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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57734 ***</div>
<div class='figcenter'>
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<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:x-small'>Painted by H. Thompson, R.A.</span><br/></p> <br/><span class='bold'>THE IDLE SCHOOLBOY.</span><br/><span style='font-size:smaller'>Engraved by T. B. Welch expressly for Graham’s Magazine.</span>
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<hr class='tbk101'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;font-size:1.9em;font-weight:bold;'>GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'><span class='sc'>Vol. XXXVI.</span> March, 1850. No. 3.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'>Table of Contents</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>Fiction, Literature and Articles</p>
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<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#lady'>The Lady of the Rock</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#brig'>The Brigand and His Wife</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#essay'>An Essay on American Literature and Its Prospects</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#buon'>Buondlemonte. A Tale of Italy</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#recep'>A Reception Morning</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#art'>The Young Artist</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#life'>Life of General Nathaniel Greene</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#wild'>Wild-Birds of America</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#gems'>Gems From Moore’s Irish Melodies.</a> No. III.—Come Rest In This Bosom</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#books'>Review of New Books</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#table'>Editor’s Table</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'> </td></tr>
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<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>Poetry, Music, and Fashion</p>
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<col span='1' style='width: 1em;'/>
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<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#mex'>Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico. No. II</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#cry'>The Cry of the Forsaken</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#storm'>A Midnight Storm in March</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#sun'>A Sunbeam</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#long'>Long Ago</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#two'>The Two Worlds</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#thesky'>The Sky</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#taur'>Taurus</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#dying'>The Dying Student</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#toin'>To —— In Absence</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#glean'>Memory—The Gleaner</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#follet'>Le Follet</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#thou'>Thou Art Lovelier</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'> </td></tr>
</table>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'><a href='#notes'>Transcriber’s Notes</a> can be found at the end of this eBook.</p>
<hr class='tbk102'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;font-size:1.9em;font-weight:bold;'>GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.</p>
<hr class='tbk103'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'><span class='sc'>Vol.</span> XXXVI. PHILADELPHIA, March, 1850. <span class='sc'>No. 3.</span></p>
<hr class='tbk104'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='169' id='Page_169'></span><h1 class='nobreak'><a id='march'></a>MARCH.</h1></div>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Spenser</span> finely characterizes this month —</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Study March with brows full sternly bent</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And armed strongly;</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>yet he pictures it, as it advances, scattering blessings
around, calling on the buds to throw aside their
wintry vestments, and come forth to gladden the earth
with their smiles. Such is, in reality, the progress of
the season. In the early days of the month</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“Winter, still lingering on the verge of Spring,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Retires reluctant, and, from time to time,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Looks back.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>As it proceeds, however —</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Her universal green, and the clear sky</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Delights still more and more the gazing eye,”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>and all is joy and gladness. The lark is caroling in
the clear blue vault of heaven; the notes of the blackbird
resound through the yet leafless groves; the robin
is again heard from his lofty perch on the branch of
some tall tree. The waters are dancing in the pale
sunshine, and every thing looks as if regeneration had
commenced its work.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A quaint old writer says, “the <span class='it'>moneth</span> of March
was called by the Saxons <span class='it'>Leneth moneth</span>, because the
days did then first begin in length to exceed the nights.
And this <span class='it'>moneth</span> being by our ancient fathers so called
when they received Christianity, and, consequently,
therewith the annual Christian custome of fasting,
they called their chief season of fasting the fast of
<span class='it'>Lenet</span>, because of the <span class='it'>Lenet moneth</span>, whereon most
part of this fasting always fell, and hereof it cometh
that we now call it Lent.” According to other etymologists,
Lenet, or Lent, means Spring; hence,
March was literally the Spring month. Spring, most
delightful of seasons! how beautifully have thy charms
been celebrated in undying song, by bards of old from
the very dawn of literature. With what pleasure do
we look back on thy worshipers of other days—such
as Chaucer, Spenser, Herrick, Ben Jonson, Shakspeare,
each speaking of thy beauties out of the fullness
of his heart. But in our admiration of those
whose memories will ever live in song, let us not forget
those of our own day; gratitude, admiration and
pride prompt our notice of Bryant, our favorite American
poet, who thus beautifully apostrophizes this blustering
month:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The stormy March is come at last,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  With wind and cloud and changing skies:</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>I hear the rushing of the blast,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  That through the snowy valley flies.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Ah! passing few are those who speak,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Wild stormy month, in praise of thee!</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Thou art a welcome month to me.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>For thou to northern lands again</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  The glad and glorious sun dost bring;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And thou hast joined the gentle train,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  And wearest the gentle name of Spring.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And in thy reign of blast and storm</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Smiles many a long bright sunny day,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>When the changed winds are soft and warm,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  And heaven puts on the bloom of May.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Then sing aloud the gushing rills,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  And the full springs from frost set free,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>That brightly leaping down the hills</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Are just set out to meet the sea.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The year’s departing beauty hides</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Of wintry storms the sullen threat,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>But in thy sternest frown abides</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  A look of kindly promise yet.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Thou bring’st the hope of those calm skies,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  And that soft hue of many showers,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>When the wide bloom on earth that lies</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Seems of a brighter world than ours.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>How graphically does the author of the “Fairie
Queene” marshal this harbinger of Spring, in the noble
march of the Seasons —</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>First lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of floures</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  That freshly budded, and new blossomes did beare,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>In which a thousand birds had built their bowres,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  That sweetly sung to call forth paramoures:</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And in his hand a javelin he did beare,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures)</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>A guilt-engraven morion he did weare,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  That as some did him love, so others did him feare</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='170' id='Page_170'></span>
The great operations of Nature during this month
seem to be, to dry up the superabundant moisture of
February, thereby preventing the roots and seeds from
rotting in the earth, and gradually to bring forward the
process of evolution in the swelling buds, whilst, at
the same time, by the wholesome severity of the
chilling blasts, they are kept from a premature disclosure,
which would expose their tender contents to injury
from the yet unconfirmed season. Shakspeare in
one of his beautiful similies says —</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Checks all our buds from blowing.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This seeming tyranny, however, is to be regarded as
the most useful discipline; and those years generally
prove most fruitful in which the pleasing appearances
of Spring are the latest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The sun having now acquired some power, often
reminds us of the genial influence of Spring, though
the naked shrubs and trees still give the landscape the
comfortless appearance of Winter —</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“There is a vernal freshness in the air,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> A breaking in the sky, full of sweet promise</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> That the tardy Spring, capricious as she is,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> And chary of her favors, will, ere long,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Smile on us in her beauty, and call forth</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> From slumber long and deep each living thing.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>   I know it by this warm delicious breeze,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Balmy, yet fresh, the very soul of health—</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Of health, of hope, of joy; by these bright beams,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> And yonder azure heavens, I know it well.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>   Soon the pent blossom in the naked spray,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Trained to the sunny wall, shall own her power,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> And ope its leaves, tinged like an ocean shell:</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Soon shall each bank which fronts the southern sky,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> And tangled wood, and quiet sheltered nook,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Be gemm’d with countless flowers—earth’s living stars.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Mild, pleasant weather in March is seldom, however,
of long duration. In Europe, where the seasons
are much more forward than they are with us, they
have an old proverb—“A peck of March dust is worth
a king’s ransom.” For as soon as a few dry days
have made the land fit for working, the farmer goes to
the plough, and, if the fair weather continues, proceeds
to sowing oats and barley, though this business is seldom
finished till the next month.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A strange commotion,” observes a celebrated English
writer, “may be seen and heard at this season
among the winged creatures, portending momentous
matters. The lark is high up in the cold air before
daylight, and his chosen mistress is listening to him
among the dank grass, with the dew still upon her unshaken
wing. The robin, too, has left off, for a brief
season, his low, plaintive piping, which, it must be
confessed, was poured forth for his own exclusive
satisfaction, and, reckoning on his spruce looks and
sparkling eyes, issues his quick, peremptory love-call
in a somewhat ungallant and husband-like manner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The sparrows who have lately been skulking
silently about from tree to tree, with ruffled plumes
and drooping wings, now spruce themselves up, till
they do not look half their former size, and if it were
not pairing time, one might fancy there was more of
war than of love in their noisy squabblings.” Among
other indications of the advancing season, says Gray —</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>New born lambs in rustic dance</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Frisking ply their nimble feet,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Forgetful of their wintry trance</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  The birds his presence greet;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>But chief the sky-lark warbles high</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>His trembling, thrilling ecstasy,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And lessening from the dazzled sight,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Melts into air and liquid light.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Nothing, at this season, is a more pleasing spectacle
than the sporting of the young lambs, most of which
are yeaned this month, and are, if the weather is
severe, protected in covered sheds, till the mildness of
the season permits them to venture abroad. Dyer, in
his poem of “The Fleece,” gives a very natural and
beautiful description of this circumstance:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Spread around thy tend’rest diligence</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>In ploughing spring-time, when the new-dropt lamb,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Tottering with weakness by his mother’s side,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Feels the fresh world about him, and each thorn,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Oh! guard his meek, sweet innocence from all</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The innum’rous ills that rush around his life!</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Mark the quick kite, with beak and talons prone,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain!</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Observe the larking crows! beware the brake,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>There the sly wolf the careless minute waits!</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Nor trust thy neighbor’s dog, nor earth nor sky;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide!</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Eurus oft slings his hail; the tardy fields</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Pay not their promised food; and oft the dam</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>O’er her weak twins with empty udder mourns,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Or fails to guard, when the bold bird of prey</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Alights, and hops in many turns around,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And tires her, also turning; to her aid</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Be nimble, and the weakest, in thine arms,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Gently convey to the warm cote; and oft,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Between the lark’s note and the nightingale’s</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>His hungry bleating still with tepid milk;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>In this soft office may thy children join,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And charitable habits learn in sport;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Nor yield him to himself, ere the vernal airs</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Sprinkle thy little croft with daisy flowers.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Another most agreeable token of the arrival of Spring
is, that the bees,</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“Pilgrims of Summer, who do bow the knee</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> At every shrine,”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>begin to venture out of their hives about the middle of
this month. As their food is the honey-like juice
found in the tubes of flowers, their coming abroad is a
certain indication of the approach of Spring. No
creature seems possessed of a greater power of foreseeing
the weather; so that their appearance in the
morning may be reckoned a sure token of a fine day.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The insect world, now sunbeams higher climb,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Oft dream of Spring, and wake before their time.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Bees stroke their little legs across their wings,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And venture short flights where the snow-drop brings</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Its silver bell, and winter aconite,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Its buttercup-like flowers, that shut at night,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>With green leaf furling round its cup of gold,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Like tender maiden muffled from the cold;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>They sip, and find their honey-dreams are vain,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Then feebly hasten to their hives again.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The butterflies, by eager hopes undone,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Glad as a child come out to greet the sun;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Beneath the shadow of a sudden shower,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'><span class='pageno' title='171' id='Page_171'></span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Are lost—nor see to-morrow’s April flower.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The gardens are now beginning to be studded by the
crocus —</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>        “The flower of Hope, whose hue</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Is bright with coming joy,”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>the varieties of which adorn the borders with a rich
mixture of yellow and purple. The little shrubs of
mezereon are in their beauty. The fields begin to be
clothed with the springing grass, and but few flowers
appear to decorate their velvet mounds. The flowers
of Spring have been favorite themes for the poets.
Shakspeare represents Perdita as desirous to present
to her guests</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>                            Daffodils</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>That come before the swallow dares, and take</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Or <a id='cyth'></a>Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>That die unmarried, ere they can behold</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Bright Phœbus in his strength, a malady</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The flower-de-luce being one!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>and Chaucer has sung so melodiously and so affectionately
of the charms of</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>        These flowres, white and rede,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Soch that men callen daisies in our town,</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>as to entwine it with the recollections of himself.
Shelley, among the modern writers, in a single couplet,
has left one of the most exquisite descriptions of this
flower that ever was written:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Daisies, those pearled <a id='arc'></a>Arcturi of the earth,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The constellated flower that never sets!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>And another poet endears it by a single epithet. He
is seeking for a flower to place in the coffined hand of
a dead infant.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  That tiny hand to fill,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Go search the fields! the lichen wet,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Bends o’er the unfailing well:</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Beneath the furrow lingers yet</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  The scarlet pimpernel.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Where never froze the spring?</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'><span class='it'>A daisy? oh! bring childhood’s flower —</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  <span class='it'>The half-blown daisy bring!</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Yes, lay the daisy’s little head</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Beside the little cheek;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Oh, hush! the last of five is dead —</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  The childless cannot speak!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The inimitable Wordsworth, with the garrulity of
a nurse, fondling a beloved infant, lavishes on it in a
single poem, several endearing appellations, in one
verse styling it</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>A nun demure, of lowly port.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>And in another line:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>A queen in crown of rubies drest.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>And again:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>A little Cyclops, with one eye,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Staring to threaten or defy.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The primrose, a beautiful little flower but little known
in this country, also has been embalmed in song.
Milton introduces it in terms of endearment, “the rathe
primrose that forsaken dies,” as if its little heart was
too gentle to withstand alone the rude shocks of the
world.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The violet seems to have been a favorite flower
with this author, when he says,</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>No sweeter fragrance e’er perfumed the gale.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Herrick thus fancifully accounts for its color:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Love, on a day, wise poets tell,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Some time in wrangling spent,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Whether the violet should excel,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Or she, in sweetest scent.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>But Venus, having lost the day,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Poore girles, she fell on you,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And beate ye so, as some dare say,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Her blows did make ye blew.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Even the most unpoetical nature must have been
occasionally conscious of some such emotion as is embodied
in these lines:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>                       There’s to me</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>A daintiness about these early flowers</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>That touches one like poetry.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Among the visitants of March, especially if the
season be mild, that now delights the eye of the observer,
is the rich scarlet flower of the <span class='it'>Pyrus Japonica</span>;
and the sweet-smelling jonquil irradiates the
flower-border, and if he ventures into the fields, and
braves the blustering winds of the season, he will be
charmed with the bright blossoms of the celandine and
the butter-cup, whose bright golden faces recall many
an hour of childhood and happiness of the time when</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“Daisies and buttercups gladdened our sight,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Like treasures of silver and gold.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>As we approach the Equinox, the storms and winds
tempestuous and frequent, yet from these extremes,
reconciled and moderated by the hand of Providence,
much good results. Thus says the poet of nature,
whose philosophic reflections and moral remarks are
only to be equalled by his own matchless descriptions:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Be patient, swains, these cruel seeming winds</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Blow not in vain; for hence they keep repressed</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Those deepening clouds on clouds, surcharged with rain,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>That o’er the vast Atlantic hither borne,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>In endless rain would quench the summer blaze,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And cheerless drown the crude unripened year.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<hr class='tbk105'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='172' id='Page_172'></span><h1><a id='lady'></a>THE LADY OF THE ROCK.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>A LEGEND OF NEW ENGLAND.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY MISS M. J. WINDLE.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER I.</h2>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Splendor in heaven, and horror on the main,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Sunshine and storm at once—a troubled day.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Dramatic Poem</span>.</p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>All</span> readers of English history must be able to recall
to mind with especial distinctness that period in its
annals when the unfortunate Charles I. drew upon himself
the odium and mistrust of Parliament, and London
witnessed the unprecedented scene of the trial of a king
for treason before a court chosen from amongst his
subjects. It will be recollected that opposing religious
interests operated with those of a merely political nature
in leading many of the enemies of Charles to push
their aversion to his measures to this extreme. His
unwise prohibition of the Puritan emigration to the
American colonies was not the least of these creating
causes; and might be cited by such as are fond of
tracing retributive justice in human affairs, as one of
those instances in which men are permitted by their
frowardness to pass upon themselves the sentence of
their own destruction, since, but for that prohibition, the
most powerful opponent of Charles, and the mighty
instrument of his ruin, would have embarked for New
England, and this country have become the theatre of
Cromwell’s actions and renown—supposing that the
elements of that remarkable character must have won
elsewhere something of the same name he has left behind
him—a name to live alike in the condemnation
and commendation of mankind.</p>
<p class='pindent'>To the period alluded the beginning of this tale
reverts. The trial of the king had been in progress
several days. Of more than an hundred and thirty
judges appointed by the Commons, about seventy sat
in constant attendance. Chief in rank and importance
among these was General Lisle—a man whom we
should not confound either with the mad enthusiasts of
that day, or with those dissembling hypocrites who
used their religion only as a stepping-stone to power,
or the cloak to conceal a guilty and treasonable ambition,
since his opposition to Charles was actuated
solely by the purest principles of patriotism and religion.
He was, at the time of the trial, in his sixtieth
year; and his constant attendance and unwavering
firmness of purpose—the evident results of preconceived
principle—during the whole sitting of that
strange tribunal, were not without great effect in
nerving to continued resolution the otherwise faltering
minds of many of the younger judges. For it cannot
be doubted that compunctious feelings must have had
moments of ascendency in the hearts of a number of
those with whom rested the event of this questionable
trial. This was evinced in some by their occasional
absence; in others, who nevertheless felt scrupulously
bound to be present, by a nervous tremor at the appearance
of the prisoner, and subsequent abstraction of attention
from the scene, as testifying a desire to assume
as small a share as possible of the deep responsibility
belonging to the occasion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Of the latter class was William Heath, the son of a
Puritan divine in Sussex. At the opening of the
war, he had repaired to the army, and risen by his
gallantry and merits to the rank of general. Though
still young, he had been afterward conspicuous in Parliament,
and was one of those who took up accusations
against the eleven members. Yet although he
was friendly to the king’s deposition, he had at first
positively refused to sit when appointed one of a Court
called to make inquisition for his blood. And he had
at length only consented to assume the place assigned
him there, as it was notoriously believed, through the
influence of Lisle, to whose daughter he was betrothed,
and his nuptials with whom were to be completed on
the night on which this narrative opens.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His handsome countenance, as he sat in the Court
through the whole day preceding—though it contrasted
with the pallor which had marked it during those previous,
in wearing upon it the anxious flush of the expectant
bridegroom, yet bore the same <a id='harr1'></a>harassed air
which had been seen upon it since the commencement
of the trial, and which even the blissful hopes he was
about to realize could not suffice to dissipate. It was
only when he turned his eyes upon Lisle, unflinching
in his dignified composure, that he seemed momentarily
able to yield himself up to the unalloyed anticipation
of happiness. So true is it, that a conscience
ill at ease with itself has the power to mar the bliss of
heaven.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Court had adjourned; the prisoner had been remanded
to the care of Lisle, in whose house he had
been kept in strict and harsh confinement ever since
his landing in London, during those hours not occupied
with his trial; and but one more day remained
to decide the doom of the unhappy Charles Stuart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was eight o’clock in the evening. In an apartment,
far remote from that chamber of Lisle’s spacious
but sombre-looking dwelling, which held the person of
the royal prisoner, were assembled the wedding guests.
As much festivity and ornament had been called to
grace the occasion as was consistent with Lisle’s
Puritanic views, yet the whole seemed by far too
little to celebrate the marriage of the lovely divinity
for whom it was prepared. The apartment was in the
Elizabethan style of architecture, but devoid of those
ornaments of luxurious taste, which, in the reign of
Charles I. graced the houses of the opulent and distinguished
of the Church of England. A quaint stiffness
reigned throughout the furniture and other arrangements.
Rows of high-backed chairs, interrupted here
<span class='pageno' title='173' id='Page_173'></span>
and there with a book-case, table, or other heavy piece
of mahogany, stood in prim regularity against the wall;
tall candlesticks, containing taller candles, cast their
blue light from the mantel-piece, and a large Bible,
laid open upon the table, was calculated to infuse devotional
or religious sentiments into those mirthful
feelings belonging to the occasion. No branches of
mistletoe or holly hung around the room remained as
suggestions of the recent Christmas; no superb and
glittering chandelier shed its soft flood of light upon the
assembly; no damask drapery or luxurious sofas gave
an air of elegance and comfort to the spacious dreariness
of the apartment; no music was prepared for the
enlivenment of the evening; nor were any profane
amusements that night to invoke the judgments of
Heaven upon the approaching ceremony.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The company consisted of more than two hundred
guests, gentlemen and ladies, all staunch Puritans, and
opposers of the king. The countenances of many of
the male portion of these were recognisable as the
same which had, for the last few days, appeared as
the arraigners at the trial so speedily about to be terminated,
and a certain peculiar expression, common
to each, betokening a mind preoccupied by one deeply
engrossing topic, might have enabled an uninformed
observer readily to select them from the rest. Yet
there were others present to whom the affair alluded to
was not less momentous, and with whom rested fully
as much of the responsibility of its now almost certainly
dark result.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One of these latter, conspicuously seated near to
Lisle, was the mighty mover of the political revolution
of the day, and the chief instrument in procuring
the king’s unhappy position—the aspiring, though still
religious Cromwell. The descriptions of history have
made the personal appearance of this remarkable man
so familiar to posterity, that it is superfluous here to
draw any picture of his coarse and strongly-made
form, and severely harsh, but thoughtful features. The
mention of his name will at once call up to the minds
of such as have ever interested themselves in the account
of those stirring times which have left their impress
upon subsequent events, and one of whose later
results may be traced in our own national freedom, no
vague or shadowy embodiment, but a well-defined
portrait, engraved on the tablet of memory.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On this evening, his furtive glance around him from
beneath his shaggy eye-brows, as he conversed with
Lisle in a labyrinthine manner peculiar to him at times,
evinced a wish to penetrate into the secrets of such
hearts as rated his character at its true value. A close
observer might have noted, too, that ever and anon
as that glance, after wandering to distant parts of the
room, returned and fixed upon Lisle, it gradually fell,
as if stricken to earth by the steady gaze of the truly
disinterested religionist, and the rebukes of its owner’s
accusing conscience.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Court, thou sayest,” ran his speech, “have
this day considered and agreed upon a judgment. It
is well. But I tell thee that not Parliament, nor the
army, nor this Court, could avail to pull down Charles
Stuart from his high place, saving that the God of
Heaven is at war with him. What though there be
witnesses to prove that he set up his standard at Nottingham,
led his armed troops at Newbury, Edgehill
and Naseby—issued proclamations and mandates for
the prosecution of the war? They are but instruments
in the hands of the same God who destroyed and dethroned
Belshazzar of old, because he was weighed in
the balance and found wanting. And is it not meet that
we Christians should buckle on our armor in behalf of
the Lord of Hosts? Yea, verily! else for mine own
part, Charles Stuart should not fall from the throne of
England. I am not a bloody man; nay, by reason of
human frailty, my heart had now well-nigh failed me in
this very cause, but that he who putteth his hand to the
plough in these troublous times, and looketh back,
need be careful that he be not hanged upon the gallows
which Haman prepared for Mordecai.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The whole of this last sentence was spoken in soliloquy,
for Lisle had at that moment risen to receive
some guests.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The persons entering were three in number—a gentleman
of about forty years of age, attended by two
lovely females, whose youthful years and striking resemblance
to himself, would instantly have suggested,
what was in reality the case, that they were his
daughters.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From the looks of interest with which his arrival was
regarded by all present, it was evident that he was a
person of some distinction, though he had not, at that
period, given to the world the monument of his genius
on which he has since built his immortality. Yet John
Milton was justly celebrated even then for his political
writings, his strenuous assertion and defense of liberty,
his austere Puritanic views, and his abstemious manner
of life. His whole appearance was prepossessing in
the extreme, but rather interesting than commanding;
for his stature was low, though his body was strongly
made and muscular. His hair, which was of light
brown, streaked with hues of gold, and hanging in
silken waves to his shoulders, was parted in the middle,
after the fashion of the day, and surmounted a low
yet expansive forehead, sufficiently indicative of the
depth of genius which lay beneath. His complexion
was fair, and delicately colored as a woman’s; and
the contour of his features might have been objected
to as effeminate, were it not for the expression of
manly dignity which animated the whole countenance.
His full, gray eye, in its somewhat sleepy expression,
evinced that quiet melancholy peculiar to poetic genius,
while a certain searching and wandering look with
which he occasionally stared fixedly around him, suggested
the idea that his sight was not perfect.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The two daughters of Milton, by whom he was
attended, were highly interesting in appearance, with
the dignity of countenance peculiar to their father,
and having upon them the unmistakable stamp of
an inheritance from him of nature’s noblest gift of
intellect.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Returning Lisle’s salutation as he approached to
meet them, these two young females retired to a seat
amongst the ladies, and left Milton and his host standing
near the entrance of the apartment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou losest thy daughter to-night, honored friend,”
said the former. “I trust she may find a continuance
<span class='pageno' title='174' id='Page_174'></span>
of that happiness in wedlock that she has enjoyed in
her father’s house.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“True happiness belongs not to this earth,” said
Lisle. “It is in mercy withheld from us by the Almighty,
that we may be the more ready to meet death
when the summons calls us hence.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou speakest well,” replied Milton; “the very
impossibility of finding happiness here is a merciful
provision of the all-wise Creator. But talking of a
willingness to encounter death, they tell me that the
court have decided upon the sentence of the tyrant and
traitor king. Is the rumor correct?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So much so,” said Lisle, “that to-morrow we sign
the warrant for his execution.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shall marvel,” said the other, “though I speak
it with shame, if fifty out of your hundred have the
Christian courage to stain their fingers with the touch
of the bloody quill prepared for them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“May all such then,” returned Lisle, while a flush
as of indignation passed over his countenance for an
instant, and then died rapidly away—“may all such as
flinch from the performance of this noble act of duty to
their country and to God, and omit to place their names,
when called upon, to that righteous document of His
preparing, not find at the last judgment that the angel
of the Lord has likewise omitted to place their names
upon his book. But here is my daughter and her
future husband; and the man of God has risen to perform
the marriage ceremony. Excuse me, I must
meet them at the door.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I pray thee give me thy hand first, and conduct me
to a seat. A strange mistiness which I have of late
had to come frequently across my eyes, is upon them
now, and every object before me seems indistinct and
confused.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lisle hastily did as his friend desired, scarcely hearing
or heeding, in his hurry, the import of his words,
and then advancing to meet his daughter and Heath, he
conducted them toward the venerable minister of their
faith, in waiting to unite the young couple in the bonds
of holy wedlock.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As they took their station before him, his pious “Let
us pray,” was heard, and all present arose. After a
long and fervent supplication, in the manner of the
Puritan divines of that period, he delivered a sort of
homily upon the duties and responsibilities of the marriage
state, and then pronounced an extemporaneous
and brief ceremony, ending with the words, “What
God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
This was followed by another lengthy prayer, and
William Heath and Alice Lisle were husband and wife.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The company now advanced to greet the bride and
groom, who separately returned their salutations with
a polished grace appropriate to their differing sex.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Unscreened by the customary bridal veil, as savoring
too much of a form belonging to the established
church, the lovely face of Alice was not covered, save
that a few natural ringlets, purposely left unfastened,
fell upon her cheeks, and partially screened from observation
her exquisitely beautiful features. Her dress was
of the simplest and purest white, and without ornament
or addition to enhance her natural loveliness; and it is
impossible to conceive of a being more charming than
she appeared in the modest diffidence of her sex on the
most important and conspicuous occasion of a woman’s
life, and yet withal losing nothing of the dignity of
manner belonging to one conscious of possessing that
energy of mind, which, so far from being, as some
erroneously suppose, a masculine or unwomanly trait,
is, on the contrary, the distinguishing and crowning
mark of a character essentially feminine. What but
such strength of mind has ever yet triumphed over
female vanity and love of display, and from the exacting
divinity of man’s homage, converted a woman
into the self-sacrificing and judicious minister to his
happiness, fitted her to be true to one with untiring
devotion through evil report and good report, rejoicing
with him not for her sake, but for his, in his prosperity;
sharing with him uncomplainingly his adversity, and
cheering, with words of comfort, while her own heart
may have been well nigh breaking, the path in which,
but for her example to shame him, and her voice to
comfort and encourage him, he would have sunk to
rise no more.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Well was it for William Heath that Alice Lisle possessed
these requisites for becoming such an unwavering
and devoted companion in misfortune, as we have
described; for the day, though not immediately near,
was still in store, when her willingness to encounter
adversity, and her fitness to meet it with fortitude sufficient
to sustain herself, her father, and the husband to
whom she had that night given her hand, and had long
since pledged the full affections of her heart, were
amply to be tested.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The appearance of Heath was such as was well calculated
to excite interest, and his mind, character, and
winning manners, such as speedily to change this on
the appearance of any preference on his part, into sentiments
of a more tender character. There was something
in his whole mien—in the easy and upright carriage
of his head—the intrepid character of his features—the
bold and vigorous flashing of his dark eyes—that
marked him no common man.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The salutations were soon ended, and the company
now being somewhat relieved from the awkward embarrassment
which they had experienced while waiting
for the appearance of those whom the occasion
was to honor—for, in those days, society was much
the same in that respect as at present, the company
scattered, and gathered together in knots and groups,
and discussed with great eagerness the engrossing
topic of the trial. Conversation, however, flowed, not
as it was wont, in its pleasant current, diverging here
and there, as fancy or caprice suggested, but an appearance
of gloom pervaded the whole intercourse;
and although each individual appeared evidently to
make an effort to relieve this feeling, the effort itself
showed a consciousness of the constraint.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was not then the custom to deprive the groom and
bride of each other’s society during the whole evening
after the ceremony, but was rather the fashion to
throw them together as much as possible—which must
at least, in the case of all love-matches, have been
more conformable with the inclinations, than that
habit of scrupulously avoiding one another, now in
vogue. Agreeably with this ordinary arrangement,
<span class='pageno' title='175' id='Page_175'></span>
Alice and Heath withdrew toward the close of the
evening, without attracting observation, into an anteroom
adjoining the main apartment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It had not escaped the notice of any, that notwithstanding
the blissful occasion, the brow of Alice wore
a cloud, if not actually of sorrow, at least of melancholy
sadness. We may believe that this had attracted
the especial notice of him who had that evening taken
her happiness into his proper keeping. But his sympathetic
heart rightly surmised its cause.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou art sad, my own Alice,” he said, “on this
night, which I had fondly hoped would have made
thee as supremely joyful as it does myself. You distress
yourself on account of the king’s situation: is it
not so?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not only on account of the king’s unhappy situation,
but likewise because of the hand my father and
thyself have had in it. I fear that his blood, if he be
sentenced, as the rumor is, to-morrow, will be avenged
upon the heads of those whom I love best on earth.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But, Alice,” argued the husband, “he has merited,
by his tyranny and treason, this trial, and in contemning
the court, as he has done throughout in refusing to
plead, he will likewise merit whatever sentence it
may see fit, after examining the competent witnesses,
to pass upon him. Besides, has not your father told
you that this is the Lord’s cause, and that He calleth
aloud from the throne of Heaven for the blood of
Charles Stuart?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Those are indeed my father’s words,” replied
Alice, “<span class='it'>too severe</span> in his religious views, and forgetting
that the Almighty is a God of mercy no less than
of justice. But, William Heath, they are not the words
dictated by the generous and kind heart that animates
thy bosom, else Alice Lisle, though she be her father’s
daughter, had not this night become thy wife. Listen
to the conscience which the penetrating eye of true
affection seeth even now reproving thee, and have no
further hand in this bloody work. Charles Stuart may
be all that the Parliament and your court have named
him; and if he be, God forbid that I should justify his
baseness. But as we are all prone to err, it is sweet
to forgive, even as we hope to be forgiven. Go not to
the court to-morrow, William, nor stain this hand of
thine by affixing thy signature to the death-warrant of
the king. Promise me this, I ask it as my wedding
boon.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Would that you had spared me, beloved one, the
pain of hearing you ask aught that I cannot and dare
not grant. My word of honor to your father is pledged
to perform the very act which you implore me to leave
undone. It was the condition which sealed my happiness
in calling you wife this night. When I would
have shrunk from the responsibility of taking an active
part in the trial, and resigned my place to an older and
more experienced statesman than myself, Henry Lisle,
in disgust at what he conceived the indecision and
irreligion of my character, would have robbed me of
that dear hope which has even now been realized. I
was forced to promise your father, Alice, that I would
not only accept my place as one of the judges, but that
I would be present throughout the trial, and shrink
from no act which my position as a member of the
court imposed on me—even to the signing of the warrant
for Charles Stuart’s death. Is there naught else,
involving less than my honor, that you would have me
grant you? If there is, ask it, sweet one, and I will
move heaven and earth to accomplish it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“These are idle words of gallantry, William, unworthy
the confidence which should exist between us.
A wife need have no boon to ask of her husband unless
in a case which involves his own best interests. As
such, I would have had thee remain away from the
court to-morrow, and even have sought to use our
united influence to detain my father also. But it
seems he has set his heart upon the matter even more
than I had deemed. I pray the Lord that his retributive
justice for this parricidal act, fall not heavily on
the heads of all of us. If this cause, as ye both believe,
be His, can ye not be persuaded that He will avenge
Himself on the king without human agency. Is there
no hope for Charles Stuart? He is in this house: can
no means be contrived for his escape?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That were impossible, dearest, guarded as he is on
all hands. But if he would but abate his hauteur, and
plead his cause in the eloquent manner he so well
knows how to assume, there might yet, perhaps, exist
a hope for him. In this lies his only chance of escape.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At that moment supper was announced, and Alice
and Heath repaired with the rest of the company to
the refreshment-room.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER II.</h2>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  “Hark! the warning tone</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Deepens—its word is <span class='it'>death</span>!”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Mrs. Hemans.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>The large hall clock in Lisle’s house had told the
hour of eleven, after the marriage described in the last
chapter, and some fifteen or twenty minutes had
elapsed since the departure of the guests, when the
reader is invited into a small upper chamber, in a remote
wing of the mansion. It was rather comfortless
than otherwise in its whole aspect, and its grated windows,
and long distance from any adjoining room—being
surrounded entirely by galleries—suggested the idea of
a place of confinement. It was one of those small
rooms, common in large buildings at that period, and
scarcely more suitable in its arrangements for an occupant
than the waste halls and galleries which led to it.
Some hasty preparations had been made for the prisoner’s
accommodation. Arras had been tacked up,
and a fire lighted in the rusty grate, which had been
long unused, and a rude pallet placed in one corner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Seated before a table in this chamber, was a person
of something less than fifty years of age. He was
dressed in plain black velvet, slashed with satin, and
on his cloak, which was thrown back, glittered a star
belonging to the order of the garter. His hair, thick
and black, was slightly sprinkled with gray, and arranged
in the custom of the day with scrupulous exactness.
His mustaches were large and curled upward,
and his pointed beard was of that formal style, so frequently
seen in the portraits of that reign. His face
was oval and handsome: the features being regular,
notwithstanding that his full brown eyes seemed rather
dull as he sat in thought; and a peculiar expression of
<span class='pageno' title='176' id='Page_176'></span>
exceeding melancholy rested upon his countenance.
This look of melancholy was not relieved by the
marks of any strong ruling passion or principle, nor
much indication of individuality of character. Yet
withal, it might not have escaped observation, that in
the whole aspect there was not wanting a certain air
of cold resolution, almost at variance with the mildness
of the brow. This person was of the middle height,
strongly made, and showing in his entire appearance a
dignity denoting the highest birth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Before him on the table lay the miniature of a lovely
child, and a large Book of Common Prayer open beside
it. He sat gazing upon the picture, until a tear ran
slowly down his cheek. It was that of a blooming
boy, the bright face shaded by clustered ringlets, and
the whole countenance beaming with youthful hope
and beauty.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sweet child,” he said audibly, “may you ascend
the throne of the Stuarts under better auspices than I
have done! Heaven in its mercy grant that you may
never suffer the fate of your wretched father! Or if, at
least, such hour of trial ever come upon you, may you
not know what it is to be thus alone in your affliction,
and separated from all you love on earth—shut out
from the sweet sympathies of wife, children and home,
while your rank and dignity as King of England is
trampled upon, and you are imprisoned and tried by
your own people!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>His softened mood seemed suddenly to give place to
more angry feelings, as, rising up, and the dullness of
his eyes brightening to a keen flash, he exclaimed:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let this court continue the mockery of its sitting;
let it arraign me day by day, as a traitor, tyrant, and
murderer. Am I not Charles Stuart, heir to a mighty
line of sovereigns, and shall I stoop to acknowledge its
authority, rather than resign myself to whatever fate
its villainy may impose on me? Methinks already my
doom could hardly be aggravated: yon matted floor—those
wooden chairs—those grated windows—this narrow
room—surely a prison were no worse. Yet perchance—but
it cannot—no, it <span style='font-size:smaller'>CANNOT</span> be, that the base
Cromwell will dare incite them to shed my blood.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At this moment the door opened, and Alice Heath
entered the apartment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who is it intrudes upon me at this unseasonable
hour?” angrily exclaimed the king, turning round and
facing his fair visiter, who approached him, and dropped
upon her knee.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Spare your displeasure, sire!” she said, in the
most soothing voice, “I am General Lisle’s daughter,
but I come to you as a subject and a friend.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Rise, maiden,” said the king, “and talk not of
being subject to an imprisoned and belied monarch.
Charles Stuart is hardly now a sovereign in name.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nevertheless, I would perform my duty by acknowledging
him as such,” replied Alice, taking his
hand, and then rising. “But it is not merely to admit
his title, that I come to him at this hour of the night.
I come to beg him to sacrifice his pride as the owner
of that same dignity, and stoop to plead his cause for
the saving of his life. Know, my liege, that to-morrow,
unless you consent to relax your pertinacious
refusal to plead your cause, the Court sign the warrant
for your execution. I am ignorant whether or not you
be all that my father and your enemies believe; but if
you be, you are then the less fit to meet death.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Death! And has it come to this?” exclaimed
Charles, setting his teeth, and rapidly pacing the room
for some moments, without replying to his gentle visiter,
or even heeding her presence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At length she ventured to approach him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have told you in what alone lies your hope of
averting this awful sentence, my lord. I pray you to
reflect upon it this night. A little sacrifice of pride—the
mere utterance of a few humble words—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sacrifice of pride! utterance of humble words!
thou knowest not, girl, of what you speak. Charles
Stuart cannot stoop so far, even though it be to save
his life. Spirits of my royal ancestors,” added he,
“spare me from a weakness which would make you
blush to own me as your descendant.” And he covered
his face with his hands.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If it is permitted to a subject to own the feeling for
her king, I compassionate your unhappy case most
deeply,” said Alice, taking his passive hand, while her
tears were falling fast.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A few moments silence prevailed, which Alice interrupted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Can I not induce you,” said she at length, “to
value the precious boon of your life above the foolish
pride of which we were speaking? Think, my lord,
how sweet is existence, and all its precious ties of
pleasure and affection—and she pointed to the miniature
on the table—how awful is a violent death, and
how lonely and dark and mysterious the tomb. Cannot
the consideration of all these things move your purpose?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thank you, sweet maiden, for your noble intention,
and may God reward you for your words and
wishes of goodness,” replied Charles, much touched
by her tone of deep interest, “but my resolution is
fixed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Can you suggest nothing then, yourself, my liege,
less displeasing to you? Have you no powerful friend
whose influence I might this night move in your
behalf?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nay, it cannot be,” replied the king, after pondering
a moment upon her words. “Charles Stuart is
deserted on all hands, and it is the Lord’s will that he
shall die. I begin to look upon it already with resignation.
Yet the first intimation came upon me like the
stroke of a thunderbolt. Private assassination I have
long dreaded; but a public execution I had never
dreamed of. Nevertheless, be it so. I shall meet
death like a man and a king.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then, farewell, since my visit is futile, and the
Almighty be your support and comfort in your added
affliction,” said Alice, as again kissing his hand, and
bathing it with tears, she withdrew.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Left alone, the king remained for some time in deep
thought. All anger and weakness appeared to have
passed from his mood, and the remarkable expression
of melancholy which we have before described, deepened
on his face to a degree scarce ever seen except
upon canvas. Not less heightened, however, was
that coldly resolute air likewise previously alluded
<span class='pageno' title='177' id='Page_177'></span>
to—so that if evidently sad, it might likewise have
been seen that Charles Stuart was also determined
unto death.</p>
<p class='pindent'>What were his reflections in view of the announcement
he had just received from the lips of Alice
Heath, and which he saw no means of averting short
of sacrificing the dignity with which his rank as sovereign
of England invested him, we will not attempt to
conjecture. None who have not been in his situation
can form any thing like an adequate conception of his
state of mind; and it were sacrilege to attempt to invade
the sanctuary of the human soul in such hour of
agony.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Whatever his cogitations were, they were of limited
duration. For, after sitting thus for a considerable
time, Charles pushed back his chair, and falling upon
his knees before the table, he drew the Book of Prayer
toward him, and clasping his hands upon it, read
aloud:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The day of thy servant’s calamity is at hand, and
he is accounted as one of them that go down to the
pit. Blessed Lord, remember thy mercies; give him,
we beseech thee, patience in this his time of adversity,
and support under the terrors that encompass him;
set before his eyes the things which he hath done in
the body, which have justly provoked thee to anger,
and forasmuch as his continuance appeareth to be
short among us, quicken him so much the more by thy
grace and Holy Spirit; that he, being converted and
reconciled unto thee, before thy judgments have cut
him off from the earth, may at the hour of his death
depart in peace, and be received into thine everlasting
kingdom, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Rising, he slowly disrobed, and throwing himself
upon the bed, soon sunk into a placid slumber.
Strange! that sleep of the prisoner in the prospect of
death. The excitement of suspense—the palpitation
of hope not altogether dead—these banish rest; but
when the feverish perturbation caused by expectation
departs, and the mind has nothing to feed upon but
one dark and fearful certainty, it turns to seek forgetfulness
in sleep.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER III.</h2>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>With my own power my majesty they wound;</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>In the king’s name, the king himself’s uncrowned,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>So doth the dust destroy the diamond.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Charles Stuart’s Majesty in Misery.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'><span class='it'>Sardanapalus.</span>——Answer, slave! how long</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Have slaves decided on the doom of kings?</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'><span class='it'>Herald.</span>—Since they were free.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Byron’s Sardanapalus.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>All London was astir. The excited populace filled
every street and alley of the vast city. The report
that sentence of death was that day to be passed upon
Charles Stuart, rung on every tongue, and the popular
feeling ran mainly in favor of his condemnation. All
business was suspended; and from an early hour
crowds were wending their way to Westminster Hall,
where the trial was about to be brought to a close.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That specimen of perfect architecture—which modern
art is not ashamed to take as a model, but vainly
seeks to imitate—had been fitted up with great regard
to the smallest details, for this most remarkable occasion.
This had been done in order to invest the ceremonial
of the trial with all the pomp and dignity
becoming the delegates of a great nation, sitting in
judgment upon their monarch, and trying him for a
breach of the trust committed to his care—the weal
and peace of the people. Benches covered with blue
velvet were arranged at the upper end for the accommodation
of the judges; and within the bar were
strewn thick carpets and cushions. A splendid chair,
to correspond with the benches, was placed for the
use of the firm and subtle Bradshaw, who had the
honor or disgrace, according as it may be deemed, of
presiding over the court. He was seated before a
table covered with crimson drapery—his fine countenance
betokening that decision for which he was remarkable—attired
in costly dress, and supported on
either hand by his assessors.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The galleries were filled to suffocation with spectators;
and the main body of the building was thronged
with a vast concourse of people, while a regiment of
armed soldiery was in attendance, with pieces loaded
and ready for use in case any tumult should arise.
The Puritan party, now no longer timid or wavering,
took no pains to conceal their sense of coming victory,
and even Cromwell, usually so guarded in every outward
observance, took his seat without the bar, with
a look of conscious triumph. A profound stillness prevailed
as the judges entered. Fifty-nine only out of
the one hundred and thirty-three had been able to summon
sufficient resolution to be present. With sad and
solemn, though severe and determined countenances,
these severally seated themselves, apparently filled
almost to a sense of oppression, with the responsibility
devolved on them, but seeming not the less resolved
to act according to their determination previously
agreed upon. Among these were Lisle and Heath,
the latter of whom was perhaps the only commissioner
whose countenance wanted something of the resolute
bearing we have described. They had scarcely taken
their seats when the rumbling noise of an approaching
vehicle was distinctly heard. The previous silence
if possible deepened, and for some moments the multitude,
as if moved by one mighty impulse, almost
ceased to breathe. Not a hand was in motion—not
an air stirred—and scarce a pulse beat, as the ponderous
door slowly revolved upon its hinges, and the
regal prisoner entered. He cast a look of blended
pride and sorrow upon the judges, as he walked up to
the bar, surrounded by a guard. But he made no
token of acknowledgment or reverence, nor did he
remove his velvet cap, as he took the seat prepared for
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The names of the judges were called over. Bradshaw
then arose, and in a silvery and ringing tone,
which made his declamation peculiarly impressive,
while a shade of deepening pallor was perceptible on
his countenance, addressed the court.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He deviated from the usually calm and temperate
manner he was accustomed to assume, and became
warm and impassioned. As he went on, his rich voice
swelled on the air with a clear, distinct intonation, that
fell deeply and artfully into the ears of the listeners.
<span class='pageno' title='178' id='Page_178'></span>
He was evidently bent as much on appealing to those
without the bar, as to the judges. With the consummate
skill of a rhetorician he first drew the picture of
the serf-like slavery of the people, dependent upon the
will or caprice of the king. He next pointed out the
liberty to which, by a just sentence passed against its
tyrant, the nation would be restored. Although a
studied simplicity of language pervaded in general his
remarks, yet, at times, some striking or brilliant metaphor
would, as it were, accidentally escape him,
which was speedily followed by a loud roar of applause,
evincing its full appreciation by his hearers.
He then turned to the prisoner in the following words:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Charles Stuart, King of England, it is now the
fourth time that you have been arraigned before this
tribunal. On each occasion you have persisted in
contemning its authority, and denying its validity—breaking
in upon its proceedings with frivolous and
impertinent interruptions—frequently turning your back
upon the judges—nay, sometimes even laughing outright
at the awful charges which have been preferred
against you. Since its last convention, witnesses have
appeared to prove conclusively that you took up arms
against the troops commissioned by the Parliament.
Once again, therefore, you are called upon in the
name of your country and your God, to plead guilty or
not guilty of tyranny, treason and murder.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>No change whatever took place in the king’s countenance
at hearing these words. When they had
ceased, he slowly rose, his head still covered, and
made answer:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I acknowledge not the authority of this court.
Were I to do so, it were to betray the sacred and inviolable
trust confided to me in the care of the liberties of
the British people. Your delegation, to be legal, should
have come alike from the individual voice of the
meanest and most ignorant boor of this realm, as from
the high and cultivated hypocrites who have empowered
you. Should I ratify such an authority—in the
eyes of the law not better founded than that of pirates
and murderers—I would indeed be the traitor ye
would brand me. Nay, let me rather die a martyr to
the constitution. But before ye proceed to pronounce
the judgment ye threaten, I demand, by all those
rights of inheritance which invest me as a monarch,
with a majesty and power second only to the Omnipotent,
to be heard before a convention of both houses
of Parliament; and, whether or not ye refuse me, I
adjure ye, the so-called judges of this court, as ye
each hope to be arraigned at no unlawful or incompetent
bar at the final judgment, to pause and reflect
before ye take upon ye the high-handed responsibility
of passing sentence upon your king.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He resumed his seat, and after a few moments’
intense quiet, William Heath arose, and suggested that
the court would do well to adjourn for a brief season
for the purpose of taking into consideration the request
of the prisoner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The expediency of this suggestion was acceded to,
and they withdrew and remained for some fifteen or
twenty minutes in conference.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On their return, after a few moments’ consultation
with some of the older judges, Lisle among the rest,
Bradshaw, taking a parchment from the table, turned
to the king with these words:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Charles Stuart, you have in your request to be
heard before Parliament, as well as in other language
addressed by you some moments since to this
honorable court, given a fresh denial of its jurisdiction,
and an added proof of your contempt. It has already,
by such contumacy on your part, been too long delayed,
and must now proceed to pass judgment against you.
You have been proven a traitor to England in waging
war against her Parliament, and in refusing to plead in
your own behalf, or endeavoring to invalidate such
proof, justice has no alternative but to demand your
death. The following warrant has therefore been
agreed upon by your judges, who will presently affix
their signatures thereunto. ‘<span class='it'>We, the Commissioners
appointed by the Commons to sit in trial on Charles
Stuart, King of England, arraigned as a traitor,
tyrant and murderer, having found these charges
amply substantiated, do for the glory of God, and
the liberties of the British people, hereby adjudge
him to death.</span>’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He ceased: the members of the court had risen
during the reading of the warrant, to testify their concurrence,
and the fatal document was now circulated
among them to receive their various signatures. It
was observed to be written in the chirography of
Cromwell.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Throughout the remarks of Bradshaw, Charles had
remained with his eyes fixed upon the ground; but
while the warrant was being read, he raised them and
cast them upon Cromwell, who was standing without
the bar. Brief as was this glance, it seemed to convey
some momentous truth, for Cromwell became at first
scarlet, and then pale as death. Instantly, however,
he turned away, and began coolly to unfold the plaits
of a white cambric handkerchief, and appeared only
occupied with that object.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As soon as the warrant had been passed around to
receive the signatures, and Bradshaw had resumed his
seat, Charles arose, and with more of dignity than contempt
in the act, he turned his back upon the judges—as
though his pride would prevent their observing
whatever effect their sentence had upon him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The profound silence which had heretofore prevailed
among the crowd, here gave way to loud hisses,
and expressions of contempt and disgust; while the
soldiers, instigated by the Roundheads, uttered exclamations
of “Justice!” “Justice!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Charles, on hearing the cries of these latter, turned
mildly toward them, and casting on them a look of
pity, said, in a tone of voice, which, though not loud,
was yet sufficiently distinct to be heard by all within
the bar:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I pity them! for a little money they would do as
much against their commanders.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The proceedings closed; and under a strong escort,
and amid the shouts of the populace, the noble prisoner
was conducted out of the hall. As he proceeded,
various outrages were put upon him. With a
kingly majesty superior to insult, he received these
indignities, as though he deemed them unworthy to
excite any emotion within him, save what his sorrowful
<span class='pageno' title='179' id='Page_179'></span>
eye indicated, that of pity for the offenders. Some
few, in the midst of the general odium, endeavored to
evince their continued allegiance. But their faint
prayer of “God save the king!” was drowned in the
swelling cries of “Down with the traitor!” “Vengeance
on the tyrant!” “Away with the murderer!”
One soldier, who was intentionally or inadvertently
heard humming the national air of his country, was
stricken to the ground by his officer, just as the king
crossed the threshold of the door.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor fellow,” said Charles, “methinks his punishment
was greater than his offence.”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER IV.</h2>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Will nothing move him?</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>The Two Foscari.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>The streets of a crowded metropolis, which, with
their noise and clamor, their variety of lights, and the
eternally changing bustle of their hundred groups, offer,
by night especially, a spectacle which, though composed
of the most vulgar materials, when they are
separately considered, has, when they are combined,
a striking and powerful effect upon the imagination.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At a late hour on the following night, when London
presented such a scene as we have described, two persons
were winding their way to the Palace of Whitehall.
One was an individual of the male sex, in whom
might have been seen, even through the gloom, a
polished and dignified bearing, which, together with his
dress—though of the Puritanic order—declared him a
gentleman of more than ordinary rank. His companion
was a delicate woman, evidently like himself
of the most genteel class, but attired in the simplest and
plainest walking costume of the times. She leaned on
his arm with much appearance of womanly trust,
although there was an air of self-confidence in her
step, suggesting the idea of one capable of acting alone
on occasion of emergency, and a striking yet perfectly
feminine dignity presiding over her whole aspect.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have counseled your visiting him at this late
hour,” said the gentleman, “because, as the only hope
lies in striking terror into his conscience, the purpose
may be best answered in the solitude and silence of a
season like this. Conscience is a coward in the daylight,
but darkness and night generally give her courage
to assert her power.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“True, William,” replied Alice Heath, (for she it
was, and her companion, as the reader is aware by
this time, was her husband,) “true—but alas! I fear
for the success of my visit; the individual of whom we
are speaking deceives himself no less than others, and
therefore to him she is a coward at all times. Hast
thou not read what my poor dead grandfather’s old acquaintance
has written about a man’s ‘making such a
sinner of his conscience as to believe his own lies’?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have not forgotten the passage, my Alice, and
ever correct in your judgment, you have penetrated
rightly into the singular character we are alluding to.
I wot it were hard for himself to say how far he has
been actuated by pure, and how far by ambitious motives,
in the hand he has had in the sentence of the
king. Nevertheless, you would believe his conscience
to be not altogether dead, had you seen him tremble
and grow pale yesterday in the court, during the reading
of the warrant, (which, by the way, he had worded
and written with his own hands,) when Charles Stuart
raised his eyes and looked upon him as if to imply that
he knew him for the instigator, and no unselfish one
either, of his doom. The emotion he then testified, it
was, which led me to hope he may yet be operated
upon to prevent the fatal judgment from taking effect.
It is true, Charles is a traitor, and I cannot regret that
in being arraigned and tried, an example has been
made of him. But having from the first anticipated
this result, except for your father, Alice, I would have
had no part in the matter, being entirely opposed to
the shedding of his blood. All ends which his death
can accomplish have already been answered; and I
devoutly pray that the effort your gentle heart is now
about to make for the saving of his life, may be
blessed in procuring that merciful result.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At this moment they paused before the magnificent
structure known as the Palace of Whitehall, and applied
for admission. Vacated some time since by the
king, it was now occupied by his rival in power, the
aspiring Cromwell; and although the hour was so late,
the vast pile was still illuminated. Having gained
speedy access to the main building, the visiters were
admitted by a servant in the gorgeous livery of the
fallen monarch. Heath requested to be shown to an
anteroom, while Alice solicited to be conducted without
previous announcement to the presence of his
master. After a moment’s hesitation on the part of
the servant, which, however, was quickly overcome
by her persuasive manner, he conducted her through
various spacious halls, and up numerous flights of stairs,
till pausing suddenly before the door of a chamber, he
knocked gently. As they waited for an answer, the
accents of prayer were distinctly audible. They were
desired to enter; the servant threw open the door,
simply announcing a lady. Alice entered, and found
herself alone with Cromwell.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The apartment was an anteroom attached to the
spacious bed-chamber formerly belonging to the king.
It was luxuriously furnished with all the appliances of
ease and elegance suitable to a royal with-drawing
room. Tables and chairs of rose-wood, richly inlaid
with ivory and mother-of-pearl, were arranged in order
around the room; magnificent vases of porcelain decorated
the mantel-piece; statues from the chisel of
Michael Angelo stood in the niches; and pictures in
gorgeous frames hung upon the walls.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There, near a table, on which burned a single-shaded
lamp, standing upright, in the attitude of prayer, from
which he had just been interrupted, stood the occupant.
For an instant—as she lingered near the door, and looked
upon his figure, which bore so strongly the impress of
power, and felt that on his word hung the fate of him
for whom she had come to plead—she already feared
for the success of her mission, and would fain almost
have retracted her visit. But remembering the accents
of prayer she had heard while waiting without, she
considered that her purposed appeal was to the conscience
of one whom she had just surprised, as it were,
in the presence of his Maker, and took courage to advance.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='180' id='Page_180'></span>
“May I pray thee to approach, and be seated,
madam, and unfold the object of this visit,” said Cromwell,
in a thick, rapid utterance, the result of his surprise,
as he waved his visiter to a chair. “At that distance,
and by this light, I can hardly distinguish the
features of the lady who so inopportunely and unceremoniously
honors me with her presence.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Immediately advancing, she threw back her hood,
and offering him her hand, said, “It is Alice Heath,
the daughter of your friend, General Lisle.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Cromwell’s rugged countenance expressed the utmost
surprise, as he awkwardly strove to assume a courtesy
foreign to his manner, and exchange his first ungracious
greeting for something of a more cordial
welcome.</p>
<p class='pindent'>With exceeding tact, Alice hastened to relieve his
embarrassment, by falling back into the chair he had
offered, and at once declaring the purpose of her visit.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“General Cromwell,” she began, in a voice sweetly
distinct, “you stand high in the eyes of man, not only
as a patriot, but a strict and conscientious servant of
the Most High. As such, you have been the main
instrument in procuring the doom now hanging in
awful expectation over the head of him who once
tenanted, in the same splendor that now surrounds
yourself, the building in which I find you. Methinks
his vacation of these princely premises, and your succession
thereunto, renders you scarcely capable of
being a disinterested advocate for his death—since, by
it, you become successor to all the pomp and power
formerly his. Have you asked yourself the question
whether no motives of self-aggrandisement have
tainted this deed of patriotism, or sullied this act of
religion?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your language is unwarrantable and unbecoming,
madam,” said Cromwell, deadly pale and trembling
violently; “it is written—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Excuse me,” said Alice, interrupting him; “you
think it uncourteous and even impertinent that I should
intrude upon you with a question such as I but now
addressed to you. But, General Cromwell, a human
life is at stake, and that the life of no ordinary being,
but the descendant of a race of kings. Nay, hear me
out, sir, I beg of you. Charles Stuart is about to die
an awful and a violent death; your voice has condemned
him—your voice can yet save him. If it be
your country’s weal that you desire, that object has
been already sufficiently answered by the example of
his trial; or, if it is to further the cause of the Lord of
Hosts that you place yourself at the head of Britain in
his place, be assured that he who would assert his
power by surrounding himself with a pomp like this,
is no delegate of One who commissioned Moses to
lead his people through the wilderness, a sharer in the
common lot, and a houseless wanderer like themselves.
Bethink you, therefore, what must be the
doom of him at the final judgment, who—for the sake
of ambition and pride—in order that he might for the
brief space of his life enjoy luxury and power—under
the borrowed name, too, of that God who views the
act with horror and detestation—stains his hands with
parricidal blood. Yes, General Cromwell, for thy
own soul’s, if not for mercy’s sake, I entreat thee, in
whom alone lies the power, to cause Charles Stuart’s
sentence to be remitted.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>As she waxed warm in her enthusiasm, Alice
Heath had risen and drawn close to Cromwell, who
was still standing, as on her entrance, and in her entreaty,
she had even laid her hand on his arm. His
tremor and pallor had increased every moment while
she spoke, and though at first he would have interrupted
her, he seemed very greatly at a loss, and little
disposed to reply.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After a few moment’s hesitation, during which Alice
looked in his face with the deepest anxiety, and awaited
his answer, he said, “Go to, young woman, who presumest
to interfere between a judge raised up for the
redemption of England, and a traitor king, whom the
Lord hath permitted to be condemned to the axe. As
my soul liveth, and as He liveth who will one day
make me a ruler in Israel, thou hast more than the
vanity of thy sex, in hoping by thy foolish speech to
move me to lift up my hand against the decree of the
Almighty. Truly —”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nay, General Cromwell,” said Alice, interrupting
him, as soon as she perceived he was about to enter
into one of his lengthy and pointless <a id='harr2'></a>harangues “nay,
you evade the matter both with me and with the
conscience whose workings I have for the last few
moments beheld in the disorder of your frame. Have
its pleadings—for to them I look and not to any eloquence
of mine own—been of no avail? Will it please
you to do aught for the king?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Young lady,” replied Cromwell, bursting into tears,
which he was occasionally wont to do, “a man like
me, who is called to perform great acts in Israel, had
need to be immovable to feelings of human charities.
Think you not it is painful to our mortal sympathies
to be called upon to execute the righteous judgments
of Heaven, while we are yet in the body. And think
you that when we must remove some prime tyrant
that the instruments of his removal can at all times
view their part in his punishment with unshaken
nerves? Must they not even at times doubt the inspiration
under which they have felt and acted? Must
they not occasionally question the origin of that strong
impulse which appears the inward answer to prayer
for direction under heavenly difficulties, and in their
disturbed apprehensions, confuse even the responses
of truth with the strong delusions of Satan. Would
that the Lord would harden my heart even as he
hardened that of —”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Stop, sir,” said Alice, again interrupting him ere
his softened mood should have passed away, “utter
not such a sacrilegeous wish. Why are the kindly
sympathies which you describe implanted in your
bosom, unless it be to prevent your ambition from
stifling your humanity? The rather encourage them,
and save Charles Stuart. Let your mind dwell upon
the many traits of nobleness in his character which
might be mentioned with enthusiasm, ay, and with
sorrow, too, that they should be thus sacrificed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Most High, young woman, will have no fainters
in spirit in his service—none who turn back from
Mount Gilead for fear of the Amalekites. To be brief—it
waxes late; to discuss this topic longer is but to
<span class='pageno' title='181' id='Page_181'></span>
distress us both. Charles Stuart must die—the mouth
of the Lord hath spoken it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>As he spoke, he bowed with a determined but respectful
reverence, and when he lifted up his head, the
expression of his features told Alice that the doom of
the king was irrevocably fixed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I see there is no hope,” said she, with a deep sigh,
as Cromwell spoke these words in a tone of decision
which left her no further encouragement, and with a
brevity so unusual to him. Nor was his hint to close
the interview lost upon her. “No hope!” she repeated,
drawing back. “I leave you, then, inexorable
man of iron, and may you not plead thus in vain
for mercy at the bar of God.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So saying, she turned, and rejoining her husband
who remained in waiting for her, they returned together
to Lisle’s house.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;margin-top:0.5em;'>[<span class='it'>To be continued.</span></p>
<hr class='tbk106'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i027.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0002' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>THE BRIGAND AND HIS WIFE.</span><br/><span style='font-size:smaller'>Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by F. Humphrys</span></p>
</div>
<hr class='tbk107'/>
<div><h1><a id='brig'></a>THE BRIGAND AND HIS WIFE.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;margin-bottom:1.5em;font-size:0.9em;'>[SEE ENGRAVING.]</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> fine picture which our artist has given us for
this number of our Magazine, is a spirited representation
of a scene in the lives of those men of violence
and murder who, setting at defiance both human and
divine laws, wrest from the unarmed or overpowered
traveler, amid the mountainous districts of Europe, the
means of subsistence they are too idle to obtain through
honest industry. To their secret retreat the band of
robbers have been traced by armed soldiers, whose approach
they are anxiously watching. The wife of the
robber-chief is by his side.</p>
<p class='pindent'>By songs, stories, and pictures, much false sympathy
has been created in the minds of the unreflecting for
“bold brigands,” who are represented too often as
possessed of chivalrous feelings and generous sentiments,
while a charm is thrown about their wild and
reckless lives which is altogether unreal. Love, too,
a often brought in to give a warmer and more attractive
color to the pictures thus drawn. The roving
bandit is represented as loving passionately and tenderly
some refined, pure-hearted, and high-souled woman,
who, in turn, pours out for him her heart’s best affections.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Different from all this is the hard and harsh reality
of the bandit’s life. He is no man of fine feelings and
generous sympathies, but a selfish and cruel-minded
villain; and between him and the woman, who, as his
wife, shares his life of exposure and violence, there
can be no gentle passages of affection, for these are
only born of love laid upon the solid foundations of
virtuous respect.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The real truth on this subject, Dumas has given in
a Calabrian story. A body of soldiers had pursued a
band of mountain robbers, in Calabria, and hemmed
them in so effectually that, with all the passes guarded,
escape seemed impossible. From this dilemma the
chief determined to relieve his men, as they had refused
to surrender, although promised pardon if they
would give up their leader. The only possible way of
escape was by crossing a deep chasm, so wide, that
even the supple chamois could not make the fearful
leap in safety. To reach this point, it was necessary
to go along a narrow pass, near which sentinels had
been placed. The movement was made at night. The
chief of the robbers had a wife, and she had a babe at
her bosom. For days they had been without food, except
such roots as they dug from the ground, and the
want of nourishment had dried the fountain of life in
the mother’s breast, and the babe pined and fretted
with hunger. As the little band moved silently along
the narrow path, in which, if discovered by the soldiers,
their destruction would be inevitable, the suffering babe
began to cry. Instantly it was seized by the father,
swung in the air, and its brains dashed out against a
tree. For a moment the mother stood like a statue of
horror, then gathering the mutilated remains of her
murdered babe in her apron, she followed the retreating
party.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Safely, through the skill of the chief, the chasm
was passed, and they were beyond the reach of danger.
All, then, after procuring some food, lay down to sleep,
except a sentinel and the mother, who dug a grave
with her own hands, in which to bury her child. This
sad duty performed, she returned to the spot where
her husband and his companions lay in deep slumber.
It was not difficult for her to <a id='per'></a>persuade the tired and
sleepy sentinel to let her take his place, and soon she
alone remained awake. Then stealthily approaching
the spot where the father of her dead babe lay, she
placed the muzzle of the piece she had taken from the
sentinel within a few inches of his breast, and pulled
the trigger. The ball passed through his heart!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Here we have something of the reality attending the
life of a “bold brigand.” A lawless robber and murderer
is incapable of such a sentiment as the true love
of a woman. This feeling lives only in the breast of
the virtuous. And whenever the poet or the novelist
represents a pirate or robber as loving faithfully and
tenderly some beautiful, true-hearted woman, the
reader may set it all down as mere romance. Such
things are contrary to the very nature of things. They
never exist in real life. True love of woman is an
unselfish love; but the inordinate self-love of these
men leads them so utterly to disregard the rights of
others, as to commit robbery and murder. How, then,
are they capable of loving any thing out of themselves?
It is impossible. A bitter fountain cannot send forth
sweet water.</p>
<hr class='tbk108'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='182' id='Page_182'></span><h1><a id='mex'></a>BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. II.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i030.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0003' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>Resaca de la Palma.</span></p>
</div>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>Once</span> again was daylight dawning, when the shrill, awakening fife</p>
<p class='line0'>Called our soldiers from their slumbers to the toils of martial life:</p>
<p class='line0'>We were weary: some among us through the long and dreary night</p>
<p class='line0'>Had traversed, like silent ghosts, the scene of <span class='sc'>Palo Alto’s</span> fight —</p>
<p class='line0'>For our wounded lay around us, who had struggled at our side,</p>
<p class='line0'>Stemming with their human bodies Battle’s hurricane-like tide.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>All were anxious, for we knew that, though our foes had flown the field,</p>
<p class='line0'>They were still in force before us, vowing never more to yield.</p>
<p class='line0'>One by one our scouts came in—some with faces of dismay —</p>
<p class='line0'>Others smiling at the promise of another glorious fray;</p>
<p class='line0'>But the tidings that they brought only fired us, and we stood,</p>
<p class='line0'>Like the old Norweyan Vikings, anxious for the feast of blood.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>When our wounded were in motion, for our general, like a man</p>
<p class='line0'>And a father, sent them back before the onward march began —</p>
<p class='line0'>When we saw the laden wagons, with the sad, disheartened train,</p>
<p class='line0'>Toward Point Isabel in silence slowly roll along the plain —</p>
<p class='line0'>We advanced and took our places, drawing a determined breath,</p>
<p class='line0'>While our wide-expanding nostrils drank the distant scent of death.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>As we marched along the prairie, creeping, cat-like, from the day,</p>
<p class='line0'>We could see the spotted jaguar, stealing from his human prey,</p>
<p class='line0'>While in flocks the huge, majestic condor with his mighty wings</p>
<p class='line0'>Flapped from his unusual feast, and swept above the plain in rings,</p>
<p class='line0'>Shrieking, as he clove the air, some desperate necromantic charm</p>
<p class='line0'>Over the pale, enchanted bodies that had lost the power of harm.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Here and there, as we proceeded, lying wounded in our way</p>
<p class='line0'>We would meet some pallid victim, perishing in the face of day;</p>
<p class='line0'>He was, yesterday, a foeman—now, a helpless, suffering man,</p>
<p class='line0'>And a brother, praying sadly for some good Samaritan:</p>
<p class='line0'>So we bound his wounds and fed him—each one from his little store</p>
<p class='line0'>Taking what his pitying heart would fain have made a great deal more.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Hour by hour we marched in silence, throwing out in our advance</p>
<p class='line0'>Daring souls with dauntless hearts, who laughed at lasso, ball and lance,</p>
<p class='line0'>And, as, riding like the wind, one dashed along our serried files,</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='pageno' title='183' id='Page_183'></span></p>
<p class='line0'>Twice a thousand lips breathed welcome, twice a thousand eyes looked smiles;</p>
<p class='line0'>But at last the tidings reached us that our foes had made a stand</p>
<p class='line0'>Between us and our gallant friends, near the yellow Rio Grande.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>On we went with bounding hearts till the prairie lay behind.</p>
<p class='line0'>While the tall, swan-like palmetto waved a welcome in the wind;</p>
<p class='line0'>But when we reached the Swamp of Palms,<a id='r1'/><a href='#f1' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[1]</span></sup></a> the bristling chapparal,</p>
<p class='line0'>With our foes in solid thousands, rose before us, like a wall;</p>
<p class='line0'>And the dense woods frowned upon us, clothed with centuries of green,</p>
<p class='line0'>Precipitously plunging down the dark and deep ravine.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The army paused. A moment, and we passed along the plain,</p>
<p class='line0'>With rapid steps and loud huzzas, defiling by the train,</p>
<p class='line0'>And spreading right and left, marched on, when, ere we fired a shot,</p>
<p class='line0'>Cannon and grape and musket-ball swept through us thick and hot;</p>
<p class='line0'>But we never faltered—never; no; we took their fire, and then,</p>
<p class='line0'>Acknowledging their courtesy, we gave it back like men.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But our men, though doing wonders, began to disappear,</p>
<p class='line0'>When <span class='sc'>Ridgely</span> thundered with his guns up from the distant rear,</p>
<p class='line0'>And we heard his balls go crashing through the thick palmetto trees,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the shrieks of wounded Mexicans come ringing up the breeze;</p>
<p class='line0'>And we hurried on like maniacs, scarcely stopping to take breath,</p>
<p class='line0'>While every where around us rushed the messengers of death!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>By this time our brave infantry had reached the chapparal: —</p>
<p class='line0'>Here and there we heard our comrades answering one another’s call;</p>
<p class='line0'>And the sharp crack of their muskets, and the death-cries of their foes,</p>
<p class='line0'>With the constant boom of cannon—Battle’s diapason rose!</p>
<p class='line0'>All was chaos; while, like lightning, sword and lance and bayonet</p>
<p class='line0'>Flashed around, as desperate men in the deadly <span class='it'>mêlée</span> met.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Hand to hand, and foot to foot, through the ascending clouds of smoke,</p>
<p class='line0'>On the enemy, through them, over them, gallantly our soldiers broke,</p>
<p class='line0'>Dealing death at every stroke: then we heard the shout of <span class='sc'>May</span>,</p>
<p class='line0'>And beheld his brave dragoons for an instant line the way:</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>Ridgely’s</span> voice—the roar of cannon—clashing sabres—dying cries —</p>
<p class='line0'>Rose distinct, yet intermingled as a chorus, toward the skies,</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>As the vapor separated, dashing down the rough ravine,</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>May</span> and <span class='sc'>Inge</span>, with all their men, for an instant filled the scene —</p>
<p class='line0'>Rushing like an autumn tempest through the chapparal, down the glen,</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>May</span>, half-hidden by streaming hair, with gallant <span class='sc'>Inge</span> led on the men,</p>
<p class='line0'>Loud hurraing: but a crash! and <span class='sc'>Inge</span> clutched wildly at his rein —</p>
<p class='line0'>And twice a score of neighing steeds swept riderless along the plain.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>All in vain: another instant! <span class='sc'>May</span> was riding o’er the wall,</p>
<p class='line0'>Waving on his fiery followers through the tangled chapparal;</p>
<p class='line0'>Wheeling in a moment, backward, with the same resistless force</p>
<p class='line0'>Came the hero, like a giant, on his gaunt and sinewy horse; —</p>
<p class='line0'>As our infantry came up, battling boldly by his gun,</p>
<p class='line0'>General <span class='sc'>La Vega</span> yielded, and the battery was won.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But the brave Tampicoäns still refused to fly or yield,</p>
<p class='line0'>And maintained the unequal fight until the last one kissed the field;</p>
<p class='line0'>When their flag went down a cry of anguish rent the Mexic ranks,</p>
<p class='line0'>And our foemen broke and fled despairing toward the river’s banks.</p>
<p class='line0'>All was over: we pursued them, and the now-descending sun,</p>
<p class='line0'>Saw <span class='sc'>Resaca de la Palma’s</span> bloody battle lost and won!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='footnotemark'/>
<div class='footnote'>
<table summary='footnote_1'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' class='footnoteid'/>
<col span='1'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td style='vertical-align:top;'>
<div class='footnote-id' id='f1'><a href='#r1'>[1]</a></div>
</td><td>
<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>Resaca de la Palma</span>—the Swamp of Palms. <span class='it'>Resaca</span>
has no equivalent in English. Literally speaking, it is a
place on which the tide ebbs and flows.</p>
</td></tr>
</table>
</div>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i033.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0004' style='width:90%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<hr class='tbk109'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='184' id='Page_184'></span><h1><a id='essay'></a>AN ESSAY</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.1em;font-weight:bold;'>ON AMERICAN LITERATURE AND ITS PROSPECTS.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY MRS. M. A. FORD.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>A national</span> literature, purely our own, must rise
superior to an imitation of that fostered by the institutions
of the old world, and of course sustaining them.
The principles of liberty and independence, which
govern our country, are united in our national motto,
with that which only can give them permanency,
Virtue. Loose this bond of union, and the beautiful
fabric of our institutions falls forever. To sustain
virtue in her proud position, should then be the principal
aim of republican literature. It is this alone
which will preserve us from the disastrous fate of
former republics, beginning, like our own, with a dawn
of prosperity most auspicious, but whose fall, when at
the very noon of fame and power, startled and disappointed
a world.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Most of the writers and philosophers of ancient times,
who defended virtue, wrote, regardless of the vengeance
of those corrupt and luxurious governments
under which they lived.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Thus was their testimony rendered more dear to succeeding
generations, from the sacrifice of selfish interest
with which it was given.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That genius which is called into action by the desire
of fame only, must be interested; that stimulated by
gain alone must be mercenary. Happily there is not
enough of these encouragements in our new country
to induce the many to leave the walks of busy life, or
the more healthful though rugged paths of labor, from
motives so liable to disappointment. Few can afford
to devote a life to literature, and many of our brightest
gems in poetry and prose are the offspring of minds,
whose influence is more powerfully felt in the great
action of our nation’s progress, or the refining process
of their own good example on the morals of society.
Others just peep out from the veil of their cherished
domestic duties, to throw a simple flower into the
world’s path. If lost, or unheeded, it causes no aching
of the heart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The great system of general education, now disseminating
its light throughout our land, will place
knowledge a welcome guest at every cottage hearth,
and national intelligence will form the firm basis of our
national literature. The labor of intense thought will
not fall too heavily on the few. From the shade of
every valley, from the height of every hill, genius will
spring forth. The friction of cheerful and healthful
labor, will light the spark, which virtuous emulation
will fan to a flame.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From the freedom and happiness enjoyed, must necessarily
arise a grateful sense of these blessings, a
warm expression of that sense, and an anxiety to perpetuate
those blessings. With genius and education,
these feelings will find a vent in the flowing numbers
of song, or the more perspicuous paragraphs of prose.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In both the old and new world, the present is a
golden age of literature, rich in its array of brilliant
talents and gifted minds. Some of these are glorious
as the day-star, and like it, the harbingers of increasing
light. Minds that from their own fullness impart knowledge
and feelings, whose gushings are like those of
the mountain stream, pure even when impetuous.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Others are like the meteor, brilliant, startling; their
path a track of fire, but under that bright deception,
like that wandering light are only a combination of
unwholesome exhalations. Under their false glare,
the clouds of vice are tinged with beauty, and the
guilt of crime seems but the trace of romantic catastrophe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That literature alone is valuable, which leaves an
impression of increased knowledge, and improved
moral sentiments, of chastened feeling and benign impulses,
of virtuous resolutions and high aspirations.
By these, man is prepared to fill the high station for
which the Creator designed him. To partake of the
joys of life without selfishness, to meet its sorrows
with fortitude, to practice its virtues with firmness, to
avoid its errors by resolution, and to dispense its charities
with the feeling of brother toward brother.
Under a free government, the arts and intrigue of the
courtier would be useless and disgraceful appendages
to the accomplishments that ornament life. Unsullied
honor is based on truth and generous feeling, and
the blessings enjoyed by freemen will teach them not
to treat lightly the privileges of others. As the principles
they profess are so different from those maintained
by the policy of monarchical courts, the expression
of them must also differ, and our country can
proudly point to those, whose writings on these subjects
may justly be considered standards for future
efforts.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Constellations are already forming in our literary
skies; some stars shining out in bold relief, like those
glowing in the belt of Orion, or sparkling in the eye of
Aldebaren. Some stretch across the northern sky,
separate and grand as those in the Ursa major, while
others timidly shrink from their own simplicity and
beauty, like the meek twinkling of Pleiads. But all
have their peculiar influence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>History, with its crowding events and exciting struggles,
has already employed many gifted pens in our
land. That of Bancroft, with his strong resources and
vivid style; of Prescott, with his fine arrangement and
freshness, combined with his clear narrative and research,
and others, whose talents a limited essay is
obliged to pass without remark.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ethics and philosophy have brought to their aid a
strong array of brilliant minds; the peculiar lights of
each have their admirers. Comparison might be considered
<span class='pageno' title='185' id='Page_185'></span>
invidious, and it is enough that their names and
talents belong to their country.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In various sciences, the American mind has shown
itself capable of deep investigation, and our writers on
these subjects, by their clear elucidations, have shed
light on much that was shadowed in doubt.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In medical learning many works have appeared, and
some of them of high importance and value. The
number must increase, for the varied climate and diseases
of our country require it, and the young physician,
just entering on the practice of his profession in some
newly settled prairie, or border land of the northern
lakes, will find an American author his best guide in
the treatment of diseases that differ so much in their
nature from those of Europe, as to be but lightly glanced
at by the best medical writers of the old world.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Works on law are also increasing; some of them
emanating from those whose eloquence has “held
captive their hearers.” If they cannot always impart
that charm which seems the peculiar privilege of the
few, their lessons must be the surest guide to the
American lawyer; for, though including the best portions
of the English code, there are so many peculiarities
appertaining to the different States of the Union,
each a sovereignty in itself, that national works must
offer the clearest elucidations of all difficult cases.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Descriptive and narrative literature is rich in its contributions.
The graceful ease and elegant diction of
Irving, his vivid imagination and touching feeling, and
the charm which he throws around his subject, have
gained him an enviable fame both at home and abroad.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the peculiar walks of Indian life, and the lonely
daring of pioneer character, the pen of Cooper moves
like a spell, and when it dips in the sea-wave—like the
stroke of the oar, bright droppings glisten on its rising.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We can but name a few of the many whose talents
have adorned this portion of literature. The interesting
delineations of Simms, whose patriotic feeling glows
under a southern sky; the reminiscent charm of Kennedy;
the graphic strength of Paulding; the lively
portraiture of Mrs. Kirkland, and the graceful but feeling
pictures of Miss Sedgwick, recur to our memory.</p>
<p class='pindent'>These have all written on American subjects,
and many more of equal merit might be added, if
space allowed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In poetry we have the bright imagery and refreshing
beauty of Bryant, whose genius, like a clear stream,
reflects the heavens above, and the loveliness of nature
around.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Many others have the charm of originality, and a
versification almost musical, but the votaries of the
muse are so numerous, we must pass them without
naming, yet our country may be proud of many a wild
flower of poesy, the fragrance of which has been borne
over the ocean, and appreciated in other lands.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The sweetness and beauty of Mrs. Sigourney’s
muse, the elegance and delicacy of Halleck, the tenderness
and strong feeling of Dana, the light grace of
Willis, and many others of equal genius and talent are
crowding on our memory.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But in this, as in every other branch, we must look
to the future for the fulfillment of the high destiny of
American literature.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Perhaps nothing has contributed more to the diffusion
of intellectual knowledge, than periodical literature,
which includes the reviews, magazines, and daily
and weekly newspapers. Not a great many years
have passed since the number of these were few, and
though that few were of known excellence, how sparing
was the patronage bestowed on them. How were
the journals of other lands looked to for that supply of
intellectual beauty, which the gifted minds of our own
countrymen needed but a fair encouragement to pour
forth. Yet who does not now look back with pride to
the pioneer path of our first periodicals, those early
gatherers of essays, showing the powers of mind now
more strongly developed in our country?</p>
<p class='pindent'>These, in later years, have been followed by a
gradual increase, and we can now proudly point to
their numbers, many of them varied with the classic
learning and lighter literature of contributors, whose
talents would do honor to any country.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Possessing great advantages from its unassuming
appearance and light form, periodical literature travels
through the land. Like a gentle stream it winds its
way, with banks covered with flowers, and pebbled
bed, too pure to sully its waters. It comes to the door
of the cottager to refresh him after labor. Its murmurs
are heard near the village-green, and youth hastens to
its welcome bath. If it bears not on its breast the
heavy freight the larger river boasts, the light skiff on
its waters offers a bijouterie that is truly interesting and
valuable. Gems of poetry, incidents in history, pearls
from the ocean, legends of the land, light from the
sciences, and aid from the arts.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Some of the most beautiful effusions of American
genius have graced the pages of periodical literature.
Timid and retiring talent has been encouraged to take
the first step in a path it is destined to illumine. How
many gems from the ocean of thought have been
brought to the surface, to sparkle on the view by the
aid of this species of literature? What pearls from
the shells which memory gathers, have thrown the
faint but touching light of the past upon the present?</p>
<p class='pindent'>The gifted writers whose efforts have appeared on
the pages of periodical literature, are too numerous,
and many of them too equal in merit, though different
in style, to be particularly named. This is especially
the case with female writers, from some of whose
pens the finely pointed moral or touching incident of
narrative comes forth with varied beauty, but almost
equal claims to attention.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This may be said with less force of male writers,
where the scintillations of wit and graceful charm of
humor in some, is in contrast with the grave discussions
and intellectual strength of others, where the
elegance of classic learning stands side by side with
useful essays on national policy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But the bright prospect of future American literature
again opens before us in all its moral grandeur. When
time shall have quieted the ruder anxieties of our
being, when comfortable independence shall have
passed from the few to the many, and the busy exertion
of life can take longer rest from its labors, when
the dignity of intellect shall outweigh that of wealth,
how will the treasures of mind be poured on our land!</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='186' id='Page_186'></span>
Future American literature must be very varied, from
the great difference of climate and habits in our widely
extended country. Stretching its immense length along
the great Atlantic, the firm barrier of its waters, it
almost connects the frozen pole with the burning
Equator. The fervid imaginations of the sunny South
will breathe their strains under the shadow of the lime-tree,
and amidst the fragrance of the orange-grove, and
the scenery and flowers that give emblems to their
poetry, will be as strange to the dwellers on the rock-bound
coast of the North-Eastern States, as the acacia
of Arabia is to the Icelander, but its strange beauty will
be dear to them, for it is American still.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From the calm, cold North, the calculations of Philosophy
and the discoveries of scientific research will
continue to issue. The progress already made, forms
a bright page in our history, and the last great discovery
which has realized the vision of our venerated Franklin,
making the lightning of heaven the agent of earth,
seems like a stray beam from the science of the skies.
By it, knowledge, love, feeling, travel with the unseen
speed of “angel’s visits.” The name of Morse will
find a high association with that of the “Sage of the
Revolution.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For the light yet elegant portions of literature, our
country presents a wide field. The history of Poetry
in the old world, is mournfully, painfully interesting,
from the blind dependence of the immortal Homer,
down to the despairing end of the gifted Chatterton.
From thence to the present time, how few have been
successful, and of that few, how oft have their pages
been marked, not, indeed, by the tear of weary anguish
and hope deferred, but by a bitterness of sentiment
filling the place from whence that tear was obliterated.
Alas! how many strings in the harp of Genius have
been broken by the force of its own disappointed
feelings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Pastoral poetry may well offer its incense at the
shrine of our country’s scenery and productions, and
breathe its strains in harmony with the happiness of
American rural life. Here there need be no servile
muse to sing of fruits the parched lip never tasted, nor
of groves and streams whose verdure and coolness
were felt not in the close atmosphere of garret penury.
But from homes rendered happy by industry and content,
the poets of our land may breathe their strains.
The heart will speak from its own fullness, like the
ascending vapor of the cottage chimney, that tells the
comfort and warmth of the hearth beneath its roof.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Narrative prose and heroic verse have a deep fount
from whence to draw.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It is true the legendary lore of our country has
not yet the hoariness of age upon it, but what should
recommend it more, it has the light of truth. If we
have not moss-grown towers, whose mouldy recesses
tell of ambition and cruelty, we have traces on the
hills, and monuments in the vales of our varied landscape,
that awaken the memory of deeds whose heroism
might rival the days of chivalry; of battles where
the disparity of force called forth the virtuous sacrifice
of another Leonidas, of acts of patriotism and self-devotion
worthy that purest of Romans, Regulus.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Love, during the struggle of the Revolution, was a
sentiment, so guided by high impulses, as to offer to
the pen of historical romance the most touching and
thrilling incidents; vows rendered more sacred by the
parting of the plighted, not to be renewed at the altar
until the light of liberty shone on their country. The
simple ribbon-knot and the glossy braid of hair, were to
the patriot-lover talismans in the hour of danger; and
courage to meet every trial came with the sweet
thoughts of home and happiness with his American maid.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mothers, with Spartan virtue, sacrificed their maternal
tenderness on the altar of liberty, and urged the
steps of their sons to the combat. Aged fathers, with
eager though feeble hands, fastened the sword of their
early days on the youthful limbs of those sons; and
when their loved forms were brought back from the
field of their country’s glory, cold in death, have pillowed
their white locks on the young breasts, and
died under the excitement of sorrow struggling with
patriotic pride and glory.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Biography might appear like an overloaded vessel,
her deck crowded with the bright and honored names
of heroes, statesmen, patriots, scholars, and others, the
famed and gifted of our land—but she gallantly bears
the freight, for a greater than Cæsar is among them.
Washington! how the full tide of feeling gushes at the
name—a nation’s pride and glory, and the admiration
of the world. Many brilliant pens have told his character
and fame, and yet the theme seems new. How
bright a pattern to American youth, is the docility of
his childhood, and submission to parental rule, the beautiful
truth of his boyhood, and pure morality of his youth.
His tenderness, even in the noon of his fame, to the
venerable mother, on whose breast at parting fell the
strange but unchecked tears of manhood. His pure
patriotism, his undaunted courage, his unchanging firmness
and impartial justice, his meek devotion and faith
in the God of nations, all present a beautiful example
for imitation. Happy America! rearing in your own
bosom the son whose talents and virtues were your
protection in the hour of danger. And gloriously was
he associated with the bright host of heroes and patriots,
whose deathless names will live with his in the grateful
memory of the country to which they gave freedom
and independence. With such themes biography holds,
and must continue to hold, an elevated rank in American
literature; and when to these is added the bright
list of those who, in later times have periled their all
for their country’s glory, or whose talents and virtues
have brightened her fame, the task of perpetuating
their names and deeds to posterity will employ many
gifted minds, and must look far into the future for its
completion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The ancient history of our country lies hid in the
western mounds, or amidst the buried relics of past
ages. Forests, in Central America, have grown over
the ruins of temples and dwellings that, awakened from
their sleep of ages by a Stephens and others, will in
time become the Palmyra of the Western World. In
the grandeur of their mysteries conjecture seems lost,
yet there would appear a connection between them
and the aboriginal race of our own land, whose lingering
steps are receding toward the Pacific. In this remaining
posterity of a lost genealogy, all that is left to
<span class='pageno' title='187' id='Page_187'></span>
tell the tale of the race from whence they sprung, is
their firm independence, undying love of country, deep
sense of injury and spirit of revenge, and strong faith
of happier homes beyond the grave. Is not this a
theme worthy the pen of the American poet, philosopher,
antiquarian, or novelist?</p>
<p class='pindent'>With the many heroic virtues of Indian character,
can we wonder that their principal fault should be that
which filial piety made glorious in a Hannibal. In
future they will be better understood, and while justice
and humanity, nay, national pride, call on our government
to civilize and enlighten them, the pens of their
white brethren will show their true lineaments, and
perhaps the hand of some American antiquary lift the
veil that hides their lost ancestry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>While the music of their language yet lingers in the
names of our rivers, we cannot forget their claims.
In a lyric of much sweetness, a gifted poetess of our
country pleads that they may not be changed. How
quickly their sound arrests the attention of the traveler
and stranger? How softly their syllables fall from the
lips of beauty. There seems a magic spell about them.
May it be their protection from any change. It is but just
that the streams that first knew the Indians in their pride
and glory should retain the melody of their language.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In many instances, the Indian character has been
found capable of great refinement from education, and
of the few who have been placed in our colleges, some
have evinced superior talents. How pleasing is the
thought that these children of the forest may hereafter
contribute to the national literature of America. Will
their strains be mournful, like the plaintive songs of
the Israelites by the waters of the Euphrates? Perhaps
not, for though many are far removed from the
more eastern homes of their fathers, still it is their native
land, now bounded only by the waves of the
Pacific.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In anticipating the future literature of our country,
its glorious effects on other nations should not be forgotten.
The freedom and happiness that could fan
into flame all that is great in mind, and all that is beautiful
in virtue, must be appreciated; and from the combined
effect of her own great example, and the persuasive
influence of a literature then truly American,
our country will become the standard of future republics.</p>
<hr class='tbk110'/>
<div><h1><a id='cry'></a>THE CRY OF THE FORSAKEN.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY GIFTIE.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>Sing</span> me to sleep, dear mother,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Upon thy faithful breast —</p>
<p class='line0'>Ah! many a day hath passed, mother,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Since I laid me there to rest.</p>
<p class='line0'>Now I am weary, weary,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And I fain would sleep once more,</p>
<p class='line0'>And dream such dreams of heaven,</p>
<p class='line0'>  As I used to dream of yore.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Since then I’ve known Love’s power, mother —</p>
<p class='line0'>  Its heritage is tears —</p>
<p class='line0'>And I have felt, sweet mother,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Its wild tumultuous fears.</p>
<p class='line0'>Now hath the idol fallen,</p>
<p class='line0'>  On my soul’s ruined shrine —</p>
<p class='line0'>All other hearts deceive me,</p>
<p class='line0'>  In grief I turn to thine.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Lull me to rest, kind mother,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And sing to me the while —</p>
<p class='line0'>These tearful eyes shall cease to weep</p>
<p class='line0'>  These lips put on a smile.</p>
<p class='line0'>And tell me of that blessed land</p>
<p class='line0'>  Where love is not in vain,</p>
<p class='line0'>And they who wept despairingly</p>
<p class='line0'>  Shall never weep again.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Lull me to rest, dear mother,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Sing to me soft and low,</p>
<p class='line0'>The same sweet mournful strain, mother,</p>
<p class='line0'>  You sang me long ago,</p>
<p class='line0'>I am weary and heart-broken,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And I fain would be at rest,</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh take me in thine arms, mother —</p>
<p class='line0'>  Let me slumber on thy breast.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk111'/>
<div><h1><a id='storm'></a>A MIDNIGHT STORM IN MARCH.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY CAROLINE MAY.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>The</span> storm beats loud against my window-pane,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And though upon the pillow of my bed</p>
<p class='line0'>  In pleasant warmth is laid my grateful head,</p>
<p class='line0'>I cannot sleep for the excited train</p>
<p class='line0'>Of thoughts the storm arouses in my brain.</p>
<p class='line0'>  O, wretched poor, who have no home—or if</p>
<p class='line0'>  A home—are weak and weary, sore and stiff,</p>
<p class='line0'>  For want of food and clothes and fire! O rain,</p>
<p class='line0'>    Fierce rain, and howling wind, and hissing hail,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Venting your rage beneath the flag of night —</p>
<p class='line0'>    A black flag, without stars—how do they quail,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Those aching, shivering poor, beneath your might!</p>
<p class='line0'>O God, be pitiful! and to the poor’s sad tale</p>
<p class='line0'>  Make rich hearts open with the opening light.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk112'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='188' id='Page_188'></span><h1><a id='buon'></a>BUONDLEMONTE.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>A TALE OF ITALY.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY JOSEPH A. NUNES.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER I.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='sc'>So</span> thou art here, in Florence, to be wived, Buondlemonte?”
a gay gallant laughingly observed to the
tallest and most elegant of a group of cavaliers, as they
sauntered leisurely together along the principal street
of Florence: “Thou art at last to be shut out from
the pale of happy celibacy, and be offered up, a living
sacrifice, on the altar of that most insatiate of all insatiate
deities, Hymen? By Mars, but I pity thee,
poor youth!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Reserve thy pity, thou thoughtless railer, for those
who stand in need on’t,” the eldest of the party, a
dark-complexioned, stern-featured man, replied in the
same vein in which the first individual had spoken,
though the frown on his brow, and the compression
of his lips evinced that he was not pleased at the tone
of the conversation. “Buondlemonte mates with the
noblest house of Florence; and though he ranks with
the first in Italy, he is not to be pitied when he enters
the family of Amedi.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nay, Amedi, thou shalt not make me grave,” the
first speaker said, smiling at the serious looks of his
saturnine companion; “I will <a id='comm'></a>commiserate the fate
of any luckless bachelor, whose days of freedom draw
so near their close; though, thou haughty senor, I will
make this reservation in thy favor, that if there exists
aught to mitigate the thraldom of matrimony, it may
be found in the smiles of the beautiful Francesca, and
in the alliance with thy thrice noble house.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Even that admission is a step toward Guiseppo’s
reformation,” Buondlemonte observed, with a light
laugh, as he placed his hand upon the shoulder of the
last speaker; “it proves that he is not quite incorrigible.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But tell me, Buondlemonte—I must have it from
thine own lips,” Guiseppo said; “dost thou wed so
soon? Shall we see thee a married man on the third
day from this?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ’Tis most true, Guiseppo,” Buondlemonte replied,
with a smile upon his lips, though, as he spoke, an
almost imperceptible sigh escaped him; “in three
days thou wilt see me wived. ’Tis an old contract,
existing since my youth. Amedi’s father and my own
were friends—companions in arms—and agreed to this
union of our families. The time has arrived for the
consummation of the contract, and I am here to
fulfill it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alas, poor youth! in what a tone of resignation
was that last sentence uttered. A pious maiden bending
to the will of mother church could not have answered
more meekly. I fear me thou art a reluctant
neophyte in Hymen’s temple.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A truce with thy jesting, Guiseppo Leoni,” Jacopa
Amedi angrily observed; “thou dost proceed beyond
the limits of courtesy. If the noble Buondlemonte
chooses to submit to thy rough raillery, I do not. The
honor of my house is concerned, and that shall not be
tampered with by light lips.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Enough, Amedi,” Buondlemonte said, as he interrupted
a sharp retort from Leoni, “Guiseppo
meant no harm, and I have grown too wise, in my
travels, to be angered by a friendly jest.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Methinks, though,” another of the group, who had
hitherto remained silent, observed, “that Buondlemonte
might vindicate my fair cousin from the insinuation
of accepting an unwilling husband. The court of
the emperor is a poor school for chivalry, if it does
not teach the lesson that a fair lady’s name should be
preserved, like the polished surface of a mirror, unsullied
even by a breath.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>What reply Buondlemonte might have made to the
captious cousin of his betrothed bride is impossible
to say, for at that moment a young page, in gay attire,
came up to the party, and, cap in hand, inquired if one
of them was not Buondlemonte.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There stands the object of thy search, thou elfin
emissary from the bower of beauty!” Guiseppo smilingly
remarked, as he pointed to Buondlemonte;
“deliver the challenge thou art charged with, and he
will meet thy mistress, though she be Medusa or
Circe.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The child carefully undid the folds of his scarf, and
taking from thence a small note, presented it with a
graceful obeisance to Buondlemonte.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your answer, noble sir,” he said. “I am directed
to bear it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Buondlemonte took the billet, and, after excusing
himself to his companions, stepped aside and cut the
silken thread that bound it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The note must have contained something more than
ordinary, for as the young man glanced his eyes over
it, the red blood mounted to his cheeks and his forehead.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Whom dost thou serve, my pretty youth?” Jacopa
Amedi asked, as Buondlemonte perused and reperused
the paper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To answer your question, signor,” the boy replied
with a sly smile, as he bowed with deference to the
noble, “would be to prove that I am unworthy to serve
any one.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And to quicken thy speech,” Amedi’s cousin remarked,
in a tone half jesting half earnest, “it would
be well to apply a leathern strap to thy shoulders.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Fie, Baptista Amedi, fie!” Guiseppo said, as he
observed the child’s eyes flash with indignation; “conceive
<span class='pageno' title='189' id='Page_189'></span>
no foul thoughts toward the boy; he merits thy
praise for being faithful to his mistress, whoever she
may be.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>By this time Buondlemonte had concluded his perusal
of the note, and turning to the boy, he said, as he
handed him a piece of money, “I will, in person, bear
an answer to your missive.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The page bowed, and donning his plumed cap, was
soon lost to observation among the passengers in the
street.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was in vain that Guiseppo jested and Jacopa Amedi
looked grave and inquisitive; Buondlemonte was uncommunicative,
and would make no revelations in relation
to the page’s mission.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By my faith, thou art a lucky knight, Buondlemonte!”
Guiseppo said. “Not yet a day in Florence,
and thou hast an assignation, I warrant me, with some
mysterious being.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They had now arrived at the corner of a street that
crossed the one in which they were. Jacopa Amedi
paused and pointed to a splendid mansion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You know our palace,” he said; “shall we
thither?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not now, Amedi,” Buondlemonte replied; “I have
a commission for a friend to execute before I can
gratify my own wishes. In an hour I’ll wait upon
you at the palace; in the meantime present my duty
to your fair sister, and say that ere long I will offer it
with my own lips.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The young men separated; Amedi and his relatives
turning their steps toward the palace of the former,
while Buondlemonte and Guiseppo continued their
walk alone.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER II.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>“Buondlemonte, thou art no happy bridegroom,”
Guiseppo said, after they had proceeded for some time
in silence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Buondlemonte sighed, but made no reply.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou dost not love Amedi’s sister,” Guiseppo observed,
in a half interrogative tone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ’Twas a compact between parents, and not a
union of lovers that was intended,” Buondlemonte replied
bitterly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Still thou dost not love her—this marriage promises
thee no happiness.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Buondlemonte paused a moment, and then said,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think, Guiseppo, thou art my friend, and I may
trust thee.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hast thou not proved me thy friend?” Guiseppo
asked. “When first we left Italy together for the
court of the French king, we pledged our faith each to
the other. During our sojourn there thou still hast
found me—thoughtless and gay, perhaps—but ever
constant. ’Tis true, we parted, you to continue your
travels to the capital of the empire, while I returned to
Italy; and we have never met again until to-day, yet, believe
me, I am still the same Guiseppo thou hast known
among the brave knights and gay dames of France.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Buondlemonte grasped the hand that was offered to
him, and after a momentary pause, said,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou art right, my friend; I am no happy bridegroom.
This marriage is hateful to me—’tis none of
my seeking.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then why let it proceed?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because the Amedi wish it, and the world thinks
my honor demands it; heaven knows for no other
cause. ’Tis true, Francesca is fair—so says report,
for I have not seen her since her youth—but to me she
can never seem so. She may be enchanting, yet me she
cannot enchant. There is a dream of my youth about
my heart, a spell that will not be dissipated. There is
but one form that dwells in my memory, one voice that
can breathe music in my ear.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And where dwells this siren?” Guiseppo asked
with a slight smile at the enthusiasm of his friend.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Here, even here, in Florence,” Buondlemonte
replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And her family is called?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Donati.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Pandora and all her mischiefs!” exclaimed Guiseppo;
“thou couldst not have mentioned a name more
hateful to the family of thy affianced bride. The extremes
of the earth are not wider apart than the houses
of Donati and Amedi—a deadly feud exists between
them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“From my childhood, I have known but one absorbing
influence,” Buondlemonte said, “and that is
my love for Camilla Donati. ’Tis a secret I have
kept within my own breast till now; for I was educated
to consider myself the husband of another, and,
looking upon the marriage with Amedi’s sister as a
thing that must be, I felt reconciled—while the period
of our union was indefinite—to what I could not
avoid.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why not feel so still?” Guiseppo asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I cannot,” was the reply; “the nearer the hour for
our nuptials approaches, the more repugnant do I feel.
There’s no sympathy between the house of Amedi
and Buondelmonte—they are Ghibellines and I am
a Guelph. I love not Francesca; I like not her unsmiling
brothers; yet I must wed, and in fulfilling a
compact made without my consent, doom myself to
certain misery.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Buondlemonte might have added that the missive
which the page had delivered to him was from the
mother of Camilla Donati, and that it had given strength
to feelings which were before but too powerful; but
he did not; the information might have compromised
others, and he kept it to himself. What was further
said would scarcely interest the reader, and we pass to
details more immediately connected with the development
of our story.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER III.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>At the time of which we write—the latter end of
the thirteenth century—there existed between the two
principal families in Florence, (those of Amedi and
Donati,) a spirit of bitter malignity and determined
rivalry, which was carried quite to the extent of the
quarrels described by Shakspeare, in “Romeo and
Juliet,” between the houses of Capulet and Montague.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ambition for supremacy was the origin of the dispute
between these noble families, but political differences
had widened the breach. The quarrels between
<span class='pageno' title='190' id='Page_190'></span>
the Emperor of Germany and the Pope, which followed
the elevation of Gregory VII. to the papal throne—and
which divided Germany, and even Italy into
factions, calling themselves Guelphs and Ghibellines—had
extended to Florence, mid the rival families of
Donati and Amedi were not slow to take sides in the
dispute; each hoping thereby to obtain an ascendency
over the other. The Donati took part with the Pope,
and called themselves Guelphs; the Amedi sided with
the emperor, and were called Ghibellines; and for
generations, the animosity between these two houses
disturbed the peace of the beautiful city of Florence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the period of our narrative a female ranked as
the head of the house of Donati. Left a widow, during
the childhood of her only daughter, she had sustained
with masculine energy the pretensions of her family,
and at the same time she had reared with maternal
fondness the offspring left to her sole charge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The father of young Buondlemonte was a nobleman of
the first influence in Italy. He resided in the upper vale
of Arno, and though he supported the pretensions of
the pontiff against those of the emperor, his feelings
were so far from being rancorous, that he maintained
an equal intimacy with the rival houses of Amedi and
Donati; the circumstance of their having served together
in the wars of the day alone induced him to
prefer the alliance with the family of Amedi.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It is hardly necessary to observe, after the dialogue
in the last chapter, that the predilections of the youthful
noble took a different direction from the one indicated
by the parental judgment. With free ingress to the
bosoms of both families, Buondlemonte experienced
no hesitation in preferring the sweet and gentle Camilla
Donati to the equally beautiful, but haughty and imperious,
Francesca Amedi. The considerate affection,
too, of Camilla’s mother was much more attractive to
him than the austere and severe manners which characterized
the Amedi family.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Camilla Donati, young as she then was, was not insensible
to the marked preference shown her by Buondlemonte.
’Tis true he uttered no words of love, yet
she felt that she was beloved by him, and with all the
ardor of her nature she returned his affection.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When he had arrived at the age of seventeen years,
Buondlemonte’s father died. On his death-bed he expressed
a wish that his son should travel for five years,
and that the marriage with Francesca Amedi should
be solemnized on his return to Italy. In accordance
with this wish Buondlemonte left his home to acquire
his education as a gallant knight at the polished court
of the French king. His parting with his bride elect
was a task of easy performance, but not so his farewell
to Camilla Donati. It was with sad hearts and
tearful eyes, and murmured hopes of a happier meeting
that they separated. For five years he had been absent
from his native country. All the scenes through
which he had passed, all the fair ladies he had seen
had not weakened the ardor of his first love. He
returned to Florence, urged by the wishes of the
Amedi family; but he came back with the feelings of
a criminal stalking to the place of execution rather
than as a bridegroom about to lead a beloved and
blushing bride to the altar.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER IV.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>’Twas nearly twilight, and Francesca Amedi sat in
a richly furnished apartment with her brother and her
cousin. One of them had been making a communication
to her to which she had listened in silence, but
with wrapt attention. Her stately form, as he continued
his story, became more majestic, her bosom
heaved with concealed emotion, and, as she swept
back with her beautiful hand the rich raven tresses, her
dark eyes flashed like diamonds glittering in the light.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So you think he loves me not,” she said, after a
pause, as her cousin walked toward the window to
examine the tapestry which hung from the walls.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By St. Jago!” returned her brother, “an ice-hill on
the summit of the Alps, could not have been colder than
he was when speaking of thee. ‘ ’Twas an old compact,’
he said, ‘and he was here to fulfill it.’ By the
souls of those who have gone before me! he could not
have spoken more churlishly if he had been talking
about a new doublet he had agreed to take upon a
certain day.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I love him,” Francesca said, as she bit her lip till
it became bloodless, “but he acts not wisely for his
happiness or mine. He knows not what it is to put a
slight upon Francesca Amedi.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Were it not,” Jacopa observed, “that his power,
united with our own, will crush the whole race of the
detested Donati, I would spurn his unwilling alliance,
and he should die e’er he be thy husband. As it is,”
he added, “we must dress our face in smiles, and thou
must wed him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I would do so,” Francesca said, as she fixed her
eyes with a rigid look upon her brother, “were it only
to make him feel what I have endured.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Before our very eyes,” Jacopa remarked, “he received
without apology or explanation, a dainty billet
from some shameless mistress.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ay,” added Baptista, who had by this time concluded
his careless scrutiny, and was listening to the
conversation, “and if my memory serves me not a
treacherous trick, that same page, who bore the silken-bound
counsel, I have seen in attendance on our <span class='it'>dearly
loved friend</span>, Donati’s widow.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If I had thought so,” exclaimed Jacopa, “I would
have twisted the neck of the young go-between, even
in the presence of Buondlemonte.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, no,” Francesca said, as she waved her hand,
“it cannot be. He would not—he dare not—offer me
so great an insult as to receive a love-token from one
of that house. He dare not, reckless as he is, place
me in competition with the puling baby Donati calls
her daughter.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Baptista was about to repeat his opinion concerning
the identity of the page, but he had scarcely commenced
before Buondlemonte entered the apartment. Both
Jacopa and Baptista exchanged an apparently cordial
greeting with the new comer, and then retired, leaving
him alone with Francesca.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“At last, Buondlemonte,” Francesca said, when
they were left alone, “at last thou hast found time to
see me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The performance of a service for a friend,” Buondlemonte
observed, as he touched with his lips the
<span class='pageno' title='191' id='Page_191'></span>
white hand which was extended toward him, “prevented
the earlier presentation of my duty to thee.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was not well,” she remarked, “after so long an
absence, to give others a preference, and leave your
promised wife neglected, if not forgotten. This was
not an act of the cherished companion of former days;
it was not the act of the noble youth who left Florence
five years ago, betrothed to Francesca Amedi; thou
no longer lovest me, Buondlemonte, or thou wouldst
not have been thus slow to visit me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Buondlemonte thought that the charge might have
been made with equal justice at any period of his existence,
but he did not give utterance to the thought.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If my tardiness gives offence,” he said, coldly, “I
pray that thou wilt pardon it; I will be scrupulous not
to repeat it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou art as chilling in thy kindness as thou art in
thy coldness,” she observed, with a short hysterical
laugh, and then turned the conversation into another
channel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After an hour’s constrained intercourse, Buondlemonte
rose to depart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I fear me,” she said, as she thought of the letter
her brother had spoken of, “that some fairer lady than
Francesca pines for thy society, and lures thee from
my side.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou hast no cause to think so,” he replied, evasively,
as he raised her hand respectfully to his lips.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She placed her hand firmly upon his arm and looked
with her large, eloquent eyes steadily in his face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“See that I have not,” she said, in a voice which had
lost all its natural melody. “See that I have not.
Thou mayst ensure my love, if ’tis worthy of an effort,
but remember! I will brook no rival in thy affections—Francesca
Amedi knows how to protect herself!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By all the torturing fates that ever turned awry
love’s currents!” exclaimed Buondlemonte, as he
reached the street, “but my destined spouse seems to
be formed more in the mould of the tigress than the
dove. A further promise,” he muttered ironically,
“of our mutual happiness!”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER V.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>“Ye are beautiful, ye heavens!” murmured Camilla
Donati, as she gazed from a casement of an apartment
in her mother’s palace upon the gorgeous starlight of
an April evening; “but what hope do you bring to me?
<span class='it'>He</span> who was wont to make even darkness seem light,
even he, is another’s, and ye shine in mockery of
my anguish—your brightness makes my gloom the
darker!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was, indeed, a beautiful evening; but he must have
been an anchorite who would not have turned from
the balmy air and richly studded sky, to gaze upon the
graceful form and heavenly countenance of the fair
being who apostrophized the stars.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her age would have been that of a mere girl’s in
any clime save those in which nature seems precocious;
but her figure was that of a woman’s, in the
zenith of her loveliness. Eighteen summers had
scarcely passed over Camilla Donati, and, to contemplate
her appearance, the thought would suggest itself
that each succeeding year had outvied the efforts of
the one that had preceded it, in a struggle to make her
beauty faultless.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her complexion was exquisitely fair. The natural
color in her cheeks, as she sat in pensive thought, had
disappeared, but still a roseate shade remained, and
that, perhaps, shone in more perfect contrast with the
transparent skin on which it rested. Pygmalion, when
he worshiped the effort of his own art, could not have
beheld more chastely beautiful features than she possessed.
An ample forehead, shaded by clustering
curls, terminated where the penciled brows overlooked
lids, fringed with long silken lashes, which
contained within their orbits a pair of lustrous, soul-speaking
eyes. A nose of Grecian outline, and a
mouth—formed from the model of Cupid’s bow—with
lips of clear vermilion, seemed to speak an “alarum
to love.” When we add to this description a chin of
unsurpassed contour, and a neck of swan-like symmetry,
we may form some idea of Camilla Donati’s
features.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The dress she wore, though it shrouded, it did not
conceal the proportions of her figure. The full, swelling
bust and the slender waist could be discerned; nor
were her robes so sweeping but that a fairy foot might
have been discovered peeping from beneath them.
A glittering veil had been thrown carelessly over her
luxuriant auburn curls, but this she had put back with
her delicate hand, and, as her cheek rested on that
dimpled hand, she seemed too bright a thing to be profaned
by the touch of sorrow; grief should have found
a less transcendent temple in which to spread its
sombre mantle.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is left me now,” she whispered to herself,
as if pursuing a train of thought, “but to die, or, within
the gloomy walls of a cloister, to endeavor to forget
this world by offering myself up a sacrifice to heaven.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not so, my child,” an unexpected voice observed,
as a stately female stepped from the shade, and seated
herself beside Camilla; “Heaven needs not such a
sacrifice at thy hands, or at mine.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My mother!” exclaimed the lair girl, “I knew
not thou wert present,” and bending her head to the
parental bosom, she gave vent to her feelings in stifled
sobs.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Fie, Camilla!” the mother said, as she passed her
hand affectionately over the glossy ringlets, “this is
unworthy of thy race. Thou art a Donati, my child,
and should have more iron in thy nature than to bend,
like a willow-wand, before every storm; besides,
all is not lost yet; Buondlemonte may still be thy
husband.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never!” replied Camilla; “I would not have it so
now. Within three days he weds Francesca Amedi.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not if I can prevent it!” exclaimed the elder lady.
“He shall not sully his nobleness, or add to the o’ergrown
pride of that arrogant house by mating with the
haughty Francesca. This night—this hour—he hies
hither to harken to my counsels; and if I have power
to move him, he leaves not this palace till he is thy
plighted husband.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Camilla knelt at her mother’s feet, and clasping her
hands, she turned her tearful eyes to that mother’s
face.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='192' id='Page_192'></span>
“In mercy, spare me!” she said; “I would not wed
an unwilling lord—I would not do a wrong even to a
member of the house of Amedi.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou art a foolish child,” her mother replied;
“thou shalt neither wed a reluctant lord, nor do a
wrong to living soul. If wrong there be in aught I
counsel, it rests with me, and I fear not to brave the
consequences.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Camilla was about to speak, but her mother interrupted
her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I tell thee, timid flutterer,” she said, “Buondlemonte
loves thee. I know him, even as if he were
my own child—he loves thee, and thee alone. An
ancient compact, wrung from the weakness of his
father, is all that binds him to Francesca Amedi. Between
them there is no shadow of affection. Her
swollen pride is not akin to tenderness, and he could
not love a being whose nature, like hers, is fierce, revengeful
and fiend-like.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Again Camilla was about to interpose, but her mother
stopped her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hear me out,” she said. “Buondlemonte’s interest
and inclination, as well as ours, require that he should
abandon all thoughts of that unholy union, and take thee
to wife. In all, save hypocritical appearances, the
Amedi are his enemies—enemies in religion, enemies in
disposition. He is frank, open, generous and noble; and
they are cold, selfish, subtle and malignant. His faith
is pure, and, like us, he sustains the cause of our holy
church; while they are Ghibellines—little better than
schismatics—and in their hearts detest all who think
not with them. If ’twere not a virtue to humble the
pride of this presumptuous family, it would at least
be a charity to preserve the peace of the noble youth,
by disconcerting so ill-assorted a match.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Once more Camilla attempted to be heard, but again
she was interrupted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will hear no reply,” her mother said: “I cannot
be moved by arguments from the course I intend to
pursue. Thou knowest me tender and indulgent, but
at the same time resolute and determined. Thy happiness
and his demand the policy I adopt; let me not
hear thee therefore murmur against it. I go now,”
she observed, rising from her seat, “to meet him I
would make thy husband: bide thou here till my return.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>As she concluded she left the apartment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Camilla, at the thought of meeting Buondlemonte,
and the circumstances, instinctively drew her veil over
her burning cheeks.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is not I, Francesca,” she murmured, “who
plots against thy peace; it is not I, Buondlemonte,
who seeks to make thee swerve from thy knightly
faith!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For the space of half an hour Camilla Donati remained
in a state of timorous apprehension and painful
thought; at the expiration of that period, however,
the door of the apartment she occupied again opened,
and her mother re-entered. This time she was not
alone—Buondlemonte was with her. His handsome
countenance was flushed with excitement; the color
mantled in his cheeks, and an unusual lustre danced in
his bright eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>No sooner did his gaze rest on the maiden’s form
than he rushed forward, and, bending his knee before
her, took her unresisting hand and pressed it again and
again to his lips.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dearest Camilla!” he exclaimed, in a whispered
voice, “even thus have I dreamed of thee in my wanderings!
even thus have I knelt before thee, and, unrebuked
by a reproachful look, pressed thy gentle
hand.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The elder lady approached her daughter, and raising
the veil which concealed her beautiful features she
addressed Buondlemonte.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This,” she said, as Buondlemonte’s ravished sight
wandered from the flushing cheeks to the closed lids
and trembling lips, “this is the bride I had reserved for
thee. From childhood she has loved thee, and loves
thee still.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Buondlemonte’s enraptured exclamations prevented
Camilla’s piteous appeal to her mother from being
heard.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“From childhood she has been the star I have worshiped,”
he replied, and rising to a seat beside her, his
arm encircled her delicate waist. “None other,” he
exclaimed with enthusiasm, as his eyes devoured the
unfolding beauties which momentarily developed
themselves, “none other shall claim the bride who
has been reserved for me. If she will accept the
homage of a heart that is all her own, my wedded
wife she shall be before two suns have gilded the
eastern sky.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The burning blushes were on Camilla’s cheeks, and
the tears gushed from her eyes, but her breath came
quick and her heart throbbed strangely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Speak, dearest Camilla!” Buondlemonte whispered;
“let me know from thy own lips that my passion
is not unrequited—say that thou lovest me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Buondlemonte!” Camilla articulated, in a low
voice, “think of Francesca—think of her family.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To wed her would be a union on which nor heaven
nor earth could smile,” he replied. “Dearest
Camilla, Francesca loves me not, and I do not love
her; her family are my aversion—there is no kindred,
no sympathy between us. This night, if thou dost
love me still, this night I will revoke the ill-advised
bond that linked my destiny with Francesca Amedi’s,
and to-morrow’s night shall see us happily wedded.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Small blame was it to Camilla that she yielded to
the entreaties, nay, the commands of her mother, and
the moving solicitations of her lover. Her heart, too,
was an advocate against herself. For some time she
resisted the persuasive music which was poured into
her ear, but at length she breathed in whispered
accents the words that united her fate to Buondlemonte’s.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The rest of the evening, to the lovers, passed like
the brief existence of a moment; yet its lapse had
afforded an eternity of happiness. It had given birth
to a world of pleasant recollections.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ere he slept that night, Buondlemonte dispatched
his friend Guiseppo Leoni to Jacopa Amedi, to inform
him of the step he had taken. Disclaiming all intention
to offend, he <a id='plead'></a>pleaded his early passion in palliation
of his apparent fickleness, and alleged that the uncongeniality
<span class='pageno' title='193' id='Page_193'></span>
between Francesca and himself could be prolific
of naught but discord and unhappiness.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VI.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>The dawn of the morrow found the Amedi family
awake and stirring; and every member of it breathing
deep and terrible vengeance against the faithless Buondlemonte.
Late as it was when Guiseppo Leoni delivered
the unpleasant communication of which he
was the bearer, messengers had been dispatched to all
the relatives of the house, to summon them to a council,
which was fixed to meet at an early hour in the
morning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Francesca Amedi learned what had happened
her towering form grew more erect, her dark eyes
flashed forth unutterable thoughts, and, as she grasped
tightly the jeweled dagger that hung from her girdle,
she muttered between her set teeth —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He would not learn how deeply I could have
loved, but he shall feel—he and his puny minion—how
bitterly I can hate, and how fearfully I can avenge!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is not married yet,” her brother menacingly
observed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The saints be praised for that,” she replied;
“There shall be more guests at the wedding than are
bidden.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She retired to her own apartment, and after a long
interview with her principal attendant she gave directions
that no one should be admitted to see her, and
that no summons, from any source, should be communicated
to her.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VII.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>The council had assembled at the Amedi palace. In
a spacious apartment a crowd of men sat together.
There were dark frowns upon their countenances,
and, at intervals, angry exclamations escaped from
their lips, as the cause of their convocation was dwelt
upon with malignant emphasis and vehement declamation
by Jacopa Amedi.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What,” he asked, after having recapitulated the
facts, “should be the fate of him, who, casting aside
the honor of knighthood and manhood, violates his
plighted word, showers disgraceful contumely upon
our house, and offers deadliest insult to Amedi’s
daughter?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Death!” replied a solitary voice, as the door of the
apartment opened, and a stranger stood at the threshold.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The eyes of all were turned with wonder in the direction
from which the voice proceeded. No one present
appeared to know the stranger.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The intruder gazed around unrebuked by the inquiring
looks that were bent upon him, and as his eye
met the speaker’s, he repeated the ominous word which
had startled the assembled group.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was a youth of fine appearance; slight in form,
but of a lofty bearing, with a handsome countenance,
and full, large, searching, dark eyes. His dress was
of sable velvet. Upon his head he wore a cap, surmounted
with two black plumes, and at his side there
hung a sombre-cased rapier, the hilt of which glittered
with diamonds.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Death!” he repeated, as he glanced deliberately
from one individual to another, “death should be the
doom of him who, traitorous to love and false to honor,
pays back the affection of a betrothed wife with
withering scorn, and upon the dignity of a noble house
tramples with profane and sacrilegious tread!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jacopa Amedi advanced from the position he had
occupied, and confronted the new comer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Whoe’er thou art, sir stranger,” he said, “thou
hast mistaken the place for thy reception. This is a
meeting only of the relatives of our house—thou canst
not claim kindred with the Amedi.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am,” the youth replied, “of noble birth—a Ghibelline—a
friend to thy family and cause, and an
enemy—a deadly enemy—to Buondlemonte and the
Donati. Thy wrongs are the wrongs of all who hate
the Guelphs, and affect every noble in the land. Me
they have united to thee by an indissoluble bond, and
I proclaim again that death—death unannounced—should
be the fate launched at the treacherous Buondlemonte!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a wild energy in the stranger’s voice,
and as he spoke, his dark eyes gleamed with demoniacal
fire.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For thy noble sympathy thou art entitled to our
thanks, and hast them,” Jacopa Amedi observed, in
reply; “but still we must entreat thy absence; a
stranger may not be admitted to our counsels.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not though he tenders thy honor as dearly as
though he were himself an Amedi?” the young man
asked hurriedly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jacopa bowed a negative.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My name may change thy thought,” the youth remarked,
as he approached Jacopa, and, as the latter
inclined his ear, whispered a single sentence to him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jacopa Amedi started back in amazement, and gazed
for a moment as if he had been paralyzed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou! thou!” he exclaimed, as a grim smile
settled upon his features.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The stranger placed his gloved finger upon his lip to
advise caution; and Jacopa, warned by the signal, restrained
the expressions to which he had been about to
give utterance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This,” he said, as he took the other’s hand and led
him forward, while a gloomy frown supplanted the
smile upon his own countenance, “this is as it should
be; there is nobility enough in the act to make thee
a worthy partaker in our deliberations.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Saying this, he made a place for him among the rest,
and vouched to the company for his right to be present.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The consultation was continued, but Jacopa Amedi
ceased to take the lead in it. The stranger, as if by
magic, exerted a controlless influence over every one.
He spoke, and all listened with breathless attention to
his lava-like words. He proposed and his suggestions
were adopted without a dissenting voice. He named
himself the leader of an enterprise in contemplation,
and he was selected by acclamation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who,” he asked, after an hour had been spent in
consultation, “is informed of the period when this
faithless lord leads his dainty bride to the altar?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have taken care to learn that,” Baptista Amedi
replied. “An hour after vespers the priest pronounces
the marriage sacrament in the chapel of the palace.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='194' id='Page_194'></span>
“Then at vespers,” the stranger said, as he rose from
his place, “meet me here again, prepared as we have
agreed; till then let us teach ourselves discretion.”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VIII.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>The hour of vespers had passed, and Camilla Donati
sat alone with Buondlemonte. She was attired for the
altar, and in her bridal robes outrivaled e’en her own
loveliness. Yet she was sad with all her beauty, and
amidst all the aids to happiness that surrounded her.
A cloud shaded her fair brow, and the rosy lips sought
in vain to wreath themselves in smiles.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou art grave, dear Camilla!” Buondlemonte
said, speaking in a subdued tone; “dost thou repent
thy promise to be mine?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She turned her beautiful eyes, liquid with tenderness
and trusting affection, to his, and placed her snowy
hand lightly upon his shoulder,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dost thou think it?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Forgive me!” he replied; “I only meant to banish
thy sad thoughts, and make thee gay.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I should be happy,” she said, as his arm stole
round her waist, “but yet I cannot feel so. Thy form
is ever in my thought, and bliss smiles at thy side, yet
when I seek to clasp it in my embrace, a dark phantom
interposes, and with a hollow laugh, mocks my
baffled purpose. In the air there is a murmuring dirge,
and thy voice swells with sepulchral sound. I cannot
feel happy,” she said; “an icy coldness settles round
my heart.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let love,” he replied, “banish it from thence.
Thou shall not yield thy soul up to sickly fancies.
’Tis part of mine, dear Camilla, and must take its hue
from the cheerful coloring of its other half. Thy fears
for my safety have faded the rose-tint from thy cheeks,
but within an hour—when the holy father has performed
the sacred rite, and thou art mine own—thou
wilt smile at the fantastic thoughts that now make
thee look so grave.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Would that the rite were over, and safely so!”
Camilla fervently whispered, as she turned aside her
blushing face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The wish seemed uttered only to be answered, for
at that moment her mother entered the apartment to
summon the couple to the chapel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The priest is at the altar,” she said, “and the
guests await the presence of the bridegroom and his
bride.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Buondlemonte rose, and supporting Camilla on his
arm, passed into an adjoining room, where Guiseppo
Leoni and the maidens who were to officiate as bridemaids,
were assembled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The wedding-party passed from the palace to the
chapel. The lamps were all lighted, and beneath the
arched roof a gay crowd was collected. Jewels glittered,
rich silks rustled, lofty plumes waved, and happy
smiles circulated on every side.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Camilla and Buondlemonte appeared, the
crowd fell back, and opened a passage for them to the
altar, where for a moment they stood—the admiration
of every beholder—till the ceremony should commence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The holy man commenced the marriage-service,
and propounded to the parties concerned, the questions
which the church directs shall be put on such occasions.
Those addressed to Camilla were answered in
a low, musical voice, while Buondlemonte made his
responses boldly and with pride.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The ceremony was over—they were man and wife.
A happy smile already diffused itself over the countenance
of the bride, and the priest raised his hand to
pronounce the benediction; but he spoke not. His
attention was arrested by voices elevated in anger, and
sounds of rude strife at the entrance of the chapel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>All turned to inquire the cause of this interruption,
and as they did so, the huge doors were forced back
upon their hinges, and a band of armed men, with
weapons bared, rushed up the tesselated aisle toward
the altar. At their head was the youthful stranger
who had appeared that morning at the Amedi palace.
In his hand gleamed a naked poignard; his plumed cap
had fallen from his head, and upon his shoulders there
fell a luxuriant mass of long, dark hair. His eyes were
bloodshot, and his voice sounded hoarse and unnatural
as he called upon those who came after, to follow him.
Casting with desperate strength all impediments aside,
he paused not in his course until he stood fronting
Buondlemonte.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The latter had drawn his sword, but Camilla Donati
threw herself impulsively before him to shelter his
person with her own; the stranger took advantage of
the act of devotion, and burying his poignard up to the
hilt in Buondlemonte’s body, he exclaimed,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Die, traitor! even in thy act of treachery!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The unfortunate young nobleman fell to the ground
weltering in his own blood; and Camilla, with a shriek
of heart-piercing agony, sunk fainting and prostrate
upon his body.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The stranger gazed for an instant at the harrowing
sight before him, then bent his knee beside Buondlemonte,
and said, in a voice which already was touched
with remorse,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Buondlemonte, thou hast grievously wronged
Francesca Amedi, and she has been her own avenger!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The dying noble turned an inquiring glance upon the
speaker, and with difficulty recognized the person of
Francesca in the habiliments of the stranger.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou art indeed avenged,” he murmured, in a
weak voice, as he endeavored to embrace his fainting
bride.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou hadst canceled my hopes of happiness,” she
said, as she rose to her feet, “and I have put the seal
to the act by destroying thine!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>With a solemn step she stalked from the chapel, protected
by those who had supported her; while Buondlemonte,
after breathing a prayer to Heaven for Camilla’s
peace, resigned his soul into the hands of its author.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It would be too melancholy a task to detail the particulars
that followed this unhappy bridal. A few
words will be sufficient to explain all that is necessary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Camilla Donati, after many months, recovered from
the fearful shock she had received in seeing her lover
slain; but this world had ceased to delight her. She
entered a convent, and in the course of time became
its abbess. Francesca Amedi had accomplished her
vengeance, but with its accomplishment she had ensured
<span class='pageno' title='195' id='Page_195'></span>
her own misery. With the vulture, remorse,
ever preying upon her heart, she knew but one wish, and
that was for death, while she lacked the power to terminate
her own existence and solve the problem of
eternity. After a vain effort to secure forgetfulness by
mingling in society, she, too, retired from the world,
and within the walls of the same convent over which
Camilla Donati presided, she became a nun.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The death of Buondlemonte added virulence to the
wars of the Guelphs and Ghibellines; and many generations
passed away before the families of Amedi and
Donati became reconciled.</p>
<hr class='tbk113'/>
<div><h1><a id='sun'></a>A SUNBEAM.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY ALBERT M. NOYES.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>A sunbeam</span> flashed from its azure throne,</p>
<p class='line0'>O’er the bright and the beautiful earth to roam;</p>
<p class='line0'>And it left a plume from its glist’ning wings</p>
<p class='line0'>Where’er it traced its wanderings.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>It tipped the bough of an old oak tree</p>
<p class='line0'>With its joyous ray, and in their glee</p>
<p class='line0'>A myriad host that were slumb’ring there</p>
<p class='line0'>Came glancing forth in the morning air.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Then off like a flash it sped away,</p>
<p class='line0'>And next it touched with a diamond ray</p>
<p class='line0'>A lofty spire, as it rose upon high,</p>
<p class='line0'>Till it looked like a star in an azure sky.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Again it flew, and this joyous beam</p>
<p class='line0'>Flashed o’er the breast of a rippling stream;</p>
<p class='line0'>And a bridge of trembling light it gave</p>
<p class='line0'>To the sparkling crests of the dimpled wave.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I mused awhile—and lo! I heard</p>
<p class='line0'>The joyous song of a bright-winged bird;</p>
<p class='line0'>It had caught the flash of that morning ray</p>
<p class='line0'>As it sped to its bower of love away.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And bathed in a flood of golden light</p>
<p class='line0'>It looked like a rainbow spirit bright,</p>
<p class='line0'>By an angel hand sent down to unfurl</p>
<p class='line0'>The banner of peace to a sinful world.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And a thousand voices rose on high,</p>
<p class='line0'>As its gliding form flew swiftly by;</p>
<p class='line0'>Each bright and beautiful thing of earth</p>
<p class='line0'>Awoke to hail its heavenly birth.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Sweet beam, said I, oh! how I’d love,</p>
<p class='line0'>Like thee, the bright green earth to rove;</p>
<p class='line0'>To shine o’er the hearts of pale despair</p>
<p class='line0'>And kindle a glow of rapture there.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Just then, a darkling cloud flew by,</p>
<p class='line0'>And shadowed the face of the azure sky;</p>
<p class='line0'>I looked for this beautiful child of the dawn</p>
<p class='line0'>But its glory had faded, its brightness had gone!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And I thought how much like Life did seem</p>
<p class='line0'>The fate of this bright yet transient beam;</p>
<p class='line0'>In glory it rose with the morn’s first breath,</p>
<p class='line0'>At eve it was shadowed in darkness and death.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk114'/>
<div><h1><a id='long'></a>LONG AGO.</h1></div>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>Long</span> ago a blue-eyed cherub</p>
<p class='line0'>      In my arms</p>
<p class='line0'>Softly lay and sweetly smiled—</p>
<p class='line0'>Spotless, holy, undefiled—</p>
<p class='line0'>And my troubled heart beguiled</p>
<p class='line0'>      With its charms.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Long ago, on angel’s pinion,</p>
<p class='line0'>      To my breast</p>
<p class='line0'>Came a gentle, timid dove—</p>
<p class='line0'>Stole the treasure of my love—</p>
<p class='line0'>Upward soared, no more to rove</p>
<p class='line0'>      From its nest.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Long ago my seraph maiden</p>
<p class='line0'>      Took her flight</p>
<p class='line0'>From a dreary, darkling world—</p>
<p class='line0'>She her radiant wings unfurled,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the heavenly gates of pearl</p>
<p class='line0'>      Shut my sight.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Long ago the angel reaper</p>
<p class='line0'>      Cruel sore</p>
<p class='line0'>Gave my heart its keenest blow,</p>
<p class='line0'>Made my tears of anguish flow,</p>
<p class='line0'>Bid me onward weeping go—</p>
<p class='line0'>      Evermore.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Long ago the fair world faded</p>
<p class='line0'>      In mine eyes,</p>
<p class='line0'>And I burn to clasp that child.</p>
<p class='line0'>With a love more fondly wild</p>
<p class='line0'>Than when first she sweetly smiled</p>
<p class='line0'>      From the skies.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Long ago one lock I severed</p>
<p class='line0'>      From her brow,</p>
<p class='line0'>And that sunny little tress</p>
<p class='line0'>In its shining loveliness—</p>
<p class='line0'>To my heart I fondly press</p>
<p class='line0'>      Ever now.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<div class='stanza-inner'>
<p class='line0'>In my dreams I meet the maiden—</p>
<p class='line0'>      Passing fair</p>
<p class='line0'>Far beyond the frost and snow</p>
<p class='line0'>Doth my lovely flow’ret blow—</p>
<p class='line0'>And my tears no longer flow</p>
<p class='line0'>      For her there.</p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-top:0.5em;'><span style='font-size:smaller'>E. H.</span></p>
</div>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk115'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='196' id='Page_196'></span><h1><a id='two'></a>THE TWO WORLDS.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY HENRY B. HIRST.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Like the contented peasant of the vale,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Dreams it the world and never looks beyond.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Lowell.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>There</span> was an humble village lad</p>
<p class='line0'>  Who thought the round, revolving world,</p>
<p class='line0'>Mountains and plains and streams and skies,</p>
<p class='line0'>Lay in the compass of his eyes.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The symphonies of the leafy woods,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The melodies of the murmuring brooks,</p>
<p class='line0'>Mingling—like light, or songs of spheres —</p>
<p class='line0'>Contented his untutored ears.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Confined between gigantic hills,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The little hamlet, where he dwell,</p>
<p class='line0'>Never imagined land more blest</p>
<p class='line0'>Than that where it had made its nest.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And so our simple village boy,</p>
<p class='line0'>  With thoughtless urchins like himself,</p>
<p class='line0'>Chatting with brooks and birds and flowers,</p>
<p class='line0'>Ran swiftly through his childish hours.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But manhood, like a shadow, rose</p>
<p class='line0'>  And stood before his growing eyes —</p>
<p class='line0'>With aspirations, such as start</p>
<p class='line0'>To being in the ambitious heart.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Somehow—he knew not whence it came —</p>
<p class='line0'>  The fancy of a nobler world</p>
<p class='line0'>Than that in which his soul now pined,</p>
<p class='line0'>Trembled, like moonlight, on his mind.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Habit, however, made his home</p>
<p class='line0'>  So very dear; he sadly threw</p>
<p class='line0'>The thought aside, and, turning back,</p>
<p class='line0'>Pursued his old accustomed track.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Nevertheless, the glowing dream</p>
<p class='line0'>  Followed his steps with pleading eyes,</p>
<p class='line0'>Filling his heart, wherever he went,</p>
<p class='line0'>With unaccustomed discontent.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But one day hunting in the hills</p>
<p class='line0'>  He saw a chamois mount a peak,</p>
<p class='line0'>Which seemed—its summit was so high —</p>
<p class='line0'>To melt and mingle with the sky.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Urged by the instinct of the chase,</p>
<p class='line0'>  He slowly crept from crag to crag</p>
<p class='line0'>Until he reached the dizzy height</p>
<p class='line0'>Where last the chamois met his sight.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Before him, in the morning sun,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Stretching away from sky to sky,</p>
<p class='line0'>Brighter than even his soul had dreamed.</p>
<p class='line0'>His other world before him gleamed.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Behind him lay the little vale</p>
<p class='line0'>  Where he had spent his youthful hours;</p>
<p class='line0'>There was the cottage where he dwelt —</p>
<p class='line0'>The shrine at which he always knelt.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And over-shadowing the brook,</p>
<p class='line0'>  He saw the weeping-willow stand,</p>
<p class='line0'>Where, but the night before, he met</p>
<p class='line0'>His loving, lovely young <span class='sc'>Florette</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But fairer than his maiden love,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And lovelier than his native glen,</p>
<p class='line0'>Inviting him with novel charms,</p>
<p class='line0'>His fairy world held out its arms.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The Old yields always to the New,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And so the youth with just such steps</p>
<p class='line0'>As one would run to meet a bride,</p>
<p class='line0'>Ran lightly down the mountain side.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Day after day, year after year,</p>
<p class='line0'>  He wandered in his golden world:</p>
<p class='line0'>A shadow-hunter he became: —</p>
<p class='line0'>The Shadow which he sought was Fame.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But Age, who walks on velvet feet,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Followed his footsteps like a wolf,</p>
<p class='line0'>And when the fame he sought was won,</p>
<p class='line0'>He only saw the setting sun.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Cold as his native granite rocks,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And hard, had grown the wanderer’s heart:</p>
<p class='line0'>For many weary, desolate years</p>
<p class='line0'>His eyes had lost the power of tears.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The name his genius had acquired,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The wealth which Fortune had bestowed,</p>
<p class='line0'>Instead of pleasure gave him pain:</p>
<p class='line0'>Sadness was in his heart and brain.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The great are friendless: he was great:</p>
<p class='line0'>  His very fortune hedged him round</p>
<p class='line0'>And shut him from the love of all;</p>
<p class='line0'>He could not leap the lofty wall.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But somehow, like an angel’s tear,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The memory of his early home</p>
<p class='line0'>Fell on his heart: he saw the glen</p>
<p class='line0'>He loved so in his youth again.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>A wan and worn and wrinkled man</p>
<p class='line0'>  He stood upon his native hills:</p>
<p class='line0'>There was each old familiar spot;</p>
<p class='line0'>There stood his silent shepherd cot.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Downward with trembling, painful steps</p>
<p class='line0'>  The wanderer took his lonely way:</p>
<p class='line0'>Like one who wakens from a dream</p>
<p class='line0'>He stood beside the mournful stream.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Above him, in a green old age,</p>
<p class='line0'>  He saw a weeping-willow trail</p>
<p class='line0'>Its murmuring leaves; and at its foot</p>
<p class='line0'>A single rose had taken root.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>It grew upon a grassy mound,</p>
<p class='line0'>  At head of which a rustic cross</p>
<p class='line0'>Pointed to heaven;—there last he met —</p>
<p class='line0'>There last he clasped the fair Florette.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The old man’s eyes were full of tears,</p>
<p class='line0'>  As, like a penitent child, he knelt</p>
<p class='line0'>And sobbed and prayed in pale despair:</p>
<p class='line0'>Next day a maiden found him there.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The hillock where reposed his form</p>
<p class='line0'>  Was circled by his feeble arms:</p>
<p class='line0'>Pale, pitying Death his seal had set</p>
<p class='line0'>On love, and laid him with Florette.</p>
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<hr class='tbk116'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='197' id='Page_197'></span><h1><a id='recep'></a>A RECEPTION MORNING:</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>OR PEOPLE IN GLASS HOUSES, ETC.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF “A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE,” ETC.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'><span class='it'>Je m’oublie,</span></p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'><span class='it'>Tu t’oublies,</span></p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'><span class='it'>Il ou elle s’oublis,</span> <span class='it'>etc.</span></p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='it'>Verb S’oublier.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='sc'>Why</span> were you not at Elliot’s last night, Mrs.
Fortesque?” asked Mrs. Lyman.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We do not visit,” replied Mrs. Fortesque, with a
slight shade of mortification.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not visit!” repeated her friend in an accent of
surprise, and fixing her eyes as she spoke with a prolonged
look of astonishment that caused Mrs. Fortesque
to color. “Is it possible! It was an elegant
party—very select—the handsomest I have been at this
winter. Indeed, <span class='it'>the</span> party of the season.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It could scarcely surpass Rawley’s,” said Mrs.
Fortesque with smothered indignation. “I am sure
there was nothing spared there, and their house is
larger than Elliot’s.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes. But it was such a jam at Rawley’s,” replied
Mrs. Lyman, in the tone of one oppressed even by
the recollection of the crowd—“and such a <span class='it'>mêlée</span>—all
sorts of people! This paying off debts in this way
is, in my opinion, very vulgar. Now at Elliot’s it was
so different. Just every body you would wish to meet
and no more. Room to see and be seen—and the
ladies so beautifully dressed—no crowd—every thing
elegant and <span class='it'>recherché</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The dressing at Rawley’s was as elegant as possible,”
remarked Mrs. Fortesque, evidently piqued that
the party she had just been describing to Miss Appleton
with no small degree of complacency as so fashionable,
should now be spoken of as a <span class='it'>mêlée</span>.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Did you think so?” said Mrs. Lyman, with affected
surprise. “It was very inferior to that of last night.
Indeed in such a crowd there’s no inducement to wear
any thing handsome; but last night the ladies really
came out. I never saw such dressing—and the supper
was exquisite.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It seems to me that all suppers are alike,” said one
of the Miss Appletons, with true girlish ignorance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed both ladies in a breath.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The difference between such a supper as we had
at Elliot’s and such a one as at Rawley’s,” continued
Mrs. Lyman, “is immense. The exquisite china, the
plate, and then the natural flowers! Such a supper as
you can only have at a select party.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Fortesque looked very angry. The Rawleys
were rather her grand people, and as she had not been
at Elliot’s she did not like this being set down in the
crowd of “any bodies” invited.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am fairly tired out,” pursued Mrs. Lyman languidly,
“with this succession of parties. I do wish
people would be quiet for a little while and let one
rest. The girls too are quite jaded and fagged with
this dancing night after night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, it’s too much,” said Emma Appleton. “I
never go more than two or three times a week. I
wonder you do,” turning to Miss Lyman.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How can you help it, my dear?” said Mrs. Lyman,
in the tone of one bewailing a great hardship. “You
give such offence if you decline.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I decline whenever it suits me,” replied Miss Appleton,
“and people bear the disappointment very philosophically,”
she added, smiling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You may well say that, Emma,” said Mrs. Fortesque,
with an emphasis meant at Mrs. Lyman.
“Society is so large now that <span class='it'>I</span> at least never find offence
is taken when I decline.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you cannot refuse a first invitation,” pursued
Mrs. Lyman. “Now the Elliots for instance. They
have just called upon us, we could not decline. Are
you going to Hammersley’s to-morrow, Emma?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Emma, “we are not invited. Are
you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes; it’s a small party. We shall go there first
and afterwards to Lascelles’.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I saw you all at the opera on Monday,” remarked
Emma.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, we were there the first two acts—we went
from there to Shaw’s. By the way, did you call upon
the bride yesterday?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” replied Emma. “I have never visited the
Halseys.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But as Hamilton’s friends,” pursued Mrs. Lyman,
“I called on his account.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Emma carelessly, “I hate bridal receptions
and avoid them whenever I possibly can.” Mrs.
Lyman had risen while she was speaking, and she
said, “Oh don’t go! Why are you in such a hurry?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I must, my dear,” replied Mrs. Lyman. “The
Armstrongs and Ringolds receive to-day, and then I
must call at Meredith’s. We have not been there
since the party. And Cadwaladers too, Mary,” she
said, turning to her daughter, “don’t forget them. We
have been owing that visit so long—and the Harrisons,
and I don’t know how many,” she continued, as if
quite oppressed with the weight of fashionable cares.
“I don’t suppose we shall get through with the half
of them. Come Mary,” and so bidding Emma and
her friends good morning, she withdrew.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The door had hardly closed upon her, when Mrs.
Fortesque, still wrathy at the manner in which Mrs.
<span class='pageno' title='198' id='Page_198'></span>
Lyman had spoken of Rawleys, and angrier still at
finding she was going to Hammersley’s, vented some of
her indignation exclaiming —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How that woman does work for society!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“One would think she had been at court to hear her
talk of Elliots,” said Emma laughing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Just so, Emma,” said Mrs. Fortesque, in a tone of
bitter satisfaction at the young lady’s laughing satire.
“It’s too absurd! And as to saying the Elliots called
first, I don’t believe it. They, strangers here, and
people of their fortune, are not likely to go about
making first calls.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s that?” said Charlotte Appleton, who had
been engrossed in conversation with a gentleman on
the opposite side of the room. “What’s that about
the Elliots making first calls.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I was saying it was rather remarkable that they
should have called first on Mrs. Lyman,” replied Mrs.
Fortesque.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They did not,” exclaimed Charlotte. “Of course,
as strangers, you know, Mrs. Fortesque, they would
not, and I know the Lymans called upon them some
time ago.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you sure of that, Charlotte?” asked Mrs. Fortesque,
with the triumphant manner of one securing
an important fact.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Certainly,” replied Charlotte, “for she asked
mamma and myself to call and introduce her, but we
were engaged that morning, and she said it was no
matter, she would leave her card and be introduced
the first time they met.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought so!” said Mrs. Fortesque exultingly,
“It’s just like her!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There’s no reason why she should not have called,
Mrs. Fortesque,” said Emma.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Mrs. Fortesque did not look assenting at this;
she only said, however —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps so. But I don’t like calling on these
people for their parties—for it amounts to that, when
you can’t return them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But, my dear Mrs. Fortesque,” said Emma, “then
only the rich would know the rich. And there are a
great many charming people in society who cannot afford
to entertain, and who the Elliots and others are
delighted to have.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, my dear,” returned the lady with much excitement
of manner, “that’s all very well when you
have happened to know them; but I would not go out
of my way to make their acquaintance. There’s nobody
of any consequence in society, or who entertains,
that Mrs. Lyman does not make it a point of knowing.
Now, her calling on the bride yesterday as one of Hamilton’s
friends. Why, she knows Hamilton just as
you and I and half the town do—a slight bowing acquaintance—but
now he is marrying a rich fashionable
girl, she finds out that it is incumbent on her as ‘one
of his friends’ to call on his bride! So absurd! And
she wont effect her object by this sort of thing either,”
she added spitefully. “The young men are tired of
seeing those two ugly girls of hers at every place
they go.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Mrs. Fortesque!” said Emma expostulatingly,
yet half laughing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of course, my dear,” returned Mrs. Fortesque
warmly. “Every body sees that, and she’ll fail.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, <span class='it'>if</span> that is the object—” said Emma.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And it is,” persisted Mrs. Fortesque decidedly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t agree with you in thinking she’ll fail,”
continued Emma, without noticing the interruption.
“I think the Lymans are nice girls and generally
liked.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No beauties, you’ll admit,” said Mrs. Fortesque,
scornfully.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, not beauties,” replied Emma, “but they get
on quite as well as if they were. Besides, really Mrs.
Fortesque, to do Mrs. Lyman justice, I never saw any
thing about her like a match-making mother.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, my dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Fortesque. “She
is very anxious to marry them off. And well she
may be. The other two are growing up as fast as they
can. I only think she is taking the wrong course.
And then such a labor as she makes of it! She’s
somewhere every night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh yes. Sometimes at two parties beside the
opera,” said Charlotte. “There’s no pleasure in society
at such a rate. They have an idea that it is <span class='it'>ton</span>ish
I believe.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Too absurd!” repeated Mrs. Fortesque, who had
evidently not yet discharged all her wrath. But being
obliged to make other calls she rose, and as Lady
Teazle says, “left her character behind her,” for she
was not fairly out of the room before Emma laughed
and said —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor Mrs. Fortesque! She cannot get over the
Lymans getting on so well in society. To be sure
they do push for it, but they get it. And their being
at Elliot’s where she was not invited and does not
visit, seems to have capped the climax of her vexation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And to speak slightingly of Rawleys’ party,” said
Charlotte. “That really was unkind in Mrs. Lyman,
for she knows how much Mrs. Fortesque thinks of
the Rawleys.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That was the reason of course,” replied Emma
laughing. “She knows the Rawleys are Mrs. Fortesque’s
grandees. For there’s no one that thinks so
much of fine people as Mrs. Fortesque.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. How droll it is,” said Charlotte. “Every
invitation is taken as such a compliment, and every
omission as a particular slight.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That struck me very much,” remarked Mrs. Henry
Willing who happened to be present, but who had not
joined much in the conversation hitherto, “for I have
always looked upon Mrs. Fortesque as a person who
rather pinned her faith upon fashionable people, and
who rated her acquaintance very much according to
their consequence in society.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh she does, decidedly,” said both the girls in a
breath.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s that,” continued Emma, “that makes her so
angry with Mrs. Lyman. They are intimate, and
Mrs. Lyman is always ahead of her in making fine acquaintances,
and in getting invited to parties that are
rather exclusive. Now you will see that Mrs. Fortesque
does not rest until she visits and is invited at
Elliot’s too.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='199' id='Page_199'></span>
“But I think she is really unjust, Emma,” said
Charlotte, “in saying her object is to get the girls
married.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To be sure she is,” replied Emma. “But the fact
is, her own head is so full of anxiety on the subject of
marrying Cornelia, that she thinks every other mother’s
head must be the same.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Lymans are no beauties,” said Charlotte,
“but they are quite as handsome as Cornelia Fortesque.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And a great deal pleasanter,” replied Emma.
“They have something at least, but poor Cornelia has
nothing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>As the Appletons were “at home” that morning, the
conversation was here interrupted by other visiters.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elliot’s party was again the theme under discussion,
the display of wealth and beauty on the occasion
giving rise to much animated remark.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“One of the most striking persons there was your
friend Mrs. Norton, Miss Appleton,” said Mrs. Henry
Willing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I never saw her look more beautiful,” remarked
another.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nor more beautifully dressed,” said Mrs. Willing
quietly, but with meaning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Emma colored at this, for she felt the innuendo. Mr.
Norton had failed not very long since, and the extravagance
of his pretty wife had not escaped its due
portion at least of animadversion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What was it?” asked Emma.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A very rich blue silk, with flounces of superb lace
almost to the hips,” replied Mrs. Willing in a tone
that conveyed as much reprehension as tones could
convey.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, that’s the same lace she has worn these three
years,” said Emma, vexed that her pretty friend could
not even wear her old things without exciting unkind
remarks.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It does not look well, Emma,” remarked Mrs.
Grayson. “Though it is not new, it is expensive, and
not in keeping with their present circumstances, it’s
in bad taste.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Emma looked disconcerted, and said she thought that
a matter of very little importance when every body
knew the lace almost as well as they did Mrs. Norton
herself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Willing however did not think so. “Every
body knew the expense attendant on society, and she
thought it altogether indiscreet in Mrs. Norton to be
out as constantly as she was. It excited much remark.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Whereupon an animated discussion ensued in which
poor Mrs. Norton was well pulled to pieces. Emma
however defended her bravely, though driven from
point to point. That she was very expensive, if not
extravagant, seemed however to be settled beyond
dispute, and Mrs. Willing was not inclined to make
any allowance for her youth and inexperience, nor
permit her grace and beauty any weight at all in extenuating
her imprudence. Emma was for overlooking
every thing, Mrs. Willing nothing, and the discussion
was certainly as warm as is ever deemed allowable
among ladies, when Mrs. Willing rose to
leave. No one remaining, fortunately for Emma, but
Mrs. Grayson, with whom the Appletons were very
intimate, and so she gave unrestrained vent to her indignation
almost before Mrs. Willing was out of
hearing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She is a pretty one!” she exclaimed, “to find fault
with Mrs. Norton! She is just as expensive as her
means will allow, without Mrs. Norton’s excuse of
youth and beauty.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But, my dear,” interposed Mrs. Grayson, “her
husband has not failed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Emma, “for he is not a merchant. But
every body knows their circumstances. He’s over
head and ears in debt, and yet they entertain and give
dinners, and she’s forever at the opera. But because
she’s not a beauty and does not care particularly for
dress, she is very virtuous about poor Mrs. Norton.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very true,” said Mrs. Grayson laughing. “I could
not but be amused while she was talking to think how
much that she was saying would apply equally well to
herself. But people never think of that when they are
laying down the law for others. But have you heard
this story, girls, about Mrs. Crawford?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. What?” they both asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And then followed a piece of scandal that had just
burst upon the town, too naughty to repeat.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shocking!” and “Can it be true?” they exclaimed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No doubt of it,” returned Mrs. Grayson. “No one
will visit her,” and with much interest she continued
to add circumstance and suspicion one on top of the
other without mercy or stint.</p>
<p class='pindent'>All minor gossip was forgotten in the engrossing interest
of the new subject. Mrs. Grayson talked on till
the French clock on the mantel-piece struck the dinner
hour, when starting up, she exclaimed —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So late! Is it possible? You’ve been so agreeable
girls I had quite forgotten the hour, and my husband
is waiting for me, I suppose,” and off she
hurried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She has had all the talk,” said Emma, “and that’s
what she calls finding <span class='it'>us</span> agreeable. But this story is
very bad, if it is true.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, but I don’t believe half of it,” said Charlotte.
“Mrs. Grayson you know always puts the worst construction
upon every thing. She is so very harsh in
her judgments.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And she of all others should have mercy upon
those in trouble,” observed Mrs. Appleton, who had
just then came into the room. “But what were you
talking of girls?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And with great animation they related Mrs. Grayson’s
bit of gossip to their mother.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Strange!” said Mrs. Appleton, “that Mrs. Grayson
should be the first to tell it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, mamma?” asked both daughters at once.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because just such an affair occurred in her own
family.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In hers! When?” exclaimed they in astonishment.
“I never heard that before!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, years ago—you can hardly remember it. Indeed
it was just after I was married.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then,” said Charlotte laughing, “it’s not surprising
we do not remember the circumstance.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='200' id='Page_200'></span>
“I had forgotten it was so long ago,” said their mother.
“It made a great talk at the time.” And then
scandal that had been buried for years and years was
revived and listened to with no small interest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Strange!” said Emma, “that Mrs. Grayson should
talk of Mrs. Crawford.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I should think she would avoid all such stories as
carefully as possible,” said Charlotte.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I suppose she thought we knew nothing about it,”
pursued Emma.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But if we did not, <span class='it'>she</span> must,” replied Charlotte.
“People cannot forget such things themselves.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mrs. Grayson has gone through severe trials and
mortifications in life,” observed their mother.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then it ought to give her some charity for others,”
said Charlotte. “But she is the <span class='it'>hardest</span> woman I
know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It appears to me that’s always the case,” said
Emma. “One would think that suffering would soften
and purify—but it does not.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not that kind of suffering,” remarked their mother.
“That which comes of mortification, and which we
experience at the hands of our fellow men, there are
few natures fine enough not to grow hard under it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Emma heard her mother afterward in a low voice
telling their father the story she had just heard from
her daughters, and giving Mrs. Grayson as authority.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The less <span class='it'>she</span> says about it the better,” drily remarked
Mr. Appleton.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You remember, my dear,” continued his wife,
“that affair of her sister.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To be sure,” he replied. “A bad business. I
always wondered how they got over it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And then Mr. and Mrs. Appleton had a long, comfortable,
cosy talk, in which things long past and forgotten
were brought to life, as the old couple warmed
up in their reminiscences of “old times.” Emma
soon tired, and gave up trying to keep the thread of
grandmothers and great-aunts, particularly as her
father and mother frequently confounded the present
with the past generation, and she found that the
“young Tom Somebody,” that they were talking of,
was now the “old Tom,” of present times; the
“young Tom” being a middle-aged man, with a Tom
junior treading fast on his heels.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Charlotte and Emma were now talking over their
morning visiters, and Emma again spoke with some
warmth of Mrs. Willing’s remarks on Mrs. Norton,
who happened to be Emma’s particular admiration,
her extravagance being, in her opinion, “very
natural.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can conceive,” she added, “of people’s</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>‘Compounding sins they are inclined for,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> By damning those they have no mind for,’</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>but to abuse people for doing what you are doing yourself,
is rather too much.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s the old principle, I suppose,” said Charlotte,
“of ‘Lord, I thank thee that I am not as other
men.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, but,” persisted Charlotte, “when you <span class='it'>are</span> like
as other men.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, then—not so bad, then,” said Charlotte,
laughing—“Mrs. Willing takes comfort in thinking
she is only expensive, while Mrs. Norton is extravagant.
Every body has their besetting sin it seems.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wonder what ours is,” said Emma.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If we have one,” said Charlotte, laughing. “For
my part, I think we approach perfection as near as
possible—‘<span class='it'>Sans peur et sans reproche.</span>’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Sans peur</span>, certainly,” said Emma, in the same
tone of playful mockery, “if not <span class='it'>sans reproche</span>. Well,
but what do we abuse others most for?” she added.
“For, depend upon it, that’s the particular weakness
we are given to ourselves.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do we most criticise others for?” said Charlotte.
“Why, for abusing others, I think. And we
are called satirical, you know. ‘People in glass
houses should not throw stones.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Emma carelessly. “That is, if they
care about having their windows broken.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nobody likes to have their windows broken,” said
Mrs. Appleton gravely, who, just entering, caught the
last part of the sentence, which she took literally, with
a true housekeeper’s feeling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s true, mother,” said the girls, laughing at
the odd application of her remark. “It’s very true,
though you did not mean it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But whether they remembered these sage reflections
and kept them the next “reception morning,” we
think very doubtful.</p>
<hr class='tbk117'/>
<div><h1><a id='thesky'></a>THE SKY.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY MRS. J. W. MERCUR.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>The</span> sky, the ever-changing sky,</p>
<p class='line0'>How broadly spans that arch on high!</p>
<p class='line0'>How calmly in the morning’s light</p>
<p class='line0'>Blends its rich hues so purely bright,</p>
<p class='line0'>And lit by golden sunbeams now</p>
<p class='line0'>In glory bends its azure brow.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The sky, the sky, serenely bright,</p>
<p class='line0'>No cloud sits on thy bosom’s light,</p>
<p class='line0'>No fleecy folds beneath the eye</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the sun’s light are glancing by,</p>
<p class='line0'>Nor gath’ring clouds of misty spray</p>
<p class='line0'>Play round the sun’s imperial way.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And with a look of light and love</p>
<p class='line0'>That azure sea bends far above,</p>
<p class='line0'>Its glories to the day unfurled</p>
<p class='line0'>Are resting o’er our circling world,</p>
<p class='line0'>And lit by many a brilliant star</p>
<p class='line0'>At night that archway beams afar.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And on its breast so pure and high</p>
<p class='line0'>The burning paths of planets lie,</p>
<p class='line0'>Planets which ’neath its folds had birth</p>
<p class='line0'>When worlds on worlds first smiled o’er earth,</p>
<p class='line0'>And northern-lights and comets play,</p>
<p class='line0'>And meteors gleam, then die away.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And oft that bending sky doth wear</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='pageno' title='201' id='Page_201'></span></p>
<p class='line0'>A look of deep and troubled care.</p>
<p class='line0'>When sunbeams by deep clouds are hid,</p>
<p class='line0'>The gath’ring tempests frowning lid,</p>
<p class='line0'>And thunders burst, and lightnings play,</p>
<p class='line0'>And storms sweep o’er the trav’lers way.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And on the broad and rolling deep</p>
<p class='line0'>Each mariner doth turn and keep</p>
<p class='line0'>An anxious vigil of the sky,</p>
<p class='line0'>When threat’ning clouds and storms are nigh,</p>
<p class='line0'>And tempests round them fierce are driven,</p>
<p class='line0'>Or rainbows span the arch of heaven.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The sky, the sky, now clear, now bright,</p>
<p class='line0'>Now wreathed with folds of snowy white,</p>
<p class='line0'>Now tinged with amber hues, whose glow</p>
<p class='line0'>Is borrowed from the sunbeams flow,</p>
<p class='line0'>Then on its ever-changing breast</p>
<p class='line0'>Beam roseate streakings in the west.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And oft upon the sky I gaze</p>
<p class='line0'>As in my childhood’s early days,</p>
<p class='line0'>And watch at every morn and night</p>
<p class='line0'>Its fading or increasing light,</p>
<p class='line0'>And trace with love each cloud and star,</p>
<p class='line0'>Which floats above, or beams afar.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The sky, the sky, it bendeth o’er</p>
<p class='line0'>The weary exile, who no more</p>
<p class='line0'>Can greet his home, or feel the breeze</p>
<p class='line0'>Play through his native forest trees,</p>
<p class='line0'>Or watch upon his home’s clear stream</p>
<p class='line0'>The moon’s pale rays reflected beam.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And the bright sky o’er all that’s here</p>
<p class='line0'>Unto the exile’s heart is dear;</p>
<p class='line0'>In it he sees each beaming star</p>
<p class='line0'>Which shone above his home afar,</p>
<p class='line0'>And knows a power of deathless love</p>
<p class='line0'>Spread out that azure sea above.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And over all things here below</p>
<p class='line0'>It bendeth with a radiant glow;</p>
<p class='line0'>On peasant’s cot—on lordly hall—</p>
<p class='line0'>Alike its sun and shadows fall,</p>
<p class='line0'>And gems which gild its brow at even</p>
<p class='line0'>Shine forth for all beneath the heaven.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And from its firm unwav’ring height,</p>
<p class='line0'>Its never-failing day and night,</p>
<p class='line0'>The fadeless glory of its sun—</p>
<p class='line0'>Its tireless stars, when day is done,</p>
<p class='line0'>May all, as tow’rd that sky they turn,</p>
<p class='line0'>A lesson of deep import learn.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk118'/>
<div><h1><a id='taur'></a>TAURUS.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The Scorpion’s stars crawl down behind the sun,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And when he drops below the verge of day,</p>
<p class='line0'>The glittering fangs, their fervid courses run,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Cling to his skirts and follow him away.</p>
<p class='line0'>Then, ere the heels of flying Capricorn</p>
<p class='line0'>  Have touched the western mountain’s fading rim,</p>
<p class='line0'>I mark, stern Taurus, through the twilight gray</p>
<p class='line0'>        The glinting of thy horn,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And sullen front uprising large and dim,</p>
<p class='line0'>Bent to the starry hunter’s sword, at bay.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Thy hoofs, unwilling, climb the sphery vault;</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thy red eye trembles with an angry glare,</p>
<p class='line0'>When the hounds follow, and in fierce assault</p>
<p class='line0'>  Bay through the fringes of the lion’s hair.</p>
<p class='line0'>The stars that once were mortal in their love,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And by their love are made immortal now,</p>
<p class='line0'>Cluster like golden bees upon thy mane,</p>
<p class='line0'>        When thou, possessed with Jove,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Bore sweet Europe’s garlands on thy brow</p>
<p class='line0'>And stole her from the green Sicilian plain.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Type of the stubborn force that will not bend</p>
<p class='line0'>  To loftier art;—soul of defiant breath</p>
<p class='line0'>That blindly stands and battles to the end,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Nerving resistance with the throes of death —</p>
<p class='line0'>Majestic Taurus! when thy wrathful eye</p>
<p class='line0'>  Flamed brightest, and thy hoofs a moment stayed</p>
<p class='line0'>Their march at Night’s meridian, I was born:</p>
<p class='line0'>        But in the western sky,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Like sweet Europa, Love’s fair star delayed,</p>
<p class='line0'>To hang her garland on thy silver horn.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Thou giv’st that temper of enduring mould,</p>
<p class='line0'>  That slights the wayward bent of Destiny —</p>
<p class='line0'>Such as sent forth the shaggy Jarls of old</p>
<p class='line0'>  To launch their dragons on the unknown sea:</p>
<p class='line0'>Such as kept strong the sinews of the sword,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The proud, hot blood of battle—welcome made</p>
<p class='line0'>The headsman’s axe, the rack, the martyr-fire,</p>
<p class='line0'>        The ignominious cord,</p>
<p class='line0'>  When but to yield, had pomps and honors laid</p>
<p class='line0'>On heads that moulder in ignoble mire.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Night is the summer when the soul grows ripe</p>
<p class='line0'>  With Life’s full harvest: of her myriad suns,</p>
<p class='line0'>Thou dost not gild the quiet herdsman’s pipe,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Nor royal state, that royal action shuns,</p>
<p class='line0'>But in the noontide of thy ruddy stars</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thrive strength, and daring, and the blood whence springs</p>
<p class='line0'>The Heraclidean seed of heroes: then</p>
<p class='line0'>        Were sundered Gaza’s bars;</p>
<p class='line0'>  Then, ’mid the smitten Hydra’s loosened rings,</p>
<p class='line0'>His slayer rested, in the Lernean fen.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Thou sway’st the heart’s red tides, until they bear</p>
<p class='line0'>  The kindled spirit on their mounting wave,</p>
<p class='line0'>Up to the notch of Glory; in thy glare</p>
<p class='line0'>  Age thaws his ice, and thrills beside the grave.</p>
<p class='line0'>Not Bacchus, by his span of panthers borne,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And flushed with triumph of the purple vine,</p>
<p class='line0'>Can give his sons so fierce a joy as thou,</p>
<p class='line0'>        When, filled with pride and scorn,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thou mak’st relentless anger seem divine,</p>
<p class='line0'>And all Jove’s terror clothes a mortal brow.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Thine is the subtle element that turns</p>
<p class='line0'>  To fearless act the impulse of the hour —</p>
<p class='line0'>The secret fire, whose flash electric burns</p>
<p class='line0'>  To every source of passion and of power.</p>
<p class='line0'>Therefore I hail thee, on thy glittering track:</p>
<p class='line0'>  Therefore I watch thee, when the night grows dark,</p>
<p class='line0'>Slow rising, front Orion’s sword along</p>
<p class='line0'>        The starry zodiac,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And from thy mystic beam demand a spark</p>
<p class='line0'>To warm my soul with more heroic song.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk119'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='202' id='Page_202'></span><h1><a id='art'></a>THE YOUNG ARTIST:</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>OR THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY T. S. ARTHUR.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;'>(<span class='it'>Concluded from page 112.</span>)</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VII.</h2>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Ellison</span> was no longer, either in sentiment or purpose,
an artist. His whole character had undergone a
sudden, though temporary change. He reveled no
more in Italian dreams. Beautiful creations arose not,
in imagination, under his pencil. The ideal of his life
had taken a new form. His end was no longer perfection
in the Art at whose shrine genius had made
him a worshiper. He had turned to another god; and
bowed his knee on the threshold of the house of Mammon.
What splendid castles arose in the air all around
him! He saw his land cleared of its trees a century
old; and fields of grain brightening in the sunshine and
waving in the breeze, where now the light could
scarcely penetrate the gloomy forest. In the centre of
his estate a site was selected for a splendid dwelling,
and he saw it rising up before him as if by the touch
of enchantment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But for no very long time was this vain dream to be
indulged. An overseer, to give practical attention to
the cutting of logs in the woods, two miles away from
his mill; to look after their transportation to the place
where they were to be manufactured into boards, and
to have a general supervision of every thing connected
with the business, could not be had for less than five
hundred dollars a year. Besides this individual, an
engineer to run the mill, hands to attend it, and wood-cutters
and teamsters, were all to be employed. Six
yoke of oxen had also to be purchased; and the expense
of feeding them was something of an item in
itself. The whole weekly cost of this force, independent
entirely of his personal expenses, was about
fifty dollars. A month passed, and, though a dozen
trials had been made to start the mill, the gearing and
machinery were found so defective that they would
not work. All hands but the overseer and engineer
were then discharged, and millwrights employed to
half build the mill over again. They kept at work
nearly three months, by which time Ellison’s cash being
nearly all expended, he was beginning to be in no
very enviable state of mind. A good many things had
occurred, in the meantime, to cause more than a doubt
as to the success of his scheme to cross his mind.
His overseer was a practical man, and able to apply
tests to the whole business unknown to Ellison.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One day, it was nearly five months from the time
the mill came into the young man’s possession, and
after some part of the new gearing had given way in
an attempt to get it started, the overseer said to him —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m afraid you will find this a losing business,
manage it as you please. It’s my opinion that it will
cost you more to cut the timber, haul it to the mill and
saw it up, than the lumber will bring after it is produced.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And then he exhibited to Ellison a series of estimates
and calculations based upon things actually done,
which fully proved all he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Had the mill been erected on your land, you might
have saved yourself. But, to cut the timber, and then
haul it two miles, makes the cost of each log so great
as to throw profit entirely out of the question. I think,
sir, that you had better sell your mill, if you can find a
purchaser.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ellison was confounded. The demonstration made
by his overseer was so accurate that there was no
possibility of gainsaying it. To go on, even if he had
the money with which to proceed, would, he saw, be
only an act of folly. He, therefore, after debating the
matter for some days, saw that there was no way
left for him but to discharge all in his employment, and
sell the mill if a purchaser could be found. The sale
he did not find a matter of easy accomplishment. He
advertised it far and near, but only a few came to look
at it, and they were not long in making up their minds
that the road to fortune did not lie in that direction.
In the meantime, the first note of one thousand dollars
given to Claxton fell due, and was permitted to lie
over. Ellison had not fifty dollars in cash left of the
five thousand obtained from the sale of stocks, and
how could he lift a note of a thousand. He wrote to
Claxton, upbraiding him as the willful instrument of
his loss—as having made him the scape-goat to bear
the burden of his own folly and miscalculation. To
this he received a brief answer from Claxton’s brother,
who said that the notes were now his property,
and that he would wait until the three were matured,
when, in case they were not all paid, he would foreclose
the mortgage in his possession and sell his land.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Unhappy young man! He was almost beside himself
with anguish of mind. His castles in the air had
all dissolved in storm-clouds. His confident pride in
his own energy and ability to wrest a fortune from the
elements around him was all gone. In the effort to
make peace with his own mind—to secure his independence—by
suddenly duplicating the value of the
property obtained by his wife, he had lost nearly the
whole of it in less than a year. His folly was the
town talk. Not a man in D——, with whom he had
conversed during the progress of his money-losing
scheme, gave him a word of encouragement. Every
<span class='pageno' title='203' id='Page_203'></span>
one said that his expectations would prove fallacious;
and now that all had occurred as predicted, the only
sympathy he received was the pride-crushing remark
that it had turned out as every one knew it would.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The letter from Claxton’s brother awoke Ellison to
a keener sense of the difficulty by which he was surrounded
than he had yet experienced. There was no
hope of selling his mill. It had already cost him about
four thousand dollars, and three thousand were yet
due. There was no escape from the payment of this
last sum, as it was fully secured by a mortgage upon
his land.</p>
<p class='pindent'>While in this sad dilemma, so distressed in mind that
he often walked the floor for half the night, the owner
of the other mill, which had been kept steadily at
work, offered him two thousand dollars for the whole
concern, which had cost him seven thousand. This
offer he accepted without a moment’s hesitation. It
was the severing of one fold of the horrible serpent
that had entwined itself around him, and whose contractions
were almost crushing out his life. The next
step was to offer the four hundred acres of land for
sale. It so happened that there were three large property-holders
in D——, each of whom had particular
reasons for wanting the tract of land. From this cause
a better sale than even Ellison anticipated, was made.
Twenty dollars per acre was realized, or eight thousand
dollars for the whole tract.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Three thousand dollars canceled the debt to Claxton.
About five hundred more went to pay various bills and
accounts that were brought in as soon as it was known
that Ellison was closing up his business. Of some of
these the young man had no kind of recollection; but
he paid them. After all was settled, only about six
thousand five hundred dollars of the entire property
which Ellison had received by his wife remained. In
other words, in a little over a year, he had lost one half
of it. During the progress of these disasters, Clara, who
had never approved of what her husband was doing,
avoided saying a word that he could construe into
disapproval or disappointment. Still she felt troubled,
and could not always keep her brow free from shadows.
Whenever they were seen by Ellison, he felt them as
smarting rebukes; and his quick fancy gave them a
language which they did not really convey.</p>
<p class='pindent'>About two months prior to the closing up of Ellison’s
disastrous business in D——, Clara presented her husband
with a daughter. The birth of this child was not
so glad an event to the father as it would have been a
flew months earlier, when, waking or sleeping, his
mind was full of golden dreams. From the effects of
her illness Clara recovered but slowly. A change in
her bodily feelings produced a change in her thoughts,
which turned toward her old home and her old friends.
From a small beginning the wish to go back grew into
an intense desire. She had never been really happy
since coming to the West; and now every thing she
saw around her but increased her dissatisfied feelings.
But as far as it was in her power to do so, all this was
concealed from her husband.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One day, it was when Ellison was about making his
closing transactions in D——, he spoke of their removal
from that city, and mentioned Cincinnati.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why not go back to Philadelphia?” said Clara, with
an eagerness that showed how much her heart was in
her words. She spoke from an impulse, and therefore
with a fuller exhibition of her real feelings than would
otherwise have been the case.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’d rather hang myself!” was the equally impulsive
and much less guarded answer of Ellison.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The effect of this rude, in fact, unfeeling reply, was a
gush of tears, that flowed long and silently. The heart
of Ellison smote him for the unkindly spoken words.
But they had found an utterance, and he felt that an
attempt to recall them would be of no use.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For the space of full half an hour the unhappy young
man, and his equally unhappy wife, sat silent and almost
motionless, yet their thoughts were busy all the while.
What passed in the mind of Ellison will hereafter
appear.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We will go back, Clara,” he at length said, breaking
the oppressive stillness of the apartment in which
they sat, and speaking in a voice of affectionate sympathy.
“Forgive me that I thought too much of myself.
I know it must be a hard trial for you—this
separation from all your early associations and most
cherished friends. I hoped to make this visit to the
West one of prosperity to us both. But I have erred,
and a heart-crushing disaster has been the result. I
will atone for this error in the future as best I can.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alfred! Alfred! do not speak so,” said Clara,
lifting her eyes from the floor. Tears were again upon
her cheeks. “All has been done for the best. Do not
think of the past. Do not reproach yourself. We have
still something left, and it is enough, and more than
enough, to sustain us until your own professional efforts
meet with their deserved reward. Let us go to Cincinnati,
or any where else that you may think best.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, Clara, we will return to Philadelphia, and that
immediately. You cannot be happy among strangers
who feel for you no sympathy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can be happy any where with you, Alfred,” replied
the young wife, leaning toward her husband and
looking tenderly in his face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But happier in the old place. We will go back,
Clara.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Forgive my weakness, wont you, dear?” said
Clara, half imploringly. “It was only a weakness,
and it is past now. No, no! we will not return. That
would be painful to you; and I would not be the cause
of your feeling a moment’s pain for the world. I can
be happy any where with you and our precious babe.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Ellison’s resolution had been taken. Back to
Philadelphia he would go, and no where else. Perceiving
how firm he was in this, Clara soon ceased to
oppose her husband. In about two weeks they left
D——, and in a few days afterward were in Philadelphia.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VIII.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>There was a change in Ellison. Clara perceived
it from the moment he avowed his intention to return
to the East. Its meaning she could not tell. For some
time before, a certain coldness, or more properly speaking,
a reserve, had appeared in his manner toward her.
Slight causes, too, had been productive of disturbance.
<span class='pageno' title='204' id='Page_204'></span>
But now he was more tender in his intercourse with
her than he had ever been, and seemed to have scarcely
a thought that did not involve her comfort and happiness.
His affection for their babe appeared every moment
to increase. Clara would often find him looking
at it with a tenderness of expression that was almost
tearful.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On arriving in Philadelphia, Ellison avoided all the
relatives of his wife. He neither received nor returned
the visit of any one of them. Contrary to the expectation
of Clara, he did not take a room for professional
use, nor did he say any thing about resuming his work
as an artist. Immediately on his return, he purchased
stocks to the value of five thousand five hundred dollars,
the certificates for which, with four hundred dollars
in money, he placed in her hands, saying, as he
did so,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have kept five hundred dollars for a particular
purpose.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For about a week he remained nearly the whole
time in the house, yet exhibiting many evidences of a
disturbed and active mind.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One morning, after kissing his wife and the babe that
lay in her arms, with visible emotion, he went away.
Contrary to what had been his custom since their return,
he did not come back during the forenoon, and
was absent at dinner-time. A feeling of uneasiness—a
vague dread of some impending evil—had weighed
upon the mind of Clara ever since he had gone out, and
this now changed into anxiety not unmingled with
alarm. Slowly the afternoon wore away and night
came sadly down. As long as she could see the forms
of passengers in the street, Clara stood at the window,
waiting and watching for her husband. Then she sat
listening for the sound of his entrance below, starting
and hearkening more intently, as one after another
opened and shut the door. But supper-time came, and
he was still away. All night he remained absent.
Oh, what a night that was for Clara! Sleep visited her
not until day-dawn, and then it came with frightful
visions that broke the rest so much needed almost as
soon as sweet oblivion had come upon her senses.
Early in the day a letter was placed in her hands.
She knew the writing to be that of her husband.
Breaking the seal, she read,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My Dear Clara,—I leave you for a time. How
long the time will be, Heaven only knows! What it has
cost me to break away from you and our sweet babe,
no one but myself will ever know. I meant all for the
best; it was to increase your property—not with a
reckless indifference as to consequences—that I made
that ruinous adventure in the West. The failure almost
broke my heart. But I will retrieve the loss. I vowed
to do so when the disaster came; and I mean to fulfill
that vow, if it cost me the labor of a whole life.
Happily, enough is left to keep you and our babe from
want. Bear my absence, if you can, without repining.
Do not think my affection for you has grown cold; it
has but increased in fervor since our marriage, and
absence will make it the more intense. Ah, me!
How do our errors, like seed cast into the ground, reproduce
themselves a hundred fold! I erred at first,
and error has since followed me like a shadow. May
Heaven keep you, my dear wife, until my return. It
is best for me to go away. To be happy under present
circumstances, is impossible. I am crushed to the earth,
and if I remain here, will lie powerless. It may be
a weakness in me to feel as I do; but I did not make
myself, and cannot help it. Oh! how often have I
wished that you had been without a dollar and without
a friend. How tenderly would I have cherished you!
How light would the hardest labor have been, if it but
produced flowers in your pathway! Let me make a
confession. It is wrung from me almost in tears. But
we may never meet again, and I would not have you
misunderstand me, nor feel a doubt, when you think of
me, overshadowing your mind. I loved my art with
a passion that few can understand. But I was poor,
and had to work in my profession for bread, when I
longed to go only in pursuit of the beautiful, and to
labor for the attainment of what was excellent in the
profession I had chosen. How blessed would I have
been with a competence! A few hundred a year
would have filled the measure of my desires. Bread
and water would have sufficed for my natural wants,
could I have breathed under an Italian sky, and lived
among the wonderful creations of those master-spirits
who have made our art immortal. It was thus with
me, when, in an evil hour, a friend suggested a marriage
in which money should be the first consideration.
I threw the suggestion aside with a feeling of indignation.
He re-presented it, drawing at the same time a
picture upon which I could not look without a quickening
pulse. I in Italy, and a loving wife by my side,
sketching and painting amid the perfect works of art
that fill the galleries of every city in that beautiful land.
I looked at the picture, and my heart stirred within
me. Then you were mentioned; but I rejected the
thought of any end in marriage lower than affection
for the person, abstract from all other considerations.
But every time I looked upon you after this came the
dream of Italy; I saw myself there, and you by my
side. It was in this soil that the seeds of affection
were sown; here they took root, and here they grew.
I could not help loving you; but I loved you not, at
first, all for yourself. There was something beyond.
You had the means by which I could attain to a desired
end—but I never thought of attaining it as a consummation
to be enjoyed alone; it was to be shared
with you. In this blindness I sought your hand;
in this blindness we were married, at a time when
my income was scarcely sufficient to meet my own
light expenses. I had, with a feeling that was little
less than an insanity, depended for the future on
the property you were said to possess. But, after
marriage, how like the leaf of a sensitive plant from
the approach of an intruder, did my whole nature
shrink at the thought of touching your money, particularly
as I had no means of my own. I saw my
error when it was too late to retrace my steps. I felt
that I had been mercenary, and that you would perceive
it and despise me. Anxiously did I struggle in
my profession for the means of independence; but I
struggled in vain. Ah, Clara! words can give you no
idea of the humiliation I experienced when necessity
drove me to a confession of my poverty. If I could
<span class='pageno' title='205' id='Page_205'></span>
only erase that impression from my memory! When
your brother so cruelly taunted me, I felt mad with a
wild desire to show him, and every one else, that I
had power to make your property the stepping-stone
to great wealth. How sadly I failed in my purposes I
will not repeat. You know all too well.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Clara! Since our marriage, love for you has been
a daily increasing passion. The more deeply I looked
into your heart, the more I saw to inspire that respect
upon which affection lays its broadest foundations.
And now the parting with you seems as if it would
rend me asunder. But it is necessary for our future
happiness. You have enough left for the support of
yourself and our sweet child. I will return when I
am, as I should have been before our marriage, fully
entitled to the blessing of a loving wife, because able
to support her. Farewell, my dear, dear Clara! Do
not grieve over my absence. Think of me hopefully—pray
for me. I will return. Hide from other eyes
the pain this step must occasion you. Conceal the
apparent desertion for your own sake. Say that I have
gone abroad to perfect myself in my art. I will come
back, for without the light of your presence, I feel that
all around me will lie in shadow. How soon, Heaven
only knows! Farewell! farewell! I write the words
tearfully. Farewell!</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;margin-top:0.5em;'><span class='sc'>Your Husband.</span>”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Ellison was a woman of great self-control and
decision of character. She loved her husband truly,
notwithstanding his conduct since marriage had often
been incomprehensible, and never so open and freely
affectionate as she could have wished. All was now
fully explained. She understood much that had been
covered by doubt. Though the sudden disappearance
of Alfred was a painful shock, yet, in the explanations
he had given, her heart found relief, and she caught, as
she looked along the future, glimpses of a happier
prospect. Though the letter was wet with tears, as
she finished reading it for the third time, and then hid
it in her bosom, yet she was far from being hopeless
and entirely wretched. She could comprehend, to
some extent, the feelings of her husband, and was thus
able to find an excuse for conduct at first sight so extraordinary.
Thus, though smitten almost to the earth
by the desertion and mystery of his absence, she could
yet find many avenues to consolation. If he had only
said where he was going, it would have been a great
relief. But this he had chosen to conceal.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let me be patient and hopeful,” said she, pressing
her hand upon her bosom, as if she would thus still
the flutterings of her stricken heart. And then she
lifted her eyes tearfully upward and prayed for guidance
and strength—prayed also for the absent one who
had made himself a wanderer on the earth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The next great trial of Clara was to meet her friends
and answer for the absence of her husband in such a
way as to conceal the fact of his having gone away
without confiding to her his destination. The utmost
self-control on her part was necessary; and her answers
had all to be in a certain sense evasive. All
this was painful; for it was too evident that none felt
satisfied, and that suspicions against her husband were
created. Thus was the weight she had to bear increased.
But she strung her heart to endurance; and
said, in the silence of her grieving spirit, “I will be
patient and hopeful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Months went by after the departure of Ellison, but
no word from him came to his anxious, long-suffering,
hopeful wife. The sweet bud he had left upon her
bosom gradually opened in the warm sunshine; but
its beauty and fragrance were but half enjoyed because
he was not there to divide the pleasure. In spite of
her efforts to hold fast by her confidence in his return,
the heart of Clara grew weaker every day. Nightly
were her dreams full of her husband; but in visions
she only saw him sick or in danger, and she often
awoke in terror. The color left her cheeks; her face
grew thin and overcast with anxiety. Still the months
went by, but no intelligence from the absent one
came; no ray of light pierced the thick clouds of uncertainty
that veiled her sky.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER IX.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>It was a year since the young artist had deserted his
home and the dear ones who nestled there. Twelve
weary months had passed. He had been in Paris,
Dresden, Rome, Florence, and now he was in Venice;
wasted almost to a shadow; but still he sat with pencil
or pallet in hand, striving to catch the wonderful grace,
or to attain the masterly effect of color that he almost
worshiped in those whose names were synonymous
with all that was grand and beautiful in art. But all
that he had yet achieved was so far below what was
around him, that he was in despair.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He had thrown his brushes and pallet upon the floor,
and was sitting in an attitude of despondency before his
easel, upon which was a half-finished head after Raphael,
when a young English artist, with whom he
had made an acquaintance, entered his studio.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are ill, Marston,” (it was by this name that
Ellison passed in Italy,) said the visiter, in a voice of
concern.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am in despair,” replied Ellison.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“At what?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I cannot paint.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If I could produce flesh like that on the canvas before
you, I would go home to-morrow.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It looks like any thing but flesh to me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come, Marston,” said the other, taking the hand
of the young man, “an hour upon the water will give
your eyes a better vision. But how your hand burns!
And there is a flush in your cheeks. You have fever!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>As the young man spoke, Ellison gathered up his
brushes, and taking his pallet, said, while his eyes
brightened,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There, Liston! stand just in that light.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, I’ll do no such thing,” replied Liston,
moving from his position. “You must paint no more
to-day. If you will not go out and breathe the pure
air, you must go to bed and let me send you a
physician.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m not sick—I’m only in despair.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The friend took him by the arm and tried to force
him away from his easel; as he did so, a deathly paleness
overspread the face of the young artist, and he fell
back insensible. As soon as the first few moments of
<span class='pageno' title='206' id='Page_206'></span>
surprise and confusion had passed, Liston laid the
inanimate body which he had caught in his arms on
the floor, and went for assistance. After various efforts
at restoration had been used by the physician who was
summoned, but without effect, the body of Ellison was
removed to his lodgings, and placed in bed, where it remained
for some hours before a reaction of the exhausted
vital system took place. Liston, who had become
much attached to the young artist for his many
excellent qualities, never left his side until his pulses
again commenced their feeble play, and then only for a
few moments at a time. He was deeply pained to perceive
that the fine intellect of Ellison did not reanimate
as life again flowed along his veins. That had been
overtasked, and was, for the time being, paralyzed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Day after day went by, and the bodily health of
Ellison slowly improved; but his mind continued to
wander. Much to the surprise of Liston, in these
wanderings he often spoke of one to whom he applied
the tenderest name by which man can call a woman,
and said that he would soon return to her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is our dear little Ella living yet?” he asked one
day, looking earnestly at Liston, his large, bright eyes
beaming with affection.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who is Ella?” asked Liston.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The question appeared to react upon his state of
mind. He became grave and silent for some moments.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought Clara was here,” said he, after awhile,
in a more serious voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who is Clara?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This question threw him back again into silence, and
he lay for more than a minute with his eyes closed.
Then he opened them quickly, and glanced around with
eager expectation, half rising as he did so from his
pillow. A sigh quivered through his white lips as he
sunk back, and said, in a sad voice,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought she was here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For some time he lay with closed eyes, and his
hands clasped across his bosom. Then looking up
again, he asked,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hasn’t she come yet? It is time she was here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bending toward the door, he listened attentively.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She must be here soon.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Something has delayed her,” said Liston, falling in
with the humor of the sick man. “Lie down again
and try to sleep. Perhaps she will be here when you
awake.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hark!” said Ellison.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Liston bent his ear for a moment or two. Then the
sound of feet moving along one of the distant passages
was faintly heard.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She is coming!” exclaimed Ellison, in a voice of
exultation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The footsteps approached rapidly. They were at
hand; and then the door flew open and a woman
entered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My husband!” fell from her lips as she sprang
forward and caught Ellison in her arms, who, sobbing
like a child, nestled helplessly, but with the gladness
of a half unconscious babe, upon her bosom.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Liston gazed on this scene in profound amazement.
He expected every moment to see the life-blood again
thrown back upon the heart of his sick friend, and his
eyes closed once more in dark insensibility. But it
was not so. The meeting produced no disastrous
shock.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have been looking for you to come,” said Ellison,
lifting his head from the bosom of his wife, after he
was a little composed, and gazing into her face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A shadow fell upon the countenance of Clara, and
she turned her eyes upon Liston with a look of troubled
inquiry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is true, as he says,” remarked Liston, perceiving
what was in her mind. “He spoke of you, and
said you were coming ere I could hear the sound of
your approaching footsteps.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I heard them,” said Ellison, with a smile that
lit up his whole countenance. “And I knew that you
were here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was now plain to Clara that her husband’s mind
had lost its balance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Has he been sick long?” she asked of Liston.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“His health has not been good for some time,” was
the young man’s reply. “He has tied himself down
in his studio too long, and worked with too intent a
purpose, until he has wasted his body as you see. A
few days ago, nature sank exhausted under burdens
too heavy for her to bear. But your presence and your
care will restore him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And Liston was right in his prediction. Ellison
soon after sank away into a deep slumber, which
lasted for hours. When he awoke, though weak
almost as an infant, he was in his right mind.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER X.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>A week subsequent to Clara’s arrival in Venice,
whither she had come after a month’s search in Paris,
Naples, Florence and Rome, for her husband, she sat
by the bed-side of Alfred, now rapidly recovering,
while Ella, their beautiful child, over a year old, was
sleeping in her arms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know it would have been better, Clara, far
better,” said the invalid, replying to a remark which
his wife had made. “But the disasters of that western
business put me half beside myself. Ah me! how
much happier we would have been if your fortune had
been like my own—nothing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A cloud flitted over the brow of Clara as he made
this last remark. She sighed faintly, and was silent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am weak and foolish on this subject,” said he,
after a few moments. “But you understand why it is
so. The weight of a feather will hurt an inflamed
wound.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Clara looked at her husband half reproachfully, and
then changed the subject.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A year longer Ellison remained in Italy, devoting his
time to study and practice in the higher schools of art,
and then turned his face homeward, taking with him
about twenty pictures, half of which were his own
compositions, and all of a high order of merit.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There is now, in the city of New York, an artist
whose pictures are scarcely dry from the easel ere
they meet with purchasers at a liberal price. His
portraits are among the finest that are produced, and
he is, consequently, never without a sitter. Money
flows in to him by thousands, and from the proceeds
<span class='pageno' title='207' id='Page_207'></span>
of his own work, he has surrounded himself with all
the elegances of life that a man of taste could desire.
That artist is Ellison. Fifteen years have elapsed
since the painful events we have described transpired.
But success has not entirely obliterated the
marks they left behind. To let his mind go back and
linger thoughtfully on the past, is but to throw a
shadow over his spirit. Often, as he looks into the
face of his wife, comes upon him the remembrance
that he sought her, at first, less for herself than for the
external advantages she would bring him, and that
she knows of the mercenary feelings which drew him
to her side.</p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i090.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0005' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>“If she had been poor, like myself,” he often sighs,
as he turns away from some memory of the past,
“there would have been nothing to dim the sunshine
of our happiness; nor, if I had won my way to success
by the force of my own talents, ere I asked to lead her
to the altar. Alas! that the fine gold of affection
should have been dimmed by the base alloy of selfishness!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>That the inflamed spot, fretted into painfulness by
the touch of even a feather, still remains, is evident
from the fact, that he has settled ten thousand dollars
upon his wife, and will not touch a farthing of the income
it yields. By this act he keeps alive in his own
mind, as well as in that of Clara, the memory of things
that should be buried with the mistakes and errors of
the past, and thus robs both her and himself of a portion
of the happiness that is rightfully their due. On
this subject, suffering has made him little less than a
monomaniac; and such he will probably remain while
he lives. How true is it that our motives give quality
to our acts, and mar all the effects that flow from them
if they be stained with selfishness. Most true is this of
marriage. If a base or mercenary end influence us in
entering into this relation, unhappiness must inevitably
follow. A reaction, such as that which occurred in the
case of Ellison, may not take place; but there will
come a reaction of some kind, and that a painful one,
as surely as an effect follows its producing cause.
Thousands around us fail to secure a true union in
marriage, that consummation above all things desired
by the heart, and for no other reason than the one
here assigned. Of all motives from which we act, let
those leading to marriage be freest from alloy. We
may err in other things, and escape without a severe
penalty; but never in marriage. We cannot do violence
to the heart’s best affections without after years
of pain and unavailing repentance.</p>
<hr class='tbk120'/>
<div><h1><a id='secr'></a>THE SECRET.</h1></div>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<div class='stanza-inner'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>I told</span> my wife a secret—</p>
<p class='line0'>  “And did she keep it?” say you.</p>
<p class='line0'>Ah! therein lies the moral, man,</p>
<p class='line0'>  To which give heed, I pray you!</p>
<p class='line0'>She kept it but an hour or two—</p>
<p class='line0'>  She then put on her bonnet,</p>
<p class='line0'>And called upon her Cousin Sue,</p>
<p class='line0'>  That both might comment on it!</p>
<p class='line0'>Alas! ere half the day was o’er,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Most dearly did I rue it!</p>
<p class='line0'>Sue told it to a dozen more,</p>
<p class='line0'>And they to others talked it o’er;</p>
<p class='line0'>I found on coming from my store</p>
<p class='line0'>  That all the village knew it.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
</div>
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<hr class='tbk121'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i093.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0006' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><a id='caption'></a><span class='bold'>PORTRAIT OF GENERAL GREENE.</span></p>
</div>
<hr class='tbk122'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='208' id='Page_208'></span><h1><a id='life'></a>LIFE OF GENERAL <a id='nat'></a>NATHANIEL GREENE.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR Of “HISTORY Of THE KINGS Of FRANCE,” ETC. ETC. ETC.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;margin-bottom:1.5em;font-size:0.9em;'>[SEE ENGRAVING.]</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>In</span> the early part of the seventeenth century a number
of families emigrated to New England and took up
their residence in the colony of Plymouth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Among them was a family of the name of Greene,
from which the subject of this memoir was a lineal
descendant. Not many years after their settlement
there, religious controversies began to wear a serious
aspect, and John Greene becoming involved in them,
determined to remove with his family to the settlement
formed a year before, by Roger Williams, on the
banks of the Providence river. We find the name of
John Greene recorded among the twenty-four original
colonists, who obtained a permanent organization by
the charter of Charles the Second. From that period,
members of this family are frequently mentioned as
holding offices of dignity and trust; one of them was
Governor of Rhode Island during several years of the
revolutionary war.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Nathaniel Greene, a brother of Governor Greene,
and direct in descent from the original emigrant, had
established himself as an anchor-smith near the head
waters of a small stream, which still retains its Indian
name of Potowhommett.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the settlement of this town it was named Warwick,
where the subject of this sketch, and son of the
above Nathaniel Greene, was born, on the 27th of May,
1742.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The first years of his life were almost exclusively
passed in the labors of the farm, for which he was well
adapted by a strong and vigorous constitution. Losing
his mother when he was only ten years of age, his domestic
education more immediately devolved upon his
father, who was a rigid disciplinarian, confining his
son very closely to agricultural pursuits, and a stand at
the anvil. This was continued through the spring and
summer, but at the approach of winter a teacher was
sought to reside in the family to teach the elements of
an English education.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Bible was the only book allowed to be used in
the family of the Quaker preacher, for such was the
rank his father held. But to Nathaniel such an education
was too limited, and therefore unsatisfactory; he
accordingly, as fast as his small savings would permit,
purchased himself a small, but well selected library,
and often spent the whole night, after the family supposed
he had retired to bed, in regular study. An acquaintance
casually formed, at the age of fourteen, with
a young man who happened to be spending his college
vacation at Warwick, first directed his attention to
higher and more absorbing pursuits. It is not for us to
conjecture what passed between Greene and his newly
found friend. But whatever it was, the spark in his
coarse clad bosom soon became ignited, and kindled
into a flame that was never to be quenched.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The next winter another teacher was engaged, better
qualified to direct the first efforts of a mind awakening
to a consciousness of its powers, and with him
he studied mathematics and the classics.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He had now reached his twentieth year, and by patient
industry and unwavering perseverance he had
acquired a certain amount of knowledge, which was a
matter of surprise to his neighbors, having so little
leisure between the mill and the forge. Every penny
of his hard-earned savings was devoted to his library,
and he now possessed many valuable and standard
works which he considered gems of invaluable worth.
His life was regular but methodical, one cup of coffee
in the morning, and one substantial meal in the afternoon
sufficed for each day. His father, as has been
before observed, was a strict disciplinarian, and every
morning strictly laid out the duty which Nathaniel had
to perform before night; this task he was never known
to neglect, but always carried in his pocket some favorite
volume, as a relaxation during the few intervals
of leisure through the day.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It might easily be supposed, that with such strict
habits he would have lost all his original buoyancy of
spirits and love of frolic, but it was the reverse; it appeared
to give a stronger zest to his sports, and no
sooner was his mind relaxed from study or toil, than
he entered at once into some feat of agility or mimic,
in which art he so frequently displayed his skill. In
notes written by his grandson, while consul at Rome,
we find the following amusing anecdote: he says—“His
chief passion was dancing, and that pleasure was
often purchased at the risk of a fall from the window
through which, when the watchful eyes of his father
were closed in sleep, he would steal away to the scenes
that he loved. It happened once, however, that something
had excited his father’s suspicion, and set him
upon the watch. There was a ball in the neighborhood
to which young Greene was invited. The
dance continued until late in the night, and he was
cautiously making his way homeward, when whom
should he see but his father, with horse-whip in hand,
patiently pacing to and fro beneath the window. Retreat
would have been useless, for the door was
locked, and there was no other way of getting into the
house. He knew the inflexible severity of his father
too well to dream of escape, for dancing, of
all misdemeanors, was most heinous in the eyes
of a Quaker, and there was nothing to be done
<span class='pageno' title='209' id='Page_209'></span>
but to submit to his punishment with the best grace he
could.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But, while he made up his mind to take his flogging
patiently, he was resolved to suffer as little from
it as possible; and accordingly, before he presented
himself to the lash, he cautiously thrust under his
clothes three or four shingles, from a pile that chanced
to be lying near him, and then coolly advanced to meet
his father. The reception was just such as he was
prepared for, and the blows fell quick and heavy upon
his corselet of shingles.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Some of his biographers have said that this love of
frolic yielded at last to the rigorous discipline of his
parent, but this is a mistake. Many years after this,
when on a visit to Block Island, to the family of the
lady who subsequently became his wife, dancing and
riding were his chief amusements, and many persons
remember to have seen him in his house at Newport,
after the close of the war, amusing himself by playing
with his wife the old game of poor puss wants a corner.
About this time there was a considerable
change in domestic affairs, his father purchased a new
mill at Coventry, a few miles distant from his home,
and made him the director. For the first time in his
life he felt that he was his own master, and possessing
a small share in the concern, his resources were enlarged,
together with the means of employing them.
His library, which had been but scantily supplied, now
felt the benefit of this change, for it soon reached to between
two and three hundred volumes, which at that
period was considered an extensive affair. He now
began to feel of some importance in the neighborhood
in which he had made his new home. He began also
to take an active part in public affairs, and was soon
the means of establishing the first public school at Coventry,
the result of the interest he took in all that related
to the cultivation of mind. In 1770 he was
elected to the General Assembly of the Colony, and
from his zeal in the general cause, he continued to be
returned for the town of Coventry until sometime after
his appointment to the command of the Southern army.
As a member of the Assembly he was distinguished for
his dispassionate and patient investigation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A portion of a correspondence of this period is still
preserved, which shows how steadily he kept in view
the cultivation and expansion of his mind. In 1769 a
circumstance took place which caused much excitement,
in which Greene took a conspicuous position.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was the burning of the <span class='it'>Gaspee</span> in Providence
river. On this occasion Greene’s bold and unequivocal
expression of his sentiments drew upon him the
suspicions of the royal agents, and it was expected he
would have been summoned before the special tribunal
convened at Newport to trace out and condemn the
destroyers of the Gaspee.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From the exciting events continually occurring
around him, Greene became convinced that the hour
was not far distant when both parties must bring their
differences to the test of the sword, and that nothing
less than the sword could settle them. Being satisfied
on this point, and determined to share in the contest,
he at once commenced qualifying himself for the part he
considered it his duty to take. With his usual energy
he studied the art of war, and as military history had
long been one of his favorite branches, his progress in
this new science was both rapid and sure. He soon
found himself absorbed in the study of Sharp’s Military
Guide, Memoirs of Turenne, Cæsar’s Commentaries
and Plutarch, for these were his text books.
Every day brought fresh news, and the sound of preparation
summoned the farmer from his plough and
the mechanic from his workshop. Companies were
organising in all parts of the country, and a review of
a great number of men already under arms took place
at Plainfield, which was witnessed by Greene with
much enthusiasm and pleasure. This conduct, so entirely
opposed to the rigid doctrines of the broad-brims,
gave great displeasure, and he was summoned before
some of their leading men appointed for the purpose
of remonstrating with him for this open violation of
their rules, and to endeavor to bring him back to that
peaceful doctrine of his ancestors. He received their
remonstrances with respectful silence, but informed
them that it was his intention to persevere in the part
he had embraced.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This of course caused an immediate expulsion from
their society, to which he was never again united.</p>
<p class='pindent'>About this time, another change took place in his
domestic situation. During his frequent visits at the
house of Governor Greene, a lineal descendant of the
founder of the family, he became acquainted with a
young lady of the name of Littlefield, a niece of the
wife of the Governor; and a few visits consummated
the impressions so mutually made at their first interview.
It was during his visits to the young lady at
her house on Block Island where he indulged so freely
his taste for dancing, the more so, perhaps, for having
recently thrown off his Quaker’s garb. On the
20th of July, 1774, he was married at the residence of
the lady’s father on Block Island, and returned to his
home in Coventry to commence the enjoyment of a
married life. But he was not suffered long to enjoy
the repose of domestic life, the political horizon
seemed to grow darker every day, and men were
looking around them for the first burst of the tempest
which they were assured must soon come. In almost
every county or town independent companies
were being raised.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One of these was formed at East Greenwich, under
the name of the Kentish Guards, and Greene was solicited
to become their lieutenant; this however failed,
he not being able to obtain a sufficient number of
votes, and he enrolled himself as a private in the same
company. One of the most serious difficulties which
they had to surmount was a proper supply of arms;
but Greene (whose decision was prompt and decisive)
made a visit to Boston under the pretext of collecting
an old debt for his father, in order to look up and
procure the necessary accoutrements for the company.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There he beheld for the first time an array of armed
men sent from beyond the sea for the subjugation of
his native land.</p>
<p class='pindent'>During his visit he was very punctual in his attendance
on their morning and evening parades, and carefully
noted down every remarkable evolution; at the
<span class='pageno' title='210' id='Page_210'></span>
same time referring to the lessons given in his text
book. Little did the British officers, while glittering
under their scarlet and gold, dream who was looking
on them, or how fatally their lessons would be applied.
It so happened that he fell in company with a deserter,
whom he at once engaged to return with him to Rhode
Island and become drill-master to the guards. This
he considered a signal triumph, and having procured
all he wished in the way of equipments, and bribed a
wagoner to hide both the accoutrements and the new
drill-master under the straw of his wagon, made the
best of their way to Coventry unharmed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was not many weeks after their return, when the
news of the first outbreak was announced to them in
the battle of Lexington. Not a moment was lost, the
drum of the Kentish Guards beat to arms, and they
were soon on their march toward Boston. News having
reached the Governor that they had left for the
seat of war, he sent a peremptory message for their
immediate return, and, strange to say, the whole
company, with the exception of Greene, his brother,
and another, responded to the request and returned to
their homes; these three gallant fellows mounted their
horses and repaired with all haste toward the scene of
action, but before they had completed half their journey
they were met with the welcome tidings of the
retreat of the British, and the triumph of their countrymen.
The first blow being given, retaliation commenced
with vigor; delegates were dispatched in all
directions, calling for assistance in this trying emergency.
The Assembly of Rhode Island voted an army
of one thousand six hundred men. The army was to
receive its officers from the Assembly; and then it was
that Greene’s real position among his colleagues was
felt, by the unanimous voice of that body he was
raised to the rank of major-general. In a few days
his preparations were completed, and in less than one
year from the day of his marriage, he entered upon
that career in which he was to encounter so many
hardships and reap so high a fame. Greene having
attained the age of thirty-three, in the month of May,
1775, assumed the command as major-general of the
Rhode Island troops to the army of the united colonies.
It was well for him that his mind and body had long
been trained to habits of laborious exertion, for he
soon found himself surrounded with cares and anxieties
which no one but a commander of an undisciplined
army can understand. His military knowledge, obtained
by his studies, was now brought into actual
service, and the information gained from the instruction
of the deserted drill-master was of immense importance
to him. Greene was a man who had made
human nature his favorite study, and deep indeed must
have been that disguise which could escape his penetrating
glance. With these important qualities, he
commanded with more than ordinary success, his
opinion was always listened to with deference and a
preference given to his acknowledged military talents.
A gentleman of distinction, who happened to be present
at a court-martial upon which he was sitting a few
weeks after the battle of Bunker’s Hill, was so struck
with the sagacity and pertinence of his remarks, and
the commanding dignity of his aspect, that without
even knowing his name, pronounced him to be a man
of real military genius, and decidedly the ablest member
of the court. In entering seriously upon his military
duties, Greene had firmly resolved to submit to
every sacrifice, and endure every hardship in the fulfillment
of them. The zeal and energy with which he
applied himself in the discipline of his men, caused his
troops to be pronounced, by a member of Washington’s
own staff, as the best disciplined men in the service.
On the 3d of July, General Washington joined
the camp at Boston.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His arrival was hailed with great delight by Greene,
who was anxious that the forces of the country should
be brought together under one common head. In
order to make his sentiments more publicly known, he
welcomed him to the army in the name of his troops;
and the feelings emanating from such relative positions,
led to the formation of that affectionate and confidential
intercourse, which ceased only with life.
The first duty assigned the commander-in-chief, was
to place the army upon the continental establishment,
the officers till now, holding their commissions from
their respective states, were received into the immediate
service of the united colonies.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Some dissatisfaction was felt among the officers, on
account of the changes in rank, but Greene found that
he had no cause for complaint at being required to exchange
the rank of major-general to brigadier, which
was offered him in the name of Congress.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Shortly after the arrival of General Washington, the
command of the left wing had been given to Major-General
Lee, and Greene with his brigade placed
under him. Nearly a year passed away without any
decisive movements on either side, although both
Washington and Greene were anxious to make
the trial. “Out of an army of twenty thousand men,”
says Greene, “it will be hard if we cannot find eight
thousand who will do their duty.” But many of the
officers were of a different opinion, and to their decision
he was obliged to acquiesce. At this time serious
apprehensions were entertained of the small-pox,
which was known to be raging in Boston, and against
which few were guarded by inoculation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>By Greene’s advice, a hospital was established at
Coventry, for the inoculation of the officers; and sending
his family into hired lodgings, he gave up his own
house for the purpose.</p>
<p class='pindent'>During the excitement which this disease caused
among both officers and men, Greene was seized with
a severe attack of jaundice, the first illness he ever
had, probably the consequence of this new mode of
life; and this, too, at a time when many officers and
men were down with the small-pox, and strong reasons
for supposing that an attack would at length be made
upon Boston. “Sick or well,” says he, “I intend to
be there, if I am able to sit on my horse.” But the
attempt was not made; and when, a month after, positive
preparations were making for an assault by water,
to support the movements at Dorchester, a brigade of
four thousand picked men was entrusted to his command.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A sudden tempest frustrated the plans of the British
commander, compelling him to put off the assault
<span class='pageno' title='211' id='Page_211'></span>
which he had meditated upon the right wing of the
American army; and when the storm ceased, it was
too late to attempt it with any chance of success. He,
hastily embarking his troops, evacuated Boston.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Washington now ordered the forces to withdraw
with all speed to New York, where he next expected
to meet the enemy. Greene was ordered to march
with all haste, and take up his quarters at Brooklyn.
He had not reached his destination when he was
seized with a bilious fever, which brought him to the
brink of the grave. This was in the month of August,
and during this severe attack, the battle of Long Island
was fought; when the news reached him and he was
hardly able to raise his head from his pillow, he exclaimed,
“Gracious God! to be confined at such a
time!” From his bed he heard the sound of the cannon,
and received with the keenest anxiety the reports
which were brought to him every half hour of the
progress of the battle. When he was told of the havoc
that had been made in Smallwood’s gallant band, his
favorite regiment, he could no longer restrain his feelings,
but burst into an agony of tears, accompanied by
such severe spasms as to alarm the attendants who
were near him. Well might he mourn over such a
misfortune, for it was very generally believed, that
had he been permitted to have been present, the reverses
of that memorable day would have been
changed. As soon as he was able to mount his horse,
he was again at his post, the duties of which had
been much enlarged by his promotion to the rank of
major-general. The fate of New York was the question
which was now in suspense; and Greene being
stationed at Hærlem, took part in his first battle; for
he had hitherto seen nothing but distant cannonades
and slight skirmishes; in his journal he speaks of it
as one in which he had “fought hard.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>No sooner had this battle taken place than new difficulties
appeared before him; the terms of service of a
large portion of the troops was about to expire, and
no measures taken to supply their places. The only
resource that remained was the militia, and very many
of them had refused to serve, alledging as an excuse
the assurances of peace, liberty and safety which had
been given them by the British. This was a moment
of conflict, and he found that the strong hand of the
soldier must be used to enforce the injunctions of the
law. He instantly ordered down a detachment of his
regulars, to check it in its bud, threatening them, at
the same time, with the rigors of garrison duty in Fort
Lee, as a punishment for their cowardice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Early on the morning of the 18th of November, Lord
Cornwallis crossed the Hudson with a strong body of
the British and Hessians, intending an attack upon Fort
Lee. Greene had four miles to march before he could
reach the river, and Cornwallis but one and a half.
Without losing an instant, he pushed forward with all
his forces to the head of the stream, and drawing them
up in front of Cornwallis, contrived to hold them at
bay until Washington, to whom a courier had been
dispatched, could come up. Then, leaving them under
the guidance of the commander-in-chief, he hastened
back to the fort, and collecting the stragglers and
others, nearly three hundred in all, conveyed them in
safety across the Hackensack River. This manœuvre
was his first encounter with Cornwallis. Now began
the memorable retreat through the Jerseys.</p>
<p class='pindent'>During the whole of this trying period Greene was
by the side of his commander, partaking his cares and
anxieties, and sharing with him that firm and unbending
trust in the ultimate triumph of their cause, which
forms one of the sublimest traits in the character of
Washington.</p>
<p class='pindent'>By rapid and exhausting marches, in a few days,
the hostile armies were ranged, front to front along the
banks of the Delaware.</p>
<p class='pindent'>During this halt was planned the brilliant attack
upon Trenton; in this Greene bore a distinguished
part, and strongly urged the following up of this blow
by an attack upon the other posts of the enemy in
New Jersey. During the winter of 1777, Washington
established his quarters at Morristown. Greene was
stationed with a separate division at Baskingridge;
and through the whole of a long and severe winter,
continual skirmishes took place, which very frequently
were attended with decided advantages to the Americans.
At the approach of spring, General Greene was
dispatched to Philadelphia, to hasten the action of
Congress upon the important subjects submitted for
their decision. After his return, he with General
Knox was sent to examine the passes of the Highlands
on the Hudson, and take measures for their defense.
The winter had thus far passed without much molestation,
and early in May Washington removed from his
quarters at Morristown to a strong station at Middlebrook.
While encamped at this station, an incident
occurred, which was well nigh depriving the army of
some of its bravest officers. The delicate etiquette of
military rank had never been fully understood by the
new and inexperienced Congress; and when a report
reached camp that a gentleman but recently arrived in
the country had been appointed a major-general, with
a commission of an earlier date than their own, it is
not surprising that it should cause Generals Greene,
Sullivan and Knox to declare their intention of resigning
in case the report should be found true; and each
of them addressed the President of Congress to this
effect. Happily the rumor was unfounded; and by it
Congress saw the necessity of a rigorous adherence
to the established laws of promotion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Nearly the whole of the following summer was employed
in short marches and slight skirmishes, till the
10th of September, when they took up their position
on the banks of the Brandywine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Early on the morning following, the British appeared
on the advance, preparing for an attack.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The passage of the ford, near which the chief of the
American forces had been stationed, was manfully defended;
but in the mean time a strong detachment, led
by Howe and Cornwallis, had crossed the river by a
circuitous march, and were rapidly gaining the American
rear. A few minutes sufficed to show how judiciously
this measure had been devised.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After a gallant resistance the Americans were forced
from the field, in spite of all the efforts of their officers
to rally them. Now was the time for Greene to display
his coolness and his energy.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='212' id='Page_212'></span>
Marching along a road which intersected the flight
of the Americans, and the advance of the enemy, he
hurried his men forward with such rapidity that they
marched four miles in forty-nine minutes. Here every
thing was in confusion; ranks broken, troops scattered,
the roads filled with fugitives, rushing forward they
knew not whither, in the wildness of fear, and the
enemy pressing close upon their footsteps with shouts
of exultation. Throwing himself between them and
his flying countrymen, he opened a sharp and well directed
fire from his field-pieces, opening his ranks from
time to time for the fugitives, and closing them the
moment they had passed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Having retreated in this manner for half a mile, until
he came to a narrow defile protected on both sides by
woods, he halted and drew up his men for battle; first
depositing his cannon in a safe place, in case he should
be forced to a hasty retreat. The British soon made
their appearance, flushed with success, and thinking
only of putting the last hand to their victorious conflict;
but a close and destructive fire checked their
pursuit, and compelled them to halt. So well chosen
was Greene’s position, that it could neither be forced
nor turned, and the sight of his fierce eye and firm
countenance seemed to have inspired his men with an
energy like his own. For two hours did he maintain
the unequal conflict, and having wearied the enemy
out, he gave up the contest, and drew off his troops to
rejoin the army at their rallying point.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Howe was now resolved to follow up his success
by another battle, or a stroke at Philadelphia, and advancing
with two columns, was soon once more within
striking distance of the Americans.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This being perceived by Greene, he managed to
frustrate all his designs, till Howe, finding it useless to
continue his skirmishes, made the best of his way to
Philadelphia, where he made his triumphal entry on
the 26th of September. At this time the main body
of the British army were quartered at Germantown;
a portion was in the city, and another part scattered
between the two places. Washington now resolved
on attacking the main army at Germantown, and began
making preparations for that purpose.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Greene was ordered to march at once within the
limits prescribed by Washington, which was done, and
the effect was the sanguine and bloody battle of Germantown,
which historians have so repeatedly described.
Greene’s next orders were to examine the
forts on the Delaware, and then retire to Valley Forge
for winter quarters. It was customary with the generals
when retired to quarters for the winter to receive
their families; shortly after their arrival at Valley
Forge Mrs. Washington joined her husband, and about
the same time Mrs. Greene arrived, and the wives of
other officers hastened to follow the example, and the
cares and gloom of a winter encampment were illumined
for a moment by this transient return of the
sweets of domestic life. It was during this memorable
winter that the intrigues against the commander-in-chief,
commonly known as Conway’s cabal, became
public. These calumnies were traced and ferreted
out by the perseverance of Greene, and when exposed
by him, fell to the ground, like drops from the melting
icicle in the rays of the sun. In a letter to a friend,
before they went to Valley Forge, he writes thus, “I
have no hopes of coming home this winter, the general
will not permit it; Mrs. Greene is coming to camp;
we are all going into log huts; a sweet life after a
most fatiguing campaign.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Time was now approaching for some action, and indications
were observed which led the army to suppose
that the British troops were about to evacuate
Philadelphia. But they were unable to ascertain
whether it was the intention of the enemy to return
overland to New York, or to engage in some more
distant enterprise.</p>
<p class='pindent'>News, however, having arrived, informing them
that the enemy was on the eastern bank of the Delaware,
and that it was his intention to direct his march
through the Jersey’s, the American army was now
hastily put in motion to follow, and after a few minutes
conversation, the orders were issued which ended in
the battle of Monmouth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At this period the department of quartermaster in
the American army was in a very defective and alarming
condition, and required speedy reform.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The commander-in-chief was requested by Congress
to look out for an officer suitably calculated to fill
a post of so much importance. Washington well
knew that if Greene could be convinced that he
could render his country more essential service in the
department of quartermaster than in the field, he would
accept of the appointment. “There is not,” he observed,
“an officer in the army, nor a man in America,
more sincerely attached to the interests of his country
than General Greene; and could he best promote their
interests, in the character of a <span class='it'>corporal</span>, he would
readily exchange the epaulet for the knot.” When
the appointment was offered Greene, he at first declined
it, but on a second conference with the commander-in-chief,
he accepted, on condition that he
should forfeit nothing of his right to command in time
of action.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He entered on the duties of his office on the 22d
March, 1776. Very shortly after receiving his new
appointment, he took a high and distinguished part in
the battle of Monmouth, and followed in a very brilliant
expedition against the enemy in Rhode Island,
under the command of General Sullivan. At the
battle of Monmouth, General Washington, disgusted
with the behaviour of General Lee, deposed him in
the field of battle, and appointed Greene to his command,
which greatly contributed to retrieve the errors
of his predecessor, and to the events of the day.
General Greene had now been more than three years
from home, and during this period the direction of his
affairs had been intrusted to others, over which he had
neither time nor means of control.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His short visit to his home at Coventry was hailed
by his neighbors with affectionate demonstrations of
joy. Even the Society of Friends, who had reluctantly
excluded him from their communion, expressed their
sincere satisfaction at the high position he had attained
in the confidence of his country. One of the Society
of Friends was asked by a young officer, in jest, how
he, who was an advocate for peace, could keep company
<span class='pageno' title='213' id='Page_213'></span>
with General Greene, whose profession was war.
“Friend,” said the Quaker, “ ’Tis true, I do not approve
of this many-colored apparel, but whatever may
be the color of his garments, Nathaniel Greene still
retains the sound head and virtuous heart, which have
gained him the love and esteem of our Society.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>About this time, General Greene was called to perform
one of the most trying and painful duties of his
life. The melancholy affair of Major Andre.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Washington having summoned a court of fourteen
general officers, appointed General Greene to preside.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When summoned before this military tribunal, the
unfortunate officer disclosed without interrogatory,
what bore heaviest on his own life, but studiously
concealed whatever might affect the safety of
others.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His own confessions were conclusive, and no witness
was examined against him. The court were
unanimous that he must suffer death. When the
sentence was communicated to the unhappy man, he
entreated that he might not be compelled to expire on
a gibbet, like a common felon, but that he might be
permitted to close his life by that law generally prescribed
by military usage; and to effect this, he dictated
a letter to General Washington, containing one
of the most affecting and pathetic appeals that ever
fell from mortal pen. The commander-in-chief referred
the subject to his general officers, who, with the
exception of Greene, decided that Andre should be
shot. The following remarks from the president of
the council show his firmness; that no circumstance
whatever could move him where the honor of his
country was involved. “Andre,” said he, “is either
a spy or an innocent man. If the latter, to execute
him in any way will be murder; if the former, the
mode of his death is prescribed by law, and you have
no right to alter it; and at this alarming crisis of our
affairs, the public safety demands a solemn and impressive
example. Nothing can satisfy it short of the
execution of the prisoner as a common spy; a character
of which his own confession has clearly convicted
him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This reasoning was considered conclusive by the
council, and the prisoner suffered as a common spy.
The post at West Point, now vacated by the treachery
of Arnold, was confided to Greene, and by the 8th of
October he was already at his new station on the banks
of the Hudson. He had hardly entered upon his duties,
when General Washington appointed him to the command
of the army in the South.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We now behold an entire change in the situation of
General Greene, and follow him through a southern
campaign, virtually invested with the supreme command
of a large section of the United States. On his
arrival at Charlotte, North Carolina, the head-quarters
of General Gates, and on entering on the duties of his
command, he found himself in a situation fearfully
embarrassing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He found but a handful of men, amounting to about
two thousand, and these principally militia, with but
three days’ provision, and a very short supply of ammunition.
In front lay an enemy treble his number,
proud in victory, and too strong to be encountered.
Before him was a task which he considered hopeless—the
recovery of two States already conquered, and
the protection of a third. He saw the astounding difficulty
he had to encounter—to raise and provide for a
dispirited army in a devastated country, having to
create resources where they did not exist; to operate
with an incompetent force on an extended and broken
line of frontier, and to contend with an enemy superior
in numbers and discipline. To conduct a warfare like
this required a genius of the highest order, combined
with indefatigable skill and industry. In order to prepare
for such a campaign, Greene’s first care was to
provide for his troops subsistence and ammunition.
His next was to draw close the reins of discipline,
which had been shamefully relaxed, and make both
officers and men feel that they had a commander who
knew both his duty and theirs, and was resolved
that both should be performed. He called no councils
of war, studying every question himself, and communicating
his intentions to only two or three of his
officers whom he trusted most. In a letter to General
Hamilton, he says, “If I cannot inspire the army with
confidence and respect by an independent conduct, I
foresee it will be impossible to instill discipline and
order among the troops.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>His next care was to select a position where his
troops could be properly trained to the use of their
arms, and better and more easily supplied with food;
while at the same time it was essential that every step
on his part should be a connecting link in his general
plan of operations. It must be conceded that much of
the moral strength of an army consists in a confidence
in its leader, an attachment to his person, and a spirit
of subordination founded on principle. To such an
extent was this true, that even the common soldiery,
sensible of the superintendence of a superior officer,
confidently predicted a change of fortune. They felt
a solicitude to regain the reputation they lost at Camden
under their late commander, and to signalize their
prowess under the command of their present one. The
main part of the British army was then lying at Winnsborough,
between the Broad River and the Catawba,
with powerful garrisons in their flank and rear, and
Charleston to fall back upon in case of a defeat.
Cornwallis, who was at Charleston, receiving continual
supplies of both men and provisions from New
York, was expected to connect with the part of the
army at Winnsborough, and attack the Americans before
they could be ready to leave the village of Charlotte.
This called for a decided movement of the
American army, and Greene resolved to divide his
forces, sending one portion to act upon the west bank
of the Catawba, to the north of the enemy’s position,
and advancing with the other to the Cheraw hills on
the frontiers of South Carolina. The first dispatch was
about four hundred continentals, under General Morgan,
with Colonel Washington’s corps of dragoons,
and a few militia, amounting in all to six hundred men.
This judicious arrangement, which formed a rallying
point for the friends of independence, both in the East
and West, also facilitated the procuring of provisions
for the troops. General Greene soon began to feel the
good effects of this movement; it enabled him to make
<span class='pageno' title='214' id='Page_214'></span>
the most of his little army by compelling his adversary
to divide his forces, and leaving him at a loss which way
to direct his efforts. By advancing against the American
commander, he would expose his posts at Ninety-Six
and Augusta, or Morgan, hovering upon his flanks or his
rear, might seize the critical moment for aiming a blow
in concert with the main army. Cornwallis, on discovering
the movements of Greene, and finding that
there was no time to be lost, dispatched Colonel Tarlton
with a strong detachment, amounting in horse and foot
to nearly a thousand men, for the protection of Ninety-Six,
with orders to bring General Morgan, if possible,
to battle. With numbers greatly superior to Morgan,
he advanced with a menacing aspect, and compelled
him at first to fall back rapidly. He accordingly continued
for a few days to retire before his adversary,
receiving at every step new accessions of strength from
the inhabitants of the country through which he passed,
alarmed by the presence, and irritated by the cruelty
of the enemy. Relying with confidence on the firmness
of his regulars, and glorying in action, Morgan
halted at the Cowpens, and prepared to give his adversary
battle. Tarlton seized the opportunity, and the
conflict, which was severe and stoutly contested,
ended in a complete victory obtained by the Americans.
Tarlton fled, leaving one hundred and eighty-four men
on the field, and more than five hundred as prisoners
in the hands of the victor. Two field-pieces, eight
hundred muskets, one hundred dragoon-horses, with
a very large supply of tents and ammunition, which
constituted, in the present state of the American army,
one of the most welcome fruits of the victory. This
battle of the Cowpens, although achieved under the
immediate command of Morgan, was the first stroke
of General Greene’s fortunate career at the South.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The disappointment of Cornwallis was severe, for
he had looked with confidence for victory under the
accomplished Tarlton. Still he received the tidings
with serenity, and immediately gave orders for pursuing
the victorious army, whose retreat he yet hoped to cut
off; and in order to prepare for the effort, and free
himself from every thing that could encumber or retard
his march, he ordered that all the baggage at head-quarters
should be committed to the flames.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was done, and the example was followed by
his faithful soldiers with cheerfulness, reserving but a
small supply of clothing for each man, and a few
wagons for the conveyance of hospital stores, ammunition,
and of the sick and wounded. Every thing else
was burned. While these desperate measures were
going on in the British camp, Greene reached Morgan’s
head-quarters on the banks of the Catawba.</p>
<p class='pindent'>To his great mortification, Lord Cornwallis now
perceived that in two of his objects, the destruction of
Morgan’s detachment, and the prevention of its union
with the main division, he was completely frustrated
by the activity of Greene. But he still hoped to cut
off the retreat of the Americans into Virginia, after
their union, and to compel them to action, was still
perhaps practicable; and to the achievement of this
he now directed his undivided energies.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Notwithstanding the vigilance and activity of the
British commander, Greene brought his men in safety
into Virginia, without any loss of either men or ammunition.
Soon after his arrival in Virginia he received
reinforcements, and also effected a junction with a continental
regiment. Upon these accessions, he was
determined on attacking the British commander without
loss of time, and accordingly commenced his march
toward Guildford Court-House, the British then lying
at twelve miles distance. His army had now increased
to four thousand five hundred men, that of the British
about two thousand four hundred. General Greene
arrived at Guildford Court-House on the 14th of March,
and on the morning of the 15th Cornwallis marched to
meet him. He disposed his army in three lines—the
militia of North Carolina were in front; the second
line was composed of those of Virginia; and the third,
which was the flower of the army, was formed of
continental troops, near fifteen hundred in number.
They were posted on a rising ground, a mile and a half
from Guildford Court-House.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The engagement commenced by a brisk cannonade,
after which the British advanced in three columns
and attacked the first line composed of North Carolina
militia. Many of the latter had never been in action
before, and panic-struck, ran away without firing a gun,
or being fired upon, and even before the British had
come near them. The conflict lasted an hour and a
half, and was terminated by General Greene’s ordering
a retreat, when he found the enemy about encircling
his troops.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was a hard fought battle, and the exertions of
the two rival generals, both in preparing for this action
and during the course of it, were never surpassed.
Forgetful of every thing but the fortune of the day,
they on several occasions, mingled in the danger like
common soldiers. The Americans lost in this battle
about 400; several of the number were officers of distinction.
The result of this conflict, though literally a
defeat, was eventually a victory; for on the part of
General Greene it will be seen that it placed him on
higher ground toward his adversary than he had previously
occupied. Believing that Lord Cornwallis
would follow him, he kept retreating slowly until he
had gained an advantageous position, where he could
renew the contest whenever his adversary came in
view. But Cornwallis, not being in a condition to
pursue, commenced his retreat, leaving behind him
about seventy of his wounded, whom he recommended,
in a handsome letter, written by himself, to the humanity
and attention of the American commander.
Had General Greene been in a situation to have pursued
his lordship, the destruction of that officer and
his army would have been inevitable; and Carolina
would have witnessed that momentous event which
was reserved for Virginia. But the exhaustion of
General Greene’s military stores, suspended his movements
till he had received a supply.</p>
<p class='pindent'>These having arrived, he immediately pursued the
enemy; but the advanced position of Lord Cornwallis,
and the bad state of the roads, determined him to
halt, in order to indulge his troops with that repose
which they so much needed. Having abandoned the
pursuit of the enemy, General Greene found himself
encircled with new difficulties. Of that part of the
<span class='pageno' title='215' id='Page_215'></span>
Union over which General Greene’s command extended,
the enemy was in force in three large and important
sections. South Carolina and Georgia being
entirely in possession of the enemy, and Cornwallis
had taken post in the maritime district of North Carolina,
and part of Virginia was occupied by a powerful
detachment of British troops, under the command of
General Phillips. Greene, under all these difficulties,
was at a loss to determine in which of these points he
should act in person, and on consulting with officers,
he found them greatly divided in opinion. He accordingly
decided to penetrate South Carolina, and
after dividing his army into two columns, attack and
harass the enemy at their different posts, without permitting
them to concentrate their forces, and thus recover
that rich and important member of the Union.</p>
<p class='pindent'>General Greene commenced his march South, and
arrived at Hobkirk’s Hill, in front of Camden, the
head-quarters of Lord Rawdon, then the commander-in-chief
of the British forces in that section. In order
to prevent supplies from being brought in, and to take
advantage of such favorable circumstances as might
occur, he encamped at about a mile from the town.
Lord Rawdon’s situation was extremely delicate.
His supplies also were very precarious; and should
General Greene’s reinforcements arrive, which were
hourly expected, he might be so closely invested as to
be at length obliged to surrender. In this dilemma,
the only expedient that presented itself, appeared to
be a bold attack; for which purpose he armed every
person with him capable of carrying a musket, not excepting
even his musicians. On the 25th of April he
made the attack upon General Greene in his camp.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The defense was obstinate, and for some time appeared
to be in favor of America. At one time Lieut.
Colonel Washington, who commanded the cavalry,
had not less than two hundred British prisoners.</p>
<p class='pindent'>However, by the inadvertence of one of the American
regiments, victory was snatched from General
Greene, who was compelled to retreat, with a loss of
about two hundred killed, wounded, and prisoners.
The British general lost about two hundred and fifty-eight.
The evacuation of Camden, with the vigilance
of General Greene, and the several officers under him,
gave entirely a new complexion to affairs in South
Carolina, where the British ascendency declined more
rapidly than it had been established.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Nearly every fort, with the exception of fort Ninety-Six,
garrisoned by the enemy, with military stores and
artillery, fell into the hands of the Americans.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The next attempt was the siege of Ninety-Six, but
which proved unsuccessful, and Greene was obliged
to retreat over the Saluda. Lord Rawdon now prepared
to evacuate the garrison of Ninety-Six, and return
to Charleston; and General Greene became in reality
the pursuing party, exceedingly anxious to bring the
enemy to battle. But this did not take place till September;
the British at that time were posted at Eutaw
Springs, where General Greene, who had assembled
about two thousand men, prepared to follow and attack
them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The American force was drawn up in two lines;
the first, composed of Carolina militia, was commanded
by Generals Marion and Pickens, and Colonel
de Malmedy. The second, which consisted of continental
troops from North Carolina, Virginia and
Maryland, was commanded by General Sumpter, Lieutenant-Colonel
Campbell, and Colonel Williams. As
the Americans approached toward an attack, they fell
in with some advanced parties of the enemy, at about
three miles ahead of the main body.</p>
<p class='pindent'>These being driven back, the action soon became
general. In the very heat of the engagement General
Greene ordered the Maryland and Virginia continentals
to charge with trailed arms. This decided the fate of
the day. “Nothing,” says Dr. Ramsay, “could surpass
the intrepidity of both officers and men on this
occasion. They rushed on in good order through a
heavy cannonade, and a shower of musketry, with
such unshaken resolution that they bore down all before
them.” The British were broken, closely pursued,
and upward of eleven hundred of them killed and
taken prisoners; the loss of the Americans was about
five hundred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Judge Johnson, in his life of General Greene, says—“At
the battle of the Eutaw Springs, Greene says,
that hundreds of my men were naked as they were
born. Posterity will scarcely believe that the bare
loins of many brave men who carried death into the
enemy’s ranks at the Eutaw, were galled by their
cartouche-boxes, while a folded rag or a tuft of moss
protected the shoulders from sustaining the same injury
from the musket. Men of other times will inquire
by what magic was the army kept together? By
what supernatural power was it made to fight?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>General Greene in his letter to the Secretary of
War says—“We have three hundred men without
arms, and more than one thousand so naked that they
can be put on duty only in cases of a desperate nature.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Again he says—“Our difficulties are so numerous,
and our wants so pressing, that I have not a moment’s
relief from the most painful anxieties. I have more
embarrassment than it is proper to disclose to the
world. Let it suffice to say that this part of the United
States has had a narrow escape. <span class='it'>I have been seven
months in the field without taking off my clothes.</span>”
Such then was the issue of the battle of Eutaw, and
the last essay in arms in which it was the fortune of
General Greene to command.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The surrender of Cornwallis at the battle of Yorktown
soon followed, and the happy moment arrived
when by the virtue and bravery of her sons, America,
aided by the bounty of Heaven, compelled her invaders
to acknowledge her independence; her armies
quitted the tented field, and retired to cultivate the
arts of peace and happiness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>General Greene now returned to his native state,
where he remained two years in the adjustment of his
private affairs, and in October, 1785, settled with his
family on his estate near Savannah, Georgia. The
three Southern States, South Carolina, North Carolina
and Georgia, who had been most essentially benefited
by his valor and services, manifested their sense of
justice and gratitude by liberal donations. South
Carolina presented to General Greene an estate valued
at ten thousand pounds sterling. Georgia, with an
<span class='pageno' title='216' id='Page_216'></span>
estate, a few miles from Savannah, worth five thousand
pounds; and North Carolina, with twenty-five
thousand acres of land in the State of Tennessee. In
writing from his new home, he speaks of his plantation
with a kind of buoyant joy, which is constantly
breaking out in gay and cheerful expressions; of his
garden, and his flowers, the mocking-birds that sing
around him morning and evening, and the mild and
balmy atmosphere, with the same interest with which
he would once have spoken of his troops, of their
bravery and their discipline. But this felicity was to
be of short duration. On Monday, the 12th of June,
1786, he went down to Savannah with his wife, and
on their return the following day they paid a visit to
an old friend, at whose house he was seized with an
inflammation of the brain, which caused him to sink
into a torpor, from which he never again was roused;
he expired on Monday the 19th of June. The melancholy
tidings soon reached Savannah, calling forth the
strongest expressions of public grief. They had known
him first as the champion of the South, in the hour of
her greatest need, then as a fellow citizen, kind-hearted
and benevolent, endearing himself to all by his social
and civil virtues; and now, in the prime of manhood,
he was suddenly snatched away, and a grave was all
they could give him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the following day the body of the deceased was
conveyed to Savannah, and at the request of the inhabitants,
was interred in a private cemetery with military
honors.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the 12th of August of the year in which General
Greene died, the Congress of the United States unanimously
resolved—“That a monument be erected to the
memory of the honorable Nathaniel Greene, at the
seat of the federal government, with the following inscription —</p>
<div class='lgc' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'>SACRED</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.8em;'>TO THE</p>
<p class='line'>MEMORY</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.8em;'>OF THE</p>
<p class='line'>HON. NATHANIEL GREENE,</p>
<p class='line'>who departed this life</p>
<p class='line'>the 19th of June, 1786.</p>
<p class='line'>Late <span class='sc'>Major-General</span></p>
<p class='line'>in the service of the United States,</p>
<p class='line'>and commander of the army in the</p>
<p class='line'>Southern Department.</p>
<p class='line'>The United States in Congress assembled</p>
<p class='line'>in honor of</p>
<p class='line'>his patriotism, valor and ability,</p>
<p class='line'>have erected this</p>
<p class='line'>monument.”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>His relative and biographer very appropriately remarks—“More
than sixty years have elapsed since
the body of Greene was consigned to the tomb; and
thus far, a medal for the Eutaws, two pieces of cannon
for his general services, and a vote for a monument,
<span class='it'>which has never been erected</span>, are the only tributes
which the general government has ever paid to his
memory. The spot in which his ashes repose has
long been forgotten, and the chances of the preservation
of the simple silver slab on which his name was
engraved, are the only hopes which remain of ever
distinguishing his bones from those, which during this
long interval, have silently mouldered by their side.
Not a statue, not a bust, not a portrait of him, adorns
the halls of our national councils; and of the many
objects of interest which command the admiration of
the stranger at the seat of government, there is not one
which recalls his memory.” General Greene had
just completed his forty-fourth year, when he was thus
suddenly taken from his friends and his country.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Of all those who had distinguished themselves during
the war of the Revolution, he was, next to Washington,
the one who will ever hold the highest place
in public esteem; and few men, if any, have ever built
themselves a name upon purer or more durable foundations.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From the governor to the humble citizen, General
Greene was regarded as the object of every eye, the
praise of every tongue, he closed a life of deep, pure,
devoted patriotism to his country, and love and good-will
to all mankind.</p>
<hr class='tbk123'/>
<div><h1><a id='dying'></a>THE DYING STUDENT.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY D. ELLEN GOODMAN.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>I feel</span> the fever’s hot breath flashing</p>
<p class='line0'>  In deep and deadly strife,</p>
<p class='line0'>From my pale, parched lips slowly dashing</p>
<p class='line0'>  The golden cup of life!</p>
<p class='line0'>Disease, with cold and icy fingers,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Now creeps about my heart,</p>
<p class='line0'>And Death but for a moment lingers,</p>
<p class='line0'>  To snap its chords apart!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>My heavy pulse is weaker growing;</p>
<p class='line0'>  Life’s lamp burns feebly now,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the long locks are darkly flowing</p>
<p class='line0'>  Upon my damp, cold brow.</p>
<p class='line0'>I hear a voice, low, faint and broken,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Falling upon my heart;</p>
<p class='line0'>Its tones in solemn awe have spoken</p>
<p class='line0'>  That I must soon depart.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And must my wild dreams coldly perish,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And wither in the dust!</p>
<p class='line0'>The golden hopes I fondly cherish—</p>
<p class='line0'>  My earthly joy and trust!</p>
<p class='line0'>The schemes my soul has long been forming,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Just bursting into light,</p>
<p class='line0'>And tones of love my fond heart warming,</p>
<p class='line0'>  All—<span class='it'>all</span> be quenched in night!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Full many a bud of hope was wreathing</p>
<p class='line0'>  About my thornless path,</p>
<p class='line0'>In mellow tones of music breathing</p>
<p class='line0'>  Of all but blight and death;</p>
<p class='line0'>I had not thought to see them fading</p>
<p class='line0'>  And dying at their birth—</p>
<p class='line0'>To view this cloud of darkness shading</p>
<p class='line0'>  The beautiful of earth.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Oh, there were softest whispers telling</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='pageno' title='217' id='Page_217'></span></p>
<p class='line0'>  Of greatness and of fame;</p>
<p class='line0'>Of rapture in the bosom swelling,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And of an honored name;</p>
<p class='line0'>And how the knee of genius bending,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Should own a deeper sway,</p>
<p class='line0'>And shouts of joy the blue skies rending,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Bear higher deeds away.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And there were gentle voices finding</p>
<p class='line0'>  A way to my deep soul,</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='it'>Love’s</span> own sweet angel softly binding</p>
<p class='line0'>  My heart to her control;</p>
<p class='line0'>And in my dreams of fame and glory,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Beamed ever her meek eyes,</p>
<p class='line0'>Telling a fond and pleasant story</p>
<p class='line0'>  Of mingled smiles and sighs.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>That tone—’twas music, ever hushing</p>
<p class='line0'>  My panting heart to rest—</p>
<p class='line0'>And glorious dreams like sunlight gushing,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thrilled through my peaceful breast,</p>
<p class='line0'>Those dreams like summer buds have faded,</p>
<p class='line0'>  That tone hath died away,</p>
<p class='line0'>Death’s cloud my beaming skies hath shaded,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And quenched the light of day.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I lay me down, faint, lone, and weary,</p>
<p class='line0'>  No hand upon my brow;</p>
<p class='line0'>Through the dark valley, cold and dreary,</p>
<p class='line0'>  No voice to cheer me now.</p>
<p class='line0'>My life has been a dream; in vain</p>
<p class='line0'>  Have soft eyes shed their light;</p>
<p class='line0'>Frail phantoms of a fevered brain—</p>
<p class='line0'>  Their ray has sunk in night.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And thus, when earthly trust hath perished,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And earthly joy hath fled—</p>
<p class='line0'>When hopes my fond heart loved and cherished</p>
<p class='line0'>  Are lying with the dead—</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh! may there not in yonder heaven</p>
<p class='line0'>  Be for my brow a wreath,</p>
<p class='line0'>Whose fadeless flowers shall ne’er be riven</p>
<p class='line0'>  By the rude hand of Death!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Father above, wilt thou now hearken</p>
<p class='line0'>  Unto my feeble cry—</p>
<p class='line0'>Dispel the mists that coldly darken</p>
<p class='line0'>  And dim my failing eye?</p>
<p class='line0'>I bless thee—for the cloud hath parted</p>
<p class='line0'>  That hid thy glorious face;</p>
<p class='line0'>Joyful and glad, yet humble-hearted,</p>
<p class='line0'>  I sink in thine embrace.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk124'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i116.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0007' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:x-small'><span class='it'>G. CATTERMOLE. H. ROSS</span></span><br/></p> <br/><span class='bold'>A DANGEROUS STUDENT.</span><br/><span style='font-size:smaller'>Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.</span>
</div>
<hr class='tbk125'/>
<div><h1><a id='toin'></a>TO —— IN ABSENCE.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY GRACE GREENWOOD.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>When</span> first we met, beloved, rememberest thou</p>
<p class='line0'>  How all my nature was athirst and faint?</p>
<p class='line0'>My soul’s high powers lay wasting still and slow,</p>
<p class='line0'>  While my sad heart sighed forth its ceaseless plaint.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>For frowning pride life’s summer waves did lock</p>
<p class='line0'>  Away from light, their restless murmuring hushed —</p>
<p class='line0'>But thou didst smite the cold, defying rock,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And full and fast the living waters gushed!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<div class='stanza-inner'>
<p class='line0'>Oh, what a summer glory life put on!</p>
<p class='line0'>  What morning freshness those swift waters gave</p>
<p class='line0'>That leaped from darkness forth into the sun,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And mirrored heaven in every smallest wave!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;'>  . . . . . . . . .</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The cloud that darkened long our sky of love,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And flung a shadow o’er life’s Eden bloom,</p>
<p class='line0'>Hath deepened into night, around, above —</p>
<p class='line0'>  But night beneficent and void of gloom.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The dews of peace and faith’s sweet quiet bringing,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And memory’s starlight, as joy’s sunlight fades,</p>
<p class='line0'>While, like the nightingale’s melodious singing,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The voice of Hope steals out amid the shades.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Now it hath come and gone, the shadowed day,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The time of farewells that beheld us part,</p>
<p class='line0'>I miss thy presence from my side alway —</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thy smile’s sweet comfort raining on my heart.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Yes, we are parted. Now I call thy name,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And listen long, but no dear voice replies;</p>
<p class='line0'>I miss thine earnest praise, thy gentle blame,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And the mute blessing of thy loving eyes.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Yet no, <span class='it'>not parted</span>. Still in life and power</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thy spirit cometh over wild and wave,</p>
<p class='line0'>Is ever near me in the trial-hour,</p>
<p class='line0'>  A ready help, a presence strong and brave.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Thy love breathes o’er me in the winds of heaven —</p>
<p class='line0'>  Floats to me on the tides of morning light —</p>
<p class='line0'>Descends upon me in the calms of even,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And fills with music all the dreamy night.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>It falleth as a robe of pride around me,</p>
<p class='line0'>  A royal vesture, rich with purple gleams —</p>
<p class='line0'>It is the glory wherewith life hath crowned me,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The large fulfillment of my soul’s long dreams!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>It is a paean drowning notes of sadness —</p>
<p class='line0'>  It is a great light shutting out all gloom —</p>
<p class='line0'>It is a fountain of perpetual gladness —</p>
<p class='line0'>  It is a garden of perpetual bloom.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But to <span class='it'>thy</span> nature pride and power belong,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And death-defying courage; what to thee,</p>
<p class='line0'>With thy great life, thy spirit high and strong,</p>
<p class='line0'>  May my one love in all its fullness be?</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>An inward joy, sharp e’en to pain, yet dear</p>
<p class='line0'>  As thy soul’s life—a warmth, a light serene,</p>
<p class='line0'>A low, deep, voice which none save thou may hear —</p>
<p class='line0'>  A living presence, constant, though unseen.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Yet shalt thou fold it closer to thy breast,</p>
<p class='line0'>  In the dark days, when other loves depart —</p>
<p class='line0'>And when thou liest down for the long rest,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Then, oh, beloved, ’twill sleep upon thy heart!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk126'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='218' id='Page_218'></span><h1><a id='wild'></a>WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY PROFESSOR FROST.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i119.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0008' style='width:90%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>THE QUA BIRD.</span> (<span class='it'>Ardea Nycticorax.</span> <span class='sc'>Wilson.</span>)</p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>This</span> bird, otherwise known as the Night Heron,
and the Rail, is found both in Europe and America.
Its habits are somewhat different on the two continents,
but the American bird may be safely considered
as the type of the species. It is called Qua Bird on
account of the rough guttural sound, <span class='it'>qua, qua</span>, which
it utters while seeking its prey; and by some, Night
Heron, from the circumstance of seeking its prey at
night. During the day the Qua Birds perch in silence
on high trees, and it seems probable that their eye cannot
sustain the rays of the sun. But at night few birds are
more active or enterprising. They are generally found
in flocks, in the vicinity of deep swamps, or marshy
woods, partially submerged by water. From these
places troops of Qua Birds issue at twilight, and scatter
themselves along ditches and by the river shore,
to search for food. “On entering the swamp,” says
Wilson, “in the neighborhood of one of these breeding
places, the noise of the old and the young would
almost induce one to suppose that two or three hundred
Indians were choking or throttling each other.
The instant an intruder is discovered, the whole rise
in the air in silence, and remove to the tops of the
trees in another part of the woods, while parties of
from eight to ten make occasional circuits over the
spot, to see what is going on. When the young are
able they climb to the highest part of the trees, but,
knowing their inability, do not attempt to fly. Though
it is probable that these nocturnal birds do not see well
during the day, yet their faculty of hearing must be
exquisite, as it is almost impossible, with all the precautions
one can use, to penetrate near their residence
without being discovered. Several species of hawks
hover around, making an occasional sweep among the
young; and the Bald-Eagle himself has been seen reconnoitering
near the spot, probably with the same
design.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Until recently the young of this bird was considered
as the female. The close observations of Wilson detected
the error; and his dissections proved that the
male and the female were so similar in external appearance
as to be distinguished only by a practiced
eye. The length of the full grown bird is two feet
four inches; extent of the wings four feet; the bill
four inches and a quarter long from the corners of the
mouth to the tip. The general color of the under plumage
is white, tinged with cream; the wings are ash;
and the back a glossy blue, inclining to green. From
the hinder part of the head flows three long tapering
feathers, about nine inches long, and so united, when
the bird is quiet, as to appear but one. When alarmed
or angry, the Qua Bird erects these singular appendages,
which then give it a strange and threatening appearance.
The eye of the species is noted for its
beauty, the pupil being black and the iris blood-red.
The young of the first year differs both in color and
shape from the parent bird. Their food is composed
of small fish, which the birds labor for with great industry
at night.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Qua Bird extends over a large portion of North
America. It arrives in Pennsylvania about the beginning
of April; and invariably chooses each season
<span class='pageno' title='219' id='Page_219'></span>
the building place occupied the season before. If that
place has been disturbed by the advances of cultivation,
the bird chooses a similar spot as near to it as
possible; although instances have occurred, that,
when persecuted by man, or teased by other birds, the
Qua flock have departed in a body, for parts unknown.
The eggs are four in number, of a pale blue color.
This bird is found in India; but it is smaller than the
American variety, and builds on the ground among
reeds. The European bird is smaller than the Indian,
but closely resembles it in other respects. It is,
however, undoubtedly the same species as that which
we have described.</p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i122.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0009' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>THE ROSEATE SPOON-BILL.</span> (<span class='it'>Platalea Ajaja.</span> <span class='sc'>Wilson.</span>)</p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The group to which this bird belongs, form a connecting
link between the Herons and the Tantali, and
receive their name from the singular shape of the bill.
Like the Herons, they live in flocks, preying in the
twilight upon fish and aquatic animals. They are
said to search the mud with their bills, in the manner
of ducks, straining out the insects and other small animals,
upon which they feed when nothing better can
be obtained. The European Spoon-bills breed on
trees by the sea-side, and sometimes take their prey
from other birds. At such seasons they are very
noisy, and will often attack birds larger than themselves.
They are sometimes tamed, and their flesh is
esteemed equal to that of the goose.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Of the habits of the species under consideration not
much is known. It is found along the seashore from
Brazil to Carolina, and has been seen in the northern
parts of Louisiana. It is not very common, however,
in any of the Southern States, but is frequently seen
in Mexico and the West Indies. It is generally in the
water, sometimes swimming about gracefully, at others
diving and then searching for its prey. This consists of
insects, fish, shell-fish and small crabs. Wilson gives
the following account of a specimen, which he received
from a friend, and which had been shot in the neighborhood
of Natchez.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Roseate Spoon-bill now before us measured
two feet six inches in length, and near four feet in extent;
the bill was six inches and a half long from the
corner of the mouth, seven from its upper base, two
inches over at its greatest width, and three-quarters of
an inch where narrowest; of a black color for half its
length, and covered with hard, scaly protuberances,
like the edges of oyster-shells; these are of a whitish
tint, stained with red; the nostrils are oblong, and
placed in the centre of the upper mandible; from the
lower end of each there runs a deep groove along each
side of the mandible, and about a quarter of an inch
from its edge; whole crown and chin bare of plumage,
and covered with a greenish skin; that below the
under mandible dilatable, like those of the genus Pelicanus;
space round the eye, orange; irides, blood-red;
cheeks and hind head, a bare black skin; neck,
long, covered with short white feathers, some of
which, on the upper part of the neck, are tipped with
crimson; breast, white, the sides of which are tinged
with a brown, burnt color; from the upper part of the
breast proceeds a long tuft of fine, hair-like plumage,
of a pale rose color; back, white, slightly tinged with
brownish; wings, a pale wild rose color, the shafts
lake; the shoulders of the wings are covered with a
long, hairy plumage, of a deep and splendid carmine;
<span class='pageno' title='220' id='Page_220'></span>
upper and lower tail coverts, the same rich red; belly,
rosy; rump, paler; tail, equal at the end, consisting of
twelve feathers of a bright brownish orange, the
shafts reddish; legs and naked part of the thighs, dark
dusky red; feet, half webbed; toes, very long, particularly
the hind one. The upper part of the neck
had the plumage partly worn away, as if occasioned
by resting it on the back, in the manner of the Ibis.
The skin on the crown is a little wrinkled; the inside
of the wing a much richer red than the outer.”</p>
<hr class='tbk127'/>
<div><h1><a id='glean'></a>MEMORY—THE GLEANER.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY ANSON G. CHESTER, A. B.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>The</span> harvest-field of Boaz. Like a host</p>
<p class='line0'>Drawn up for battle stands its yellow grain,</p>
<p class='line0'>Rustling its own sweet music. Brawny men</p>
<p class='line0'>Are there to steal its beauty—and the noise</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the keen sickle blends with random songs.</p>
<p class='line0'>Close on their track the agile binders haste</p>
<p class='line0'>To form the lately fallen grain in sheaves,</p>
<p class='line0'>Which throng the field with golden monuments</p>
<p class='line0'>To Industry and Labor.</p>
<p class='line0'>                     Glance again —</p>
<p class='line0'>Woman upon the field, the sweet and frail!</p>
<p class='line0'>Like a young lily in a waste of thorns,</p>
<p class='line0'>So she among the workmen. See! she bends —</p>
<p class='line0'>And with a graceful, stainless hand collects</p>
<p class='line0'>The single stalks that else would perish there.</p>
<p class='line0'>’Tis gentle Ruth, the meek and beautiful,</p>
<p class='line0'>Around whose name are wreathed the rarest flowers</p>
<p class='line0'>Of generous remembrance—whom, though years</p>
<p class='line0'>Counted by centuries have come and gone,</p>
<p class='line0'>Woman delights to love and man to praise.</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh! who can gaze upon her slender form,</p>
<p class='line0'>Intent upon its labor, or can catch</p>
<p class='line0'>The mild expression of her lovely face,</p>
<p class='line0'>Nor feel his veins thrill deeper! Filial Ruth!</p>
<p class='line0'>While that blest page endures that chronicles</p>
<p class='line0'>Thy winning history for after times,</p>
<p class='line0'>Love shall embalm thy name in benisons,</p>
<p class='line0'>And hearts shall be thy home!</p>
<p class='line0'>                           Another scene —</p>
<p class='line0'>Behold before thine eye a mightier field —</p>
<p class='line0'>Th’ unmeasured, the illimitable Past!</p>
<p class='line0'>Yonder, well-busied with her ceaseless toil,</p>
<p class='line0'>Lo! <span class='sc'>Memory—The Gleaner.</span> Not like her,</p>
<p class='line0'>The gentle Moabitess, laboring for love,</p>
<p class='line0'>But as another Nemesis in look and work.</p>
<p class='line0'>One gleaned to succor life—affection led</p>
<p class='line0'>Her footsteps to the field and cheered her toil —</p>
<p class='line0'>The other gleans for justice—hoarding up</p>
<p class='line0'>A store of testimony in her garner-place,</p>
<p class='line0'>For judgment and for Heaven. Pause awhile —</p>
<p class='line0'>View her vocation and its circumstance —</p>
<p class='line0'>Give wing to Thought—expand Reflection’s sails —</p>
<p class='line0'>And thy salvation may be thy reward.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<div class='stanza-inner'>
<p class='line0'>She stretcheth forth her hand and gleaneth. Day</p>
<p class='line0'>And cheerless night are each to her the same;</p>
<p class='line0'>A stranger to vicissitude and change,</p>
<p class='line0'>She gathers up material for Heaven.</p>
<p class='line0'>Mark what is in her grasp—lo! thrifty tares,</p>
<p class='line0'>Old, unrepented sins thou hast forgotten —</p>
<p class='line0'>And thistles, too, thine unforgiven wrongs —</p>
<p class='line0'>And worthless weeds, thy lost and squandered hours —</p>
<p class='line0'>And flowers, thy deeds of common charity,</p>
<p class='line0'>Which Pity’s ardent hot-bed forced to shoot,</p>
<p class='line0'>Not Duty’s tardy but unerring soil —</p>
<p class='line0'>Life’s sweet embellishments, which make it fair,</p>
<p class='line0'>Yet have no signal claim to merit—these</p>
<p class='line0'>Were but unwelcome witnesses when thou</p>
<p class='line0'>Art summoned for thy last account to meet</p>
<p class='line0'>With thine accuser, Memory—and these,</p>
<p class='line0'>If these were <span class='it'>all</span> to testify of thee,</p>
<p class='line0'>Would seal thy doom with rayless misery:</p>
<p class='line0'>It is alone the rich, ripe, perfect grain</p>
<p class='line0'>Of Goodness and of Virtue that can win</p>
<p class='line0'>For thee the taintless wealth of Paradise.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;'>. . . . . . . . .</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<div class='stanza-inner'>
<p class='line0'>Our lives are what we make them—human will</p>
<p class='line0'>Moulds human destiny—spirits on earth</p>
<p class='line0'>But leave and bud, the blossom is the Future’s —</p>
<p class='line0'>Earth, like a cunning sculptor, fashioneth</p>
<p class='line0'>The form and features of Eternity.</p>
<p class='line0'>Like Jacob’s dream-known angels we can rise</p>
<p class='line0'>Upon “celestial stairs” to his and their fruition —</p>
<p class='line0'>Or, like to him who burned and glowed in Heaven,</p>
<p class='line0'>Be quenched amid the mists of endless night.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;'>. . . . . . . . .</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>As thou shalt sow, man-brother, she shall glean —</p>
<p class='line0'>Like maketh like—the seed thou scatterest</p>
<p class='line0'>Into Life’s furrows shall produce its kind</p>
<p class='line0'>In generous abundance. Oh! reflect</p>
<p class='line0'>That thou art sowing for Eternity—that this</p>
<p class='line0'>Thine earthly labor shall be known on high:</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='it'>For as thou sowest, Memory will glean—</span></p>
<p class='line0'><span class='it'>And as she gleans so shall thy portion be</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Her store-house shall be opened—from its depths</p>
<p class='line0'>Her treasured evidence shall be produced,</p>
<p class='line0'>Hoary with years, yet firm and forcible.</p>
<p class='line0'>All else is worthless—but, if thou hast left</p>
<p class='line0'>Upon thy pathway pure and sterling grain,</p>
<p class='line0'>And Memory’s hand has gathered it for thee,</p>
<p class='line0'>Then shalt thou tread the golden streets of Heaven,</p>
<p class='line0'>And thy clear brow shall wear a seraph’s crown.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Scatter, oh! scatter on thine earthly way</p>
<p class='line0'>The perfect seed of Goodness, Truth and Love:</p>
<p class='line0'>That, when thou meetest Memory on high,</p>
<p class='line0'>Bearing the tokens of thy life’s employ,</p>
<p class='line0'>Thou shalt embrace her as an olden friend: —</p>
<p class='line0'>And, counted with the angels, shalt remain</p>
<p class='line0'>In the eternal childhood of the skies.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk128'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i127.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0010' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>COME REST IN THIS BOSOM.</span></p>
</div>
<hr class='tbk129'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='221' id='Page_221'></span><h1><a id='gems'></a>GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>NO. III.—COME REST IN THIS BOSOM.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;margin-bottom:1.5em;font-size:0.9em;'>[SEE ENGRAVING.]</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>While</span> engaged in writing songs to the native airs
of his country, Moore, in a letter to the Countess of
Donegal, makes these remarks on Irish music:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It has been often said, and still oftener felt, that in
our music is found the truest of all comments upon our
history. The tone of defiance succeeded by the languor
of despondency—a burst of turbulence, dying
away into softness the sorrows of one moment lost in
the levity of the next—and all that romantic mixture
of mirth and sadness, which is naturally produced by
the efforts of a lively temperament to shake off, or forget
the wrongs which lie upon it. Such are the features
of our history and character, which we find
strongly and faithfully reflected in our music; and
there are even many airs, which it is difficult to listen
to, without recalling some period or event to which
their expression seems applicable. Sometimes, for
instance, when the strain is open and spirited, yet here
and there shaded by a mournful recollection, we can
fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose,
marching to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding
all the perfidy of Charles and his ministers, and remembering
just enough of past sufferings to enhance the
generosity of their present sacrifice. The plaintive
melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in which
he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to
worship their God in caves, or to quit, forever, the
land of their birth—like the bird that abandons the nest
which human touch has violated.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>In writing to these melodies, the poet’s task, a most
difficult one, was to express sentiments in harmony
with the air. To give an intelligible utterance to the
feelings pent up in music, whether gay, solemn or
mournful. At the time he wrote, Irish patriotism was
in the ascendant, and many of the songs had a political
bearing. So apparent was this, that the fact was noticed,
we believe, by the government, or at least by
some high in office. In the following well-known
song, so full of the purest pathos, it is not clear to what
the poet particularly alluded. If there was an allusion,
as is not improbable, to Emmett and Miss Curren,
Moore deemed it but an act of prudence to withhold
the fact.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Though the herd has fled from thee, thy home is still here;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> And thy Angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors of this —</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> And shield thee, and save thee—or perish there too.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>At any rate, the sentiments of this song might well
be applied to the personages mentioned, even if the
poet himself had another application in his mind.
Their tenderness is scarcely surpassed by any thing in
the language; and there are states of mind with every
one in which their repetition would bring tears.</p>
<hr class='tbk130'/>
<div><h1><a id='books'></a>REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.</h1></div>
<hr class='tbk131'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Representative Men: Seven Lectures. By R. W. Emerson.
Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The subjects of these lectures, originally delivered before
New England Lyceums, are Uses of Great Men;
Plato, or the Philosopher; Swedenborg, or the Mystic;
Montaigne, or the Skeptic; Shakspeare, or the Poet; Napoleon,
or the Man of the World; and Goethe, or the
Writer; subjects calculated to test the most various powers
of the greatest mind, and, as treated by Mr. Emerson,
appearing always in an original and fascinating, if not
always a true light. The volume we consider, on the
whole, the best of Mr. Emerson’s works. It is not, rhetorically
speaking, so carefully written as his “Essays,”
but it has more human interest, deals more generously
with facts, and indicates a broader and more stalwort
individuality. It is certainly one of the most fascinating
books ever written, whether we consider its subtle verbal
felicities, its deep and shrewd observation, its keen criticism,
its beautiful mischievousness, its wit or learning,
its wisdom or beauty. The best passages may be found
in the lectures on Plato, Shakspeare, and Swedenborg;
but the best lecture is probably that on Montaigne, which
must have been written <span class='it'>con amore</span>. Indeed, the author
seems a kind of Montaigne-Plato, with his eyes wide open
both to material and spiritual facts, without a hearty self-surrender
to either. There are in the volumes some
speculative audacities which, in common with the rest of
the human race, we consider equally erroneous and
hurtful. In matters of religious faith it may be confidently
asserted that mankind is right and Mr. Emerson wrong.
Our author puts objectionable doctrines in language which
shocks the minds of his readers without conveying to
them his real ideas—a blunder, equally as regards prudence
and expression.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The excellence of the book is not so much in its representations
of the representative men who form its subjects,
as in the representation of Mr. Emerson himself; and
we doubt if, in all literature, there are revealed many individualities
so peculiar, and so powerful in its peculiarity,
as the individuality stamped upon every page of the present
volume. We would not presume, in our limits, to
attempt an analysis of an intellect so curiously complex
<span class='pageno' title='222' id='Page_222'></span>
as Mr. Emerson’s—with traits which strike us as a Parthian’s
arrows, shot while he is flying, and which both
provoke and defy the pursuit of criticism; but we will extract
instead, a few of the beautiful and brilliant sentences
which are inserted, like gems, in almost every lecture,
and in each of which some sparkle of the writer’s quality
appears. The lecture on Goethe is a perfect diamond necklace,
shooting out light in every direction, with some
flashes that illumine, for the instant, labyrinths of thought
which darkness is considered to hold as exclusively her
own.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In speaking of the acting of Shakspeare’s plays, he
translates into words an emotion which everyone has felt,
but which we never dreamed could be perfectly expressed.
“The recitation,” he says, “begins; one golden word
leaps out immortal from all this painted pedantry, <span class='it'>and
sweetly torments us with invitations to its own inaccessible
homes</span>.” Again, he remarks that Shakspeare is inconceivably
wise; all other writers conceivably. “A good
reader,” he says, “can, in a sort, <span class='it'>nestle into Plato’s brain</span>,
and think from thence; but not into Shakspeare’s. <span class='it'>We
are still out of doors.</span>” Speaking of Montaigne’s use of
language, he exclaims, “but these words, and they would
bleed; they are vascular and alive.” Of Mr. Emerson’s
peculiar wit the present volume is full of Examples. Thus
he speaks of “the heaven of law, and the pismire of performance
under it;” of Plato as having “clapped copyright
on the world;” of the possibility, as regards marriage,
of dividing the human race into two classes; “those
who are out and want to get in, and those who are in and
want to get out;” but quotation of small sentences is impertinent,
where so many paragraphs are thoroughly pervaded
with the quality.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In speaking of Plato’s mind, Mr. Emerson gives us
some of his keenest and most characteristic sentences—sentences
in which the thought seems to go in straight
lines right at the mark, but to lack a comprehension of
relations. In Plato, he says, “the freest abandonment is
united with the precision of a geometer. His daring imagination
gives him the more solid grasp of facts; as the
birds of the highest flight have the strongest alar bones.”
. . . “His strength,” he says, a few pages after, “is
like the momentum of a falling planet; and his discretion,
the return of its due and perfect curve.” Perhaps the
best passage, however, in the lecture on Plato, is that in
which he describes the divine delirium, in which the
philosopher rises into the seer. “He believes that poetry,
prophecy, and the high insight, are from a wisdom of
which man is not master; that the gods never philosophize;
but, by a celestial mania, these miracles are accomplished.
Horsed on these winged steeds, he sweeps the dim regions,
visits worlds which flesh cannot enter; he saw the souls
in pain; he hears the doom of the judge; he beholds the
penal metempsychosis; the Fates, with the rock and shears;
<span class='it'>and hears the intoxicating hum of their spindle</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sentences, bright and beautiful as these, might be extracted
from this volume to such an extent as to bring
upon us an action for violating the copyright. For fineness
of wit, imagination, observation, satire and sentiment,
the book hardly has its equal in American literature;
with its positive opinions we have little to do.
With respect to these, it may be generally said, that Mr.
Emerson is always beneath the surface, and never at the
centre.</p>
<hr class='tbk132'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The Seaside and the Fireside. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>We have not space this month to do much more than
refer to this beautiful collection of poems, instinct with
sentiment and imagination, and with that drapery of beauty
over the whole which constitutes the charm equally of
Longfellow’s narratives and meditations. The first poem
in the volume is “The Building of the Ship,” a worthy
counterpart of Schiller’s “Song of the Bell,” and a grand
example of the union of the common with the beautiful.
We doubt if any of the poet’s longer compositions will
equal it in popularity. To this succeed a number of pieces
relating to the sea, of which “The Light House,” and
“The Fire of Drift Wood,” appear to us the best. The
poems “by the fireside,” commence with “Resignation,”
an elegy warm from the author’s heart and imagination,
and whose exquisite pathos has been felt and acknowledged
all over the country. “The Open Window,” and
“The Sand of the Desert,” belonging to this portion of
the volume, are fine specimens of two processes of Longfellow’s
mind—its subtle suggestiveness and its clear
pictorial power. A long poem of twenty-seven pages,
translated from the Gascon of Jasmin, entitled “The
Blind Girl of Castèl-Cuillè,” is a tragedy whose power,
sweetness, and pathos the dullest reader cannot resist.
We wish that Mr. Longfellow would give us more specimens
of this charming poet, as worthily “Englished” as
the present.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We think that none of Mr. Longfellow’s volumes will
be received with more favor than this, embodying as it
does the best qualities of his muse, and leaving little for
even the critic to grumble at but the smallness of its bulk.</p>
<hr class='tbk133'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Old Portraits and Modern Sketches. By John G. Whittier.
Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This elegantly printed volume, from the press of a firm
celebrated all over the country for tasteful books, is one
of Mr. Whittier’s most characteristic productions. It contains
strongly marked representations of John Bunyan,
Thomas Ellwood, James Naylor, Andrew Marvell, John
Roberts, Samuel Hopkins, Richard Baxter, William Leggett,
Nathaniel P. Rogers, and Robert Dinsmoore. If
sympathy be, as Carlyle says, the first condition of insight,
there can be no doubt that these striking individualities
have sat to the right artist for their portraits.
The best pieces in the volume are John Bunyan, Naylor,
Marvell and Baxter, which are really mental portraits,
glowing with life and meaning. The inspiration of
Whittier is impassioned conscience—a conscience as bold
and resolute as it is quick and delicate; and wit, imagination,
understanding and learning, all work under the direction
of this moral force. His general taste is for the
strong and daring in action and meditation; his field, the
region of great ideas and universal sentiments; but at the
same time he has a capacity for embodying the delicacies
and refinements of thought and emotion, and in pure pathos
and beauty he has few American superiors. All these
qualities are displayed in this volume in their most genial
action, and the result is a book of equal fineness and power.</p>
<hr class='tbk134'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>History of Spanish Literature. By George Ticknor. New
York: Harper & Brothers. 3 vols. 8vo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Ben Jonson was wont to congratulate himself that his
solid dramas were called “works,” while the dramatic
productions of his contemporaries were but “plays.”
Professor Ticknor’s History is eminently a “work,” the
result of twenty years of thought and research. To its
erudition no other epithet can apply than Dominie Sampson’s
epithet of “prodigious.” Every department of the
literature of a whole nation, through some ten centuries
of existence, the author has thoroughly mastered. No
intellectual history with which we are acquainted rests
on such a solid basis of authorities. As the author has
had the subject in his thoughts from his youth, his erudition,
<span class='pageno' title='223' id='Page_223'></span>
immense as it is, does not encumber his mind. It
does not use him, but he uses it; and the result is that the
work has the great merit of clear statement. It is not
only full of knowledge, but the knowledge is so presented
as to be communicated to every reader. Those who are
little interested in the subject as a whole, will still find
the work attractive from its biographical matter, its
analysis of the plot and characters of different plays, and
its fine translations of particular poems and ballads. The
accounts given of the stories forming the plots of some of
the dramas, are interesting as mere tales.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There are few American books which are so much calculated
to raise the foreign estimate of American Scholarship
and intelligence as this History of Spanish Literature,
and we doubt if there be many men, in Spain or
out of Spain, who could have written it.</p>
<hr class='tbk135'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>People I have Met; or Pictures of Society and People of
Mark. Drawn under a Thin Veil of Fiction. By N.
Parker Willis. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>In this elegant volume we have a collection of Mr.
Willis’s tales and sketches, recording the results of his
intercourse with society on both sides of the Atlantic. It
indicates that the author’s practical observation of men
and things is as acute and sure as if his head did not contain
the most trickery and exuberant of human fancies.
No one can read the volume without delight, and without
having his knowledge of society increased. It is a fit
companion to the “Rural Letters,” being as full of the
world as those are of nature. The writer’s sunny and
sportive, keen and sparkling mind, glances and gleams
through every story and sketch; and over the whole there
is that indefinable grace, which the poet alone can communicate
to the things of convention, and which almost
lifts them into an ideal region of existence.</p>
<hr class='tbk136'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Monuments of Egypt; or Egypt a Witness for the Bible.
By Francis L. Hawks, D. D., LL. D. With Notes of a
Voyage up the Nile. By an American. New York; Geo.
P. Putnam. 1 vol. 8vo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Putnam has got up this volume with his usual indifference
to expense, and his usual regard for typographical
beauty. The illustrative engravings are exactly
what the reader wants to assist him in the comprehension
of the text. Dr. Hawks refuses, in the preface, the name
of author, preferring the more modest appellation of compiler;
but we should like to see many more compilations
from the same source. He has carefully studied the works
of the great English and French savons and travelers relating
to the subject, and has presented in clear language
the truths which they have established. We commend
the book to all who are desirous of accurate information
about a most interesting country, in its past and present
condition.</p>
<hr class='tbk137'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>A System of Ancient and Mediæval Geography, for the Use
of Schools and Colleges. By Charles Anthon, LL. D.
New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This solid and well printed volume is but one out of
many proofs of the author’s extensive erudition and
classical enthusiasm. We are incompetent to speak of its
value as a class-book, but certainly can bear testimony to
its wealth of information relating to ancient countries, and
its interest to all who are students of ancient history.
The work rests on a solid foundation of over a hundred
authorities, German, English, and French, and indicates
on every page a scholarship as minute in details as it is
large in its grasp. In the limits of some seven hundred
and fifty octavo pages, crammed rather than filled with
matter, Dr. Anthon has almost compressed a library of
knowledge.</p>
<hr class='tbk138'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The King of the Hurons. By the Author of “The First
of the Knickerbockers,” and “The Young Patroon.”
New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>In the press of this month’s publications we trust that
this novel, the work of a man of shrewd and accurate observation,
graceful fancy, and brilliant style, will not
be lost in the crowd. The author’s wit and humor sparkle
over his narrative, and lend an increased fascination even
to the engrossing interest of the characters and incidents.</p>
<hr class='tbk139'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Essay on Christian Baptism. By Baptist W. Noel, M. A.
New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The author of this little volume has already attained
great notoriety by his volume directed against the union
of church and state. The object of his present work is to
declare himself by conviction a Baptist, and to exhibit the
train of scriptural argumentation by which he came to
the conclusion that believers have the exclusive right to
Christian baptism. The work is well written, and the
reasoning indicates a conscientious inquirer after truth.</p>
<hr class='tbk140'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Fairy Tales from all Nations. By Anthony R. Montalba.
New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The Harpers fairly bewilder critics by the number and
variety of their publications. In following their books we
have to make the most violent ascents and descents to and
from one department of letters to another. We had hardly
finished a survey of a Latin Dictionary before we came
directly upon this delicious volume of fairy stories, containing
a representation of supernatural novelties from
Denmark, Germany, France, Sweden, Russia, Poland,
Norway, Italy, Hungary, Iceland, Bohemia, and some
Eastern countries. The collection is one of the most
fascinating we have ever seen, and its interest is much increased
to the younger class of readers by some thirty
grotesque illustrations.</p>
<hr class='tbk141'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The History of England. By David Hume. Vol. 5.
Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This volume of the cheap Boston edition of Hume is
devoted to Charles I. and the Commonwealth; contains the
principal alleged offences of the author against the principles
of civil and religious liberty, and is, accordingly, that
part of his great work which has been made the subject of the
most vehement controversies. It is, perhaps, the ablest in
style and matter of the whole, and may be profitably read in
connection with Macaulay’s views on the same subjects.</p>
<hr class='tbk142'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Saint Leger, or The Threads of Life. New York: Geo. P.
Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This is the work of a man of intense conceptions, whose
style is urged on by the <span class='it'>furor</span> of his thinking, and who, by
sheer strength, drags the readers along with him from the
first to the last page. The detail of the hero’s personal experience,
if given with less vividness, would certainly
tire, but as expressed in the author’s vehement style, it
fastens attention as much as the incidents.</p>
<hr class='tbk143'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The Whale and his Captors; or The Whaleman’s Adventures,
and The Whale’s Biography. By Rev. Henry T.
Cheever. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This volume is the production of a scholar, a man of
letters, and a clergyman; and the characteristics of all
three are modified by a sort of assumed Jack-Tarism,
always racy, if sometimes in questionable taste. It is
spirited in style, full of a landsman’s exultation in the
incidents and scenery of sea life, and laden with interesting
information pleasantly told.</p>
<hr class='tbk144'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='224' id='Page_224'></span><h1><a id='table'></a>EDITOR’S TABLE.</h1></div>
<hr class='tbk145'/>
<h2 class='nobreak'>THE LATE EDGAR ALLAN POE.</h2>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>  <span class='it'>Grif.</span> Noble madam,</p>
<p class='line0'>Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues</p>
<p class='line0'>We write in water. May it please your highness</p>
<p class='line0'>To hear me speak his good now?</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>  <span class='it'>Kath.</span> Yes, good Griffith;</p>
<p class='line0'>I were malicious else.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<div class='stanza-inner'>
<p class='line0'>  <span class='it'>Grif.</span> This cardinal,</p>
<p class='line0'>Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly,</p>
<p class='line0'>Was fashioned to much honor from his cradle.</p>
<p class='line0'>He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;</p>
<p class='line0'>Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading;</p>
<p class='line0'>Lofty, and sour, to them that loved him not;</p>
<p class='line0'>But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer.</p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;'><span class='sc'>King Henry VIII.</span></p>
</div>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>My dear Willis</span>,—In an article of yours, which accompanies
the two beautiful volumes of the writings of
Edgar Allan Poe,<a id='r2'/><a href='#f2' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[2]</span></sup></a> you have spoken with so much truth
and delicacy of the deceased, and with the magical touch
of genius have called so warmly up before me the memory
of our lost friend, as you and I both seem to have known
him, that I feel warranted in addressing to you the few
plain words I have to say in defense of his character, as
set down by Dr. Rufus W. Griswold. Although the article,
it seems, appeared originally in the New York Tribune,
it met my eye for the first time in the volumes before me.
I now purpose to take exception to it in the most public
manner. I knew Mr. Poe well—far better than Mr.
Griswold; and by the memory of old times, when he
was an editor of “Graham,” I pronounce this exceedingly
ill-timed and unappreciative estimate of the character
of our lost friend <span class='it'>unfair and untrue</span>. It must have been
made in a moment of spleen, written out and laid aside,
and handed to the printer, when his death was announced,
with a sort of chuckle. It is Mr. Poe, as seen by the
writer while laboring under a fit of the nightmare; but so
dark a picture has no resemblance to the <span class='it'>living</span> man. Accompanying
these beautiful volumes, it is an immortal
infamy—the death’s head over the entrance to the garden of
beauty—a horror that clings to the brow of morning,
whispering of murder. It haunts the memory through
every page of his writings, leaving upon the heart a
sensation of utter gloom, a feeling almost of terror. The
only relief we feel, is in knowing that it is not true—that
it is a fancy sketch of a perverted, jaundiced vision. The
man who could deliberately say of Edgar Allan Poe, in a
notice of his life and writings, prefacing the volumes
which were to become a priceless souvenir to all who
loved him—that his death might startle many, “<span class='it'>but that
few would be grieved by it</span>”—and blast the whole fame of
the man by such a paragraph as follows, is a judge dishonored.
He is not Mr. Poe’s peer, and I challenge him
before the country, even as a juror in the case.</p>
<div class='blockquote0r9'>
<p class='pindent'>“His harsh experience had deprived him of all faith in
man or woman. He had made up his mind upon the numberless
complexities of the social world, and the whole
system with him was an imposture. This conviction gave
a direction to his shrewd and naturally unamiable character.
Still, though he regarded society as <span class='it'>composed altogether
of villains</span>, the sharpness of his intellect was not of
that kind which enabled him to cope with villany, while
it continually caused him by overshots to fail of the success
of honesty. He was in many respects like Francis
Vivian in Bulwer’s novel of ”The Caxtons.“ Passion,
in him, comprehended many of the worst emotions which
militate against human happiness. You could not contradict
him, but you raised quick choler; <span class='it'>you could not speak
of wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy</span>. The
astonishing natural advantages of this poor boy—his
beauty, his readiness, the daring spirit that breathed
around him like a fiery atmosphere—had raised his constitutional
self-confidence into an arrogance that turned his
very claims to admiration into prejudices against him.
<span class='it'>Irascible, envious—bad enough</span>, but not the worst, for these
salient angles were all varnished over with a cold, repellent
cynicism, his passions vented themselves in sneers.
<span class='it'>There seemed to him no moral susceptibility</span>; and, <span class='it'>what
was more remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of
the true point of honor</span>. He had, to a morbid excess, that
desire to rise which is vulgarly called ambition, but no
wish for the esteem or the love of his species; only the
hard wish to succeed—not shine, not serve—succeed, that
he might have the right to despise a world which galled
his self-conceit.”</p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Now, this is dastardly, and, what is worse, it is false.
It is very adroitly done, with phrases very well turned,
and with gleams of truth shining out from a setting so
dusky as to look devilish. Mr. Griswold does not feel
the worth of the man he has undervalued—he had no
sympathies in common with him, and has allowed old
prejudices and old enmities to steal, insensibly perhaps,
into the coloring of his picture. They were for years
totally uncongenial, if not enemies, and during that period
Mr. Poe, in a scathing lecture upon The Poets of America,
gave Mr. Griswold some raps over the knuckles of force
sufficient to be remembered. He had, too, in the exercise
of his functions as critic, put to death, summarily, the
literary reputation of some of Mr. Griswold’s best friends;
and their ghosts cried in vain for him to avenge them
during Poe’s life-time—and it almost seems, as if the
present hacking at the cold remains of him who struck
them down, is a sort of compensation for duty long delayed—for
reprisal long desired but deferred. But without
this—the opportunities afforded Mr. Griswold to estimate
the character of Poe occurred, in the main, after his stability
had been wrecked, his whole nature in a degree
changed and with all his prejudices aroused and active.
Nor do I consider Mr. Griswold <span class='it'>competent</span>—with all the
opportunities he may have cultivated or acquired—to set
as his judge—to dissect that subtle and singularly fine
intellect—to probe the motives and weigh the actions of
that proud heart. His whole nature—that distinctive presence
of the departed which now stands impalpable, yet in
strong outline before me, as I knew him and <span class='it'>felt</span> him to
be—eludes the rude grasp of a mind so warped and uncongenial
as Mr. Griswold’s.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But it may be said, my dear Willis, that Mr. Poe himself
deputed him to set as his literary executor, and that
he must have felt some confidence in his ability at least—if
not in his integrity—to perform the functions imposed
with discretion and honor. I do not purpose, now, to enter
into any examination of the appointment of Mr. Griswold—nor
<span class='pageno' title='225' id='Page_225'></span>
of the wisdom of his appointment to the solemn
trust of handing the fair fame of the deceased unimpaired
to that posterity to which the dying poet bequeathed his
legacy—but simply to question its faithful performance.
Among the true friends of Poe in this city—and he had
some such here—there are those I am sure that he did not
class among <span class='it'>villains</span>; nor do <span class='it'>they</span> feel easy when they
see their old friend dressed out, in his grave, in the habiliments
of a scoundrel. There is something to them in this
mode of procedure on the part of the literary Executor,
that does not chime in with their notions of “the true
point of honor.” It looks so much like a breach of trust,
that, to their plain understandings, it is a proceeding that
may very fairly be questioned. They may, perhaps, being
plain business men, be somewhat unschooled in legacies,
and obligations of this sort, but it shocks all their notions of
fair dealing. They had been led to suppose, that thus to
fritter away an estate was, to say the least of it, not of
that high kind of integrity which courts of justice alone
recognize in a settlement in ordinary affairs. As heirs, in
part, to the inheritance left by their lost friend, they find
the fairest part of the domain ravaged, and the strong
castle battered down; and do not think because the hedges
have been a little trimmed up, and the gateway set in
fashion, that the property has been improved—on the contrary,
they think the estate is ruined. They had all of
them looked upon our departed friend as singularly indifferent
to wealth for its own sake, but as very positive
in his opinions that the scale of social merit was not of
the highest—that <span class='sc'>Mind</span>, somehow, was apt to be left out
of the estimate altogether—and, partaking somewhat of
his free way of thinking, his friends are startled to find
they have entertained very unamiable convictions. As to
his “quick choler” when he was contradicted, it depended
a good deal upon the party denying, as well as upon the
subject discussed. He was quick, it is true, to perceive
mere quacks in literature, and somewhat apt to be hasty
when pestered with them; but upon most other questions
his natural amiability was not easily disturbed. Upon a
subject that he understood thoroughly, he felt some right
to be positive, if not arrogant, when addressing pretenders.
His “astonishing natural advantages” had been very assiduously
cultivated—his “daring spirit” was the anointed
of genius—his self confidence the proud conviction
of both—and it was with something of a lofty scorn that
he <span class='it'>attacked</span>, as well as repelled, a crammed scholar of the
hour, who attempted to palm upon him his ill-digested
learning. Literature with him was religion; and he, its
high-priest, with a whip of scorpions scourged the money-changers
from the temple. In all else he had the docility
and kind-heartedness of a child. No man was more
quickly touched by a kindness—none more prompt to
atone for an injury. For three or four years I knew him
intimately, and for eighteen months saw him almost daily;
much of the time writing or conversing at the same desk;
knowing all his hopes, his fears, and little annoyances of
life, as well as his high-hearted struggle with adverse
fate—yet he was always the same polished gentleman—the
quiet, unobtrusive, thoughtful scholar—the devoted
husband—frugal in his personal expenses—punctual and
unwearied in his industry—<span class='it'>and the soul of honor</span>, in all his
transactions. This, of course, was in his better days, and
by them <span class='it'>we</span> judge the man. But even after his habits had
changed, there was no literary man to whom I would
more readily advance money for labor to be done. He
kept his accounts, small as they were, with the accuracy
of a banker. I append an account sent to me in his own
hand, long after he had left Philadelphia, and after all
knowledge of the transactions it recited had escaped my
memory. I had returned him the story of “The Gold
Bug,” at his own request, as he found that he could dispose
of it very advantageously elsewhere.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<table id='tab3' summary='' class='center'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' style='width: 20em;'/>
<col span='1' style='width: 0em;'/>
<col span='1' style='width: 0em;'/>
<col span='1' style='width: 1em;'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>“We were square when I sold you the ‘Versification’ article; for which you gave me first 25, and afterward 7—in all</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'>$32 00</td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>Then you bought ‘The Gold Bug’ for</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'>52 00</td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'>———</td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>I got both these back, so that I owed</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'>$84 00</td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>You lent Mrs. Clemm</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'>12 50</td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'>———</td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>Making in all</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'>$96 50</td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'> </td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'> </td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>The review of ‘Flaccus’ was 3¾ pp, which, at $4, is</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'>15 00</td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>Lowell’s poem is</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'>10 00</td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>The review of Channing, 4 pp. is 16, of which I got 6, leaving</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'>10 00</td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>The review of Halleck, 4 pp. is 16, of which I got 10, leaving</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'>6 00</td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>The review of Reynolds, 2 pp.</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'>8 00</td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>The review of Longfellow, 5 pp. is 20, of which I got 10, leaving</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'>10 00</td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'>———</td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>So that I have paid in all</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'>59 00</td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'>———</td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle0'>Which leaves still due by me</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle2'>$37 50</td><td class='tab3c4 tdStyle1'>”</td></tr>
</table>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This I find was his uniform habit with others, as well as
myself—carefully recalling to mind his indebtedness, with
the fresh article sent. And this is the man who had “no
moral susceptibility,” and little or nothing of the “true
point of honor.” It may be a very plain, business view of
the question, but it strikes his friends that it may pass as
something, as times go.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I shall never forget how solicitous of the happiness of
his wife and mother-in-law he was, whilst one of the
editors of Graham’s Magazine—his whole efforts seemed
to be to procure the comfort and welfare of his home.
Except for their happiness—and the natural ambition of
having a magazine of his own—I never heard him deplore
the want of wealth. The truth is, he cared little for money,
and knew less of its value, for he seemed to have no personal
expenses. What he received from me in regular
monthly instalments, went directly into the hands of his
mother-in-law for family comforts—and <span class='it'>twice</span> only, I remember
his purchasing some rather expensive luxuries for
his house, and then he was nervous to the degree of misery
until he had, by extra articles, covered what he considered
an imprudent indebtedness. His love for his wife was a sort
of rapturous worship of the spirit of beauty which he felt
was fading before his eyes. I have seen him hovering
around her when she was ill, with all the fond fear and
tender anxiety of a mother for her first-born—her slightest
cough causing in him a shudder, a heart-chill that was
visible. I rode out one summer evening with them, and
the remembrance of his watchful eyes eagerly bent upon
the slightest change of hue in that loved face, haunts me
yet as the memory of a sad strain. It was this hourly <span class='it'>anticipation</span>
of her loss, that made him a sad and thoughtful
man, and lent a mournful melody to his undying song.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It is true that later in life Poe had much of those morbid
feelings which a life of poverty and disappointment is so
apt to engender in the heart of man—the sense of having
been ill-used, misunderstood, and put aside by men of far
less ability, and of none, which preys upon the heart and
clouds the brain of many a child of song: A consciousness
of the inequalities of life, and of the abundant power of
mere wealth allied even to vulgarity, to over-ride all distinctions,
and to thrust itself bedaubed with dirt and glittering
with tinsel, into the high places of society, and the
chief seats of the synagogue; whilst he, a worshiper of the
beautiful and true, who listened to the voices of angels,
and held delighted companionship with them as the cold
throng swept disdainfully by him, was often in danger of
being thrust out, houseless, homeless, beggared upon the
world, with all his fine feelings strung to a tension of
<span class='pageno' title='226' id='Page_226'></span>
agony when he thought of his beautiful and delicate wife
dying hourly before his eyes. What wonder, that he then
poured out the vials of a long-treasured bitterness upon the
injustice and hollowness of all society around him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The very natural question—“Why did he not work and
thrive?” is easily answered. It will not be <span class='it'>asked</span> by the
many who know the precarious tenure by which literary
men hold a mere living in this country. The avenues
through which they can profitably reach the country are
few, and crowded with aspirants for bread as well as fame.
The unfortunate tendency to cheapen every literary work
to the lowest point of beggarly flimsiness in price and
profit, prevents even the well-disposed from extending any
thing like an adequate support to even a part of the great
throng which genius, talent, education, and even misfortune,
force into the struggle. The character of Poe’s
mind was of such an order, as not to be very widely in
demand. The class of educated mind which he could
readily and profitably address, was small—the channels
through which he could do so at all, were few—and publishers
all, or nearly all, contented with such pens as were
already engaged, hesitated to incur the expense of his to an
extent which would sufficiently remunerate him; hence,
when he was fairly at sea, connected permanently with
no publication, he suffered all the horrors of prospective
destitution, with scarcely the ability of providing for immediate
necessities; and at such moments, alas! the
tempter often came, and, as you have truly said, “<span class='it'>one
glass</span>” of wine, made him a madman. Let the moralist
who stands upon tufted carpet, and surveys his smoking
board, the fruits of his individual toil or mercantile adventure,
pause before he lets the anathema, trembling
upon his lips, fall upon a man like Poe! who, wandering
from publisher to publisher, with his fine, print-like manuscript,
scrupulously clean and neatly rolled, finds no market
for his brain—with despair at heart, misery ahead for
himself and his loved ones, and gaunt famine dogging at
his heels, thus sinks by the wayside, before the demon
that watches his steps and whispers, <span style='font-size:smaller'>OBLIVION</span>. Of all the
miseries which God, or his own vices inflict upon man,
none are so terrible as that of having the strong and willing
arm struck down to a child-like inefficiency, while the
Heart and Will, have the purpose and force of a giant’s
out-doing. We must remember, too, that the very organization
of such a mind as that of Poe—the very tension
and tone of his exquisitely strung nerves—the passionate
yearnings of his soul for the beautiful and true, utterly
unfitted him for the rude jostlings and fierce competitorship
of trade. The only drafts of his that could be honored,
were those upon his brain. The unpeopled air—the
caverns of ocean—the decay and mystery that hang around
old castles—the thunder of wind through the forest aisles—the
spirits that rode the blast, by all but him unseen—and
the deep metaphysical creations which floated
through the chambers of his soul, were his only wealth,
the High Change where only his signature was valid for
rubies.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Could he have stepped down and chronicled small beer,
made himself the shifting toady of the hour, and with bow
and cringe, hung upon the steps of greatness, sounding the
glory of third-rate ability with a penny trumpet, he would
have been feted alive, and, <span class='it'>perhaps</span>, been praised when
dead. But no! his views of the duties of the critic
were stern, and he felt that in praising an unworthy writer,
he committed dishonor. His pen was regulated by the
highest sense of <span style='font-size:smaller'>DUTY</span>. By a keen analysis he separated
and studied each piece which the skillful mechanist had
put together. No part, however insignificant or apparently
unimportant, escaped the rigid and patient scrutiny
of his sagacious mind. The unfitted joint proved the
bungler—the slightest blemish, was a palpable fraud.
He was the scrutinising lapidary, who detected and exposed
the most minute flaw in diamonds. The gem of
first water shone the brighter, for the truthful setting of his
calm praise. He had the finest touch of soul for beauty—a
delicate and hearty appreciation of worth. If his praise
appeared tardy, it was of priceless value when given.
It was true as well as sincere. It was the stroke of honor,
that at once knighted the receiver. It was in the world
of <span style='font-size:smaller'>MIND</span> that he was king; and with a fierce audacity he
felt and proclaimed himself autocrat. As critic he was
Despotic, Supreme. He waved his sceptre, and countless
heads fell from proud shoulders. With a world arrayed
in hostile argument, he combated each step. The shrieks
of the slaughtered were incense to unseen spirits, who to
his eye nodded approval, and danced for joy. The accused
were tried by the most subtle of laws—their works passed
through the alembic of a most powerful and penetrating
intellect; to them the decrees of an unseen court—and
friend or foe, saint or sinner, were pardoned with grave
rebuke, or gibbeted without mercy. Yet no man with
more readiness would soften a harsh expression at the request
of a friend, or if he himself felt that he had infused
too great a degree of bitterness into his article, none would
more readily soften it down, after it was in type—though
still maintaining the justness of his critical views. I do
not believe that he wrote to give pain; but in combating
what he conceived to be error, he used the strongest
word that presented itself, even in conversation. He
labored, not so much to reform, as to <span class='it'>exterminate</span> error, and
thought the shortest process was to pull it up by the roots.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was a worshiper of <span style='font-size:smaller'>INTELLECT</span>—longing to grasp
the power of mind that moves the stars—to bathe his soul
in the dreams of seraphs. He was himself all ethereal, of
a fine essence, that moved in an atmosphere of spirits—of
spiritual beauty overflowing and radiant—twin brother
with the angels, feeling their flashing wings upon his heart,
and almost clasping them in his embrace. Of them, and as
an expectant archangel of that high order of intellect, stepping
out of himself, as it were, and interpreting the time, he
reveled in delicious luxury in a world beyond, with an
audacity which we fear in madmen, but in genius worship
as the inspiration of heaven.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But my object in throwing together a few thoughts upon
the character of Edgar Allan Poe, was not to attempt as
elaborate criticism, but to say what might palliate grave
faults that have been attributed to him, and to meet by
facts, unjust accusation—in a word, to give a mere outline
of the man as he lived before me. I think I am warranted
in saying to Mr. Griswold, that he must review
his decision. It will not stand the calm scrutiny of his
own judgment, or of time, while it must be regarded by
all the friends of Mr. Poe as an ill-judged and misplaced
calumny upon that gifted Son of Genius.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:6em;margin-top:0.5em;'>Yours truly,</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;margin-bottom:0.5em;'><span class='sc'>Geo. R. Graham</span>.</p>
<p class='line'>To <span class='sc'>N. P. Willis</span>, Esq.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:left;margin-left:2em;margin-bottom:0.5em;'><span class='it'>Philadelphia, Feb. 2, 1850.</span></p>
<p class='pindent'>P. S. I should fail in my whole duty to the memory of
Edgar Allan Poe, if I did not mention that his works have
been issued by Mr. Redfield, for the benefit of Mrs. Maria
Clemm, the mother-in-law of the deceased, whose comfort
in her coming days is in a great degree dependent upon
an extensive sale of the work. The readers of Graham,
who have been so often delighted by his pen, will, I am
sure, eagerly embrace this opportunity to preserve his
complete collected writings; and it will afford me pleasure
to be the medium of the transmission of their subscriptions
to the publisher.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;margin-top:0.5em;margin-bottom:0.5em;'><span style='font-size:smaller'>G. R. G.</span></p>
<hr class='footnotemark'/>
<div class='footnote'>
<table summary='footnote_2'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' class='footnoteid'/>
<col span='1'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td style='vertical-align:top;'>
<div class='footnote-id' id='f2'><a href='#r2'>[2]</a></div>
</td><td>
<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe: With Notices
of His life and Genius, by N. P. Willis, J. R. Lowell, and
R. W. Griswold. In Two Volumes. New York: J. S.
Redfield, Clinton Hall.</span></p>
</td></tr>
</table>
</div>
<hr class='tbk146'/>
<p class='pindent'><a id='follet'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i142.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0011' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:left;margin-left:1em;'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Anaïs Toudouze</span></p>
<div class='lgc' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'><span style='font-size:larger'><span class='bold'>LE FOLLET</span></span></p>
<p class='line'><span class='bold'>PARIS</span> Boulevart S<sup>t</sup>. Martin 61</p>
<p class='line'><span class='it'>Chapeaux de M<sup>me</sup>.</span> Baudry, <span class='it'>r. Richelieu, 87—Robes et pardessus de</span> Camille.</p>
<p class='line'><span class='it'>Fleurs de</span> Chagot ainé, <span class='it'>r. Richelieu, 81.</span></p>
<p class='line'>Graham’s Magazine.</p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk147'/>
<div><h1><a id='thou'></a>THOU ART LOVELIER.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;'>WRITTEN BY</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.2em;'>RICHARD HOWITT.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;'>MUSIC BY</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.2em;'>MARIA B. HAWES.</p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i143.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0012' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Thou art lovelier than the coming</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the fairest flow’rs of spring,</p>
<p class='line0'>When the wild bee wanders humming,</p>
<p class='line0'>Like a blessed fairy thing.</p>
<p class='line0'>Thou art lovelier than the breaking</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the Orient crimson’d morn,</p>
<p class='line0'>When the gentlest winds are shaking</p>
<p class='line0'>The</p>
</div>
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<img src='images/i144.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0013' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
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<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<div class='stanza-inner'>
<p class='line0'>dew-drops from the thorn</p>
<p class='line0'>Thou art lovelier than the coming</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the fairest flower of spring,</p>
<p class='line0'>When the wild bee wanders humming,</p>
<p class='line0'>Like a blessed fairy thing.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;'>SECOND VERSE.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I have seen the wild flow’rs springing</p>
<p class='line0'>In field, in wood, in glen,</p>
<p class='line0'>Where a thousand birds are singing,</p>
<p class='line0'>And my thoughts were of thee then;</p>
<p class='line0'>For there’s nothing gladsome round me,</p>
<p class='line0'>Nothing beautiful to see,</p>
<p class='line0'>Since thy beauty’s spell hath bound me,</p>
<p class='line0'>But is eloquent of thee.</p>
<p class='line0'>Thou art lovelier than the coming</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the fairest flow’rs of spring,</p>
<p class='line0'>When the wild bee wanders humming</p>
<p class='line0'>Like a blessed fairy thing.</p>
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<hr class='tbk148'/>
<p class='line' style='margin-top:2em;font-size:1.1em;font-weight:bold;'><a id='notes'></a>Transcriber’s Notes:</p>
<p class='noindent'>Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained.
Obvious type-setting and punctuation errors have 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 available for preparation of the eBook.</p>
<div class='lgl' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'>page 171, Or Cythereas breath; ==> Or <a href='#cyth'>Cytherea’s</a> breath;</p>
<p class='line'>page 171, pearled Acturi of the ==> pearled <a href='#arc'>Arcturi</a> of the</p>
<p class='line'>page 172, the same harrassed air ==> the same <a href='#harr1'>harassed</a> air</p>
<p class='line'>page 180, pointless harrangues “nay, ==> pointless <a href='#harr2'>harangues</a> “nay,</p>
<p class='line'>page 181, for her to pursuade ==> for her to <a href='#per'>persuade</a></p>
<p class='line'>page 188, “I will commisserate the ==> “I will <a href='#comm'>commiserate</a> the</p>
<p class='line'>page 192, offend, he plead his early ==> offend, he <a href='#plead'>pleaded</a> his early</p>
<p class='line'>page 208, <a href='#caption'>PORTRAIT OF GENERAL GREENE.</a> ==> caption was missing in available scans so caption used is based on entry in the index for the volume.</p>
<p class='line'>page 208, LIFE OF GENERAL <a href='#nat'>NATHANIEL</a> GREENE ==> correct spelling is ‘Nathanael’, but the ‘Nathaniel’ spelling throughout the article has been left as printed.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'>[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 3, March 1850]</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57734 ***</div>
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