal was -weakened by no skepticism in the capacity of humble men to appreciate -the noble and the beautiful. He spoke to them as beings whose hearts -were of the same substance as his own; he spoke confident of the result, -and he was not disappointed. The first auditors of his verses were the -obscure dwellers among Scottish hills and hamlets, and to his words he -received as true a response as poetic enthusiasm could have desired. The -sons and daughters of toil proved to him, that he had not trusted them -in vain. He gave them his faith, and they paid back the trust with a -priceless love. - -I have said that the pathos of Burns is not morbid—and I have said -truly. In its lowest depths, it is not dark—in the uttermost sadness, -it is not despairing. He grieves, but he never whines; and when he -utters forth tones the most plaintive, they are yet so vigorous and so -full, that, by the strong sound of them, you feel that they come out -from the stalwort struggle of a manly bosom. He has pathos, too, of -every variety. He has the pathos of sympathy—and this sympathy is often -so intense, as to amount to a passionate indignation. As thus, in the -poem—“_Man was made to Mourn_:”— - - Many and sharp, the numerous ills— - Interwoven with our frame! - More pointed still we make ourselves, - Regret, remorse, and shame. - And Man, whose heaven-created face, - The smiles of love adorn, - Man’s inhumanity to man - Makes countless thousands mourn. - -This is a large and noble eloquence, condensed into a soul-fraught -poetry; yet is it but one out of the many stanzas of which the whole -consists, of equal power. So, likewise, he has the pathos of pity, of -tenderness, in their finest modulations. The chords of his own heart -were most delicately attuned to “the soft, sad music of humanity;” and -the breathings of its sorrow were of that genuine humanity, to which -other hearts cannot but respond. How much of such pitiful gentleness -have we constantly in his poetry, often coming near to gusts of -anger—like the song of a mourner in a stormy midnight—or, the moan of -the tempest after its rush. But sometimes we have low and melancholy -plaints, without one tone of harshness, in such exquisite verses, as -those on “The Mouse,” and “The Mountain Daisy”—in “Poor Mailie’s -Elegy”—and “The Farmer’s Address to the Old Mare on New Year’s Day.” -Illustrations of this point are in all his writings, prose as well as -poetry; but I will only mention one other—his “Lines on a Wounded -Hare.” Burns has, in an eminent degree, the pathos which springs from -contemplation of our mortal life; and not less, that which comes from -those solemn questionings of the spirit, to which experience and the -Past, give only accusing answers. A man of genius may do wrong; he may -lose himself in the mazes of the passions; he may forget himself in the -excitement and turbulence of the senses—but all this is at a deadlier -cost than it is to any other man. Let no puny-copyist of genius only in -its errors and its wanderings, doubly deceive himself—first, by -supposing that he _has_ genius, and then, more fatally, deceive himself -by inferring that genius has impunity. True, it is, that genius, like -charity, covereth a multitude of sins—and for the delight and the -beauty which a great soul showers upon the world, the world does -abundantly forgive. But, genius does not forgive itself. A strong moral -sensibility—though, it may be, not strong moral principle—is mostly a -concomitant—if not an essential element—in the nature of a man of -genius, and, therefore, when such a man does violence to his higher -sentiments, his very genius becomes his punishment. The grandeur of his -ideal—the innate love that he must have to the good and to the -beautiful—the extent of his moral associations—the tenacity of his -moral memories—the vitality of his imagination, calling back again, and -back again, the thoughts which had only disappeared, but were not -dead—all conspire to chastise him, and to chastise him by the faculties -which enchant and move the world. The depth and the compass of his -sympathies afflict him; and, as the fountains of thought and feeling are -full within him, so much the greater are the agitations that shake him. -These remarks concern mainly those men of genius whose nature is that of -a comprehensive humanity. Men there have been, and are, that might be -adduced to contradict the position I have ventured here to take: for -they were capable of much that was unworthy—and yet they did not suffer -or repent. Some were deniers, and some were sensualists—the deniers had -fine art, and the sensualists had fine sentiments—and all were men of -genius. I have no reply to make, except that, in such men, their genius, -as their humanity, was of partial, though intense development; and that -such was a class to which Burns did not belong. He was neither a denier -nor a sentimentalist. He was a _man_—take him for all in all—and he -was a poet in the whole compass of the _man_. The man spoke through the -poet, not in gladness only, but, also, in every note of sorrow and -compunction. What sombre power in his Ode to Despondency. - - Oppressed with grief, oppressed with care, - A burden more than I can bear, - I sit me down and sigh: - O life! thou art a galling load, - Along a rough, a weary road, - To wretches such as I! - Dim, backward, as I cast my view, - What sick’ning scenes appear!— - What sorrows yet may pierce me through, - Too justly, I may fear! - Still caring, despairing, - Must be my bitter doom; - My woes here, shall close ne’er, - But with the closing tomb. - -See this again, in the affection with which he loved the sombre phases -of external nature, and the force with which he painted them. Thus he -meditates in Winter: - - The sweeping blast—the sky o’ercast— - The joyless winter-day, - Let others fear, to me more dear - Than all the pride of May: - The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul, - My griefs it seems to join; - The leafless trees my fancy please— - Their fate resembles mine. - -Then passing from this low-breathing despondency, we have lyric tragedy -shouting down despair in a kind of reckless ecstacy. Bold and brave is -this “Song of Death:” - - Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, - Now gay with the bright setting sun; - Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, - Our race of existence is run. - Thou grim King of Terrors—thou life’s gloomy foe— - Go, frighten the coward and slave; - Go, teach _them_ to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, - No terrors hast thou to the brave! - -In the pathos of love Burns has no superior. What poet in ancient or -modern times, short of Shakspeare, has sung with more varied inspiration -than Burns, the agitations with which love convulses the heart of man, -and breaks the heart of woman? In a few compressed, but simple-meaning -lines, he reveals the passion in all its regrets and agony. And here -also, we can see the force, the simplicity—the vehement sincerity of -his poetry: and we can see exactly the same characteristics in his life. -Allan Cunningham, in his biography of Burns, tells a very affecting -anecdote, which I may here fairly adduce in illustration. Jean Armor was -lying ill in the house of her parents. Burns had arranged to quit the -country for ever, but wanted, once before he left, to see his Jean. -Burns attempted to go into the house, but her father stood in the door -to exclude him. Burns, maddened by his grief, pushed the old man aside, -rushed up to his daughter’s chamber, and throwing himself across the -bed, wept as if his heart would burst. And, with regard to his verses to -“Mary in Heaven,” if any thing could be more pathetic, than the verses -themselves, it was the circumstances in which he composed them. It is -now familiar to all who read the least of literary history, that this -sublimely pathetic ode, was composed on the anniversary of the maiden’s -death, while the poet lay abroad in the field during a bright harvest -night, recalling the images of past affections, and out from this dream -of the wakeful and troubled heart came that dirge of music which the -noblest humanity inspired, and which the rudest humanity must love. It -is so familiar to every one, that I will not dare to profane it, by -repetition. But here are a few lines of a song, lyrical with all the -melody of sadness. - - Ae fond kiss and then we sever! - Ae farewell—alas, forever! - Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee— - Wailing sighs and groans I’ll wage thee— - Who shall say that fortune grieves him— - While the star of hope she leaves him? - Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; - Dark despair around benights me. - . . . . . - Had we never loved sae kindly, - Had we never lovéd blindly, - Never met—or never parted, - We had ne’er been broken-hearted. - -The humor of Burns, too, is full of humanity. It is affluent with all -the rich and laughing juices of the heart, and has only just so much of -acid as adds pungency to sweetness. Burns has the humor most -characteristic of his country; but beyond that, he has a humor belonging -to himself—a humor which, while it distinguishes the individual, -endears him to his kind. In common with his countrymen, he has the -cautious innuendo—the sly allusion—the insinuated sarcasm—the shrewd -but mocking suggestion—the implied irony—the dextrously concealed and -quiet fun—the sober joke—but he goes beyond all this—and has a -humor—which can make men of every nation shake their sides—a humor -that often unites the broadness of Rabelais with the sentiment of -Sterne. Such a humor demands not only extraordinary wealth of -imagination, but also, extraordinary force of intellect—a very uncommon -fancy and a very strong common sense. And, it was the union of these in -Burns which so well enabled him to be at once comic and satirical—which -enabled him so happily to combine the sarcastic and the ludicrous—and -he does this in such a way, that while his victims writhe before us, we -discern no malignity in their torturer. But, it is in jocund, queer, -joyous humor—humor reckless in its gladness, that Burns the most -excels. In this species of humor he has scarcely an equal. Few of the -greatest masters in humor come near him; and in what we may call the -comic-lyric, he stands almost alone. The humor that makes richest melody -in the heart; that sings for very joy; that by every note in which -laughter can sing out its ecstacy—swells the choruses of mirth and -merriment—the humor that is a jubilee in the bosom, that gives widest -liberty to fancy—a saturnalia, in which no thought of care or labor, -dares intrude—a carnival, in which all kindly oddities of conception -play their parts—a humor that combines imagination and feeling into -numberless bright varieties, to exhilarate our life—of this humor, -Burns in his laughing moods is the potent wizard—of this enlivening -magic his gayer songs are the resistless spells. - -This humor, too, is generously and jovially human, and although Burns’ -ridicule is often coarse, it is rarely cruel. He strikes, but it is with -the arm of a man, and not with the blasting of a fiend. Gall he does -sometimes mingle with the cup of satire, but never the deadly -night-shade; the barb he sharpens keenly, but he does not steep it in -poison. He painted, it is true, with a breadth and richness of coloring -that made men hold their sides and set the table in a roar, the -fooleries and absurdities of individuals; the pretensions of sects, and -the bitterness of factions; the vanities of professions; the motley -trivialities of presumptuous and stolid nonsense; but in the very storm -of his sarcasm, he spares our common nature. There is a ridicule which -properly may be called diabolical; which desecrates every thing endeared -and noble; which laughs not in festivity of spirit, but in bitterness of -heart; which like the witches in Macbeth, around the midnight cauldron, -shrieks in the irony of satanic mirth over the degradation of humanity. -This temper is realized in the writings of Swift, and affected in those -of Byron; but we discover no trace of it in the compositions of Burns. -Burns would give even to Satan himself the grace of repentance, and a -chance of heaven. Burns, like Byron, can pass rapidly from the grave to -the grotesque, but altogether in a different spirit. In the one it is -the prodigality of fun; in the other it is willfulness of scorn; in the -one, it is sport; in the other it is derision; the one as friend to -friend mocks humanity pleasantly; the other makes it a Sancho Panza, -tosses it in a blanket, and laughs the louder, the more it is -humiliated. I believe the spirit of Byron was naturally a fine one; but -it was spoiled, if not utterly ruined, as to all its higher capacities -and sympathies. I say not that his moral humanity was extinguished, -because that would be uncandid; but I do say, that he became fantastic -and capricious to such a degree as to fail in the charities which not -only soften life, but dignify literature. - -Attributing humor to Burns, I do not estimate it as the slight matter -which many seem to think it. If we trust some persons, we should -conceive that length of face was length of wisdom, gravity of look, the -veil of oracles; thickness of skull the safeguard of knowledge; and -rigidity of muscle, the solemn surface of an unfathomable philosophy. -But humor in its higher form is the quality, not only of a liberal, but -of a cultivated spirit. It requires that the mental powers be vigorous -as well as genial. It requires imagination and intellect, as well as a -heart in the right place, and the juices of the body in a good -condition. Humor as well as pathos is the result of sympathy—of -sympathy that embraces man in the most brotherly cordiality—weeps with -those who weep, and rejoices with those who do rejoice. This is the -humor of Shakspeare; it is the humor of Hogarth; it is the humor of -Burns. And many a noble use has this honest faculty—often is it more -effective than sermons, to make life lambent, to clear the sky, that was -becoming too heavy around us, to warm social intercourse, to nurture our -socialities, to dissipate evil passions, and by its pleasant mockeries, -to shame us out of nonsensical miseries. - -Time would now fail me to refer to the poetry of Burns with any special -detail; but for pages so well known, a few brief reminiscences will be -sufficient. How full of beauty is “The Vision,” the poem in which, with -a self-conscious greatness, almost Miltonic, he celebrates his own -consecration to the glory of his country; we read it in delight, in -wonder, and with sorrow, and with joy; we verily admit, that, “the light -which led astray was light from heaven.” With what solemn pleasure we -recall the “Cottar’s Saturday Night.” No other poem in the language -shows how much the eye of a poet can see, how much the heart of a poet -can feel, where another heart is dull, and another eye is blind. To the -prosaic nothing familiar is exciting, but to the inspired all existence -is full of glory. Here upon a cottage floor we have placed before us, -the most pure, and the most noble virtues; the piety that looks to -heaven; the patriotism that dignifies earth; here we have the father -returned from his toil, with his “wee things” circling his knees, his -clean hearth stone; his “thrifty wifie’s” smile; his soul made glad with -Sabbath hopes and with holy thoughts; here are brothers and sisters -gathered from the work-day world around the parents that shielded, and -that blessed their infancy; here are the pleasant face, and the heart’s -own smile; here the homely feast with a joy which luxury refuses, and a -gratitude which no luxury inspires; here is first love with maiden -blushes, shames and fears; here are all the sublimities of the -affections, all in the shades of unnoticed life. How noble is that -father and that peasant-priest, as he bares his “haffit locks,” and “let -us worship God he says with solemn air;” - - Then kneeling down to Heaven’s eternal King— - The _saint_, the _father_, and the husband prays— - Hope “springs exultant on triumphant wings,” - That thus they all shall meet in future days: - Thus ever bask in uncreated rays—, - No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, - Together hymning their _Creator’s_ praise, - In such society, yet still more dear; - While circling time moves round in on eternal sphere. - - Compared with this, how poor! religion’s pride - In all the pomp of method and of art, - When men display to congregations wide, - Devotion’s every grace, except the _heart_! - The _Power_ incensed, the pageant will desert, - The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; - But haply, in some _Cottage_, far apart, - May hear well pleased the language of the soul, - And in his _Book of life_ the inmates poor enroll! - -And how exalted that love of country which utters this fine -supplication: - - O Scotia, my dear, my native soil, - For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent, - Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil - Be blest with health, and pence, and sweet content. - And O, may heaven their simple lives prevent - From luxury’s contagion weak and vile, - Then, howe’er crowns end coronets be rent, - A virtuous populace will rise the while, - And stand a wall of fire round their much loved isle. - -The spirit of hilarity has never been so admirably blended with the -gloomy and the tender, as in the tale of “Tam O’Shanter.” Heroic and -immortal Tam will stand his ground while the name of witch or warlock -has a place in language. This marvelous mixture of fun and fancy; this -chronicle of midnight revelry; this record of wit and waggery, of good -fellowship and ghosts, has now a lodgment in every mind that relishes -drollery and genius. Here we have the sublime with the ludicrous; images -most delicate with images most homely; subtle analogies with grotesque -incongruities; touches of sorrow with strokes of glee; all coming in -such rapid succession, that, while the broad grin is on the lip, the -tear is starting to the eye. “The Jolly Beggars” gives us the very -saturnalia of low life; jovial poverty frolics away in the full -abandonment of extravagance, dashed over, however, here and there, with -those shadings of regret which obtrude the sadness of life, when men try -to forget it most. The “Halloween,” pictures the poor man’s carnival, -such as it used to be in Scotland, with all its superstitions and its -sports. “The twa Dogs,” is a genial exposition of the poor man’s -philosophy. The dog of wealth, laying aside his master’s pride in his -master’s absence, meets the peasant dog with very kindly courtesy; and -both sitting tranquilly on their haunches, with nose to nose, and most -sagacious phizzes, discuss the comparative merits of riches and poverty, -pity the folly of their two-legged fellow creatures, congratulate each -other on their canine superiority, and bless their stars for being dogs -instead of men. Cæsar, the dog of high life, with an air of peculiar -respectability and most complacent compassion, wonders how poor folks -can live at all. Luath, his humble friend, knows that poor folks not -only live, but live with very many pleasures; and this Luath was a dog -of sympathy; he shared the cottage sorrow; he shared also the cottage -joy; he rattled away among the dancers; wagged his tail in the highest -glee of his honest heart, and gave his chorus to the merry sound. When -adversity was on the hearth, his face grew long; when better times -returned, it was broad again. - - My heart hae been sae fain to see them - That I for joy hae barkit wi them. - -The whole of this poem is fraught with the noblest and the most -endearing humanity—a humanity most varied and most musical in its -tones—running quickly along all the chords of sadness and of merriment, -throwing forth a harmony of charity and heart-breathing kindness, in -which grave sounds and gay mingle together, but not one vibration -ungenial or discordant. That Burns should give to dogs sentiments thus -characteristic of a sweet and generous temper, corresponds entirely to -the feelings with which he regarded that animal, as illustrated in a -passage which I have lately found, taken from a newspaper. - -The following original anecdote of Burns is in a work entitled the -“Philosophy of the Seasons,” by Rev. Henry Duncan: - -“I well remember with what delight I listened to an interesting -conversation which, while yet a school-boy, I enjoyed an opportunity of -hearing in my father’s manse, between the poet Burns and another poet, -my near relation, the amiable Blacklock. The subject was the fidelity of -the dog. Burns took up the question with all the ardor and kindly -feeling with which the conversation of that extraordinary man was so -remarkably embued. It was a subject well suited to call forth his -powers, and when handled, by such a man, not less suited to interest the -youthful fancy. The anecdotes by which it was illustrated have long -escaped my memory; but there was one sentiment expressed by Burns with -his characteristic enthusiasm which, as it threw a light into my mind, I -shall never forget. “Man,” said he, “is the God of the dog. He knows no -other; he can understand no other; and see how he worships him! With -what reverence he couches at his feet; with what love he fawns upon him, -with what dependence he looks up to him, and with what cheerful alacrity -he obeys him. His whole soul is wrapped up in his God; and the powers -and faculties of his nature are devoted to his service; and these powers -and faculties are exalted by the intercourse. It ought just to be so -with the Christian: but the dogs put the Christians to shame.” - -It is thus, that the spirit of human love, the truest element of poetic -beauty, can ennoble and consecrate all it touches; it is thus that Burns -elevates the most lowly objects; the farmer’s mare, proud in her age and -services; the little cowering mouse, houseless and frightened; the dying -ewe; the wounded hare; the simple daisy; rustic sweethearts and rustic -beggars; all were endeared to his generous imagination, and over them, -while words have meaning, there will be laughing eyes, and serious -faces. - -Burns has been great in whatever poetry he attempted, but in lyric -poetry, he is greatest of all. The songs of Burns, in every point of -view, are truly wonderful compositions. We are at a loss which most to -admire, their number and variety, or their individual perfection. The -lyre of Burns incessantly changes its tone, and in every change it -throws forth a flood of new inspiration. Great indeed is the task to -give poetic and condensed expression to those thousand impulses that -ever heave within us, and are evanescent as the ocean wave; to furnish -fitting words for the ideal and fervid longings which millions feel, but -cannot utter for themselves; to embody in lasting form, innumerable and -undefined desires; to touch chord after chord of memory and emotion, and -to awaken the divine music that slumbers in the soul; in a word, to give -melody and speech to the complicated heart of man: great is the task, -but Burns has accomplished it. - -Burns—great in sadness and great in humor; so human in his melancholy, -so loving in his laughter. When we hear the pleasant peal of his hearty -mirth, our bosoms dilate, until we could embrace our species in -affection. When, changing his tone, we feel the breath of his -indignation or listen to his cry against oppression, our pulse beats -quicker and our blood flows faster. Burns, bard of the brave and fervent -soul, destined to move humanity as long as language shall endure; as -long as the love of liberty, of independence, of fearless honesty, or -patriotic courage, shall have a refuge in our world. - -Burns is a nobleman of nature;—a man for the toilsmen of earth to look -upon and hope. In humble, rustic life, under the thatched roof, which -gave the peasant his shelter; in the field where the heir of labor in -the sweat of his brow fulfilled the original destiny of man, Burns fed -inspired thoughts, and laid the foundation of a deathless fame. True, -his life was short in years; but how passing long was it in emotions, in -capacious and crowded fancies. His spirit was goaded, no doubt, with the -vulgar cares of poverty, and the worse results of passion; but it was -glorified also with conscious genius; he could retreat from the -vexations of the world to the sanctuary of his enriched imagination, and -there, amidst all the evils of his outward condition, he could find in -poetry its own exceeding great reward. Through all the sorrows that -overspread his short but rapid course; amidst all the clouds that hung -heavily over his path, glimpses of joy were ever and anon bursting on -his enraptured eye, which it is given only to the favored ones to -behold. And who would not, if he could, have a soul so adorned with the -beautiful, rather than without it, be overburdened with the load of -external fortune? Had Burns been merely a man of title, he had been -forgotten as all titled dust since the days of Nimrod; as unknown as the -dukes of Edom; a pompous funeral and a lying epitaph would have given -him to oblivion. As it is, the recollection of him is garnered in the -choicest corners of the heart, and his name is linked forever to the -music of sweetest sounds. - -I am now at the close of my task. I have gone through it lovingly, and -with reverence; sensible along the way of much goodness in my subject, -and not forgetful, either, of some evil also. That many faults are in -the compositions of Burns, I apprehend most clearly; and that sad -irregularities were in his life, it requires small trial of candor to -confess; but to have spread them out in ostentatious commentary would -have served no purpose of this article, and gratified no desire of the -reader. I am not blind to those errors; I propose no excuse; I deprecate -no just condemnation, and I have been forbearing from no moral -indifference, no moral insensibility. But dealing with the memory of -genius, I reflected that the _man_ was before his God, and the _poet_ -had met the sentence of the world. For wisdom, or for warning, the -events of his life are sufficiently familiar—he that runs may read, -their moral meaning let him read and ponder—let him learn, and let him -be better. But I have no sympathy with that vampire-like spirit which -disentombs the faults of the illustrious dead to feed the nauseous -appetites of itself or others; I tread upon the grave with caution and -compassion; and while I do not regard genius as repealing the law of -virtue, neither do I regard it as beyond the law of mercy. We need, all -of us, great tenderness from those who surround us; we need much, too, -from those who survive us. If we require charity from men, who give them -nothing, let us grant it to those who have enriched us, and enriched the -ages. In the noble and eloquent verses of Halleck, we, too, say of -Burns: - - His is the language of the heart, - In which the answering heart would speak; - Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, - Or the smile light the cheek. - And his, the music, to whose tone - The common pulse of man keeps time, - In cot or castle’s mirth or moan, - In cold or sunny clime. - . . . . . . - Praise to the bard, his words are driven, - Like flower seed by the far wind sown, - Where’er beneath the sky of heaven - The birds of fame have flown. - Praise to the man! a nation stood - Beside his coffin with wet eyes, - Her brave, her beautiful, her good, - As when a loved one dies. - And still, as on his funeral day, - Men stand his cold earth-couch around, - With the mute homage that we pay - To consecrated ground. - And consecrated ground it is - The last, the hallowed home of one, - Who lives upon all memories, - Though with the buried gone. - Such graves as his, are pilgrim shrines, - Shrines to no creed or sect confined, - The Delphian vales, the Palestines, - The Meccas of the mind. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE GAMBLER’S DAUGHTER. - - - BY HENRY C. MOORHEAD. - - -If the reader has ever passed along the banks of the Susquehanna, or -floated down its waters, he has not failed to admire the beautiful -_coves_ which are here and there formed by the bending hills on either -side. With a mountain border sweeping round in the shape of a half moon, -and the river flowing in a straight line in front, these terrestrial -crescents form a series of most charming landscapes. In one of the most -charming of them all lived an old gentleman whom we shall call Richard -Parkett. - -Many years before the period of the following incidents, the wife of Mr. -Parkett had died, committing to his care with her dying words, an infant -daughter. They called her, after her mother, Lucy; she grew up like a -wild flower in her sequestered home, and, at the time we speak of, was -just budding into womanhood. And surely no opening rose could be more -lovely. The bloom of health was on her cheek; her step was free and -elastic as that of the fawn on the neighboring mountain, and her spirits -as bounding and joyous as those of the birds which “warbled their native -wood-notes wild” around her dwelling. - -“My child,” said Mr. Parkett, to her one day, “there is to be an -arbitration in the neighborhood to-morrow, to settle some matters in -dispute between myself and a neighbor, and we will need you for a -witness.” - -“For a witness—what does that mean?” - -“Why they will make you swear a terrible oath to tell the truth,” said -the old gentleman, smiling affectionately; “and then two or three -lawyers will endeavor to puzzle you so as to prevent your doing it.” - -“And who are these puzzling lawyers?” - -“One of them, whose particular business it will be to puzzle you if he -can, is a young man named Burton.” - -“Burton?—Sidney Burton? He is the young gentleman who called here last -winter to see you on business, is he not?” - -“Really, you seem to have an excellent memory for young gentlemen’s -names.” - -Lucy blushed slightly, but made no answer. However, she was much more -sober and thoughtful than usual all that day. - -The arbitration came on, and Lucy was sworn as a witness. Her story was -short and simple, and referred merely to a conversation which she had -heard, and about which the parties could not now agree. As Burton was -counsel on the other side, he then proceeded to cross-examine her. It -was of great importance to his cause that he should shake her confidence -in what she had said; and he therefore proceeded (with great delicacy, -however) to ply her with an infinite variety of perplexing questions. - -But, although she was artless as a child, her quick apprehension, and -her clear, ready answers filled him with admiration; which was not at -all diminished by an occasional volley of mischievous satire which -raised a smile at his expense. He even continued the examination for -some time after he saw that it was useless, for the pleasure it afforded -him. At length, all parties being satisfied, the dispute was amicably -settled, and Mr. Parkett invited the company to his house. - -Nothing could have pleased Burton better than such an invitation; he -wished to see more of this charming witness, and to present himself -before her under more favorable circumstances than in a -cross-examination. Lucy, on her part, was equally pleased with this -arrangement, for Burton’s image had never ceased to haunt her -imagination since the day she had first casually seen him at her -father’s house some months before. She could not explain the mystery to -herself, but she felt an indefinable interest in every thing that -concerned him, and her heart beat warm and quick at the sound of his -voice. - -On the following morning Burton was urged to stay a day longer, and join -a fishing excursion which had been projected. He readily consented; the -necessary “tacklings” were soon collected; the party embarked in two -canoes, and Burton found himself in one of these small and crazy vessels -with Lucy, a young gentleman, her cousin, being in one end to direct its -course. Some distance above was one of those “falls” which in so many -places obstruct the navigation of that beautiful river, but which -furnish among their rocks the most excellent of fishing grounds. Hugging -the shore until they had passed above the rapids, they proceeded to drop -their boats down upon those rocks which were known to furnish the finest -eddies. The current was rapid, and the young man who was steering the -boat in which we are chiefly interested, in attempting suddenly to -change its course, lost his balance, and fell headlong into the water. -The boat swung rapidly round, and, being borne sideways among the -breakers, soon capsized. Lucy and Burton both disappeared beneath the -foaming torrent; but our hero quickly rose, and, being an expert -swimmer, watched eagerly for the appearance of Lucy; then grasping her -dress, he buffeted the waves with a strong arm, and succeeded in landing -her safely on a rock which projected above the water. To his -inexpressible alarm, she seemed to be entirely helpless and inanimate. -He commenced chafing her forehead, when in a few minutes she opened her -eyes, and the crimson tide of life bounded into her face, neck, and -bosom. She stood up and looked anxiously round for her father. In a few -minutes the other canoe approached, (having first picked up the young -man who had occasioned the accident,) and the whole party immediately -returned home. - -What more could be wanting to bring these two young hearts together. -This romantic little incident sealed their fate; and although their -tongues were yet silent, their eyes spoke eloquently of love. On the -following morning Burton departed, but he soon returned; and at length -the good people of the neighborhood began to wonder whether it was -arbitrations that brought the young lawyer so often amongst them. - -In a village some miles from Mr. Parkett’s residence, lived a young man -of great wealth and little principle, named Lander, who had been -fascinated by Lucy’s beauty, and exasperated on finding that her -affections were bestowed upon another; Mr. Parkett had been much in the -habit of visiting this village of late, for the purpose of indulging an -unfortunate passion for gambling, which had almost ruined him in his -youth, but which for many years he had entirely restrained. This -passion, however, had been lulled, not extinguished; a slight indulgence -was sufficient to rekindle it, and it soon raged more fiercely than -ever; and he became an easy prey to a brace of gamblers who were the -intimate associates of Lander. - -“How now,” said Lander, to one of these gamblers, one morning, “what -success had you last night.” - -“Better than ever. The old man is completely infatuated, and grows more -desperate every day. If his daughter is as easily won as her father’s -money, your siege will be a short one—she will soon surrender.” - -“She will not surrender while she can help it,” said Lander; “but go on -as you have begun, and I will have her yet. I will have her, or I will -crush the whole family to the earth; they shall learn that the hand of -Charles Lander is not to be spurned with impunity. But how do his -accounts stand now?” - -“We have won all the money he could raise, and he has commenced giving -us his notes.” - -“Good! bring me the notes and I will cash them for you. But have you -followed my instructions, and let him win occasionally, to keep up his -courage? Remember, you have no claim on me until you have brought him to -the brink of ruin.” - -“We have taken care of that, and he has the most unbounded confidence in -his own skill. He attributes all his losses to ill-luck, when the silly -old fool could not win a dollar if we chose to prevent him.” - -Thus was this unfortunate man led on from one stage of ruin to another, -by the constant hope of retrieving his past losses until his obligations -to pay were no longer worth receiving. Lander, in the meantime, had been -lifting these notes, and so disposing of them that he could use them for -the accomplishment of his purposes. Without appearing as a party -himself, he caused Mr. Parkett to be urgently pressed for payment. -Harassed and threatened with exposure, the old man endeavored to borrow -money to pay off the most urgent of these claimants; but rumors had got -abroad of secret embarrassments and doubtful titles, which made it -impossible for him to obtain a loan on any terms. - -During all this time Lander had been assiduous in his attentions to -Lucy, and employed every artifice to make a favorable impression upon -her and upon her father. But Mr. Parkett was far from admiring his -character, and above all he knew that Lucy’s heart was wholly devoted to -Burton. Having brought affairs to this crisis, Lander one day said to -Mr. Parkett, in a tone of great delicacy, - -“I understand, sir, that you have been endeavoring to negotiate a loan; -and I have been sorry to learn that you were not successful. Now, sir, I -have means under my control which are entirely at your disposal.” - -“You are very kind, sir,” said Mr. Parkett; “but you must excuse me for -saying that it would not be proper for me to accept of such a favor at -your hands.” - -“I hope, sir,” said Lander, biting his lip, “that you do not consider me -unworthy of the privilege of doing you a kindness.” - -“It is painful for me to explain,” replied Mr. Parkett, “but after what -has passed between you and my daughter, although we shall both always -take pleasure in treating you as a friend, common delicacy forbids that -we allow you to place us under any obligation.” - -“But there is now a weight of obligation on the other side; and you must -allow me to make some return for the many acts of kindness I have -received under your roof. You have heretofore treated me as a friend; -treat me so still, and allow me to serve you.” - -Mr. Parkett felt that in honor he could not accept this offer; but ruin -stared him full in the face, and he saw no other means of escaping the -exposure which he dreaded—for when his bankruptcy became known, the -cause could not be long concealed. He therefore no longer absolutely -refused, but took time to consider. This Lander felt confident would -lead to acceptance; and he returned home triumphing in the successful -progress of his plot, and sanguine of final success. But Burton came -again to mar his prospects. He, too, had heard of Mr. Parkett’s -difficulties, and tendered his services. It was finally agreed that he -should raise several thousand dollars, to be secured by mortgage; and -that in the following autumn, when he and Lucy were to be married, the -establishment should be delivered over to them. Burton, by turning his -means (which were not great) into cash, and borrowing on the credit of -his future prospects, succeeded in raising the necessary sum, and placed -it in Mr. Parkett’s hands. Lander’s offer was, of course, declined. - -With this money in his possession the old gentleman went to the village -to make arrangements for the payment of the most importunate of his -creditors. As he walked along the street, he came in front of the house -which had been the scene of his ruinous losses. An irresistible -temptation seized him to make one more effort to retrieve his fortunes. -He would try his luck; if fortune smiled, all would yet be well; if she -frowned, after losing a small sum, he would abandon the gambling-table -forever. With this resolution, he entered, and was soon wholly absorbed -in the chances of the game. Fortune _did_ smile, and, with unwonted -success, he became bold and desperate. The stakes grew heavy, and he -fearlessly increased them. His wily competitor marked his time, and made -them still higher; Parkett again increased them. His competitor doubled -them. Parkett, now mad with excitement, threw down all that he had -brought, and all that he had won. There was a breathless pause. The -result was announced—and he had lost! For several minutes he stared -vacantly around him, then, pulling his hat over his brows, he rushed -from the house. - -His ruin was now complete; but what explanation could he give to Burton? -and, what would become of his darling child? He returned home, and going -directly to his private room, sent for Burton, who, observing his -extraordinary emotion, remained a wondering and anxious listener. - -“You asked me for my daughter’s hand,” said he, “and I gave it to you, -because I thought you worthy of her. You then supposed me to be an -honest man, and the owner of valuable possessions. It is my duty now to -inform you, that I am a villain and a beggar.” - -“I beg you will compose yourself,” said Burton, believing that his mind -had become disordered; “you allow your pecuniary difficulties to affect -you too deeply. However they may result, they cannot affect either your -honor, or my affection for your daughter. She has given me her heart, -and I ask nothing from you but her hand.” - -“My honor, it is true, is beyond the reach of circumstances,” said -Parkett, bitterly. “You this morning loaned me five thousand dollars, to -pay the most pressing claims against my property. That money is gone—no -matter how—and the claims are not staid. I have not only brought ruin -upon myself, but upon you also. My property will be sacrificed, and your -money lost; What say you now? Am I not a villain?” - -“I must again entreat you to compose yourself,” replied Burton; “and, I -repeat, that I love your daughter for herself alone; and, if all that -you have said were true, I would not the less claim her for my wife.” - -“Young man,” said Parkett, seizing Burton eagerly by the hand, “she is -yours; and may God Almighty bless your union. The dread of bringing -sorrow and wretchedness upon my innocent lamb wrung my heart most of -all. You have relieved me from that care, and the grave will soon hide -my shame.” - -To prevent the property from being sacrificed, it was thought best to -advertise it for private sale. Lander came forward and became the -purchaser, at a price which, after paying off the prior claims, left a -very small balance to reimburse Burton; who, however, soon became rich -in the possession of Lucy. Mr. Parkett lived to see his daughter -married, and soon after went down to a peaceful but melancholy grave. - -“This is an humble dwelling, Lucy,” said Burton, when they had moved -into their new home, “but, it is said, that happiness is oftener found -in the cottage than in the palace. So philosophers teach, but I believe -women generally think differently.” - -“You shall represent the philosopher, and I the woman,” said Lucy, “and -we’ll see.” - -“In spite of philosophy,” continued Burton, “I confess that I would -prefer a somewhat larger house, and furniture of a better quality than -this.” - -“And I confess,” said Lucy, “that in spite of your opinion of women, I -shall be happier as it is.” - -“Alas! my sweet wife,” said Burton, “you have never known what care or -trouble was; you have lived all your life amongst happy friends, and -been the gayest of them all; every wish of your heart has been gratified -as soon as formed. Heaven grant it may be as you now think!” - -“But you doubt it. Really, for a philosopher, you know but little of -woman’s heart. To have all her frivolous wishes gratified, to live in -the midst of gayety and idleness, and be free from care, and, I suppose, -from all reflection, seems to be your opinion of her highest state. But -you do her injustice; her heart throbs with ambition as well as man’s, -though its object may be different.” - -“Ambition is not formed of such habitations as this,” said Burton, -sadly. - -“Woman’s ambition may be,” said Lucy. “Suppose she were able to make -this humble cottage a more delightful dwelling than the most luxurious -mansion, to smooth her husband’s brow, and cause him to forget poverty -and toil? Would not this be an object worthy of ambition?” - -“It is,” said Burton, kissing her affectionately, “and you have gained -that object already. When I spoke of women, I should not have included -_all_ women, and you shall prove that there are exceptions.” - -At this moment there was a knock at the door, one of the sheriff’s -officers entered and handed Burton a paper. The latter read it, then -calmly folded it, and put it in his pocket. But his wife’s eye had been -on him, and when the officer had withdrawn, she said: - -“This is some new calamity; do not conceal it from me, Sydney; your -cheek grew pale as you read that paper—let them take all we have, for -whilst you are spared I shall be happy.” - -“My matchless wife,” said Burton, “you have borne our past trials so -bravely, that I am not afraid of your sinking under this new misfortune: -but summon up all your fortitude, for you will need it. Our persecutor, -Lander, has not exhausted his arts yet, but is determined to humble us -still more. He has power over us now, and employs it to gratify his -cowardly malice. But let him beware! That power may one day change -hands, and then, so help me Heaven! I will bruise his serpent head -beneath this heel;” and he stamped his foot fiercely on the floor. - -“Now you distress me, indeed,” said Lucy; “but, oh, Sydney! you will not -forget your promise, that there shall be no violence between you and -that wicked man.” - -“Forgive me,” said Burton, “I forgot myself; that promise is sacred, and -never will I grieve your gentle heart by breaking it. But see what this -villain has done! He has managed, by some artifice, to get possession of -claims against me, which I never dreamed would be pressed, until I -should be able to pay them without inconvenience. He has brought suit, -and we must prepare to surrender up even the poor remnants that are left -us.” - -“I understand it all,” said Lucy. “Oh, my poor father!” - -“Let him rest in peace,” said Burton; “if he acted unwisely he paid the -penalty of a broken heart: let us not disturb his ashes.” - -Lucy threw her arms around her husband’s neck, and wept like a child. - -“You forgive him then,” she said, “for the sake of his daughter’s love -and duty. Oh, Heaven will bless you for your generosity.” - -“Heaven has blessed me,” said he, fondly embracing her; “and I would not -give one throb of this loving heart for all the gold Lander ever owned.” - -But the sad reality at length came, and their relentless creditor -advertised the poor furniture of their cottage for sale. Burton found, -as is usual under such circumstances, that his friends had grown -remarkably polite and formal; but they kept at a distance, and no one -offered him assistance; nor could he ask it, as the claims were much -greater than he could possibly pay, and his income from his profession -little more than afforded him a subsistence. He was, therefore, “sold -out,” all but the scanty articles which the law allows the poor. - -But although the world had grown cold, his own fire-side was still as -bright as ever; and when he thought of Lucy, as he had first seen her—a -gay, mischievous girl, raised in the lap of luxury, and then looked upon -her as his wife—serene and cheerful in the midst of poverty and worldly -disgrace, he admired and reverenced the depths of woman’s affection. And -this deep, pure fountain of love flowed only for him! Well might he -prize it above rivers of gold! - - * * * * * - -Some time after, Burton was one day searching among the old records in -one of the public offices, when his eye fell upon a time-worn, mutilated -will, which bore the name of Thomas Parkett inscribed on the back. -Knowing that Lucy’s grandfather had borne that name, his curiosity led -him to open the paper, and examine its contents. After reading on for -some time, deciphering the words with great difficulty, he suddenly -started back, as if he had seen the ghost of his wife’s ancestor. Then -returning to the paper, he eagerly read it over again, pausing and -reflecting long upon each sentence. Then carefully making a copy of it, -he returned the papers to their place, and went directly home with a -rapid step and a beating heart. - -Whilst Burton was reading the paper which produced so strange an effect -on him, there sat near him one of those wretched men who disgrace an -honorable profession by hanging upon its outskirts, gaining an infamous -livelihood by stirring up litigation, and practising schemes of fraud -and villany. Dissipated and unprincipled, Witherman was equally reckless -in his means of getting money, and prodigal in spending it. He was -consequently at times reduced almost to starvation, and ready for any -desperate enterprise. Happening to look up at the moment, he observed -Burton’s emotion, and watched his subsequent movements until he left the -room. Then taking down the same bundle of papers, he began to look -through them to see if he could find what had so much interested Burton. -The name of Parkett soon attracted his attention, for he knew that that -had been the name of Burton’s father-in-law. Opening the will, -therefore, he read on until he came to the part which had startled -Burton: - -“Aha!” he exclaimed to himself, “I see the game now, and I’ll find some -means to have a hand in it. So much for reading men’s looks and motives; -I shall make a good day’s work of this.” - - * * * * * - -“Lucy, my dear,” said Burton, after he reached home, “how would you like -to become mistress again of the old homestead?” - -“Ah, Sydney, why do you ask me such a question? you know that I am -reconciled to living here, but then I don’t like to think of my old -home.” - -“It is certainly a delightful place, especially at this season of the -year, with its green fields and blooming orchards. Suppose we go and -spend the summer there?” - -“I have no wish ever to see it again.” - -“Suppose you could call it your own, would it have none of its former -attraction?” - -“As that can never be, it is hardly worth while to answer your question. -But what is the matter with you? You seem to be strangely excited; tell -me what it is, I can bear it.” - -“Prepare yourself then, for startling news; you _are_ the mistress and -owner of the old homestead.” - -“Oh, why do you mock me with such a tale,” said Lucy, tears starting -into her eyes; “do let me forget that ever I lived there.” - -“I should be sorry to trifle with you on so tender a subject,” said -Burton, “but I mean what I say. You have borne adversity like a heroine; -let us now see what effect prosperity will have. Here is copy of your -grandfather’s will, which I have just seen for the first time. By it his -property is _entailed_, as lawyers call it; that is, it is settled upon -your father and his immediate descendants, to pass from one generation -to another, according to the English rule of primogeniture. Your father -could not sell it in the way he did, (of which he was no doubt -ignorant,) and you, being his only child, have a full and perfect right -to it under the will.” - -“But if it was sold and paid for, would it be right for me to claim it -from the purchaser?” - -“It will be right, at all events, to defend yourself from persecution. -The property is yours by the law of the land, and if Lander obtained it, -as we have good reason to believe he did, he ought not to be allowed to -keep it. I will advise you to nothing that is not becoming in a dutiful -child. Better this poverty than the consciousness of having acted -unjustly: but we will consult with some discreet friend, and then do -what we may conclude to be right.” - -Lucy was grave and thoughtful; she had long been accustomed to suppress -her feelings of vanity and pride, and had become entirely reconciled to -her humble fortunes; but her heart fluttered at the thought of being the -owner of ample possessions, and of those scenes, too, from which she had -never been able entirely to wean her affections. But then came other -reflections. Was it possible that her father had practiced a fraud for -her benefit? And, if so, would it be right for her to take advantage of -it? The law might give her the property, but would truth and justice -allow her to take it? - -After careful inquiry, it was deemed proper that suit should be brought; -and Burton, remembering the maxim that “the lawyer who pleads his own -cause has a fool for his client,” employed counsel to conduct it for -him. - -No sooner had this suit been brought, than Witherman hastened to Lander: - -“I see, sir,” said he, “that Burton has brought suit in the name of his -wife for the recovery of the property you purchased from her father.” - -“He has; and what can it mean? The claims which I had against him were -notes given at the gambling table, but they had been put in circulation, -and I understood you, that he couldn’t dispute them in my hands. Or has -he discovered that I knew for what they were given?” - -“He has made a worse discovery than that.” - -“What! do you really think he has the means of supporting his claim?” - -“I am sure of it, unless you choose to employ my skill to baffle him. If -you had entrusted the investigation of the title and the papers to me, I -might have saved you from this difficulty; but you preferred a bungler, -who gave you a title that expired with Parkett himself. For this want of -confidence you must now either lose the property or pay me my own price -for saving it.” - -“You know that I never scrupled to pay you well when an emergency -required your services; but what is the defect in this title?” - -“By the will of Parkett’s father, which Burton has recently discovered -among the old papers in the office—for it has never been recorded—and -which I have seen, it appears that Parkett himself merely held the -property as tenant in tail. A particular kind of deed was therefore -necessary, under our laws, to convey a complete title. Your deed is in -the common form, and conveyed only a life interest; and the instant -Parkett died the property became vested in his daughter.” - -“In his daughter! Oh, miserable blunderers! then all my schemes of -vengeance recoil on my own head. But stay; you say that your skill can -provide a remedy; if you can save me from the humiliation of this -defeat, you _shall_ have your own price. What is your plan?” - -“Among the modes of barring an entail is a deed of warranty with assets; -that is, if Parkett gave you a deed warranting the title for himself and -his heirs, and on his death left to his daughter other property equal in -value to that which he sold you, then her claim cannot be sustained, but -your title is good.” - -“This is excellent consolation! He gave me a deed of warranty, it is -true, but you know that he left his daughter and her husband only the -privilege of paying some thousands of dollars which Burton had borrowed -for him a few months before.” - -“I know all that; and if he had left them the necessary property you -would not need my services to enable you to baffle them.” Then taking up -a pen, and writing a few lines, Witherman continued: “There, sign that, -and I pledge myself to make your title good.” - -“When I promised that you should have your own price,” said Lander, “I -did not expect such a demand as this; but I will stand to what I have -said, and see that you keep your pledge;” and he signed a note for an -exorbitant sum. - - * * * * * - -The day of trial at length came; and Burton repaired to the Court with -the confidence of a man who knows that his cause is good, and his -evidence conclusive. The _law_ was well settled, and the _fact_, a -matter of record. His cause was, therefore, quickly and triumphantly -made out, by simply reading the will in evidence. Nothing could be more -satisfactory: the court, the jury, the by-standers, all saw at a glance -that the question was settled; and nothing was now wanting but the -formality of a verdict. - -“Gentlemen,” said the judge to Lander’s counsel, “I suppose it is hardly -necessary to pursue this matter any further.” - -“I beg your honor’s pardon,” said one of the leading members of the bar, -whose services Witherman had secured, and who acted under his -instructions, and in perfect good faith; “our defense shall be brief, -but I hope decisive.” - -He then proceeded, to Burton’s utter amazement, to declare that he was -prepared to prove, that Mr. Parkett, on his daughter’s marriage, had -settled property on her far exceeding in value that which was now in -controversy. That the settlement had been drawn by a member of the bar, -now dead, and was recently found among his papers, duly signed, sealed -and witnessed; that Mr. Parkett had been reputed a man of wealth, and -yet, to the surprise of every body, died poor. Here, then, was the -explanation of this great wonder. He and the present plaintiff alone -knew that the property now in controversy was entailed. He might, -therefore, sell it for its full value, and yet, on his death, it would -pass by descent to his daughter. It was necessary, however, that he -should leave no property behind him; for if his daughter should receive -_other_ property of equal value from him, it would bar her claim to -this. His other property was, therefore, clandestinely conveyed to her, -and he died apparently without possessing any. - -Fully believing this statement, as he did, the learned counsel followed -it up with a stream of burning invective. Turning upon Burton, he -scourged him with a whip of scorpions. He represented him as the -contriver and adviser of the infamous project, and the recipient of all -the benefits, if it should be successfully accomplished. Being perfectly -honest and sincere, he believed that in covering Burton with infamy, he -was only vindicating the honor of his profession. The evidence which -Witherman had put into his hands was then produced. The hand-writings of -Parkett and of the subscribing witness, were satisfactorily proved by -several unexceptionable witnesses, who, as is usual in such cases, were -as positive as if they had seen the names written. The manner in which -the paper had been found, and many other circumstances, so strongly -corroborated this view of the subject, that the opinions of all present -were soon reversed; and Burton, whom they had lately considered a -wronged and persecuted man, now stood before them a sordid villain, -baffled and unmasked. The judge indulged in some sharp reflections on -the iniquity of the plaintiff’s claim, and the jury promptly and -indignantly rejected it. Witherman had kept his promise, and Lander was -again triumphant. - -Burton was almost stupefied by this new and unexpected blow, and sat for -some time gazing vacantly at the clerk who announced the verdict; then, -quietly leaving the court house, and avoiding all observation, with a -heavy heart and a gloomy brow he hastened homewards. His wife had been -impatiently awaiting his arrival, and hastened to receive him and -congratulate him on his victory—for she never had dreamed of any other -result. But a single glance of his eye was enough to fill her heart with -dismay, and cause her to turn from him in tears. She read there the -emotions of a soul in torture, and knew that his strong mind and -regulated passions could not be _thus_ moved by any thing else than what -he deemed a signal calamity. Burton silently threw himself into a chair, -and struggled hard to recover his usual serenity of mind and -countenance. But all in vain. The anguish of his spirit was -insupportable. At length he groaned out, - -“Lucy, I am a ruined man.” - -“Alas! Sydney, why do you speak thus? Why do you look thus? If your -hopes of wealth are defeated, surely there are other sources of -happiness left to us, far more precious than this. Have we not been -happy in this little cottage? and if we lose it, we shall be happy in -one that is humbler still. If they have robbed us of our property, they -cannot at least deprive us of our good name. Whilst you continue to be -loved and respected by the whole community you are more than rich. Your -talents and known integrity will soon bring you riches and honors. Oh,” -continued she, unconscious that her words went like poisoned arrows to -his heart, “if you could have heard the language of praise that has so -often made my heart beat high with pride, you would feel that a -reputation for truth, honor, and a high and noble spirit, does not need -the ornament of wealth to make it honorable.” - -Burton covered his face with his hands, as Lucy continued her loving but -torturing exhortation: - -“Suppose,” said she, “that instead of a paltry loss of money, your -reputation had been stained, your character blackened, your name -dishonored; how trifling would then have seemed such a loss as that you -have now suffered? Think, then, of what you still possess, rather than -of what you have lost or failed to gain; and let us be grateful to a -kind Providence for having spared you at least an unsullied reputation.” - -“Ay,” said he, mechanically pursuing her train of reflection, “you are -right. Reputation, reputation, reputation! all the rest is dross -compared with that. I would not have exchanged the good opinion of one -honest man for all the property I have been contending for; I would not -have forfeited the esteem of the community in which I live, for millions -of acres. Disappointment has been my portion from childhood; I have -often groaned and wept in sorrow; to-day, for the first time, I have -blushed and hung my head in shame. Reputation! it has been the balm of -my wounded spirit; the light of my life, the star of my hope. This -morning it was mine by the agreement of all the world; but where is it -now?” - -At this moment an officer of the court entered and handed him a slip of -paper. He glanced at it for a moment, and then handed it to his wife, -repeating, “Ay, where is my reputation now?” It was an order of court, -directing him to appear and show cause why his name should not be -stricken from the roll of attorneys for dishonorable and fraudulent -conduct. Lucy had no sooner read it, than, with a sharp cry, she sunk -insensible on the floor. Burton flew to her assistance, reproaching -himself with want of consideration in subjecting her to so sudden a -shock, and feeling a new sense of desolation come over him at the -prospect of losing his dearest, best, only remaining friend. He began to -fear, too, that his conduct had caused even her to conceive suspicions -of his integrity; and this reflection was the bitterest drop in all the -cup. She presently revived, and he hastened to assure her of his -innocence. He explained to her all that had happened. The signature -which had been produced in court as her father’s, was so much like it -that, under other circumstances, he would himself have sworn to it -without hesitation. He could not tell how it was, but he was entangled -in a net from which he saw no hope of escape. Every thing was against -him; the testimony of respectable witnesses, all appearances, and all -opinions. - -“Sydney,” said Lucy, at length smiling through her tears, “there are two -great subjects on which I have often heard you discourse with more -enthusiasm than on any other—the one was faith, and the other moral -courage. In such moments I sometimes thought that your eye pierced -through the mists of time, and realized the glories of eternal truth and -justice; and I believed, (for such was your language,) that your heart -would never quail before the presence of men, so long as you possessed -an approving conscience. Have you forgotten these principles, or were -they mere flights of imagination?” - -“They were great truths; but, alas! the clouds of adversity have -darkened even my moral perceptions.” - -“Oh, Sydney,” she continued, “I have heard you maintain, that adversity -was the chief agent in developing the human soul; that virtue was not -worthy of the name, until it had been tried in the furnace of -affliction; and how often have I heard you say, that the highest and -truest courage, was that which calmly and firmly sustains itself against -the current of popular opinion.” - -“Very true! very true!” said Burton, his countenance almost relaxing -into a smile. - -“Why,” continued Lucy, “there have been times when I almost wished to -see you under such circumstances, that I might apply your glorious -pictures to yourself; that I might behold in you the hero, the -philosopher, the man whose faith never wavered, though friends betrayed; -whose heart never failed, though all the world opposed him. I dreamed -that you were all these; and, oh! how my heart swelled with love and -admiration. Nay, it was not a dream; you were, you _are_ all these, my -own brave and true-hearted Sydney.” - -Burton’s eye recovered its wonted fire, and, as he paced the room with a -firm and energetic step, he felt his spirit return unto him. - -“Sweet monitor,” he said, “you have recalled me to myself. Alas! that I -should have forgotten my philosophy, the moment an opportunity occurred -for putting it in practice. This is my first practical lesson. It is a -stern one; but, (thanks to your cheering voice,) I am now prepared to -receive it and to profit by it. Whilst all continues right here, (laying -his hand upon his heart,) I am prepared for any extremity of fortune. -When the sky is curtained with clouds, men say that the stars have gone -out, because they can no longer see them; but, in truth, they shine on -with the same calm, steady light, whether seen or unseen by mortal eyes. -And so it is with virtue; though calumny may render it invisible from -without, it never ceases to warm and illuminate the heart in which it -dwells.” - - * * * * * - -When the time came for Burton to appear before the court and answer the -charge of fraudulent and dishonorable conduct, he found himself wholly -unable to combat the array of arguments that were brought against him. -It was manifest, too, that every body looked on him as a fallen and -ruined man. His former friends saluted him with cold civility; as he -passed along the way closed before him; wherever he went he found -himself alone. He had nothing to oppose to the charge but his own solemn -declaration; and that, of course, in a case so clear, could avail him -nothing. The forms proper to the occasion were gone through with as an -appointed ceremony; and the judge proceeded to pronounce the sentence, -which he had written out beforehand. After dwelling on the importance of -the legal profession; on the necessity of unsullied integrity in those -who practice it; on the infamous character of Burton’s offence, and the -indisputable certainty of his guilt, he was about to pronounce sentence -of expulsion from the Bar, when he was interrupted by the confusion -created by some one forcing his way in great haste through the crowd. It -proved to be the venerable clergyman of the village, who begged that the -judge, before proceeding further, would allow him to say a few words. - -“I come,” said he, “from the death-bed of a member of this bar, Mr. -Witherman, and I bring to your honor a message of grave importance. -Though fearfully tortured with the pangs of a guilty conscience, I -believe that he was perfectly sane; and with his dying voice he implored -me to hasten hither and assure your honor, on the word of a dying -penitent, that the charge you are this morning trying against Sydney -Burton is wholly false; that being skillful in the imitation of -hand-writing, he had himself forged the papers which bore the name of -Richard Parkett, and contrived all the other circumstances which seemed -so conclusive of Burton’s guilt. He then bade me hand your honor this -paper, which he said would enable you to unravel the whole conspiracy; -and these were his last words. I have thus discharged my mission; and I -hope its urgency will excuse my unceremonious interruption of your -proceedings.” - -The cause was immediately adjourned for further consideration. - - * * * * * - -“I have just been thinking of it, Lucy,” said Burton, one bright spring -morning, as they walked together in the garden at the old homestead, -“to-morrow is the anniversary of our first fishing excursion. It is an -epoch in our lives worth commemorating. Let us, therefore, get up -another, as much like it as possible; except, indeed, the upsetting of -the canoe—which answered a very good purpose, then, but there would be -no occasion for it now. With a little stretch of imagination we can -easily go back some years and fancy it to be the same day and the same -occasion. You are again the mistress of this beautiful home; troops of -friends will again come at our bidding; nature is clad in the same green -mantle; the birds sing the same songs; and the waters murmur the same -tunes. A kind Providence has also turned our darkness into light. One -short hour ago, and yonder mountain was robed in mist to its very base; -see, now, how it sparkles in the sunshine! But, Lucy, why are you -plucking all those beautiful flowers?” Lucy pointed in silence to a -distant enclosure, which contained her father’s grave. A feeling of -sadness passed like a shadow over their hearts, reminding them that life -is a checkered scene of joy and sorrow. And here we shall leave them, to -the indulgence of those contending emotions of regret, gratitude, and -bright anticipation. - - * * * * * - - - - - A REQUIEM BY THE SEA. - - - BY HELEN IRVING. - - - I hear the sea-waves dashing - And roaring on the shore - But a voice is in their chorus - That I never heard before; - A voice whose sound hath power to fill - My listening soul with dread— - A voice that moans unceasingly, - A wail above my dead. - - Moans of a summer midnight - Beneath a foreign sky, - When in the hush of murmuring winds, - Was heard a last, low sigh— - And a noble soul—a soul I loved, - Took flight for the starlit heaven, - And a noble form—a form I loved, - To the starlit deep was given. - - Cold is the sea, but colder yet - Is the brow that its waters lave, - And the tide is still in the breast that heaves - To the rock of the restless wave: - The bloom is gone from his glowing cheek - And the love from his pleasant eye, - And none there heed on his pallid lips - _The smile that could never die_. - - Oh, I pine, beloved, to hear once more - Thy cheerful loving tone, - And I pine to feel thy living heart - Throb once against mine own! - I pine for all thy brother-love, - The noble, fond and true— - And my soul is weary for the rest - That in thy heart it knew. - - Ah! “nevermore and nevermore” - I hear the sea-waves moan, - And evermore, oh, evermore, - My heart repeats the tone— - And sorrow’s surges rise and fall, - And ebb to flow again, - And each returning billow sounds - Anew the wild refrain. - - Oh, Thou, who wept at Bethany, - And in that anguished hour, - Drew near to heal the broken heart - With thy celestial power; - Above the moaning waves of wo - Let me not list in vain, - To hear Thy voice of love divine, - Say “He shall rise again!” - - * * * * * - - - - - WOODCOCK AND WOODCOCK SHOOTING. - - - BY FRANK FORESTER. - - -[Illustration] - -The American Woodcock, _Scolopax minor_, or, as it has been -subdistinguished by some naturalists, from the peculiar form of its -short, rounded wing, the fourth and fifth quills of which are the -longest, _Microptera Americana_, is, as the latter title indicates, -exclusively confined to this hemisphere and continent. It is much -smaller than its European namesake, being very rarely killed exceeding -eight or nine ounces in weight, and sixteen inches in extent from tip to -tip of the expanded wings; whereas the European cock averages full -twelve ounces, being often found up to fifteen, and measures twenty-five -or twenty-six inches. - -In general appearance and color they bear a considerable affinity each -to the other; the upper plumage of both being beautifully variegated, -like the finest tortoise-shell, with wavy black lines on a rich brown -ground, mottled in places with bright fawn color and ash-gray; but the -breast and belly of the American bird are of a deep fulvous yellow, -darkest on upper part and fading to a yellowish white at the vent, while -its European congener has all the lower parts of a dull cream color, -barred with faint dusky waved lines, like the breast feathers of some of -the falcons. - -It has generally been believed that the large cock of the Eastern -continent is _never_ found in America; and all analogy would go to -strengthen that belief, for neither of the birds range on their -respective continents very far to the northward, whereas it is those -species only which extend into the Arctic regions, and by no means all -of them, that are common to the two hemispheres. Some circumstances -have, however, come recently to my knowledge which lead me to doubt -whether the large woodcock of the Eastern hemisphere does not -occasionally find its way to this continent, although it is difficult to -conceive how it should do so, since it must necessarily wing its way -across the whole width of the Atlantic, from the shores of Ireland or -the Azores, which are, so far as is ascertained, its extreme western -limit. - -A very good English sportsman resident in Philadelphia, who is perfectly -familiar with both the species and their distinctions, assures me that -during the past winter a friend brought for his inspection an undoubted -English woodcock, which he had purchased in the market; it weighed -twelve ounces, measured twenty-five inches from wing to wing, and had -the cream-colored barred breast which I have described. The keeper of -the stall at which this bird was purchased did not know where it had -been killed, but averred that several birds had previously been in his -possession, precisely similar to this in every respect. It is not a -little remarkable that the same gentleman who saw this bird, and -unhesitatingly pronounced it an European cock, was informed by a -sporting friend that he had seen in Susquehanna county a cock, which he -was satisfied must have measured twenty-five inches in extent, but which -he unfortunately missed. There is likewise, at this time, in the city a -skull and bill of a woodcock of very unusual dimensions, of which I am -promised a sight, and which, from the description, I am well nigh -convinced is of the European species. - -It is possible that these birds may have been brought over and kept in -confinement, and subsequently escaped, and so become naturalized in -America; and yet it is difficult to conceive that persons should have -taken the trouble of preserving so stupid and uninteresting a bird as -the woodcock in a cage, unless for the purpose of transporting them from -one country to another in order to the introduction of new species. - -This might be done very easily with regard to some species, and with -undoubted success; and it has greatly surprised me that it has never -been attempted with regard to our American woodcock, which might -unquestionably be naturalized in England with the greatest facility; -where it would, I have no doubt, multiply extraordinarily, and become -one of the most numerous and valuable species of game, as the mildness -of the winters in ordinary seasons would permit the bird to remain -perennially in the island, without resorting to migration in order to -obtain food. - -The woodcock and snipe can both be very readily domesticated, and can be -easily induced to feed on bread and milk reduced to the consistency of -pulp, of which they ultimately become extremely fond. This is done at -first by throwing a few small red worms into the bread and milk, for -which the birds bore and bill, as if it were in their natural muddy -soil. - -In all countries in which any species of the woodcock is found, it is a -bird essentially of moderate climates, abhorring and shunning all -extremes of temperature, whether of heat or of cold. - -With us, it winters in the Southern States from Virginia, in parts of -which, I believe, it is found at all seasons of the year, through the -Carolinas, Georgia and Florida to Louisiana and Mississippi, in the -almost impenetrable cane-brakes and deep morasses of which it finds a -secure retreat and abundance of its favorite food, during the inclement -season, which binds up every stream and boggy swamp of the Middle and -New England States in icy fetters. - -So soon, however, as the first indications of spring commence, in those -regions of almost tropical heat, the woodcock wings its way with the -unerring certainty of instinct which guides him back, as surely as the -magnet points to the pole, to the very wood and the very brake of the -wood in which he was hatched, and commences the duties of nidification. - -I am inclined to believe that the woodcock are already paired when they -come on to the northward; if not, they do so without the slightest -delay, for they unquestionably begin to lay within a week or two after -their arrival, sometimes even before the snow has melted from the -upland. Sometimes they have been known to lay so early as February, but -March and the beginning of April are their more general season. Their -nest is very inartificially made of dry leaves and stalks of grass. The -female lays from four to five eggs, about an inch and a half long, by an -inch in diameter, of a dull clay color, marked with a few blotches of -dark brown interspersed with splashes of faint purple. It is a little -doubtful whether the woodcock does or does not rear a second brood of -young, unless the first hatching is destroyed, as is very frequently the -case, by spring floods, which are very fatal to them. In this case, they -do unquestionably breed a second time, for I have myself found the young -birds, skulking about like young mice in the long grass, unable to fly, -and covered with short blackish down, the most uncouth and -comical-looking little wretches imaginable, during early July shooting; -but it is on the whole my opinion that, at least on early seasons, they -generally raise two broods; and this, among others, is one cause of my -very strong desire to see summer woodcock shooting entirely abolished. - -Unless this is done, I am convinced beyond doubt, that before twenty -years have elapsed the woodcock will be as rare an animal as a wolf -between the great lakes and the Atlantic sea-board, so ruthlessly are -they persecuted and hunted down by pot-hunters and poachers, for the -benefit of restaurateurs and of the lazy, greedy cockneys who support -them. There is, however, I fear little hope of any legislative enactment -toward this highly desirable end; for too many even of those who call -themselves, and who ought to be, true sportsmen, are selfish and -obstinate on this point, and the name of the pot-hunters is veritably -legion. Moreover, it is to be doubted whether, even if such a statute -were added to our game-laws, it could be enforced; so vehemently opposed -do all the rural classes, who ought to be the best friends of the game, -show themselves on all occasions to any attempt toward preserving them, -partly from a mistaken idea that game-laws are of feudal origin and of -aristocratic tendency; and so averse are they to enforce the penalties -of the law on offenders, from a servile apprehension of giving offense -to their neighbors. - -At present, in almost all the States of which the woodcock is a summer -visitant, either by law or by prescription July is the month -appropriated to the commencement of their slaughter; in New York the -first is the day, in New Jersey the fifth, and in all the Middle States, -with the single exception of Delaware, where it is deferred until -August, some day of the same month is fixed as the termination of close -time. Even in Delaware the exception is rendered nugatory, by a -provision permitting every person to shoot on his own grounds, whether -in or out of season, in consequence of which the birds are all killed -off early in June. - -It may now be set down almost as a rule, that in all the Atlantic -seaboard counties, and, indeed, every where in the vicinity of the large -cities and great thoroughfares, the whole of the summer hatching is -killed off before the end of July, with the exception of a few scattered -stragglers, which have escaped pursuit in some impenetrable brake or -oozy quagmire which defies the foot of the sportsman; that few survive -to moult, and that the diminished numbers, which we now find on our -autumn shooting-grounds, are supplied exclusively by the northern and -Canadian broods, which keep successively flying before the advancing -cold of winter, and sojourning among us for a longer or a shorter -period, ere they wing their way to the rice-fields of the Savannah, or -the cane-brakes of the Mississippi. - -If my method could be generally adopted, of letting the fifteenth day of -September, after the moulting season is passed, and when the birds are -beginning again to congregate on their favorite feeding-grounds, be the -commencement of every sort of upland shooting, without any exception, -the sport would be enormous; the birds at that season are in full vigor, -in complete plumage, in the perfection of condition for the table, and -are so strong on the wing, so active and so swift, that no one could for -a moment imagine them to be the same with the miserable, puny, -half-fledged younglings, which any bungling boy can butcher as he -pleases, with the most miserable apparatus, and without almost as well -as with a dog, during the dog-days of July. - -The weather is, moreover, cool and pleasant, and in every way -well-suited to the sport at this season; dogs have a chance to do their -work handsomely and well, and the sportsman can do his work, too, as he -ought to do it, like a man, walking at his proper rate, unmolested by -mosquitoes, and without feeling the _salt_ perspiration streaming into -his eyes, until he can hardly brook the pain. - -But no such hope existing as that state legislatures, dependent, not on -rational but on brute opinion, should condescend to hear or listen to -common sense, on matters such as game laws, are we, or are we not, to -abandon our plan, to sacrifice our knowledge and enlightened views on -this subject to obstinate ignorance; or shall we not take the better -part, and decide, according to Minerva’s lesson in Tennyson’s -magnificent Ænone, - - . . . For that right is right to follow right - Where wisdom is the scorn of consequence. - -We shall resist and persist; at least I shall—I, Frank Forester, who -never in my life have killed a bird out of season intentionally, and who -never will—who am compelled by sham sportsmen, cockney and pot-gunners -to shoot woodcock in July; who have been invited, times out and over -again, to shoot cock _on men’s own ground_, and therefore within the -letter of the law, in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Maryland, -before the season; who have ever refused to take the advantages, which -every one takes over me; and who still intend to persist, though not to -hope, that there may be sense enough, if not integrity, among the -legislatures of the free states, to prevent the destruction of all game -within their several jurisdictions. - -As the thing stands—and by the thing I mean the law—woodcock are to be -shot on or about the first day of July; and if, dear reader, you try to -shoot any where within fifty miles of New York, or twenty-five of -Philadelphia, much later than the tenth of June, I am inclined to think -that you will find wonderfully little sport; before the season, do not -fire a shot, if you will take my advice, if poachers will violate the -law, and the law will not enforce itself against poachers, abstain from -becoming a poacher yourself, and do not shoot before the season fairly -commences. - -At this period of the year woodcock are almost invariably found in the -lowlands; sometimes, as, for instance, at Salem, in New Jersey, and many -other similar localities along the low and level shores of the Delaware, -in the wide, open meadows, where there is not a bush or brake to be seen -for miles; but more generally in low, swampy woods, particularly in -maple woods, which have an undergrowth of alder; along the margin of -oozy streamlets, creeping through moist meadows, among willow thickets; -and in wet pastures trampled by cattle, and set here and there with -little brakes, which afford them shade and shelter during the heat of -the day. - -Of the latter description is the ground, once so famous for its summer -cock-shooting, known as “the drowned lands,” in Orange County, New York, -extending for miles and miles along the margins of the Wallkill and its -tributaries, the Black Creek, the Quaker Creek, and the beautiful -Wawayanda. Many a day of glorious sport have I had on those sweet level -meadows, enjoyed with friends long since dispersed and scattered, some -dead, untimely, some in far distant lands, some false, and some -forgetful, and thou, true-hearted, honest, merry, brave, Tom Draw; thou -whilom king of hosts and emperor of sportsmen, thou, saddest fate of -all, smitten, or ere thy prime was passed away, by the most fearful -visitation that awaits mankind—the awful doom of blindness! never again -shall I draw trigger on those once loved levels—the rail-road now -thunders and whistles close beside them, and every man and boy and fool, -now sports his fowling-piece; and not a woodcock on the meadows but, -after running the gauntlet of a hundred shots, a hundred volleys, is -consigned to the care of some conductor, by him to be delivered to -Delmonico or Florence, for the benefit of fat, greasy merchant-princes; -and if it were not so, if birds, swarmed as of yore in every reedy -slank, by every alder-brake, in every willow tuft, the ground is haunted -by too many recollections, rife with too many thick-succeeding memories -to render it a fitting place, to me at least, for pleasurable or gay -pursuits. - -But, as I have said before, summer cock-shooting on the Drowned Lands of -Orange County, is among the things that have been—one of the stars that -has set, never to be relumed, in the nineteenth century; and the glory -of “the Warwick Woodlands” has departed. - -In Connecticut, in some parts, there is very good summer cock-shooting -yet; and also in many places in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, in the -rich alluvial levels around the Delaware, the Schuylkill, and their -tributary rivers; but the sportsman, who really thirsts for fine -shooting—shooting such as it does the heart good to hear of—must mount -the iron-horse, whose breath is the hissing steam, and away, fleeter -even than the wings of the morning, for Michigan and Illinois and -Indiana, for the willow-brakes of Alganac, and the rice-marshes of Lake -St. Clair; and there he may shoot cock till his gun-barrels are red-hot, -and his heart is satiate of bird-slaughter. - -It is usual at this season to shoot cock over pointers or setters, -according to individual preference of this or that race of dogs; for -myself, of the two, I prefer the setter, as in cock-shooting there is -always abundance of water to be had, and this rough-coated, high-strung -dog can face brakes and penetrate coverts, which play the mischief with -the smooth satiny skin of the high-blooded pointer. - -In truth, however, neither of these, but the short-legged, bony, red and -white cocking-spaniel, is the true dog over which to shoot summer -woodcock; and no one, I will answer for it, who has ever hunted a good -cry of these, will ever again resort either to setter or pointer for -this, to them, inappropriate service. - -The true place for these dogs is the open plain, the golden stubble, the -wide-stretching prairie, the highland moor, where they can find full -scope for their heady courage, their wonderful fleetness, their -unwearied industry, and display their miracles of staunchness, -steadiness, and nose. - -In order to hunt these dogs on cock, you must unteach them some of their -noblest faculties, you must tame down their spirits, shackle their fiery -speed, reduce them, in fact, to the functions of the spaniel, which is -much what it would be to train a battle-charger to bear a pack-saddle, -or manage an Eclipse into a lady’s ambling palfrey. - -The cocking-spaniel, on the contrary, is here in his very vocation. Ever -industrious, ever busy, never ranging above twenty paces from his -master, bustling round every stump, prying into every fern-bush, worming -his long, stout body, propped on its short, bony legs, into the densest -and most matted cover, no cock can escape him. - -See! one of them has struck a trail; how he flourishes his stump of a -tail. Now he snuffs the tainted ground; what a rapture fills his dark, -expressive eye. Now he is certain; he pauses for a moment, looks back to -see if his master is at hand; “Yaff! yaff!” the brakes ring with his -merry clamor, his comrade rushes to his aid like lightning, yet pauses -ever, obedient to the whistle, nor presses the game too rashly, so that -it rise out of distance. Up steps the master, with his thumb upon the -dexter hammer, and his fore-finger on the trigger-guard. Now they are -close upon the quarry; “yaff! yaff! yaff! yaff!” Flip flap! up springs -the cock, with a shrill whistle, on a soaring wing. Flip flap! -again—there are a couple. Deliberately prompt, up goes the fatal -tube—even as the butt presses the shoulder, trigger is drawn after -trigger. Bang! bang! the eye of faith and the finger of instinct have -done their work, duly, truly. The thud of one bird, as he strikes the -moist soil, tells that he has fallen; the long stream of feathers -floating in the still air through yonder open glade, announces the fate -of the second; and, before the butt of the gun, dropped to load, has -touched the ground, without a word or question, down charged at the -report, the busy little babblers are couched silent in the soft, -succulent young grass. Loaded once more, “Hie! fetch!” and what a race -of emulation—mouthing their birds gently, yet rapturously, to inhale -best the delicate aroma, not biting them, each cocker has brought in his -bird, and they and you, gentle reader, if you be the happy sportsman who -possesses such a brace of beauties, are rewarded adequately and enough. - -For the rest, a short, wide-bored, double-barrel, an ounce of No. 8 -shot, and an equal measure of Brough’s diamond-grain, will do the -business of friend _microptera_, as effectually, at this season, as a -huge, long, old fashioned nine-pounder, with its two ounce charge; and -it will give you this advantage, that it shall weigh less by three -pounds, and enable you to dispense with a superfluous weight of shot, -which, on a hot July day, especially if you be at all inclined to what -our friend Willis calls _pinguitude_, will of a necessity produce much -exudation, and some lassitude. - -By the time these lucubrations shall be in thy hands, kind and gentle -sportsman, the dog-days will be, and July cock-shooting; and that, where -thou shootest soever, thou mayest find the woodcock lying as thick and -as lazy as in the cut above, is the worst wish in thy behalf, of thy -friend and servant at command, - - Frank Forester. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE SHARK. - - - A NEW PAGE OF NATURAL HISTORY. - - - BY L. A. WILMER. - - -[Illustration] - -Of all marine animals (except midshipmen and second-lieutenants in the -navy) the shark is, perhaps, one of the most unpopular. In general, it -is difficult to give reason for the unpopularity or popularity of any -thing, but with reference to the shark, there is much reason to suppose -that he has, by cruel misrepresentation, been exposed to unmerited -dislike. Had he been altogether bad, it is most likely that he would -have found a zealous advocate long ago; whereas, we are the first, we -believe, who ever undertook to say a word in his defense. As a shark is -thought to have many counterparts among the human species, we must be -extremely careful how we launch our invectives at him, lest by direct -implication we should abuse some of our most respectable -fellow-citizens. But, without affectation, we have always felt a high -degree of respect for this inhabitant of the deep, to whom we may justly -ascribe some very estimable and admirable qualities. In the first place, -he is the great controversialist of the watery world. “If he cannot -always convince,” as some one said of a renowned American orator, “he -never failed to silence his opponent;” and this, in the tactics of -disputation, is almost as grand an achievement as convincing itself. We -read that Tycho Brahe had his nose bitten off in a controversy with -another distinguished mathematician. But, although the shark—provided -as he is with a jaw as effective as a broad-axe—is well qualified to -“chop logic,” we doubt if he would be satisfied with such a paltry -exploit as that which has been accredited to Tycho’s snappish adversary; -and, indeed, we see no use in mincing the matter when it becomes -necessary to “use up” an opponent. The best advice we can give in such a -case is to “go the whole hog” at once. But it is not with the -controversial abilities of the shark that we have to deal at present. It -was the chief design of this sketch to speak chiefly of his business -habits—on which we intend to found a certain comparison that we have in -our eye—and so (as Bottom, the weaver, says) “to grow to a conclusion.” - -The shark is a great speculator in his way. He follows in the wake of -the ship for days and weeks together, looking out for “a good chance.” -His industry and perseverance are rewarded at last, if a poor Jack Tar -happen to fall overboard; but if disappointed in his expectations of -such an auspicious event, he is obliged to console himself with Jacob -Faithful’s excellent maxim, “better luck next time.” If, in pursuit of -his object, instead of catching a jolly fat sailor, he should be hooked -or harpooned himself, he philosophically considers it as a fair business -transaction; for, in every speculation, somebody must suffer—the great -object of all speculating skill being to decide _who_ is to be -victimized. Speculation, therefore, is pretty much the same thing in -substance, whether it be terrene or aquatic. - -Shakspeare, with his customary acuteness of observation, declares that -there are “both land-rats and water-rats.” Some other immortal genius -has made the startling discovery that there are both water-sharks and -land-sharks; and we find that in each of these generic divisions there -is more specific arrangement than we have leisure or inclination to -discuss. The engraver has supplied us with a specimen of one variety of -the land-shark, which may be distinguished at a glance by the globular -symbols at the end of the tail—the use or meaning of which has never -been clearly explained, though the world has been favored with many -ingenious hypotheses in relation to the subject. The common opinion is -that the three balls are significative of the fact, that should the -animal get possession of any of your property, it is _two to one_ that -you will never recover it. Others say that as balls have a remarkable -facility in going down hill, they significantly point out the route you -are likely to take should you venture to have any dealings with this -formidable creature. - -The least observation of the picture will convince you that there is -speculation in the eye of this land-shark. Mark the eager expression! so -much like that you may have observed in the glance of his maritime -brother, as he ogled you from his billowy alcove. See the open mouth, -and teeth displayed, as if prepared for a “bite.” Judging from the -“valence” (as Hamlet calls it,) at the bottom of the visage, we opine -that this animal does not shave _himself_—though he is said to shave -his victims rather closely. The beard, by the way, is regarded as a -hereditary characteristic of this devouring race—the origin of which is -traced to Lombardy. The ancient inhabitants of that country were called -_Longobardi_, which name some etymologists derive from Latin words, -signifying long-beards. Among these unshaven gentry, it appears, -pawn-broking, the most remorseless kind of shaving, was first -established. From this seminary of shavers, the whole world was supplied -with professors—fellows remarkable for great latitude of conscience as -well as longitude of beard; benevolent fellows, too, always ready to -accommodate the needy with a loan, “on the most agreeable terms”—as -some of them promise to do, _per_ advertisement, at the present day; the -phrase, “most agreeable terms,” being understood to signify one hundred -and fifty per cent. per annum! This moderate rate of interest is -continued down to our own times, showing that the pawn-broker is piously -attached to the usages of his ancestors, while others, in the race for -improvement, are constantly trampling, with profane feet, on the ashes -of the venerable dead. - -“My Uncle,” as the pawn-broker is affectionately called by his -customers, honors the assumed relationship by loaning out his dollars to -every applicant who can comply with his stipulations. In this -particular, some gay, frolicksome nephew would propose him as a model -for uncles in general; especially because he never requires an exact -account of how the cash loaned is to be expended, nor does he seem to -take it for granted that you are on the direct road to ruin because you -happen to stand in need of pecuniary assistance. On the contrary, he -speaks of money-borrowing as one of the finest strokes of policy, and -professes his willingness to lend any imaginable sum—if you are -prepared to deposit some “collateral” worth about four times the amount. -This being done, your generous creditor never harasses you for -repayment, you may abscond, if you choose, and proceed to California, or -any other remote region celebrated for gold, or brimstone—assuring -yourself that your kind “uncle” will not interfere with your departure -or inquire after you when you are gone. - -With all this liberality and generous forbearance, the pawn-broker is -regarded as one of the most voracious of predatory animals; but be it -understood that there are land-sharks compared with which he is a mere -minnow, inasmuch as his operations are all on a small scale, and the -figure he makes among the speculating leviathans of the day is -comparatively insignificant. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey. Edited by his - Son, Rev. Charles Cuthbert Southey, M. A. To be completed in Six - Parts. New York. Harper & Brothers._ - -The Harpers are printing this entertaining work as fast as the volumes -are received from England. The English price is about three dollars and -a half a volume; the American twenty-five cents. As a record of -Southey’s life, character, and opinions, and as conducting us into the -workshop of the greatest of book-makers, the work has great value, apart -from its attractive qualities of literary and personal gossip. The -impression it leaves of Southey is, on the whole, a favorable one. It -makes him appear as an honest, just, active, persistent, independent -man,—one who can “toil terribly,”—a staunch friend, a direct and open -opponent,—with a good deal of bigotry but no deviltry,—and altogether -a person with few of the vices which most commonly beset writers by -profession. His letters are admirable, both in themselves and as true -specimens of epistolary composition. They show Southey just as he was, -quick in forming opinions, confident in expressing them, thoroughly -convinced that he had no intellectual superior in England, freed from -envy by self-esteem, and ready to settle every question that is started, -by a few dogmatic sentences, which sparkle “like salt in fire.” The -singular perfection of his character, considered in respect to its -capacity for active intellectual labor, came from his almost miraculous -confidence in his faculties and content with himself. He has so high an -opinion of Robert Southey as to be unconcerned about any thing which -lies beyond the grasp of his powers, and, accordingly, however much we -may find reason to doubt or deny many of his statements, they ever have -a joyous raciness which tingles pleasantly on our perceptions. - -The present work commences with a delightful autobiography, which -Southey carried down to the age of fifteen. His son then takes up the -narrative. This, however, is little more than arranging the -correspondence, and explaining allusions in it. The great charm of -Southey’s style is its stimulating simplicity; and this is felt -throughout the present “Life.” We have marked, in reading the work, a -number of passages, which seem to us especially characteristic, and -cannot refrain from quoting a few of them. He tells us, in his -autobiography, that his elder brother was very beautiful; “so much so, -that, when I made my appearance on the 12th of August, 1774, I was sadly -disparaged by comparison with him. My mother, asking if it was a boy, -was answered by her nurse, in a tone as little favorable to me as it was -flattering, ‘Ay, a great ugly boy!’ and she added, when she told me -this, ‘God forgive me! when I saw what a great red creature it was, -covered with rolls of fat, I thought I should never be able to love -him.’” This is the most perfectly dramatic statement of the most -important event which can happen to a person, ever given in a biography; -and it conciliates the reader at once. - -The record of his early life is given with much amusing details. His -parents were rather illiterate, and he depended on chance to gratify his -thirst for books, with nobody to select what were proper to his age. He -read Beaumont and Fletcher through before he was eight years old,—a -most curious book for a child, when we consider the obscenity, -licentiousness, and slang which mingle with the romantic beauty of those -dramatists. He says they did him no harm, for the reason that he was so -young. In Mrs. Rowe’s Letters he read her version of the stories of -Olendo and Sophronia, and the Enchanted Forest, from Tasso, and -despaired at the time of ever reading more of the poem until he was man, -“from a whimsical notion that, as the subject related to Jerusalem, the -original must be in Hebrew;” and there was not learning enough in his -father’s house to set him right on the point. - -Perhaps the most interesting peculiarity of books like the present, is -their expression of the private opinions which their subjects -entertained of contemporary men and events. This certainly is the -raciest element in the Correspondence of Southey, and his letters are -next in attractiveness to a cosy chat with himself. Of Bentham, he -remarks—“It has pleased the -metaphysico-critico-politico-patriotico-phoolo-philosopher Jeremy -Bentham, to designate me, in one of his opaque works, by the appellation -of St. Southey, for which I humbly thank his Jeremy Benthamship, and -have in part requited him.” His hatred of Jeffrey, and contempt of -Reviews, provoke many a sardonic remark, replete with his peculiar -humor. “Turner,” he writes to Rickman, “complained heavily of Scotch -criticism, which he seems to feel too much. Such things only provoke me -to interject Fool! and Booby! _seasoned with the participle damnatory_; -but as for being vexed at a review—I should as soon be fevered by a -flea-bite! . . . I look upon the invention of reviews to be the worst -injury which literature has received since its revival.” Of Coleridge he -says—“His mind is in a perfect St. Vitus’s dance—eternal activity -without action.” Jeffrey, according to Southey, is a bad politician, a -worse moralist, and a critic, in matters of taste, equally incompetent -and unjust. It is unfortunate that his criticism on himself and on -others, in these letters, is not of a kind to entitle him to condemn the -editor of the Edinburgh Review. “Cowper,” he asserts, “owed his -popularity to his piety, not to his poetry, and that piety was -craziness.” His opinion was altered, of course, when he afterward edited -an edition of Cowper’s works. Of Walter Savage Lander’s poem of Gebir, -he says—“I look upon Gebir, as I do upon Dante’s long poem in the -Italian, not as a good poem, _but as containing the finest poetry in the -language_.” His power of appreciating Wordsworth may be estimated by his -remark, in a letter to Scott, on the “Ode on the Intimations of -Immortality from the Recollections of Childhood.” “The Ode on -Pre-existence,” he says, “is a dark subject darkly handled. Coleridge is -the only man who could make such a subject luminous. The Leech Gatherer -is one of my favorites.” We might quote many other critical judgments, -“equally incompetent and unjust,” but if the last does not satisfy the -reader, it is impossible to quote any thing that will. - -The following passage, from a letter written in 1812, gives so vivid an -impression of Shelley in his enthusiastic youth, that we cannot refrain -from extracting it. The style is very characteristic of Southey’s manner -throughout the letters. - -“Here is a man in Keswick, who acts upon me as my own ghost would do. He -is just what I was in 1794. His name is Shelley, son to the member for -Shoreham, with £6000 a year entailed upon him, and as much more in his -father’s power to cut off. Beginning with romances of ghosts and murder, -and with poetry at Eton, he passed, at Oxford, into metaphysics; printed -half-a-dozen pages, which he entitled “The Necessity of Atheism;” sent -one anonymously to Coplestone, in expectation, I suppose, of converting -him; was expelled in consequence; married a girl of seventeen, after -being turned out of doors by his father; and here they both are, in -lodgings, living upon £200 a year, which her father allows them. He is -come to the fittest physician in the world. At present he has got to the -Pantheistic stage of philosophy, and, in the course of a week, I expect -he will be a Berkleyan, for I have put him upon a course of Berkley. It -has surprised him a good deal to meet, for the first time in his life, a -man who perfectly understands him, and does him full justice. I tell him -that all the difference between us is that he is nineteen and I am -thirty-seven; and I dare say it will not be very long before I shall -succeed in convincing him that he may be a true philosopher, and do a -great deal of good with £6000 a year; the thought of which troubles him -a great deal more at present than ever the want of sixpence (for I have -known such a want) did me. God help us! the world wants mending, though -he did not set about it exactly in the right way.” - -This Life of Southey promises to be an important addition to the -biographical treasures of English literature, and we look with great -expectation for the remaining volumes, which will record his quarrels -with Byron, his coldness to Coleridge, and the publication of his most -important works. - - * * * * * - - _Historic View of the Languages and Literature of the Slavic - Nations: with a Sketch of their Popular Poetry. By Taloi. With a - Preface by Edward Robinson, D. D., LL.D. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This work is a real addition to English literature, containing a -succinct view of a subject which has heretofore been treated by those -English scholars, who have treated of it at all, in a fragmentary and -unsatisfactory manner. The Slavic nations contain a population of -seventy millions, and it is strange that a work like the present has not -been produced before, the subject being rich in matter both to interest -and instruct the better class of readers. - -“Taloi,” as we presume is well known, is the name assumed by Mrs. -Robinson, the learned wife of the learned gentleman who prefaces the -present history. Few living women can be said to excel her in the rare -combination of erudition with heartiness. This volume owes much of its -attractiveness to the feminine qualities which sometimes guide and -sometimes relieve her erudite researches. Her selection of anecdotes, -illustrative of national character, is very happy. In speaking of the -submission with which the Slavic Nations received Christianity, the -people readily following their superiors, she remarks, that “Vladimir -the Great, to whom the Gospel and the Koran were offered at the same -time, was long undecided which to choose; and was at last induced to -embrace the former, because ‘his Russians could not live without the -pleasure of drinking.’” - -There are many poetical translations in the volume of much excellence, -some of them having such a marked peculiarity that, without knowing the -originals, a critic might pronounce them to be true versions. Two or -three poems, relating to the desolate condition of motherless orphans, -are introduced by a reference to a Danish ballad, which we trust that -Longfellow will search after and translate. “The Danes,” says Taloi, -“have a beautiful ballad, in which the ghost of a mother is roused by -the wailings and sufferings of her deserted offspring, to break with -supernatural power the gravestone, and to re-enter, in the stillness of -the night, the neglected nursery, in order to cheer, to nurse, to comb -and wash the dear little ones whom God once entrusted to her care.” The -following translation of a ballad, written in the Upper Lusatian -language, we extract: - - THE ORPHAN’S LAMENT. - - Far more unhappy in the world am I, - Than on the meadow the bird that doth fly. - - Little bird merrily flits to and fro, - Sings its sweet carol upon the green bough. - - I, alas, wander wherever I will, - Everywhere I am desolate still! - - No one befriends me wherever I go, - But my own heart full of sorrow and wo! - - Cease thy grief, oh my heart, full of grief, - Soon will a time come that giveth thee relief. - - Never misfortune has struck me so hard, - But I, ere long, again better have fared. - - God of all else in the world has enough; - Why not then widows and orphans enough? - -The _naïveté_ of this is similar to a little quotation which the author -gives from a Servian elegy. A poor girl sings: “Our Lord has of every -thing his fill; but of poor people he seems to have greater plenty than -of anything else!” - -The following description, from a Servian lyric, we commend to -contributors to Albums. It will keep them in comparisons for a -life-time: - - Never since the world had a beginning, - Never did a lovelier flow’ret blossom, - Than the flow’ret in our own days blooming; - Haikuna, the lovely maiden flower. - - She was lovely, nothing e’er was lovelier! - She was tall and slender as the pine-tree; - White her cheeks, but tinged with rosy blushes, - As if morning’s beam had shone upon them, - Till that beam had reached its high meridian. - And her eyes, they were two precious jewels, - And her eyebrows, _leeches from the ocean_, - And her eyelids, they were wings of swallows; - And her flaxen braids were silken tassels; - And her sweet mouth was a sugar casket, - And her teeth were pearls arrayed in order; - White her bosom, like two snowy dovelets, - And her voice was like the dovelet’s cooing; - And her smiles were like the glowing sunshine; - And her fame, the story of her beauty, - Spread through Bosnia, and through Herz’govina. - -The simplicity of the ballads which Mrs. Robinson has so copiously -translated, will win many readers who take but little interest in -intellectual history. But it is as a history of literature that the book -is deserving of most attention, and as a historian the author displays -great learning, gracefully managed. The criticism is conducted on -enlarged principles of taste, and the diction is uniformly clear, -condensed, and elegant. The publisher has done his part towards making -the volume attractive, by printing it in large type on good paper. - - * * * * * - - _Indiana. By George Sand. Translated by one of the Best French - Scholars in this Country, a member of the Philadelphia Bar. - Philadelphia. T. B. Peterson. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -We cannot divine the publisher’s object in engaging the services of “one -of the best French Scholars in this Country,” and moreover “a member of -the Philadelphia Bar,” to translate this miserable trash into bad -English. Some of the later works of George Sand, undoubtedly evince -genius, but the novel under consideration, one of the first products of -her unregulated passions and speculative profligacy, has nothing in -plot, character, incident, or style, to give piquancy to its coarseness. -It is licentious, but then it is so stupid, that its perusal would be a -penance to a _roué_. Its immorality and falsehood might have a charm to -some minds, but the raciness of these qualities is spoiled by the -detestable and yawn-provoking sentimentality by which they are pervaded. -The publication of such books is an offence equally to taste and morals, -and tends to corrupt the intellect as well as the conscience of such -readers as are foolish enough to buy them, and bad enough to read them. -One of the worst signs of the times is the systematic degradation of -literature into a mere handmaid of profligacy, as exhibited in the -numberless manufactories of cheap damnation spread all over the -land—manufactories which send out an incessant stream of ugly looking -pamphlet novels, whose leading claim to notice is their brazen -brainlessness and stupid indecency. We have been informed that these -things are read, but on what principles of human nature the assertion is -made is a mystery to us. They are so absolutely unreadable, according to -the worse view ever taken of the human mind by misanthrope or -metaphysician, that we must be allowed to doubt the fact, and to -congratulate the philanthropist that the devil, in this case, has -underrated the taste even of our blackguards and flats. We do hope for -the credit of the species, that if the popular heart and conscience are -doomed to be corrupted by a cheap literature, it will not be done by -such wretched stuff as forms the staple of George Sand’s “Indiana.” - - * * * * * - - _Women in America: her Work and her Reward. By Maria J. - McIntosh. Author of “To Seem and To be,” etc. New York: D. - Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -The author of this volume has already distinguished herself as the -writer of two popular novels, in which a distinct moral purpose is -connected with well drawn characters and interesting events. In the -present work she makes woman the reformer of social evils, and views her -as she appears at the North, the South, and the West. There are many -opinions expressed for which Miss McIntosh can only give what logicians -call “the lady’s reason,” but, as a whole, the book is calculated to do -good, and can be safely commended to the attention of “Women in -America.” - - * * * * * - - - - - JENNY LIND’S AMERICAN POLKA. - - - COMPOSED BY - - N. STEENCKEN, - - AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO - - MRS. A. WATSON. - - Presented by Lee & Walker, 162 Chestnut Street. - -[Illustration] -[Illustration] - - * * * * * - - - - - DETAILS OF THE NEW FASHIONS IN SACQUES AND MANTELETS. - - -[Illustration: NO. 1.—ESMERALDA.] - -[6]_Pardessus_ of silk fitting closely to the shape, open before, -trimmed with lace, which is held by a trimming of the sleeve and skirt. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: NO. 2.—RIMINI.] - -Little Spring Cloak of _taffetas_ trimmed with a double ruche of the -same. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: NO 3.—FORNARINA.] - -Tight fitting _pardessus_, bordered with gimp, and trimmed with a thin, -loose fringe, twisted at the end. The sleeve is formed by the stuff -folded on itself; but it is not separate from the body. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: NO. 4.—FALIERO.] - -Spring Cloak, half open, trimmed with galloon and twisted fringe. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: NO. 5.—OPHELIA.] - -_Mantelet of taffetas_, with _ruches_ of quilled ribbon separated in the -middle by a little puffing. Trimmed with white _blonde_. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: NO. 6.—HERMIONE.] - -Shawl-shaped _Mantelet of taffetas_ with fringe. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: NO. 7.—MIRANDELLA.] - -_Mantelet of taffetas_, trimmed with black lace and figured ribbon. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: NO. 8.—STELLA.] - -_Pardessus_ for the house, of _taffetas_ trimmed with _ruches_ and -pinked or scalloped trimmings. - ------ - -[6] _Pardessus_—a sort of sacque or little silk coat. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: Anaïs Toudouze LE FOLLET Paris, Boulevart S^{t}. Martin, -69. _Coiffures de_ Ferdinand Hamelin—_Robes_ Camille—_Lingeries_ -Schreiber _Style of Goods at_ Stewart's _New York and_ L.J. Levy & -C^{o.} _Philadelphia_ Graham’s Magazine 134 Chestnut Street] - - * * * * * - - - - - EDITOR’S TABLE. - - - _Cruising in the Last War. By Charles J. Peterson, Author of the - Reefer of ’76, etc. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson._ - -Many thousands of the readers of Graham’s Magazine, will be glad to -welcome in this form this admirable sea novel, which was published in -this Magazine in 1840. It was one of the most popular articles that ever -appeared in this country, and now that the author avows himself, he will -justly be placed among the foremost writers of the age for directness -and energy of style, graphic force of description and skillful -delineation of character. Cooper, in his palmiest days, never excelled -the splendor of some of the descriptive passages of this writer. Many of -the incidents we learn, for the first time, are taken from events that -occurred during the war, and the whole story is drawn from the original -log-book of a privateer of 1812, now in the possession of the author. - -It is refreshing to turn to the natural, patriotic tone of this work, -after wading through the sea of indifferent books, which now-a-days make -up the marketable cheap literature; and we thank Mr. Peterson, on this -account, for allowing the Cruisings to appear. It will find a welcome -and a response in the hearts of all pure men; and purchasers wherever a -spark of patriotism lingers. It is sold at the cheap rate of twenty-five -cents, and by the hundred at a still lower price. - - * * * * * - -Philadelphia Academy of Fine Arts.—We had hoped to be able to notice -the Spring Exhibition of this Society, but cannot do justice to the -splendid array of home and foreign talent on the walls of its Galleries, -in the present number; our comments must, therefore, be delayed until -next month. A large number of paintings have been received from Europe, -in competition for the prizes offered by the Academy. Among these, we -may enumerate the following: “Ahasuerus, King of the Medea and Persians, -exalting Mordecai,” by P. Van Schendel, of Brussels; “Wrecking and -Succour,” and “The Schelde in a fresh gale,” by P. T. Schotel, of -Mendembled, Holland; “The Auspicious Moment,” and “The Recovery,” by -Carl Hubner, of Dusseldorf; “An Auction Scene,” by A. W. Wedeking, of -Bremen; two “Views in the High Alps,” by G. F. Diday, of Bremen; -“Amphitrite and Diana,” after Moreto’s Spanish comedy, “El desden con el -desden,” by J. Schoppe, of Berlin; “Ruins of Castle Teck on the Suabian -Alps,” by H. Herdtle, of Stuttgard; “Judith and Holofernes,” by E. -Jacobs, of Gotha; “The Marseillaise first song by Rouget de Lisle,” by -Godefri Gaffens, of Antwerp; “A Lake Scene,” by Ildephonse Stoequart, of -Antwerp; “Abraham receiving the Divine Promise,” by J. A. Kruseman; -“Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife,” by François Vinck, of Anvers, Belgium; -“Tobias Receiving his Wife,” and an “Italian Peasant Girl,” by Edward -Ihlee, of Cassel; “The Judgment of Solomon,” by Jh. Van Severdonck, of -Brussels; three panels, “Adam and Eve finding the dead body of Abel,” -“Abel carried to Heaven by an Angel,” and “Cain in the power of Satan,” -by Edward du Jardin, of Antwerp; “The Penny of Cæsar,” by Joseph -Belleman, of Antwerp; “A Roman Aqueduct at Alcala-la-Real in Spain, with -a Caravan of Muleteers,” by F. Bossuet, of Brussels; and several others. -The productions of our own artists are numerous, and will challenge a -favorable comparison with these. Rothermel’s latest work will add -greatly to his reputation. - - * * * * * - -Chromo Xylography.—The very beautiful title-page, for the July volume, -which we furnish our readers in this number, is the work of Mr. -Devereux, an accomplished artist of this city. This style of art is -known as “Chromo Xylography,” and Mr. Devereux has certainly, thus far -excelled all other artists in the beauty and delicacy of his pictures. -The Lake of Como—the central design of our picture—is printed in eight -different tints; and the blending of colors has all the purity of -painting. When it is considered that this effect is produced by -_printing_ from eight different blocks, we may consider this picture an -achievement, and highly creditable to its designer. - - * * * * * - -True Paris Fashions.—We resume with this number, our Paris Fashions, -which our subscribers will at once see are far superior in beauty of -design and coloring to any that have appeared in Graham for a long time. -The order for this plate we sent to Paris the moment we ascertained that -we should again become the exclusive conductor of “Graham,” and our -agent is instructed to forward _one each month_, from the best houses -there, to appear _simultaneously_ with the same designs in Paris. We -thus furnish our colored plate—_one month_ in advance of even wood-cut -fashion plates—and at least _two months_ earlier than those which are -re-engraved and colored in this country. This single feature of “Graham” -renders it superior to any work in this country, in regard to -embellishments. - - * * * * * - - OURSELF. - -If blushes were transferable, our face in the magazine for this month, -should, we suppose, be like a maiden’s before the ardor of her first -lover—but steel is as unsusceptible as brass, we find; so, with a very -unconscious air, we shall brave the battery of bright eyes, impervious -to a frown. - -As to our Memoir, by Mr. Peterson—the veritable Jeremy Short—it is -done in his most amiable vein; and though not exactly the history of the -Wandering Jew—being rather that of Barnaby Rudge’s Raven, crying -continually, “Never say die”—our readers may take it with the grains of -allowance which should be given to a vigorous writer with a fine -imagination, who is determined to make a hero. - -We had written a long article, commemorative of other days, but have -since thought it better to let by-gones be by-gones. That we feel proud -of our reinstation in this Magazine—the child of our happier days—we -shall not deny. The gold that bought it for us—if estimated by the -happiness it has diffused—must have dropped from heaven, baptized for -good. The dark shadows—the regrets and heart-burnings of the past are -over. A bright future is before us, high hopes and determined resolves -are ours now—light leaps over the mountain-tops, and the “good time” so -long a coming, rushes joyfully to meet us—is here. - - “Graham.” - -Our thanks are due to our brethren of the quill throughout the entire -Union, for the very general, and very generous welcome we have received -on coming back to the profession. While we shall never forget their -kindness, and have small hopes of ever being able to repay a tythe of -it, we shall endeavor so to act as not to dishonor their endorsement, or -to forfeit their good opinion. - - * * * * * - -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 iii, Strength. Hy Mrs. ==> Strength. By Mrs. -page 4, as the real _savan_ ==> as the real _savant_ -page 5, mere experimentors, surprised ==> mere experimenters, surprised -page 8, up. You hav n’t ==> up. You haven’t -page 8, of the the lads did ==> of the lads did -page 13, weather-side of the bark ==> weather-side of the barque -page 17, singers was diposed ==> singers was disposed -page 19, symphonies of Beethooven ==> symphonies of Beethoven -page 24, same instincts leads her ==> same instincts lead her -page 27, services, Captain Dundas ==> services, Captain Dunbar -page 33, these succint narrations ==> these succinct narrations -page 38, whisper a requium ==> whisper a requiem -page 45, a country guager ==> a country gauger -page 45, was harrassed with cares ==> was harassed with cares -page 46, no more deficile, ==> no more difficile, -Page 50, the cautious inuendo ==> the cautious innuendo -page 52, the amiable Blocklock ==> the amiable Blacklock -page 55, payment. Harrassed and ==> payment. Harassed and -page 56, to smoothe her ==> to smooth her -page 58, an exhorbitant sum ==> an exorbitant sum -page 65, ready to accomodate ==> ready to accommodate -page 67, The _naïvete_ of ==> The _naïveté_ of -page 67, Than the flowret ==> Than the flow’ret -page 67, degradation of literarature ==> degradation of literature -page 72, Herdtle, of Suttgard ==> Herdtle, of Stuttgard - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 1, -July 1850, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JULY 1850 *** - -***** This file should be named 53980-0.txt or 53980-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/9/8/53980/ - -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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