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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. 3, September 1850 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George Rex Graham - -Release Date: January 19, 2017 [EBook #54026] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, SEPT 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 - - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XXXVII. Sept, 1850. No. 3. - - - Table of Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - Shakspeare—Analysis of Macbeth - Pedro de Padilh (continued) - A Visit to Staten Island - Woodlawn: or the Other Side of the Medal - “What Can Woman Do?” - The Bride of the Battle - Doctrine of Form - Coquet _versus_ Coquette - The Genius of Byron - Rail and Rail Shooting - The Fine Arts - Mandan Indians - Review of New Books - - Poetry, Music and Fashion - - Ode - Lines in Memory of My Lost Child - Evening - The Wasted Heart - A Health to My Brother - On a Portrait of Cromwell - A Sea-Side Reverie - Audubon’s Blindness - Sonnets - On the Death of General Taylor - “Psyche Loves Me.” - To the Lost One - Outward Bound - He Comes Not - The Bright New Moon of Love - Barcarole - Le Follet - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XXXVII. PHILADELPHIA, September, 1850. No. 3. - - * * * * * - - - - - SHAKSPEARE. - - - ANALYSIS OF MACBETH. - - - BY HENRY C. MOORHEAD. - - -The reader who has not considered the subject in Ulrici’s point of view, -will, perhaps, scarcely be prepared, at first sight, to believe that the -two plays of Macbeth and the Merchant of Venice, have the same -“ground-idea;” that both are, throughout, imbued with the same -sentiment, yet he will readily perceive the similarity of the leading -incidents of these plays. Shylock insists on the literal terms of his -bond, and “stands for judgment,” according to the strict law of Venice. -He is entitled to a pound of flesh; “the law allows it, and the court -awards it;” but his bond gives him no drop of blood, and neither more -nor less than just a pound. Thus the _letter of the law_, on which he -has so sternly insisted, serves in the end to defeat him. In like manner -Macbeth relies with fatal confidence on the predictions of the weird -sisters, that “none of woman born shall harm Macbeth;” and that he -“shall never vanquished be till Birnam wood do come to Dunsinane.” The -predictions are more _literally_ fulfilled than he anticipated, and that -very strictness of interpretation makes them worthless. - -Now it is from these incidents—both of the same import—that the -respective themes of these plays are drawn; hence those themes are -substantially the same, and may be thus expressed: - -_The relation of form to substance—of the letter to the spirit—of the -real to the ideal._ But the different aspects in which this idea is -presented are multiform; as empty, superfluous words; ambiguities, -equivocations, irony, riddles, formality, prescription, superstition; -witches, ghosts, dreams, omens, etc., etc. - -The reason and the propriety of the introduction of the witches in -Macbeth, has often been a subject of speculation. It may be remarked in -general, that Shakspeare always follows very closely the original story -on which his plot is founded. The question as to any given circumstance, -therefore, generally is rather why he has _retained_ than why he has -_introduced_ it. In the history of Macbeth, as he read it in the old -chronicles, he found the weird sisters, and also their _equivocal -predictions_; and it was upon these predictions as a “ground-idea,” (as -has already been observed,) that he constructed the play. The witches, -therefore, were not introduced for the sake of the play, but it might -rather be said the play was written for the sake of the witches. - - - ACT I. - -The prevailing modification of the theme, in the early part of the play, -is “the ambiguity of appearances.” The 1st scene merely introduces the -witches, who are themselves _ambiguous_, and so is their language; “fair -is foul, and foul is fair.” They appear amidst thunder and lightning, -and a hurly-burly of empty words. - -In the 2d Scene a bleeding soldier enters, and gives an account of the -battle, and of the achievements of Macbeth and Banquo. Mark how he -dwells on the _doubtful aspect_ of the fight: - - “Doubtfully it stood; - As two spent swimmers that do cling together, - And choke their art.” - -He represents fortune as smiling at first on Macdonwald’s cause; but -brave Macbeth, “disdaining fortune,” soon turned the tide of victory. -But another revulsion follows, “and from the spring whence comfort -seemed to come, discomfort flows.” The Norweyan lord suddenly renews the -assault, but victory at last falls on Macbeth and Banquo. Ross now -enters and describes the fight, dwelling in like manner on the -_uncertainty_ which attended it; and Duncan, declaring that the Thane of -Cawdor shall no more _deceive_ him, orders his execution. It is worthy -of remark also, that the view here presented of Macbeth’s character is -purely _formal_ or _sensual_. Physical strength and bull-dog courage are -alone spoken of. Swords “smoking with bloody execution,” “reeking -wounds,” and “heads fixed on battlements,” compose the staple of his -eulogy. - -_Scene_ 3d—Enter the three witches. There is an idle repetition of -words. The offense of the sailor’s wife is visited upon her husband, who -is, however, to encounter only the _appearance_, not the _reality_ of -destruction. A certain _combination of numbers_ completes the charm. - -Macbeth and Banquo now encounter the weird sisters on the heath. -Macbeth’s exclamations relate chiefly to the _ambiguity_ of their -_appearance_. He says, they “look not like the inhabitants of the earth, -and yet are on it.” They “_seem_ to understand me.” - - They should be women, - And yet their beards forbid me to interpret - That they are so. - -The witches then salute Macbeth in terms which are to him -_incomprehensible_. They call him Thane of Cawdor, which he is, but does -not know it. They also salute Banquo in ambiguous language: “Lesser than -Macbeth and greater.” “Not so happy, yet much happier,” etc., etc. - -The witches now “melt into the wind;” upon which Banquo says, - - The earth hath _bubbles_ as the water has, - And these are of them. - -Ross and Angus now enter and salute Macbeth as Thane of Cawdor, who, -finding the prediction of the witches verified in this particular, asks -Banquo whether he does not hope his children shall be kings. Banquo’s -answer points to the _ambiguity_ of appearances, - - That trysted home, - Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, - Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But ’tis strange; - And oftentimes to win us to our harm, - The instruments of darkness tell us truths; - Win us with honest trifles to betray us - In deepest consequence. - -Macbeth falls into meditation on the subject; thinks this “supernatural -soliciting” cannot be ill, because it has already given him earnest of -success; cannot be good, because it breeds horrid suggestions in his -mind. The appearances are _ambiguous_ and bewilder him. Banquo, -observing his abstraction, remarks that new honors come upon him like -“strange garments,” wanting the _formality_ of use to make them sit -easy. - -The next Scene, (the 4th) though a short one, contains several very -pointed references to the central idea. Malcolm reports to Duncan that -Cawdor, when led to execution, had frankly confessed his treasons; -whereupon Duncan says, - - There’s no art - To find the mind’s construction in the face; - He was a gentleman on whom I built - An absolute trust. - -This reflection is commonplace enough in itself, but is rendered -eminently striking by his cordial reception of Macbeth the next moment; -he hails as his deliverer, and enthrones in his heart, the man who is -already meditating his destruction, and that very night murders him in -his sleep. Thus precept and example concur in teaching the _uncertainty -of appearances_. Again Duncan says: - - My _plenteous joys_, - Wanton in fullness, seek to hide themselves - In _drops of sorrow_. - -He then declares his intention to confer _appropriate_ honors on all -deservers, and renews his expressions of confidence in Macbeth. - -The subject is now presented in a slightly different aspect. Whereas the -ambiguity of form or appearance has heretofore been insisted on, the -leading idea is now the agreement of form with substance; the -correspondence of appearances with the reality. - -Macbeth writes to his wife, informing her of what has happened, that she -may not “lose the dues of rejoicing,” but be able to conform to their -new circumstances. Her reflections on the occasion abound with -illustrations of the theme. She fears his nature; it is too full of the -milk of human kindness to “catch the nearest way.” He cannot rid himself -of what she considers mere ceremonious scruples; “what he would highly -that he would holily;” whilst she thinks only of the end they aim at, -she apprehends that he will stand upon _the manner_ of reaching it. An -attendant now informs her of Duncan’s unexpected approach; and she falls -into a soliloquy which is singularly adapted to the theme. The “hoarse -raven;” the invocation to night; her wish to be unsexed, and that her -milk might be turned to gall, etc., etc. When Macbeth arrives, she says -to him: - - Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men - May read strange matters; _To beguile the time_, - _Look like the time_; bear welcome in your eye, - Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent flower, - But be the serpent under it. - -In the next scene she practices that dissimulation which she has -reproached Macbeth for wanting. Her reception of Duncan is full of -ceremony and professions of duty. - -The 7th Scene opens with the great soliloquy of Macbeth, “If it were -done, when ’tis done,” etc. He dwells on the _incongruity_ of his -killing Duncan, who is there in double trust; “First as I am his kinsman -and his subject; then as his host.” Duncan, too, “has borne his -faculties so meek;” has been “so clear in his great office;” “he has -honored me of late;” and “I have bought golden opinions from all sorts -of people.” He resolves at last that he will proceed no further in the -business. Lady Macbeth now enters to “chastise him with the valor of her -tongue.” In the course of the argument that ensues, Macbeth shows _his_ -regard for _appearances_ by saying: - - I dare do all that may become a man, - Who dares do more is none. - -whilst she shows _her_ respect for the strictness of the letter by -declaring that _had she so sworn_ as he has done to this, she would, -whilst her babe was smiling in her face, have “plucked her nipple from -his boneless gums,” and dashed his brains out. She then proposes to -drench the attendants with wine, and smear them with Duncan’s blood, so -that suspicion may fall on them; also, “we will make our griefs and -clamor roar upon his death.” And here the first act ends with these -words: - - Away and mock the time with fairest show; - False face must hide what the false heart doth know. - - - ACT II. - -In the 2d Act the same idea of _correspondence_ is pursued, and the -propensity of the imagination to embody ideas which press upon the mind -is dwelt upon. - -In the first scene Banquo, when ordering the light to be removed, says: -“Night’s candles are all out; there’s husbandry in Heaven.” This -imagery, no doubt, very naturally suggests itself; but herein lies the -peculiar art of these plays; there is seldom any thing forced or -strained in the narrative or sentiment, the events and reflections fall -in naturally and gracefully; and yet the same general idea is always -kept in the foreground. - -Macbeth tells Banquo if he will co-operate with him it shall be to his -honor; the latter intimates his fear of losing the _substance_ by -grasping at the _shadow_; “So I lose none in seeking to augment it,” -etc. Then comes the fearful soliloquy of Macbeth on the air-drawn -dagger. So intensely does the bloody business “inform to his mind,” that -his very thoughts cast a shadow, and the object of his meditation stands -pictured before him. All the imagery of the speech also embodies the -central idea. - -The next scene (the 2d) is full of horrible imaginings. So fearful are -the workings of Macbeth’s conscience, that, in spite of his guilt, we -pity as much as we abhor him; and all these exclamations of remorse and -horror allude so plainly to the theme that I need not dwell on them. -Lady Macbeth is seldom troubled with scruples, but takes “the nearest -way” to her purpose. Thus she says, - - The sleeping and the dead, - Are but as pictures: ’tis the eye of childhood - That fears a painted devil. - -Yet even her stern nature, which bore down all real obstacles, yielded -to the merely formal circumstance that Duncan resembled her father as he -slept. This is, perhaps, the only amiable sentiment she utters, and it -is of a _superstitious_ character, however commendable. - -The 3d Scene opens with the humorous soliloquy of the Porter, who -imagines himself porter of hell-gate, and gives each new comer an -_appropriate_ reception, but soon finds that the place is _too cold_ for -the purpose. His remarks on the effects of drink will not bear -quotation, but are as much to the main purpose as any other passage of -the play. When the murder of Duncan is announced, Lady Macbeth continues -her formal part by _fainting_. This scene and the next are much occupied -with accounts of omens and prodigies in connection with the murder of -Duncan. In a superstitious age men were prone to believe and to imagine -such things; and the relation of these events to the theme depends on -that _literal, unspiritual_ tendency of mind which has led mankind under -different circumstances to the making of graven images, to the worship -of stocks and stones, to the belief in dreams and omens, and to every -form of _superstition_. - - - ACT III. - -In the first scene of this act Macbeth dwells on the worthlessness of -the mere title which he has won, “To be thus is nothing, but to be -_safely_ thus.” Then, too, the succession was promised to the issue of -Banquo, leaving a barren sceptre in the hands of Macbeth. He resolves to -have the substantial prize for which he had “filed his mind,” and -therefore plans the destruction of Banquo and Fleance. In the -conversation with the murderers whom he engages for that purpose, the -theme is curiously illustrated. In reply to Macbeth’s question as to -their readiness to revenge an injury, they say, “We are men, my lord.” - - _Macbeth._ Ay, in the catalogue, you go for men - As hounds, and grey-hounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, - Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clep’d - All by the name of dogs; the valued file - Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, - The house-keeper, the hunter, every one - According to the gift which bounteous nature - Hath in him closed. - -The _ambiguity_ of the general name is remedied by the _specific_ -description. The name is _formal_, the description _substantial_. - -In the next Scene (the 2d) both Macbeth and Lady Macbeth continue their -reflections on the insecurity of their usurped honors: “We have scotched -the snake, not killed it.” She exhorts him to “sleek o’er his rugged -look;” and he refuses to explain his purposes as to Banquo, bidding her -be innocent of the knowledge till she can applaud the deed; thus sparing -her conscience the _formal_ guilt of the murder. His invocation to night -and darkness, at the end of this scene, is very similar to that of Lady -Macbeth, on a similar occasion, before referred to. - -In the 3d Scene the murderers, whilst waiting the approach of Banquo, -justify to themselves the deed they are about to commit, by pleading the -orders of Macbeth. The deed is his; they are the mere instruments of his -will. The allusion to the fading light; “the west yet glimmers with some -streaks of day,” seems to refer to the near approach of Banquo’s end; as -the extinguishment of the light does to the simultaneous extinguishment -of his life, immediately afterward. - -The next is the Banquet Scene. It opens with _formal ceremony_. The -murderers then inform Macbeth that they have executed his will on -Banquo. Macbeth expresses surprise and regret at Banquo’s absence, but -in the midst of his hypocritical professions, his excited imagination -_embodies_ the description which has just been given him by the -murderers, and the ghost of Banquo, “with twenty trenched gashes on its -head,” rises and shakes its gory locks at him. The whole scene abounds -with illustrations of the theme. Macbeth endeavors to shelter himself -under the _letter of the law_, when he exclaims, “thou canst not say I -did it!” He thinks that after a man has been regularly murdered, he -should stay in his grave; he declares his readiness to encounter any -_substantial_ foe—the rugged Russian bear, the armed rhinoceros, or the -Hyrcan tiger; it is the “horrible _shadow_” that blanches his cheek with -fear. After the guests have retired, he falls into a superstitious train -of reflection, in which he expresses his belief in augurs, etc. He -declares his intention to revisit the weird sisters; he is fast becoming -as formal and as reckless of consequences as his wife; he speaks of his -qualms of conscience as the “_initiate_ fear that wants hard use;” and, -as if he now passively allowed himself to be borne onward by the tide of -events, says he has strange things in his head, “which must be _acted_ -e’er they may be _scanned_.” - -Scene 5th. This is another witch scene. Hecate declares her intention to -raise up artificial sprites for the purpose of deluding Macbeth, and -drawing him on to his confusion, thus preparing the way for the -ambiguous predictions. - -In the 6th Scene, the relation between the letter and the spirit is -exhibited in the _ironical_ speech of Lennox, and in the King of -England’s regard for the “dues of birth.” - - Things have been strangely born; the gracious Duncan - Was pitied of Macbeth; marry, he was dead; - And the right valiant Banquo walked too late, - Whom you may say, if it please you, Fleance killed, - For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late. - Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous - It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain, - To kill their gracious father? damned fact! - How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight, - In pious rage, the two delinquents tear, - That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? - Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely, too; - For ’twould have angered any heart alive - To hear the men deny it. etc. etc. - - - ACT IV. - -Scene 1st. Here we have the witches boiling their cauldron. It is -composed of various and contradictory materials; - - Black spirits and white, - Red spirits and gray. - -And so truth and falsehood are mingled in the promises to Macbeth which -immediately follow; and which are kept literally to the ear, but broken -fatally to the hope. - -In the 2d Scene, the falsehood or ambiguity of _appearances_ is -illustrated in Lady Macduff’s complaint of her husband’s desertion, -which she attributes to fear and want of love; whilst Ross exhorts her -to confide in his fidelity and wisdom, though she may not be able to -understand his present conduct: - - As for your husband, - He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows - The fits o’ the season. - -Of her son, she says, “Father’d he is, and yet he’s fatherless;” and -immediately after tells him that his father’s dead; and, according to -her understanding of the matter, so he was; not _literally_ but -_substantially_, as their guardian and protector. The boy denies it, -because he does not see the appropriate _effect_. “If he were dead, -you’d weep for him; if you would not, it were a good sign that I should -quickly have a new father.” Whatever may be the merit of this dialogue -between Lady Macduff and her son, in other respects it serves at least -to illustrate the theme. The same idea of ambiguity is now applied to -the relation between cause and effect, when a messenger enters, warns -her of the near approach of danger, and urges her to fly. Her first -exclamation is, “I have done no harm.” But she immediately adds, - - I remember now - I am in this earthly world, where to do harm - Is often laudable; to do good sometime - Accounted dangerous folly. - -The first part of the next scene (the 3d) is wholly occupied with the -idea of _ambiguous appearances_. Macduff arrives at the court of -England, and tenders his services to Malcolm, who, fearing that he is an -emissary of Macbeth, mistrusts him. He plays off false appearances upon -Macduff by slandering himself, thus bringing out Macduff’s true -disposition. A doctor now enters and introduces the idea of _causeless -effect_, telling how the king, with a mere touch, has healed the “evil.” -Ross, having just arrived from Scotland, describes the dreadful state of -the country, dwelling chiefly on the circumstance that the people have -become so _used_ to horrors, that they have almost ceased to note them. -He tells Macduff that his wife and children are “well,” purposely using -an ambiguous phrase, which Macduff understands literally, though Ross -means that they are at peace in their graves. When at length he comes to -reveal the truth, he begs Macduff not to confound the _relator_ with the -_author_ of the mischief. “Let not your ears despise my tongue forever,” -etc. Then tells him that his wife and children have been savagely -slaughtered; whereupon Macduff pulls his hat upon his brows, and Malcolm -begs him to “give sorrow words”—distinguishing justly between the -clamorous _show_ of grief and its silent _reality_. The _substance_ of -Ross’s words have struck Macduff, but in the agony of the moment he -cannot comprehend their _detail_. “My wife killed, too;” “Did you say -all?” He has not caught the _form_ of the expression though its _spirit_ -has pierced his soul. There are few passages in Shakspeare more -affecting than this, or in which the “ground-idea” is more steadily kept -in view. - - O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, - And braggart with my tongue, - -exclaims Macduff; but he refrains from all _show_ of grief, and all -_profession_ of courage, and prays Heaven only to bring the fiend of -Scotland and himself “front to front.” - - - ACT V. - -In the first scene of this act the _apparent_ and the _real_ are -inexplicably mingled together. Lady Macbeth “receives, at once, the -benefit of sleep, and does the effects of watching,” which the doctor -pronounces “a great perturbation in nature.” Her eyes are open, but -their _sense_ is shut; and she _seems_ to wash her hands. Though she is -now under the dominion of an awakened conscience, the _formality_ of her -nature still displays itself. “Fie, my lord, fie!” she exclaims, “a -soldier, and afeard? _What need we fear who knows it, when none can call -our power to account?_” The Doctor, however, is cautious about drawing -conclusions even from _such_ appearances, and remarks that he has known -those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their -beds. The reader will readily perceive other illustrations of the theme -in this scene, in which for the first time Lady Macbeth appears stripped -of the mask of ceremony. We are permitted to see the workings of her -mind, and the beating of her heart, when her conscience is emancipated -from the control of her formal habits and her stern will. - -The next scene, which is a very short one, contains several allusions to -the _unsubstantial_ nature of Macbeth’s power. - - Those he commands move only in command, - Nothing in love, etc. - -In the 3d Scene Macbeth still relies on the promises of the weird -sisters. He interprets the _look_ of the “cream-faced loon” as -indicative of alarming news; and then falls into that memorable train of -reflection on his “way of life,” and the _emptiness_ of all his -honors—which everybody knows by heart and can at once apply to the -theme. In his answer to the Doctor, who tells him of Lady Macbeth’s -“thick-coming fancies,” the remedies he proposes, are, it will be -observed, adapted to the _unsubstantial_ character of the disease; the -troubles of the brain are to be “razed out,” and the stuffed bosom -cleansed with “some sweet oblivious antidote.” On the other hand, when -he asks the Doctor to “scour the English hence,” he suggests the use of -rhubarb, or senna, which, indeed, at first sight, strikes one as very -_appropriate_ remedies. - -In the 4th Scene, the soldiers are made to hew down boughs in Birnam -wood, in order to conceal their numbers; thus giving a _literal_ -construction to the language of the weird sisters. - -Scene 5th. Macbeth now trusts to the strength of his castle, and -_proclaims_ his confidence by ordering his banners to be hung on the -outward walls. When he hears the cry of women, he comments on the -_effect of custom_. - - I have almost forgot the taste of fears. - . . . . . . . - Direness, _familiar_ to my slaughterous thoughts, - Can not once start. - -When told of the queen’s death, he says it is _unseasonable_: “she -should have died hereafter;” and his reflections on life have the same -relation to the theme as those on his “way of life” in Scene 3d. - - It is a tale - Told by an idiot, _full of sound and fury_, - _Signifying nothing_. - -He is now told that Birnam wood is coming to Dunsinane; and the rock on -which he has heretofore stood so firmly begins to crumble beneath his -feet. He begins to pall in resolution, and to “doubt the equivocation of -the fiend, that _lies like truth_.” - -Scene 6th contains less than a dozen lines. The soldiers throw away -their leafy screens, and show their true strength. - -In the next and last scene the remaining promise of the weird sisters is -literally kept to the ear, but “broken to the hope”—for it turns out -that Macduff was _not_ of woman born. The force of professional habit -appears in old Siward’s conduct on hearing of the death of his son. “Had -he his hurts before?” he asks; and, being satisfied on that point, -ceases to mourn for him. Finally, _ceremony_ is employed by Malcolm in -rewarding _substantial merit_; his thanes and kinsmen are created earls; -and all other proper forms observed “in measure, time, and place.” - -The reader will readily perceive that different aspects of the theme -predominate in the several stages of the play; and if these stages seem -somewhat irregular, it must be borne in mind that the present division -into acts and scenes was not the work of Shakspeare, but of his editors. - -In Macbeth we see a perpetual conflict between the _real_ nature of man, -and the _assumed_ character of the usurper. He is “full o’ the milk of -human kindness;” loves truth and sincerity; and sets a high value on the -good opinions and the sincere friendship of others. But he is also -ambitious; he is urged forward by the demoniac spirit of his wife, and -entangled in the snare of the weird sisters. Under these influences he -endeavors to play the part of a remorseless tyrant; but his kindlier -nature is constantly breaking out; and though he strives so hard to -maintain his _assumed_ character, that he at length refuses to “scan” -his deeds until they have been “acted,” yet we find him in the height of -his power mournfully regretting his own blood-guiltiness, and the -_hollow-heartedness_ of all around him. - -But there is nothing of this _spirituality_ in the character of Lady -Macbeth. Her ambition is satisfied with the _name_ of queen, and she -cares not whether the obedience of her followers is constrained or -voluntary, whether their love is feigned or real. Remorse has no power -over her except when she is asleep; and even old Shylock—whose whole -character, as has been well said, is a _dead letter_—might, perhaps, -betray similar emotions, if one could see him thus off his guard. - -If the reader of this play should ever be tempted to the commission of -crime for the sake of ambition, let him remember the air-drawn dagger, -and the ghost of Banquo; if in danger of being seduced by the specious -appearance of vice, let him remember the equivocation of the fiends; if -lured by the hope that success will gild o’er the offense and “trammel -up the consequence,” let him think of Macbeth’s withered heart after he -had won the crown and sceptre; and finally, if he imagine that he can so -school his passions and harden his nature that remorse will have no -power over him, let him contemplate Lady Macbeth walking in her sleep. -Whereever he turns, he will find, in all the incidents of this play, the -same great lesson, that “the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth -life.” - - * * * * * - - - - - ODE. - - - BY R. H. STODDARD. - - - The days are growing chill, the Summer stands - Drooping, like Niobe with clasped hands, - Mute o’er the faded flowers, her children lost, - Slain by the arrows of the early frost! - The clouded Heaven above is pale and gray, - The misty Earth below is wan and drear, - And baying Winds chase all the leaves away, - As cruel hounds pursue the trembling deer, - And in the nipping morns, the ice around, - Lieth like Autumn’s gage defiant on the ground! - - My heart is sick within me, I have toiled - In iron poverty and hopeless tears, - Tugging in fetters at the oar for years; - And wrestling in the ring of Life have soiled - My robes with dust, and strained my sinews sore; - I have no strength to struggle any more! - And what if I should perish?—none would miss - So strange a dreamer in a world like this— - Whate’er our beauty, worth, or loving powers, - We live, we strive, we die, and are forgot; - We are no more regarded than the flowers; - And death and darkness is our destined lot! - One bud from off the tree of Earth is naught, - One crude fruit from the ripening bough of Thought, - The hinds will ne’er lament, in harvest-time, - The bud, the fruit that fell and wasted in its prime! - - Away with Action! ’tis the ban of Time, - The curse that clung to us from Eden’s gate; - We toil, and strain and tug from youth’s fair prime, - And drag a chain for years, a weary weight! - Away with Action and Laborious Life; - They were not made for man, - In Nature’s plan, - For man is made for quiet, not for strife. - The pearl is shaped serenely in its shell - In the still waters of the ocean deep; - The buried seed begins to pulp and swell - In Earth’s warm bosom in profoundest sleep; - And, sweeter far than all, the bridal rose - Flushes to fullness in a soft repose. - Let others gather honey in the world, - And hoard it in their cells until they die; - I am content in dreaminess to lie, - Sipping, in summer hours, - My wants from fading flowers, - An Epicurean till my wings are furled! - - What happy hours! what happy, happy days - I spent when I was young, a careless boy; - Oblivious of the world—its wo or joy— - I lived for song, and dreamed of budding bays! - I thought when I was dead, if not before— - (I hoped before!)—to have a noble name - To leave my eager foot-prints on the shore - And rear my statue in the halls of Fame!— - I pondered o’er the Poets dead of old, - Their memories living in the minds of men;— - I knew they were but men of mortal mould, - They won their crowns, and I might win again. - I drank delicious vintage from their pages, - Flasks of Parnassian nectar, stored for ages; - My soul was flushed within me, maddened, fired, - I leaped impassioned, like a seer inspired; - I lived, and would have died for Poesy, - In youth’s divine emotion— - A stream that sought its ocean; - A Time that longed to be - Engulfed, and swallowed in a calm Eternity! - - Had I a realm in some enchanted zone, - Some fadeless summer-land, I’d dwell alone, - Far from the little world, luxurious, free, - And woo the dainty damsel Poesy! - I’d loll on downy couches all the day, - And dream the heavy-wingéd hours away: - Reading my antique books, or framing songs, - Whose choiceness to an earlier age belongs, - Or else a loving maid, in gentle fear, - Would steal to me, from her pavilion near, - And kneel before me with a cup of wine, - Three centuries old, and I would sip and taste, - With long-delaying lips a draught divine; - And, peering o’er the brim in her blue eyes - Slow-misting, and voluptuous, she would rise, - And stoop to me, and I would clasp her waist, - And kiss her mouth, and shake her hanging curls— - And in her coy despite undo her zone of pearls! - - Oh, Poesy! my spirits crownéd queen, - I would that thou couldst in the flesh be seen - The shape of perfect loveliness thou art - Enshrined within the chambers of my heart! - I would build thee a palace, richer far - Than princely Aladeen’s renowned of old; - Its walls and columns of the massiest gold, - And every gem encrusting it a star! - Thy throne should be an Alp, o’ercanopied - With rainbows, and a shielded Moon o’erhead; - Thy coffers should o’erflow, and mock the Ind, - Whose boasted wealth would dwindle into naught - The rich-ored driftings of the streams of Thought - Washed lucidly from cloven peaks of Mind!— - And I would bring to thee the daintiest things - That grow beneath the summer of thy wings;— - Wine from the Grecian vineyards, pressed with care, - Brimming in cups antique, and goblets rare, - And sweeter honey than the singing bees - Of Helios ever gathered on the leas - Olympian, distilled from asphodels, - Whose lucent nectar truckles from their cells! - And luscious fruitage of enchanted trees, - The peerless apples of the Hesperides, - Stolen by Fancy from the guardant Fates, - Served, by a Nubian slave, on golden plates! - And I would hang around thee day and night, - Nor ever heed, or know the night from day; - If Time had wings, I should not see his flight, - Or feel his shadow in my sunny way! - Forgetful of the world, I’d stand apart, - And gaze on thee unseen, and touch my lute, - Sweet-voiced, a type and image of my heart, - Whose trembling chords will never more be mute; - And Joy and Grief would mingle in my theme, - A swan and shadow floating down a stream! - And when thou didst in soft disdain, or mirth, - Descend thy throne and walk the common earth, - I would, in brave array, precede thee round, - With pomp and pageantry and music sweet, - And spread my shining mantle on the ground, - For fear the dust should soil thy golden-sandaled feet! - - Away! away! the days are dim and cold, - The withered flowers are crumbling in the mould, - The Heaven is gray and blank, the Earth is drear, - And fallen leaves are heaped on Summer’s bier! - Sweet songs are out of place, however sweet, - When all things else are wrapt in funeral gloom, - True Poets never pipe to dancing feet, - But only elegies around a tomb! - Away with fancy now, the Year demands - A sterner chaplet, and a deeper lay, - A wreath of cypress woven with pious hands, - A dirge for its decay! - - * * * * * - - - - - LINES IN MEMORY OF MY LOST CHILD. - - - BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE. - - - My child! my dear, lost child! a father’s heart, - Touched by the holy wand of memory, - Would in this hour of loneliness and gloom, - When not a sound is borne upon the air, - And not a star is visible in heaven, - Hold sweet communion with thy soul. - My boy! - Thou wast most beautiful. I never looked - On thee but with a heart of pride. Thy curls - Fell o’er a brow of angel-loveliness, - And thy dark eyes, dark as the midnight cloud, - And soft as twilight waters, flashed and glowed - In strange, wild beauty, yet thy tears were far - More frequent than thy smiles—thy wail of pain - Came oftener on our hearts than thy dear cry - Of infant joyousness. Thy few brief months - Were months of suffering; ay, thy cup of life - Was bitter, bitter, but thou wast not doomed - To drain it, for a God of mercy soon - Let it pass from thee. - Oh! how well, my child, - Do I remember that all mournful day, - When thy young mother bore thy wasting form, - With breaking heart and streaming eyes, afar, - In the vain hope to save the dear young life - To which the tendrils of her own were bound. - With one wild pressure of thy little form - To my sad bosom, with a frantic kiss - Upon thy pallid lips, and a hot tear - Wrung from a burning brain, I said farewell— - Alas! my child, I never saw thee more. - In a strange land, far from thy own dear home, - But with the holy ministries of love - Around thy couch, thy little being passed, - Like the sweet perfume of a bright young rose, - To mingle with the skies from whence it came. - Oh! in that hour, my child, thy lost of earth, - Did not a thought of thy poor father’s love - Soften the anguish of thy parting soul, - And were not thy dear little arms outstretched - To meet his fond caress! - Thou sleepest, child, - Where the Missouri rolls its wild, dark waves, - And I have never gazed upon thy grave. - No tears of deep affection ever blend - With the soft dews and gentle rains that fall - Upon the turf that lies above thy breast; - But, oh! the spot is hallowed. There the Spring, - The bright Spring, yearly throws her loveliest wreaths - Of buds and blossoms—there, at morn and eve, - The viewless spirit of the zephyr breathes - Its holiest whispers in the springing grass - As if communing with thee—there the birds - Glance through the air like winged souls, and pour - Their sweet, unearthly melodies—and there - At the soft twilight hour young angels come - To hover o’er the spot on silver wings, - And mark it with their shining foot-prints. - Thou - Art gone, my child—a sweet and holy bud - Is shaken from the rose-tree of our hopes; - But yet we should not mourn. ’Tis joy to know - That thou hast gone in thy young innocence - And purity and beauty from a dark, - Ungentle world, where many snares beset - The path of manhood. Ay, ’tis joy to know - That the Eolian lyre of thy young soul - Gives out its music in the Eden clime, - Unvisited by earth’s cold, bitter winds, - Its poison-dews, its fogs, its winter rains, - Its tempests and its lightnings. - My sweet child, - Thou art no more a blossom of the earth, - But, oh! the thought of thee is yet a spell - On our sad spirits. ’Tis a lovely flower - On memory’s lonely stream, a holy star - In retrospection’s sky, a rainbow-gleam - Upon the tempest-clouds of life. Our hearts, - Our stricken hearts, lean to thee, love, and thus - They lean to heaven, for thou art there. Yes, thou - And thy young sister are in heaven, while we - Are lingering on the earth’s cold desert. Come, - Ye two sweet cherubs of God’s Paradise, - Who wander side by side, and hand in hand, - Among the Amaranthine flowers that bloom - Beside the living waters—come, oh come, - Sometimes upon your bright and snowy wings, - In the deep watches of the silent night, - And breathe into our souls the holy words - That ye have heard the angels speak in heaven. - - * * * * * - - - - - PEDRO DE PADILH. - - - BY J. M. LEGARE. - - - (_Continued from page 97._) - - Spain, and Tercera. } - AD. 1583. } - -If the weekly mails brought me the Spirit of the Times instead of the -Literary World, or in other words, I inclined to a sporting habit of -speech, I would “lay an even wager” that not one of Graham’s readers has -formed a correct idea of the personal appearance of Hilo de Ladron, from -the foregoing account of that unscrupulous young gentleman’s -proceedings. I say nothing of his morals, but refer merely to the -harmony between features and character which Nature tries hard, and -generally with success, to maintain, and which constitutes the main prop -of the science of physiognomy. But no lawgiver allows more frequent -exceptions to established rules than Nature; and thus, instead of being -slouchy and red-haired, or big-whiskered and ferocious, Señor de Ladron, -seated on the bows of one of De Chaste’s caravels, full sail for -Tercera, belied his ill-name by the delicate beauty of his face and -person. I use the word beauty, because his straight features, smooth -skin and well-shaped hands, were feminine properties not usually looked -for in male attire, and in company such as the owner was keeping. The -French men-at-arms were well enough, but I would not fancy sleeping a -night in the room with the thick-set Walloon standing next; people with -such faces, coarse, crafty about the eyes and treacherous at the -mouth—by the way, his laugh, always of an evil sort, was twofold, from -a seam in the upper lip reaching half-way up the cheek, and exposing the -teeth and gums at every contraction of the muscles thereabouts—should -be called by names to correspond, and this man’s, Wolfang, showed -remarkable foresight in his parents or sponsors. This face, which had -not its duplicate any where in ill-looks, would be recognizable as that -of an old acquaintance, if muffling, and false-hair and whiskers, -frequently changed while begging an alms of Doña Hermosa, had not -destroyed all identity with his natural features as now seen, for -Wolfang was one with the free-captain who lived at the expense of that -estimable if injudicious lady, until Don Peter turned him loose upon the -world again. It was reasonable, under the circumstances, he should bear -no great love for the truth-loving knight, and it was probably this -feeling in common, accidentally communicated, which had first drawn Hilo -and himself together. Don Hilo having inherited most of his father’s -hate to the latter’s half-brother; not that he could lay claim to much -personal cause for antipathy, having seen Sir Pedro but twice in his -life, and one of those when little more than an infant, but it came -quite easy to this chip-of-the-block to bear malice. With some grains of -redeeming quality, it must be allowed, for he was not wanting in that -sort of curious courtesy, common to all Spaniards I believe, which makes -taking off his hat with a _buènos nòches_ imperative on the very man who -carries his hand from his sombrero to his dagger, to plunge the last -under your shoulder blade the moment your back is turned. Friendship, in -its usual acceptation, had little to do with the league existing between -these worthies, and no small amount of self-interest must have been -requisite to keep two such sweet dispositions from open rupture; -however, they contrived to get along well enough, by each playing a part -designed to dupe the other, although, with less success perhaps than the -self esteem of each caused him to imagine. Capt. Carlo, ready, cunning -in counsel, and cringing like a tiger ready to seize his keeper’s hand -in his jaws, but fearing the short Roman sword in its clutch, followed -the guidance of his junior, half through a brute instinct of -inferiority, of which he himself was ignorant, and half for the -furtherance of certain plans of his own, which will appear at intervals -upon the surface of this narrative; but on the whole the pair were not -ill-matched, their main characteristics uniting harmoniously enough, by -a rule which more resembles dove-tailing in carpentry, than welding in -iron-work, the joint being tight and fast so long as force is applied in -one way, but easily dislocated by a lateral blow. Thus Wolfang scoffed -at every thing holy or otherwise, seldom neglected a chance of shedding -blood, when not withheld by manifest interest or personal risk; for the -fellow was a coward in the depth of his heart, just as any other savage -beast is, frightened by a parasol flirted in a child’s hand, but leaping -unhesitatingly upon an unwary man, and in his thirst for gain, played -any part however vile by which a _maravedi_ might be dishonestly got. -Don Hilo, to give the scapegrace his due, was murderous only in the heat -of passion, and somewhat overawed his profane comrade by the resolute -devotion he chose to entertain for certain saints in succession, it -being a freak of his to hold in disgrace or honor, as the case might be, -the celestial patron invoked prior to his last piece of rascality. -Moreover the lad had the indefinable sense of pride, much as he lacked -cause, which, I verily believe, constitutes the third element of Spanish -blood and gives a dignified fold even to the dirty serape of the Mexican -half-breed; and this pride kept his fingers from small pilferings if not -from wholesale swindling; a turn of virtue which must have afforded high -satisfaction to a certain alert fosterer of little errors, who has never -been slow to avail himself of the like since the time of Adam and Eden. -Even in general quickness of temper there was difference in kind, that -of Capt. Carlo settling commonly into a smouldering fire incapable of -being extinguished by any kindness whatever, and blown by the breath of -opportunity into an instant flame; while Hilo’s, on the contrary, more -dangerous and violent at its outbreak, was often succeeded by a reckless -sort of recompense for injury done, which showed the boy had something -of a soul left in his handsome carcase; but I am constrained to say as a -set-off to this tolerable trait, it was only when the hurt or insult was -avenged to his mind, a better spirit possessed him, for, if baffled at -first, the aggriever had need to do as Bruce did, lose his trail in a -running water. - -I like to gossip confidentially now and then about matters which -indirectly affect my characters, and so don’t mind mentioning a -circumstance or two occurring in the early acquaintance of Capt. Carlo -and Señor De Ladron, not noticed by historians of the time. The captain, -it seems, after relinquishing in a highly praiseworthy manner, his -annuity drawn from the unconscious countess, when no longer able to -retain it, betook himself to the capital, where, falling in with the -señor, the two soon came to understand each other’s projects, so far as -it was good for either to do. Hilo made no secret of his hate for Doña -Viola, whom he regarded as an incumbrance and interloper, but for whom -he would long since have received an estate of more doubloons’ worth -than he had ever possessed cobrès. The joint sagacity of the fathers and -their notaries having been exhausted in drawing up a contract so -stringent that nothing short of total forfeiture of the twin estates to -the benefit of one of the infant parties, could release the other. No -one knew what bond of union existed between the worse than dissolute -half-brother of Sir Pedro, and so honorable a knight as Inique, but the -contract stood fast on parchment, and the admirable wisdom of its -conditions was shown in due season, when Viola, living at ease in her -father’s house, grew up with a love amounting to mania for the handsome -cavalier she regarded as her rightful husband, and whose vices she knew -little of, until any thing like a just estimate of their enormity had -become impossible to her biased mind. On the other side, Hilo, cursing -in his heart Inique and his worthy father as founders of the scheme -which his magnificent pride prevented his profiting by, even with the -temptation of a twofold fortune attached, because it took the form of -compulsory action in an affair it suited his humor to decide for -himself, ransacked his brain to drive into outraged vindication of her -woman’s dignity the innocent girl who stood between him and his claim. -The poor little thing, without proper guidance or information in her own -concerns, surmised nothing of the true state of the case, but -affectionate and trustful to a fault, continued to love the young roué, -long after his dislike found stronger expression than in words, with a -docile patience and hopefulness for his reform, capable of touching any -heart less villainous at the core. For the girl was no fool, I would -have it clearly understood, weak as her affection for this Hilo might -argue her; error in judgment, to which we are all subject, not -necessarily indicating habitual silliness, least of all in one -circumstanced as Doña Viola. This helpless child our worthy pair found -it to their mutual interest to persecute, or fancied it so, and played -very readily into each other’s hands; for Capt. Carlo had got it into -his ugly head that such a prize (he was thinking of her money) was -fitter for a manly-looking fellow like himself, with a beard to rub a -soft cheek against, than for a stick of a lad whose weakly mustache -broke the back-bone of the oaths he swore through it. - -This was the wording of the meditation which occupied Don Wolfang’s -brain while on his way to make himself known to his intended wife; not -that Hilo would have refused his friend an introduction, he would have -been only too gratified to present a Hottentot, if by so doing he could -have caused her a pang of shame; but the captain, acting with unusual -caution, chose to be independent of his hot-headed associate, perhaps -fearing the latter might insist upon more than his legal share of the -spoils, or from a natural aversion to working, except in the dark. -Whatever his reasons, its cool impudence tempts me from my resolution of -only hinting at these villainies, to give some account of the -proceeding. - -One night the house of Doña Viola was attacked by a gang of robbers, -who, having no fear of police before their eyes in Philip the Second’s -time, seemed every moment on the point of breaking in. Within was -neither garrison nor protector worth the name, for the virtuous duenna, -who was the young lady’s present guardian and companion, only rocked -herself to and fro in a garment more snowy than becoming, and lamented -her hard (approaching) fate with such heartfelt _ay-de-mì’s_, that it -was evident nothing but the hope of ultimate rescue prevented her false -hair (in which, for better self-deception, she slept) being plucked out -by the roots. Moreover, the butler was busied in secreting the family -plate, and a few little properties of his own, and the men-servants, -with Spanish devotion, found occupation enough in quieting the maids and -supplicating the saints; no doubt they would have fought, too, the race -being noted for pluck—but there was no one to lead them on. At this -opportune moment, who should appear before the terror-stricken ladies -but Capt. Wolfang Carlo, all ruffles, ribbon-knots and rings, like a gay -cavalier returning from some late merry-making, flying sword-in-hand to -the rescue of besieged innocence. How he got in was a mystery; I suppose -by dint of valor, for, as the number of the assailants was diminished by -one on his entrance, it is more than likely one at least of the robbers -was run through the body by this paladin, and the breach the former made -turned to account by the latter. - -When the party outside had been routed, which was accomplished -immediately on the captain’s sallying forth at the head of the revived -household, - -“Sir,” said Doña Viola, to the disinterested hero who stood regarding -her with a smile, as one should say, “look at me! Danger cannot shake my -nerves: I am quite in my clement in it; it is just such a protector you -need,” but which reminded for all that of the supple waving of a cat’s -tail just before the animal springs. “Sir, if my father, Don Augustino, -were present, he would know better how to thank you than I.” - -“Oh,” interrupted her deliverer, with more truth than was common in his -speech, and bowing low, partly because he designed to be exceedingly -polite, and partly to hide his rectangular grin, “I am delighted to find -he is not, Doña Viola.” - -“I understand your noble motives, señor, and by your calling me by name, -you probably know Señor Inique also.” - -“Intimately,” said the unblushing vagabond; “we were comrades in arms -against the Moors in the last war; and but that my mother’s being a -Portuguese induces a reasonable distaste to waging war on one’s own -kindred, we would have been lying side by side in Portugal, at this very -hour. We disagree, perhaps, in this little matter, but there is no -ill-feeling between us; and you may imagine, señora, the haste I made to -snatch my distinguished friend’s daughter from such pressing danger.” - -“Señor,” cried the lady at this, simply, “the house and all it contains -is yours. (Capt. Carlo wished it was.) Command me; you have only to make -known your wishes.” - -Saying this, she left the room to order refreshments for her guest. Don -Wolfang, in high feather at his success, and looking upon a part of the -Doña’s property as his own in right of salvage, which saved any scruples -arising in his tender conscience, pocketed a few valuables lying about, -and assumed the bearing of a Rico, occupying four chairs with his burly -person, for the better, that is, more truthful enactment of the -character in hand. In which easy attitude he lolled until the tray, with -its choice eatables, arrived; and it was while on the point of putting -into his mouth a pâté-de-fois-gras (I use the word generally, as -designating something good; but did you ever hear Dr. C. talk of _real_ -pâtés) that— - -But what happened I must begin in a different manner to relate, or the -moral of this episode will be lost. - -I have said Doña Viola was no fool, and here I intend bringing forward -proof of my position. No one would have supposed any thing like nerve -existed in so delicate a creature, unless they had seen her descending -the stairs with a light in one hand, and a great sword, too stiff for -her to draw, in the other, to rally the servants, while that timid old -soul, her duenna, was creeping under the bed above as fast as a sudden -weakness in her ancient knees would allow. The girl was brimfull of -character, and made a worse impression on her first appearance, because -fevered and crushed in spirit by the final wickedness of her betrothed -husband, and its likely consequences; possibly the fever which afterward -brought her to death’s door, had begun to show itself already in -unnatural excitement of the brain, for it is not easy otherwise to -reconcile the crazy eagerness she showed with her usual modesty. - -But this is straying from the truffle-eating captain. Poor, simple, -lamb-like captain! what could have induced him to pull off his leathern -doublet and mask under the eyes of a girl not out of her teens, to be -sure, but whose Gallician blood was all afire while watching from a dark -window what was passing beneath. I am filled with pity and admiration -for Doña Viola, when I think how, with one protector leagues away in -Portugal, and the other up stairs, making her toilette to appear -becoming in the eyes of this prince who had come to their rescue, she -traversed the whole house, accompanied by a desperado whose only -restraint lay in the greatness of his hopes dependent in part on present -good conduct. She was a little fluttered, and ready to faint with fear, -as any other woman short of a novel heroine would have been, but for all -that she spoke so connectedly, and showed such faith in the captain’s -will and ability to protect her, that it never entered his slow, -Netherlandish brain, the figure before him was possessed of no more -vitality in itself than an electro-magnetized body, or that she had -noticed without start or scream his left, jetty whisker slip down far -enough to expose the scrubby red growth underneath. Still less did it -occur to him as a remote possibility, the idea of taking him, Captain -Wolfang Carlo, fairly in the trap, could be occupying her head at the -very moment he talked of “his dear friend, Don Augustino, her father;” -and when one servant went up with the tray, a second went out with a -summons to the Hermandad. - -So Capt. Carlo was on the point (as I have said) of putting a pâté into -his capacious mouth, when there came a rapping at the street-door, such -as only the Hermandad made, it being the custom of the holy brotherhood -to give due notice of their arrival on such occasions, lest one of -themselves should prove to be the culprit. The captain knew to a stroke -what mercy _he_ would be likely to receive if arrested, and alert enough -when danger pressed, clapped a couple of goblets in his pockets, and in -the same instant seized by the throat the tray-bearer, (who had his hand -already on the latch,) so that the poor simpleton had not breath enough -in his body to whisper, when his assailant threw him into the corner -limp as a bundle of rags. - -The former had not perambulated the house without using his eyes, and -knew the shortest way to the leads, where he dodged the Hermandad until -an opportunity presented itself for making good his descent, the citizen -police probably being not wide awake at two o’clock in the morning. - -That estimable youth, Hilo, was highly amused when the adventure reached -his ears, and in his customary reckless speech gave his Flemish -associate to understand he was not wise beyond his years, and had quite -overshot his aim by too much caution; nothing could have caused himself -more pleasure than to be rid of that (what I don’t choose to write in -Spanish or English,) who had cheated him out of his estate by her artful -behavior. And he would not mind settling a round sum out of the to be -recovered fortune on Wolfang, provided he could contrive to enter the -house a second time, without so much useless stir; but our prudent -friend had the Hermandad in too vivid remembrance, and excused himself, -suggesting, however, a scheme no less rascally, which all readers of -this true history know already to have been carried out to its full -extent. - -To return to the caravel; some one was talking of Neptune. - -“What a clatter about your Neptune,” cried a soldier, peevishly, “I wish -I’d never heard the name, and had stayed where I was. Here we are -pitched from one storm into another, and land just in sight. I’m sick of -it.” - -“La casa quemada, acudir con el agua!” put in Hilo, who was swinging his -legs over the bowsprit, and did not trouble himself to take his eyes -from the blue land ahead. - -“What does he say?” demanded the Frenchman, eagerly, looking -suspiciously about. - -“He says your house is burnt, and you run for the water,” exclaimed -Wolfang, with a short chuckle. - -“Ha!” retorted the other, setting down a steel cap he was polishing, to -gesticulate and call attention to Hilo with his forefinger. “Look here, -comrades, here’s a man to talk to another as if he had never made any -blunders he would like to take back. But this kind of talking behind -you, is the way with all these cowardly Spaniards.” - -Hilo turned his head just sufficiently to send a glance at the irascible -speaker from his wicked black eyes. “Take care!” it said. - -“Take care!” repeated the Netherlander, warningly, this time translating -the look. “You’re a born fool, Jean, to tempt the devil in him.” - -“Fool!” cried Jean. “Who meddled with him first? He kicked my casque out -of his way yesterday, and set me to work cleaning and straightening it -out this morning. As to running for water when it’s too late, he’ll -think so too some day when Señor Inique catches him, and he gets down on -his knees to beg for life, or the Marquis of Villenos’s friends corner -him. He needn’t think he’s thought less a villain by us Frenchmen than -by his own countryfolks.” - -Here the man-at-arms stopped to take breath and glower at Señor De -Ladron, who lifting in his feet, walked coolly over, opposite the first, -saying, with a smile on his face, “Come, come, there is no use in -comrades quarreling. Do you suppose I knew it was your casque? Give me -your hand, and let’s make it up.” - -The soldier looked down distrustfully at his slight enemy, but not being -able to make up his mind what to do at this unexpected proposal, -hesitatingly laid his broad palm in Hilo’s. - -“That’s as it should be,” said a shrunken little cannonier, perched on -his gun. “Hey! I remember how we shook hands all round at St. -German-en-Laye. You see, we had been fighting like mad at Montcontour, -and when one cools it isn’t pleasant to think you’ve knocked on the head -your old chum at bird-nesting, and the like, only because he differs -from you a little when grown up.” - -“So you fetch water!” interrupted Hilo, mockingly, half to the speaker -and half to Jean, whose fingers suddenly wrenched back forced him to -stamp and foam with rage and pain while struggling to loosen the iron -hold of the speaker. - -“Sacrè! Devil!” he stammered, “let go; my wrist is out of joint.” - -“It will be worse for you if you don’t recant,” muttered our Don, -speaking faster than before, and holding a dagger to the side of his -throat. - -“Stop!” cried two or three men-at-arms, springing up, “that is not fair -play. We are Frenchmen, not cut-throats, here.” Capt. Carlo merely -grinned in his usual agreeable fashion. - -“Don’t bite!” cried Hilo fiercely to his prisoner, drawing back his hand -to strike. And, perhaps, as that amiable young gentleman was in no wise -particular in such matters, and took no heed of the interruption, Hilo’s -hand might have been the last bit of flesh held between the Frenchman’s -teeth for evermore, (as the raven would say.) But the officer on duty -came down the deck at this crisis, demanding the cause of the -disturbance. - -“Ha! _you_, sir?” he cried, directly he caught sight of the chief actor, -as if he might have guessed as much. “I order you under arrest. Give up -your dagger.” - -Señor de Ladron faced his superior with an audacious smile, saying, “You -jest?” - -“Noose that rope,” ordered the lieutenant, purple with fury. “Close -around, men; we will hang up this mutineer without trial.” - -“’Pshaw!” answered our scapegrace, throwing his weapon overboard. “What -a stir about a trifle, Señor mine. Better do this than hang.” - -So Don Hilo de Ladron, when the island of Tercera lay close under the -bows of the fleet, sat in the hold with irons around his ankles, and -there probably would have remained, in obscurity, until the vessel -returned to France, had not his fast friend, the captain, contrived to -say a word or two to Commander De Chaste in person, while that brave -knight was reviewing his forces on shipboard preparatory to landing. - -“Who are you?” asked the commander, looking from a bit of paper he now -twisted between his fingers to the bearer. “I have seen your face -before.” - -“Your excellency must be mistaken,” returned the unblushing Wolfang, who -nevertheless remembered perfectly the gold piece the knight once put in -the mouth of a holy war soldier without arms or feet, if appearances -were true. - -“Well,” interrupted De Chaste, “this scrawl tells me your friend was not -materially to blame in the affair, his honor being concerned in -repelling the charges.” - -“True to a letter,” replied Wolfang, bowing low, as usual, to hide his -unprepossessing grin. “Besides, the officer on duty owed the poor young -gentleman a grudge.” - -“That has nothing to do with it, sir. A man’s honor is his best -possession, and needs unsleeping guardianship; but this taking its -vindication into his own hands, must not be allowed in the service. -However, the error is one on the side of right, and let him behave well -in the field and we will pass over his indiscretion. We want every brave -man we can get,” he added, turning to one of his officers. - -“But, M. de Commandant,” objected the gentleman addressed, “is it likely -a renegade like this fellow should prove a good soldier, or even be -really possessed of ordinary honor!” - -“How!” cried De Chaste, quickly. “I did not think the ranks of our -little army contained any such. Is he a Spaniard, M. de Haye?” - -“Yes, and guilty of every manner of crime.” - -“Ha! Well, he must remain as he is until we find time to look into his -case. How is it, Mr. What’s-your-name, Carlo, you suppressed his place -of birth?” - -“His mother was a French lady, Monseigneur, and fighting for one’s -mother country is as good, any day, as fighting for a father’s.” - -“True, in a measure, sir,” returned the knight. “What’s the prisoner’s -name?” - -“Hilo de Ladron.” This was said in no unusual tone, yet it seemed -singularly to catch the commander’s attention, for he eyed the speaker -keenly and then fell into a fit of musing, which lasted while he paced -the deck between the officers of his suite. “M. de Haye,” he said at -last, pausing before that officer and looking up, “you may be mistaken -in your charges. They are grave ones and should be advanced when they -can be examined at leisure, not at a hurried moment like this. I have -need of every man in our too feeble squadron, and will take it upon -myself to entrust the restoration of his character to M. de Ladron -himself for the present.” - -The gentleman addressed bowed, shrugged his shoulders, as well as a -Frenchman could in a steel cuirass, and there the matter dropped. - -Hilo laughed when the captain told him the favorable result of his -application, and professed equal curiosity as to the commander’s -motives—professions which honest Wolfang received as attempts to impose -on his credulity—(he was probably touchy on the subject since his -introduction to Doña Viola)—with less justice than usual, however, as -Hilo, for a wonder, was telling the truth. - -About this time the Sieur Cusson returned in his sloop from -reconnoitering the island, and his report being that the Spanish -squadron had not yet arrived, the little armament of De Chaste ran -gallantly into the harbor, and came to anchor amidst a great firing of -cannon and arquebuses from the Portuguese, who liked expending powder in -this way much better than in front of an enemy, and besides, had lived -in such daily dread of the descent of the Spanish fleet, that they could -not sufficiently viva their delight at finding out who the new comers -really were. The Viceroy, de Torrevedros, himself, came down to the -water side to receive the commander, and made such a brave appearance in -his embroidered surcoat and gilded harness, surrounded by other -cavaliers equally well dressed, that the Frenchmen, walking with -unsteady legs after their twenty-four days of stormy weather on -shipboard, and in shabby doublets, presented nothing very imposing in -their march through the streets. - -But if the Portuguese gentlemen, riding on either hand, could scarce -suppress their mirth at the ill looks of their allies, the ladies were -anxious to propitiate men who would prove their main defence, and threw -down showers of all sorts of gay flowers from the windows and balconies; -some of the young señoritas even meeting the procession at unexpected -corners, and flinging orange water into the knight’s face, who would -have been more gratified by the ablution (it being a hot June day) had -not the thought of his best ruff growing limper at each sprinkling -interfered with the enjoyment. - -“Better smell of gunpowder.” he said shortly, to a French gentleman from -the court, whose nose was audibly expressing its delight at the fine -perfume. - -But the satisfaction of the Portuguese was as nothing compared with the -joy of a few hundred Frenchmen, a remnant of the Strossy expedition of -the year before, who had lost all hope of ever leaving the Azores again, -and, having little money at the first, had been treated with any thing -but hospitality by their unwilling hosts. These poor fellows mixed with -the crowd in the streets, kept the commandant’s company in sight, and -running into the quarters assigned the latter, met them with such antics -and embraces as caused the Gallic army to suppose at first that they had -fallen into an ambuscade of madmen. Their two captains gave De Chaste a -full narration of their sufferings, which was impartial in the main, and -tended very little to elevate the Portuguese residents in the eyes of -their audience, whose fancy for that people was not great from the -beginning. - -“Sirs,” replied the commandant at the end, with his customary high-toned -suavity, looking around him, “we must only remember this is done at the -will of our queen, and act as loyal gentlemen should. For my part, I -will be content with brown bread and water and living in the open air, -as we are all accustomed to, to have the satisfaction of defeating the -landing of so good a soldier as the Marquis of Santa-Cruz, and to-morrow -I will examine in person the accessible points of the island, which are -only three in number.” - -“Three!” cried Capt. Baptista, an Italian, one of the Strossy fugitives, -“there are thirty! He must have been a rank liar, who told you so, M. le -Commandant.” - -“That can hardly be,” returned De Chaste, gravely, “for it was the king -of Portugal himself who gave the information.” - -“Oh, if it comes to that one had best bite his tongue,” grumbled the -Italian to De Haye, who stood next him. “But a parrot’s word is no -better than a magpie’s, and so our general will find out.” - - [_To be continued._ - - * * * * * - - - - - A VISIT TO STATEN ISLAND. - - - BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. - - -I have always had an especial fondness for islands. When, in earlier -days, Fancy fashioned some favorite abode, it was often in the -aspiration of Moore, “Oh! had we some green little Isle of our own!” I -am inclined to think there is something in Nature to sanction this -preference. Perhaps the safety of an insular situation from border -inroad, and the wild foray, might have given it pre-eminence in feudal -or barbarous times. A strange illusion seemed to linger around it, in -days of yore: “We, islanders,” said Camden, “are lunares—or the moon’s -men.” - -The tuneful king of Israel considered the praise of the Creator -incomplete, until “the multitude of the Isles,” should swell that -chorus. The islands are required to “keep silence,” when an eloquent -prophet was about to declare a message from Jehovah. The apostle, to -whom the dread future unveiled itself, “was in the island that is called -Patmos,” when he saw in a vision the “the heavens wrapped together like -a scroll, and the dead, small and great, stand before God.” - -Heathen mythology sang to her disciples of the “isles of the blessed.” -Classic Greece fixed the birth-place of her deity of the seven-stringed -lyre in wave-girdled Delphos, and bade her most beautiful goddess from -the foam of the sea. - -Modern Poetry has not forgotten to invoke the island-spirits. Shakspeare -lifts the magic wand of Prospero in a strange, wild isle, full of - - “Sweet sounds and airs that give delight, and hurt not.” - -He makes another less lofty character propose “to sow the kernels of a -broken islet in the sea, that they may bring forth more islands.” The -patriotism of Milton beheld in his own native clime, the chief favorite -of Neptune: - - “this isle, - The greatest and the best of all the main, - He quarters to his blue-haired deities.” - -The Bard of the Seasons still further glorified it, as the - - “Island of bliss amid the subject seas.” - -It is as easy as it would be tautological to multiply suffrages in -praise of insular regions. Still less necessary is it to bespeak popular -favor for the island that gives this sketch a subject and a name. - -The Dutch settlers of Staten Island seem to have regarded it with an -enthusiasm quite in contrast with their usual phlegmatic temperament. -Scarcely a century after its occupation by them, the patient and -true-hearted Huguenots came to solace the woes of their exile amid its -sheltering shades. The armies of Great Britain held it in possession -during the whole of our revolutionary contest; and even the indurating -influences of war did not render them insensible to its surpassing -loveliness. - -In later times, the States of New York and New Jersey have contended for -its jurisdiction with the warmth of lovers, and the jealousy of rivals. -The latter approaches with extended arms, as if to enfold it in an -earnest embrace, its bright shores curving closely around the coveted -treasure; but the Empire State, upon whose waters it reposes “as a star -on the breast of the billow,” has bound the gem to her bosom forever. - -Yet neither the taciturn Hollander, nor the mournful alien from France, -nor the warring Saxon, nor the native-born American, yearned over it -with such intense affection as the poor red man, its earliest lord. He -longed to rear his cone-roofed cabin upon its sunny slopes, and to sweep -with light canoe into its quiet coves, as his fathers had done of old. -Forced by his pale-faced and powerful brother to yield this dearest -birthright, he sold for as poor a compensation as the hunter-patriarch, -then repented, retracted, reclaimed, re-sold, contended, and vanished -like the smoke-wreath among the hills that he loved. Still, he cast the -Parthian arrow, and the forests where he lingered and lay in ambush were -crimsoned with blood. - -Still, his parting sigh, wreathed itself into a name of blessing. -“_Monocnong_,” or the Enchanted Woods, was the epithet he bestowed upon -his beloved and forsaken heritage. In the bitterness of parting, he said -that no noxious reptile had ever been found there, till the white man, -like a wily serpent, coiled himself amid its shades. - - MONOCNONG. - - Gem of the Bay! enchased in waves of light, - That ’neath the sunbeam rear a diamond crest, - But to the wrathful spirit of the night - Turn unsubdued, with thunder in their breast— - Fair Isle! where beauty lingereth as a dower - O’er rock and roof, and densely-wooded dell, - And in the bosom of the autumnal flower - Foiling the frost-king in its quiet cell, - The Indian hunter of the olden time - Saw thee with love, and on his wandering way - Staid the keen bow, at morning’s earliest prime, - A name of blessing on thy head to lay— - Baptism of tears! it liveth on thy shore, - Though he, the exiled one, returneth never more. - -The sail from the city of New York to Staten Island is delightful. The -bay sparkled in the broad sunbeam; six miles of diamonds set in -turquoise and amethyst. We land, and are borne rapidly along, amid -tasteful abodes imbosomed in trees and shrubbery, and adorned with -flowers. We pass also the Hospital, a spacious building, where many beds -and pillows spread in the open air for purification, denote that disease -and death have given a ghastly welcome to some mournful emigrants. Often -are we reminded, amid the most luxuriant scenery, that even “in the -garden there is a sepulchre.” - -New Brighton, as seen from the water, is like a cluster of palaces. -Large and well arranged boarding-houses furnish accommodations to -numerous strangers, who seek in summer the invigorating atmosphere of -this island. Among these, the Pavilion and Belmont are conspicuous. - -In descriptive writing, I had formerly a fastidious delicacy about using -the names of individuals. When in Europe, I was so fearful of drawing -the curtain from the sanctuary of the hearth-stone, as to fail in a free -tribute for the most liberal and changeless hospitality. Time, which is -wont to destroy undue sensibility on many subjects, has led me to deem -this an error. So I will here avoid it, and say with equal frankness and -gratitude that those who, like myself, are admitted as guests at the -elegant island-residence of George Griffin, Esq., and to share the -intellectual society of his warm-hearted and right-minded home-circle, -will never lose the pleasant memory of such a privilege. - -Among the fine views in this vicinity, that from the Telegraph Station -is especially magnificent. I shall not attempt to describe it, not being -willing to sustain or inflict the disappointment that must inevitably be -the result. Let all who have opportunity see it as often as possible. -They can never tire of it. Among the many interesting objects that there -rivet the gaze, there will often be descried passing through the -Narrows, that highway of nations, some white-winged wanderer of the -deep, voyaging to foreign shores. Within her how many hearts are faint -with the pangs of separation! How many buoyed up with the vain -fluttering of curiosity to visit stranger lands. Adventurous ones! ye -know not yet the extent of the penalty ye must pay for this shadowy -good. Tempests without, misgivings within, yearnings after your distant -dear ones, sickness—that shall make this “round world, and all it doth -inherit,” a blank, and a mockery—longings to set foot once more on -solid earth, which have no parallel, save the wail of the weaned child -for its mother. - -Many, and of almost endless variety, are the pleasant drives that will -solicit you. The Clove Road, the Quarantine, the lovely, secluded grove, -with the townships of Richmond, Stapleton, Castleton, Tompkinsville, -Clifton, etc. are among them. Seldom, in a circumference of a few miles, -are such contrasts of scenery displayed. At one point you fancy yourself -in the Isle of Wight, then you are reminded of the Vale of Tempo, and -the fabled gardens of the Hesperides. Fair, sunny lawns—deep, solemn -forests, the resounding wheels of mechanical industry, alternate like a -dream, with clusters of humble cottages, the heavy ricks of the -agriculturist, and rude, gray rocks, from whose solitary heights, you -talk only with Ocean, while he answers in thunder. - -In our exploring excursions, we often admired, amid its fringed margin -of trees, a circular expanse of water, from whence ice is obtained for -the use of the residents, and which bears the appellation of - - SYLVAN LAKE. - - Imbosomed deep in cedars, lonely lake! - Thy solemn neighbors that in silence dwell, - Save when to searching winds they answer make, - Then closer scan thee, in thy guarded cell, - No rippling keel hath vexed thee from thy birth, - No fisher’s net thy cloistered musing broke, - Nor aught that holds communion with the earth - Thy sky-wrapt spirit to emotion woke, - For thou from man wert fain to hide away, - Nursing a vestal purity of thought, - And only when stern Winter’s tyrant sway - A seal of terror on thy heart had wrought, - Gave him one icy gift, then turned away, - Unto the pure-eyed heavens, in penitence to pray. - -There are several pleasantly situated churches on Staten Island. The -small one at Clifton, with its dark grained arches of oak, strongly -resembles those of the mother land. An ancient, low-browed one, at -Richmond, was built and endowed by Queen Anne, in 1714. Around it sleep -the dead, with their simple memorials. The sacred music that varied the -worship, was sweet and touching, and conducted almost entirely by the -seven daughters of its worthy and venerable clergyman, Dr. David Moore, -a son of the former bishop of Virginia. He has also charge of another -church, at Port Richmond. There we attended divine worship, one -cloudless autumnal Sunday, not deeming the distance of thirteen miles, -going and returning, as any obstacle. It was a simple edifice, on a -green slope, that stretched downward to meet the sea. In his discourse, -the white-haired pastor reminded his flock that for twice twenty years -he had urged them to accept the invitations of the gospel, on that very -spot, where the voice of his sainted father had been also uplifted, -beseeching them to be reconciled to God. Earnest zeal gave eloquence to -his words; and when they ceased, the solemn organ did its best to uplift -the listening soul in praise. - -At the close of the service many lingered in the church-yard, to -exchange kind greetings with their revered guide. Old and young pressed -near to take his hand, while with affectionate cordiality he asked of -their welfare, as a father among his children. It was patriarchal and -beautiful. Religion in its pageantry and pomp hath nothing like it. - -A boat, with its flashing oars, bore a portion of the worshipers to -their homes on the opposite shore. But on the rocks beneath us sat some -listless fishermen, idling away the hours of the consecrated day. Ah! -have ye not missed salvation’s priceless pearl? The wondrous glory of -the setting sun, as we pursued our homeward way, and the tranquil -meditations arising from the simplicity of devotion, made this a Sabbath -to be much remembered. - -We were interested more than once in attending divine service in the -chapel of the Sailor’s Snug Harbor—a noble building, the gift of -private munificence, where the bronzed features and neat, tranquil -appearance of these favored sons of the sea, spoke at once of past -hardships upon the briny wave and of the unbroken comfort of their -present state of repose. - -The cliffs and vales of this enchanted island are crowned with the -elegant mansions of the merchant princes. Among them are those of the -brothers Nesmyth, Mr. Anthon, Mr. Aspinwall, Mr. Morgan, and others, -that I greatly admired, without knowing the names of their occupants. -That of Mr. Comstock exhibits a model of perfect taste. All the -appointments within—the pictures, vases, and furniture of white and -gold, bespeak Parisian elegance, while the grounds and conservatory are -attractive; and in the centre of a rich area of turf, a dial points out -the hours to which beauty and fragrance give wings. - -The residence of Mr. Jones, at “The Cedars,” has a very extensive -prospect, and is embellished by highly cultivated gardens of several -acres, loaded with fruits and flowers; and also, by an interesting -apiary, aviary, and poultry establishment, where hundreds of domestic -fowls, of the finest varieties, revel in prosperity. - -The habitation of George Griswold, Esq. is princely, and of a truly -magnificent location. While in an unfinished state, the prospect from -the windows excited the following effusion: - - GRISWOLD HILL. - - Earth, sea and sky, in richest robes arrayed, - Wide spreads the glorious panorama round, - Charming the gazer’s eye. O’er wind-swept height, - Villa, and spire, and ocean’s glorious blue - Floats the mild, westering sun. Fast by our side - Frowns Fort Knyphausen, whence, in olden time, - The whiskered Hessian, bought with British gold, - Aimed at my country’s heart. Wild cedars wrap - Its ruined base, stretching their arras dark - O’er mound and mouldering bastion. - With what grace - New Jersey’s shores expand. Hillock and grove, - Hamlet and town, and lithe promontory, - Engird this islet, as a mother clasps - Some beauteous daughter. Still, opposing straits, - With their strong line of indentations, mar - The entire embrace. - Broad spreads the billowy bay, - Forever peopled by the gliding sail, - From the slight speck where the rude fisher toils, - To forms that, like a mountain, tread the wave, - Or those that, moved by latent fires, compel - The awe-struck flood. - Lo! from his northern home, - The bold, unswerving Hudson. He hath burst - The barrier of his palisades, to look - On this strange scene of beauty, and to swell - With lordly tribute what he scans with pride. - Behold the peerless city, lifting high - Its hallowed spires, and fringed with bristling masts, - In whose strong breast beat half a million hearts, - Instinct with hurrying life. The gray-haired sires - Remember well, how the dank waters crept - Where now, in queenly pomp, her court she holds. - Next gleams that Isle, whose long-drawn line of coast - Is loved by Ceres. On its western heights - Towereth a busy mart, and ’neath its wing, - One, whose pure domes are wrapped in sacred shade, - Silent, yet populous. Through its still gates - Pass on the unreturning denizens. - Oh, Greenwood! loveliest spot for last repose, - When the stern pilgrimage of life is o’er, - Even thy dim outline through the haze is dear. - Onward, by Coney Island’s silvery reef, - To where, between its lowly valves of sand, - Opes the Highway of Nations. Through it flows - The commerce of the world. The Mother Realm - Sends on its tides her countless embassies; - Bright France invokes the potency of steam - To wing her message; from his ice-clad pines - The Scandinavian, the grave, turbaned Turk, - The Greek mercurial, even the hermit-sons - Of sage Confucius, like the sea-bird, spread - Fleet pinions toward this city of the west, - That like a money-changer for the earth - Sits ’neath her temple-dome. - Yon ocean-gate, - With telegraphic touch, doth chronicle - The rushing tide of sea-worn emigrants, - Who reach the land that gives the stranger bread, - Perchance a grave. And he who ventureth forth, - The willing prisoner of some white-winged ship, - To seek Hygeia o’er the wave, or test - What spells do linger round those classic climes - That woke his boyhood’s dream, fails not his heart - As the blest hills of Neversink withdraw - Their misty guardianship? - Speech may not tell— - For well I know its poverty to paint - The rapture, when the homeward glance descries, - That native land, whose countless novelties, - And forms of unimagined life, eclipse - The worn-out wonders of an Older World, - That, with its ghostly finger, only points - To things that were. - Oh! great and solemn Deep, - Profound magician of the musing thought, - Release my strain, that to the beauteous Isle - Which hath so long enchained me, thanks may flow, - Warm, though inadequate. - The changeful hand - Of Autumn sheds o’er forest, copse, and grove, - In gorgeous hues, the symbol of decay; - But here and there some fondly lingering flower, - Sweet resonance of Summer, cheers the rocks - Where warm suns latest smile. - Oh, fairest Isle! - I grieve to say farewell. Still for the sake - Of those I love, and for the memories dear, - And sacred hospitalities that cling - Around the mansion, whence my steps depart, - Peace be within the palace-domes that crest - Thy sea-girt hills, and ’neath the cottage roofs - That nestle ’mid thy dells. For when I dream - Of some blest Eden that survived the fall, - That dream shall be of thee. - - * * * * * - - - - - EVENING. - - - Shades of Evening! ye remind me - Of my own declining sun, - And of scenes I’ll leave behind me - When my sands of life are run! - - Should that change come ere to-morrow, - Grant that I may sink to rest, - And from Virtue’s glory borrow - Hues to make my Evening blest. - J. HUNT, JR. - - * * * * * - - - - - WOODLAWN: - - - OR THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MEDAL. - - - BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF A “MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE,” ETC. - - - ’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view. - Campbell. - -“What are you thinking of so intently, Annie?” asked Kate Leslie, of her -cousin. “You have not spoken for the last half hour.” - -Annie roused herself and answered with a smile, “Only of last night’s -Opera. Nothing very important, you see.” - -“And what of the Opera?” pursued Kate. “Come, I should like to hear a -genuine, unsophisticated opinion of our most fashionable city -amusement.” - -“I was thinking less of the music, Kate!” returned Annie, “than of the -audience.” - -“And of the audience?” persisted Kate. - -“Well, Kate, if you will have it, I was only thinking how happy and gay -they all looked. What a different world it was from any I had ever seen -before; and thinking what a difference of fate there was between those -elegant-looking girls who sat opposite, and myself.” - -“Ah! the Hautons, they are fortune’s favorites indeed. They have every -thing, fortune, family, fashion—and elegant, high-bred looking things -they are. They called yesterday and left a card for you; but Mrs. Hauton -told mamma last night that they were moving out to Woodlawn, and hoped -we would return the visit there. I should like it of all things, for the -place is magnificent, and I am told they entertain delightfully. We have -always visited in the city, but have never before been invited out of -town. As soon as Mrs. Hauton is settled there, I presume we shall hear -from her. Fanny Elliot spent a week with them last summer, and she said -it was a continued round of dinner and evening-parties all the time. -Beside invited guests, they have always preparations made for unexpected -company. The table is laid every day as for a dinner-party, with silver, -and I don’t know how many men in attendance. And then they have a -billiard-room and library, and green-house and horses—and all in the -handsomest style.” - -“And an opera-box in town,” said Annie, with something that approached a -sigh. - -“Oh, yes, an opera-box, and every thing else you can think of. They live -in the city in the winter, and their parties are always the most elegant -of the season. The girls dress exquisitely, too. They import most of -their things; and, in short, I don’t know any one I’d rather be than one -of those Hautons.” - -Annie, who lived in the quiet little village of C——, where her father, -the principal lawyer in the place, could just manage to maintain his -family in a plain, comfortable, but rather homespun way, was rather -dazzled by this picture of the Hautons; and her heart quite died within -her at the idea of paying a visit among such grand people. She looked -upon Kate’s fearlessness on the subject with some surprise. But then -Kate, she remembered, was “used to such people.” But how should she, a -little village-girl, appear among these fashionables. Then her dress, -(that first thought among women,) she almost hoped Mrs. Hauton would -forget to follow up her invitation. - -A few days after, however, Kate entered the room, saying, “Here is a -note from Mrs. Hauton, Annie, as I expected. She wishes us to pass a few -days at Woodlawn. Mamma desired me to show it to you before she answered -it. So what do you say?” - -“Just what you do, of course,” replied Annie. “They are almost strangers -to me, you know; so you must decide for us both. I am ready to accept or -refuse—” - -“Oh, my dear,” interrupted Kate, quickly, “I would not have you refuse -on any account. I am particularly glad, for your sake, that the -invitation should have come while you are with us. Indeed, Annie, I -consider you quite in luck that we are asked just at this time.” - -“How long are we to stay?” inquired Annie. - -“We are invited from Monday to Wednesday, in English style,” replied -Kate, “which I like. Of all things I hate that indefinite period of ‘as -long as you find it agreeable,’ when half your time is spent in trying -to find out how long you are expected to remain, and your hostess is -equally occupied in endeavoring to ascertain when you mean to go.” - -Annie’s eyes dilated with surprise at this definition of city -hospitality, which sounded to her fresh country ears and primitive ideas -as somewhat remarkable, but concluding that her cousin was in jest, she -smiled as she said, - -“Is it usual to fix a time for your friends’ departure as it is for -their coming, Kate?” - -“No,” answered Kate. “I wish it were. It would not, then, be such a -formidable matter to ask them.” - -“Are you in earnest?” asked Annie, looking up surprised. - -“To be sure I am,” replied Kate. “You don’t know what a bore it is to -have a place near the city, Annie, and to have people coming forever, -without an idea when they are going.” - -“Then why do you ask them at all, if you don’t want them?” inquired -Annie. - -“Oh, because you _must_,” said Kate. “Some expect it, to others you owe -civilities; and its all very well if the time of their going was only -fixed. Two or three days for people you don’t care for, and who don’t -care for you, is long enough.” - -“Plenty, I should think,” answered Annie, emphatically. “And I should -not think, Kate, there was any danger of guests under such circumstances -remaining longer.” - -“Much you know of it, my dear!” said Kate, in a droll tone of despair. -“The less you care for them, and the greater the bores, the longer they -stay. But papa and mamma have such old-fashioned notions of hospitality, -that they wont adopt this new style of naming the days of the -invitation. The Hautons understand the matter better.” - -“Come, Annie,” said Kate, the next day, “as we are to breakfast at -Woodlawn, we shall have no time to do any thing in the morning, so we -may as well pack our trunk now. I suppose you’ll ride out in your gray -barège,” she continued, as she opened the wardrobe to take down some of -her own and her cousin’s dresses. - -Now as this gray barège was one of Annie’s two best dresses, and which -she was accustomed to think quite full dress, she hesitated, and said, -with some surprise, - -“My gray barège for the morning?” - -“Yes, it will do very well,” continued Kate, supposing her hesitation -proceeded from diffidence as to its being too plain. “The simpler a -breakfast-dress the better; and gray is always a good _unnoticeable_ -color.” - -Annie almost gasped. If she was to begin with her barège for breakfast, -what should she do for dinner. But Kate proceeded with, - -“Take the sleeves out of your book-muslin, Annie, and that will do for -dinner. You are always safe in white, and I suppose they will supply us -with Camelias from the green-house for our heads.” - -“Book-muslins, short sleeves, and Camelia’s for dinner.” Annie’s heart -beat high between expectation and fear. She almost wished the visit -over, and yet would not have given it up for the world. - -Monday morning arrived, and an hour’s drive brought them to Woodlawn. -And as they drove up through the beautiful avenues of elms, and stopped -before a very large, handsome house, which commanded a beautiful lawn, -Annie felt that the place quite equalled her expectations. - -Mrs. Hauton received them with great politeness, made a slight apology -for her “lazy girls,” who were not yet down, and showed them into the -breakfast-room before the young ladies made their appearance. - -They came gliding in presently, looking very elegant and high-bred, -dressed in the finest white lawn negligées, with the prettiest little -thread-lace caps on their heads; their whole toilet exquisitely fine, -simple, and _recherché_, so that poor Annie felt at once the value and -consolation of the expression, “_unnoticeable_,” that Kate had applied -to her barège, and which had rather astonished her at the time. - -They did not seem to feel called upon to apologize for their not being -ready to receive their guests, but only found it “very warm,” asked at -what time they left the city, and were quite shocked at the early hour -they mentioned, and thought it “must have been very disagreeable,” and -it was evident from their manner that they would not have risen so early -to come and see them. - -The conversation became general, if that can be called conversation -which consisted of some remarks upon the long-continued drought from -Mrs. Hauton, with rejoinders as to the heat and dust of the city, from -Mrs. Leslie. Mr. Leslie inquired something about the state of the crops -of Mr. Hauton, and Mr. Hauton asked a question or two about the new -rail-road. The young ladies kept up a little scattering small-talk, -consisting chiefly of questions as to who had left town, and who -remained yet in the city, and where the Leslies were going, etc., all of -which Annie would have thought very dull, if she had not been too much -oppressed by the novelty and elegance of every thing around her to dare -to think at all. - -After breakfast a walk was proposed through the garden, and Mrs. Hauton, -with Mrs. Leslie, walking on before, the young ladies followed. Mrs. -Hauton commenced a long story about her head gardener, who had behaved, -she said, “very ungratefully in leaving her for a place where he could -get higher wages, when she had dismissed the man she had, to take him, -because he had offered to come on lower terms, and after she had kept -him for a year, he had now left her, for the very wages she had given -her first man; but they are all so mercenary,” she concluded with -saying. - -Annie could not help thinking that if a rich woman like Mrs. Hauton -thought so much of additional wages, it was not surprising that her -gardener, who probably had a family depending on him, did not value them -less; nor did she see the call upon his gratitude for having been -engaged at less than his worth. - -Then Mrs. Hauton proceeded to tell Mrs. Leslie how many men they kept at -work on the place, and how much they gave them a day, and at what an -enormous cost they kept up the green-house, which “was, after all, of no -use to them, as they spent their winters in the city, and the girls had -more bouquets sent to them than they wanted.” And then followed her -complaints of the grapery, which were equally pathetic, and all was -excessively pompous and prosy. - -Annie was in admiration of her aunt’s good breeding, which supplied her -with patience and attention, and suitable rejoinders to all Mrs. -Hauton’s enumeration of the calls on her purse, and the plagues of her -wealth. Indeed, Annie began rather to doubt whether her aunt could be as -tired as she at first thought she must be, she kept up the conversation -with so little appearance of effort. She did not herself listen to the -half of it, but whenever she did, she always found it was some long -story about the dairy-woman, who would do what she should not, or the -price of the luxuries by which they were surrounded, which Mrs. Hauton -seemed to think a great imposition that they could not have for nothing. - -Meantime the Miss Hautons kept up a languid complaint of the heat, and -asked Kate if she did not find it “horrid.” And when Annie stopped to -look at some beautiful and rare flowers, and asked their name, they -replied they did not know, “the gardener could tell her,” and seemed -rather annoyed at her stopping in the sun to look at them, and wondered -at her curiosity about any thing so uninteresting. Annie was something -of a botanist, and would gladly have lingered over other plants that -were new to her, for the garden was under the highest cultivation; but -she saw that it was an interruption to the rest of the party, and they -sauntered on. - -She could not help, however, pausing again with an exclamation of -delight before a moss rose-tree in full bearing, when Miss Hauton said, -somewhat sarcastically, - -“You are quite an enthusiast in flowers, Miss Cameron.” - -“I am very fond of them,” replied Annie, coloring at the tone in which -the remark was made; “Are not you?” - -“No,” replied the young lady, carelessly, “I don’t care for them at all. -I like a bouquet well enough in the winter. It finishes one’s dress, but -I don’t see the use of them at all in summer.” - -“Oh, I hate them,” added her sister, almost pettishly. “They are such a -plague. People who come out are always wanting some; and then the -gardener is to be sent for, and he always grumbles at cutting them, and -half the time he has not cord to tie them up, and papa sends me to the -house for some. If I had a place, I would not have a flower on it; but -mamma says the gardener has not any thing to do but to attend to the -garden, so she will have flowers.” - -“Why, certainly, my dear,” said Mrs. Hauton, who caught this last -remark, “what should we pay Ralston such wages to do nothing. He gets -his money easy enough now. If he had merely the green-house to take care -of, I think it would be too bad.” - -So flowers were cultivated, it seemed, chiefly that the gardener might -not gain his living without “the sweat of his brow.” - -As they came within sight of the river, to which the lawn sloped, Annie -proposed that they should walk down to it; but the young ladies assured -her at once that she would find it “very disagreeable;” and asking if -they were not tired, turned their footsteps toward the house. - -They returned to the drawing-room, and after a little dawdling -conversation, Miss Hauton took down her embroidery frame, and began to -sort worsteds, while Miss Fanny produced a purse and gold beads, of -which she offered to show Kate the stitch. - -Kate congratulated herself in the depths of her heart, that she had had -foresight to arm herself with some needles and silk, and felt equal to -all the emergencies of the morning; but poor Annie, one of whose -accomplishments had not been to spend money and waste time in fancy -work, could only offer to assist Miss Hauton in winding worsteds, by way -of doing something. - -Fortunately for Mrs. Leslie, Mrs. Hauton’s stream of talk was unceasing. -She told innumerable and interminable stories (at least so they seemed -to Annie) of the impositions of poor people; was very indignant at the -sums they were called upon to give, and highly excited at the prices -which were demanded of them, and which she thought people in more -moderate circumstance were not asked. But more indignant yet was she -when, on some occasions, they had not been treated with more prompt -attention, and had superior comforts to others who were not as rich as -themselves. She only, it seemed, expected to be put on a level with -poorer people when the paying was in question. She evidently had an idea -that the knowledge of her wealth was to procure her civilities which she -was very angry at being called upon to pay for. - -Annie thought it the longest morning she had ever passed; and when the -servants announced the luncheon, she awoke as from a nightmare. - -Gathering round the table, everybody ate, not from appetite, but ennui. -Mrs. Hauton continued her stream of talk, (for, apparently, she had no -sense of fatigue,) which now turned upon the hot-house and the price of -her forced fruits. - -Another hour passed in the drawing-room, in the same way, and Annie -happening to be near a table, on which lay some books, took up a new -review in which she was soon absorbed. After reading a few pages she -(being the first person who had looked into it) was obliged to cut the -leaves, when she heard Miss Hauton say, in the same scornful tone in -which she had pronounced her an enthusiast in flowers, - -“Miss Cameron is literary, I see;” and Annie, coloring, again dropped -the book, and returned to her wearisome place on the sofa. - -Kate found to her great delight that company was expected to dinner, and -when the preparation-bell rang, the girls, almost in a state of -exhaustion, retired to dress. - -“Kate,” exclaimed Annie, “I am almost dead. I don’t know what has tired -me so, but I feel as if I had been in an exhausted receiver.” - -Kate laughed. - -“You should have brought some work with you, Annie. If you had only been -counting stitches, as I have been, you don’t know what a support it -would have been to you under Mrs. Hauton’s talk. She is intolerable if -you listen to her—but that I did not do. However, take courage. The -Langtrees and Constants, and Merediths, are coming to dinner. Here, let -me put this wreath of honeysuckle in your hair. There, it’s very -becoming; only, Annie, you must not look so tired,” she continued, -laughing, “or I am afraid you’ll make no conquests. And Constant and -Meredith are coming with their sisters.” - -After half an hour’s free and unconstrained chat, and conscious of a -pretty and becoming toilet, refreshed and invigorated for a new attempt -in society, Annie accompanied her aunt and cousin again to the -drawing-room. - -The new comers had arrived; a stylish-looking set—the girls in full -dress, the young men so whiskered and mustachioed that Annie was -surprised to hear them speak English. They were received with great -animation by the Hautons, who seemed to belong to that class of young -ladies who never thoroughly wake but at the approach of a gentleman. - -The young men glanced slightly at Annie, and Mr. Meredith even gave her -a second look. He thought her decidedly pretty, and a “new face,” which -was something; but after a remark or two, finding she “knew nobody,” and -did not belong to the clique, the trouble of finding topics of mutual -interest seemed greater than he thought her worth, and so he turned to -Miss Hauton; and Annie soon found herself dropped from a conversation -that consisted entirely of personal gossip. - -“So, the wedding has come off at last,” said Susan Hauton to Mr. -Constant. “I hope the Gores are satisfied now. Were you there? How did -Mr. Langley look?” - -“Resigned,” replied the young man, slightly shrugging his shoulders. - -Susan laughed, though at what Annie could not very well perceive, and -continued with, - -“And the bride—how did she look?” - -“As brides always do—charmingly, of course,” he replied, languidly. -“You ladies, with your veils, and flowers, and flounces, may set nature -herself at defiance, and dare her to recognize you such as she made -you.” - -“If Fanny Gore looked charming,” said Ellen Hauton, sarcastically, “I -think it might have puzzled more than dame Nature to recognize her. I -doubt whether Mr. Langley would have known her under such a new aspect.” - -“I think we may give him credit for differing from others on that -point,” said Kate. “A woman has a right to be thought pretty once in her -life, and Cupid’s blind, fortunately.” - -“Cupid may be, but Mr. Langley is not,” replied Miss Hauton, in the same -careless, sneering tone. “It’s a shameful take in.” - -“A take in!” repeated Kate, with surprise. - -“Yes, certainly,” replied Miss Hauton. “He did not want to marry her.” - -“Then why did he?” asked Kate. “He was surely a free agent.” - -“No, he was not,” persisted Miss Susan. “The Gores would have him; they -followed him up, and never let him alone until they got him.” - -“Do you believe,” returned Kate, with some spirit, “that any man is to -be made to marry against his will? There’s no force can do it.” - -“But the force of flattery,” said young Meredith; “is a very powerful -agent, Miss Leslie.” - -“Then,” said Kate, laughing, “every match is a ‘take in,’ on that -ground. Is not every bride flattered till she feels as if she had -entered a new state of being? Is not every girl turned, for the time -being, into a beauty? Do you suppose any body ever yet fell in love on -the truth?” - -“No, indeed,” replied the gentleman. “Truth’s kept where she should be, -at the ‘bottom of a well.’ A most ill-bred personage, not fit for ‘good -society,’ certainly.” - -Then the conversation branched off to other matches, and to Annie’s -surprise she heard these high-bred, delicate looking girls, talk of -their friends making “dead sets” and “catches,” and of young men being -“taken in,” in a style that struck her as decidedly vulgar. Kate, to -turn the subject, asked Mr. Constant if he had been to the opera the -night before. - -“I looked in,” he replied. “Vita was screaming away as usual.” - -“Oh, is not she horrid?” exclaimed Miss Hauton. - -“The opera’s a bore,” pursued her sister. “Caradori’s detestable and -Vita a horror. I hope they’ll get a new troupe next winter. I am sick of -this set.” - -“I thought you were fond of the opera,” remarked Kate. “You are there -always.” - -“Yes; we have a box, and one must go somewhere; but I was tired to death -before the season was half over. Here, Mr. Meredith, hold this silk for -me,” she continued, calling to the young gentleman, who was looking out -of the window, meditating the possibility of making his escape to the -refreshment of a cigar. - -“That’s right, make him useful, Miss Hauton,” said Mr. Constant, as the -reluctant Meredith declared himself most happy and honored in being so -employed; but he set his back teeth firmly, and with difficulty -suppressed a yawn, which was evident in spite of his efforts to conquer -it. Miss Hauton’s animation, however, was more than a match for his -indifference. He was not to be let off. Young ladies, and high-bred ones -too, will sometimes pin young gentlemen, whether or no. It’s bad policy; -for Annie heard him say, as he afterward escaped and walked off the -piazza with his friend, and a cigar in his mouth, - -“What bores these girls are, with their confounded worsteds and -nonsense.” - -The evening passed in pretty much the same way. Much gossip, varied with -some very bad music, for Miss Hauton sang, and, like most amateurs, -would undertake more than she could execute. Annie thought of the -“screamer Vita” and that “horrid Caradori,” and wondered that ears that -were so delicate, so alive to the smallest fault in the music of others, -should have so little perception of their own sins of commission. - -“Oh,” said Kate, as they retired to their room at night, “did not the -Hauton’s ‘Casta Diva’ set your teeth on edge? Such an absurdity, for a -girl like her to attempt what few professional persons can sing. You -look tired to death, Annie, and no wonder, for, between you and I, these -Hautons are very common girls. Strange! I’ve known them for years, and -yet never knew them before. Dress and distance make such a difference.” - -“They seem to have so little enjoyment in anything,” remarked Annie. -“Every thing seems, in their phrase, ‘a bore.’ Now, to us in the -country, every thing is a pleasure. I suppose it is because we have so -little,” she continued, smiling, “that we must make the most of it.” - -“Well,” said Kate, doubtfully, as if the idea was quite new to her, “is -not that better than to be weary with much?” - -“And yet you would laugh at one of our little meetings,” replied Annie, -“where we talk of books, sing ballads, and sometimes dance after the -piano.” - -“That is primitive, to be sure,” said Kate, with something of contempt -in her heart for such gothic amusements. - -“It’s pleasant, at any rate,” thought Annie, as she laid her head on her -pillow and remembered, with infinite satisfaction, that she had only one -day more to stay among these very fine, very common people. - -“And is it possible,” she thought, “that I should be such a fool as to -envy them because they looked gay and graceful across the opera house? -And half of the rest of them are, doubtless, no better. Oh for one -pleasant, spirited talk with Allan Fitzhugh.” And then her mind traveled -off to home and a certain clever young lawyer, and she fell asleep -dreaming she was in C——, and was once again a _belle_, (as one always -is in one’s dreams,) and awoke to another dull day of neglect and -commonplaces, to return home more disenchanted of the gay world and its -glitter, more thoroughly contented than she ever would have been with -her own intelligent and animated home, had she not passed three days at -Woodlawn, amid the dullness of wealth, unembellished by true refinement -or enlightened by a ray of wit. - -But it was all right. To Annie had been given that which she most -appreciated; to the Hautons all that they were capable of enjoying. - -Would either party have changed? No. The pity was mutual, the contempt -was mutual, and the satisfaction of both sides as complete as ever falls -to the lot of mortals. Annie had seen the other side of the medal, and -the Hautons did not know there was another side to be seen. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE WASTED HEART. - - - BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH. - - - “The trees of the forest shall blossom again, - The song-bird shall warble its soul-thrilling strain, - But the heart Fate hath wasted no spring can restore, - And its song shall be joyful—no more, never more.” - - A blush was deepening through the folded leaves - Of that young, guileless heart, and far within - Upon the altar of her soul a flame - Like to an inspiration came; she _felt_ - That she had learned to love as e’en the heart - Of woman seldom loves. - She was an orphan child, and sorrow’s storm - With bitter breath had swept her gentle soul; - But that was past—and fresh in purity - It reveled in a blissful consciousness— - It _loved_, and _was beloved_. - - She _knew_ she loved—and when the twilight dim - Stole on with balmy silence, she would list - A coming step, whose music fall kept time - To all the hurried throbbings of her heart, - And when it stayed, a softened glance would seek - Her drooping eye, whose deepest faith had poured - Its dreamy worship forth so fearlessly; - Eyes that to him alone were _never_ silent, - Whose glances sometimes sought for his, and threw - Their light far through his spirit, till it thrilled - To music every tightened nerve that strung - The living lyre of being. - - At such an hour his burning passion slept - Before the portals of their azure heaven, - Like to some wandering angel who has sunk - To rest beside the glory-shadowed gate - Of a lost Paradise; and when he bowed - To press his lip upon the brow that lay - Soft pillowed on his bosom, she would start - Up from his half embrace, and then, to hide - Her sweet confusion, turn aside to part - With white and jeweled fingers, tremblingly, - The rich, dark masses of his waving hair. - Then joyous hopes came crowding brightly through - Their dreaming souls, as did the evening stars - Through the calm heaven above them, and the world - Of happiness that lay upon their hearts - Was silent all, for language had no words - To shadow forth the fond imaginings, - That made its very atmosphere a heaven - Of dreamy, rich, voluptuous purity. - An angel bowed before the mercy-seat - Trusts not more purely in the changeless One - To whom his prayer ascendeth, than did she - The proud, bright being whom her deathless love - Had made its idol-god—she could have laid - Her soft white hand in his without one thought - Except of love and trust, and bade him lead - Her to the end of life’s bewildered maze, - Blindfolded, while her heart on his would rest - Without one care for Time, one lonely fear - For that Eternity which mortals dread. - Such, then, is _woman’s love_—and wo to him - By whom her trusting nature is betrayed! - —— - A change—a fearful, sad and blighting change— - Came o’er them—how or why it matters not— - Enough to know it came—enough to _feel_ - That they shall meet as they have met, no more. - Of him we speak not—we but know he lives; - And she whose heart, whose very life was his, - Could tell you nothing more. - Lost—lost forever—and her life stood still, - And gazed upon the future’s cold gray heaven, - As if to catch one gleam of hope’s fair star— - No hope was there for her—the hand of God - Lay darkly in the cloud that shadowed it. - A _never-ending, living death_ was hers, - And one by one she saw her hopes expire, - But shed no tear, because the fount was dry; - Hers was a grief too strangely sad for tears. - You heard no shriek of anguish as the tide - Of cold and leaden loneliness swept in - Upon her gentle bosom, though the fall - Of earth upon the coffin of the loved - And lost was not more fearful. - She prayed for power to “_suffer and be still_.” - And God was merciful—it came at last, - As dreamless slumber to a heart that mourns. - She smoothed her brow above a burning brain, - Her eye was bright, and strangers never knew - That all its brilliancy and light was drawn - From out the funeral pyre of every hope - That in an earlier, happier hour had glowed - On passion’s hidden altar. Months rolled on, - And when the softened color came again - To cheek and lip, it was as palely bright - As though from out a sleeping rose’s heart - Its sweetest life had faded tranquilly. - She mingled with the world—its gay saloons - Gave back the echo of her joyous laugh; - Her ruby lip, wreathed with its winning smile, - Gently replied to gentler flatteries, - And when her soul flowed forth upon the waves - Of feeling in the charméd voice of song, - You would have deemed that gushing melody - The music of a purest, happiest heart, - So bird-like was its very joyousness. - And many envied that lone orphan girl - Her light and happy spirit—oh! it was - A bitter, burning mockery! when her life - Was one continued struggle with itself - To _seem_ what it could never _be_—to hide - Its gnawing vulture ’neath a sunny smile— - To crush the soul that panted to be free— - And force her gasping heart to drink again - The love that _fed upon itself_ and wore - Her inner life away! - They could not know her—could not understand - How one could live, and smile, and _still be cursed_, - Cursed with a “living judgment,” once to be - Beloved—and then to be beloved no more, - And _never to forget_. Her life was like - Some pictured lily which the artist’s hand - Gives its proportion—shades its virgin leaves - With nature’s beauty—but the bee can find - No banquet there—the breeze waft no perfume. - The shadows of the tomb have lengthened o’er - Her sky that blushes with the morn of life; - Far on the inner shrine of Memory’s fane, - Lie the cold ashes of her “wasted heart,” - By burning sighs that sweep the darkened soul, - By lava-drops wrung from a fevered brain, - Or e’en the breath of God to be rekindled - Never—no “_never more!_” - —— - And thus it is that _woman’s_ sacrifice - Upon the altar of existence is - (That pulse of life) her _warm_ and _loving heart_! - Far other tongues beside the poet’s lyre - There are to teach us that we often _do_ - But “let our young affections run to waste - And water but the desert”—that we make - An idol to ourselves—we bow before - Its worshiped altar-stone, and even while - Our incense-wreaths of adoration rise - It crumbles down before that breath, a mass - Of shining dust; we garner in our hearts - A stream of love undying, but to pour - Its freshness out at last upon a shrine - Of gilded clay! - Our barque floats proudly on— - The waves of Time may bear us calmly o’er - This life’s deep under-current—but the tones - Of love that woke the echoes of the Past - Are stilled, or only murmur mournfully, - “_No more—oh! never more!_” - And other hearts who bow before the shrine - Of young though shadowed beauty—can they know - What is the idol that they seek to win? - A _mind the monument_—a _form_ the _grave_— - Where sleep the ashes of a “_wasted heart_!” - - * * * * * - - - - - A HEALTH TO MY BROTHER. - - - BY R. PENN SMITH. - - - Fill the bowl to the brim, there’s no use in complaining; - We’ll drown the dark dream, while a care is remaining; - And though the sad tear may embitter the wine, - Drink half, never fear, the remainder is mine. - - True, others may drink in the lightness of soul, - But the pleasure I think is the tear in the bowl; - Then fill up the bowl with the roseate wine, - And the tears of my soul shall there mingle with thine. - - And that being done, we will quaff it, my brother; - Who drinks of the one should partake of the other. - Thy head is now gray, and I follow with pain.— - Pshaw! think of our day, and we’re children again. - - ’Tis folly to grieve that our life’s early vision - Shone but to deceive, and then flit in derision. - A fairy-like show, far too fragile to last; - As bright as the rain-bow, and fading as fast. - - ’Tis folly to mourn that our hearts’ foolish kindness - Received in return but deceit for their blindness; - And vain to regret that false friends have all flown; - Since fortune hath set, we can buffet alone. - - Then fill up the glass, there’s no use in repining - That friends quickly leave us, when fortune’s declining— - Let each drop a tear in the roseate bowl; - A tear that’s sincere, and then pledge to the soul. - - * * * * * - - - - - “WHAT CAN WOMAN DO?” - - - OR THE INFLUENCE OF AN EXAMPLE. - - - BY ALICE B. NEAL. - - - Good, therefore, is the counsel of the Son of Sirach. “Show not - thy valiantness in wine; for wine hath destroyed many.” - Jeremy Taylor. - -“I am glad you admire my pretty cousin,” said Isabel Gray to a gentleman -seated near her. “She deserves all her good fortune, which is the -highest possible compliment when you see how devoted her husband is and -what a palace-like home he has given her.” - -“It does, indeed, seem the very abode of taste and elegance,” and the -speaker looked around the luxurious apartment with undisguised -admiration. - -The room, with its occupants, seemed, in the mellow light which came -from lotus shaped vases, like a fine old picture set in a gorgeous -frame. The curtains, falling in fluted folds, shut out the dreariness of -a chill November night—a glowing carpet, on whose velvet surface seemed -thrown the richest flowers and the most luscious fruits, in wild but -graceful confusion, muffled the tread of the well-trained servants. A -few rare pictures hung upon the walls, and a group of beautiful women -were conspicuous among the guests who this evening shared the -hospitality of the master of the mansion. The dessert had just been -placed upon the table—rare fruits were heaped in baskets of delicate -_Sèvres_, that looked _woven_ rather than moulded into their graceful -shapes; cones and pyramids of delicately tinted ices, and sparkling -bon-bons—in fine, all that could tempt the most fastidious appetite, -had been gathered together for this bridal feast. - -Very happy was William Rushton that night, and how fondly he glanced, in -the pauses of conversation, toward his lovely wife, who, for the first -time, had assumed her place as mistress of all this elegance. But hers -was a subdued and quiet loveliness, - - “Not radiant to a _stranger’s_ eye,” - -and many wondered that his choice should have fallen upon her, when -Isabel Gray seemed so much better suited to his well known -fastidiousness. Isabel had passed the season of early girlhood, yet her -clear brow was as smooth, and her complexion as glowing, as when she had -first entered society the belle of the season. Four winters had passed, -and, to the astonishment of many an acquaintance, she was still -unmarried; and now, as the bridemaid of the wealthy Mrs. Rushton, she -was once more the centre of fashion—the observed of all. - -Glittering glasses, of fanciful shape and transparent as if they had -been the crystal goblets of Shiraz, were sparkling among the fruits and -flowers. Already they were foaming to the brim with wines, that might -have warmed the heart of the convivial Clarence himself, whose age was -the topic of discourse among the gentlemen and of comment to their -pretty listeners, who were well aware that added years would be no great -advantage to _them_ in the eyes of these boasting connoisseurs. - -“No one can refuse that,” came to the ears of Isabel Gray, in the midst -of an animated conversation. - -“The health of our fair hostess,” said her companion, by way of -explanation. “We are all friends, you know. Your glass, Miss Gray,” and -he motioned the attendant to fill it. - -“Excuse me,” said she, in a quick, earnest voice, which drew the -attention of all. “I will drink to Lucy with all my heart, but in water, -if you please,” and she playfully filled the tall glass from a water -goblet near her. - -“May I be permitted to follow Miss Gray’s example? She must not claim -all the honor of this new fashion,” and the speaker, a young man with a -fine though somewhat sad face, suited the action to the word. - -Courtesy subdued the astonishment and remonstrances of the host and his -fashionable friends, and this strange freak of Miss Gray’s formed the -topic of conversation after the ladies withdrew. - -“I do not think it a fancy—Isabel Gray always acts from principle,” -said one of the party, with whom she had been conversing; and Robert -Lewis, for so they called her supporter in this unparalleled refusal, -gayly declared himself bound, for that night at least, to drink nothing -but water, for her sake. - -“Oh, Isabel, how could you do so?” said her cousin, as they re-entered -the drawingroom, and the ladies had dispersed in various groups to -examine and admire its decorations. - -“Do what, dear Lucy?” - -“Why, act in such a strange way. I never knew you to refuse wine before. -You might, at least, have touched the glass to your lips, as you always -have done. Mr. Rushton was too polite to remonstrate, but I saw he -looked terribly annoyed. He is so proud of his wines, too, and I wanted -him to like you so much. I would not have had it happen—oh, for any -thing,” and the little lady clasped her hands with a most tragical look -of distress. - -“How very terrible! Is it such a mighty offense? But, seriously, it was -not a freak. I shall never take wine again.” - -“And all my parties to attend? You will be talked about all winter. Why, -nothing is expected of a lady now-a-days but to sip the least possible -quantity; and, besides, champagne, you know, Isabel—champagne never -hurt any one.” - -“I have seen too much of its ill effects to agree with you there, Lucy. -It has led to intemperance again and again. My heart has long condemned -the practice of convivial drinking, and I cannot countenance it even by -_seeming_ to join. Think of poor Talfourd—what made him a beggar and a -maniac! He was your husband’s college friend.” - -“Oh, that is but one in a thousand; and, besides, what influence can you -possibly have. Who, think you, will be the better man for seeing you so -rude—I must say it—as to refuse to take wine with him? - -“We none of us know the influence we exert—perhaps never will know it -in this world. But, still, the principle remains the same. To-night, -however, I had a definite object in my pointed refusal. Young Lewis has -recently made a resolution to avoid every thing that can lead him into -his one fault. Noble, generous to “the half of his kingdom”—highly -cultivated, and wealthy, he nearly shipwrecked his fortune when abroad, -brother tells me, by dissipation—the effect of this same warm-hearted, -generous nature. It is but very lately that he has seen what a moral and -mental ruin threatened him, and has resolved to gain a mastery over the -temptation. I knew of it by accident, and I should not tell it, even to -you, only that it may prevent his being rallied by Mr. Rushton or -yourself. To-night was his first trial. I saw the struggle between -custom, pride, and good resolutions. If he had yielded then, he would -have become disheartened on reflection, and, perhaps, abandoned his new -life altogether. I cannot tell—our fate in this world is decided by -such trivial events. At any rate, I have spared him one stroke—he will -be stronger next time to refuse for himself.” - -“I should not have dreamed of all this! Why I thought it was only his -Parisian gallantry that made him join with you; but, then, if he has -once been dissipated, the case is hopeless.” - -“Oh, no Lucy, not hopeless; when a strong judgment is once convinced, it -is the absence of reflection, or a little moral courage, at first, that -ruins so many.” - -“Excellent, excellent,” cried the lively Mrs. Moore, who came up just in -time to hear Isabel’s closing sentence—“If Miss Gray is not turned -temperance lecturer! Come, ladies, let her have a numerous audience -while she is about it. Ah, I know you think to get into Father Mathew’s -good graces. Shall you call upon him when he arrives, and offer your -services as assistant?” - -“We were discussing the possibility of entire reformation,” said Isabel, -calmly, quite unmoved by Mrs. Moore’s covert sarcasms, to the ladies who -now gathered round the lounge on which she sat. “The reformation of a -man who has been once intemperate, I mean.” - -“Oh, intemperance is so shockingly vulgar, my dear,” quavered forth Mrs. -Bradford, the stately aunt of the hostess. “How can you talk about such -things. No, to be sure, when a man is once dissipated, you might as well -give him up. He’s lost to society, _that’s certain_; besides, we women -have nothing to do with it.” - -“I beg your pardon, my dear madam, but I think we have a great deal to -do, though not in the way of assisting Father Matthew to address -Temperance Conventions, as Mrs. Moore kindly suggests. Moreover, I have -known a confirmed inebriate, so supposed, to give up all his old -associations, and become a useful and honorable member of society.” - -“Tell us about it, please, Miss Gray,” urged Emily Bradford, deeply -interested. “There will be plenty of time before the gentlemen come in.” - -And as the request was seconded by many voices, Isabel told her simple -tale. - -[1]“There is no romance about it, Miss Emily; but you remember those -pretty habit shirts you admired so much last fall—and _you_ have seen -me wear them, Mrs. Moore. They were made by a woman—a _lady_ whom I -first saw years ago, when I passed my vacations at Milton, a little town -not far from Harrisburg. My Aunt Gray was very domestic, and thought it -no disgrace to the wife of a judge, and one of the most prominent men in -the state, to see after her own household. - -“There was a piece of linen to be made up one vacation; and I remember -going into my aunt’s room and finding her surrounded by ‘sleeves and -gussets and bands’—cutting out and arranging them with the most -exemplary patience. ‘Pray, aunt, why do you bother yourself with such -things,’ I said, for I was full of boarding-school notions on the -dignity of _idleness_. ‘Why don’t you leave it for a seamstress.’ - -“‘If you will go with me this afternoon to see my seamstress, you will -find out. I should like you to see her.’ And that afternoon our walk -ended at a plain brown frame house, with nothing to relieve its -unsightliness but a luxuriant morning-glory vine, which covered one of -the lower windows. - -“‘How is Mrs. Hall to-day?’ aunt said to a dirty little fellow who was -making sand pies on the front step. - -“‘She’s in there,’ was all the answer we received, as he pointed toward -a door on the right of the little hall. - -“‘Come in,’ said a faint and very gentle voice; and, at first, I could -hardly see who had spoken, the room was so shaded by the leafy curtain -which had interlaced its fragile stems over the front window. There was -a neat rag carpet on the floor; a few plain chairs, a table, and a -bureau, ranged round the room; but drawn near the window, so that the -light fell directly upon it, was a bed, covered by a well-worn -counterpane, though, like everything else, it was very neat and -clean—and here, supported in a sitting posture by pillows, was my -aunt’s seamstress. I do not think she had been naturally beautiful—but -her features, wasted by long illness, were very delicate, and her eyes -were large, and with the brilliancy you sometimes see in consumptives, -yet a look of inexpressible sadness. She was very pale in that soft -emerald light made by the foliage, and this was relieved by a faint -hectic that, if possible, increased the pallor. She smiled as she saw my -aunt, and welcomed us both very gratefully. As she held out her long -thin hand, you could see every blue vein distinctly. I noticed that she -wore a thimble, and around her, on the bed, were scattered bits of linen -and sewing implements. You cannot tell how strange it seemed to see her -take up a wristband and bend over it, setting stitch after stitch with -the regularity of an automaton, while she talked with us. She seemed -already dying, and this industry was almost painful to witness. - -“I gathered from her conversation with my aunt,—while I looked on and -wondered,—that Mrs. Hall had long been a confirmed invalid. They even -spoke of a ruptured blood-vessel, from the effects of which she was now -suffering. She did not complain—there was not a single murmur at her -illness, or the hard fate that compelled her to work for her daily -bread. I never saw such perfect cheerfulness, and yet I knew, from the -contracted features and teasing cough, that she was suffering intensely. -The little savage we had seen on our arrival, proved to be the son of -her landlady, who was also her nurse and waiting-maid. - -“I was very much interested, and, by the time we bade her good-bye, I -had sketched out quite a romance, in which I was sure she had been the -principal actor. - -“‘Poor lady,’ said I, the instant we were out of the gate. ‘Why do you -let her work, aunt? Why don’t you take her home, you have so many vacant -rooms—or, at least, I should think, there were rich people enough in -Milton to support her entirely. She does not look fit to hold a needle. -Has she no children? and when did her husband die?—was she very -wealthy?’ - -“I poured out my questions so fast that aunt had no time to answer any -one of them, and I had been so much engaged, that I had not noticed a -man reeling along the side-walk toward us, until just in time to escape -the rude contact of his touch, from which I shrunk, almost shrieking. - -“‘Who told you that Mrs. Hall was a widow, Isabel?’ said aunt, to divert -me from my mishap. - -“‘Nobody; but I knew it at once, as soon as I looked at her; how lonely -she must be—and how terrible to see one’s best friend die, and know you -cannot call them back again.’ - -“‘Not half so dreadful, dear,’ answered she, very seriously, ‘as to live -on from day to day and see the gradual death of the soul, while the body -is unwasted. It would be a happy day for Mrs. Hall that made her a -widow, though she, poor thing, might not think so. That wretched -inebriate’—and she pointed to the man we had just met—‘is her husband; -and this is why she plies her needle when we would willingly save her -from all labor. She cannot bear that _he_ should be indebted to the -charity of strangers.’ - -“It was even so, for the poor fellow had reached the garden-gate, and -was staggering in. - -“‘So he goes home to her day after day,’ continued aunt; ‘and so it has -been since a few years after their marriage. When I first came here, he -had a neat shop in the village, and was considered one of the most -promising young men in the neighborhood. Such an excellent workman—such -a clever fellow—so fond and proud of his wife; and everybody said that -Charlotte Adams had married ‘out of all trouble,’ in the country phrase. -Poor girl! she had only entered a sea of misfortunes—for, from the -death of her only child, a fine little fellow, they have been going -down. It is a common story. First, the shop was given up, and he worked -by the day; not long after, they moved to a smaller house, and sold most -of their furniture. It was then she first commenced sewing, and, with -all her industry she could scarcely get along. She could never deny him -money when she had it—and this, with his own earnings, were spent at -the tavern. She remonstrated in vain. He would promise to do better—in -his sober moments he was all contrition, and called himself a wretch to -grieve such a good wife. I do not believe she has ever reproached him, -save by a glance of sorrowful entreaty, such as I have often seen her -give when he entered as now he is going to her. - -“‘She was never very well, and under repeated trials, and sorrow and -mortification, her health gave way. Many a time have I parted with her, -never expecting to see her alive again; but there is some concealed -principle of vitality which supports her. Perhaps it is the hope that -she will yet see her husband what he has been. I fear she hopes in vain, -for if there was ever a man given over to the demon of intemperance it -is James Hall. But it is for this reason that she refuses the assistance -of her acquaintances, and works on from day to day, sometimes as now -unable to leave her bed. Of course she is well paid, and has plenty of -work, for everybody pities her, and all admire the wonderful patience, -cheerfulness and industry which she exhibits. She never speaks to any -one, even to me, of her husband’s faults. If she ever mentions him it is -to say, ‘James has been such a good nurse this week—he has the kindest -heart in the world.’ ‘She is a heroine,’ exclaimed my aunt warmly. ‘The -best wife I ever knew—and if there is mercy in heaven, she will be -repaid for all she has suffered in this world.’ - -“‘Poor lady,’ I thought and said a hundred times that week. I suppose I -must have tired everybody with talking about Mrs. Hall.” - -“And did you ever see her again—_did_ she die, Miss Gray?” asked Emily -Bradford, as Isabel paused in her narration. - -“I told you she made those pretty habit shirts for me. They were not in -fashion in those days if you will recollect. The first summer after my -debut in society I passed at Milton. I never shall forget the second -evening of my visit. If you recollect, there was a great temperance -movement through all our towns and villages just about that time. -Reformed inebriates had become the apostles of temperance, and went from -village to village, rousing the inhabitants by their unlearned but -wonderful eloquence. Mass meetings were held in the town-ball at Milton -nightly, and by uncle’s invitation, for he went heart and hand with the -newly awakened spirit of reform, aunt and myself accompanied him to one -of these strange gatherings. It was with the greatest difficulty we -could get a seat. Rough laborers, with their wives and children, crowded -side by side with the _élite_ of the little place; boys of every age and -size filled up the interstices, with a strange variety of faces and -expressions. The speaker of the evening was introduced just as we -entered. He was tall, with a wan, haggard-looking face, and the most -brilliant, flashing eyes I ever saw. A few months ago he had been on -outcast from society, and now, with a frame weakened by past excesses, -but with a spirit as strong as that which animated the old reformers, he -stood forth, going as it were ‘from house to house, saying peace be unto -you.’ Peace which had fled from his own hearth when he gave way to -temptation, but which now returning urged him to bear glad tidings to -other homes. - -“I never listened to such strange and thrilling eloquence. I have seen -Fanny Kemble as Portia plead with Shylock with all the energy of -justice, and the force of her passionate nature, but though that was -beyond my powers of conception, I was not moved as now. With what -touching pathos he recounted the sorrows, the wasting, mournful want -endured by the drunkard’s wife! The sickness of hope deferred and -crushed—the destruction of all happiness here, or hope of it hereafter! -It was what his own eyes had seen, his own acts had caused—and it was -the eloquence of simple truth. More than one thought of poor Mrs. Hall, -I am sure. As for myself, I know not when I have been so excited, and -after the exhausted speaker had concluded his thrilling appeal, and the -whole rude assembly joined in a song arranged to the plaintive air of -Auld Lang Syne—more like a triumphal chant it seemed, as it surged -through the room—I forgot all rules of form, and though I had sung -nothing but tame Italian _cavatinas_ for years, my voice rose with the -rest, forgetful of all but the scene around me. - -“Scarce had the last strains died away, when through the crowded aisles, -passing the very seat we occupied, some one pressed forward with -trembling eagerness. At first I did not recognize him—but uncle started -and made way for him to the table in front of the speaker’s seat. A -confused murmur of voices ran through the room, as one and another saw -him grasp the printed pledge which was lying there, with the eagerness -of a dying man. The first name subscribed to the solemn promise of total -abstinence that night was James Hall. When it was announced by my uncle -himself, whose voice was fairly tremulous with pleasure, the effect was -electrical. The whole assembly rose, and the room rang with three cheers -from stentorian voices. All order was at an end. Men of all classes and -conditions pressed forward to take him by the hand, and more names were -affixed to the pledge that night than any one could have counted on. - -“It was a proud tribute paid to woman’s influence, when James Hall -grasping the hand of the speaker ejaculated—‘Oh! it was the picture you -drew of what my poor wife has suffered. Heaven bless her! she has been -an angel to me—poor wretch that I am.’ - -“My aunt’s first impulse was to fly to Mrs. Hall with the good news, but -‘let him be the bearer of the glad tidings himself,’ she said afterward. -‘We will offer our congratulations to-morrow.’ And never were -congratulations more sincerely received than by that pale invalid, -trembling even yet with the fear that her great happiness was not real.” - -“Oh! very well,” broke in Mrs. Bradford. “Quite a scene, my dear; you -should have been a novelist. But did he keep it?—_that’s_ the thing.” - -“You would not ask, my dear madam,” answered Isabel, “if you could have -witnessed another ‘scene,’ as you term it, in which Mrs. Hall was an -actor. - -“There is a pretty little cottage standing at the very foot of the lane -which leads to my uncle’s house. This has been built since that -memorable evening by Mr. Hall, now considered the best workman, and one -of the most respected men in Milton; and it was furnished by his wife’s -industry. Her health was restored as if by a miracle; it was indeed -such, but wrought by the returned industry, self-respect, and devotion -of her husband. My aunt and myself were her guests only a few months -ago, the evening of her removal to her new home. - -“We entered before her little preparations were quite finished, and -found Mrs. Hall arranging some light window curtains for the prettily -furnished parlor, while a fine curly-haired, blue-eyed little fellow was -rolling on the carpet at her feet. She was still pale, and will never be -strong again, but a happier wife and mother this world cannot contain. -Her reward has been equal to her great self-sacrifice, and not only -this, but the example of her husband has reformed many of his old -associates, who at first jeered at him when he refused to join them. -There is not a bar now in all Milton, for one cannot be supported.” - -More than one thoughtless girl in the little group clustered around -Isabel began, for the first time, to feel their responsibility as women, -when her little narrative was concluded. But the current of thought and -education is not so easily turned, and by the time the gentlemen entered -the room, most of them had forgotten every thing but a desire to -outshine each other in their good graces. - -Emily Bradford alone remained in the shadow of a curtain, quiet and -apart; and as she stood there musing, her heart beat faster, it may be, -with an unacknowledged pang of jealousy as she saw Robert Lewis speaking -earnestly with Isabel. - -“Heaven bless you, Miss Gray, I confess I wavered—you have made me -ashamed of my weakness; I will not mind their taunting now,” was all -that the grateful, warm-hearted man could say; and he knew by the -friendly clasp of Isabel’s hand that nothing more was needed. Who among -that group of noble and beautiful women had more reason for happiness -than Isabel Gray? Ah, my sisters, if you could but realise that all -beauty and grace are but talents entrusted to your keeping, and that the -happiness of many may rest upon the most trivial act, you would not use -that loveliness for an ignoble triumph, or so thoughtlessly tread the -path of daily life! - - * * * * * - -“Oh, Isabel,” said Lucy Rushton, bursting into her cousin’s room, some -two years from the scenes we have recorded, “what am I to do? Pray -advise me, for you always know every thing.” - -“Not quite as wise as that, dear, but what am I to do for you?” - -“Oh, Emily Bradford has been proposed for by young Lewis, and aunt, who -sees only his wealth and connections, is crazy for the match. Emily -really loves him devotedly; and what am I to do, knowing how near he -once came to downright intemperance? Is it my duty, or is it not, to -tell aunt? It has no effect on Emily, and, besides, he confessed it all -to her when he proposed.” - -“And what does she say?” - -“Why, it’s your fault, after all, for she quotes a story you told that -same night I heard about his folly. You told me that, too. Well, he -declares he has not drank a glass of wine since then, and never will -again. Particularly if he has Emily for his guiding angel, I suppose, -and all that sort of thing. And she believes him, of course.” - -“Well, ‘of course’—don’t say it so despairingly; why not? I do, most -assuredly. I might perhaps have distrusted the reformation if it had -been solely on Emily’s account, a pledge made to gain her, but if I am -not very much mistaken, I think I can trace their attachment to that -same eventful night, but I am very certain he did not declare himself -until quite recently.” - -“So I am to let Emily run the risk?” - -“Yes, if she chooses it; though I do not think there is much. I should -have no hesitation to marry Lewis if I loved him. Emily is a thoughtful, -sensible girl. She does not act without judgment, and she is just the -woman to be the wife of an impulsive, generous man like Lewis. -Sufficient time has elapsed to try his principles, and her companionship -will strengthen them.” - -And so it proved, for there are now few happier homes than the cheerful, -hospitable household over which Emily Lewis presides. Isabel Gray is -always a favorite guest, and Robert predicts that she will never marry. -It may prove so, for she is not of those who would sacrifice herself for -fortune, or give her hand to any man she did not thoroughly respect and -sympathise with, to escape that really very tolerable fate—becoming an -old maid. - ------ - -[1] The circumstances here related are substantially true. - - * * * * * - - - - - ON A PORTRAIT OF CROMWELL. - - - BY JAMES T. FIELDS. - - - “Paint me as I am,” said Cromwell, - Rough with age, and gashed with wars— - “Show my visage as you find it— - Less than truth my soul abhors!” - - This was he whose mustering phalanx - Swept the foe at Marston Moor; - This was he whose arm uplifted - From the dust the fainting poor. - - God had made his face uncomely— - “Paint me as I am,” he said, - So he _lives_ upon the canvas - Whom they chronicled as _dead_! - - Simple justice he requested - At the artist’s glowing hands, - “Simple justice!” from his ashes - Cries a voice that still commands. - - And, behold! the page of History, - Centuries dark with Cromwell’s name, - Shines to-day with thrilling lustre - From the light of Cromwell’s fame! - - * * * * * - - - - - A SEA-SIDE REVERIE. - - - BY ENNA DUVAL. - - - These white-capped waves roll on with pride, as if - The myth that ancient poësy did tell - Were true, and they did bear upon their breasts - King Néreus with state most royal. How - They leap and toss aloft their snowy crests; - And now a tumbling billow springing up - In air, does dash and bound—another comes— - Then playfully they meet, with bursting swell - Dashing their spray-wreaths on the shelving shore, - And quick the ripples hasten back, as if - To join the Ocëanides wild glee. - But when the beaming sunlight fades away - And storm-clouds gather—then the rolling waves, - Without a light, sweep on, and soon is heard - The under-current’s deep and solemn tones, - As on the shore it breaks. - How like to life - These ocean waves! When beaming with the rays - Of sunny Joy, Youths cresting billows bound, - Its frolick waves leap up with gleeful laugh, - Glitt’ring with pleasure’s light; but lo! a cloud - Obscures Life’s sky, and sorrow’s storm awakes, - The heavy swell of grief comes rolling on, - And all the sparkles of Life’s waves are gone! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE. - - - A SOUTHERN NOVELET. - - - BY W. GILMORE SIMMS. - - - (_Concluded from page 91._) - - - CHAPTER VIII. - -It was with feelings of a tumultuous satisfaction that Mat Dunbar found -himself in possession of this new prize. He at once conceived a new -sense of his power, and prepared to avail himself of all his advantages. -But we must suffer our friend Brough to become the narrator of this -portion of our history. Anxious about events, Coulter persuaded the old -African, nothing loth, to set forth on a scouting expedition to the -farmstead. Following his former footsteps, which had been hitherto -planted in security, the negro made his way, an hour before daylight, -toward the cabin in which Mimy, and her companion Lizzy, a young girl of -sixteen, were housed. They, too, had been compelled to change their -abodes under the tory usurpation; and now occupied an ancient tenement -of logs, which in its time had gone through a curious history. It had -first been a hog-pen, next a hunter’s lodge; had stabled horses, and had -been made a temporary fortress during Indian warfare. It was ample in -its dimensions—made of heavy cypresses; but the clay which had filled -its interstices had fallen out; of the chimney nothing remained but the -fire-place; and one end of the cabin, from the decay of two or more of -its logs, had taken such on inclination downward, as to leave the -security which it offered of exceedingly dubious value. The negro does -not much regard these things, however, and old Mimy enjoyed her sleeps -here quite as well as at her more comfortable kitchen. The place, -indeed, possessed some advantages under the peculiar circumstances. It -stood on the edge of a limestone sink-hole—one of those wonderful -natural cavities with which the country abounds. This was girdled by -cypresses and pines, and, fortunately for Brough, at this moment, when a -drought prevailed, entirely free from water. A negro loves any thing, -perhaps, better than water—he would sooner bathe in the sun than in the -stream, and would rather wade through a forest full of snakes than -suffuse his epidermis unnecessarily with an element which no one will -insist was made for his uses. It was important that the sink-hole near -Mimy’s abode should be dry at this juncture, for it was here that Brough -found his hiding place. He could approach this place under cover of the -woods. There was an awkward interval of twelve or fifteen feet, it is -true, between this place and the hovel, which the inmates had stripped -of all its growth in the search for fuel, but a dusky form, on a dusky -night, careful to crawl over the space, might easily escape the casual -glance of a drowsy sentinel; and Brough was partisan enough to know that -the best caution implies occasional exposure. He was not unwilling to -incur the risk. We must not detail his progress. Enough that, by dint of -crouching, crawling, creeping, rolling and sliding, he had contrived to -bury himself, at length, under the wigwam, occupying the space, in part, -of a decayed log connected with the clayed chimney; and fitting himself -to the space in the log, from which he had scratched out the rotten -fragments, as snugly as if he were a part of it. Thus, with his head -toward the fire, looking within—his body hidden from those within by -the undecayed portions of the timber, with Mimy on his side of the -fire-place, squat upon the hearth, and busy with the _hominy_ pot, -Brough might carry on the most interesting conversation in the world, in -whispers, and occasionally be fed from the spoon of his spouse, or drink -from the calabash, without any innocent person suspecting his -propinquity. We will suppose him thus quietly ensconced, his old woman -beside him, and deeply buried in the domestic histories which he came to -hear. We must suppose all the preliminaries to be dispatched already, -which, in the case of an African _dramatis personæ_, are usually -wonderfully minute and copious. - -“And dis nigger, Tory, he’s maussa yer for true?” - -“I tell you, Brough, he’s desp’r’t bad! He tak’ ebbry ting for he’sef! -He sway (swears) ebbry ting for him—we nigger, de plantation, boss, -hog, hominy; and ef young misses no marry um—you yeddy? (hear)—he will -hang de maussa up to de sapling, same as you hang scarecrow in de -cornfiel’!” - -Brough groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. - -“Wha’ for do, Brough?” - -“Who gwine say? I ’spec he mus fight for um yet. Mass Dick no chicken! -He gwine fight like de debbil, soon he get strong, ’fore dis ting gwine -happen. He hab sodger, and more for come. Parson ’Lijah gwine fight -too—and dis nigger’s gwine fight, sooner dan dis tory ride, whip and -spur, ober we plantation.” - -“Why, wha’ you tink dese tory say to me, Brough?” - -“Wha’ he say, woman?” - -“He say he gwine gib me hundred lash ef I no get he breckkus (breakfast) -by day peep in de morning!” - -“De tory wha’ put hick’ry ’pon your back, chicken, he hab answer to -Brough.” - -“You will fight for me, Brough?” - -“Wid gun and bagnet, my chicken.” - -“Ah, I blieb you, Brough; you was always lub me wid you’ sperrit!” - -“Enty you blieb? You will see some day! You got ’noder piece of bacon in -de pot, Mimy? Dis hom’ny ’mos’ too dry in de t’roat.” - -“Leetle piece.” - -“Gi’ me.” - -His creature wants were accordingly supplied. We must not forget that -the dialogue was carried on in the intervals in which he paused from -eating the supper which, in anticipation of his coming, the old woman -had provided. Then followed the recapitulation of the narrative, details -being furnished which showed that Dunbar, desperate from opposition to -his will, had thrown off all the restraints of social fear and decency, -and was urging his measures against old Sabb and his daughter with -tyrannical severity. He had given the old man a sufficient taste of his -power, enough to make him dread the exercise of what remained. This -rendered him now, what he had never been before, the advocate himself -with his daughter in behalf of the loyalist. Sabb’s virtue was not of a -self-sacrificing nature. He was not a bad man—was rather what the world -esteems a good one. He was just, as well as he knew to be, in his -dealings with a neighbor; was not wanting in that charity, which, having -first ascertained its own excess of goods, gives a certain proportion to -the needy; he had offerings for the church, and solicited its prayers. -But he had not the courage and strength of character to be virtuous in -spite of circumstances. In plain language, he valued the securities and -enjoyments of his homestead, even at the peril of his daughter’s -happiness. He urged with tears and reproaches, that soon became -vehement, the suit of Dunbar as if it had been his own; and even his -good _vrow_, Minnecker Sabb, overwhelmed by his afflictions and her own, -joined somewhat in his entreaty. We may imagine poor Frederica’s -afflictions. She had not dared to reveal to either the secret of her -marriage with Coulter. She now dreaded its discovery, in regard to the -probable effect which it might have upon Dunbar. What limit would there -be to his fury and brutality, should the fact become known to him? How -measure his rage—how meet its excesses? She trembled as she reflected -upon the possibility of his making the discovery; and while inly -swearing eternal fidelity to her husband, she resolved still to keep her -secret close from all, looking to the chapter of providential events for -that hope which she had not the power to draw from any thing within -human probability. Her eyes naturally turned to her husband, first of -all mortal agents. But she had no voice which could reach to him—and -what was his condition? She conjectured the visits of old Brough to his -spouse, but with these she was prevented from all secret conference. Her -hope was, that Mimy, seeing and hearing for herself, would duly report -to the African; and he, she well knew, would keep nothing from her -husband. We have witnessed the conference between this venerable couple. -The result corresponded with the anticipations of Frederica. Brough -hurried back with his gloomy tidings to the place of hiding in the -swamp; and Coulter, still suffering somewhat from his wound, and -conscious of the inadequate force at his control, for the rescue of his -wife and people, was almost maddened by the intelligence. He looked -around upon his party, now increased to seven men, not including the -parson. But Elijah Fields was a host in himself. The men were also true -and capable—good riflemen, good scouts, and as fearless as they were -faithful. The troop under Dunbar consisted of eighteen men, all well -armed and mounted. The odds were great, but the despair of Richard -Coulter was prepared to overlook all inequalities. Nor was Fields -disposed to discourage him. - -“There is no hope but in ourselves, Elijah,” was the remark of Coulter. - -“Truly, and in God!” was the reply. - -“We must make the effort.” - -“Verily, we must.” - -“We have seven men, not counting yourself, Elijah.” - -“I too am a man, Richard;” said the other, calmly. - -“A good man and a brave; do I not know it, Elijah? But we should not -expose you on ordinary occasions.” - -“This is no ordinary occasion, Richard.” - -“True, true! And you propose to go with us, Elijah?” - -“No, Richard! I will go before you. I _must_ go to prevent outrage. I -must show to Dunbar that Frederica is your wife. It is my duty to -testify in this proceeding. I am the first witness.” - -“But your peril, Elijah! He will become furious as a wild beast when he -hears. He will proceed to the most desperate excesses.” - -“It will be for you to interpose at the proper moment. You must be at -hand. As for me, I doubt if there will be much if any peril. I will go -unarmed. Dunbar, while he knows that I am with you, does not know that I -have ever lifted weapon in the cause. He will probably respect my -profession. At all events, I _must_ interpose and save him from a great -sin, and a cruel and useless violence. When he knows that Frederica is -irrevocably married, he will probably give up the pursuit. If Brough’s -intelligence be true, he must know it now or never.” - -“Be it so;” said Coulter. “And now that you have made your -determination, I will make mine. The odds are desperate, so desperate, -indeed, that I build my hope somewhat on that very fact. Dunbar knows my -feebleness, and does not fear me. I must effect a surprise. If we can do -this, with the first advantage, we will make a rush, and club rifles. Do -you go up in the dug-out, and alone, while we make a circuit by land. We -can be all ready in five minutes, and perhaps we should set out at -once.” - -“Right!” answered the preacher; “but are you equal to the struggle, -Richard?” - -The young man upheaved his powerful bulk, and leaping up to the bough -which spread over him, grasped the extended limb with a single hand, and -drew himself across it. - -“Good!” was the reply. “But you are still stiff. I have seen you do it -much more easily. Still you will do, if you will only economise your -breath. There is one preparation first to be made, Richard. Call up the -men.” - -They were summoned with a single, shrill whistle, and Coulter soon put -them in possession of the adventure that lay before them. It needed -neither argument nor entreaty to persuade them into a declaration of -readiness for the encounter. Their enthusiasm was grateful to their -leader whom they personally loved. - -“And now, my brethren,” said Elijah Fields, “I am about to leave you, -and we are all about to engage in a work of peril. We know not what will -happen. We know not that we shall meet again. It is proper only that we -should confess our sins to God, and invoke his mercy and protection. My -brothers—let us pray!” - -With these words, the party sunk upon their knees, Brough placing -himself behind Coulter. Fervent and simple was the prayer of the -preacher—inartificial but highly touching. Our space does not suffer us -to record it, or to describe the scene, so simple, yet so imposing. The -eyes of the rough men were moistened, their hearts softened, yet -strengthened. They rose firm and resolute to meet the worst issues of -life and death, and, embracing each of them in turn, Brough not -excepted, Elijah Fields led the way to the enemy, by embarking alone in -the canoe. Coulter, with his party, soon followed, taking the route -through the forest. - - - CHAPTER IX. - -In the meantime, our captain of loyalists had gone forward in his -projects with a very free and fearless footstep. The course which he -pursued, in the present instance, is one of a thousand instances which -go to illustrate the perfect recklessness with which the British -conquerors, and their baser allies, regarded the claims of humanity, -where the interests, the rights, or the affections of the whig -inhabitants of South Carolina were concerned. Though resolutely rejected -by Frederica, Dunbar yet seemed determined to attach no importance to -her refusal, but, dispatching a messenger to the village of Orangeburg, -he brought from thence one Nicholas Veitch, a Scotch Presbyterian -parson, for the avowed object of officiating at his wedding rites. The -parson, who was a good man enough perhaps, was yet a weak and timid one, -wanting that courage which boldly flings itself between the victim and -his tyrant. He was brought into the Dutchman’s cottage, which Dunbar now -occupied. Thither also was Frederica brought, much against her will; -indeed, only under the coercive restraint of a couple of dragoons. Her -parents were neither of them present, and the following dialogue ensued -between Dunbar and herself; Veitch being the only witness. - -“Here, Frederica,” said Dunbar, “you see the parson. He comes to marry -us. The consent of your parents has been already given, and it is -useless for you any longer to oppose your childish scruples to what is -now unavoidable. This day, I am resolved, that we are to be made man and -wife. Having the consent of your father and mother, there is no reason -for not having yours.” - -“Where are they?” was the question of Frederica. Her face was very pale, -but her lips were firm, and her eyes gazed without faltering into those -of her oppressor. - -“They will be present when the time comes. They will be present at the -ceremony.” - -“Then they will never be present!” she answered, firmly. - -“Beware, girl, how you provoke me! You little know the power I have to -punish—” - -“You have no power upon my voice or my heart.” - -“Ha!” - -The preacher interposed, “My daughter be persuaded. The consent of your -parents should be enough to incline you to Captain Dunbar. They are -surely the best judges of what is good for their children.” - -“I cannot and I will not marry with Captain Dunbar.” - -“Beware, Frederica,” said Dunbar, in a voice studiously subdued, but -with great difficulty—the passion speaking out in his fiery looks, and -his frame that trembled with its emotions. - -“‘Beware, Frederica!’ Of what should I beware? Your power? Your power -may kill me. It can scarcely go farther. Know, then, that I am prepared -to die sooner than marry you!” - -Though dreadfully enraged, the manner of Dunbar was still carefully -subdued. His words were enunciated in tones of a laborious calm, as he -replied, - -“You are mistaken in your notions of the extent of my power. It can -reach where you little imagine. But I do not desire to use it. I prefer -that you should give me your hand without restraint or coercion.” - -“That I have told you is impossible.” - -“Nay, it is not impossible.” - -“Solemnly, on my knees, I assure you that never can I, or will I, while -I preserve my consciousness, consent to be your wife.” - -The action was suited to the words. She sunk on her knees as she spoke, -and her hands were clasped and her eyes uplifted, as if taking a solemn -oath to heaven. Dunbar rushed furiously toward her. - -“Girl!” he exclaimed, “will you drive me to madness. Will you compel me -to do what I would not!” - -The preacher interposed. The manner of Dunbar was that of a man about to -strike his enemy. Even Frederica closed her eyes, expecting the blow. - -“Let me endeavor to persuade the damsel, my brother,” was the suggestion -of Veitch. Dunbar turned away, and went toward the window, leaving the -field to the preacher. To all the entreaties of the latter Frederica -made the same reply. - -“Though death stared me in the face, I should never marry that man!” - -“Death shall stare you in the face,” was the fierce cry of Dunbar. “Nay, -you shall behold him in such terrors as you have never fancied yet, but -you shall be brought to know and to submit to my power. Ho, there! -Nesbitt, bring out the prisoner.” - -This order naturally startled Frederica. She had continued kneeling. She -now rose to her feet. In the same moment Dunbar turned to where she -stood, full of fearful expectation, grasped her by the wrist, and -dragged her to the window. She raised her head, gave but one glance at -the scene before her, and fell back swooning. The cruel spectacle which -she had been made to witness, was that of her father, surrounded by a -guard, and the halter about his neck, waiting only the terrible word -from the ruffian in authority. - -In that sight, the unhappy girl lost all consciousness. She would have -fallen upon the ground, but that the hand of Dunbar still grasped her -wrist. He now supported her in his arms. - -“Marry us at once,” he cried to Veitch. - -“But she can’t understand—she can’t answer,” replied the priest. - -“That’s as it should be,” answered Dunbar, with a laugh; “silence always -gives consent.” - -The reply seemed to be satisfactory, and Veitch actually stood forward -to officiate in the disgraceful ceremony, when a voice at the entrance -drew the attention of the parties within. It was that of Elijah Fields. -How he had made his way to the building without arrest or interruption -is only to be accounted for by his pacific progress—his being without -weapons, and his well-known priestly character. It may have been thought -by the troopers, knowing what was in hand, that he also had been sent -for; and probably something may be ascribed to the excitement of most of -the parties about the dwelling. At all events, Fields reached it without -interruption, and the first intimation that Dunbar had of his presence -was from his own lips. - -“I forbid this proceeding in the name and by the authority of God,” was -the stern interruption. “The girl is already married!” - - - CHAPTER X. - -Let us now retrace our steps and follow those of Richard Coulter and his -party. We have seen what has been the progress of Elijah Fields. The -route which he pursued was considerably longer than that of his -comrades; but the difference of time was fully equalized by the superior -and embarrassing caution which they were compelled to exercise. The -result was to bring them to the common centre at nearly the same moment, -though the policy of Coulter required a different course of conduct from -that of Fields. Long before he reached the neighborhood of old Sabb’s -farm, he had compelled his troopers to dismount, and hide their horses -in the forest. They then made their way forward on foot. Richard Coulter -was expert in all the arts of the partisan. Though eager to grapple with -his enemy, and impatient to ascertain and arrest the dangers of his -lovely wife, he yet made his approaches with a proper caution. The -denseness of the forest route enabled him easily to do so, and making a -considerable circuit, he drew nigh to the upper part of the farmstead, -in which stood the obscure out-house, which, when Dunbar had taken -possession of the mansion, he assigned to the aged couple. This he found -deserted. He little dreamed for what reason, or in what particular -emergency the old Dutchman stood at that very moment. Making another -circuit, he came upon a copse, in which four of Dunbar’s troopers were -grouped together in a state of fancied security. Their horses were -fastened in the woods, and they lay upon the ground, greedily interested -with a pack of greasy cards, which had gone through the campaign. The -favorite game of that day was _Old Sledge_, or _All Fours_, or _Seven -Up_; by all of which names it was indiscriminately known. Poker, and -Brag, and Loo, and Monte, and _Vingt’un_, were then unknown in that -region. These are all modern innovations, in the substitution of which -good morals have made few gains. Dragoons, in all countries, are -notoriously sad fellows, famous for swearing and gambling. Those of -Dunbar were no exception to the rule. Our tory captain freely indulged -them in the practice. He himself played with them when the humor suited. -The four upon whom Coulter came were not on duty, though they wore their -swords. Their holsters lay with their saddles across a neighboring log, -not far off, but not immediately within reach. Coulter saw his -opportunity; the temptation was great; but these were not exactly his -prey—not yet, at all events. To place one man, well armed with rifle -and pair of pistols, in a situation to cover the group at any moment, -and between them and the farmstead, was his plan; and this done, he -proceeded on his way. His policy was to make his first blow at the head -of the enemy—his very citadel—trusting somewhat to the scattered -condition of the party, and the natural effect of such an alarm to -scatter them the more. All this was managed with great prudence, and -with two more of his men set to watch over two other groups of the -dragoons, he pushed forward with the remaining four until he reached the -verge of the wood, just where it opened upon the settlement. Here he had -a full view of the spectacle—his own party unseen—and the prospect was -such as to compel his instant feeling of the necessity of early action. -It was at the moment which exhibited old Sabb in the hands of the -provost, his hands tied behind him, and the rope about his neck. Clymes, -the lieutenant of Dunbar, with drawn sword, was pacing between the -victim and the house. The old Dutchman stood between two subordinates, -waiting for the signal, while his wife, little dreaming of the scene in -progress, was kept out of sight at the bottom of the garden. Clymes and -the provost were at once marked out for the doom of the rifle, and the -_beads_ of two select shots were kept ready, and leveled at their heads. -But Dunbar must be the first victim—and where was he? Of the scene in -the house Coulter had not yet any inkling. But suddenly he beheld -Frederica at the window. He heard her shriek, and beheld her, as he -thought, drawn away from the spot. His excitement growing almost to -frenzy at this moment, he was about to give the signal, and follow the -first discharge of his rifles with a rush, when suddenly he saw his -associate, Elijah Fields, turn the corner of the house, and enter it -through the piazza. This enabled him to pause, and prevented a premature -development of his game. He waited for those events which it is not -denied that we shall see. Let us then return to the interior. - -We must not forget the startling words with which Elijah Fields -interrupted the forced marriage of Frederica with her brutal persecutor. - -“The girl is already married.” - -Dunbar, still supporting her now quite lifeless in his arms, looked up -at the intruder in equal fury and surprise. - -“Ha, villain!” was the exclamation of Dunbar, “you are here?” - -“No villain, Captain Dunbar, but a servant of the Most High God!” - -“Servant of the devil, rather! What brings you here—and what is it you -say?” - -“I say that Frederica Sabb is already married, and her husband living!” - -“Liar, that you are, you shall swing for this insolence.” - -“I am no liar. I say that the girl is married, and I witnessed the -ceremony.” - -“You did, did you?” was the speech of Dunbar, with a tremendous effort -of coolness, laying down the still lifeless form of Frederica as he -spoke; “and perhaps you performed the ceremony also, oh, worthy servant -of the Most High!” - -“It was my lot to do so.” - -“Grateful lot! And pray with whom did you unite the damsel?” - -“With Richard Coulter, captain in the service of the State of South -Carolina.” - -Though undoubtedly anticipating this very answer, Dunbar echoed the -annunciation with a fearful shriek, as, drawing his sword at the same -moment, he rushed upon the speaker. But his rage blinded him; and Elijah -Fields was one of the coolest of all mortals, particularly when greatly -excited. He met the assault of Dunbar with a fearful buffet of his fist, -which at once felled the assailant; but he rose in a moment, and with a -yell of fury he grappled with the preacher. They fell together, the -latter uppermost, and rolling his antagonist into the fire-place, where -he was at once half buried among the embers, and in a cloud of ashes. In -the struggle, however, Dunbar contrived to extricate a pistol from his -belt, and to fire it. Fields struggled up from his embrace, but a -torrent of blood poured from his side as he did so. He rushed toward the -window, grasped the sill in his hands, then yielded his hold, and sunk -down upon the floor, losing his consciousness in an uproar of shots and -shouts from without. In the next moment the swords of Coulter and Dunbar -were crossed over his prostrate body. The struggle was short and fierce. -It had nearly terminated fatally to Coulter, on his discovering the -still insensible form of Frederica in his way. In the endeavor to avoid -trampling upon her, he afforded an advantage to his enemy, which nothing -prevented him from employing to the utmost but the ashes with which his -eyes were still half blinded. As it was, he inflicted a severe cut upon -the shoulder of the partisan, which rendered his left arm temporarily -useless. But the latter recovered himself instantly. His blood was in -fearful violence. He raged like a _Birserker_ of the -Northmen—absolutely mocked the danger of his antagonist’s -weapon—thrust him back against the side of the house, and hewing him -almost down with one terrible blow upon the shoulder, with a mighty -thrust immediately after, he absolutely speared him against the wall, -the weapon passing through his body, and into the logs behind. For a -moment the eyes of the two glared deathfully upon each other. The sword -of Dunbar was still uplifted, and he seemed about to strike, when -suddenly the arm sunk powerless—the weapon fell from the nerveless -grasp—the eyes became fixed and glassy, even while gazing with tiger -appetite into those of the enemy—and, with a hoarse and stifling cry, -the captain of loyalists fell forward upon his conqueror, snapping, like -so much glass, the sword that was still fastened in his body. - - - CHAPTER XI. - -We must briefly retrace our steps. We left Richard Coulter, in ambush, -having so placed his little detachments as to cover most of the groups -of dragoons—at least such as might be immediately troublesome. It was -with the greatest difficulty that he could restrain himself during the -interval which followed the entry of Elijah Fields into the house. -Nothing but his great confidence in the courage and fidelity of the -preacher could have reconciled him to forbearance, particularly as, at -the point which he occupied, he could know nothing of what was going on -within. Meanwhile, his eyes could not fail to see all the indignities to -which the poor old Dutchman was subjected. He heard his groans and -entreaties. - -“I am a goot friend to King Tshorge! I was never wid de rebels. Why -would you do me so? Where is de captaine? I have said dat my darter -shall be his wife. Go bring him to me, and let him make me loose from de -rope. I’m a goot friend of King Tshorge!” - -“Good friend or not,” said the brutal lieutenant, “you have to hang for -it, I reckon. We are better friends to King George than you. We fight -for him, and we want grants of land as well as other people.” - -“Oh, mine Gott!” - -Just then, faint sounds of the scuffle within the house, reached the -ears of those without. Clymes betrayed some uneasiness; and when the -sound of the pistol-shot was heard, he rushed forward to the dwelling. -But that signal of the strife was the signal for Coulter. He naturally -feared that his comrade had been shot down, and, in the some instant his -rifle gave the signal to his followers, wherever they had been placed in -ambush. Almost simultaneously the sharp cracks of the fatal weapon were -heard from four or five several quarters, followed by two or three -scattered pistol-shots. Coulter’s rifle dropt Clymes, just as he was -about to ascend the steps of the piazza. A second shot from one of his -companions tumbled the provost, having in charge old Sabb. His remaining -keeper let fall the rope and fled in terror, while the old Dutchman, -sinking to his knees, crawled rapidly to the opposite side of the tree -which had been chosen for his gallows, where he crouched closely, -covering his ears with his hands, as if, by shutting out the sounds, he -could shut out all danger from the shot. Here he was soon joined by -Brough, the African. The faithful slave bounded toward his master the -moment he was released, and hugging him first with a most rugged -embrace, he proceeded to undo the degrading halter from about his neck. -This done, he got the old man on his feet, placed him still further -amongst the shelter of the trees, and then hurried away to partake in -the struggle, for which he had provided himself with a grubbing hoe and -pistol. It is no part of our object to follow and watch his exploits; -nor do we need to report the several results of each ambush which had -been set. In that where we left the four gamblers busy at _Old Sledge_, -the proceeding had been most murderous. One of Coulter’s men had been an -old scout. Job Fisher was notorious for his stern deliberation and -method. He had not been content to pick his man, but continued to -revolve around the gamblers until he could range a couple of them, both -of whom fell under his first fire. Of the two others, one was shot down -by the companion of Fisher. The fourth took to his heels, but was -overtaken, and brained with the butt of the rifle. The scouts then -hurried to other parts of the farmstead, agreeable to previous -arrangement, where they gave assistance to their fellows. The history, -in short, was one of complete surprise and route—the dragoons were not -allowed to rally; nine of them were slain outright—not including the -captain; and the rest dispersed, to be picked up at a time of greater -leisure. At the moment when Coulter’s party were assembling at the -dwelling, Brough had succeeded in bringing the old couple together. Very -pitiful and touching was the spectacle of these two embracing with -groans, tears, and ejaculations—scarcely yet assured of their escape -from the hands of their hateful tyrant. - -But our attention is required within the dwelling. Rapidly extricating -himself from the body of the loyalist captain, Coulter naturally turned -to look for Frederica. She was just recovering from her swoon. She had -fortunately been spared the sight of the conflict, although she -continued long afterward to assert that she had been conscious of it -all, though she had not been able to move a limb, or give utterance to a -single cry. Her eyes opened with a wild stare upon her husband, who -stooped fondly to her embrace. She knew him instantly—called his name -but once, but that with joyful accents, and again fainted. Her faculties -had received a terrible shock. Coulter himself felt like fainting. The -pain of his wounded arm was great, and he had lost a good deal of blood. -He felt that he could not long be certain of himself, and putting the -bugle to his lips, he sounded three times with all his vigor. As he did -so, he became conscious of a movement in the corner of the room. Turning -in this direction, he beheld, crouching into the smallest possible -compass, the preacher, Veitch. The miserable wretch was in a state of -complete stupor from his fright. - -“Bring water!” said Coulter. But the fellow neither stirred nor spoke. -He clearly did not comprehend. In the next moment, however, the faithful -Brough made his appearance. His cries were those of joy and exultation, -dampened, however, as he beheld the condition of his young mistress. - -“Fear nothing, Brough, she is not hurt—she has only fainted. But run -for your old mistress. Run, old boy, and bring water while you’re about -it. Run!” - -“But you’ arm, Mass Dick—he da bleed! You hu’t?” - -“Yes, a little—away!” - -Brough was gone; and with a strange sickness of fear, Coulter turned to -the spot where Elijah Fields lay, to all appearance, dead. But he still -lived. Coulter tore away his clothes, which were saturated and already -stiff with blood, and discovered the bullet-wound in his left side, -well-directed, and ranging clear through the body. It needed no second -glance to see that the shot was mortal; and while Coulter was examining -it, the good preacher opened his eyes. They were full of intelligence, -and a pleasant smile was upon his lips. - -“You have seen, Richard, the wound is fatal. I had a presentiment, when -we parted this morning, that such was to be the case. But I complain -not. Some victim perhaps was necessary, and I am not unwilling. But -Frederica?” - -“She lives! She is here; unhurt but suffering.” - -“Ah! that monster!” - -By this time the old couple made their appearance, and Frederica was at -once removed to her own chamber. A few moments tendance sufficed to -revive her, and then, as if fearing that she had not heard the truth in -regard to Coulter, she insisted on going where he was. Meantime, Elijah -Fields had been removed to an adjoining apartment. He did not seem to -suffer. In the mortal nature of his hurt, his sensibilities seemed to be -greatly lessened. But his mind was calm and firm. He knew all around -him. His gaze was fondly shared between the young couple whom he had so -lately united. - -“Love each other,” he said to them; “love each other—and forget not me. -I am leaving you—leaving you fast. It is presumption, perhaps, to say -that one does not fear to die—but I am resigned. I have taken -life—always in self-defense—still I have taken life! I would that I -had never done so. That makes me doubt. I feel the blood upon my head. -My hope is in the Lord Jesus. May his blood atone for that which I have -shed!” - -His eyes closed. His lips moved, as it were, in silent prayer. Again he -looked out upon the two, who hung with streaming eyes above him. “Kiss -me, Richard—and you, Frederica—dear children—I have loved you always. -God be with you—and—me!” He was silent. - -Our story here is ended. We need not follow Richard Coulter through the -remaining vicissitudes of the war. Enough that he continued to -distinguish himself, rising to the rank of major in the service of the -state. With the return of peace, he removed to the farm-house of his -wife’s parents. But for him, in all probability, the estate might have -been forfeited; and the great love which the good old Dutchman professed -for King George might have led to the transfer of his grant to some one -less devoted to the house of Hanover. It happened, only a few months -after the evacuation of Charleston by the British, that Felix Long, one -of the commissioners, was again on a visit to Orangeburg. It was at the -village, and a considerable number of persons had collected. Among them -was old Frederick Sabb and Major Coulter. Long approached the old man, -and, after the first salutation, said to him—“Well, Frederick, have we -any late news from goot King Tshorge?” The old Dutchman started as if he -had trodden upon an adder—gave a hasty glance of indignation to the -interrogator, and turned away ex-claiming—“D—n King Tshorge! I don’t -care dough I nebber more hears de name agen!” - - * * * * * - - - - - AUDUBON’S BLINDNESS. - - - BY PARK BENJAMIN. - - - John James Audubon, the great American naturalist, has - entirely lost his sight. _Newspaper Paragraph._ - - Blind—blind! yes, blind—those eyes that loved to look - On the bright pictures in great Nature’s book. - Quenched is that visual glory which arrayed - All the winged habitants of grove and glade, - And hill and prairie, in a garb as fair - As their own plumage stirred by golden air. - - Alas! no more can he behold the beam - Of morning touch the meadow or the stream; - No more the noontide’s rays pervade the scene, - Nor evening’s shadows softly intervene, - But on his sense funereal Night lets fall - The moveless folds of her impervious pall. - - But he shall wake! and in a grander clime, - With vales more lovely, mountains more sublime, - There shall he view, without a film to hide, - Delicious pastures, streams that softly glide, - Groves clothed in living greenness, filled with plumes - Bright as the dawn, and various as the blooms - With which the early Summer decks his bowers— - Gems all in motion, life-invested flowers. - - Fairer than those, albeit surpassing fair, - His pencil painted with a skill so rare - That they, whose feet have never trod the far - And wondrous places where such creatures are, - Know all their beauty with familiar love— - From the stained oriole to the snow-white dove. - - Blind—blind! Alas! he is bereft of light - Who gave such pleasure to the sense of sight. - His eyes, that, like the sun, had power to vest - All forms with color, are with darkness prest: - Sealed with a gloom chaotic like the deep; - Shut in by shadows like the realm of sleep. - - Yet ’tis not meet to mourn a loss so brief— - A pain, to which time cannot yield relief— - But which Eternity must banish soon, - With beams more lustrous than the blaze of noon; - Yet softer than the evening is or morn, - When he to light immortal shall be born; - And with a vision purified behold - More than the prophets, priests and bards have told. - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNETS. - - - BY MARY SPENSER PEASE. - - - LOVE’S SUNSET. - - As shadows lengthen with the day’s declining, - Like troops of dusky spectres onward creeping, - Weaving swart stripes amid the golden shining - Where meadow, brook and moss-grown hill lie sleeping; - With murky fingers Nature’s sweet book closing— - Each bell and blossom and each three-leaved clover, - With stealthy march the sun’s glad sway deposing, - Till, widening, deepening, darkness shrouds earth over: - So, thy declining love casts o’er my spirit - Chill shadows, freezing all my soul’s warm giving, - Chill shadows, deadening all my soul’s best merit, - And making blackest night my brightest living: - A long, long, fearful night—that knows no morning, - Save in wild, glowing dreams, that speak thy love’s returning. - - - LOVE’S SUNRISE. - - As shadows vanish with the dawn’s advancing, - Like things of evil fleeing from Truth’s whiteness, - The mem’ry of their dark spell but enhancing - The warmth and light of morning’s dewy brightness; - Their chill power over—with a glad awaking - Starts to new life each sleeping leaf and flower, - Each bird and insect into wild song breaking— - All Nature’s heart-pulse thrilleth to the hour: - Thus, my life’s sun—its glory all pervading— - Fuses my soul with daylight warm and tender; - Thus, all strange fears, my spirit darkly shading— - All doubtings flee from its excess of splendor: - Thus, through my inmost heart—like joy-bells ringing— - The birds and honey-bees of thy dear love come singing. - - * * * * * - - - - - DOCTRINE OF FORM. - - -There is a connection natural and necessary between the forms and -essences of things; some law which compels figure and faculty into -correspondence; some tie which binds nature, function, and end to shape, -volume, and intrinsic arrangement. - -That a wheel must be circular, a lever inflexible, and a screw, wedge -and inclined plane shall have a determinate form, is clearly a condition -of adaptation to use; and because in machinery the arrangement of inert -matter is thus essential to the action and aim of all contrivance and -mutual adjustment of parts, we are apt to think configuration entirely a -question of mechanical fitness, and indifferent to and independent of -structures having no such office. But it is not so. Facts beyond number -show that it has definite and fixed relation to substance universally, -without limitation to a particular kind or sphere of use, or manner or -purpose of being. - -I. There are examples enough to prove that the fundamental law, -connecting shape and arrangement with function, is stronger in the vital -and spiritual than in the mechanical sphere, and even supercedes its -settled order and method. An instance of this overruling force:—The -elephant in general organization is a quadruped, eminently; but his -sagacity rises so high above the ordinary level of brutes as to require -the service of a proboscis, which is nearly equal in capabilities of use -to the human hand. Furnished with a sort of finger at the extremity of -this excellent instrument of prehension, he can draw a cork, lift a -shilling piece from the ground, or separate one blade of grass from a -number with dexterity and despatch. In this his eminence of intellect is -indicated, for external instruments are in accurate relation to internal -faculties, and considerable handicraft bespeaks a proportionately high -range of mental power. Now observe how his organization differs from -that of other quadrupeds, and approaches, against all the analogies of -classification, toward the arrangements of the human form. He has the -rudiments of five toes on each foot, shown externally by five toe-nails. -This is one toe more than belongs to any beast below the monkey tribe. -He has a kneepan on the hind leg, and the flexure of the limb is -backward, like the human, and unlike other quadrupeds. The breast of the -female is removed from its usual position upon the pelvis, to the chest -or breast bone, as in the more elevated races; and all the organs of -reproductive life correspond to those of the higher orders. All this is -unexplained by any mechanical necessity or advantage, and is so far, in -violation of the analogies of that lower constitution by which he is -linked to the order of four footed animals. Of his internal organization -I have no means of information within reach, but I am satisfied _a -priori_ that the human configuration and position of ports are -approximated wherever the quadruped form and attitude leaves it -possible. Comparative anatomists make great account of all instances of -mechanical accommodations which they meet with, but they are in nothing -so remarkable or so conspicuous as those which we are now noticing. They -have the advantage of being understood, and are therefore much insisted -upon; but the facts which we have given and hinted at are at once so -striking and so conclusive, as to leave no doubt and no necessity for -further proof of the preeminence of the law which they indicate. - -II. In looking over the world of animal and vegetable forms there is -nothing more remarkable than the continual sacrifice of strength to -beauty, and of quantity or bulk to symmetry and shapeliness. Use seems -postponed to appearance, and order, attitude and elegance take rank of -quantity in the forms of things. I suppose that the law under -consideration determines these conditions of structure; and that the -beauty to which the sacrifice is credited, as an end and object, is only -an incident; and, that the pleasure derived arises upon the felt -correspondence of such forms with our faculties, innately adjusted to -the harmonies of this universal law—in other words—that there is an -intrinsic force of essence which compels organization, limits its -dimensions, and determines its figure, and so, all substances take shape -and volume from a law higher and more general than individual use and -efficiency. Beauty, being but the name for harmony between faculty and -object, may well serve as a rule of criticism, but the efficient cause -which determines form lies deeper; it lies, doubtless, in the necessary -relation of organization and essence—structure and use—appearance and -office—making one the correspondent and exponent of the other in the -innermost philosophy of signs. - -The abrogation of a rule, and departure from an established method of -conformation, belonging to a whole class of natural beings, in order to -attain the forms and order of arrangement of another class into whose -higher style of constitution the lower has been somewhat advanced, as in -the case of the elephant; and, the clear evidence that mechanical -perfection is everywhere in the human mechanism subordinated to a law of -configuration, which has respect to another standard and a higher -necessity—each, in its own way, demonstrates that form is not only a -necessity of mechanics, but is still more eminently an essential -condition of all substance. Facts from these sources hold a sort of -raking position in the array of our argument, but the multitude and -variety of examples which muster regularly under the rule are, of -themselves, every way adequate to maintain it. - -III. Our proposition (to vary the statement of it) is, that form, or -figure, and, doubtless, dimension also, have a fixed relation to the -special qualities and characters of beings and things, and that it is -not indifferent in the grand economy of creation whether they be put -into their present shapes or into some other; but, on the contrary, the -whole matter of configuration and dimension is determined by laws which -arise out of the nature of things. - -In generals the evidence is clear, and it must, therefore, be true in -the minutest particulars; for the law of aggregates is the law of -individuals—the mass and the atom have like essential conditions. It -is, indeed, difficult to trace facts into the inmost nature of things, -and quite impossible to penetrate by observation as deep as principles -lead by the process of mental investigation—so much more limited in the -discovery of truth, even the truth of physics, are the senses than the -reasoning faculties. We need, however, but open our eyes to see that the -diversities of form among all created things are, at least, as great as -their differences of character and use; and whether there be a -determinate relation of appearance to constitution or not, there is at -least an unlikeness of configuration or dimension, or of both, wherever -there is unlikeness of quality; and that this difference of form thus -commensurate with difference of constitution, is not merely a matter of -arbitrary distinctiveness among the multifarious objects of creation, as -names or marks are sometimes attached to things for certainty of -reference and recognition, appears from such facts and considerations as -follow— - -1. All mineral substances in their fixed, that is, in their crystaline -form, are angular with flat sides and straight edges. This is not only a -general rule and an approximate statement, but exactly accurate and -universal; for in the few instances of crystals occurring with convex or -curvilinear faces, such as the diamond, it is known that their primary -forms have plane or flat faces and a parallel cleavage—making the rule -good against accidental influences and superficial appearances. - -Here then we have a mode of configuration appropriate to and distinctive -of one whole kingdom of nature. - -2. In vegetables we have a different figure and characteristic -conformation. Their trunks, stems, roots and branches are nearly -cylindrical, and uniformly so, in all individuals clearly and completely -within the class. - -Soon as we enter the precincts of life curvature of lines and convexity -of surface begin to mark the higher styles of existence, the law being -that nothing which lives and grows by the reception and assimilation of -food is angular, rectilinear or included within plane surfaces. Inert -bodies take straight, but life assumes curve lines. - -3. In animal forms the curve or life line is present of necessity, but -it undergoes such modification and departure from that which marks -vegetable existence as our law demands. We no longer have almost -cylindrical simplicity of shape as the sign of character and kind, but, -retaining curvity, which is common to vitality of all modes, we find the -cylinder shaped or tapered toward the conical, with continually -increasing approach to a higher style of configuration as we ascend -toward a higher character of function. - -In the human body all that belongs to the whole inferior creation is -represented and reproduced, for man is logically a microcosm, and in his -body we find the various orders of natural beings marked by their -appropriate modes of construction and configuration—from a hair to a -heart, the multifarious parts bring with them the forms native to their -respective varieties of being. - -The bones have in them the material of the mineral kingdom, and they -have conformity of figure. In the short, square bones of the wrist, in -the teeth, and several other instances, the flatness, straightness and -angularity proper to crystalized matter, marks its presence as an -element of the structure. - -The correspondence of the vascular system with the forms proper to -vegetation, is most striking. A good drawing of the blood vessels is a -complete picture of a tree. Now, animals and vegetables differ widely in -their manner of taking in food, but they are alike in the method and end -of the distribution of the nutritious fluids, and between them the -resemblance of form obtains only in this, as our law requires. There is -nothing in trees, shrubs or grasses, that has any outline likeness to -the esophagus, stomach or intestinal tube; nothing in them has any -resemblance of office, and nothing, therefore, is formed upon their -pattern. The roots of trees, which are the avenues of their principal -aliment, are merely absorbing and circulating instruments—a sort of -counterpart branches in function—and they have, therefore, what -scientific people call the arborescent arrangement wherever they find -it. - -If it is answered here that a hydraulic necessity determines the general -form of circulating vessels, and that certain immediate mechanical -advantages belong to the cylindrical over the square or polygonal shape -of tube, our point is not affected. We are showing, now, that the -expected conformity never fails. It is essential to our position that -mechanical requirements shall not over-rule the general law. The -instance given is in accordance, and a presumption rises that even -mechanical conformation itself is covered and accommodated by the great -principle which we are illustrating. It is enough for us, however, that -no facts contradict, though it be doubted whether all the instances -cited afford us the expected support. - -But, leaving the functions and organs, which belong to all living and -growing beings in common, and entering the province of animal life and -animal law proper, we everywhere observe a significant departure from -the angular and cylindrical forms of the mineral and vegetable kingdoms, -and an approach, in proportion to the rank and value of the organ and -its use, toward an ideal or model, which is neither conical nor -heart-shaped, exactly, but such a modification of them as carries the -standard figure farthest from that uniformity of curve which marks a -globe, from the parallelism of fibre which belongs to the cylinder, and -from the flatness of base and sharpness of apex which bound the cone. - -The limbs that take their shape from the muscles of locomotion, and the -internal parts concerned in those high vital offices, of which minerals -and vegetables are wholly destitute, are examples and proof of the -configuration proper to the animal kingdom. The thigh, leg, arm, -fore-arm, finger, the neck and shoulders, the chest, and the abdomen -meeting it and resting on the pelvic bones, are felt to be beautiful or -true to the standard form as they taper or conform to this intuitive -life-type. - -The glands are all larger at one end than the other, and those that have -the highest uses are most conspicuously so, and have the best defined -and most elegant contour. The descending grade of figure and function is -marked by tendency to roundness and flatness. In the uses, actions and -positions of these organs, there is nothing mechanical to determine -their figure. The human stomach is remarkable for an elegance of form -and conformity to the ideal or pattern configuration, to a degree that -seems to have no other cause, and, therefore, well supports the doctrine -that the importance of its office confers such excellence of shape. The -facts of comparative anatomy cannot be introduced with convenience, but -they are believed to be in the happiest agreement and strongest -corroboration. - -The heart, lungs and brain, are eminent instances of the principle. They -hold a very high rank in the organization, and, while their automatic -relations, uses and actions are _toto cœlo_ dissimilar, their agreement -with each other in general style of configuration, and their common -tendency toward the standard intimated, is most remarkable. - -Their near equality of rank and use, as measured by the significance of -form, over-rides all mechanical difference in their mode of working. The -heart is, in office, a forcing pump or engine of the circulation. The -lungs have no motion of their own, and the porosity or cellular -formation of the sponge seems to be the only quality of texture that -they require for their duty, which is classed as a process of vital -chemistry. The brain differs, again, into a distinct category of -function, which accepts no classification, but bears some resemblance to -electrical action. Yet, differing thus by all the unlikeness that there -is between mechanical, chemical and electro-vital modes of action, they -evidently derive their very considerable resemblance of figure from -their nearly equal elevation and dignity of service in the frame. This -near neighborhood of use and rank allows, however, room enough for their -individual differences and its marks. The heart is lowest of the three -in rank, and nearest the regularly conical form. The lungs, as their -shape is indicated by the cavity which they occupy, are more delicately -tapered at their apex, and more oblique and variously incurvated at -their base. And the brain, whether viewed in four compartments, or two, -or entire, (it admits naturally of such division,) answers still nearer -to the highest style and form of the life pattern; and with the due -degree of resemblance, or allusion to it, in its several parts, -according to their probable value; for the hemispheres are shaped much -more conformably to the ideal than the cerebellum or the cerebral -apparatus at the base of the brain, where the office begins to change -from that of generating the nervous power to the lower service of merely -conducting it out to the dependencies. - -IV. Hitherto we have looked for proof and illustration only to well -marked and clearly defined examples of the orders and kinds of things -examined. But the borders of kingdoms and classes, the individuals which -make the transitions, and the elements and qualities common to several -provinces which link kind to kind and rank to rank, confess the same -law, and even more nicely illustrate where, to superficial view, they -seem to contradict it. - -Every species of beings in the creation is a reproduction, with -modifications and additions, but a real reproduction, in effect, of all -that is below it in the scale; so that the simplest and the lowest -continues and reappears in all, through all variety of advancement, up -to the most complex and the highest; in some sense, as decimals include -the constituent units, and hundreds include the tens, and other -multiples of these embrace them again, until the perfect number is -reached, if there be any such bound to either numerals or natures. - -1. The rectilinear and parallel arrangement of parts proper to -crystalization, which is the lowest plastic power of nature known to us, -continues, proximately, in the stems and branches of vegetables. This -will accord with our theory, if ascribed to the abundant mineral -elements present in the woody fibre, and to its insensibility and -enduring nature, as shown by its integral preservation for ages after -death, to a degree that rivals the rocks themselves. But the stems of -trees are not exactly cylindrical and their fibres are not quite -parallel; for there is something of life in them that refuses the -arrangement of dead matter. From root to top they taper, but so -gradually that it is only decidedly seen at considerable distances or in -the whole length. - -2. A section of a timber tree shows a regular concentric arrangement of -rings—the successive deposits of sequent years—and its cleavage proves -that it has also a radiated disposition of fibres. In the flat bones of -the head this same arrangement of parts obtains. The cartilaginous base -of bone has a life of perhaps equal rank with that of the vegetable -structure; it has its insensibility, elasticity, and durability at -least, with scarcely any higher qualities; and the osseous deposit is -thrown into figure and order similar to the ligneous. - -3. The fruits, kernels, and seeds of plants, being the highest results -of the vegetable grade of living action, and so bordering upon the -sphere of animal existence, and even intruding into it, begin to take -its proper forms, and they are spheroidal, oblate spheroids, conical -exactly, ovoid, and even closely touch upon the heart-shaped; yet -without danger of confusion with the forms distinctive of the higher -style of life. This comparison, it must be remarked also, is between the -fruits of one kind and the organic structures of the other, and not of -organ with organ, which in different kinds shows the greatest diversity, -but of spheres of existence immediately contiguous, and therefore -closely resembling each other. - -V. Of these forms the globular is probably the very lowest; and, -accordingly, of it we have no perfect instance in the animal body, and -no near approach to it, except the eye-ball, where mechanical law -compels a rotundity, that muscle, fat, and skin seem employed to hide as -well as move and guard, and, in the round heads of bones, where the ball -and socket-joint is required for rotatory motion. But in both these -cases the offices which the roundness serves are mechanical, and so, not -exceptions to our rule. The perfectly spherical must rank as a low order -of form, because it results from the simplest kind of force, mere -physical attraction being adequate to its production, without any -inherent modifying power or tendency in the subject. It is, accordingly, -very repugnant to taste in the human structure; as, for instance, -rotundity of body, or a bullet-head. Nothing of that regularity of curve -which returns into itself, and might be produced upon a turning lathe, -and no continuity of straight lines within the capacity of square and -jack-plane, are tolerable in a human feature. Lips, slit with the -straightness of a button-hole, or conical precision, or roly-poly -globularity, would be equally offensive in the configuration of any -feature of the face or general form. Cheek, chin, nose, brow, or bosom, -put up into such rotundity and uniformity of line and surface, have that -mean and insignificant ugliness that nothing can relieve. In raggedest -irregularity there is place and space for the light and shade of thought -and feeling, but there is no trace or hint of this nobler life in the -booby cushiony style of face and figure. Nose and brows, with almost any -breadth of angle; and chin, with any variety of line and surface, are -better, just as crystalization, flat and straight and sharp as it is, -nevertheless, seems to have some share in its own make and meaning, -which rolls and balls cannot lay any claim to. - -VI. But the law under consideration cannot be restrained to shape only. -Dimension is also a result of intrinsic qualities, and must in some way -and to some extent, indicate the character to which it corresponds. -Druggists are so well aware of, and so much concerned with the -difference in the size of the drops of different fluids, that they have -constructed a table of equivalents, made necessary by the fact. Thus a -fluid drachm of distilled water contains forty-five drops, of sulphuric -ether one hundred and fifty, of sulphuric acid ninety, and of Teneriffe -wine seventy-eight. So that the law is absolutely universal, however -varied in expression, and a specific character in fluids and other parts -of the inanimate world declares itself as decidedly in bulk or volume, -as difference of constitution is shown by variety of figure in the -living and sentient creation. - -Among the crystals termed _isomorphous_ by chemists, the dominant -ingredient which is common to them all, controls the form, but -difference of size answers sufficiently to the partial unlikeness of the -other less active elements; and so in the instances of cubes and -octahedrons formed of dissimilar minerals where difference of -constitution is indicated by varied dimensions only. - -VII. Crystal and crystal, and, drop and drop, are alike within the -limits of the species, or their unlikeness, if there be any, is not -appreciable to our senses, and scarcely conceivable though not -absolutely impossible to thought; but we know certainly that clear -individuality of character is everywhere pursued and marked by -peculiarity of form and size throughout the entire universe. - -While among minerals and fluids dissimilarity occurs obviously only -between species, among plants it begins to be conspicuous between -individuals, growing more and more so as observation ascends in the -vegetable kingdom. Two stalks of grass may resemble each other as much -as two crystals of the same salt, but timber trees grow more unlike, and -fruit trees differ enough to make their identification comparatively -easy. But it is in the animal kingdom, eminently, and with increasing -distinctness as the rank rises, that individuals become distinguishable -from each other; for it is here that diversity of character gets -opportunity, from complexity of nature, freedom of generating laws, and -varied influence of circumstances, to impress dissimilarity deepest and -clearest. Crystals undergo no modification of state but instant -formation and the sudden violence which destroys them. Vegetables pass -through the changes of germination and growth, and feel the difference -of soil, and winds, and temperature, and to the limits of these -influences, confess them in color, size, and shape; but animals, endowed -with acuteness of sense, enjoying locomotion, and related to all the -world around them—living in all surrounding nature, and susceptible of -all its influences—their individual differences know no limits, and -they are universally unlike in appearance as in circumstances, training -and character. - -Even in the lower orders there is ample proof of this. The mother bird -and beast know their own young; the shepherd and the shepherd’s dog know -every one of their own flock from every other on all the hills and -plains; and among the millions of men that people the earth, a quick eye -detects a perfectly defined difference as broad as the peculiarity of -character which underlies it. - - _Narrowness of relations and Simplicity of function are as - narrowly restrained in range of conformation; Complexity makes - proportionate room for difference; and Variety is the result, - the sign, and the measure of Liberty._ - -Detailed illustrations of the law would interest in proportion to the -range of the investigation; and gratification and delight would keep -pace with the deepening conviction of its universality; but the limits -of an essay restrain the discussion to mere hints and suggestions, and -general statements of principles which reflection must unfold into -formal demonstration for every one in his own department of observation. - -Some inaccuracies of statement have been indulged to avoid the -complexity which greater precision would have induced. Broad, frank -thinking will easily bring up this looseness of language to the required -closeness of thought as the advancing and deepening inquiry demands. -Moreover, it may be difficult or impossible to meet every fact that -presents itself with an instant correspondence in the alleged law; but -such things cannot be avoided until people learn how to learn, and cease -to meet novel propositions with a piddling criticism, or a wrangling -spirit of controversy. Looking largely and deeply into facts in a -hundred departments of observation will show the rule clear in the focal -light of their concurrent proofs, or, looking out from the central -position of _a priori_ reasoning, it will be seen in every direction to -be a _necessary_ truth. - -It would be curious, and more than curious, to trace ascent of form up -through ascertained gradation of quality in minerals, plants, fruits, -and animal structures; and it would be as curious to apply a criticism -derived from this doctrine to the purpose of fixing the rank and -relations of all natural beings—in other words, to construct a science -of taste and beauty, and, striking still deeper, a science of universal -physiognomy, useful at once as a law of classification, and as an -instrument of discovery. The scale would range most probably from the -globular, as the sign of the lowest character, through the regularly -graded movement of departure which in nature fills up all the stages of -ascending function from a drop of fluid to the model configuration of, -perhaps, that cerebral organ which manifests the highest faculty of the -soul. - -The signs that substance and its states give of intrinsic nature and -use, or the connection of configuration and function, are not understood -as we understand the symbols of arithmetic, and the words of artificial -language; that is, the symbols of our own creation answer to the ideas -they are intended for, but the signs of the universal physiognomy of -nature are neither comprehended fully, nor translated even to the extent -that they are understood, into the formulæ of science and the words of -oral language. Many of them are telegraphed in dumb show to our -instincts, to the great enlargement of our converse with nature, both -sentient and inanimate; but still a vast territory of knowledge lies -beyond the rendering of our intuitions, and remains yet unexplored by -our understanding; a dark domain that has not been brought under any -rule of science, nor yielded its due tribute to the monarch mind. We -have no dictionary that shows the inherent signification of a cube, a -hexagon, an octagon, circle, ellipse, or cylinder; no tables of -multiplication, addition, subtraction, and division, which, dealing in -forms and their equivalents, might afford the products, quotients, and -remainders of their various differences and interminglings with each -other. States, qualities, and attitudes of structure, contribute much of -that natural language by which we converse with the animal world beneath -us, and with the angel world within us, but it remains as yet -instinctual, except so far only as the fine arts have brought it out of -the intuitive and oracular into rule and calculation, nor have we any -methodic calculus, universally available, by which these revelations of -nature may be rendered into demonstrative truth ruled by scientific -method. - -It is conceivable that the form of every natural being is a full report -of its constitution and use, but as yet, tedious and dubious chemical -analysis, observation, and experiment are our directory to the hidden -truth. In some things it is otherwise. We know perfectly a passion or -emotion, and the meaning of the attitudes, colors, and forms of limb, -person and feature which denote them; and the interior qualities of -texture, also, as they are intimated to the sight and touch, lead us -without reasoning, to definitive judgments of human character. Of -animals, in their degree, we receive similar impressions and with equal -conviction, but we know so little more about these things, than that we -know them, that we can make no advantage of such knowledge beyond its -most immediate purpose in our commerce with the living beings which -surround us. - -It remains, therefore, for mind to explore the philosophy of form, that -all which lies implied in it, waiting but still undiscovered, may come -out into use, and all that we instinctively possess of it may take a -scientific method, and so render the service of a law thoroughly -understood. - -The principle gives us familiar aid every day, yet without revealing its -own secret, in physiognomy, painting, statuary, architecture, and -elocution. It is obeyed in all the impersonations of metaphor, fable and -myth; it is active every instant in the creations of fancy, and -supplies, so to speak, the material for all the structures of -thought—ruling universally in the earth, and fashioning and peopling -the heavens. To the most delicate movements of the imagination it gives -a corresponding embodiment of beauty; and it helps, as well, to realize -the monstrous mixtures of man and beast occurring in human character by -the answering monstrosity of centaur, syren, sphinx, and satyr. The old -Greek theology held that the eternal Divinity made all things out of an -eternal matter, after the forms of eternal, self-subsisting patterns; a -statement, in its utmost depth beyond the discovery of human faculties, -certainly, but not too strong to express the universal prevalence of -this law in the creation. To the human intellect all things _must_ exist -in space, bounded and determined by figure appropriate to the subject; -in fact, we can conceive of nothing except under such conditions; and -our doctrine but refers this necessity of mind to a primordial necessity -of being, ranking it among the harmonies of existence, as an adaptation -of sense, thought, and feeling to the correspondent truth in the -constitution of the universe. - - E. - - * * * * * - - - - - ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL TAYLOR. - - - BY R. T. CONRAD. - - - _Quid me mortuum miserum vocas, qui te sum multo felicior? aut - quid acerbi mihi putas contigisse?_ - - Weep not for him! The Thracians wisely gave - Tears to the birth-couch, triumph to the grave. - ’Tis misery to be born—to live—to die: - Ev’n he who noblest lives, lives but to sigh. - The right not shields from wrong, nor worth from wo, - Nor glory from reproach; he found it so. - Not strong life’s triumphs, not assured its truth; - Ev’n virtue’s garland hides an aspic tooth. - His glorious morn was past, and past his noon;— - Life’s duty done, death never comes too soon. - Then cast the dull grave’s gloomy trappings by! - The dead was wise, was just—nor feared to die. - Weep not for him. Go, mark his high career; - It knew no shame, no folly and no fear. - More blest than is man’s lot his blameless life, - Though tost by tempests and though torn by strife. - ’Neath the primeval forest’s towery pride, - Virtue and Danger watched his couch beside; - This taught him purely, nobly to aspire, - That gave the nerve of steel and soul of fire. - No time his midnight lamps—the stars—could dim; - His matin music was the cataract’s hymn; - His Academe the forest’s high arcade— - (To Numa thus Egeria blessed the shade;) - With kindling soul, the solitude he trod— - The temple of high thoughts—and spake with God: - Thus towered the man—amid the wide and wild— - And Nature claimed him as her noblest child. - Nurtured to peril, lo! the peril came, - To lead him on, from field to field, to fame. - ’Twas met as warriors meet the fray they woo: - To shield young Freedom’s wild-wood homes he flew; - And—fire within his fortress, foes without, - The rattling death-shot and th’ infuriate shout— - He, where the fierce flames burst their smoky wreath, - And war’s red game raged madliest, toyed with death; - Till spent the storm, and Victory’s youngest son - Glory’s first fruits, his earliest wreath, had won. - Weep not for him, whose lustrous life has known - No field of fame he has not made his own: - In many a fainting clime, in many a war, - Still bright-browed Victory drew the patriot’s car. - Whether he met the dusk and prowling foe - By oceanic Mississippi’s flow; - Or where the southern swamps, with steamy breath, - Smite the worn warrior with no warrior’s death; - Or where, like surges on the rolling main, - Squadron on squadron sweep the prairie plain; - Dawn—and the field the haughty foe o’erspread, - Sunset—and Rio Grande’s waves run red; - Or where, from rock-ribbed safety, Monterey - Frowns death, and dares him to the unequal fray; - Till crashing walls and slippery streets bespeak - How frail the fortress where the heart is weak; - How vainly numbers menace, rocks defy, - Men sternly knit and firm to do or die; - Or where, on thousands thousands crowding, rush - (Rome knew not such a day) his ranks to crush, - The long day paused on Buena Vista’s height, - Above the cloud with flashing volleys bright; - Till angry Freedom, hovering o’er the fray, - Swooped down, and made a new Thermopylæ;— - In every scene of peril and of pain, - His were the toils, his country’s was the gain. - From field to field, and all were nobly won, - He bore, with eagle flight, her standard on: - New stars rose there—but never star grew dim - While in his patriot grasp. Weep not for him. - The heart is ne’er a castaway; its gift - Falls back, like dew to earth—the soul’s own thrift - Of gentlest thoughts by noblest promptings moved: - He loved his country, and by her was loved. - To him she gave herself, a sacred trust, - And bade him leave his sword to rest and rust; - And, awed but calm, nor timid nor elate, - He turned to tread the sandy stairs of state. - Modest, though firm; decided, cautious, clear; - Without a selfish hope, without a fear; - Reverent of right, no warrior now, he still - Cherished the nation’s chart, the people’s will; - Hated but Faction with her maniac brand, - And loved, with fiery love, his native land. - Rose there a foe dared wrong in her despite, - How eager leaped his soul to do her right! - Her flag his canopy, her tents his home— - The world in arms—why, let the armed world come! - Thus loved he, more than life, and next to Heaven, - The broad, bright land to which that life was given; - And, loving thus and loved, the nation’s pride, - Her hope, her strength, her stay—the patriot died! - Weep not for him—though hurried from the scene: - ’Twill be earth’s boast that such a life has been. - Taintless his truth as Heaven; his soul sincere - Sparkled to-day, as mountain brooklets clear. - O’er every thought high honour watchful hung, - As broods the eagle o’er her eyried young. - His courage, in its calmness, silent, deep, - But strong as fate—Niagara in its sleep; - But when, in rage, it burst upon the foe— - Niagara leaping to the gulf below. - His clemency the graceful bow that, thrown - O’er the wild wave, Heaven lights and makes its own. - His was a spirit simple, grand and pure, - Great to conceive, to do and to endure; - Yet the rough warrior was, in heart, a child, - Rich in love’s affluence, merciful and mild. - His sterner traits, majestic and antique, - Rivaled the stoic Roman or the Greek; - Excelling both, he adds the Christian name, - And Christian virtues make it more than fame. - To country, youth, age, love, life—all were given; - In death, she lingered between him and Heaven; - Thus spake the patriot in his latest sigh, - “_My duty done—I do not fear to die._” - Weep not for him; but for his country, tost - On Faction’s surges: “think not of the lost, - But what ’tis ours to do.”[2] The hand that stayed, - The pillar that upheld, in dust are laid; - And Freedom’s tree of life, whose roots entwine - Thy fathers’ bones—will it e’er cover thine? - Root, rind and leaf a traitor tribe o’erspread; - Worms sap its trunk and tempests bow its head. - But the land lives not, dies not, in one man, - Were he the purest lived since life began. - Upon no single anchor rests our fate: - Millions of breasts engird and guard the state. - Yet, o’er each true heart, in the nation’s night, - Will Taylor’s memory rise, a pillared light; - His lofty soul will prop the patriot’s pride, - His virtues animate, his wisdom guide. - Faction, whose felon fury, blind and wild, - Would rend our land, as Circe tore her child, - In sordid cunning or insensate wrath, - Scattering its quivering limbs along her path— - Ev’n Faction, at his name, will cower away, - And, shrieking, shrinking, shield her from the day. - Then up to duty! true, as he was true; - As pure, as calm, as firm to bear and do; - Nerve every patriot power, knit every limb, - And up to duty: but _weep not for him_! - ------ - -[2] _Non quos amisimus, sed quantum lugere par sit cogitemus._ - Cicero. - - * * * * * - - - - - “PSYCHE LOVES ME.” - - - BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. - - - I have no gold, no lands, no robes of splendor, - No crowd of sycophants to siege my door; - But fortune in one thing at least is tender— - For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more? - - I have no fame, nor to the height of honor - Will my poor name on tireless pinions soar; - Yet Fate has never drawn my hate upon her— - For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more? - - I have no station, know no high position, - And never yet the robes of office wore; - Yet I can well afford to scorn ambition— - For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more? - - I have no beauty—beauty has forsworn me, - On others wasting all her charming store; - Yet I lack nothing now which could adorn me— - For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more? - - I have no learning—in nor school nor college - Could I abide o’er quaint old tomes to pore; - But this I know which passeth all your knowledge— - That Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more? - - Now come what may, or loss or shame or sorrow, - Sickness, ingratitude or treachery sore, - I laugh to-day and heed not for the morrow— - For Psyche loves me—and I ask no more. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO THE LOST ONE. - - - BY DUNCAN MOORE. - - - _Vale et Benedicite._ - - In joy we met; in anguish part; - Farewell, thou frail, misguided one! - Young Hope sings matins in thy heart, - While dirges ring in mine alone, - Solemn as monumental stone. - - Thy life is Spring, but Autumn mine; - Thy hope all flowers; mine bitter fruit, - For hope but blossoms to repine; - It seldom hath a second shoot;— - A shadow that evades pursuit. - - Though poets are not prophets here, - Yet Time must pass and you will see, - While o’er dead joys you drop the tear, - This world is one Gethsemane - Where all weep—die—still dream to be. - - Flowers spring, birds sing in the young heart, - But Time spares not the flowers of Spring; - The birds that sang there soon depart, - And leave God’s altar withering— - Flowerless and no bird to sing. - - God pronounced all things good in Eden; - Young Adam sang—not knowing evil, - Until the snake plucked fruit forbidden, - And made himself to Eve quite civil.— - Did he tempt her, or she the devil? - - True, she made Eden Adam’s heaven;— - Also the green earth Adam’s hell; - Tore from his grasp all God had given; - Cast him from bliss in sin to dwell; - To make her food by his sweat and blood. - - Then what should man from woman hope, - Who hurled from Paradise his sire? - Her frailty drew his horoscope, - And barred the gates of heaven with fire; - Changed God’s intent for her desire. - - And what should she from man expect - Who slew his God her soul to save? - A dreary life of cold neglect;— - For Eden lost;—a welcome grave, - Where kings make ashes with the slave! - - A welcome grave! man’s crowning hope! - All trust from dust we shall revive; - Despite our gloomy horoscope, - Incarnadined God will receive - His children who slew him to live. - - A frail partition but divides - Your husband from insanity; - He stares as madness onward strides - To crush each spark of memory— - I gave you all—this you give me! - _Vale et Benedicite._ - - * * * * * - - - - - COQUET _versus_ COQUETTE. - - - BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER. - - - _Benedict._ One woman is fair; yet I am well: - another is wise; yet I am well: another virtuous; - yet I am well: but till all graces be in one woman, - one woman shall not come in my grace. - _Much Ado About Nothing._ - - _Princess._ We are wise girls to mock our lovers so. - - _Rosaline._ They are worse fools to purchase mocking so. - That same Biron I’ll torture ere I go. - How will I make him fawn, and beg, and seek; - And wait the season, and observe the times, - And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes; - And shape his service wholly to my behests; - And make him proud to make me proud that jests! - So portent-like would I o’ersway his state - That he should be my fool, and I his fate. - _Love’s Labor Lost._ - - - CHAPTER I. - -Nature had been very profuse in bestowing her favors upon Mr. Frank -Gadsby. In the first place she had given him a very elegant person, tall -and of manly proportions; secondly, a pair of large, dark-hazel eyes, -which could beam with tenderness or become fixed in the “fine frenzy” of -despair, as best suited the pleasure of their owner. Above them she had -placed a broad, white forehead, and adorned it with waving hair, of a -dark, glossy brown. Next, a splendid set of teeth attested her skill and -favor; and, to complete the _tout ensemble_, whiskers and moustache were -unsurpassable. - -“Well,” said Fortune, rather ruffled, “if Nature has been so prodigal, -he shall have none of my assistance—not he! Let him make his way -through the world by his good looks, if he can. I will seek out some -ordinary looking fellow, whom nature has neglected, and with my golden -smiles atone for the want of those attractions which soonest win the -favor of the fair.” - -And thus, under the ban of Fortune, Frank Gadsby left college. - -He professed to study the law as a means of winning the favor of the -goddess, and had a small backroom, up three flights of stairs, furnished -with a table and two chairs, on which table several voluminous law-books -very quietly reposed, being seldom forced to open their oracular jaws to -give forth their sage opinions. This was his study. But the person who -should expect to find him there, I am sorry to say, would have a -fruitless visit, and drag up those steep stairs for nothing. He would be -much more likely to meet him promenading Chestnut street, gallanting -some beautiful young girl up and down its thronged _pavé_—or at the Art -Union, with an eye upon the living beauties there congregated, not upon -the pictures which adorn its walls. - -And yet I would not wish to convey an erroneous opinion, in thus hinting -at the usual whereabouts of Mr. Gadsby. If he did not study, it was not -for the want of talents or aptness; for he possessed a fine mind, and -only needed some impetus to call forth those brilliant traits which were -concealed beneath an exterior so vain and trifling—for vain he -certainly was, and trifling I think I can prove beyond dispute. The fact -is, being a general favorite with the ladies, he was inclined to push -his advantage a little too far; or, in other words, Frank Gadsby was a -coquet—a male coquet, of the first magnitude—insinuating, plausible, -soft-voiced, and, in the words of Spencer, - - “When needed he could weep and pray, - And when he listed he could fawn and flatter, - Now smiling smoothly, like to summer’s day, - Now glooming sadly so to cloke the matter.” - -But although, like the fickle zephyr, he wooed with light dalliance -every fair flower of beauty which came across his path, he yet managed -to retain his heart safe in his own lordly bosom, and Frank Gadsby, the -charmer, alone possessed that love sworn to so many. - -Yet, as one cannot very well live without money, especially in the -atmosphere which surrounded my hero, and as the law put little money in -his purse, and the small annuity left him by some deceased relative -almost as little, Mr. Gadsby resolved to make a rich match one of these -days; no hurry—there was time enough—he had but to pick and -choose—any lady would be proud to become Mrs. Frank Gadsby—and until -stern necessity forced it upon him, he would wear no conjugal yoke! And, -with this self-laudatory decision, he continued his flirtations. - -A conversation which passed between Mr. Gadsby and his friend Clarence -Walton, will serve better than any thing I can vouch to substantiate the -charge of trifling which I have preferred against him. - -This same charge Walton had been reiterating, but to which, with perfect -nonchalance, Gadsby answered: - -“A trifler—a coquet! Come, that is too bad, Walton! To be sure, I pay -the ladies attentions, such as they all expect to receive from the -gentlemen. I give flowers to one, I sit at the feet of a second, go off -in raptures at the music of a third, press the fair hand of a fourth, -waltz with a fifth, and play the gallant to all—but it is only to -please them I do it; and then, I say, Walton, if they will fall in love -with me, egad, how can I help it!” and, saying this, our coxcomb looked -in the glass, as much as to say, “poor things, _they_ surely cannot help -it!” - -“There was Caroline D——, for instance,” replied his friend; “why, as -well as I know your roving propensities, I was induced to think you -serious there!” - -“What, Cara D.! I smitten! O, no! I said some very tender things to her, -to be sure, and visited her every day for a month—wrote her notes, and -presented her daily with some choice bouquet; but I was honorable; as -soon as I saw she was beginning to like me too well, why, I retreated. -Did, upon my honor! Here is her last note—read it Walton!” taking one -from a private drawer, evidently crowded with a multitudinous collection -of faded bouquets, knots of ribbon, gloves, fans, billet-doux, and -silken ringlets of black, brown and golden hair. - -“No; excuse me, Frank, from perusing your love notes,” said Walton! “but -there was also Emma Gay.” - -“Ah, poor Emma! She was a bewitching little creature!” was the answer. -“I wrote some verses to her beautiful eyes, and gazed into them so -tenderly that they folded themselves in their drooping lids to hide from -me. She gave me a lock of her soft, brown hair—I have it somewhere; -but, faith, I have so many such tokens that it is difficult to find the -right one. O, here it is!” - -“And Cornelia Hyde!” - -“She was a splendid girl! Sang like an angel, waltzed like a sylph! Yes, -I flirted with her half a season. I believe she did get a little too -fond of me—sorry for it; upon my soul I meant nothing!” - -“But you can hardly say your attentions to Miss Reed meant nothing,” -said Walton, continuing the category. - -“Why, what could I do?” answered Gadsby. “Confound it, if she did not -send for me every third night to sing duets with her, and every other -morning to pass judgment upon her paintings. I could not be otherwise -than civil.” - -“Then, there was Julia Hentz, and her friend, Hatty Harwood.” - -“O, spare me, Walton! Julia was a sentimental beauty, doating upon the -moon, and stars, and charity children! On my soul, it is no unpleasant -thing to stroll in the beautiful moonlight with a pretty, romantic girl -leaning upon your arm, and to gaze down into her languishing eyes as -they turn their brilliant orbs to the less brilliant stars. I tell you -what, it is a taking way, and came pretty near taking me; for I was -nearer popping the question to the sentimental, moon-struck, star-gazing -Julia, than I love to think of now; see what I drew from her fair hand -on our last moonlight ramble,” (showing a delicate glove.) “As for her -friend Harriet, although not so handsome as Julia, she is a shrewd, -sensible girl—told me, with all the sang-froid imaginable, that I was -flirting a little too strongly—that she could not think of having me -dangling after her, for two reasons—conclusive ones. First was, she did -not like me; and, secondly, my professions were all feigned, for she -knew me to be the greatest coquet extant—a character which, she added, -with provoking coolness, she had no respect for!” - -“Good! A sensible girl, Frank!” said Walton, laughing. - -“Hang me if I did not begin to like her all the better after that,” -continued Gadsby, “and had a great mind to pursue the game in earnest; -but I found it would not pay the exertion. She is as poor as myself.” - -“What can you say of the sisters, Louise and Katrine Leslie, whom you -followed as their shadow for more than six weeks?” pursued the -indefatigable Walton. - -“The brunette and the blonde,” answered Gadsby. “Both charming girls. -Louise, with those large, tender, black eyes—why, she melted one’s -heart as though but a lump of wax; but, then, the roguish glances of -Katrine’s sparkling gray ones! Well, well; a sensible fellow might be -very happy with either. Fact is, they were jealous of each other—ha, -ha, ha. If I wrote poetry to Louise, then Katrine pouted, and her little -white dimpled shoulder turned very coldly upon me. So, I gave flowers to -Katrine and pressed her dimpled hand; then the bewitching Louise cast -her reproachful eyes upon me, and a sigh came floating to me on her -rose-scented breath, at which I placed myself at her feet, and read the -Sorrows of Evangeline in Search of her Lover, and begged for the ringlet -on which a tear had fallen; then Katrine—but no matter; they were both -very fond, poor things!” - -“In the words of the song, I suppose you might have sung, - - “‘How happy could I be with either, - If the other charmer were away,’” - -exclaimed Walton. - -“Precisely. Have you finished your catechism?” - -“I have; although many other names, whose fair owners you have trifled -with, are in my mind,” said Walton. “You must excuse my frankness, -Gadsby, when I tell you that your conduct is unworthy a man of honor or -principle. There is not one of the ladies of whom we have spoken, but -has had reason to think herself the object of your particular interest -and pursuit; and if, as you flatter yourself, they have seemed partial -to your attentions, that partiality has been awakened by those winning -words and manners which none better than yourself know how to assume. -Shame on the man, I say, who can thus insinuate himself into the -affections of a young, unsuspecting girl, merely to flatter his own -egregious vanity or his self-love! Coquetry, idle as it is, is more -properly the province of woman. Nature has given them sprightliness, -grace and beauty, which, in their hands, like the masterly fan in the -days of the Spectator, they are expected to use as weapons against us; -but for a man to assume the coquet, renders him contemptible. If there -is any thing which can add to its meanness, it is boasting of his -conquests—playing the braggart to his own vanity. Woman’s affections -are too sacred to be thus trifled with, nor should her purity be -insulted by the boasts of a—caricature, not a man! Burn all these idle -toys, Gadsby—trophies of unworthy victories—turn to more noble -pursuits, nor longer waste the talents which God has given you, nor the -time which can never be regained.” - -“As fine a lecture as I ever listened to,” quoth Gadsby, feigning a -laugh. “When do you take orders, most reverend Clarence? Why, you -deserve to be elected moralist of the age—a reformer in the courts of -Cupid. However, I will give you the credit of honesty, and more—for I -confess you have given me some pretty sharp home-thrusts, which I will -not pretend to parry; but you take things too seriously, upon my soul -you do. One of these days you shall behold me a sober, married man, in a -flannel night-cap; but until then, Walton, - - “_vive l’amour!_” - - - CHAPTER II. - -“Blue or pink, Charlotte?” - -“O, the blue, by all means, Lucia.” - -“And pearls or rubies?” - -“Pearls.” - -“Blue and pearls! Why, I shall personate the very ideal of maiden -simplicity. I might as well appear all in white!” - -“And it would be beautiful, Lucia,” answered her friend. - -“Think so? Well, I have a great mind to try it, for you must know it is -my desire to look uncommonly well to-night,” said Lucia. - -“But why to-night do you so particularly wish to shine?” inquired -Charlotte. - -“Why? Why, don’t you know we are to meet that renowned enslaver of -hearts, that coquet, Frank Gadsby! Is not that enough to inspire my -vanity?” replied the lively girl. - -“And you are resolved upon leading this renowned conqueror in your own -chains, Lucia?” - -“He shall not escape them, Charlotte. I will bring him to my feet, and -thus become the champion of my sex,” said Lucia. - -“And have you no fears for yourself? Where so many have yielded their -willing hearts, do you expect to escape without paying the same -penalty?” - -“Fears!” answered Lucia. “Why, Charlotte, you don’t think I would give -up my affections to one who has no heart, and never had one; or, if he -had, it has been so completely divided and sub-divided, quartered and -requartered, and parceled out by inches, that not a fragment is left to -hang a hope upon! Why, I should as soon think of falling in love with -one of those effigies of beau-dom—those waxen busts at a barber’s -window—as with this hollow-hearted Frank Gadsby.” - -“You are right, Lucia; for I certainly think that when you marry, it -would be well to have at least one heart between you and your _cara -sposa_, for I am sure you have none,” said Charlotte, laughing. - -“Now, that is the unkindest cut of all, Charlotte—I no heart! Why, I am -‘all heart,’ as poor Mrs. Skewton would say,” answered Lucia. - -“Ah, Lucia, it is conceded by all, I believe, that you are an arrant -coquette.” - -“I a coquette!” exclaimed Lucia. “I deny the charge; there is my gage!” -drawing off her little glove and throwing it at the feet of Charlotte. - -“I accept the challenge,” answered her friend. “In the first place, let -me remind you of a poor Mr. F——.” - -“You need not remind me of him,” answered Lucia. “I am sure I shall not -soon forget him, with his tiresome calls every day, nor his attempts to -look tender with those small, twinkling gray eyes of his. Imagine an owl -in love, that’s all.” - -“And yet you encouraged his visits. Then, there was young Dornton.” - -“Dornton! yes, I remember. Poor fellow, how he did torment me with his -execrable verses!” - -“Execrable! If I remember, Lucia, you once told me they were beautiful.” - -“Ah, I tired of them, and him too, in a fortnight. Why, Charlotte, it -was a perfect surfeit of antimony wrapped up in honey.” - -“Then, your long walks last summer with Dr. Ives.” - -“Were very pleasant walks until he grew sentimental, and suddenly popped -down upon his knees, one day, in the high grass, like a winged -partridge; he looked so ridiculous that really I could not help laughing -in his face. It was a bitter pill; doctor, as he was, he could not -swallow it.” - -“For six weeks you flirted with Henry Nixon,” continued Charlotte. “Why, -he was your shadow, Lucia; what could have tempted you to trifle with -him as you did? I am sure he loved you.” - -“There you are mistaken,” was the reply. “He was only flattered by my -smiles and proud of being in my train. Such magnificent bouquets, too, -as he brought me! It was party season, you know, and his self-love, thus -embodied in a flower to be worn by me, was quite as harmless to him as -convenient for myself.” - -“But not so harmless were the smiles and flattering words you bestowed -upon young Fairlie. O, Lucia, your thoughtless vanity ruined the -happiness of that young man, and drove him off to a foreign clime, -leaving a widowed mother to mourn his absence.” - -“Indeed, Charlotte,” replied Lucia, in a saddened tone, “I had no idea -James Fairlie really loved me until too late. He painted so exquisitely -that, at my father’s request, he was engaged to paint my portrait. I -believe I gave him a lock of my hair, and allowed him to retain a small -miniature which he had sketched of me; but, as I told him, when he so -unexpectedly declared his love, I meant nothing.” - -“Ah, Lucia,” said her friend, reproachfully, “and did you mean nothing -when you allowed the visits of Colonel W——?” - -“O, the gallant Colonel! Excuse me Charlotte—a pair of epaulettes -answer very well, sometimes, in place of a heart. The Colonel’s uniform -was a taking escort through the fashionable promenades; and, then, he -was so vain that it did one good to see him lose the ‘bold front of -Mars’ in the soft blandishments of Cupid; and not forgetting, even when -on his knees, to note, in an opposite mirror, the irresistible effect of -his gallant form at the feet of a fair lady! So far, I think, I have -supported my ground against your accusation of coquetry,” added Lucia. - -“On the contrary, my dear Lucia, I am sorry to say that you have but -proved its truth,” answered Charlotte. “Sorry, because there is, to my -mind, no character so vain and heartless as that of a coquette, and I -would not that any one whom I love should rest under such an imputation. -The moment a woman stoops to coquetry she loses the charm of modesty and -frankness, and renders herself unworthy the pure affection of any -noble-minded man. It betrays vanity, a want of self-respect, and an -utter disregard for the feelings of others. A coquette is a purely -selfish being, who, by her hollow smiles and heartless professions, wins -to the shrine of her vanity many an honest heart, and then casts it from -her as idly as a child the plaything of which he has tired. She is -unworthy the name of woman.” - -“Hollow smiles—heartless professions! Why, what is all this tirade -about, Charlotte?” interrupted Lucia, indignantly. “I do not understand -you. You surely do not mean to class me with those frivolous beings you -have named.” - -“It will do for young coxcombs and fops,” continued Charlotte, “whose -brains centre in an elegant moustache or the tie of a cravat, who swear -pretty little oaths, and can handle their quizzing glass with more skill -than their pen—it will do for them to inflate their vanity by the sighs -of romantic school-girls; but for a high-minded, noble woman, like you, -Lucia, to descend from the dignity of your position to the contemptible -artifices of a coquette—fie, Lucia, be yourself.” - -“From no other but you, Charlotte,” she replied, “would I bear the -unjust imputation you cast upon me, and I should blush did I think -myself deserving one half your censure. I do not feel that I have -descended at all from the ‘dignity of my position,’ as you are pleased -to term it, and consider a coquette quite as contemptible as you do.” - -“Ah, Lucia,” said Charlotte, archly, - - “O wad some power the giftie gie us, - To see oursel’s as ithers see us.” - -“Nonsense! I know I am not a coquette, Charlotte,” retorted Lucia. “Gay -and thoughtless I may have been; but I have never, nor would I ever, -trifle with the affections of one whom I thought any other feeling but -his own vanity had brought to my feet. But come, Madam Mentor, I will -make a truce with you. I must first vanquish this redoubtable Gadsby, in -honorable warfare, and with his own weapons, and then, I promise you, no -duenna of old Spain ever wore a more vinegar aspect than shall Lucia -Laurence, spinster.” - -“But, Lucia—” - -“No—no—no! stop! I know what you are going to say,” interrupted the -gay girl, playfully placing her little hand over the mouth of her -friend. “Positively I must have my way this time. And now for the -business of the toilet. Let me see—blue and pearls; no, white—white, -like a bride, Charlotte!” - - - CHAPTER III. - -A brilliant company swept through the elegant apartments of Mrs. De -Rivers. It was the opening soirée of the season, and here had gathered, -in the regal train of Fashion and Display, the wealth, wit, beauty, and -grace, of Penn’s fair city. Music’s enchanting strains breathed delight, -fair forms moved in the graceful dance, and through the thronged -assembly gay groups were gathered, - - “Where the swift thought, - Winging its way with laughter, lingered not, - But flew from brain to brain.” - -“Who is that queenly young lady, dressed with such elegant simplicity, -talking with Miss De Rivers?” inquired Frank Gadsby of a friend at his -elbow. - -“Where? ah, I see. Why, is it possible you do not know Miss Laurence? -She is the greatest coquette in Philadelphia. Beware—no one escapes who -comes under the influence of her bewitching eyes.” - -“A fair challenge—I will dare the danger. Will you introduce me?” was -the reply. - -“With pleasure—but remember my warning,” answered his friend. “Miss -Laurence is full of wit, and will cut up your fairest speeches to serve -her ridicule; she is proud, and leads her many captives after her with -the air of a Juno; she is sensible, and will carry out an argument with -the skill of a subtle lawyer. She is handsome—” - -“That is easily seen,” interrupted Gadsby. “Pray spare me further -detail, and give me an opportunity, if you please, to judge of the rest -for myself.” - -At the same moment when these remarks were passing between the -gentlemen, Lucia said to Miss De Rivers: - -“Pray tell me, Fanny, who is that stylish gent lounging so carelessly -near the door?” - -“Tall—talking with young Bright, do you mean?” - -“The same.” - -“Ah, beware!” was the answer; “that same gentleman wears a perjured -heart. He is no other than that gay deceiver—” - -“Who—Mr. Gadsby!” interrupted Lucia. - -“Yes, Frank Gadsby, whose vows of love are as indiscriminate as his -smiles.” - -“I have heard of him, Fanny. Well, he is certainly very handsome,” said -Lucia. - -“And as fascinating in his manners as he is handsome,” replied her -friend. “Why, he makes every woman in love with him—myself excepted, -Lucia; every fair lady elicits, in turn, the same homage, the same -tender speeches, and, in turn, finds herself the dupe of his flattery -and melting glances.” - -“Perfectly absurd!” exclaimed Lucia, with a toss of her head. - -“But see, Lucia, he has already marked you; look, he approaches, with -Earnest Bright. Now prepare for the introduction, which he has, no -doubt, solicited.” - -The presentation was gone through with in due form. Lucia assumed an air -of the most perfect indifference, scarcely deigning to notice the -elegant man of fashion, who, by his most courtly smiles and winning -compliments, endeavored to attract her favorable attention. But both -smiles and fine speeches were thrown away; and, not a little chagrined -at his reception from the fair Lucia, Gadsby at length turned coldly -away, and began chatting, in a gay tone, with Miss De Rivers, while, at -the same moment, Miss Laurence, giving her hand to a young officer, -joined the dancers. - -“Well, how do you like Miss Laurence, Frank?” said Earnest Bright, later -in the evening, touching the shoulder of Gadsby, who stood listlessly -regarding the gay scene. - -“She has fine eyes, although I have seen finer,” was the answer; “a good -figure, but there are others as good; ’pon my soul, I see no particular -fascination about her—I could pick out a dozen here more agreeable.” - -“Think so? Well, don’t be too secure, that’s all,” replied his friend. - -“Never fear. I have escaped heart-free too long to be caught at last by -one like Miss Laurence. Less imperiousness, and more of woman’s -gentleness, for me,” said Gadsby. “And yet, it were worth while to -subdue this inflexible beauty, and entangle her in her own snares,” he -mentally added. - -In the supper-room Charlotte Atwood found herself, for a moment, near -her friend Lucia. - -“Well, you have met the foe; what think you now, Lucia?” she whispered. - -“Of Mr. Gadsby, I suppose you mean,” she replied. “I am sadly -disappointed, to tell you the truth. I expected to find him too much a -man of the world to betray his own vanity. Why, he is the most conceited -fellow I ever met with.” - -“Do you wonder at it? Such a universal favorite as he is with the -ladies, has reason to be conceited,” said Charlotte. - -“Perhaps so. It would be doing him a kindness, therefore, to take a -little of this self-conceit out of him—don’t you think so?” Lucia -laughingly replied. - -These two invincible coquettes are now entered for a trial of their -skill, in fair and equal combat. “Let him laugh who wins,” but a crown -to the victor, I say. A too minute detail of this well-contested game, -might prove tedious; therefore, we will pass over three months of -alternate frowns and smiles, and allow the reader to judge, by the -following chapter, to whose side the victory most inclines. - - - CHAPTER IV. - -A pleasant spring morning found Frank Gadsby—where? Not promenading -Chestnut street—not lounging upon the steps of a fashionable hotel, nor -whispering smooth flatteries in the ear of beauty; but positively up -those three flights of stairs, in that gloomy back room dignified by the -name of study. Several books were open before him, and -papers—promising, business-like looking papers, with red tapes and huge -seals—were scattered around him. Indeed, the very man himself had a -more promising, business-like appearance; there was less of the dandy, -more of the gentleman, and the look of self-complacency lost in a more -serious, thoughtful expression. As I said before, Mr. Gadsby had -talents, hidden beneath the mask of frippery, which needed but some -impetus to bring into power, and this impetus seemed now to have been -supplied. - -For three months the fashionable world had wondered why so often its -most brilliant ornament had been missing from its gay gatherings; nor, -perhaps, wondered more than Mr. Gadsby himself at his own sudden -distaste for those pursuits which had but lately afforded him so much -pleasure. Perhaps the remonstrances of his friend Walton had awakened -him to a sense of the unprofitable life he was leading; but, as we have -more to do with effects than causes, at present, we will not pursue the -inquiry. - -For some time, perhaps half an hour, Gadsby steadily applied himself to -his studies—now turning over the pages of a folio, now lost in deep -thought, and then rapidly transferring his conclusions to paper. At -length, with a sigh of relief, as if he had mastered some complicated -problem of the law, he pushed books and papers from him, and, rising -from the table, walked back and forth the narrow limits of his study. - -“Are you ready?” said Clarence Walton, unceremoniously opening the door. - -“I believe I shall not go. Make my excuses, if you please, to the -ladies,” replied Gadsby, slightly embarrassed. - -“Not go! Why, what has come over you, man? The party are now only -waiting your presence to start. What will Miss Laurence think? It will -never do to slight her invitation in this way. Come!” - -“No!” answered Gadsby. “Say what you please for me to Miss Laurence; if -she chooses to take offense, it matters but little to me. The frowns of -one whose smiles are so general, are easily borne. I hope you will have -a pleasant ride.” - -“But what new freak is this? Last night you were in fine spirits for the -excursion, and I am sure you received the invitation of Miss Laurence -with undisguised pleasure.” - -“Think so? Well, I have altered my mind—that’s all,” said Gadsby, -carelessly. - -“Ah-ha! Are your wings scorched, that you thus shun the presence of the -irresistible Lucia?” - -“Cannot a man of business absent himself from the society of a flirt, -without giving a reason, Walton?” said Gadsby, tartly. - -“A man of business! Good—excellent! I will report that weighty concerns -of the law interfere with your engagements. You wont go, then?” - -“No!” and saying this, Gadsby took up a book and sat down, with a -dogged, resolute air. - -“Well, I must be off. _Au revoir._” - -No sooner did the door close after his friend, than, throwing away the -book, Gadsby started up, exclaiming: - -“No! this syren—this coquette—this all fascinating woman, as she is -called, shall find I am not so easily made her dupe! She is a perfect -mistress of art, that is certain; for who that did not know her would -think the light of her beautiful eyes shone only to deceive—they are -heavenly! Who would think that sweet, gentle smile which she sometimes -wears, and the soft, witching tones of her voice were but superficial. -In outward appearance she is a type of all that is most perfect in -woman; and if this beauty of mind and person but extended to the -heart—ah, I dare not think of it! I am told she considers me a vain, -conceited fellow—ha! ha! she shall find yet that I am not what I have -appeared, and that this vain, conceited fellow, has at least wit enough -to see through and despise her arts. What a beautiful morning for the -ride. I was foolish not to go; besides, she may think—no matter what -she thinks. But then I would not be uncivil; as I accepted the -invitation, I should have gone. I wish I had. Let me see, it is now ten -o’clock; perhaps I may yet be in time. Yes, I will show her that I can -meet her fascinations unmoved, and leave her without one sigh of -regret—heigh, ho!” And Mr. Gadsby ended his soliloquy by catching up -the broom-brush and rapidly applying it to his shoulders and arms, and -then with a glance at the small looking-glass, he seized his hat, and -rushing down stairs, swiftly thridded his way through the crowd until he -reached the residence of Miss Laurence, whence the party were to set -forth. Running up the steps, he rang the bell. - -Much to his mortification he learned the party had been gone about ten -minutes, and he was turning from the door, when the servant added, - -“Miss Laurence is at home—will you walk in, sir?” - -Then she had not gone! Strange!—no, he would not go in; but perhaps he -had better, and apologize for his apparent rudeness. Yes, he would go -in; and following the servant, he was ushered into the drawing-room. - -Sending up his card, Gadsby sat down to await the entrance of the lady. -Opposite the sofa on which he reclined hung the full length portrait of -Miss Laurence—the work of the unfortunate young painter whom love of -her had driven from his native land. It was a beautiful creation of art, -but not more beautiful than the fair original herself. There was grace, -dignity, and repose in the attitude, harmonizing so perfectly with the -sweet expression of the features. The eyes of Gadsby were soon riveted -upon it, and rising from his seat, he approached nearer, and remained -standing before it, lost in contemplating its loveliness. - -“Charming girl!” he exclaimed inadvertently aloud; “but false as thou -art charming!” - -Imprudent man! These words were not lost; even as he spoke the fair -Lucia herself stood very near him, waiting for him to turn around that -she might address him; but as she caught this expression, a glow of -indignation suffused her features, and with noiseless footsteps she -glided from the room. - -“How dare he say this of me!” she exclaimed, as she closed the door of -her chamber; “what reason have I given him for such a supposition! He -judges of me by his own false and fickle heart; yet why should I care -for the opinion of such a man as he is. How stupid in John to say I was -at home. I believe I will send word I am engaged; no, I will even see -him, and let him know by my indifference how little value I place either -on his society or his opinion.” - -And Lucia re-entered the drawing-room with a stately step, and received -the salutation of her visiter with the utmost hauteur of manner. - -“I have called, Miss Laurence, to apologize for my apparent incivility -in not keeping the engagement formed with you last evening,” said -Gadsby, with evident embarrassment. - -“It was not necessary, Mr. Gadsby, to take so much trouble for that -which is of so little consequence,” answered Lucia, coldly. - -“Pardon me, Miss Laurence, nothing but—but imperative business—” - -“Pray do not exhaust your invention, sir, for excuses.” - -Gadsby’s face crimsoned. - -“Let me hope nothing serious prevented your accompanying the party, Miss -Laurence,” he at length said. - -“To be more honest than you, I had no inclination to go, and therefore -did not.” - -“But last evening—” - -“O, last evening I arranged the excursion merely for my friends, not -feeling, of course, obliged to go with them,” was the answer. - -“Then I certainly cannot regret so much the cause which prevented my -joining them, since the only attraction would have been wanting.” - -This implied compliment was noticed only by a haughty bow. - -“Cold, unyielding beauty!” thought Gadsby, carelessly turning over the -leaves of an annual. - -“False, idle flatterer!” thought Lucia, pulling her bouquet to pieces. - -“Those are beautiful flowers, Miss Laurence—what have they done to -merit such treatment at your fair hands!” said Mr. Gadsby, glad of the -opportunity to say something, for he felt himself completely embarrassed -by her repulsive manners. “You treat them with as little favor as you do -your admirers, and throw them from you with as little mercy. Fair, -beautiful flowers!” he added, gathering up the leaves of a rose from the -rich carpet, “fit emblems they are in their fragility of woman’s -short-lived faith and truth.” - -“A lesson upon faith and truth from Mr. Gadsby is a paradox well worth -listening to!” retorted Lucia, with a sarcastic smile. - -“Why so—do you then believe me destitute of them?” - -“I have never deemed the subject worthy of reflection; yet, if I mistake -not, the world does not burthen you with such attributes.” - -“And the world is probably right, Miss Laurence,” answered Gadsby, -piqued and angry. He arose, and walked several times across the room, -then again pausing before her, he said in a softened tone, “And yet, -although our acquaintance has been but brief, I trust I have given you -no reason to pass such severe censure upon me.” - -A quick retort rose to the lips of Lucia, but as she raised her eyes, -they met those of Gadsby fixed upon her with an expression such as she -could not well define, so strangely were reproach and tenderness -blended. She was embarrassed, a deep blush mantled her face, and the -words were unspoken. - -“She is not, then, utterly heartless—that blush belies it!” thought -Gadsby. “Say, Miss Laurence, may I not hope for a more lenient judgment -from you than the world accords?” he said, again addressing her. - -“What ails me? Why do I tremble thus? Am I really to be the dupe of this -deceiver. No! let me be true to myself!” mentally exclaimed Lucia; and -then, with a look which instantly chilled the warm impulse in the heart -of Gadsby, she said, - -“My opinion can be of very little consequence to Mr. Gadsby.” - -“True, Miss Laurence. I wish you good morning,” and proudly bowing -himself out of the room, Gadsby took leave. - -“Fool that I am to blush before him, who of all men has the least power -over me. It is well I know him, or even I might be deceived by such -looks as he just now cast upon me!” cried Lucia, as the door closed -after her visiter. - - - CHAPTER V. - -It was some weeks after this ere Mr. Gadsby so far mastered his pride as -to call again upon the disdainful Miss Laurence. To his great regret he -was then informed that she was ill, very ill; and for many days his -inquiries were all met by the same painful answer. There is nothing -sooner breaks down the barrier of feigned indifference than the illness -of one whom we are schooling ourselves to avoid; and thus, in the heart -of Gadsby, coldness, distrust, disdain, yielded at once to the most -painful solicitude and deep tenderness. This sudden revulsion quite -overcame even the caution of this redoubtable coquet, so captious of any -appearance of surrendering the long boasted freedom of his heart; and -careless of what “the lookers on in Venice” might say, he called daily -to make inquiries, and sent to the fair invalid the most beautiful -flowers as delicate memorials of his sympathy, however he might once -have named them as fit emblems of the frailty of woman’s vows. - -One morning early Clarence Walton entered the office of Gadsby. - -“Good morning. Have you heard from Miss Laurence to-day, Walton?” was -the first inquiry. - -“I am sorry to say she is not so well.” - -“Is it possible! Who told you—are you sure?” said Mr. Gadsby, turning -quite pale. - -“Yes; I am told she is better of the old complaint, but her friends -think now that she has a confirmed heart disease!” answered Walton, -gravely. - -“Good God! you don’t say so! Is it incurable—is there no hope?” -exclaimed Gadsby, starting from his seat. - -“Heart complaints are very dangerous in all cases, I believe,” replied -Walton, turning his head to conceal a smile, “yet I hope Miss Laurence -is not incurable; indeed, I feel quite confident that if she would but -call in a physician I could recommend, she might soon be restored.” - -“And wont she? Have you spoken to her friends? Where is he to be -found—for not a moment should be lost; it is your duty to insist upon -it!” cried Gadsby, catching the arm of his friend, who seemed -provokingly indifferent. - -“If she will only consent to see him, I shall gladly name him to -you—but why are you so much interested? To be sure, common kindness -dictates sympathy for the illness of one so young and beautiful; but why -you should take her sickness so much at heart, quite astonishes me,” -said Walton. - -“Then, Walton, let me tell you that it is because I love her; yes, love -her more than my life!” replied Gadsby. “I know she despises me, for I -have appeared to her in a false light, for which I may thank my own -folly, and in giving my heart to her, I have sealed my own -wretchedness.” - -Walton respected the feelings of his friend at this candid avowal, and -checking the well-merited jest which rose to his lips, said, - -“In so hasty a decision, and one so fatal to your happiness, I think you -do both Miss Laurence and yourself injustice; if you really love her, -pursue the game boldly—I think you need not despair.” - -Grateful for his forbearance on a point to which he was aware he was a -fair subject for ridicule, and somewhat encouraged by the words and -manner of Walton, Gadsby frankly continued, - -“If her life is spared, I will show her that I am not what she has -thought me. Yes, I will study to win her love. O, my friend, should I -succeed—should I gain that rich treasure of beauty and intelligence, my -whole life shall be devoted to her happiness!” - -What think you now, dear reader, of our invincible coquet? - -Let us now change the scene to the sick room of Lucia. - -“Look, my darling! see what beautiful flowers have been sent you this -morning!” said Mrs. Laurence, as Charlotte Atwood entered the room, -bearing in her hands two large and splendid bouquets. - -“How beautiful!” cried Lucia, a faint color tinging her pale cheek. - -“Yes, they are beautiful,” said her friend Charlotte; “really, Lucia, to -be so tenderly remembered in sickness, compensates for a great deal of -suffering. But you are favored; now I dare say poor I might look in vain -for any such fragrant tokens of kindness.” - -“You carry them always with you, dear Charlotte; your heart is a perfect -garden of all fair and beautiful flowers,” said Mrs. Laurence, smiling -gratefully at the affectionate girl, who had shared with her so -faithfully the cares and anxieties of her child’s sick bed. - -“Do you know who sent them?” asked Lucia, as she bent her head to inhale -their sweetness. - -“That I shall not tell you,” answered Charlotte, catching the flowers -from her hand. “They are offerings from your captive knights, fair -princess; now choose the one you like best, and then I will tell you; -but be as wary as Portia’s lovers in your choice, for I have determined -in my mind that on whichever your selection falls, the fortunate donor -shall also be the fortunate suitor for your hand—come, choose!” - -The bouquets were both beautiful. One was composed of the rarest and -most brilliant green-house flowers arranged with exquisite taste; the -other simply of the modest little Forget-me-not, rose-buds, and sweet -mignonette. - -“In the words of Bassanio, then, I will say, - - Outward shows be least themselves, - The world is still deceived with ornament; - -and thus I make my choice,“ answered Lucia, smiling, and blushing as she -took the forget-me-not, and pressed them to her bosom. - -“O happy, happy Mr. Gadsby!” cried Charlotte, laughing and clapping her -hands. - -“Are these from him, then!” exclaimed Lucia, as she cast the beautiful -flowers from her. “Then pardon me, Charlotte, if I make a new choice; -Mr. Gadsby is too officious—pray bring me no more flowers from him!” - -“You are really ungenerous, Lucia,” said Mrs. Laurence; “no one has been -so attentive in their inquiries since you have been ill as Mr. Gadsby. I -believe not a day has passed without his calling; they have not been -merely formal inquiries either—his countenance betrays a real -interest.” - -Lucia colored, and a gentle sigh heaved her bosom—but she said, coldly, - -“It is not difficult, dear mother, for Mr. Gadsby to feign an interest -for any lady upon whom he chooses to inflict his attentions.” - -“Now, Lucia, I take a bold, defensive ground for Mr. Gadsby,” exclaimed -Charlotte. “You have abused the poor man unmercifully since you first -knew him, nor given him credit for one honest feeling. Well, there is -one comfort, you do not think worse of him than he does of you.” - -“Then there is no love lost!” said Lucia, rather hastily. - -“No, I am sure of that!” replied Charlotte, laughing. “There is none -lost, it is true, but treasured in your very hearts, hidden away as fire -beneath the snowy surface of Hecla, and which will one day suddenly -burst its frigid bonds—now mark my words!” - -“You talk in enigmas, Charlotte, and I am too weary to solve them,” said -Lucia. - -“Pardon me, dearest, I forgot you were sitting up so long—you must lie -down;” and as Charlotte turned to arrange the pillows for the fair -invalid, in an opposite mirror she saw Lucia take up the discarded -flowers, and—_press them to her lips_. - - - CHAPTER VI. - -For the first time for many weeks, Lucia once more left her chamber, and -was able to receive the congratulatory visits of her friends. It was not -long ere Mr. Gadsby took advantage of her convalescence to express in -person his own pleasure at her recovered health. - -She had never looked more lovely in his eyes than when he thus met her. -If, at the moment when he first looked upon her, her paleness pained -him, the bright color which instantly mantled her cheek, and the -agitation of her manner, sent a thrill of happiness to his heart. He -took her small, attenuated hand, and pressed it tenderly, as, in an -agitated voice, he told the happiness it gave him to see her again; and -as Lucia raised her eyes to reply, she saw his fine countenance beaming -with an expression which deepened her bloom and increased her -embarrassment. - -“You have been very kind, Mr. Gadsby, during my illness,” she said, at -length, averting her face, “and I have to thank you for the many -beautiful flowers with which you have cheered my sick chamber.” - -These kind words from her—from the proud Lucia, rendered Gadsby almost -beside himself with joy. - -“Do not thank me for so trifling a favor, when, if I could, I would so -gladly have poured out my life’s blood to have saved you a moment’s -pain! O, my dear Miss Laurence—” - -Now spare me, kind reader; I was never good at a love scene. Only just -fancy as pretty a declaration of love as you ever listened to, or poured -from your own throbbing heart, and you will have the result of Mr. -Gadsby’s interview with the fair Lucia, the self-styled “champion of her -sex”—yet proving herself a recreant, after all her boasting; for I have -been told, confidentially, that, so far from spurning this -“hollow-breasted Frank Gadsby” from her feet, when Miss Atwood rather -abruptly entered the drawing-room, she actually found her with her -beautiful head resting on his shoulder, while his manly arm was thrown -around her delicate waist—you must remember she was an invalid, and -required support! - -There is a snug little house not a stone’s throw from the residence of -Mr. Laurence. It is furnished with perfect neatness and taste, and -there, loving and beloved, our two coquettes have settled themselves -down, in the practice of those domestic virtues and kindly affections -which contribute so largely to the happiness of life. Frank Gadsby is -now respected as an able lawyer, and bids fair to attain to great -eminence in his profession; and never did Lucia, even in the most -brilliant assembly, receiving the homage of so many eyes and hearts, -look more lovely than now, as in her neat morning dress, with her -beautiful hair in “braided tramels ’bout her daintie ears,” and - - “Household motions light and free, - And steps of virgin liberty,” - -she goes about dispensing order in her cherished home. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE GENIUS OF BYRON. - - - BY REV. J. N. DANFORTH. - - -Twenty-five years ago it was announced, in an Edinburgh Journal, by Sir -Walter Scott: “That mighty genius, which walked among men as something -superior to ordinary mortality, and whose powers were beheld with -wonder, and something approaching to terror, as if we knew not whether -they were of good or of evil, is laid as soundly to rest as the poor -peasant, whose ideas never went beyond his daily task. The voice of just -blame, and that of malignant censure, are at once silenced; and we feel -almost as if the great luminary of heaven had suddenly disappeared from -the sky, at the very moment when every telescope was leveled for the -examination of the spots which dimmed its brightness.” Thus did the -great “Wizard of the North” open his beautiful tribute to the memory of -the Noble Enchanter of the South, within whose fascinated circle had -been drawn the beauty, fashion, genius and literature of England. It was -as if the light of one star answered to that of another, or as if the -music of the one responded to the dying strains of the other—each in -his exalted sphere, when the “Great Unknown” thus uttered his voluntary -eulogy on a kindred genius, not to say imperial rival, of the first -magnitude, if the magnanimous spirit of the former could so conceive of -any cotemporary. The first fervor of admiring enthusiasm of the genius -of Byron having been cooled by the lapse of time, we are enabled to form -a more judicious estimate of it, and of the treasures it poured forth -with such lavish profusion. It is not now the image of the young lord we -see in the brilliant saloon, surrounded by gay admirers, with a face of -classic beauty, expressive eyes, an exquisite mouth and chin, hands -aristocratically small and delicately white, while over his head strayed -those luxuriant, dark-brown curls, that seem to constitute the mystery -of finishing beauty about the immortal brow of man and womankind, and -quite to defy the art of the sculptor. It is not such an one we see—a -living, moving form, like our own; but we think of the ghastly image of -death, we revert to the form mouldering in its subterranean bed, -relapsing into as common dust as that of the poorest beggar. But the -MIND remains—that which has stamped its burning thoughts on the poetic -page; it survives, imperishable, in another, an etherial sphere. It has -sought congenial companionship in one of the two states of perpetual -being, as inevitably demonstrated by reason as taught by revelation. -Byron himself might scorn to aspire after celestial purity and glory, -but he could draw with a dark and flagrant pencil the terrors of remorse -and retribution. He believed in the future existence of the soul, -whatever words of ominous meaning might at times be inserted to complete -a line or to indulge a whim of fancy. “Of the immortality of the soul,” -said he, “it appears to me there can be but little doubt, if we attend -for a moment to the action of mind; it is in perpetual activity. I used -to doubt it, but reflection has taught me better. It acts also so very -independent of the body—in dreams, for instance. . . I have often been -inclined to materialism in philosophy, but could never bear its -introduction into Christianity, which appears to me essentially founded -on the soul. For this reason Priestly’s materialism always struck me as -deadly. Believe the resurrection of the _body_, if you will, but not -without the _soul_.” Thus there were times when the “divinity stirred -within him,” and the soul asserted its regal prerogatives, and -vindicated its own expectations of the future. Nay, the sentiment must -have been habitual, for how often is it naturally implied in the ardor -of composition, as in those beautiful lines: - - “Remember me! Oh, pass not thou my grave, - Without one thought whose relics there recline. - The only pang my bosom dare not brave, - Would be to find forgetfulness in thine.” - -But our chief concern is with the _Poet_ Byron, not with the Philosopher -or the Peer. It has been said that in reviewing the lives of the most -illustrious poets—the class of intellect in which the characteristic -features of genius are most strongly marked—we shall find that, from -Homer to Byron, they have been restless and solitary spirits, with minds -wrapped up, like silk-worms, in their own tasks, either strangers or -rebels to domestic ties, and bearing about with them a deposit for -posterity in their souls, to the jealous watching and enriching of which -most all other thoughts and considerations have been sacrificed. In -accordance with this theory, Pope said: “One misfortune of extraordinary -geniuses is, that their very friends are more apt to admire than to love -them.” True, they have often “dwelt apart,” have been so engaged in -cultivating the imaginative faculty, as to become less sensible to the -objects of real life, and have substituted the sensibilities of the -imagination for those of the heart. Thus Dante is accused of wandering -away from his wife and children to nurse his dream of Beatrice, Petrarch -to have banished his daughter from his roof, while he luxuriated in -poetic and impassioned ideals, Alfieri always kept away from his mother, -and Sterne preferred, in the somewhat uncouth language of Byron, -“whining over a dead ass to relieving a living mother.” But did not -Milton love his daughter with an intense tenderness? Than Cowper who a -more filial and devoted son to the memory of his mother? A fond father -as well as faithful son was Campbell. Burns, too, delighted in his -“fruitful vine,” and “tender olive plants.” In Wordsworth the beauty and -purity of domestic life shone forth to the end. Southey had a home of -love and peace. Scott was a model of a husband and father. Nothing can -exceed the exquisite tenderness of some passages in his diary at the -death of his wife. Goldsmith was neither husband nor father, yet his -fine poetry never alienated his heart from the softer scenes and -sympathies of life. It seemed rather to augment their claims, and the -clear current from the fountain of the imagination is seen to flow right -through the channel of the heart, sparkling with beauty and murmuring -natural music in the enchanted ear. Even the voluptuous Moore is said to -have repaired his fame and prolonged his days by settling down into the -sobrieties of domestic life. - -To return to Byron. He might be said to be unfortunate in his cradle. -His young days were brought under sinister influences and associations. -The youth that is deprived of a healthy maternal guardianship, is to be -pitied. Such was Byron’s lot. Alternately indulged and abused, petted -and irritated, his temper was formed in a bad mould. Never could he -forget the feeling of horror and humiliation that came over him when his -mother, in one of her fits of passion, called him a “lame brat.” - -Now, as men of genius, being by a law of genius itself susceptible of -strong impressions, are in the habit of reproducing those impressions in -their works, a man of a sensitive poetic temperament, like Byron, and -one so highly, so dangerously endowed with intellect, and a vigorous -power of expression, would give to all these thoughts and associations a -local habitation, a living permanence in poetry, romance, and even in -history, so far as it could be turned to such a purpose. In his Deformed -Transformed, Bertha says: “Out, hunchback!” Poor Arnold replies: “I was -born so, mother!” If, then, we find the traits of misanthropy, scorn, -hate, revenge, and others of the serpent brood, so often obtruding -themselves in his poetry as to compel us to believe they were combined -with the very texture of his thoughts and the action of his imagination, -imparting to it a sombre and menacing aspect, we must refer much of this -melancholy idiosyncracy to his early education. He was always grieving -over the malformation of his foot. Far more lamentable was the -malformation of his mental habits. But this, unlike the other, could be -corrected. He should have exerted himself to achieve so noble a victory. -Instead of this he resigned himself to the strength of the downward -current, and was finally dashed among the rocks, where other stranded -wrecks uttered their warning voice in vain. There did he take up the -affecting lamentation: - - “The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree - I planted—they have torn me, and I bleed. - I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.” - -Goethe said of him, that he was inspired with the _genius of Pain_. The -joyous, cheerful spirit that pervades the works of men who, like Scott -and Southey, were educated under auspicious influences, and by a healthy -process grew up to manhood with an habitual regard to the sacred -sanctions annexed to their physical and moral being, contrasts strongly -with the morbid, gloomy, and often bitter and sarcastic temper of that -poetry, which seems to flow as if from some poisoned fountain of -Helicon. Sometimes, indeed, he forgets his fancied wrongs and real woes, -as when walking amid the ruins of imperial Rome, and kindred -contiguities, he throws himself back into the very bosom of classic -antiquity, and pours out the purest strains of eloquence, enriched with -the glowing sunlight of poetry. For a time the shadow of the evil spirit -appears to depart from him, and the true glory of his genius shines -forth without a cloud, while the sentiments that rise in his soul ascend -to a pitch of moral sublimity beyond which the ambition of the human -imagination could not desire to go. In the fourth canto of Childe Harold -his power of conception and expression culminated, and the publication -of that poem called forth a judgment of the Lord Chief Justice of the -Bench of Literature, Francis Jeffrey, which almost deserves a coequal -immortality with the poem itself, and it is impossible to account for -this splendid piece of criticism being left out of the recent collection -of the elegant Critic and Essayist, except on the supposition that the -most accomplished judges of other men’s works are some times incompetent -to fix the right estimate of their own. Genius does not always -accurately weigh its own productions, since Milton preferred his -Paradise Regained to his Paradise Lost, and Byron himself was -inveterately attached to a poem, or rather a translation, to restrain -him from publishing which cost the strongest efforts of his most -influential friends. - -He was then a voluntary exile from his native land, that noble England, -which should be dear to all great men, because the mother of so many; he -was nursing many fictitious sorrows; affecting a scorn for his country -he could not feel; defying the judgments of men to which he was -painfully sensitive; mourning over the blasted blossoms of domestic -happiness; seeking new sources of gratification, or old gratifications -in new forms; in the midst of all he plunges into the arcana of classic -lore; he dives into the crystal depths of classic antiquity, to draw -forth beautiful gems, dripping with the sparkling element, untainted by -its passage through centuries of time. He reconstructs the whole scene -to our view, mingling his illustrations from those severer arts with the -sweet and graceful touches of a pencil that seems capable of catching -and delineating every form of beauty that can engage the fancy or awaken -the imagination. We have been filled with admiration, we have been fired -with enthusiasm, at some of these magnificent strains of poetry, noble -ideas, burning thoughts, assuming precisely the dress, the costume, -which best became them. Whether the poet takes us along the bank of some -classic stream, places us before some romantic city, flies over the -battle-field, luxuriates in a moonlight scene, lingers amid broken -columns and bubbling fountains, gazes on the splendid remnants of -statues that almost seem instinct with the breath of life, conducts us -to the roaring of the cataract, across whose dread chasm, “the hell of -waters,” is arched here and there the lovely Iris, with her seven-fold -dyes, “like Hope upon a death-bed,” then upward passes and beholds the -solemn mountains, the Alps or Appenines, scenes of heroic daring and -suffering, contemplates the mighty ocean, “dark, heaving, boundless, -endless and sublime, the image of eternity,” over whose bosom ten -thousand fleets have swept, and left no marks; finally, if he leads us -back to the Eternal City, not as in her pride of place and power, but as -oppressed with the “double night of ages,” as the “Niobe of nations,” -the “lone mother of dead empires,” sitting in solitude, “an empty urn -within her withered hands,” and draws mighty lessons from all these -objects, in all this we behold the splendor of true genius; we feel its -power; we wonder at the gifts of God thus bestowed; we tremble at the -responsibility of the man thus rarely endowed by his Creator. That regal -imagination, disdaining at times the vulgarities to which a depraved -heart would subject it, asserts its native dignity, and as it ranges -among more quiet scenes utters, with the solemnity of a prophet, such a -lesson as this: - - “If from society we learn to live, - ’Tis solitude should teach us how to die. - It hath no flatterers; vanity can give - No hollow aid; alone, man with his God must strive.” - -Besides that ORIGINALITY, which is a distinguishing attribute of the -genius of Byron, there is in his language a power of concentration, -which adds greatly to its vigor; some condensing process of thought is -going on, the result of which is much meaning in few words, and those -words kept under the law of fitness with more than military precision, -yet without constraint. Few feeble words or straggling lines disfigure -his poetry. That infamous effusion of a putrid mind, Don Juan, has most -of them, while it has also some exquisite gems of beauty. As the last -offspring of a teeming mind, it evidences a progress in sensual -depravity, and an effrontery in publishing it to the world, seldom -adventured by the most reckless contemner of the opinion of his fellow -men, or the most impious blasphemer of the majesty of God. Indeed, his -moral sense must have reached that region said to be inhabited by -demons, who “impair the strength of better thoughts,” - - “Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, - The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom.” - -It was of this last, deeply characteristic work, that Blackwood’s -Magazine said, at the time: “In its composition there is unquestionably -a more thorough and intense infusion of genius and vice, power and -profligacy, than in any poem which had ever been written in the English, -or indeed in any other modern language.” No poem, perhaps, ever -exhibited a more remarkable mixture of ease, strength, fluency, gayety, -mock-seriousness, and even refined tenderness of sentiment along with -coarse indecency. Love, honor, purity, patriotism, chastity, religion, -are all set forth or set at naught, just as suits the present, vagrant -fancy of the author. The Edinburgh Review justly said: “We are -acquainted with no writings so well calculated to extinguish in young -minds all generous enthusiasm and gentle affection, all respect for -themselves, and all love for their kind; to make them practice and -profess hardly what it teaches them to suspect in others, and actually -to persuade them that it is wise and manly, and knowing, to laugh, not -only at self-denial and restraint, but at all aspiring ambition, and all -warm and constant affection.” - -The opinion of admiring and impartial critics, indeed, was, that the -tendency of his writings was to destroy all belief in the reality of -virtue, to make constancy of devotion ridiculous; not so much by direct -maxims and examples of an imposing or seducing kind, as by the habitual -exhibition of the most profligate heartlessness in the persons who had -been represented as actuated by the purest and most exalted emotions, -and in the lessons of that same teacher who, a moment before, was so -pathetic and eloquent in the expression of the loftiest conceptions. - -How nobly different was Burns, the peer of Byron in genius—analogous to -him, as well in the strength of passion as in the beauty of imagination; -attracted, like him, by the Circean cup, absorbed at times in his -convivialities, but never jesting with virtue, jeering at religion, or -scorning the recollections of a pious home and a praying father. They -rose by the force of their genius—they fell by the strength of their -passions; but the fall of the one was only a repetition of the lapses of -apostate humanity—guilty, indeed, but profoundly self-lamented, often -expiated in tears wept on the bosom of domestic affection. The fall of -the other was like that of the arch-angel ruined, defying Omnipotence, -even when rolling in agony on a sea of fire. Even when feeding his fancy -and invigorating his imagination amid the rural charms and sublimities -of Switzerland, Byron thus writes in his journal: “I am a lover of -nature and an admirer of beauty. I can bear fatigue and welcome -privation, and have seen some of the noblest views in the world. But in -all this, the recollection of bitterness, and more especially of more -recent and more home desolation, which must accompany me through life, -have preyed upon me here; and neither the music of the shepherd, the -crashing of the avalanche, nor the torrent, the mountain, the glacier, -the forest, nor the cloud, have for one moment lightened the weight upon -my heart, nor enabled me to lose my own wretched identity in the -majesty, and the power, and the glory around, above, and beneath me.” -Or, as expressed in another form: - - “——I have thought - Too long and darkly, till my brain became, - In its own eddy, boiling and o’er wrought— - A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame.” - -Why all this? A part of the secret is disclosed by himself, in a letter -to his friend Dallas: “My whole life has been at variance with -propriety, not to say decency. . . . My friends are dead or estranged, -and my existence a dreary void.” It had not been so had passion been -held in check by principle, instead of principle being subjected to -passion. There is, indeed, too much reason to believe the truth, that in -connection with great versatility of powers, there is too often found a -tendency to versatility of principle. So the unprincipled Chatterton -said: “he held that man in contempt who could not write on both sides of -a question.” Byron delights in sketching the most odd and opposite sorts -and styles of pictures, and in abruptly bringing into rude collision the -most opposite principles, as if he would amuse himself with the shock -while he distresses the sensibilities of others. His powers were mighty, -various, beautiful; but they needed adjustment. There was no regular -balance-wheel in his intellectual and moral system. In another, or more -painful sense, than the pensive and drooping genius of Cowper expressed -it, might Byron say: - - “The howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, - Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, - And day by day some current’s thwarting force - Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.” - -His refined and exquisite sense of the beautiful in poesy could not be -surpassed. His pictures of mortal loveliness are quite inimitable, and -there is at times in the strains of his muse, in the very structure of -his language, a tenderness, which it would seem impossible could -co-exist with that severity so often, so naturally sharpening into -sarcasm, as if it were a part of the staple of his mind. The lash of -criticism having first roused up the dormant energies of his genius, his -first impulse was to seize the sharpest weapons of satire he could find, -and even the poisoned arrows of vituperation and slander, and with a -power and precision of archery seldom surpassed, to take his full -measure of retaliation. Nay, he became so fond of the sport, or so -unable otherwise to satisfy his revenge, that he multiplied innocent -victims, assailing his own relations, and even the noble, generous, -genial Scott, whose maxim it was never to provoke or be provoked, -especially in his intercourse with the irritable tribe of authors. -Firmly and calmly Scott resolved to receive the fire of all sorts of -assailants, who were engaged in the “raving warfare of satire, parody, -and sarcasm.” This sudden, bellicose production of Byron’s impulsive -genius—English Bards and Scotch Reviewers—cost even him shame and -sorrow the rest of his life. But still he was ever fond of sailing on -that quarter. His impulses must ever be of the fiery, fitful kind. It is -a wonder that, among all his paradoxes and peregrinations, he did not -pay a visit to the _Dead Sea_. That _would_ have been a congenial -pilgrimage for Childe Harold; and, then, for such a drake as he was to -swim in its waters! The exploit of Leander was only repeated by him from -Sestus to Abydos. The other would have been an original feat, worthy of -the taste of a man who preferred drinking out of a skull to the usual -mode of potation out of the ordinary goblets of civilization. - -Severe, scornful, passionate, vengeful, as he often was, how do those -stern features relax, and the milder sensibilities rise into tender -exercise, when, as a father in exile, he writes: - - “My daughter! with thy name this song begun, - My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end. - I see thee not—I hear thee not—but none - Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend - To whom the shadows of far years extend; - Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, - My voice shall with thy future visions blend, - And reach into thy heart—when mine is cold, - A token and a tone, even from thy father’s mould.” - -Thus, with a certain style of uniformity everywhere observable, -especially in his characters, there is much variety of thought, emotion -and passion, evidential of great fertility of mind. If he does reproduce -the same hero under different names, and even give strong indications of -his identification with himself, still the wand of the enchanter invests -him with so many brilliant aspects, places him in so many imposing -attitudes, as to produce all the effect of novelty. His muse less -delights in planning incidents and grouping characters, than in working -out, as with the sculptor’s energetic art, single, stern, striking -models of heroic humanity, albeit stained with dangerous vices. His very -genius has been declared to be inspired with the classic enthusiasm that -has produced some of the most splendid specimens of the chisel; “his -heroes stand alone, as upon marble pedestals, displaying the naked power -of passion, or the wrapped up and reposing energy of grief.” Medora, -Gulnare, Lara, Manfred, Childe Harold, might each furnish an original -from which the sculptor could execute copies, that would stand the proud -impressive symbols of manliness or of loveliness, satisfying even those -intense dreams of beauty which poets and lovers sometimes indulge in -their solitary musings. - - “There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills - The air around with beauty; we inhale - The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils - Part of its immortality.” Childe Harold. - -This poem, indeed, is a perfect gallery of art, whose paintings and -statues are drawn and fashioned from the life, with the skill of a -consummate master and the facility of a powerful creative, divinely -endowed genius. He places his hand on the broad canvas of life, and -behold the figures that rise under his magic pencil! They are, indeed, -too often dark, stern, mysterious and awful, stained with vices, and -pre-doomed, for their guilt, to the pains of a terrible reprobation. -With such characters the genius of Byron had a strange sympathy. Hence -his admiration of that historical passage in the Scriptures, in which -the crime and the doom of Saul is so solemnly set forth at the tomb of -the prophet Samuel, whose sepulchral slumbers were so rudely disturbed -by the intrusion of the anxious and distressed monarch, now forsaken by -his God. Shakspeare, having finished off one of these dark and repulsive -pictures, as in his Macbeth or Lear, passes to the sketching of more -cheerful and even humorous portraits; but Byron, for the most part, -delights to dwell in darkness. Thus, in this poem, when the curse is -imprecated, the time midnight, the scene the ruined site of the temple -of the Furies, the auditors the ghosts of departed years, the imprecator -a spirit fallen from an unwonted height of glory to the depths of wo. -Principals and accessaries assume the sombre coloring of his -imagination, from which, however, at times, shoots a gleam of beauty, -that imparts loveliness to the whole scene. Milton, with his almost -perfect sense of beauty, and the fitness of things, would never have put -such words as these in the mouth of his Eve: - - “May the grass wither from thy foot! the woods - Deny thee shelter—earth a home—the dust - A grave! the sun his light! and Heaven her God!” - Cain. - -It was quite suitable for Byron to talk so in his Cain, but he has not -unsettled the position of the world’s estimate of its first mother, so -firmly established by Milton. He was, at the time, perhaps, thinking of -himself as Cain, and of his own mother as in one of her imprecating -paroxysms. Alas, that he should have gone on in lawless indulgence, -insulting, both in poetry and practice, the sanctity of domestic, -heaven-constituted, earth-blessing ties, until, after an abortive, -ill-directed struggle for poor Greece, he sunk into an early grave, at -36 aet., the very meridian of life! He was never satisfied with his -earthly lot, not even with the rare gifts of his genius, nor with the -achievements it made. He professed to consider a poet, no matter what -his eminence, as quite a secondary character to a great statesman or -warrior. As he had failed in the first character, he resolved to try the -second, and strike for the liberty he had sung. But Fame had no place -for him in this part of her temple. With the rest of the tuneful tribe, -he descends to the judgment of posterity as a Poet; with all men of -genius above the million, as more deeply responsible than they to the -author of all mercies; with all men whatever, as a MORAL AND IMMORTAL -BEING, accountable at the tribunal of God. - -The mind would fail in any attempt to estimate the immense influence of -his genius and writings upon the youthful mind and morals of the past -generation—an influence to be augmented in a geometrical ratio in the -future. What is written, is written, constituting a portion of the -active influence circulating in the world—not to be recalled, not to be -extinguished, but to move on to the end of time, and finally to be met -by its originator, where all illusions will vanish, and all truth, -justice and purity be vindicated. - - * * * * * - - - - - OUTWARD BOUND. - - - BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. - - - Fare ye well, our native valleys, - And our native hills farewell; - Though we part, your blessed memory - Shall be with us like a spell:— - - For with you are souls in silence - Breathing for us hopes and prayers, - Loving eyes that weep in secret - Gazing on the vacant chairs. - - Tender hearts made dear unto us - By unnumbered sacred ties, - Bend at eve their tearful vision - To the stars that o’er us rise. - - There are children, darling children, - In the April of their years, - In their play they cease and call us, - And their laughter melts to tears. - - There are maidens overshadowed - With a transient cloud of May, - There are wives who sit in sorrow - Like a rainy summer day. - - There our parents sit dejected - In the darkness of their grief, - Mourning their last hope departed - As the autumn mourns its leaf. - - But the prayers of these are with us - Till the winds that fill the sails - Seem to be the breath of blessings - From our native hills and vales. - - Then farewell, the breeze is with us, - And our vessel ploughs the foam; - God, who guides the good ship seaward - Will protect the loved at home. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: HE COMES NOT. - -Painted by W. Brown and Engraved expressly for Graham's Magazine by W. - Holl] - - * * * * * - - - - - HE COMES NOT. - - - [WITH AN ENGRAVING.] - - - BY C. SWAIN. - - - Night throws her silver tresses back, - And o’er the mountain-tops afar - She leaves a soft and moonlight track, - More glorious than the day-beams are; - And while she steers her moonlight barque - Along that starry river now, - Each leaf, each flower, each bending bough, - Starts into beauty from the dark; - Each path appears a silver line, - And naught in earth—but all divine. - - Oh, never light of moon was shed - Upon a maid’s more timid tread; - And never star of heaven shone - On face more fair to look upon. - Hark! was not that a whisper light? - A step—a movement—yet so slight, - That silence holds its breath in vain - To catch that fleeting sound again. - Well may’st thou start, lone, timid dove, - To-night he comes not to thy love. - - * * * * * - - - - - RAIL AND RAIL SHOOTING. - - -BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF FRANK FORESTER’S “FIELD SPORTS,” “FISH - AND FISHING,” ETC. - - -[Illustration: THE VIRGINIA RAIL. (_Rallus Virginianus._) -THE SORA RAIL. (_Rallus Carolinensis._)] - -With the present month commences the pursuit of this singular and -delicious species of game, and, although as a sport it is not to be -compared with the bolder and more varied interest of shooting over dogs -on the upland, still the great numbers which are killed, and the -rapidity with which shot after shot is discharged in succession, render -Rail-shooting a very favorite pastime, more especially with the -sportsmen of Philadelphia, in the vicinity of which city this curious -little bird is found in the greatest abundance. - -Of the _rallidæ_, or Rail family, there are many varieties in America, -all of them more or less aquatic in their habits, and none of them -being, as the Corncrake, or Land Rail, of Europe, purely terrestrial; -though the little Yellow-Breasted, or New York Rail, _Rallus -Noveboracencis_, approaches the most nearly to that type, being -frequently killed in upland stubble or fallow fields. - -The principal of these species, and those most worthy of notice, -are—the Clapper Rail, or great Salt-Water Rail, variously known as the -Meadow Hen, or Mud Hen; found very extensively along all the tide -morasses, and salt meadows of the Atlantic coast, but more especially on -the shores of Long Island, and in New Jersey, at Barnegat and Egg -Harbor. This, the scientific name of which is _Rallus crepitans_, is the -largest of the species; it is shot from row boats in high spring tides, -when the water has risen so much as to render it impossible for the -Rails either to escape by running, which they do at other times with -singular fleetness, baffling the best dogs by the celerity with which -they pass between the thick-set stalks of the reeds and wild oats, -constituting their favorite covert, or to lurk unseen among the dense -herbage. - -This Rail, like all its race, is a slow and heavy flyer, flapping -awkwardly along with its legs hanging down and a laborious flutter of -the wings. It is, of course, very easily shot, even by a bungler, and -there is little or no sport in the pursuit, though its flesh is tender -and delicate, so that it is pursued on that account with some eagerness. - -Second to the Clapper Rail, in size, and infinitely superior to it in -beauty and excellence of flesh, is the King Rail, _Rallus elegans_, -which is by far the handsomest of the species. It is commonly known as -the Fresh-Water Meadow Hen, though it is not with us to the northward a -frequent or familiar visitant, the Delaware river being for the most -part its northeastern limit, and very few being killed to the eastward -of that boundary. A few are found, it is true, from time to time, in New -Jersey, and it has occurred on Long Island, and in the southern part of -New York, though rather as an exception than as a rule. - -Next to these come the Virginia Rail, which is represented to the right -hand of the cut at the head of this paper, and the Sora, which -accompanies it. - -The Virginia Rail, _Rallus Virginianus_, notwithstanding its -nomenclature, which would seem to indicate its peculiar local -habitation, is very generally found throughout the United States, and -very far to the northward of the Old Dominion. I have myself killed it -in the State of Maine, as well as in New York, New Jersey, and -Pennsylvania, at the marsh of the _Aux Canards_ river, in Canada East, -and on the head waters of the Lake Huron Rivers. In the great wild rice -marshes of the St. Clair river, the Virginia Rail, like most of the -aquatic birds and waders, is very common. It is rather more upland in -its habits than its companion, the Sora, which delights in the wettest -tide-flowed swamps where the foot of man can scarcely tread, being -frequently killed by the Snipe-shooter in wet inland meadows, which is -rarely or never the case with the Sora. - -The Virginia Rail is, however, not unfrequently found in company with -the other on the mud flats of the Delaware, and, with it, is shot from -skiffs propelled by a pole through the reed beds at high water. - -The Virginia Rail is a pretty bird, measuring about eight inches in -length. The bill is about an inch long, slightly decurved, red at the -base and black at the extremity; the nostrils linear. The top of the -head is dark-brown, with a few pale yellowish streaks; a blackish band -extends from the base of the bill to the eye, and a large, ash-colored -spot, commencing above the eye posteriorily, occupies the whole of the -cheeks. The throat, breast, and belly, so far as to the thighs, which -partake the same color, are of a rich fulvous red, deepest on the belly. -The upper parts, back of the neck, scapulars, and rump, are dark -blackish-brown, irregularly streaked and dashed with pale -yellowish-olive. The wing-coverts are bright bay, the quills and tail -blackish-brown. The vent black, every feather margined with white. The -legs are red, naked a little way up the tibia. It is a very rapid -runner, but flies heavily. It affords a succulent and highly flavored -dish, and is accordingly very highly prized, though scarcely equal in -this respect to its congener, the Sora, which is regarded by many -persons as the most delicious of all game, though for my own part I -would postpone it to the Canvas-Back, _Fuligula valisneria_, the Upland -Plover, _Totanus Bartramius_, and the Pinnated Grouse, or Prairie Fowl, -_Tetrao cupido_. - -The Sora Rail, _Rallus Carolinus_, which is more especially the subject -of this paper, is somewhat inferior in size to the last species, and is -easily distinguished from it by the small, round head, and short bill, -in which it differs from all the rest of its family. This bill is -scarcely half an inch in length, unusually broad at the base, and -tapering regularly to a bluntly rounded point. At the base and through -nearly the whole length of the lower mandible it is pale -greenish-yellow, horn-colored at the tip. The crown of the head, nape, -and shoulders, are of a uniform pale olive-brown, with a medial black -stripe on the crown. The cheeks, throat, and breast, pale rufous brown, -fading into rufous white on the belly, which is mottled with broad -transverse gray lines. The back, scapulars, wing-coverts, and rump, are -olive-brown, broadly patched with black, and having many of the feathers -margined longitudinally with white, the quills dark blackish-brown, the -tail dark reddish-brown. The lower parts from the tail posteriorily to -the vent transversely banded with black and white. The legs long and -slender, bare a short way up the tibia, of a pale greenish hue. The iris -of the eye is bright chestnut. The male bird has several black spots on -the neck. - -This bird is migratory in the United States, passing along the sea-coast -as well as in the interior; a few breed in New Jersey, on the Raritan, -Passaic, and Hackensack rivers; but on the Delaware and its tributaries, -which abound with wild rice, it is exceedingly abundant, as it is also -in the great northwestern lakes and rivers which are all plentifully -supplied with this its favorite food. It is rarely killed in New York or -to the eastward, though a few are found on the flats of the Hudson. It -winters for the most part to the south of the United States, although a -few pass the cold season in the tepid swamps and morasses of Florida and -Louisiana. All this is now ascertained beyond doubt, but till within a -few years all sorts of strange fabulous tales have been in circulation -concerning the habits of this bird; arising from the circumstance of its -very sudden and mysterious arrival and disappearance on its -breeding-grounds, the marshes being one day literally alive with them, -and the next solitary and deserted. Add to this its difficult, short, -and laborious flight, apparently so inadequate to the performance of -migrations thousands of miles in length, and it will be easy to conceive -that the vulgar, the ignorant, and the prejudiced, should have been -unable to comprehend the possibility of its aërial voyages, and should -have endeavored to account for their disappearance by insisting that -they burrow into the mud and become torpid during the winter, as I have -myself heard men maintain, incredulous and obstinate against conviction. -Audubon has thought it necessary gravely, and at some length, to -controvert this absurd fallacy, and in doing so has recorded the -existence of a planter on the James River, in Virginia, who is well -convinced that the Sora changes in the autumn into a frog, and resumes -its wings and plumage in the spring, thus renewing the absurd old legend -of Gerardus Cambrensis in relation to the tree which bears shell-fish -called _barnacles_, whence in due season issue _barnacle geese_. - -The Sora Rail arrives in the Northern States in April or May. I saw one -killed myself this spring in a deep tide marsh on the Salem creek, near -Pennsville, in New Jersey, on the 25th of the former month, which was in -pretty good condition. They migrate so far north as to Hudson’s Bay, -where they arrive early in June, and depart again for the south early in -the autumn. They breed in May and June, making an inartificial nest of -dry grass, usually in a tussock in the marsh, and laying four or five -eggs of dirty white, with brown or blackish-white spots. The young run -as soon as they are hatched, and skulk about in the grass like young -mice, being covered with black down. The Sora Rail is liable to a -curious sort of epileptic fit, into which it appears to fall in -consequence of the paroxysms of fear or rage to which it is singularly -liable. - -The following account of the habits and the method of shooting this -bird, from Wilson’s great work on the Birds of America, is so admirably -graphic, truthful, and life-like, that I prefer transcribing it for my -own work on Field Sports, into which I copied it entire as incomparably -superior to any thing I have elsewhere met on the subject, to recording -it myself with, perhaps, inferior vigor. - -“Early in August, when the reeds along the shores of the Delaware have -attained their full growth, the Rail resort to them in great numbers, to -feed on the seeds of this plant, of which they, as well as the -Rice-birds, and several others, are immoderately fond. These reeds, -which appear to be the _Zizania panicula effusa_ of Linnæus, and the -_Zizania clavulosa_ of Willenden, grow up from the soft muddy shores of -the tide-water, which are, alternately, dry, and covered with four or -five feet of water. They rise with an erect tapering stem, to the height -of eight or ten feet, being nearly as thick below as a man’s wrist, and -cover tracts along the river for many acres. The cattle feed on their -long, green leaves, with avidity, and wade in after them as far as they -dare safely venture. They grow up so close together, that except at or -near high water, a boat can with difficulty make its way through among -them. The seeds are produced at the top of the plant, the blossoms, or -male parts, occupying the lower branches of the panicle, and the seeds -the higher. The seeds are nearly as long as a common-sized pin, somewhat -more slender, white, sweet to the taste, and very nutritive, as appears -by their effects on the various birds that feed on them at this season. -When the reeds are in this state, and even while in blossom, the Rail -are found to have taken possession of them in great numbers. These are -generally numerous, in proportion to the full and promising crop of the -former. As you walk along the embankment of the river, at this season, -you hear them squeaking in every direction, like young puppies. If a -stone be thrown among the reeds, there is a general outcry, and a -reiterated _kuk, kuk, kuk_—something like that of a Guinea-fowl. Any -sudden noise, or discharge of a gun, produces the same effect. In the -meantime, none are to be seen, unless it be at or near high water—for -when the tide is low, they universally secrete themselves among the -insterstices of the reeds; and you may walk past, and even over them, -where there are hundreds, without seeing a single individual. On their -first arrival, they are generally lean and unfit for the table, but as -the seeds ripen, they rapidly fatten, and from the 20th September to the -middle of October, are excellent, and eagerly sought after. The usual -method of shooting them in this quarter of the country is as follows. - -“The sportsman furnishes himself with a light batteau, and a stout, -experienced boatman, with a pole of twelve or fifteen feet long, -thickened at the lower end, to prevent it from sinking too deep in the -mud. About two hours or so before high water, they enter the reeds, and -each takes his post—the sportsman standing in the bow, ready for -action, the boatman on the stern-seat, pushing her steadily through the -reeds. The Rail generally spring singly as the boat advances, and at a -short distance a-head, are instantly shot down, while the boatman, -keeping his eye on the spot where the bird fell, directs the boat -forward, and picks the bird up, while the gunner is loading. It is also -the boatman’s business to keep a sharp look out, and give the word -‘Mark,’ when a Rail springs on either side, without being observed by -the sportsman, and to note the exact spot where it falls, until he has -picked it up; for this once lost sight of, owing to the sameness in the -appearance of the reeds, is seldom found again. In this manner the boat -moves steadily through and over the reeds, the birds flushing and -falling, the gunner loading and firing, while the boatman is pushing and -picking up. The sport continues an hour or two after high water, when -the shallowness of the water, and the strength and weight of the -floating reeds, as also the backwarkness of the game to spring, as the -tide decreases, oblige them to return. Several boats are sometimes -within a short distance of each other, and a perpetual cracking of -musketry prevails above the whole reedy shores of the river. In these -excursions, it is not uncommon for an active and expert marksman to kill -ten or twelve dozen in a tide. They are usually shot singly, though I -have known five killed at one discharge of a double-barrelled piece. -These instances, however, are rare. The flight of these birds among the -reeds, is usually low, and shelter being abundant, is rarely extended to -more than fifty or one hundred yards. When winged, and uninjured in -their legs, they swim and dive with great rapidity, and are seldom seen -to rise again. I have several times, on such occasions, discovered them -clinging with their feet to the reeds under the water, and at other -times skulking under the reeds, with their bills just above the surface; -sometimes, when wounded, they dive, and rising under the gunwale of the -boat, secrete themselves there, moving round as the boat moves, until -they have an opportunity of escaping unnoticed. They are feeble and -delicate in every thing except the legs, which seem to possess great -vigor and energy; and their bodies being so remarkably thin, and -compressed so as to be less than an inch and a quarter through -transversely, they are enabled to pass between the reeds like rats. When -seen, they are almost constantly jetting up the tail, yet though their -flight among the reeds seems feeble and fluttering, every sportsman who -is acquainted with them here, must have seen them occasionally rising to -a considerable height, stretching out their legs behind them, and flying -rapidly across the river, where it is more than a mile in width. Such is -the mode of Rail shooting in the neighborhood of Philadelphia. - -“In Virginia, particularly along the shores of James River, within the -tide-water, where the Rail, or Sora, are found in prodigious numbers, -they are also shot on the wing, but more usually taken at night in the -following manner:— - -“A kind of iron grate is fixed on the top of a stout pole, which is -placed like a mast in a light canoe, and filled with fire. The darker -the night, the more successful is the sport. The person who manages the -canoe, is provided with a light paddle, ten or twelve feet in length; -and about an hour before high water, proceeds through among the reeds, -which lie broken and floating on the surface. The whole space, for a -considerable way round the canoe, is completely enlightened—the birds -start with astonishment, and, as they appear, are knocked over the head -with a paddle, and thrown into the canoe. In this manner, from twenty to -eighty dozen have been killed by three negroes in the short space of -three hours. - -“At the same season, or a little earlier, they are very numerous in the -lagoons near Detroit, on our northern frontier, where another species of -reed, of which they are equally fond, grows in shallows, in great -abundance. Gentlemen who have shot them there, and on whose judgment I -can rely, assure me that they differ in nothing from those they have -usually killed on the shores of the Delaware and Schuylkill; they are -equally fat, and exquisite eating.” - -To this I shall only add, that a very light charge of powder and -three-quarters of an oz. of No. 9 shot will be found quite sufficient to -kill this slow flying bird. I have found it an excellent plan to have a -square wooden box, with two compartments, one holding ten lbs. of shot, -with a small tin scoop, containing your charge, and the other containing -a _quantum suff._ of wadding, placed on the thwarts of the boat, before -you, and to lay your powder flask beside it, by doing which you will -save much time in loading; a great desideratum where birds rise in such -quick succession as these will do at times, a couple of hundred being -some times killed by one gun in a single tide. - -A landing net on a long light pole will be found very convenient for -recovering dead birds. No rules are needed for killing rail, as they lie -so close and fly so slowly that a mere bungler can scarce miss them, -unless he either gets flurried or tumbles overboard. When dead he is to -be roasted, underdone, like the snipe, served on a slice of crisp -buttered toast, with no condiment save a little salt and his own gravy. -If you are wise, gentle reader, you will lay his ghost to rest with red -wine—Burgundy if you can get it, if not, with claret. For supper he is -undeniable, and I confess that, for my own part, I more appreciate the -pleasure of eating, than the sport of slaying him; and so peace to him -for the present, of which he surely will enjoy but little after the -twentieth of September, until the early frosts shall drive him to his -asylums, in the far southern wilds and waters. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FINE ARTS. - - -Twenty-Seventh Annual Exhibition of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine -Arts.—Viewed in all its bearings and relations, we believe this to have -been the most important exhibition of this excellent institution. Not -that we think the present by any means the best collection of paintings -we remember to have seen in these same rooms. We believe it is generally -known that for some time past a considerable business has been done in -the way of importing paintings, statues, etc., for purposes of -speculation. Through the exertions of the individuals engaged in this -traffic, scores of foreign pictures have been scattered over the -country. With this business it is not our purpose to meddle. Undoubtedly -these gentlemen possess the right to invest their money in whatever will -yield the largest per centage, and we are glad to perceive that a -fondness for art exists to such an extent as tempts shrewd speculators -and financiers to enter into operations of this description. But, -keeping in view the state of affairs induced by the exertions of these -gentlemen, no surprise will exist in the mind of any one at the -unparalleled interest created in the public mind by the announcement -that the Directors of the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, impelled by -a laudable desire to patronize art and artists, had offered certain -“prizes or sums of money,” to be competed for by artists all over the -world. The mere announcement put public curiosity on the _qui vive_. -Expectation was on tip-toe. At length, after protracted delay, on the -16th of May last, the Academy was thrown open to the public. - -The two galleries—the south-east and the north-east—those usually -appropriated to the new works, contained one hundred and eighty -pictures, which, with some half dozen scattered through the old -collection, made about one hundred and ninety new pictures, by modern -artists. Of this number some seventy or eighty were foreign—the -majority of these German. How many were submitted for the “prizes or -sums of money” we are not informed. - -328 of the catalogue—Death of Abel, etc., by Edward du Jardin, is -probably, so far as subject is involved, the most important work in the -collection. As a whole, we look on these pictures as a failure, as a -_dead failure_. Parts of the works are well drawn, and carefully, even -laboriously studied, but what could be more absurd than the habiliments, -attitude and expression of the angel in the first of the three? The Adam -in the centre is a regular _property_ figure—one of those _stock_ -studies which embellish the portfolio of every young artist who has ever -been to Europe. The attitude and expression are such as can be purchased -by the franc’s worth from any one of the scores of models to be found in -almost every city in Europe. The Eve possesses more of the character of -a repentant Magdalene than the “mother of mankind.” The third picture is -to our mind the best; but, taken all together, the works are barely -passable—not by any means what we should have expected from a professor -of painting in one of the first schools in Europe. Religious art -requires abilities and perceptions of the first order—feelings -different from any manifested in this production. - -Of a different order is 56—Rouget de Lisle, a French officer, singing -for the first time the Marsellaise Hymn, (of which he was the author,) -at the house of the Mayor of Strasburg, 1792—Painted by Godfroi -Guffens. Every thing here is fire and enthusiasm—the enthusiasm that -ought to pervade _every work of art_—which makes the intelligent -spectator _feel_ as the artist felt in its production. We have heard -various and conflicting remarks made upon this work, and the general -feeling among competent judges is that it is the best of the foreign -works. In our opinion it is, perhaps, _the best_ modern picture in the -collection. The grouping, actions, and expressions of the figures are in -admirable keeping with the subject, and the color is rich, agreeable, -and subdued. - -_Murray’s Defense of Toleration._—P. F. Rothermel. If to the exquisite -qualities of color, composition, etc., Mr. Rothermel would add (we know -he can) _expression_, he would unquestionably be _the_ historical -painter of America. In a refined, intellectual perception of the general -character of his subject, Mr. R. is unsurpassed, perhaps unapproached by -any painter in the country. His pictures give evidence of the greatest -care and study—no part is slighted—nothing done with the “that will -do” feeling, which dreads labor. The picture under consideration -embraces a great number of figures—in fact the canvas is literally -covered, but not crowded, every inch giving evidence of intelligence and -design. Concerning the work, we have heard, from the public press as -well as from individuals, but one expression, that of the strongest -commendation—in which we heartily concur. - -150, from the Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act IV., Scene 1st., also by Mr. -Rothermel, is conceived in the true feeling of the great poet. The -figures of Bottom, and Titania and the other fairies, are fine -conceptions. Some comparatively unimportant defects in drawing might be -remedied, without injuring the general effect. - -Mr. Winner contributes a large work—Peter Healing the Lame Man at the -Beautiful Gate of the Temple. This picture possesses great merit, and -evinces a most commendable ambition. The grouping is well managed—the -expressions of Peter and John are good—the cripple capital. A stumpy -shortness of the figures mars the general character of this otherwise -beautiful production. Mr. Winner paints drapery well, and perhaps -unconsciously loads his figures with it. This defect is conspicuous in -his grand work of “Christ raising the Daughter of Jairus,” now in our -Art Union Gallery. The heads and extremities of Mr. Winner’s pictures -are perfect studies of color and modeling, and evince a masterly -knowledge of anatomy. We should be rejoiced to see the efforts of our -artists liberally sustained, as they ought to be, in the higher -departments of art. - -41, The Happy Moment—105, The Recovery—Carl Hubner. These, no doubt, -are _popular_ works—as works of certain classes always will be. We have -heard much said in praise of them. They are beautifully, exquisitely -painted—especially the “Happy Moment,” in which the color and execution -are admirable. But in _sentiment_, or any of the _ideal_ qualities of -such subjects, they are lamentably deficient. Like nearly all the German -painters, Carl Hubner possesses much greater _executive_ than -_imaginative_ powers—he is more of a _mechanic_ than an _artist_. He -gratifies the _eye_ at the expense of the _mind_. Surely rustic love is -suggestive of something more than any thing hinted at in the “Happy -Moment.” “The Recovery” is composed of the usual conventional material -of such subjects—a simpering physician, with a nice diamond ring on his -finger, friends, with the old, upturned eyes and clasped hands, are -mechanically put together—all standing or sitting evidently on purpose -to be painted. - -In landscape, the best works in the collection are Nos. 35 and 136, by -Diday, a Geneva artist—a Moonlight, No. 46, B. Stange, and No. 78, a -Roman Aqueduct at Alcala, with caravans of muleteers, F. Bossuet. The -two first are grand and imposing representations of scenery in the High -Alps—in color they are deep and rich in tone. The Moonlight, by Stange, -is the best we have ever seen. The tremulous luminousness of the -moonshine is rendered with matchless truth. The Roman Aqueduct, by -Bossuet, is, beyond question, the finest landscape in the collection. -Sunlight, local color, and texture were never painted with greater truth -than in this splendid production. Light and heat pervade every nook and -corner of the picture, from the dry, dusty foreground, off to the -distant mountains which close the scene. The work furnishes a grand -example of artistic execution and detail. No 52—Lake George—Russel -Smith—is a beautiful piece of open daylight effect, possessing great -truth. A Scene on the North River—Paul Weber—possesses much merit. The -color is fresh and natural, and the sky is the best we have seen by this -artist. - -In the Marine department we have works from Schotel, De Groot, Pleysier, -Mozin, and other foreign artists, and from Birch, Bonfield, and -Hamilton, American. Hamilton stands preeminent in this department—his -“Thunder Storm,” and a poetic subject from Rogers’ Columbus, are the -best marines in the Academy. All his works in the present exhibition -have been so minutely described in the daily and weekly papers, and so -universally commended, that we deem it unnecessary to do more than add -our unqualified acquiescence in the favorable judgment thus far -expressed concerning them. Not one of our artists is attracting so much -attention at the present moment as Mr. Hamilton. We have no doubt he is -fully able to sustain the high expectations created by his works within -the last two years. Birch and Bonfield, each, maintain their well-earned -and well-deserved reputations. Of the foreign marines, those of Pleysier -and De Groot are the best—but there is nothing remarkable in either. - -A Still Life piece by Gronland, a French artist, is a splendid example -of its class—as is, also, one of a similar character by J. B. Ord, the -best painter of such subjects in the United States. - -Want of space prevents our entering into the discussion of the -comparative merits of native and foreign works. We feel no hesitation, -however, in saying that our artists, as a body, have every reason to -congratulate themselves upon the probable results of the present -exhibition. - - * * * * * - -The Madonna del Velo.—Among the many works of art, which the unsettled -state of the Continent has brought into the London market, are a -collection formerly the property of the Bracca family of Milan. The gem -of the gallery is a remarkably fine and beautifully finished Madonna del -Velo by Raffaelle. This attractive picture derives its title from the -Virgin being represented as lifting a transparent veil from the face of -the sleeping Jesus. She is gazing on the infant with all the devoted -love of a mother, and with all a Madonna’s reverence beaming from her -eyes and depicted in her countenance and her posture; while the young -St. John is standing by, an attentive and interested spectator of the -proceeding. The colors are very beautiful, and are blended with the -highest taste and judgment. The details of the painting bear the closest -examination, and every new inspection brings to view some unobserved -charm, some previously undetected beauty. The figures are worthy in all -respects of the highest praise, and the landscape forms a delightful and -effective back-ground. To mention one little example of the singular -skill and finish displayed in this beautiful work, the veil which the -Virgin is represented as lifting from the sleeping infant’s face, is -marvelously painted. It is perfectly transparent, and seems so -singularly fine, filmy and light, that it has all the appearance of what -a silken cobweb might be imagined to be. It is a remarkable specimen of -the skill of the great artist even in the most difficult and delicate -matters. Indeed, the whole painting is a “gem of purest ray.” - - * * * * * - -“La Tempesta”—a new opera, the joint composition of Halevy and Scribe, -has been produced in London, with Sontag as Miranda, Lablache as -Caliban, Coletti as Prospero, and Carlotta Grisi as Ariel. Whether its -original source, the renown of the author of the libretto, the -reputation of the composer, or the combination of artistic talent -engaged, be considered, the opera is a work of unprecedented magnitude, -and naturally excited unusual interest on the part of all lovers of art. -Monsieur Scribe has made legitimate use of Shakspeare’s “Tempest” in its -transmutation into a libretto—supernatural agency and music are -employed, even Caliban sings, and Ariel, besides being an essentially -musical part, heads a band of sprites and elves “who trip on their toes, -with mops and mows.” But it was necessary, for lyrical purposes, that a -greater intensity of human interest should be added. M. Scribe has found -means of drawing these new points from Shakspeare’s own text. He says in -a letter to the lessee of Her Majesty’s Theatre, “I have done the utmost -to respect the inspirations of your immortal author. All the musical -situations I have created are but suggestions taken from Shakspeare’s -ideas; and as all the honor must accrue to him, I may be allowed to -state that there are but few subjects so well adapted for musical -interpretation.” We hope before long to have this last work from Halevy -transferred to the boards of the American Opera. - - * * * * * - -A Drama Thirty Centuries Old Revived.—A recent great theatrical wonder -of the hour in Paris, has been the revival of a piece from the Hindoo -theatre, “which was performed for the first time” some three thousand -years ago, in a city which no longer has an existence on the earth, and -written by the sovereign of a country whose very name has become a -matter of dispute. The piece was translated from the original Sanscrit -by Gerald de Nerval, and met unbounded success. All Paris has been -aroused by this curious contemplation of the ideas and motives of these -remote ages, and a whimsical kind of delight is experienced at finding -the human nature of Hindostan of so many centuries ago, and the human -nature of modern Paris, so exactly alike in their puerility and -violence, their audacity and absurdity, that the play may verily be -called a _pièce de circonstance_. King Sondraka, the author, seems to -have anticipated the existence of such men as Louis Blanc and Proudhon, -of Louis Bonaparte and Carlier; so true it is, that there is nothing new -under the sun, and that not an idea floats on the tide of human -intelligence but what has been borne thither by the waters of oblivion, -where it had been already flung. - - * * * * * - -Statue of Calhoun.—The marble statue of the late John C. Calhoun, -executed by Hiram Powers, at Leghorn, for the State of South Carolina, -was lost on the coast of Long Island, in July, by the wreck of the brig -Elizabeth. - - * * * * * - -Horace Vernet, the great historical printer, has been to St. Petersburg, -having been requested by the Emperor of Russia to furnish several battle -pieces illustrative of the principal scenes in the Hungarian campaign. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: Drawn by Ch. Bodmer -Eng^{d} by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch - -_Dance of the Mandan Indians._] - - * * * * * - - - - - MANDAN INDIANS. - - - [WITH AN ENGRAVING.] - - -“The Mandans are a vigorous, well-made race of people, rather above the -middling stature, and very few of the men could be called short. The -tallest man now living was Mahchsi-Karehde, (the flying war eagle,) who -was five feet ten inches two lines, Paris measure, (above six feet -English.) In general, however, they are not so tall as the Manitaries. -Many of them are robust, broad-shouldered and muscular, while others are -slender and small limbed. Their physiognomy is, in general, the same as -that of most of the Missouri Indians, but their noses are not so long -and arched as those of the Sioux, nor have they such high cheek-bones. -The nose of the Mandans and Manitaries is not broad—sometimes aquiline, -or slightly curved, and often quite straight. Their eyes are, in -general, long and narrow, of a dark brown color; the inner angle is -often rather lower in childhood, but it is rarely so in maturer age. The -mouth is broad, large, rather prominent, and the lower jaw broad and -angular. No great difference occurs in the form of the skull; in general -I did not find the facile angle smaller than in Europeans, yet there are -some exceptions. Their hair is long, thick, lank, and black, but seldom -as jet and glossy as that of the Brazilians; that of children is often -only dark brown, especially at the tips; and Bradbury speaks of brown -hair among the Mandans. There are whole families among them, as well as -among the Blackfeet, whose hair is gray, or black mixed with white, so -that the whole head appears gray. The families of Sih-Chida and -Mato-Chiha are instances of this peculiarity. The latter chief was -particularly remarkable in this respect; his hair grew in distinct locks -of brown, black, silver gray, but mostly white, and his eyebrows -perfectly white, which had a strange effect in a tall, otherwise -handsome man, between twenty and thirty years of age. They encourage the -growth of their hair, and often lengthen it by artificial means. Their -teeth, like those of all the Missouri Indians, are particularly fine, -strong, firm, even, and as white as ivory. It is very seldom that you -see a defect or a tooth wanting even in old people, though, in the -latter, they are often worn very short, which is chiefly to be -attributed to their chewing hard, dry meat. The women are pretty robust, -and sometimes tall, but, for the most part, they are short and -broad-shouldered. There are but few who can be called handsome as -Indians, but there are many tolerable and some pretty faces among them.” - -The engraving shows them in one of their celebrated dances, and is -beautifully done by the artists. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BRIGHT NEW MOON OF LOVE. - - - BY T. HOLLEY CHIVERS, M. D. - - - At the dawn she stood debating - With the angels at the door - Of Christ’s sepulchre, in waiting - For his body evermore. - Pure as white-robed Faith to Sorrow, - Pointing back to Heaven above— - (Happy Day for every Morrow)— - Was the Bright New Moon of Love. - - Nun-like, chaste in her devotion, - All the stars in heaven on high, - With their radiant, rhythmic motion, - Chimed in with her from the sky. - Sweeter far than day when breaking, - Angel-like, in heaven above, - On the traveler lost, when waking, - Was the Bright New Moon of Love. - - Thus she glorified all sweetness - With the angel-light she shed - From her soul in such completeness, - That she beautified the dead. - When an angel, sent on duty - From his Father’s throne above, - Saw the heaven-surpassing beauty - Of this Bright New Moon of Love. - - For the Truth she loved was Beauty, - Because Beauty was her Truth; - And to love her was his duty, - Such as Boas owed to Ruth. - God had set his seal upon her, - Her divinity to prove, - And this angel wooed her—won her— - Won the Bright New Moon of Love. - - Thus the Mission of True Woman - She did act out in this life— - Showed the Divine in the Human, - In her duties of the Wife. - For the Heaven that he had taken - Was so much like that above, - That the heaven he had forsaken - Was the Bright New Moon of Love. - - For the kingdom of Christ’s glory, - Angel-chanted at her birth, - Is the theme now of the story - Which I warble through the earth. - And because this fallen angel - Took her home to heaven above, - I now write this New Evangel - Of the Bright New Moon of Love. - - * * * * * - - - - - BARCAROLE. - - - WRITTEN AND COMPOSED FOR - - G R A H A M ’ S M A G A Z I N E . - - BY R. J. DE CORDOVA. -[Illustration] - - Come Love with me, the moonlit sea - Invites our barque to wander o’er - Its glassy face where e’en a trace - Of angry - -[Illustration] - - wave is seen no more. - Let Love repeat in accents sweet, - The joys which only Love can tell - And Passion’s strain sing o’er again, - In those fond tones I love so well. - - SECOND VERSE. - - Put fear away, and in the lay - Of love be all but love forgot; - Renounce the care of worldly glare. - Oh heed its glittering falseness not, - But come with me, with spirit free, - United, never more to part, - We’ll seize the time of youth’s gay prime. - The summer of the heart. - - THIRD VERSE. - - Then dearest rise, and let thine eyes, - Where shine Love’s softest mightiest spells. - Reveal the bright refulgent light - Which in their lustrous beauty dwells. - Let blissful song our joy prolong - While gliding o’er the sparkling wave, - And be the theme affection’s dream - Which ends but in the grave. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _In Memoriam. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._ - -The author of this exquisite volume, the finest ever laid on the altar -of friendship, is Alfred Tennyson, the most subtle and imaginative of -living poets. It derives its title from the circumstance of being -written in memory of Arthur Hallam, son of the historian of the Middle -Ages, friend of the poet, and lover of his sister. In a hundred and -eight short poems, all in one peculiar measure, Tennyson expresses not -merely his grief for the loss of his friend, but touches on all those -topics of sorrow and consolation kindred to the subject, or which the -character of young Hallam suggests. It may be said by some that the -object of the volume is unnatural and unmanly; that grief does not -express itself in verses but in tears; that sorrow vents itself in -simple words not in poetic conceits; and that the surest sign of the -deficiency of feeling is a volume devoted to its celebration. But if we -study the structure of Tennyson’s mind, we shall find that, however much -these objections will apply to many mourners, they are inapplicable to -him. The great peculiarity of his genius is intellectual intensity. All -his feelings and impressions pass through his intellect, and are -steadily scanned and reflected upon. In none of his poems do we find any -outburst of feeling, scorning all mental control, or rapidly forcing the -intellect into its service of rage or love. He has never written any -thing in which emotion is not indissolubly blended with thought. There -can be no doubt that he loved the person whom he here celebrates, but he -loved him in his own deep and silent manner; his loss preyed upon his -mind as well as heart, and stung thought and imagination into subtle -activity. The volume is full of beauty, but of beauty in mourning -weeds—of philosophy, but of philosophy penetrated with sadness. To a -common mind, the loss of such a friend would have provoked a grief, at -first uncontrollable, but which years would altogether dispel; to a mind -like Tennyson’s years will but add to its sense of loss, however much -imagination may consecrate and soften it. - -This volume, accordingly, contains some of the finest specimens of -intellectual pathos, of the mind in mourning, we have ever seen, and, in -English literature, it has no parallel. The author is aware, as well as -his critics, of the impossibility of fully conveying his grief in -verses, and has anticipated their objection in a short poem of uncommon -suggestiveness: - - I sometimes hold it half a sin - To put in words the grief I feel, - For words, like nature, half reveal - And half conceal the soul within. - - But for the unquiet heart and brain - A use in measured language lies; - The sad mechanic exercise, - Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. - - In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er, - Like coarsest clothes against the cold; - But that large grief which these unfold, - Is given in outline and no more. - -The following poem touches on the mind and character of young Hallam; -and, if a true picture, the world, as well as the poet, has reason for -regret at his early death: - - Heart-affluence in discursive talk - From household fountains never dry; - The critic clearness of an eye, - That saw through all the Muses’ walk; - - Seraphic intellect and force - To seize and throw the doubts of man; - Impassioned logic, which outran - The hearer in its fiery course; - - High nature amorous of the good, - But touched with no ascetic gloom; - And passion pure in snowy bloom - Through all the years of April blood; - - A love of freedom rarely felt, - Of freedom in her regal seat - Of England, not the school-boy heat, - The blind hysterics of the Celt; - - And manhood fused with female grace - In such a sort, the child would twine - A trustful hand, unasked, in thine, - And find his comfort in thy face; - - All these have been, and thee mine eyes - Have looked on: if they looked in vain - My shame is greater who remain, - Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. - -In the poem which we now extract, we think our readers will recognize -the force which pathos receives by its connection with intense and -excursive thought: - - One writes, that “Other friends remain,” - That “Loss is common to the race,”— - And common is the commonplace, - And vacant chaff well meant for grain. - - That loss is common would not make - My own less bitter, rather more: - Too common! Never morning wore - To evening, but some heart did break. - - O father, wheresoe’er thou be, - That pledgest now thy gallant son; - A shot, ere half thy draught be done, - Hath stilled the life that beat from thee. - - O mother, praying God will save - Thy sailor, while thy head is bowed, - His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud - Drops in his vast and wandering grave. - - Ye know no more than I who wrought - At that last hour to please him well; - Who mused on all I had to tell, - And something written, something thought. - - Expecting still his advent home; - And ever met him on his way - With wishes, thinking, here to-day, - Or here to-morrow will he come. - - O, somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, - That sittest ’ranging golden hair; - And glad to find thyself so fair, - Poor child, that waitest for thy love! - - For now her father’s chimney glows - In expectation of a guest; - And thinking “this will please him best,” - She takes a ribbon or a rose; - - For he will see them on to-night; - And with the thought her color burns; - And, having left the glass, she turns - Once more to set a ringlet right; - - And, even when she turned, the curse - Had fallen, and her future lord - Was drowned in passing through the ford - Or killed in falling from his horse. - - O, what to her shall be the end? - And what to me remains of good? - To her, perpetual maidenhood, - And unto me, no second friend. - -The ringing of the Christmas bells prompts a grand poem, in which the -poet rises out of his dirges into a rapturous prophecy of the “good time -coming.” It is altogether the best of many good lyrics on the same -general theme: - - Ring out wild bells to the wild sky, - The flying cloud, the frosty light: - The year is dying in the night; - Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. - - Ring out the old, ring in the new, - Ring, happy bells, across the snow: - The year is going, let him go; - Ring out the false, ring in the true. - - Ring out the grief that saps the mind, - For those that here we see no more; - Ring out the feud of rich and poor, - Ring in redress to all mankind. - - Ring out a slowly dying cause, - And ancient forms of party strife; - Ring in the nobler modes of life, - With sweeter manners, purer laws. - - Ring out the want, the care, the sin, - The faithless coldness of the times; - Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, - But ring the fuller minstrel in. - - Ring out false pride in place and blood, - The civic slander and the spite; - Ring in the love of truth and right, - Ring in the common love of good. - - Ring out old shapes of foul disease, - Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; - Ring out the thousand wars of old, - Ring in the thousand years of peace. - - Ring in the valiant man and free, - The larger heart, the kindlier hand; - Ring out the darkness of the land, - Ring in the Christ that is to be. - -After these extracts we hardly need to commend the volume to our readers -as worthy of the genius of Tennyson. It will not only give sober delight -on its first perusal, but it contains treasures of thought and fancy -which a frequent recurrence to its pages will alone reveal. - - * * * * * - - _Chronicles and Characters of the Stock Exchange. By John - Francis. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 8vo._ - -This volume, invaluable to merchants and brokers, should be in the hands -of all who have reason to be interested in the secrets of stock-jobbing, -or who have a natural curiosity to understand the philosophy of the -whole system as now practiced in all civilized countries. It gives a -complete history of the National Debt of England, from the reign of -William the Third to the present day, with sketches of the most eminent -financiers of the Stock Exchange, and large details of the political -corruption attending the making of loans. To these are added stock -tables from 1732 to 1846; dividends of the Bank of England stock from -1694 to 1847; and descriptions of the various panics in the English -money market, with their causes and effects. The sketch of Rothschild is -a gem of biography, and while his avarice and cunning are deservedly -condemned, more than usual justice is done to the remarkable blending of -amplitude with acuteness in his powerful understanding. It is said that -on one loan he made £150,000. Though profane, knavish and ferocious, -with bad manners, and a face and person which defied the ability of -caricature to misrepresent, his all-powerful wealth and talents made him -courted and caressed, not only by statesmen and monarchs, but by -clergymen and fastidious aristocrats. It was his delight to outwit -others, but he himself was very rarely outwitted; and the few cases -given by Mr. Francis, of his being overreached by the cunning of other -brokers, are probably the only ones that the London Stock Exchange can -furnish. Though he lived in the most splendid style, gave expensive -entertainments, and occasionally subscribed to ostentatious charities, -he was essentially a miser; and his mind never was so busy in -calculations, in which millions of pounds were concerned, as to lose the -power of estimating within a sixpence, the salary which would enable a -clerk to exist. - -Some curious anecdotes are given in this volume of the corruption of -members of Parliament. It is well known that during the reigns of -William the Third, Anne, George I. and George II., and a portion of the -reign of George III., a seat in the House of Commons was considered, by -many members, as a palpable property, from which a regular income was to -be derived by selling votes to the ministry in power. Sir Robert Walpole -and the Duke of Newcastle, were the greatest jobbers in this political -corruption; but Lord Bute, who entered office on the principle of -dispensing with the purchase of Parliamentary support, carried the -practice on one occasion to an extent never dreamed of by his -predecessors. He discovered that the peace of 1763 could not be carried -through the House without a large bribe. Mr. Francis quotes from Bute’s -private secretary, a statement of the sum distributed among one hundred -and twenty members. “I was myself,” says Mr. Ross Mackay, the secretary -in question, “the channel through which the money passed. With my own -hand I secured above one hundred and twenty votes. Eighty thousand -pounds were set apart for the purpose. Forty members of the House of -Commons received from me a thousand pounds each. To eighty others I paid -five hundred pounds a piece.” This system has been varied of late years. -The mode of purchase at present is by patronage. Offices and pensions -are now the price of votes. - -It would be impossible in a short notice to convey an idea of the -variety of curious information which this book contains. To people who -have money to lose, it is a regular treatise on the art of preserving -wealth. Every private gentleman, smitten with a desire to speculate in -stocks, should carefully study this volume before he makes the fatal -investments. - - * * * * * - - _Evangeline; A Tale of Acadia. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. - Illustrated by forty-five engravings on Wood, from designs by - Jane E. Benham, Birket Foster, and John Gilbert. Boston: - Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 8vo._ - -This volume, in paper, binding, and illustrations, is the most beautiful -and unique we have seen from an American press. We hardly know, however, -if we are right in giving it an American origin, as its illustrations -are most assuredly English, and its typographical execution is exactly -similar to the English edition. No better evidence is needed of -Longfellow’s popularity abroad than the appearance of an edition of one -of his poems, embellished like the present, with engravings so beautiful -in themselves, and so true to the spirit of the scenes and characters -they illustrate. The book is a study to American artists, evincing, as -it does, the rare perfection to which their English brethren have -carried the art of wood engraving, and the superiority of the style -itself to copper-plate in many of the essential requisites of pictorial -representation. The poem thus illustrated, is more beautiful than ever, -its exquisite mental pictures of life and scenery being accurately -embodied to the eye. As a gift-book it will doubtless be very popular -among the best of the approaching season, as its mechanical execution is -in faultless taste, and as the poem itself is an American classic. - - * * * * * - - _The Rebels. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -Many of our elderly readers will recollect the sensation which this -admirable novel created on its original appearance. It was the first -work which gave Mrs. Child, then Miss Frances, her reputation as a -writer and thinker. The scene is laid in Boston, just before the -revolution, and contains a fine picture both of the characters and -events of the time. Many scenes are represented with great dramatic -effect, and there are some passages of soaring eloquence which the -accomplished authoress has never excelled. We cordially hope that the -novel is destined for a new race of popularity. - - * * * * * - - _Heloise, or the Unrevealed Secret. A Tale. By Talvi. New York: - D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -We presume that our readers know that “Talvi” is the assumed name of -Mrs. Robinson. The present novel is a story of German and Russian life, -written by one to whom the subject is familiar, and will well repay -perusal. We think, however, that the accomplished authoress appears to -more advantage in works of greater value and pretension—such as her -late history of the literature of the Slavic nations. - - * * * * * - - _Life of Jean Paul Frederic Richter. Compiled from Various - Sources. Together with his Autobiography. Translated by Eliza - Buckminster Lee. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This is a second edition of a charming biography, published in Boston a -number of years ago, and now very properly reissued. It not only -contains an accurate account of the life and works of one of the most -remarkable and peculiar of German writers, but its pages throng with -interesting allusions and anecdotes relating to his contemporaries. The -letters of Jean Paul, especially, are full of life and heartiness. In -the following passage, referring to his first introduction to Goethe, we -have a living picture painted in few words. “At last the god entered, -cold, one-syllabled, without accent. ‘The French are drawing toward -Paris,’ said Krebel. ‘Hem!’ said the god. His face is massive and -animated, his eye a ball of light. But, at last, the conversation led -from the campaign to art, publications, etc., and Goethe was himself. -His conversation is not so rich and flowing as Herder’s, but -sharp-toned, penetrating and calm. At last he read, that is, played for -us, an unpublished poem, in which his heart impelled the flame through -the outer crust of ice, so that he pressed the hand of the enthusiastic -Jean Paul. He did it again, when we took leave, and pressed me to call -again. By Heaven! we will love each other! He considers his poetic -course as closed. _His reading is like deep-toned thunder, blended with -soft, whispering rain-drops._ There is nothing like it.” Goethe’s -personal effect on his contemporaries, would lead us to suppose that he -was, to adopt Mirabeau’s system of nicknaming, a kind of -Webster-Wordsworth. - - * * * * * - - _Railway Economy; a Treatise on the New Art of Transport, With - an Exposition of the Practical Results of the Railways in - Operation in the United Kingdom, on the Continent, and in - America. By Dionysius Lardner, D. C. L. New York: Harper & - Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This is a very interesting account of the whole system of railways, -written by a person who understands it in its facts and principles. The -author has collected a vast amount of information, which he conveys in a -condensed and comprehensible form. The motto of the work is one of -Bacon’s pregnant sentences: “There be three things make a nation great -and prosperous: a fertile soil, busy workshops, and easy conveyance of -men and things from one place to another.” - - * * * * * - - _Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution. By Benson J. Lossing._ - -The Harpers have just commenced the issue of this beautiful work, which -is to be completed in twenty numbers. The mechanical execution is very -neat, and the wood engravings, from sketches by the author, are -admirable. Mr. Lossing writes with ardor and elegance, his mind filled -with his themes, and boiling over at times into passages of descriptive -eloquence. The book, when completed, will contain an account of the -localities and action of all the battles of the Revolution, illustrated -by six hundred engravings. The enterprise deserves success. - - * * * * * - - _A Discourse on the Baconian Philosophy. By Samuel Tyler, of the - Maryland Bar. Second Edition Enlarged. New York: Baker & - Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This work is very creditable to American literature as a careful and -learned Discourse on a large subject, demanding a knowledge not only of -Bacon but of Plato and Descartes. Mr. Tyler evinces a thorough -comprehension of the externals of the subject, and few can read his book -without an addition to their knowledge; but we think he misses Bacon’s -method in his application of it to metaphysics and theology. The -peculiar vitality of Bacon’s axioms he often overlooks in his admiration -of their formal expression, and occasionally astonishes the reader by -making Bacon commonplace, and then lauding the commonplace as the -highest wisdom. - - * * * * * - - _The Unity of the Human Races Proved to be the Doctrine of - Scripture, Reason, and Science. By the Rev. Thomas Smith, D. D. - New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol._ - -It is well known that Professor Agassiz, at the last meeting in -Charleston of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, -startled the audience with an expression of disbelief in the doctrine -that all mankind sprung from one original parent. The present book, in -some degree the result of his remark, takes strong ground in favor of -the common faith on the point. It is worthy of attentive consideration -from all readers, especially as it popularises the important subject of -Races—a subject generally monopolized by technical _savans_; in -unreadable books. - - * * * * * - -Arthur’s Gazette.—We take great pleasure in calling the attention of -our readers to the prospectus of Mr. Arthur’s newspaper, as set forth in -full upon the cover of Graham for this month. - -Mr. Arthur’s name is a household word the Union over; his stories have -penetrated every village of the country, and are read with delight for -their high moral tone and eminently practical character. The title is -therefore very fitly chosen, and we shall be much mistaken if the _Home_ -Gazette is not welcomed from the start at thousands of firesides, as a -chosen and familiar friend. - -Capital—a very necessary article in starting a new enterprise—has, we -are assured by Mr. Arthur, been abundantly secured, and with the -editor’s industry and energy, there can be no such word as fail. - -Mr. Arthur has discovered the true secret of success—to charge such a -price as will really enable him to make a good paper—to make it so in -all respects; and then to _advertise_ so as to let the public know that -he has a first-rate article for sale at a fair living price. If he -allows no temptation of _temporary_ success to seduce him from the just -business ground thus assumed, he is as certain of ultimate and permanent -prosperity, as he can be of any problem in mathematics. A simple -business secret that a great many publishers we know of, have yet to -learn. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: - -LE FOLLET Paris, boul^{t}. S^{t}. Martin, 69. -Chapeaux de M^{me}. Baudry, r. Richelieu, 81—Plumes et fleurs de Chagot - ainé, r. Richelieu, 73. -Robes et pardessus M^{me}. Verrier Richard, r. Richelieu, 77—Dentelles - Violard, r. Choiseul, 4. -The styles of Goods here represented can be had of Mess^{rs}. L.T. Levy & - C^{o}. Philadelphia, - and at Stewart’s , New York. -Graham’s Magazine, 134 Chestnut Street.] - - * * * * * - -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 140, speech of Lenox, ==> speech of Lennox, -page 140, was for Malcom and ==> was for Malcolm and -page 145, at it’s outbreak ==> at its outbreak -page 148, added [_To be continued._ -page 149, saw in vision ==> saw in a vision -page 149, “to saw the kernels ==> “to sow the kernels -page 153, thread-lace cape ==> thread-lace caps -page 153, in in leaving her ==> in leaving her -page 154, had forsight to arm ==> had foresight to arm -page 154, everybody eat, not ==> everybody ate, not -page 154, hour passsed in ==> hour passed in -page 155, turned to Miss Houton ==> turned to Miss Hauton -page 155, “Its a shameful ==> “It’s a shameful -page 155, “a very powerful ==> “is a very powerful -page 155, get a new troup ==> get a new troupe -page 155, was evident spite ==> was evident in spite -page 155, she could excute ==> she could execute -page 157, sleeping roses heart ==> sleeping rose’s heart -page 157, Our bark floats ==> Our barque floats -page 166, conditon of the ==> condition of the -page 171, nutricious fluids ==> nutritious fluids -page 173, roly-boly globularity ==> roly-poly globularity -page 177, perfect nonchalence ==> perfect nonchalance -page 178, some choice boquet ==> some choice bouquet -page 178, of faded boquets ==> of faded bouquets -page 179, lige a winged ==> like a winged -page 180, herself ununworthy ==> herself unworthy -page 180, and fops,” concontinued ==> and fops,” continued -page 183, to her hapness ==> to her happiness -page 186, in the of midst ==> in the midst of -page 189, her moonlight bark ==> her moonlight barque -page 192, pannicle, and the ==> panicle, and the -page 193, no part slighted ==> no part is slighted -page 193, fact the canvasi ==> fact the canvas is -page 194, musical intepretation ==> musical interpretation -page 195, BY T. HOLLY CHIVRES, M. D. ==> BY T. HOLLEY CHIVERS, M. D. -page 196, our bark to wander ==> our barque to wander -page 199, Longfellow’s popularaity ==> Longfellow’s popularity - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 3, -September 1850, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, SEPT 1850 *** - -***** This file should be named 54026-0.txt or 54026-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/0/2/54026/ - -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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