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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57736 ***</div>
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<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:x-small'>A. E. Chalon, R.A. W. H. Egleton</span><br/></p> <br/><span class='bold'>MIRROR OF BEAUTY.</span><br/><span style='font-size:smaller'>Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.</span>
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<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> April, 1850. No. 4.</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='#april'>April</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#kate'>Kate Lorimer: Or The Pearl in the Oyster</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#loit'>Loiterings and Life on the Prairies of the Farthest West</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<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='#fan'>Fanny. A Narrative Taken from the Lips of a Maniac</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#gods'>Gods and Mortals</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#minna'>Minna</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#life'>Life of General Baron De Kalb</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#hus'>The Housekeeping Husband</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#case'>The Darkened Casement</a></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='#mount'>Mount Prospect Institute, West Bloomfield, N. J.</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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<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#mex'>Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico. No. III.</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#line'>Lines</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#aroon'>Aileen Aroon</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#sonn'>Sonnet</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#uriel'>Uriel</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#out'>Out of Doors</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#dix'>Miss Dix, The Philanthropist</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#sleep'>Invocation to Sleep</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#poets'>German Poets</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#axe'>The Song of the Axe</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#follet'>Le Follet</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#shawl'>The Shawl Designer Salaville</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#blan'>Blanche and Lisette</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'> </td></tr>
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<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'><a href='#notes'>Transcriber’s Notes</a> can be found at the end of this eBook.</p>
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<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;font-size:1.9em;font-weight:bold;'>GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.</p>
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<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'><span class='sc'>Vol.</span> XXXVI. PHILADELPHIA, April, 1850. <span class='sc'>No. 4.</span></p>
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<div><span class='pageno' title='229' id='Page_229'></span><h1 class='nobreak'><a id='april'></a>APRIL.</h1></div>
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<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“The shower is past, the birds renew their songs,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'> And sweetly through its tears the landscape smiles.”</p>
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<p class='pindent'>“<span class='sc'>April</span>,” says the author of the “Fairie Queene,”
“is Spring—the juvenile of the months, and the most
feminine—never knowing her own mind for a day together.
Fickle as a fond maiden with her first lover;
toying it with the young sun till he withdraws his
beams from her, and then weeping till she gets them
back again.” April is frequently a very sweet and
genial month, partly because it ushers in the May, and
partly for its own sake. It is to May and June what
“sweet fifteen,” in the age of woman, is to the passion-stricken
eighteen, and perfect two-and-twenty. It is
to the confirmed Summer, what the previous hope of
joy is to the full fruition—what the boyish dream of
love is to love itself. It is, indeed, the month of promises—and
what are twenty performances compared
with one promise? April, then, is worth two Mays,
because it tells tales of May in every sigh that it
breathes, and every tear that it lets fall. It is the harbinger,
the herald, the promise, the prophecy, the foretaste
of all the beauties that are to follow it—of all and
more—of all the delights of Summer, and all the
“pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious Autumn.”
It is fraught with beauties itself, which no other month
can bring before us.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
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<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“When proud, pied April, dressed in all his trim,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing.”</p>
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</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
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<p class='pindent'>It is one sweet alternation of smiles, and sighs, and
tears—and tears, and sighs, and smiles—till all is consummated
at last in the open laughter of May.</p>
<p class='pindent'>April weather is proverbial for a mixture of the
bright and gloomy. The pleasantness of the sunshiny
days, with the delightful view of fresh greens and
newly opened flowers, is unequaled; but they are frequently
overcast with clouds, and chilled by rough,
wintry blasts. This month, the most perfect image
of Spring —</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;'>“Looks beautiful as when an infant is waking</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> From its slumbers;”</p>
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<p class='noindent'>and the vicissitudes of warm gleams of sunshine and
gentle showers, have the most powerful effects in
hastening the universal <span class='it'>springing</span> of vegetation,
whence the season derives its appellation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The influence of the equinoctial storms frequently
prevailing, causes much unpleasant weather; its
opening is—</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;'>  “Mindful of disaster past,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And shrinking at the northern blast,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The sleety storm returning still,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The morning hoar, the evening chill:</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Reluctant comes the timid Spring,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Scarce a bee, with airy ring,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Murmurs the blossomed boughs around</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>That clothe the garden’s southern bound;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Scarce a sickly, straggling flower</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Decks the rough castle’s rifted tower;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Scarce the hardy ivy peeps</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>From the dark dell’s entangled steeps,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Fringing the forests devious edge,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Half-robed, appears the privet hedge,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Or to the distant eye displays,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Weakly green, its budding sprays.”</p>
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</div>
<p class='pindent'>An ancient writer beautifully describes one of those
bright, transient showers which prevail at this season.</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;'>Away to that sunny nook, for the thick shower</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Rushes on strikingly: ay, now it comes,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Glancing about the leaves with its first dips,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Like snatches of faint music. Joyous bird,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>It mingles with thy song, and beats soft time</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>To thy warbling notes. Now it louder falls,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Pattering, like the far voice of leaping rills;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And now it breaks upon the shrinking clumps</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>With a crash of many sounds; the thrush is still,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>There are sweet scents around us; the flow’ret hides,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>On that green bank, beneath the leaves;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The earth is grateful to the teeming clouds,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And yields a sudden freshness to their kisses.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And now the shower slopes to the warm west,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Leaving a dewy track; and see, the big drops,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Like falling pearls, glisten in the sunny mist.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The air is clear again, and the far woods</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Shine out in their early green. Let’s onward, then,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>For the first blossoms peep about the path;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'><span class='pageno' title='230' id='Page_230'></span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The lambs are nibbling the short, dripping grass,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And the birds are on the bushes.</p>
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</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
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<p class='pindent'>The month of April not unfrequently introduces us
to the chimney or house-swallow, known by its long,
forked tail and red breast. At first, here and there
only one appears glancing quickly by us, as if scarcely
able to endure the cold, which Warton beautifully
describes —</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 swallow for a moment seen,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Skims in haste the village green.</p>
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</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>But in a few days their number is much increased,
and they sport with seeming pleasure in the warm
sunshine.</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;'>Along the surface of the winding stream,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Or round the borders of the spacious lawn,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Fly in repeated circles, rising o’er</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Hillock and fence with motion serpentine,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Easy and light. One snatches from the ground</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>A downy feather, and then upward springs,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Followed by others, but oft drops it soon,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>In playful mood, or from too slight a hold,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>When all at once dart at the falling prize.</p>
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</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>As these birds live on insects, their appearance is
a certain proof that some of this minute tribe of animals
have ventured from their winter abodes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Thomson thus describes this busy month among the
feathered tribes —</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;'>                  Some to the holly-hedge</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Nestling repair, and to the thicket some;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Some to the rude protection of the thorn</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Commit their feeble offspring. The cleft tree</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Offers its kind concealment to a few,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Their food its insects, and its moss their nests.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Others apart, far in the grassy dale,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Or roughening waste, their humble texture weave;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>But most in woodland solitudes delight,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Whose murmurs soothe them all the livelong day,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>When by kind duty fixed. Among the roots</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Of hazel, pendent o’er the plaintive stream,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>They frame the first foundation of their domes;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And bound with clay together. Now ’tis naught</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>But restless hurry through the busy air,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Beat by unnumbered wings. The swallow sweeps</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The slimy pool, to build the hanging house</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Intent. And often, from the careless back</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserved,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Steal from the barn a straw, till soft and warm,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Clean and complete, their habitation grows.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Another celebrated poet completes the picture: —</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 cavern-loving wren sequestered seeks</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The verdant shelter of the hollow stump;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And with congenial moss, harmless deceit,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Constructs a safe abode. On topmost boughs</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The oriole, and the hoarse-voiced crow,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Rocked by the storm, erect their airy nests.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The ousel, long frequenter of the grove</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Of fragrant pines, in solemn depth of shade,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Finds rest. Or mid the holly’s shining leaves,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>A simple bush, the piping thrush contents;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Though in the woodland contest, he, aloft,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Trills from his spotted throat a powerful strain,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And scorns the humble quire. The wood-lark asks</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>A lowly dwelling, hid beneath some tuft,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Or hollow, trodden by the sinking hoof:</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Songster beloved! who to the sun such lays</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Pours forth as earth ne’er owns. Within the boughs</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The sparrow lays her spotted eggs. The barn,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>With eaves o’er-pendent, holds the chattering tribe.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Secret the linnet seeks the tangled wood,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The white owl seeks some antique ruined wall,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Fearless of rapine; or in hollow trees,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Which age has caverned, safely courts repose.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The velvet jay, in pristine colors clad,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Weaves her curious nest with firm-wreathed twigs,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And sidelong forms her cautious door; she dreads</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The taloned hawk, or pouncing eagle,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Herself, with craft suspicion ever dwells.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>As the singing of birds is the voice of courtship and
conjugal love, the concerts of the groves begin to fill
all with their various melody. In England the return
of the nightingale in the spring is hailed with much
joy; he sings by day as well as night; but in the daytime
his voice is drowned in the multitude of performers;
in the evening it is heard alone, whence the
poets have always made the song of the nightingale
a nocturnal serenade. The author of the “<span class='it'>Rime of
the Ancient Mariner</span>,” thus beautifully describes an
April night, and the song of this siren: —</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;'>                    All is still,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Yet let us think upon the vernal showers</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>That gladden the green earth, and we shall find</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And hark! the nightingale begins his song;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>He crowds, and hurries, and precipitates,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>With fast, thick warble, his delicious notes,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>As he were fearful that an April night</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Would be too short for him to utter forth</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>His love-chant, and disburden his full soul</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Of all his music!</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>                    I know a grove,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Which the great lord inhabits not; and so</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>This grove is wild with tangling underwood,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And the trim walks are broken up; and grass,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Thin grass and king-cups, grow within the paths;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>But never elsewhere in one place I knew</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>So many nightingales. And far and near,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>In wood and thicket o’er the wide grove,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>They answer and provoke each other’s songs —</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>With skirmish and capricious passagings,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And murmurs musical and swift—jug, jug!</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And one low, piping sound, more sweet than all,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Stirring the air with such a harmony</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>That, should you close your eyes, you might almost</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>You may, perchance, behold them on the twigs,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Lifts up her love-torch.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>                      Oft a moment’s space,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>With one sensation, and those wakeful birds</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'><span class='pageno' title='231' id='Page_231'></span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>As if one quick and sodden gale had swept</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>An hundred airy harps! And I have watched</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Many a nightingale perched giddily</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>On blossoming twig, still swinging from the breeze,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And to that motion tune his wanton song,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Milton, too, in the first of his sonnets, has a beautiful
address to this success portending songster:</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;'>O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>While hours lead on the laughing month of May,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Thou with fresh hopes the lover’s heart dost fill.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The fishes are now inspired by the same enlivening
influence which acts upon the rest of animated Nature,
and in consequence, again offer themselves as a prey
to the art of the angler, who returns to his usual haunt.</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;'>“Beneath a willow long forsook,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> The fisher seeks his ’customed nook;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> And bursting through the crackling sedge</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> That crowns the current’s caverned edge,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> He startles from the bordering wood</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> The bashful wild-ducks early brood.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>A considerable number of plants flower in this month,
which Bloomfield beautifully describes.</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;'>Neglected now the early daisy lies,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Nor thou, pale primrose, bloom’st the only prize,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Flowers of all hues with sweetest fragrance stored,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Where’er she treads Love gladdens every plain,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Anticipating wealth for Summer skies.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>In particular, many of the fruit-bearing trees and
shrubs, the flowers of which are peculiarly termed
<span class='it'>blossoms</span>. These form a most agreeable spectacle, as
well on account of their beauty, as of the promise they
give of future benefits.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What exquisite differences and distinctions, and
resemblances,” exclaims Warton, “there are between
all the various blossoms of the fruit-trees; and no less
in their general effect, than in their separate details.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The almond-blossom which comes first of all, and
while the tree is quite bare of leaves, is of a bright
blush-rose color; and when they are fully blown, the
tree, if it has been kept to a compact head, instead of
being permitted to straggle, looks like one huge rose,
magnified by some fairy magic, to deck the bosom of
some fair giantess. The various lands of plum follow,
the blossoms of which are snow-white, and as full and
clustering as those of the almond. The peach and
nectarine, which are now preparing to put forth their
blossoms, are unlike either of the above; and their
sweet effect, as if growing out of the bare wall or
rough wooden paling, is peculiarly pretty. They are
of a deep blush color, and of a delicate bell-shape;
the lips, however, divided and turning backward, to
expose the interior to the cherishing sun. But, perhaps,
the bloom that is richest, and most promising in
its general appearance, is that of the cherry, clasping
its white honors all around the long, straight branches,
from heel to point, and not letting a leaf or bit of stem
be seen, except the three or four leaves that come as
a green finish at the extremity of each branch. The
blossoms of the pears, and, loveliest of all, the apples,
do not come in perfection till next month.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It is, however, an anxious time for the possessor, as
the fairest prospect of a plentiful increase is often
blighted. Shakspeare draws a pathetic comparison
from this circumstance, to paint the delusive nature
of human expectations:</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;'>This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The third day comes a frost, a killing frost!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>And Milton beautifully uses the same <a id='sim'></a>simile:</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;'>Abortive as the first-born bloom of Spring,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Nipped with the lagging rear of Winter’s frost.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Herrick indulges in the following “fond imaginings”
to blossoms:</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;'>Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Why do you fall so fast?</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Your date is not so past</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>But you may stay yet here awhile</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  To blush and gently smile,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  And go at last.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>What! were ye born to be</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  An hour and half’s delight,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  And so to bid good-night?</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>’Tis pity Nature brought ye forth,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Merely to show your worth,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  And lose you quite!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>But your lovely leaves where we,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  May read how soon things have</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Their end, though ne’er so brave;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And after they have shown their pride,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Like you away to glide</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Into the grave.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The poet of the Seasons gives delightful utterance
to the aspirations of many a bosom at this inspiring
season:</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;'>                      Now from the town,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Oft let me wander o’er the dewy fields,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Where freshness breathes; and dash the trembling drops</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Of sweetbriar hedges I pursue my walk;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Or taste the smell of daisy; or ascend</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And see the country far diffused around,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>One boundless blush of white empurpled shower</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Hurries from joy to joy, and hid beneath</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The farmer is busied in sowing early sorts of grain
and seeds for fodder, for which purpose dry weather
is most suitable, though plentiful showers, at due intervals,
are desirable for feeding the young grass and
springing seeds:</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 work is done, no more to man is given,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> And marks the first green blade that breaks the ground;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> His tufted barley yellow with the sun,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> And all his harvest gathered around his door.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<hr class='tbk105'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='232' id='Page_232'></span><h1><a id='kate'></a>KATE LORIMER:</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>OR THE PEARL IN THE OYSTER.</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. EMMA C. EMBURY.</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;'>“The pearl in ocean’s cavern lies,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'> The feather floats upon the wave.”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Kate Lorimer</span> was neither a beauty, a wit, nor an
heiress: she was only one of those many commonplace
young ladies, who are “brought out” every
winter to laugh, dance and flirt, for a season or two,
then to marry, and fulfill their destiny by immuring
themselves in a nursery for the rest of their lives. So
said the world—but for once that many-eyed and
many-tongued gossip was mistaken. Kate was very
unlike most young ladies. With her Juno-like figure,
and fine, though somewhat massive, features, there
needed only a careful study of the mysteries of the
toilet to make her appear what dandies call “a splendid
woman.” But Kate, though in reality she was neatness
itself, generally seemed but one degree removed
from a sloven; so careless was she respecting the
color, make, and adjustment of her clothes. Then she
had what Shakspeare calls “a very pretty wit,” a
certain shrewdness of intellect, and a quiet sense of
the ridiculous, which wanted only the piquant sauce
of boldness and ill-nature to make her what the witlings
in primrose kids would style “<span class='it'>bre-i-lliant</span>.”
But Kate was equally indifferent to her own looks and
manners. She seemed like a kind of human machine,
moved by some invisible springs, at the volition of
others, but by no positive will of her own.</p>
<p class='pindent'>What, you will ask, was the secret of this cold abstraction
in a young and not ungifted girl? There was
no mystery about it; Kate was only one of the many
instances of “a candle placed in the wrong socket,”
as my poor friend —— used to say. She was one of
a large family, but she was neither the oldest—the
first inheritor of parental love—nor the youngest—the
recipient of its fond dotage. Her elder brother, a tall,
graceful youth, was the pride of both father and mother,
and whatever privileges Kate might have claimed
as the <span class='it'>first</span> of the troop of damsels who chattered their
days away in the nursery and school-room, they were
entirely forgotten in favor of the second daughter, who
chanced to be extremely beautiful. The fact was that
Kate occupied a most insignificant position between a
conceited oldest son and a sister who was a belle.
Her brother Tom’s sententiousness overwhelmed her
and crushed her into nonentity, while Louisa’s beauty
and vivacity threw her completely into the shade.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At her very first entrance into society, Kate felt that
she had only a subordinate part to play, and there was
a certain inertness of character about her, which made
her quietly adopt the habits befitting her inferior position.
Her mother, a handsome, stylish woman, with
an easiness of temper which won affection but not
respect from her children, and a degree of indolence
which sadly interfered with the regularity of her
household—sometimes fretted a little at Kale’s sluggishness,
and wished she was a little less “lumpish”
at a party. But there was a repose in Kate’s manner,
which, upon the whole, Mrs. Lorimer rather liked, as
it effectually prevented any rivalry between the two
sisters. Aunt Bell, a somewhat precise, but sensible
old maid, was the only one who was seriously dissatisfied.
She remembered Kate’s ambition as a schoolgirl;
she preserved among her most precious mementoes
all Kate’s “prizes,” “rewards of merit,” etc.
And she could not conceive why this enthusiasm and
eagerness for distinction should have died away so
suddenly and so completely. Aunt Bell suspected
something of the truth, but even she, who loved Kate
better than any body in the world, could not know the
whole truth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Kate Lorimer was like one of those still, quiet
mountain lakes, which at one particular spot are said
to be unfathomable, but whether because they are so
deep, or because a wonderfully strong under-current
carries away the line and plummet in its descent, is
never clearly ascertained by those who skim over the
surface of the sleepy waters. Almost every one liked
her; that is, they felt that negative kind of liking
which all persons have for a quiet, good-humored sort
of a body, who is never in the way. At a crowded
party Kate always gave up her place in the quadrille
if there was a want of room on the floor; if beaux
were scarce, Kate was quite content to talk to some
frowsy old lady in a corner; if a pair of indefatigable
hands were required to play interminable waltzes and
polkas, Kate’s long white fingers seemed unwearied;
in short, Kate never thought of herself, because she
honestly believed she was not worth anybody’s thinking
about.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Was she so inordinately humble as to set no value
upon herself? Not exactly that; but she had so high
a standard of excellence in her own soul, and was
so conscious of her utter inability to attain to that
standard, that she grew to feel a species of contempt
for herself, and therefore she neglected herself, not as
a penance, but because she would not waste thought
or time upon any thing appertaining to herself. No
one understood poor Kate, and of course nobody appreciated
her. When she spent hours in dressing her
beautiful sister for a ball, and then twisting up her own
fine hair in a careless knot, and slipping on a plain
white dress, was ready in ten minutes to accompany
<span class='pageno' title='233' id='Page_233'></span>
the belle to the gay scene where she knew she could
never shine, people only called her slovenly and careless,
but gave her no credit for the generous affection
which could lavish decorations on another, and be
content through a whole evening</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;'>                       “to hear</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Praise of a sister with unwounded ear.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>When she refused invitations to parties that she might
stay at home and nurse Aunt Bell through a slow fever,
people said—“She is so indolent, she is glad of an
excuse to avoid the trouble of going out.” No one
knew that she was not too indolent to watch through
the long hours of night beside the sick-bed of the invalid,
while her lovely sister was sleeping off the
fatigues of the dance. When she gave up a gay season
at the Springs, rather than disappoint her old
grandmother, who had set her heart upon a visit from
one of the sisters—when she spent a long, dull summer
in a hot country-house, with no other companions
than Aunt Bell and the infirm old lady, and no other
amusement than could be found in a book-case full of
Minerva-Press novels, then people—those wonderfully
knowing people—again said, “Kate Lorimer is turning
her indolence to account, and will earn a legacy
out of it;” while the fact was, neither Aunt Bell nor
grandmother had a cent in the world beyond their
life-interest in their old country home.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If Louisa makes an engagement this winter, I
think I shall hurry Ella’s education a little, so as to
bring her out next season;” said Mrs. Lorimer to
her husband, during one of those “<span class='it'>curtain conferences</span>”
which are quite the opposite to “curtain
lectures.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why should you do that? You will have Kate
still to provide for, and Ella will be all the more attractive
for another year’s study,” was the reply of the
calculating though kind father.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Kate is a hopeless case; she will never be
married, she is too indifferent; no man will take a
fancy to a girl who at the first introduction shows by
her manner that she does not care what he thinks of
her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then you think Kate is one of the ‘predestinate
old maids?’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am afraid so.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, Kate is a good child, and we shall want one
of the girls to keep house for us when we grow old;
so I don’t know that we need regret it much.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You don’t consider the mortification of bringing
out two daughters at a time and having one left on
hand, like a bale of unsaleable goods, while such a
woman as that vulgar Mrs. Dobbs has married her
four red-headed frights in two seasons.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How was that done?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh! by management; but then the girls were as
anxious as the mother, and helped themselves along.
As to Kate, I don’t believe she would take the trouble
to walk across the room in order to secure the best
match in the country.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She certainly is very indifferent, but she seems
perfectly contented.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, that is the trouble; she is perfectly satisfied
to remain a fixture, although she knows that she will
have to rank with the ‘<span class='it'>antiques</span>’ as soon as I begin to
bring out her four younger sisters.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps it would be better to bring out Ella next
winter,” sighed the father.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, Ella is lively and fresh-looking, and during
the festivities which will follow Louisa’s wedding,
she can slip into her place in society without the expense
of a ‘<span class='it'>coming-out</span>’ party.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You speak as if Louisa’s marriage were a settled
thing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because she can have her choice now of half a
dozen, and by the time the season is over she will
probably decide.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, under your guidance, she is not likely to
make an imprudent choice.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hope not. To tell you the truth, I am waiting
for one more declaration, and then there will be no
more delay,” said the mother.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Has she not admirers enough?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, but if she can secure young Ferrers it will
be worth waiting.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What! Clarence Ferrers? Why, he is worth
almost half a million; is he an admirer of Louisa’s?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is a new acquaintance, and seems very much
struck with her beauty; but he is an odd creature, and
seems to pride himself upon differing from all the rest
of the world; we shall see what will happen. One
thing only is certain, Louisa will be married before
the year is out, and Kate will, I think, resign herself
to old-maidism with a very good grace.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And having come to this conclusion, the two wise-acres
composed themselves to sleep.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Clarence Ferrers, so honorably mentioned by Mr.
Lorimer as “<span class='it'>worth</span> half a million,” was a gentleman
of peculiar tastes and habits. His father died while
he was yet a boy, and he had struggled with poverty
and hardship while acquiring the education which his
talents deserved, and which his ambition demanded.
He had stooped his pride to labor, and he had learned
to submit to want, but he had never bowed himself to
bear the yoke of dependence. Alone he had toiled,
alone he had struggled, alone he had won success.
His mother had been the first to encourage his youthful
genius, and to plant the seeds of honorable ambition
within his soul. He had loved her with an almost
idolatrous affection, and when he saw her eking out
by the labors of the needle the small annuity which
secured her from starvation, in order that he might
devote all his own little stipend as a teacher to his
own education, he felt that gratitude and love alike
required him to persevere until success should reward
the mother by crowning the son.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There is something ennobling and hallowing in such
a tie as that which existed between Mrs. Ferrers and
Clarence. A gentle, humble-minded woman herself,
she was ambitious that her son should be good and
great. She knew the benumbing effect of poverty
upon the soul, but she took care that the genial warmth
of affection should counteract its evil influences upon
the gifted mind of her darling son. She was his friend,
his counselor, his sympathizing companion, sharing
all his hopes, his aspirations, his pleasures, and his
sorrows, as only a true-hearted and loving woman can
<span class='pageno' title='234' id='Page_234'></span>
do. Long ere he reached the years of mature manhood
the bond between mother and son had been made
stronger than death; and, alas! far more enduring than
life. Mrs. Ferrers lived to see Clarence occupying a
position of honor and usefulness as professor in one
of our most distinguished colleges. Her death left
him a lonely and desolate man, for so close had been
their communion, so thorough had been their mutual
sympathy, that he had never till then felt the need of
another friend. But in the enthusiasm of his deep and
fervent love, he felt that he was not dissevered by the
hand of death; and many an hour did he hold converse
in his secret soul with the “spirit-mother,” whom he
felt to be ever near him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Clarence Ferrers had counted his thirtieth summer,
when an old great-uncle, who had suffered him to
struggle with poverty during all his early years, without
stretching forth a finger to sustain him, died very
suddenly, leaving behind him an immense fortune,
which he distributed by will, among some dozen charitable
associations, whose very names he had never
heard until they were suggested by his lawyer, and
making not the slightest mention of his nephew.
Luckily for him, the will was <span class='it'>unexecuted</span>, and the
neglected Clarence learned that, as heir-at-law, he was
entitled to the whole of his miserly uncle’s hoarded
wealth. Years had passed since Clarence had even
seen the old man; and he certainly owed him no gratitude
for the gift which would have been withheld
from him if death had not been more cruel even than
avarice. But Clarence was not a man to feel selfishly
on any subject. One hundred thousand dollars, the
fifth part of his newly-acquired fortune, was distributed
among the charities named in the will, thus fulfilling
the supposed wish of the deceased. With another
large portion he endowed a “Home for Poor Gentlewomen,”
as a tribute to the memory of his mother,
whose life had been one of struggle and care for want
of such “a home” in the early days of her widowhood.
Then, after liberally providing for all who had any
claims upon the old miser, he placed his affairs in the
hands of a trusty agent, and sailed for Europe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Clarence Ferrers set out upon his travels with no
fixed purpose, except that of acquiring knowledge of
all kinds, and of compelling occupation of mind to quiet
yearnings of the heart. Eight years elapsed ere he
revisited his native land. During that time he had explored
every part of Europe, treading the greensward
of its by-ways, no less than the dust of its high-roads.
From the islands of the Archipelago to the most
northerly part of Russia, he had traveled, commanding
respect by his scientific attainments, receiving attentions
every where for his courtly elegance of manner,
winning love wherever he went by his suavity and
kindness. Then to the East, that land of sacred memories,
he turned his steps; Egypt, the land of mystery,
too, was not forgotten, and when Clarence returned
to his own country, he bore with him treasures
of learning and wisdom from every land where the
footsteps of man had trod. Yet was he as modest as
he was learned, and few would have suspected that
the quiet, gentlemanlike person, whose tall figure bent
so gracefully over some timid girl at the piano, or
who so carefully escorted some old lady to the supper-room
at a party, was the celebrated traveler and man
of world-known science.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Such was the man whom Mr. Lorimer pronounced
to be “<span style='font-size:smaller'>WORTH</span> <span class='it'>half a million</span>!” I have sketched him
at some length, because this is no fancy portrait, and
memory has been faithful to her trust in thus enabling
me to trace, though but in faint and shadowy outline,
the noble character of one of God’s noblest creatures.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But all this time I have forgotten poor Kate Lorimer.
She would have thought it strange that she ever should
be remembered, especially when Clarence Ferrers
was in one’s mind. Kate had seen Clarence Ferrers
introduced to her beautiful sister, and had felt a glow
of pleasure as she marked his look of genuine admiration.
She had listened to words of graceful compliment,
so unlike the vapid flattery of others. She had
heard the tones of that thrilling voice, whose musical
accents had been able to move alike the wild Arab, and
the wilder Cossack, by their melody. She sat alone
in the only shadowy corner of a gay and crowded
saloon, but she would not have exchanged places with
the most flattered and courted of the guests; for she
could listen unobserved to the gifted traveler, and
look unnoticed upon his expressive countenance. She
had heard of him from childhood; for Aunt Bell had
been one of Mrs. Ferrers’ earliest friends, and the
story of his early struggles, his devoted love for his
mother, and his subsequent good fortune, had been one
of Aunt Isabel’s favorite themes. But he was a man
when Kate was still in the nursery, and was but a
shy girl of fourteen when, as she remembered, he
called to pay his farewell visit to his mother’s friend
previous to his departure. To the unappreciated girl,
living in the midst of an ungenial though not unhealthy
moral atmosphere, the picture of perfect sympathy and
affection, as it had existed between the gentle mother
and her gifted son, was one which, unconsciously, left
its reflection within her soul, and became a sort of
ideal to her half-developed nature. She did not retain
the slightest remembrance of his actual appearance,
but so vivid an image of his mental and moral gifts
was traced upon her memory, that she felt she needed
not the intercourse of social life to make her know
him better. Yet as the beauty and vivacity of her
sister attracted him closer to her side, it was impossible
for Kate, with all her shyness, to avoid becoming
acquainted with him; and it sometimes happened that
when the beautiful Louisa was led off to the dance by
one of her host of admirers, she would leave Kate to
entertain Mr. Ferrers till her return, thus flattering him
by her evident desire to retain his society, and, at the
same time securing him from all rival belles.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Clarence Ferrers was now eight-and-thirty, an age
when a man, however gifted, will not be insensible to
the evident admiration of a very young and extremely
pretty woman. He was still a fine looking man, but
he was no longer youthful in his appearance. His
teeth were fine, and his eyes, those soft, bright, tender
eyes, were as beautiful as in boyhood, when his mother
loved nothing so well as to kiss those full, heavily-fringed
lids for the sake of the beaming look which
rewarded the caress. But Clarence had not escaped
<span class='pageno' title='235' id='Page_235'></span>
the touch of Time; his luxuriant locks were thinned,
and the silver threads were mingled among those dark
chestnut curls. He appeared full as old as he really
was; but who could look on his magnificent brow,
watch the play of his flexible lips, or listen to the tones
of his exquisite voice, and think of the ravages of
Time?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Kate Lorimer was one of the best <span class='it'>listeners</span> in the
world. There was a certain negligent ease with which
she inclined herself toward the speaker, and a look of
quiet attention on her countenance which always gratified
the self-love of those who conversed with her.
To be sure, in nine cases out of ten, this pleasant
manner arose only from her indolent good humor,
which found a kind of luxurious repose in the monotonous
hum of a busy talker. But when listening to
Clarence Ferrers, (for she seldom talked with him, except
as much as common politeness required,) Kate
soon found that his conversation did not afford her a
mere cushion for mental repose. Not that Clarence
dealt much in the marvelous, or excelled much in narration,
although he abounded in illustrative anecdotes
and reminiscences on every subject; but he had the
art—so rare and so delightful—of waking up every
faculty in the mind of those with whom he conversed.
He imparted knowledge in such a manner as to make
his hearer feel as if the <span class='it'>ideas</span> were his own, and the
corroborative <span class='it'>facts</span> only were the results of the
traveler’s observation. Yet he was no flatterer, he
only, as I said before, had the power of arousing and
stimulating the intellect of his hearers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>If Clarence Ferrers had been at first struck with the
extreme beauty of Louisa, he was not less sensible to
the “surprises of sudden joy” with which he beheld
the dawning of Kate’s peculiar qualities of character.
Her moral nature he had read at a glance, and it inspired
him with respect and esteem, but her intellectual
being, which was a mystery even to herself, became a
study to the man of science and research. There was
so much freshness of thought in her hitherto slumbering
mind; such clearness of perception when she was unconsciously
led to exercise her mental vision; such
harmony of movement between the reasoning and the
imaginative faculty, that Clarence became daily more
interested in the “lumpish” Kate, despite the attractions
of her beautiful sister.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mamma, I do not believe I can put off Frank
Dormer any longer; he is desperately in love, and determined
to make a declaration,” said Louisa, one
morning, as she sat assisting Kate to trim a ball-dress
with which she expected to charm all eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It would be a pity to lose so rich and generous an
admirer, Lou,” was the reply of the prudent mother.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But suppose I should accept him, mamma?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That you would not do; Frank Dormer is only rich
in expectancy, while Clarence Ferrers has both wealth
and fame.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I like Frank best;” said the young lady, coolly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My dear Louisa, have you lost your senses?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, madam; but you may as well let me tell you
now, that, for all his fortune, I would not marry
Clarence Ferrers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why not?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, he is so frightfully sensible, I should never dare
do or say an absurd thing for fear of seeing those great
<span class='it'>lamping</span> eyes looking reproval at me. Besides, he
does not seem inclined to offer himself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How can you say so, Louisa? I am sure he never
leaves us at a party, and seems never so happy as
when sitting near us and watching your graceful movements
when you are dancing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, he can’t expect me to drop into his arms by
the mere fascination of his look. If he were not so
rich, I should not think of him for a moment, while I
really like Frank. He is full of gayety and frolic, and
with him I should have a merry life. Clarence Ferrers
is too old and grave for me. Don’t you think so,
Kate?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Kate started at the question; she had evidently been
in one of her dreamy moods, and perhaps had not heard
a word of their conversation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Poor Kate! she bent over her sewing, and seemed
intent only on placing at proper distances the delicate
white roses which looped the gauze drapery of Louisa’s
new dress; but she felt a sudden faintness come over
her, which required all her habitual self-control to subdue.
Not until the dress was finished and displayed
upon the sofa to her mother’s criticism; not until the
pearl ornaments had been laid upon the beauty’s dark
curls by the skillful fingers of the all-enduring Kate;
not until she had listened to all her sister’s ideas respecting
the sash, which was to be tied at the side,
with long floating ends; in short, not until all the important
trivialities of a belle’s ball-costume had been
discussed and decided upon by the aid of Kate’s taste,
was she at liberty to retire to her own room. At last
she was released, and as Louisa sprung up stairs, humming
a lively Opera air, Kate, gathering up her sewing
materials, slowly followed till she arrived at the door
of her own apartment, which, in consideration of its
being the smallest room in the house, and in the fourth
story, she was permitted to occupy <span class='it'>alone</span>. This had
long been poor Kate’s sanctuary, where she could
think and feel and act as she pleased. Now she
quietly locked the door, and then, when she had
secured herself from intrusion, she sat down in the
rocking-chair which had been her companion from
childhood, and gave way to the tears which were
pressing so painfully against her hot eye-lids.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Kate had often wept—much oftener than those who
called her indifferent and cold in temper, could have
imagined—but never had she shed such bitter, burning
tears as now. There was grief and shame, and
wounded affection, and mortified pride, all blended in
the emotion which now agitated her. She could not
have analyzed her own feelings; she only knew she
was very unhappy and very lonely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That evening Kate was too unwell to accompany
her sister to the ball. A severe headache, arising from
an attack of influenza, which accounted for the humid
eyes that would weep in spite of all poor Kate’s
efforts, was sufficient apology. So Mrs. Lorimer,
with her tall son and beautiful daughter, were whirled
off to the gay scene, leaving Kate to read the newspaper
and play backgammon with her rheumatic father,
who never went out after sunset.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='236' id='Page_236'></span>
But the old gentleman’s evenings were generally
short. By nine o’clock he was comfortably fixed in
bed, and Kate sat alone in the deserted drawing-room,
when she was startled by the sound of the door-bell.
It was too late for a visiter, and Kate’s first thought
was that it might be a message for a parcel for her
brother. She did not alter her position, therefore, but
sat with her head bent, her hands listlessly lying in
her lap, and her whole attitude one of the deepest dejection.
A gentle footstep, and the tones of a well-known
voice, startled her from her painful dream, and
as she looked up her eyes fell on the stately form of
Clarence Ferrers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I heard you were kept at home by indisposition,
Miss Lorimer,” said he, “will you pardon me if I
have availed myself of this opportunity of seeing you
alone?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Kate was a little bewildered, but she murmured
something about “the pleasure of seeing him,” etc.
like a well-bred young lady.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Kate—Miss Lorimer—will you answer me frankly?
I have lately indulged the hope that we may be
united in a closer bond than even the friendship with
which you have honored me; have I deceived myself
with vain fancies?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Kate’s heart seemed to stand still for a moment, and
an icy coldness ran through her veins. She saw it all
in a moment. Clarence Ferrers wanted to learn from
her his chance of success with her beautiful sister.
What should she do? Louisa did not love Clarence,
but it was a desirable match. Should she sacrifice the
prospects of her sister, or should she betray the noble
confidence of him who called her his friend? How
could she decide when her own heart was just
awakened to a dim sense of its own mad folly and
weakness?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Clarence watched her countenance, and marveled
at the lights and shadows that flitted so rapidly across
it. “I am afraid I have given you pain, Miss Lorimer,”
said he at length: “I meant not to distress you;
only tell me whether I have done wrong in believing
that I might yet occupy a nearer and dearer place in
your esteem; whether I have been mistaken in my
hope of finding you my strongest advocate?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Kate felt that she must speak. “You can scarcely
need an advocate,” said she timidly: “I presume I
understand your meaning, and I can only say that any
woman might be proud to be the object of your
choice.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And is this all you can say? Am I to think that
on the empty gifts of fame, or the paltry advantages of
fortune, I must depend for that most precious of earthly
things, a sympathizing heart. ‘<span class='it'>Proud to be my choice</span>’—oh!
Kate, I did not expect such a cold rebuff from
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Tears rushed into Kate’s eyes; she felt herself
growing weaker every moment, and she determined
to put an end to the conversation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have you spoken to my sister, Mr. Ferrers?” said
she, while she strove in vain to check the quick gasps
that almost suffocated her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To your sister!” said Clarence, in some surprise.
“No, Miss Lorimer, I preferred coming first to you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have but little influence over Louisa,” said the
trembling girl, “but all that I have shall be exerted in
your behalf.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Louisa!—your sister!—I really do not comprehend
you, Kate.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A momentary feeling of wounded pride aroused
Kate, and mastered her coming weakness. She rose
from her seat; “Did you not ask me to be your advocate
with my sister?” asked she, while her cheek and
lip grew white as ashes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My advocate with your sister!” exclaimed Clarence;
“no indeed: Kate! my own dearest Kate! it
was with your own sweet self I wanted an advocate,
and hoped to find my strongest one in your heart.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Kate grew dizzy and faint; a mist gathered before
her eyes, and when it cleared away she was sitting on
the sofa, with a strong arm lovingly twined about her
waist, and on the soft white hand which lay in the
grasp of Clarence glittered the betrothal ring, though
how or when it was placed there she never clearly
could remember.</p>
<hr class='tbk106'/>
<p class='pindent'>“How strangely Clarence Ferrers disappeared from
the ball to-night,” exclaimed Mrs. Lorimer, as she
puffed her way up to her room at two o’clock in the
morning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I was not sorry he went, mamma, for it gave
Frank the chance he has so long wanted. He offered
himself last night, while we were in the midst of that
last polka; and I referred him to papa,” said Louisa,
as she turned toward her own room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I only hope you have not been too hasty,”
said the mother, too sleepy just then to care much
about the matter.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The next morning Mr. Lorimer was visited in his
private office by the young and handsome Frank Dormer.
He was an only child; his father was prepared
to “come down” handsomely with the cash, and Mr.
Lorimer gave a ready assent to the proposition of the
enamored youth. He had scarcely finished his after-dinner
nap, on the same day, when Clarence Ferrers
sought an interview. Matters were soon arranged
with a man who was “<span class='it'>worth half a million</span>,” and
Mr. Lorimer chuckled and rubbed his hands with infinite
glee, as he reminded his wife of her prediction
that “<span class='it'>Kate was a predestinate old maid</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Kate has been more than two years a wife, and in the
elegant, self-possessed, dignified woman, whose statuesque
repose of manner seems now the result of the
most perfect grace, no one would recognize the dull,
indifferent, “lumpish” Kate of former years. In the
atmosphere of affection every faculty of mind and body
has attained perfect development. She has learned to
value herself at her real worth, because such a man
as Clarence Ferrers has thought her deserving of his
regard. She is not the less humble, but she is no longer
self-despising and self-neglectful. In order to do honor
to her husband, she has striven to be all he would have
her, and the result is one of the most intellectual and
elegant women of whom our country can boast. The
“light” which was threatened with extinction has
now found “its right socket,” and no brighter luminary
shines either in the world of fashion, or in the circle
of home.</p>
<hr class='tbk107'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='237' id='Page_237'></span><h1><a id='mex'></a>BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. III.</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/i018.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0002' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>Monterey.</span></p>
</div>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>It</span> was early in September, in the morning of the day,</p>
<p class='line0'>When our army paused admiringly in front of <span class='sc'>Monterey</span>; —</p>
<p class='line0'>Like Cortez, had our general led his gallant little band</p>
<p class='line0'>Through hosts of savage foemen to the centre of the land; —</p>
<p class='line0'>Guerilla and Ranchero had followed on his track,</p>
<p class='line0'>Like hungry wolves, but steadily our men had beat them back.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>There lay the noble city—its cathedrals, and its towers</p>
<p class='line0'>And parapets; its palaces, and gardens bright with flowers —</p>
<p class='line0'>With the sunlight falling on it, over tower and dome and spire,</p>
<p class='line0'>Through the mellow morning radiance, in a rain of golden fire:</p>
<p class='line0'>Never, even in dreams of Orient lands, had Saxon eyes looked down</p>
<p class='line0'>On so glorious a country, or so beautiful a town.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Through the grove of San Domingo our general led the way,</p>
<p class='line0'>Reconnoitring in silence the city as it lay —</p>
<p class='line0'>When from the Citadel, which frowned scarce half a league before,</p>
<p class='line0'>We saw a flash of flame leap out, and heard a cannon’s roar:</p>
<p class='line0'>The enemy were there in force, and we braced us for the fray,</p>
<p class='line0'>Though retiring for the time before the guns of <span class='sc'>Monterey</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>All day our parties scanned the place; and never had our eyes</p>
<p class='line0'>Beheld a spot so guarded from all danger of surprise;</p>
<p class='line0'>Its fortresses apparently all human force defied,</p>
<p class='line0'>For what nature left unfinished, consummate art supplied:</p>
<p class='line0'>We felt, while gazing on it, that many a bloody day</p>
<p class='line0'>Would pass before our gallant troops were lords of <span class='sc'>Monterey</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Next morning came the order; and we saw chivalrous <span class='sc'>Worth</span>,</p>
<p class='line0'>With his regulars, march silently and determinedly forth.</p>
<p class='line0'>On the heights that overhung his road the Bishop’s Palace rose,</p>
<p class='line0'>Like a giant looking down on the columns of his foes;</p>
<p class='line0'>But his men pressed bravely on, led by <span class='sc'>Hays</span> and noble <span class='sc'>May</span>,</p>
<p class='line0'>Till from their eyry in the hills they gazed on <span class='sc'>Monterey</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Meanwhile we stood like restive steeds, fretful and full of fire,</p>
<p class='line0'>And anxious for the conflict which every hour brought nigher.</p>
<p class='line0'>Day waned, and morning came again, and then the word was given</p>
<p class='line0'>And answered by a thousand shouts that shook the vaults of heaven,</p>
<p class='line0'>For our troops, long curbed, now held the reins, and lightly leapt away,</p>
<p class='line0'>Sweeping with headlong fury toward defying <span class='sc'>Monterey</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>We saw brave <span class='sc'>Worth</span>, whose noble band was ordered to the right,</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='pageno' title='238' id='Page_238'></span></p>
<p class='line0'>Lead on his men through sheets of flame, and storm the castled height,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the Mexic flag go down, and the stars and stripes expand</p>
<p class='line0'>In the golden yellow sunlight, like a rainbow o’er the land,</p>
<p class='line0'>As, led by gallant <span class='sc'>Butler</span>, our division fought its way,</p>
<p class='line0'>Foot by foot, and step by step, toward the town of <span class='sc'>Monterey</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The Citadel had greeted us, but we passed along the plain,</p>
<p class='line0'>While its showers of grape and musket-shot deluged our ranks like rain;</p>
<p class='line0'>But fierce and hot as was its fire, ’twas naught to what ensued</p>
<p class='line0'>When in the suburbs narrow ways our little phalanx stood;</p>
<p class='line0'>But <span class='sc'>Butler</span> led us on, and we swore to win the day</p>
<p class='line0'>Or die, like Yankee volunteers, in the streets of <span class='sc'>Monterey</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The cannon of the Citadel still swept our falling flanks —</p>
<p class='line0'>The guns of Fort Teneria sent death throughout our ranks; —</p>
<p class='line0'>Every window, door and house-top concealed a hidden foe,</p>
<p class='line0'>Who sent his leaden welcome to the files that fought below:</p>
<p class='line0'>Death reigned supreme: we stood aghast; but not a man gave way,</p>
<p class='line0'>Though never yet was fight so fought as that at <span class='sc'>Monterey</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Sudden! arose a cry—a yell! and we saw our banners wave</p>
<p class='line0'>Over Fort Teneria’s summit: God! what a shout we gave!</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>Quitman</span> and his brigade were there, and the enemy’s flag went down,</p>
<p class='line0'>As, with another rallying cry, we hurried through the town:</p>
<p class='line0'>Fort Diablo’s guns received us, and one third our columns lay</p>
<p class='line0'>Gasping—wounded—dying—dead—in the streets of <span class='sc'>Monterey</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The rest grew sick at heart; but we closed our ranks and dashed</p>
<p class='line0'>Onward, with cheers, as all around our enemies’ muskets flashed;</p>
<p class='line0'>But <span class='sc'>Butler</span>, tottering on his steed, staggered, and reeled, and sank,</p>
<p class='line0'>And with him, at the same discharge, went down our leading rank: —</p>
<p class='line0'>Human nature could endure no more, and the now departing day</p>
<p class='line0'>Saw us retreating slowly through the town of <span class='sc'>Monterey</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Another day passed slowly by, and we made our bivouac</p>
<p class='line0'>Where we fought, for, though our foes were brave, they could not drive us back;</p>
<p class='line0'>But the morrow brought fresh orders, and our men with hurrying feet</p>
<p class='line0'>Pressed on again, troop after troop, contesting street by street;</p>
<p class='line0'>From door to door, from house to house, we fiercely fought our way,</p>
<p class='line0'>Determined that the night should see us lords of <span class='sc'>Monterey</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Then came the deadly conflict, foot to foot and hand to hand,</p>
<p class='line0'>For at every nook and corner our foemen made a stand;</p>
<p class='line0'>From the barricades which swept the streets, from the roofs above our head,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the windows at our sides, descended showers of iron and lead;</p>
<p class='line0'>And the crash of tumbling timbers, and the clash of steel, that day,</p>
<p class='line0'>With the death-cries of the dying, rent the skies of <span class='sc'>Monterey</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>That night the conflict ceased, and the crimson morning sun</p>
<p class='line0'>Beheld the city in our hands—the bloody battle won.</p>
<p class='line0'>Next day our conquered foes marched out, and slowly over the plain</p>
<p class='line0'>Moved from our sight in silence—a sad, disheartened train;</p>
<p class='line0'>But many an eye glanced backward, remembering the affray,</p>
<p class='line0'>While we gazed on, like statues—the <span class='sc'>Men of Monterey</span>.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
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<img src='images/i021.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0003' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
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<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i022.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0004' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>THE SUNSHINE OF LOVE.</span></p>
</div>
<hr class='tbk109'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='239' id='Page_239'></span><h1><a id='loit'></a>LOITERINGS AND LIFE</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>ON THE PRAIRIES OF THE FARTHEST WEST.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY J. M. LEGARE.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>In</span> October of forty-six, while on a visit to St. Louis,
I met a college-mate, Charles G., who, after a two
years’ ramble toward the South, was now about to
lace on his moccasin again, from a pure love of adventure,
and distaste for the so-called comforts of life
in the States. He had once before traversed the
prairies skirting the Mississippi, and even passed a
winter among the Chippeways on the frozen lakes,
but his present design was to build a lodge somewhere
in the neighborhood of the head-waters of the Missouri,
and run the risk of losing his scalp, for the sake of the
abundance of game of all sorts, and freedom from the
trammels of civilization, to be found on the farther
side of the Yellow-Stone river. As I had abundance of
leisure, and not a little fancy for stirring adventure myself,
he readily made me a convert to his way of thinking,
and in three days we were steaming up the Missouri
for Fort Leavenworth, where we designed taking
a canoe and paddling the rest of the voyage. This
outpost is fully six hundred miles from St. Louis; but
as these sketches are such as one would scrawl off,
lying full-length on the grass, with rifle within reach,
and a blazing fire in front, drawing savory steams from
a haunch of antelope or deer, or buffaloe-hump, I will
describe nothing so commonplace as a voyage in the
high-pressure steamer which landed us in company
with half a regiment of raw dragroons en route for
New Mexico.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We were all anxiety to begin our expedition in
earnest, and the same day purchased a dug-out of
sufficient capacity from a couple of traders on their
way down stream, in which we embarked the next
morning by daylight, with a cargo consisting of a keg
or two of powder, pig-lead, Mackinaw blankets, biscuits,
coffee, and liquor enough to take the clayey taste
out of a <span class='it'>few</span> gallons of the river-water. Our party
consisted of four, Charlie G., myself, a Canadian trapper,
named Jean le Louche, from an outrageous squint
in one eye, whom Charlie had hunted with formerly,
and hailed as an old acquaintance, and now hired to
add to the physical strength of the future little garrison,
and lastly, a woolly-headed servitor of mine, (Jock,)
more honest than brilliant, (I mean intellectually—for
his face shone,) who had begged hard to accompany
me, in place of being sent back to Carolina. The true
banks of the Missouri are from two to twenty miles
apart, and two or three hundred feet in perpendicular
height, sometimes rising in pinnacles and terraces
studded with glittering fragments of gypsum, making
a splendid show in the full blaze of the sun, and
variegated with broad parallel stripes of red, yellow,
and gray, where the stratas of different soils appear in
their natural position laid bare by the heavy rains.
The space between is occupied by a rich plain, deposited
by the river during its frequent overflowings;
and through this beautiful meadow, shaded as it is
here and there by forests and groves of cotton-wood,
beech, sycamore, and oak, the current flows, winding,
from bank to bank, with an average rate of speed of
four or five miles. From the summit of the cliffs
stretches a vast level prairie quite to the falls of the
Missouri, a distance of perhaps 2,500 miles; but of this
great pasture for game I will say nothing for the present,
but return to the region of the river, which
abounds with antelopes, deer, bears, and big-horns—the
former trooping down the grassy slopes in herds
of from fifty to a hundred, stamping their little feet and
stretching out their necks, in their impatience to learn
the errand of the voyageurs, and the last-mentioned
making their appearance on the most inaccessible
heights, often standing motionless between the looker
and the blue sky above, like images carved out of the
chalk which capped many of the peaks. These wild
sheep or goats, (for they resemble both,) I observed
frequently perched on the precipitous banks within
reach, or very nearly, of a good rifle from the shore,
but on pointing this out to Jean, the Voyageur, he only
laughed, saying, “<span class='it'>Sacré!</span> monsieur, dat vere true—a’most,
tourjours a’most—but nevare anyting else.
<span class='it'>Monsieur bighorn a bien de connaissance</span>—all de
Injens call him ‘med’cine’—ha! Him stan’ vere quite—him
not move an pouce. Mais, tenez, him eye fix
on you steady, not so much as make vink. Ven you
come assez close, you raise your fusil—oh, vere softly—den
you quite sure ob him rib for supper. Mais—dans
l’instant—<span class='it'>sacré!</span>—where him jomp? You look
leetle more high up de cliff, and dare him stan’ a’most
in de—de—how you call? Ah, in de shot-rifle. Nevare
mind, you say, I not so slow anoder time. Den you
climb up leetle vay and take de aim agen. Mais, come
autrefois, him no longer dere—mais <span class='it'>a’most</span>—ah, diable!
toujours <span class='it'>a’most</span>!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>We laughed at Jean’s odd description of the habits
of these wonderful mountain-sheep, which he
rendered more forcible by his extravagant gestures,
sometimes rising suddenly in our narrow canoe, at the
risk of turning it bottom upward.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But,” said I, “what if one were to drive one of
your ‘medicine’ goats where he would have no higher
place to leap to, and only a sheer precipice before
him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh ho, monsieur, you tink you got him vere safe
now—mais, monsieur, med’cine not tink so—him laugh,
oh vere much in him sleeve—diable! in him hide!
Eh bien, you much fatigué—you say to yourself, now
or nevare! Den you raise your rifle for de last time—your
<span class='pageno' title='240' id='Page_240'></span>
finger feel for de trigger—<span class='it'>n’est-ce pas?</span>—Hola!
sacré, diable, ventrebleu—were him? You rub your
eye, you open him wide—<span class='it'>so</span> wide. Presently you
look more closer—you not see no terrace, noting but
deep prec’pice—ha! Den you smile vid yourself, you
quite sure him break de neck at de bottom. You
creep down, creep down vere slow, dat your neck
might not brake <span class='it'>aussi</span>. Mais, ven you reach de
bottom, you not see him novere!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How—you don’t mean to say that this devil of a
goat can fall a hundred feet or more without breaking
every bone in his body?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Précisement, monsieur, précisement. Vhen him
jump down, him fall on him big horn—him not broke
noting at all. Den à l’instant him on him four foot—him
cut caper—him say, <span class='it'>bec—bah</span>! And dat is de last
you shall see of monsieur vid de grandes hornes—eh
bien!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was all very fine, but I credited about one-half
of Jean’s assertions, and determined to embrace the
first opportunity of trying a shot on my own account.
Accordingly while the others were constructing our
usual night-camp one afternoon, I slipped quietly away,
and after a half hour’s prying about, discovered a
big-horn, and crept cautiously under the cliff upon
which he was perched, but the animal discovered me
before I could get within long-shot. I followed, however,
and to do so, was obliged to begin the ascent,
which was toilsome and sometimes dangerous, from
the narrowness of the ledges affording foot-hold.
Several times my eye glanced along the rifle-barrel,
but before I could draw trigger, a sudden leap would
again place him out of reach; and in this manner I
persisted in creeping and clambering higher and higher,
until I found myself near the edge of the prairie above,
and the big-horn some distance <span class='it'>below</span>, with only a
sloping ledge intervening between us. I saw in a
moment that he could not escape me this time, unless
he threw himself over the brink of the precipice, as
Jean related—a feat I placed no faith in.</p>
<p class='pindent'>To reach the nimble animal it was necessary to
slide a portion of the way down the inclined shelf,
which I did sitting, with my eye fixed on the game;
the first part of the slope was hard clay, and I counted
on putting a stop to my descent a dozen or so yards
below, where a stratum of sand appeared; but when I
reached what I had taken for sand, I found it to be
sand-<span class='it'>stone</span> instead, and so smooth, that my velocity
was augmented rather than retarded. Away I went
faster than ever—I quite forgot the big-horn, and only
thought of saving myself from a leap which would
certainly prove fatal without a pair of monstrous spiral
horns. Luckily, the ledge became horizontal before
it terminated, which saved my neck; but the seat of
my trowsers, although of stout buckskin, were grated
away, and it was a great marvel I was not ground off
to the waist. As for the big-horn, he had thrown himself
over even before I touched the rock, and up the
face of this last I was obliged to climb, breaking holes
in the slippery surface with my hatchet to serve as
steps, before I could regain my former position. I related
my disaster with the best grace I could to a
grinning audience around the camp-fire, and sought
consolation in the broiled ribs of a fat doe Jean had
brought in, during a running fire of jokes and mock
sympathy directed against me, sitting <span class='it'>in naturalibus</span>
as to my legs, while Jock stitched in a new piece of
leather where it was most needed. A day or two
after this we came upon a herd of buffaloes for the
first time. A party of Kanzas, whom we met on their
way to Fort Leavenworth, informed us that not many
leagues due west large game abounded—an assertion
borne out by the long strips of jerked meat with which
their pack-horses were loaded. The same day we
arrived opposite Bellevue, and after a council held, determined
to land, drag our canoe and freight into the
enclosure of the station, and spend a week or two in
collecting a good store of buffaloe-tongues and pemican.
Accordingly, we disembarked, and found no difficulty
in lodging our small vessel in a block-house not far
from the water’s edge, the main fort being situated on
the brow of a hill of considerable elevation. Here we
purchased horses with the condition of returning them
to the traders from whom they were obtained, should
we return in the course of a few weeks, and desire to
continue our voyage. On the second or third day, (I
forget which,) Jean, on mounting a steep eminence
somewhat in advance, cried out, “<span class='it'>Voilà des buffaloes!</span>”
in a rapturous manner, which quickly brought
us to his side. Sure enough, some miles off, a vast
number of black specks were to be distinguished scattered
over the plain below, a semicircular range of
low hills, separating the prairie we had just traversed,
and which terminated at the banks of the Missouri,
from that stretching to the Platte River. As a light
wind was blowing in the direction of the buffaloes, we
retraced our steps down the side of the hill, and following
the direction of the range, after a couple of
hours’ ride, came into the immediate vicinity of the
grazing herds, but this time to leeward. From the
thicket of dwarf bushes bordering the ravine in which
we stood, and extending into the plain a short distance,
was little more than three hundred yards to the nearest
group, and we could see all the cows and half-grown
calves lying about in the sunshine, or feeding by twos
and threes, while the bulls paraded themselves, occasionally
tearing up the soil with their hoofs, bellowing,
and locking horns with a chance antagonist, all wholly
unsuspicious of the proximity of an enemy. We determined
to descend the ravine cautiously, and if possible
get a standing shot from the extremity of the cover before
making a dash into the open plain; but our care
was thrown away, for before we had advanced fifty
yards, a pack of wolves, who were lurking about the
skirt of the herd, in the hope probably of making a
meal of a sick individual, galloped off toward the next
line of thicket, and drew the attention of those closest
to our party. There was now no chance of approaching
unperceived, so dashing boldly out, we each selected
a victim as we rode, and made straight for it,
regardless of the rest. The rest, however, were far
from unmindful of our presence, and such a bellowing
roaring, and scampering, I never saw or heard before.
Some of the larger bulls stood for an instant eyeing us
through the shaggy mane in which their heads were
buried, cast earth into the air, lowered their horns as if
<span class='pageno' title='241' id='Page_241'></span>
for a rush, but immediately after wheeled, and, tail on
end, followed their companions in an ungainly sort of
race, which, when hard pushed, they exchanged for a
lumbering gallop.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The whole surface of the prairie, as far as eye could
see, was now in motion, the nearer masses thundering
along amidst clouds of dust, and making the plain quake
with the dint of thousands of hoofs, while those in the
distance were just beginning to take the alarm, and
stopped frequently, fronting about to distinguish the
cause of the disturbance. We had only time to make
these hasty observations, when our horses bore us into
the very midst of the melée, and as, of course, every
thing was literally lost sight of, as well as forgotten for
a time, with the exception of one’s own deeds and misdeeds,
I will confine myself for the present to what befell
me in person. I cannot say whether the others succeeded
in reaching the buffaloes they had selected
from the cover, but for my part, I lost sight of the cow
I had chosen before I was fairly among the panic-stricken
multitude; my horse, however, was a thorough
Indian hunter, and entering into the spirit of the thing,
presently brought me alongside of a huge bull, who,
with his stump of a tail elevated at an angle of forty
degrees, head down, and small, red eyes dilated with
terror, was making the most of his time under the circumstances.
At first our course took us into a dense
crowd of fugitives, who would have been only too
glad to afford us plenty of space, had it laid in their
power to do so; as it was, I saw myself at one hasty
glance, surrounded on all sides by the flying throng,
some ahead, striving their utmost to keep out of harm’s
way, others on each side jostling and pressing their
fellows, and others again, those we had passed in our
career, bringing up the rear, and laboring to overtake
their more vigorous companions, and all seen dimly
through a cloud of dust, and in the midst of an uproar
which I never saw equaled. I think this must have
been the last general observation I made, for a moment
after, the bull to whom we had attached ourselves
broke from the flank of the moving mass, toward
which he had been by degrees edging, and made across
the prairie at an acute angle to the line of flight pursued
by the greater number. This manœuvre gave him a
start of some yards, as it was no easy matter to extricate
ourselves at a moment’s warning; but when we
did, the superior speed of my horse rapidly decreased
the distance between us. Now that there was only
one object to engross my attention, I entered heart and
soul into the wild excitement of the chase, and as far
as my individual senses were concerned, the world
was compressed in a single buffalo, hotly pressed by
a half-mad horseman, the one endeavoring as strenuously
to preserve his life, as the other to take it.
Away we went—sometimes over the short-tufted
sward, then into a wooded hollow, and out again on
the other side—up hills and down, at the same furious
pace at which we had parted from the herd. I was
soon enabled to use my rifle which the denseness of
the throng in which we had at first ridden had prevented
me from doing to advantage, as there was no
room to wheel, and to have attempted a halt would
have been a sure means of finding ourselves run down
and possibly trampled to death by the press behind.
We were now running abreast, and holding my rifle
across the saddle, and braced against my left arm, I
fired without sighting, and lodged the ball in his bushy
neck instead of behind the fore-shoulder, as I intended.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the report, my steed, who knew well what he
was about, dashed off at a tangent just in time to avoid
a furious charge from the horns of the huge brute, but
in a short while we had recovered the lost ground, and
were bearing hard upon his flank. This time I used
my pistol, and, as it happened, with success; for my
finger pressing the trigger sooner than I designed, the
charge hamstrung the bull and brought him down headlong
in an instant, rolling over in a whirlwind of dust.
As he was now safe enough, I dismounted, reloaded,
and approached with the bridle over my arm, to give
the coup de grace; and this I was glad to do, for the
poor brute had raised himself on his fore legs and was
making violent efforts to regain his feet, his eyes blood-shot
and rolling, and a bloody foam flying from his
nostrils, while he bellowed as much from terror and
rage as pain. A third bullet put an end to his sufferings,
and after cutting out the tongue, I looked about
for the rest of the party. Nothing whatever was to be
distinguished moving on the great level, but far away
to the north, a low, gray mist showed the route pursued
by the herds. A perfect stillness had fallen over
all nature, and this sudden change from the recent life
and tumult was startling and even oppressive. No idea
can be formed of the solitude of these vast tracts from
that experienced in the midst of a forest; for in the
latter there are either birds, or living creatures of some
sort, or if there be none of these, every trunk aids in
creating an echo, and the very motion and rustling of
leaves convey an idea of existence; but alone in the
open prairie, the voice is lost in the vast space if a
shout is attempted, and a solemn hush succeeds which
overawes the rudest heart. I felt much relieved, then,
when from the summit of a mound some hundred
yards removed, I perceived on the farther side of a low
ridge, a number of buffaloes which had been headed
off, and were now making straight for where I stood.
They must have been nearly two miles distant, and it
was not until they were near enough to distinguish my
presence and wheel as I approached, that I perceived
any one in pursuit. It was Charlie, who fired at the
moment, and brought down a fat cow, as I discovered
when I reached the spot. I assisted in cutting off the
choicest portions of the meat, after which we rejoined
the others half a mile farther on. Jean’s horse was
loaded with thin strips of meat, two or three tongues,
and a couple of humps, the greatest delicacy of the
prairies; and on these we feasted that night, building
our camp at the foot of the ravine down which we had
descended some hours before. Every one had some
exploit or misadventure to relate. Jean had killed
two bulls and a cow, and Charlie a couple of cows,
but the last had received a fall and bruised his shoulder
in rather an odd manner. When a herd of buffaloes
are excited and begin running, a number of the bulls
are usually found in the rear, and these, in the first
panic, rushing blindly onward, and being more clumsy
than the cows, not infrequently stumble in some of the
<span class='pageno' title='242' id='Page_242'></span>
numerous holes in the surface, and roll over and over
before they can recover their legs; although occasionally
the violence of the shock is such that they
are maimed and unable to make much progress afterward.
Charlie had just finished his first cow, and was
in the act of pursuing another, when one of these accidents
occurred directly in his path, and both he and
his horse were precipitated over the shaggy monster
on the instant. Fortunately, he was not at full speed,
or the fall might have been fatal; and he possessed
presence of mind enough to retain fast hold of the
bridle, so that, although dragged a short distance, he
was enabled to prevent his hunter from following the
throng and ultimately to regain his seat. But the worst
off of all was Jock, who had begged so hard to be
allowed to try his chance also, that we had given
him a heavy horseman’s pistol, and left him to tie the
pack-horse in the ravine when we sallied forth from
cover. It seemed that having done so securely, as he
thought, he galloped after a cow, which, from frequently
facing about to protect the retreat of her calf,
had fallen behind the others. This female buffalo
turned out to be a regular vixen, for either exasperated
at the <span class='it'>color</span> of her pursuer, or unwilling to abandon
her offspring without a struggle, contrary to their usual
custom, instead of scouring off the faster when pushed
hard, she wheeled and made a determined rush at the
terrified Jock. He managed to fire full at her breast,
but without the least apparent success, for the next instant
his horse was knocked over broadside by the
impetus of her charge, and he himself projected through
the air, and landed on his head with a shock which
would have fractured the skull of any but a negro.</p>
<p class='pindent'>However, on rising, he had the satisfaction of seeing
his late antagonist lying quite dead, the ball having
entered her heart, and the effort which overthrew her
enemy being the last of life. There was a slight drawback
to this self-gratulation in the fact, that his horse
had taken advantage of the moment of liberty to dart
after a detachment of the great herd which had thundered
by, and could now be distinguished afar off, the
flapping of Jock’s Mackinaw-blanket, which had been
tied about the steed’s neck, and served the rider in
place of a saddle, every instant accelerating his speed.
When he came to look about, nevertheless, his face
expanded into a grin of delight, for the calf had stopped
short when the dam was slain, and now returned,
stamping his feet and eyeing the sable hunter with
some signs of anger, and certainly very few of fear.
Jock from the first moment had coveted the calf, and
now, in his charming ignorance, thought nothing easier
than to catch it by the ears and drag it into the ravine,
where he could secure it alive with a cord. With
this design he marched directly up to his proposed
prisoner, who stood his ground by the side of the carcase,
his small, red eyes watching the enemy from
under his shaggy brows; but the instant Jock stretched
out his hands to clutch him, the undaunted little brute
plunged forward and gave the former a thump in the
stomach, which knocked the breath fairly out of his
body, and laid him flat on his back in the grass. Greatly
indignant, the discomfited aggressor scrambled up and
began a search for his pistol, which in the fall from his
horse he had lost possession of, but before he could
recover it, the calf, emboldened by success, made a
second attack on him, and taking Jock at a disadvantage
in that portion of his body which is most prominent
in stooping over, cleverly caused him to perform
an involuntary somerset. This was the last of Jock’s
adventure, for as soon as he could recover his perpendicular,
he took to his heels, and now related his ill-luck
with a crest-fallen air enough. We all went to
see this sturdy calf, but the little fellow had no sooner
caught sight of our white (or what passed for white)
faces, than he scampered off, and we saw no more of
him. Jock profited by this retreat to find his pistol,
but when we returned to the ravine, we discovered a
worse misadventure had occurred; the pack-horse had
broken loose, and gone off at full speed, to judge from
the numerous cups, pans, and a dozen other miscellaneous
articles scattered for some yards along his
track until he got clear of the bushes. If he chanced
to cross the path of the wolves we started up earlier
in the day, I am sorry for him.</p>
<hr class='tbk110'/>
<div><h1><a id='line'></a>LINES.</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 GEO. D. PRENTISS.</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> sunset’s sweet and holy blush</p>
<p class='line0'>  Is imaged in the sleeping stream,</p>
<p class='line0'>All nature’s deep and solemn hush</p>
<p class='line0'>  Is like the silence of a dream;</p>
<p class='line0'>And peace seems brooding like a dove</p>
<p class='line0'>  O’er scenes to musing spirits dear —</p>
<p class='line0'>Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And I were blest if thou wert here.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The myriad flowers of every hue</p>
<p class='line0'>  Are sinking to their evening rest,</p>
<p class='line0'>Each with a timid drop of dew</p>
<p class='line0'>  Soft folded to its sleeping breast</p>
<p class='line0'>The birds within yon silent grove</p>
<p class='line0'>  Are dreaming that the spring is near —</p>
<p class='line0'>Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And I were blest if thou wert here.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>On yon white cloud the night-wind furls</p>
<p class='line0'>  Its lone and dewy wing to sleep,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the sweet stars look out like pearls</p>
<p class='line0'>  Through the clear waves of heaven’s blue deep;</p>
<p class='line0'>The pale mists float around, above,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Like spirits of a holier sphere —</p>
<p class='line0'>Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And I were blest if thou wert here.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The pale full moon, in silent pride,</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='pageno' title='243' id='Page_243'></span></p>
<p class='line0'>  O’er yon dark wood is rising now,</p>
<p class='line0'>As lovely as when by thy side</p>
<p class='line0'>  I saw it shining on thy brow;</p>
<p class='line0'>It lights the dew-drops of the grove</p>
<p class='line0'>  As hope’s bright smile lights beauty’s tear —</p>
<p class='line0'>Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And I were blest if thou wert here.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Ah! as I muse, a strange, wild thrill</p>
<p class='line0'>  Steals o’er the fibres of my frame —</p>
<p class='line0'>A gentle presence seems to fill</p>
<p class='line0'>  My heart with love and life and flame;</p>
<p class='line0'>I feel thy spirit round me move,</p>
<p class='line0'>  I know thy soul is hovering near —</p>
<p class='line0'>Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And I am blest, for thou art here.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk111'/>
<div><h1><a id='aroon'></a>AILEEN AROON.<a id='r1'/><a href='#f1' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[1]</span></sup></a></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 WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK.</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'>Girl</span> of the forehead fair,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Girl of the raven hair,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Girl of the laughing eye,</p>
<p class='line0'>Blue as the cloudless sky,</p>
<p class='line0'>For thee I pine and sigh,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Girl of the winning tongue,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Flower of our maidens young,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Sad was our parting day,</p>
<p class='line0'>Fast flowed my tears away,</p>
<p class='line0'>Cold was my heart as clay,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>When o’er the heaving sea,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Sailed the ship fast and free,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Wailing, as women wail,</p>
<p class='line0'>I watched her snowy sail</p>
<p class='line0'>Bend in the rising gale,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I watched her course afar,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Till rose the evening star,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Then fell the shades of night,</p>
<p class='line0'>Wrapping all from my sight</p>
<p class='line0'>Save the stars’ pensive light,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Stranger to grief is sleep,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>What could I do but weep?</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Worlds would tempt in vain,</p>
<p class='line0'>Me, to live through again</p>
<p class='line0'>That night of bitter pain,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Oh! but my step is weak,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Wan and pale is my cheek,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Come o’er the ocean tide,</p>
<p class='line0'>No more to leave my side,</p>
<p class='line0'>Come, my betrothed bride,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Come, ere the grave will close</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>O’er me and all my woes,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Come with the love of old,</p>
<p class='line0'>True as is tested gold,</p>
<p class='line0'>Pet lamb of all the fold,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>By the strand of the sea,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>Still I’ll keep watch for thee,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon!</p>
<p class='line0'>There with fond love I’ll hie,</p>
<p class='line0'>Looking with tearful eye</p>
<p class='line0'>For thee until I die,</p>
<p class='line0'>      Aileen, aroon.</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'>Aileen, aroon—pronounced Ileen a roon—Ellen, darling, Anglice.</p>
</td></tr>
</table>
</div>
<hr class='tbk112'/>
<div><h1><a id='sonn'></a>SONNET.</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'>Love</span> before admiration! Yes, oh yes!</p>
<p class='line0'>    Far sooner than give up the quiet love</p>
<p class='line0'>  Of a few warm, strong hearts, or even less,</p>
<p class='line0'>    Of one true heart alone, where like a dove,</p>
<p class='line0'>  To her own nest, I may for comfort press,</p>
<p class='line0'>    I’d yield the admiration of the world,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Were the world’s admiration mine! Confess,</p>
<p class='line0'>    Thou, over whom Fame’s banner is unfurled,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Can that broad banner hide thee from distress?</p>
<p class='line0'>    Thou, in whose ears the trumpet-peals of Fame</p>
<p class='line0'>  Forever sound, can those loud peals suppress</p>
<p class='line0'>    The secret sigh that trembles through thy frame?</p>
<p class='line0'>  Ah no! Take empty Fame away, and give</p>
<p class='line0'>Love before admiration, or I cannot live.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk113'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='244' id='Page_244'></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>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;'>(<span class='it'>Continued from page 181.</span>)</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER V.</h2>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The convent bells are ringing,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  But mournfully and slow;</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>In the gray, square turret swinging,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  With a deep sound, to and fro,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Heavily to the heart they go!</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Hark! the hymn is singing—</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  The song for the dead below,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Or the living who shortly shall be so!</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Byron’s Parisina.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> thirtieth of January, memorable in history, rose
gloomy and dark, as though the heavens would express
their sympathy with the tragedy about to be enacted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Three days only had been allowed the condemned
prisoner between his sentence and his execution.
This interval, during the day, he had spent chiefly in
reading and prayer. On each night he had slept long
and soundly, although the noise of the workmen employed
in framing his scaffold, and making other preparations
for his execution distinctly reached his ears.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the morning of the fatal day he rose early, and
calling his attendant, desired him to employ great care
in dressing and preparing him for the unusual solemnity
before him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At length he appeared attired in his customary suit
of black, arranged with more than his wonted neatness.
His collar, edged with deep lace, set carefully round
his neck, and was spotless in color, and accurate in
every fold, while his pensive countenance exhibited
no evidence of emotion or excitement.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bishop Juxon assisted him at his devotions, and
paid the last melancholy duties to the king. After this,
he was permitted to see such of his family as were
still in England. These consisted only of his two
younger children, the Princess Elizabeth and the Duke
of Gloucester.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Notwithstanding the tender years of the young
Elizabeth, she seemed fully to appreciate her father’s
unhappy situation, and her young heart appeared
well nigh bursting.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Weep not for thy father, my child,” said Charles,
kissing her tenderly; “he but goeth where thou mayest
one day meet him again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed
aloud. He pressed her to his bosom and soothed her
gently, but seemed for the first time since his interview
with Alice Heath, on the night previous to his sentence,
half unmanned. “It is God, my love, who hath called
thy poor parent hence, and we must submit to his will
in all things. Bear my love to your mother, and tell
her that my last thoughts were with her and our precious
children.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Separating himself from her by a great effort, and
then pressing the boy to his heart, he motioned to the
attendants to remove them, lest the trial of this interview
might, at the last, unnerve his well-sustained resolution
and courage.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The muffled bells now announced with mournful
distinctness, that the fatal moment was approaching.
The noisy tramp of the excited populace—ever eager
to sate their vulgar gaze on any bloody spectacle, but
anticipating extraordinary gratification from the novel
sight of the execution of their king—was plainly audible.
Presently, the guard came to lead him out. He was
conducted by a private gallery and staircase into the
court below, and thence conveyed in a sedan-chair to
the scaffold, followed by the shouts and cries of the
crowd.</p>
<p class='pindent'>About the time that these sounds were dying away
from the neighborhood of Lisle’s house, William
Heath hastily entered the library, and taking pen and
paper, wrote the following brief letter.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>My Dear Alice</span>,—I cannot but rejoice, that after
finding, as we believed, all hope for Charles Stuart at
an end—your visit to Cromwell having been unsuccessful—I
removed you to a distance, until the tragical
scene should, as we thought, be ended. The tumult
and noise which fill the city, together with the consciousness
of the cause creating it, would have been too
much for your nerves, unstrung as they have been of
late, by the feeling you have expended for the unhappy
king. There is yet, though—I delight to say,
and you will delight to hear—a single hope remaining
for him, even while the bells now ring for his execution.
Lord Fairfax, who though, like myself, friendly
to his deposition, still shudders at the thoughts of shedding
his blood, will, with his own regiment, make an
attempt to rescue him from the scaffold. There is, in
fact, scarce any reason to doubt the success of this measure;
and this evening, Alice, we will rejoice together
that the only cloud to dim the first blissful days of our
union has been removed—as I shall rejoin you at as
early an hour as the distance will permit.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I write this hastily, and send it by a speedy messenger,
in order to relieve, by its agreeable tidings, the
sorrowful state of mind in which I left you a few
hours since. I am, my own Alice, your most affectionate
husband,</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;margin-top:0.5em;'><span class='sc'>William Heath</span>.</p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The street before Whitehall was the place prepared
for the execution. This arrangement had been made
in order to render the triumph of popular justice over
<span class='pageno' title='245' id='Page_245'></span>
royal power more conspicuous, by beheading the king
in sight of his own palace. All the surrounding windows
and galleries were filled with spectators, and
the vast crowd below were kept back by soldiery encircling
the scaffold. Charles mounted it with a steady
step, and the same dignified resolution of mien which
he had all along so admirably maintained. Uncovering
his head, he looked composedly around him, and said,
in a clear, unfaltering voice, though only sufficiently
loud to be heard by those near him, owing to the buzz
of the crowd,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“People of England, your king dies innocent. He
is sentenced for having taken up arms against Parliament.
Parliament had first enlisted forces against
him, and his sole object—as God is his judge, before
whom he is momently to appear—was to preserve,
as was his bounded duty, inviolate for himself and
his successors, that authority transmitted to him by
royal inheritance. Yet, although innocent toward you,
and in that view undeserving of death, in the eyes of
the Omniscient his other sins amply merit his coming
doom; in especial, having once suffered an unjust sentence
of death to be executed against another, it is but
meet that he should now die thus unjustly himself.
May God lay not his death in like manner to your
charge; and grant that in allegiance to my son, England’s
lawful sovereign at my decease, you may
speedily be restored to the ways of peace.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lord Fairfax, with his regiment, prepared for the
rescue of Charles, was proceeding toward the place of
execution by a by-street, at the same time that the
king was being conducted thither. On his way, he
was passed by Cromwell, who then, for the first time,
became aware of his purpose.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Much disturbed in mind at the discovery of a project
so likely to thwart his own ambitious views, just ripe
for fulfillment, the latter walked on for some moments
in deep reflection. Presently quickening his pace, he
turned a corner, and stepped, without knocking, into a
house near by. His manner was that of a person perfectly
at home in the premises, which, indeed, was the
case; for James Harrison, the tenant, was one of his
subservients, chosen by him in consequence of his
austere piety, and great influence with his sect, of
whom it will be recollected that Fairfax was one.
Harrison’s appearance, though coarse, was not actually
vulgar. He was a middle-aged man, tall and strongly
made, and his manner, rough and military, might
command fear, but could not excite ridicule. Cromwell
found him in prayer, notwithstanding all the
tumult of the day.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have sought thee, Harrison,” he said, “to beseech
thee engage in prayer with Lord Fairfax, who
is now on his way to rescue this Saul from the hands
of the Philistines. He should first crave the Lord’s
will in regard to his errand. Wilt thou not seek him
and mind him of this?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will e’en do thy bidding, thou servant of the
Most High,” said Harrison, rising and accompanying
him to the door. “Where shall I find Fairfax?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou wilt overtake him by turning speedily to the
right,” replied the other, parting from him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“One of his lengthy supplications at the throne of
grace,” said Cromwell to himself, as he walked on,
“will detain Fairfax until this son of Belial is destroyed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Meanwhile, upon the scaffold, Charles, after delivering
his address, was preparing himself for the
block with perfect equanimity and composure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is but one stage more, sire,” said Juxon,
with the deepest sympathy of look and manner.
“There is but one stage more. Though turbulent, it is
a very short one; yet it will carry you a long distance—from
earth to heaven.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I go,” replied the king, “from a corruptible to an
incorruptible crown, where no downfall can transpire.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So saying, he laid his head upon the block, and the
headsman, standing near, in a visor, at one blow struck
it from his body. Another man, in a corresponding
disguise, catching it and holding it up, exclaimed,
“Behold the head of a traitor!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At this moment Lord Fairfax and his regiment came
up. His humane purpose, so artfully defeated, becoming
known, with the strange perversity of mankind,
now that its benefits were too late to reach the king,
an instant revulsion in the feelings of the populace
took place; and the noise of quarrels—of reproaches
and self-accusations rent the air, until the tumult grew
terrific.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But the reverberation of no thunder-clap could have
reawaked the dissevered corpse of the dead monarch.
Charles Stuart, the accomplished scholar and elegant
poet—Charles Stuart, the husband, father, friend—Charles
Stuart, the descendant of a long line of sovereigns,
and legitimate king of the most potent nation
upon earth—was no more; and a human life was
blotted from existence! That life, what was it?
Singular and mysterious essence—capable of exquisite
pleasure and intense pain—held by such a precarious
tenure, yet valued beyond all price—the gift of God,
and destroyed by man—a moment past here, and now
gone forever—tell us, metaphysician, what was it, for
we cannot answer the question.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VI.</h2>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>        Patience and sorrow strove</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Which should express her goodliest.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Shakspeare.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>We pass over that brief period in history during
which the new form of government established by
Cromwell flourished, and the usurper and his successor,
under the title of Protector of the Commonwealth,
enjoyed a larger share of power than had previously
been attached to the regal dignity. It will be remembered
that the deficiency of the latter in those qualities
requisite to his responsible position soon led him formally
to resign the Protectorship, and his abdication
speedily paved the way for the restoration of Charles II.
to the throne of his ancestors. Unfortunately for the
chief characters of our tale, one of the first and most
natural aims of the new king on his accession, was to
seek the conviction and punishment of the Court who
had so presumptuously, although in many instances,
so conscientiously, passed that sentence against his
father, which we have seen reluctantly carried into
execution.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='246' id='Page_246'></span>
Many of those had fled at the first rumor of the
restoration, in anticipation of the worst, so that, on the
command of Charles, only twenty-seven persons—judges
and accomplices inclusive—could be arrested.
These had now been incarcerated three weeks awaiting
their trial, which was deferred from time to time
in the hope that more of the regicides might yet be
brought to justice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Among those thus imprisoned were Henry Lisle and
William Heath, whose fates are interwoven with this
narrative.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Leaving this needful preface to what is to follow, let
us again visit Lisle’s mansion—the same which witnessed
the marriage of his daughter. Several years
have elapsed since that event; and after the mournful
impression caused by the death of the ill-fated king had
been obliterated from her mind—for Time has the
power speedily to heal all wounds not absolutely inflicted
upon the affections—till within the last few
weeks, the life of Alice Heath had flowed in as smooth
a current as any who beheld her on her wedding-night,
could, in their most extravagant wishes, have desired.
In their untroubled union, her husband had heretofore
forestalled the wife’s privilege to minister and prove
devotion—a privilege which, however, when the
needful moment demanded it, no woman better than
Alice was formed for exerting. Trouble had not
hitherto darkened the young brow of either; nor pain,
nor sorrow, nor the first ungratified wish, come nigh
their dwelling. Under the same roof with her pious
and austere but still affectionate father, the daughter
had been torn from no former tie in linking herself to
another by a still nearer and more indissoluble bond.
There had been nothing to desire, and nothing to regret.
The life of herself and husband had been as near a type
as may be of the perfect happiness we picture in
Heaven—save that with them it was now exchanged
for sorrow—more difficult to bear from the bitter
contrast.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It is an afternoon in September. Alice, not materially
changed since we last saw her—except that the
interval has given, if any thing, more of interest and
character to her features—is in her own room, busily
engaged in arranging articles in a traveling-trunk.
Her countenance is sad—with a sadness of a more engrossing
and heartfelt kind than that which touched it
with a mournful shadow when she grieved for the fate
of Charles Stuart—for there is an incalculable difference
between the sorrow that is expended between a
mere object of human sympathy, and that which is
elicited by the distress and danger of those we love.
And the sadness of Alice was now connected with
those dearer to her than life itself. No tear, however,
dimmed her eye, nor shade of despair sat upon her
brow. Feeling that the emergency of the occasion
called upon her to act, not only for herself but for
others, the bravery of true womanly resolution in
affliction—resolution which, had she alone been concerned,
she might perhaps never have evinced, but
which, for the sake of others, she had at once summoned
to her aid—was distinguishable in her whole deportment
as well as in her every movement.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As she was engaged with great seeming interest in
the task we have described—the articles alluded to
consisting of the clothing suitable for a female child of
tender age—the little creature for whose use it was
designed was sitting at her feet tired of play, and wondering
probably why she was employed in this unusual
manner. Alice frequently paused in her occupation
to cast a look upon the child—not the mere
hasty glance with which a mother is wont to satisfy
herself that her darling is for the moment out of mischief
or danger—but a long, devouring gaze, as though
the refreshing sight were about to be removed forever
from her eyes, and she would fain, ere the evil moment
arrived, stamp its image indelibly on her memory.
Who shall say what thoughts, what prayers were then
stirring in her bosom?</p>
<p class='pindent'>The little object of this solicitude had scarcely told
her fifth year; and the soft ringlets which descended
half way down the shoulders, the delicate bloom, the
large, deep blue eyes and flexile features made such an
ideal of childish beauty as artists love to paint or
sculptors model.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Alice had finished her employment, she took
the little girl in her arms, and strained her for some
moments to her heart, with a feeling, as it would seem,
almost of agony. The child, though at first alarmed
at the unusual vehemence of her caresses, presently,
as if prompted by nature, smiled in reply to them.
But the artless prattler had no power to rouse her from
some purpose on which her thoughts appeared deeply
as well as painfully intent. Putting the little creature
aside again, she drew near to her writing-desk,
and seating herself before it, penned the following
letter:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>My dear Friend</span>,—It is now some weeks since the
imprisonment of my husband and father, who are still
awaiting their trial. The active part which the latter
is known to have taken in the punishment of the late
unhappy king, precludes all hope of their pardon. But
I have matured a plan for their escape, which I am
only waiting a fitting moment to put into execution.
When this is effected, we will take refuge in your
American Colonies. I have the promise of influential
friends there to assist in secreting us until it shall be
safe to dwell among you publicly—for this country
can never again be our home.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the meantime, as some friends are about embarking,
after a struggle with myself, I have concluded to
send my little daughter in advance of us, lest she might
prove an incumbrance in the way of effecting the
escape alluded to, inasmuch as she has already been a
great hindrance to detain me at home many hours
from the dear prisoners—to both of whom my presence
is so needful, especially to my husband, who is
extremely ill in his confinement.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I need not say that I feel all a mother’s anxiety in
parting with my child. But I have confidence that you,
my friend, will faithfully supply my place for as long
a time as may be necessary. It has occurred to me
that it would be well to let the impression go abroad
among you that my daughter is the young relative
whom you were to receive by the same vessel, and of
whose recent death you will be apprised. This may
shield her in some measure from the misfortunes of
<span class='pageno' title='247' id='Page_247'></span>
her family; and I would be glad, therefore, if you
would humor the innocent deception even with all of
your household, until such time as we may reclaim
her. With a firm reliance on my Heavenly Father, I
commit my precious infant to His protection.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;margin-top:0.5em;'><span class='sc'>Alice Heath.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>She had just concluded, when a servant appeared at
the door. “Some ladies and a gentleman, madam,”
said he, “have called, and are awaiting you in the
drawing-room. They came in a traveling-carriage,
and are equipped as if for a long journey.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Remove this trunk into the hall,” replied Alice,
“and then say to the visiters that I will see them presently.
They have already come to bear away my
darling,” added she to herself. “I scarce thought
that the hour had yet arrived.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>As she spoke, she set about attiring the child with
great tenderness, seemingly prolonging the act unconsciously
to herself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now the Lord in Heaven keep thee, precious one!”
she exclaimed, as, at length, the motherly act terminated;
and imprinting on her face a kiss of the most
ardent affection, though without giving way to the
weakness of a single tear, she bore her from the
chamber.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We leave the reader to imagine the last parting moments
between that mother and her child. She who
had framed the separation as an act of duty, was not
one to shrink at the last moment, or betray any faintness
of spirit. With a nobly heroic heart she yielded
up the young and helpless treasure of her affections
to the guardianship of others, and turned to expend her
capacities of watchfulness and care upon another object.
How well she performed this labor of love, notwithstanding
the trial she had just experienced—how
far she succeeded in dismissing the recollection of it
from her mind sufficiently to enable her to sustain the
weight of the responsibilities still devolving upon her—we
shall now have an opportunity to determine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Within another half hour Alice entered the cell of a
prison. It was one of those constructed for malefactors
of the deepest cast, being partially under the ground,
and partaking of the nature of a dungeon. The mighty
stones of the walls were green and damp, and together
with the cold, clay floor, were sufficient of themselves
to suggest speedy illness, and perhaps death, to the occupant.
Its only furniture consisted of a single wooden
stool, a pallet of straw, and a rude table.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the pallet alluded to lay a man in the prime of
life, his eyes closed in sleep, and the wan hue of death
upon his countenance. One pallid hand, delicate and
small as a woman’s, rested upon the coarse coverlet,
while the other was placed beneath his head, from
which streamed forth a profusion of waving hair, now
matted and dull, instead of glossy and bright, as it had
been in recent days.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Alice first entered, the sleeper was breathing
somewhat disturbedly, but as she approached and bent
over him, and raising the hand which lay upon the
quilt, pressed it to her lips, his rest suddenly seemed to
grow calm, and a faint smile settled upon his mouth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank God!” whispered she to herself, as she replaced
the hand as quietly as she had raised it, “my
prayer is heard—the fever has left him, and he is fast
recovering.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Seating herself on the wooden stool by his side, she
remained watching him with looks of the most devoted
interest and affection. In about half an hour he heaved
a deep sigh, and opening his eyes, looked around to
the spot where she was sitting.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are a guardian angel, dear Alice,” said
he; “even in my dreams I am conscious of your presence.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Saving the little time that I must steal from you to
bestow upon my poor father, I shall now be ever present
with you,” answered Alice. “I have placed our
little one in safe-keeping, and henceforth, while
you remain here, I shall have no other care but yourself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Methinks I have already been too much your sole
care, even to the neglect of your own health. Yet,
except that sad look of sympathy, you seem not the
worse for the tending me, else I might, indeed, reproach
myself for this illness.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Well might William Heath say she had nursed him
with unselfish care—for never had it fallen to the lot
of sick man to be tended with such untiring devotion.
For weeks she had watched his every movement and
look—anticipated his every wish—smoothed his pillow—held
the cup to his parched lips—soothed him with
gentle and sympathizing words when in pain—cheered
him when despondent—and seized only the intervals
when he slept to perform her other duties as a mother
and daughter. It is no wonder, therefore, that it appeared
to him that she had never been absent from his
side.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gently repelling his insinuation that she had been
too regardless of herself, she turned the conversation to
a topic which she was conscious would interest and
cheer him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Continue to make all speed with this recovery,
which has thus far progressed so finely,” said she,
“for the opportunity for your escape from this gloomy
place is only waiting until your strength is sufficiently
recruited to embrace it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That prospect it is alone,” replied the invalid,
“held up before me so constantly as it has been during
my illness, which has had the power to prevent my
sinking joyfully into the grave from this miserable
bed, rather than recover to die a more violent and unnatural
death.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It waits alone for your recovery, dearest,” repeated
his wife; “and once in the wild woods of America,
you will be as unconfined and free as her own mountain
air, till the very remembrance of this dungeon will
have passed away.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sweet comforter,” he said, taking her hand and
pressing it gratefully, “thou wouldst beguile my
thoughts thither, even before my footsteps are able to
follow them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank me for nothing,” said Alice; “I am but
selfish in all. The rather return thanks to the Lord
for all his mercies.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“True, He is the great fountain of goodness, and his
greatest of all blessings to me, Alice, is bestowed in
thyself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='248' id='Page_248'></span>
“I fear thou art conversing too much,” said Alice,
after a moment’s pause, “and I would not that a relapse
should retard this projected escape a single day.
Therefore I will give thee a cordial, and thou must
endeavor to rest again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So saying, she administered a soothing potion, and,
seating herself by his side, she watched him until he
fell into a peaceful slumber. Then, stealing so noiselessly
away from his pallet that her footsteps were inaudible,
she gently approached the door, and groped
along a gallery—for it was now dark—until she reached
another door. It communicated with a cell similar in
all respects to that we have described.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Within this, before a table, sat the figure of a solitary
man. He was elderly, but seemed more bent by some
recent sorrow than by the actual weight of years; yet
his brow was somewhat wrinkled, and his locks in
many places, much silvered with gray. But his countenance
was remarkable, for it evinced a grandeur and
dignity of soul even through its trouble. Beside him,
upon the table, burned a solitary candle, whose long
wick shed a blue and flickering light upon the page of
a Bible open before him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Unlatching the door, Alice paused, for the clear and
deep voice of the inmate fell upon her ear: “Behold,
happy is the man whom God correcteth: therefore,
despise not thou the chastening of the Almighty: for
he maketh sore, and bindeth up; he woundeth, and his
hands make whole. He shall deliver thee in six
troubles: yea, in seven, there shall no evil touch
thee.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Advancing, Alice threw her arms affectionately round
the neck of the person we have described, and interrupted
the reading, which, even more than her occasional
visits, was his chief stay and solace in his imprisonment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou wilt rejoice with me, my father, that William
is recovering. All that is needful now is for him
to gather strength sufficient to quit this place. I trust
that ere six weeks have elapsed, we shall be on our
way to America.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Forget not, my child, Him to whom thy thanks
are due for thy husband’s prospect of recovery. Remember
the Lord in the midst of his mercies.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do, my father, and we will return praises together
ere I leave you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Saidst thou, Alice,” asked the old man, after a
short silence, “that before six weeks have passed
away, we may be freed from this prison-house?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, even so; and I have this day sent my infant
in advance of us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Lord hath indeed been gracious to us, my
daughter. Let us arise at once and give thanks to his
holy name.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At these words they arose together, after the manner
of their sect, and in an earnest, pathetic tone, the voice
of the aged Puritan ascended to Heaven. No palace-halls
or brilliant ball-rooms, or garden walks, or trellised
bowers have ever shown so interesting a pair—no
festive scenes, or gorgeous revels, or glittering
orgies ever rose upon so beauteous an hour as did the
captive’s cell in that season of prayer!</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VII.</h2>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>A lovely child she was, of looks serene,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And motions, which, on things indifferent shed</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The grace and gentleness from whence they came.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Shelley.</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The child shall live.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Titus Andronicus.</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Here are two pilgrims,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And neither knows one footstep of the way.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Heyword’s Duchess of Suffolk.</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>With equal virtue formed, and equal grace,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The same, distinguished by their sex alone.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Thompson.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>A short gap in this narrative places the present action
of our story in America. It is needless here to
narrate the first settlement of the New England Colonies.
The landing of the Pilgrim Fathers has been
immortalised both in prose and verse until it has become
as familiar to each American as any household
word. We will not, therefore, ask the reader’s detention
at the perusal of a thrice-told tale. It is likewise
known that that landing was but the herald of a succession
of immigrations, and the establishment of numerous
colonies. Owing to the talent and liberal
education, not less than the enterprise of the early
settlers, this wilderness was not long, in spite of repeated
obstacles, ere it grew up into flourishing villages
and towns, some of them fairer than had ever
graced the stalwort ground of Old England.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We introduce the reader into one of those villages,
situated some twenty miles distant from New Haven.
It might somewhat surprise him when we say, were
it not for the frequent instances of the rapid growth of
cities in our western wilds, which we would remind
him have sprung up within his own recollection, that
the latter place was, even at the period to which we
refer, a flourishing and important town. Yet, notwithstanding
the superior size and consequence of New
Haven, the village of L—— was the place in which
the governor of the colony chose to reside.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Had the course of our narrative not led us thither,
we could have selected no better sample than L., of
the truth of what we have asserted regarding the existence
of neat and attractive villages in New England
at that early day. It was situated on the high-road, in
a small valley, through which wound down certain
rocky falls, a clear rivulet, that afforded excellent opportunities
of fishing to such of the inhabitants as were
fond of the occupation of the angle. These, however,
were few, for then, as now, the people of Connecticut
possessed much of the same busy spirit which is one
of their distinguishing characteristics. The glassy
brook alluded to, served yet another purpose during
the season when the sportive inhabitants of the watery
element had disappeared. In the winter-time, when
thickly frozen over, it formed, out of their school-houses,
the grand resort of the children of the village
for the purpose of skating and sliding. There, at those
times, on a clear, bracing day, such as no country but
New England ever shows in perfection, might always
be seen a crowd of these happy beings, of both sexes,
and of various ages, all collected together, some to
partake and others merely to observe the amusements
mentioned.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Upon a certain day, the neighborhood of the brook
<span class='pageno' title='249' id='Page_249'></span>
was thronged even to a greater extent than usual,
owing to the exceeding brightness of the weather,
which had led some of the tenderest mothers to withhold
their customary mandate enjoining immediate
return from school, lest the beloved object of the command
might suffer from playing in the cold. Among
those who had thus had their ordinary restrictions
remitted, was a little girl whose extreme loveliness
must have arrested the attention of any observer.
Her features were not merely beautiful, but there was
a charm in her countenance more attractive still—that
purity and mildness which our fancy attributes to
angels. There was a bewitching grace, moreover, in
her attitudes that might have furnished delighted employment
to the painter and sculptor, had there been
any time or inclination among the colonists to bestow
upon the cultivation of the arts.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This child was seemingly about five years old. She
was standing, with a number of other little ones of her
own age, looking on with great apparent delight—now
at the larger boys, who were skating dexterously, and
describing many a circle and angle, unknown in mathematics,
upon the smooth surface of the brook, and
then at a number of girls merrily chasing each other
upon a slide at one side.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As one of the large boys spoken of passed her, he
said, “Come, Jessy, I will give you a ride upon
the ice;” and taking her in his arms, he was soon
again gliding rapidly along.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Take care!” shouted a noble-looking youth, whose
glowing complexion and sparkling eye shone with the
excitement of the exercise. “Take care, the ice is
slightly cracked there, and it will scarcely bear the
double weight.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was too late. Ere the words were well spoken,
the ice gave way, and the boy who bore the fair burden
sunk beneath the congealed element.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One loud shriek from the mingled voice of the young
spectators announced the frightful accident.</p>
<p class='pindent'>With the speed of lightning, the youth who had
uttered the words of warning darted forward, and
plunging under the ice, disappeared from view.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Great consternation prevailed for some moments.
Many of the children gave way to loud cries; others
quietly wept; while a few of the older and more considerate
ran toward their homes, in order to summon
assistance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In less time than it has taken to represent the state
of feeling which prevailed during his absence, Frank
Stanley rose to the surface, bearing in his arms the unconscious
form of the young creature he had saved.
Recovering his position on the ice, he speedily regained
the shore, and overcome with the exertion, laid her
gently on the ground.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The heart in his bosom was frozen with cold, but
a quickening thrill passed through it, boy as he was, as
he gazed upon those sweetly composed features. Her
hair was dripping, and her long, wet lashes by upon
her cheek as quietly as upon that of a dead child.
Her garments hung heavily around her, and her tiny
hands, which were half lost in their folds, were cold
and still, as well as beautiful as gems of classic
sculpture.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As his companions came up bearing the other sufferer,
Frank Stanley hastily snatched off his own saturated
coat, and spread it over her senseless body, ere he
again, with recovered strength, raised her in his arms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The alarmed villagers by this time came flocking to
the spot, among whom was the governor of the settlement,
whose venerable and striking countenance manifested
peculiar anxiety.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your niece is safe, Governor H——,” said Frank
Stanley, pressing forward and exposing his fair burden.
“She is merely insensible from fright.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank God that she is saved!” exclaimed the
governor, receiving her in his arms. “But whose rash
act was it,” continued he, looking sternly around
among the boys, “that exposed my Jessy to such
peril?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Something like a flush of indignation passed over
the countenance of young Stanley, as he replied, “It
was an accident, sir, which might have happened in
the hands of more experienced persons than ourselves.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou hast been in danger thyself, Frank, hast
thou not?” asked the governor, his stern mood giving
way immediately at the sight of the youth’s dripping
clothes. “And is there no one else more dangerously
injured?” inquired he, casting an anxious, scrutinizing
glance among the collected group.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Frederick, here, is wet too, but not otherwise the
worse for the accident.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let him and Frank, then, immediately return to
their homes, and don dry garments; and I must look
to my little girl here, that she do not suffer for this.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So saying, the governor turned and departed, pressing
the little lifeless one more closely in his arms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His disappearance was the signal for the dispersion
of the group, the young members of which turned toward
their homes, much sobered in spirits from the
accident here related.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Following Governor H. to his home, we will leave
him a moment and pause to describe that rustic dwelling.
It was situated at some little distance from the
main village, and was of larger size than most of the
cottages there. Like them, however, it bore the same
rural name, though it looked more like an English
villa of some pretensions. On each side of a graceful
portico stretched piazzas, covered in summer with roses
and woodbine, while the neat enclosure in front, surrounded
by its white paling, bloomed richly with
American plants and shrubbery. At this season,
however, the roses were dead, and the shrubbery
lifeless; and the frozen ground of the well-kept walk
rung under the tread of the stout governor, as he flung
open the gate and rapidly approached the house.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The brilliant lustre of the brass-knocker, the white
and spotless door-step, and the immaculate neatness of
every thing around, were types of the prevailing habits
of the proprietors.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the door, awaiting Governor H.’s arrival with
great anxiety depicted on their faces, stood two female
figures, the one being a genteel matron, somewhat advanced
in years, and the other a young lady of less
than twenty summers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Relieve yourselves of your apprehensions,” said
the governor, in a loud voice, as soon as he came
<span class='pageno' title='250' id='Page_250'></span>
within speaking distance. “She had merely fainted
from fright, and seems to be even now gradually
recovering.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Lord be praised!” exclaimed the ladies, advancing
to the steps of the portico to meet him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They entered the house together. In a moment the
fainting child was laid upon a couch, and being quickly
attired in dry clothing, restoratives were actively applied.
The elder female chafed her small, chilled
palms in her own, while the younger administered a
warm drink to her frozen lips.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After a short time she unclosed her eyes, smiled
faintly, and throwing her dimpled arms around the neck
of the young lady who bent over her, burst into tears.
“My dear sister,” she said, faintly, “I dreamed that
I had gone to Heaven, where I heard sweet music, and
saw little children like myself, with golden crowns
upon their heads, and beautiful lyres in their hands.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“God has not called thee there yet. He has kindly
spared thee to us a little longer,” said the young person
to whom she spoke, stooping down and kissing her
tenderly, while she, in like manner, relieved herself by
a flood of tears.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Almighty is very merciful,” said the matron,
wiping her eyes, while something like a moisture hung
upon the lashes of the governor’s piercing orbs, and
dimmed their usual keenness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am not ill, uncle, aunt, Lucy, and we need none of
us cry,” said the child, with the fickleness of an April
day and the elasticity of her years, instantly changing
her tears for smiles. “See, I am able to get up,” she
added, disentangling herself from the embrace of her
whom she had called her sister, and sitting upon the
side of the couch.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At that moment a shadow without attracted her attention.
“There is Mr. Elmore, Lucy!” she exclaimed,
with childish glee.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The young lady had barely time to wipe away the
traces of her recent emotion, when a tall figure crossed
the portico and entered the room without ceremony.
The new comer was a young man in the bloom of
youth. As he entered, he lifted his hat, and a quantity
of fair brown hair fell partially over a commanding
forehead. His features were handsome, and his aspect
both manly and prepossessing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The governor and his wife advanced and greeted
him cordially, while the blush that mantled on the
of Lucy Ellet, as she half rose and extended
her hand to him, told that a sentiment warmer than
mere friendship existed between them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where is the young heroine of this accident,
which I hear had well nigh proved fatal?” asked the
stranger, after he had exchanged congratulations with
the rest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The little Jessy, who had at first shrunk away with
the bashfulness of childhood, here timidly advanced.
The stranger smiled, stroked her soft ringlets, kissed
her fair brow, and she nestled herself in his breast.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The whole party drawing near the fire, an interesting
specimen was now exhibited of those social and
endearing habits of the early settlers peculiar to their
intercourse.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The simple room and furniture were eloquent of the
poetry of home. Not decorated by any appendages
of mere show, whatever could contribute to sterling
comfort was exhibited in every node and corner of the
good-sized apartment. The broad, inviting couch on
which the rescued child had lain was placed opposite
the chimney. The heavy book-case, containing the
family library, occupied a deep recess to the right.
On the left was a side-board, groaning with plate, the
remains of English wealth. The large, round dining-table,
polished as a mirror, stood in its customary place
in the centre of the room. Two great arm-chairs,
covered with chintz and garnished with rockers—the
seats belonging to the heads of the family—filled a
space on either side of the hearth, within which
burned a huge turf fire, that threw its kindly warmth
to the remotest walls. Over the <a id='mant'></a>mantel-piece hung a
full-length miniature portrait of the first Protector of
the British Commonwealth. Coiled on a thick rug
before the fire lay a large Angola cat. A mastiff dog
had so far overcome his natural antipathy to her race,
as to keep her company on the other side; while the
loud breathings of both evinced the depth of their
slumbers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The huge arm-chair on the left was the throne of
the governor. There he received and dispatched the
documents pertaining to his office. There also he
wrote his letters, read his papers, received his visiters,
conversed with his friends, and chatted with his
family. There, besides, he gave excellent advice to
such of the members of the settlement as needed it:
and there, above all, arose morning and evening the
voice of his pious worship.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The lesser arm-chair on the right was the seat of
Mrs. H., who, in like manner, had her established
routine of duties which she discharged there, with not
less laudable exactness and fidelity. Nor was there at
any time a more pleasing feature in the whole apartment
than her motherly figure and cheerful visage
fixed within its comfortable embrace.</p>
<p class='pindent'>While the party were agreeably engaged in conversation
they were suddenly interrupted by a loud
knock at the door.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who can that be?” said the governor. “Will
you ask who knocks, Mr. Elmore?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The latter rose and unlatched the door, when two
figures crossed the threshold.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Pray pardon us,” said one of the new comers, in
a courteous voice, “but having business of importance
with the governor, we have ventured to intrude,” and
he lifted his hat with something of foreign urbanity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The speaker was not handsome, but there was a
certain elegance in his air, and intelligence in his
countenance that were agreeable. He was clad in a
velvet traveling-dress, and possessed an address greatly
superior to any of the villagers, at the same time that
his height and the breadth of his muscular limbs were
calculated to induce that admiration which the appearance
of great strength in his sex always inspires.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His companion was totally different in all outward
respects—being a man of about fifty years of age,
attired in a garb which was chiefly distinguished by
an affectation of ill-assorted finery. A colored silk
handkerchief, in which glittered a large paste brooch,
<span class='pageno' title='251' id='Page_251'></span>
was twisted around his neck, and his breeches were
ornamented with plated buckles. His harsh countenance
was traced with furrows, while his hair fell
over a low and forbidding brow, on which hung a
heavy frown, unrelieved by any pleasing expression
of the other features.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Walk in, gentlemen, and approach the fire,” said
Governor H., rising and eyeing the strangers with a
keen and rather dissatisfied glance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In drawing near the younger gallant cast an unsuppressed
look of admiration upon Lucy Ellet, that
caused her to bend down her sparkling eyes, which
had previously been fixed on himself and his companion
with an arch expression of penetrating curiosity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was not surprising that the attention of the stranger
had been attracted by the appearance of this young
lady, for, like the little Jessy, she was endowed with
a more than ordinary share of personal attractions.
Yet it must be admitted that the styles of their beauty
were of an exactly opposite cast. One of those singular
freaks of Nature which sometimes creates children
of the same parents in the most dissimilar mould,
seemed to have operated in their case to produce two
sisters as unlike in every particular relating to outward
appearance as possible.</p>
<p class='pindent'>While the young countenance of Jessy was of the
tenderest and softest Madonna cast, her eyes of a delicate
azure, and the light golden locks parted upon a
fair brow, like a gleam of sunshine upon a hill of
snow, her sister’s face was precisely the opposite.
Lucy’s complexion, indeed, was of the darkest hue
ever seen in maidens of English birth, yet mantled
withal by so rich a shade of color, that for many it
might have possessed a greater charm than the fairness
of a blonde. Her hair was black as night; and
her eyes, of the same hue, were never excelled in
lustre or beauty by the loveliest damsels of Spain.
Her countenance was of a lively and expressive character,
in which spirit and wit seemed to predominate;
and the quick, black eye, with its beautifully penciled
brow, seemed to presage the arch remark to which
the rosy and half smiling lip appeared ready to give
utterance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We have ridden far,” said the younger stranger,
breaking the silence which ensued when they had
taken seats, and turning his eye again on Lucy, as
though he hoped to elicit a reply to his remark.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was not disappointed. “May I ask,” said she,
“what distance you have come?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We left Massachusetts a couple of days ago,” he
replied, “and have been at hard riding ever since.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You spoke of business, gentlemen,” remarked the
governor, rather impatiently; “will you be so good as
to proceed with the object of your visit?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I address Governor H., sir, I presume?” said the
ill-looking stranger, speaking for the first time.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He signified ascent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Our business is official and private,” continued the
speaker, in a voice harsh and unpleasant, looking
around uneasily at the spectators.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All affairs with me are conducted in the presence
of my family,” said the governor drily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is imperative, sir, that we see you alone,” urged
the other, in a dictatorial tone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will you look whether there is a good fire in your
little sanctum?” said her uncle to Lucy, giving her at
the same time a significant glance, and having referred
in his remark to a small room adjoining, where Lucy
not unfrequently repaired, surrounded by numbers of
the village children—with whom she was a general
favorite—to dress their dolls, cover their balls, and
perform other similar acts. Here, too, she retired for
the purpose of reading, writing, and other occasions
of privacy. More than all, it was the spot sacred to
an hour’s conversation with Mr. Elmore apart from
the rest of the family during his visits.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The little Jessy anticipated Lucy, just as she was
rising, and opened the door leading to the room
spoken of.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The fire burns brightly, uncle,” said the child.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will you walk in here with me, gentlemen?” said
the governor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The two strangers rose, and Governor H. held the
door until they had preceded him into the room. Going
in last, he threw another expressive glance at
Lucy, and followed them, leaving the door ajar.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lucy, with the quickness of her character, read in
her uncle’s look that he wished her to overhear the
conversation about to take place between himself and
his visiters. Moving her chair, therefore, near the
half open door, while her lover was engaged in speaking
with her aunt, and playing at the same time with
the soft curls of the fair Jessy, who was leaning on his
knee, she applied herself to listen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your names first, gentlemen: you have not yet introduced
yourselves,” said her uncle’s voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mr. Dale,” replied the pleasing tones of the young
stranger who had spoken on their first entrance, “and
Mr. Brooks.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Be seated, then, Messrs. Dale and Brooks,” observed
the governor, “and have the kindness to proceed
in unfolding the nature of your errand.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am the bearer of these documents for you,” said
the harsh voice of him who had been introduced as
Mr. Brooks.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lucy here heard the rattling of paper, as though the
governor were unfolding a letter. He proceeded to
read aloud:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The bearers, James Brooks and Thomas Dale,
having been empowered by His Majesty, in the enclosed
warrant, to seize the persons of the escaped
regicides, Lisle and Heath, you are hereby desired,
not only to permit said Brooks and Dale to make thorough
search throughout your colony, but likewise to
furnish them with every facility for that purpose; it
being currently believed that the said regicides are
secreted in New Haven.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;margin-top:0.25em;'>ENDICOTT,</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-top:0.25em;'><span class='it'>Governor of Massachusetts Colony</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was now again a rattling, as if occasioned by
the unfolding of paper. The governor continued:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Whereas, Henry Lisle and William Heath, of the
city of London, having been confined under charge of
treason and rebellion, have made their escape—and
whereas it is believed they have fled to our possessions
in America, we do hereby authorize and appoint our
<span class='pageno' title='252' id='Page_252'></span>
true and loyal subjects, James Brooks and Thomas
Dale, to make diligent search throughout all the New
England colonies for the said traitors and rebels.
Moreover we do hereby command our subjects, the
governors and deputy-governors of said colonies, to
aid and abet by all possible means their capture and
imprisonment: And we do hereby denounce as rebels
any who may secrete or harbor said Lisle and Heath,
in the accomplishing of this our royal mandate.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lucy heard her uncle clear his throat after he had
ceased reading, and there was a moment’s pause.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It will be impossible,” said he at length, “Messrs.
Brooks and Dale, for me to act officially in this matter
until I have convened the magistrates of the colony.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I see no necessity for any thing of the kind,” said
Mr. Brooks, in an irritated tone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nevertheless, there exists a very great necessity,”
answered the governor, decidedly; “so much so, that
as I have said, it will be utterly out of the question for
me to proceed independently in relation to the affair.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How soon, then, can this convocation be summoned?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not certainly before twenty-four hours from this
time,” replied the governor: “or perhaps a day later.
You are aware that the meeting will have to take place
in New Haven, which is twenty miles distant.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We might easily proceed there at once, and reach
the place in time to call a convention, and settle the
affair to-night,” urged Mr. Brooks, dictatorially.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am a slow man, and cannot bring myself to be in
a hurry. One night can make no possible difference,
and to-morrow I will call a meeting of the magistrates.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lucy here arose and approached a door leading to
the outer piazza. Her lover’s eye followed her graceful
figure with a feeling of pride as she crossed the
room. She turned at the door, and seeking his eye
ere she closed it, gave him a signal to follow her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In some surprise, he instantly obeyed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Henry,” she said earnestly, and in a low voice, as
if fearing that some one might chance to be near,
“Henry, I have overheard what has passed between
my uncle and his visiters. The latter are persons
commissioned by King Charles to apprehend the
escaped prisoners who have taken refuge in New
Haven. They wish to obtain authority for their arrest
and re-imprisonment, as well as for making a strict
search throughout the colony, and will probably obtain
this to-morrow. What do you think can be done
in this emergency?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I scarce know what to say, dear Lucy,” said he,
as he took her hand involuntarily, and seemed to be
reflecting deeply on her words.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Could not you,” resumed Lucy, “return at once
to New Haven, and apprise the exiles of their danger?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Excellent: I will set out at once.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have thought of a place of security for them
likewise,” continued Lucy, and she drew nearer and
whispered a word in his ear.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Admirable girl!” exclaimed her lover, delightedly.
“Why, Lucy, I believe you are inspired by the Almighty
for the exigencies of this moment. But I must
depart without delay.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said Lucy, “there is not an instant’s time
to be lost; and I will contrive to detain the officers
until you are too far on your way for them to overtake
you, in case they should design proceeding to New
Haven to-night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He pressed her hand affectionately to his lips, and
was gone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lucy returned into the room she had left just at the
moment that her uncle and the strangers re-entered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your visiters, uncle, will probably remain and
take some refreshment,” said she, as she perceived
they were about to depart, and giving him at the same
time an arch look to second her invitation. “Tea
will be in a short time, gentlemen,” she added, fixing
her eyes on the younger stranger with such a
coquettish urgency as to make her appeal irresistible.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Take seats, gentlemen,” said the governor, in a
more cordial tone than he had yet assumed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thank you,” said Mr. Brooks, “but we will—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We will remain,” interrupted Mr. Dale, giving a
wink to his companion, and turning toward the fire.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Brooks had no alternative but to follow his example;
and the governor and his wife held him in
conversation, while Lucy exerted all her powers of
entertainment for the benefit of Mr. Dale. The little
Jessy, more wearied than usual in consequence of her
late adventure, fell asleep upon the couch, and did not
awake until tea was over, and the visiters had
departed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>True to his promise, early on the following morning
Governor H. set out for New Haven, and convened
the magistrates of the colony. After a short consultation,
the determination was arrived at, that the exiled
regicides not having violated any of the laws by which
the community was governed, were not subject to
arrest under their order. But to that part of the mandate
authorising a search to be made, and prohibiting
a secretion of the offenders, they paid loyal respect,
and the sanctity of every house resigned and exposed
to the inquisition of the officers. Their search, however,
was unsuccessful, and they set out the next
morning on their return to Massachusetts.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VIII.</h2>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Which sloping hills around enclose.</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Where many a beech and brown oak grows,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Beneath whose dark and branching bowers</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Its tide a far-famed river pours,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>By Nature’s beauties taught to please</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Sweet Tusculan of rural ease.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Warton.</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Have I beheld a vision?</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Old Play.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>The gentle breath of spring-time was now stirring in
L. The trees had begun to blossom, the flowers to
bud, and the tender grass to spring up beneath the
tread. Birds were returning from exile, and fishes
were re-peopling the village rivulet. Nature, in short,
was assuming her most attractive and becoming dress—that
attire which many a worshiper has celebrated
in songs such as not the gaudiest birth-night garb of
any other queen has ever elicited. After these, it is
not we who dare venture to become her laureate on
the occasion referred to, when she outshone herself in
that gentle season, in the balminess of her breath and
<span class='pageno' title='253' id='Page_253'></span>
the brightness of her sky, as well as in all those other
particulars which are dependent upon these. Those
who have lived the longest may recall every return of
spring within their recollection, and select the fairest
of the hoard, but it will still refuse comparison with
the spring of which we speak.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The pretty English custom of children celebrating
the first of May by an excursion into the country had
been preserved among the colonists. On that day,
from every village and town a flock of these happy
beings, dressed with uncommon attention, and provided
with baskets, might be seen merrily departing on
one of these picknick rambles. Every excursion of
this kind was not merely an event in the future, but
an epoch in the past. The recollection of each successive
May-day treasured up throughout the following
year, never became so swallowed up in that which
came after it, that it did not preserve in its own associations
and incidents a separate place in the memory.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But an occurrence transpired on the May-day of
which we are about to speak, for the little villagers of
L., calculated to fix it indelibly on their remembrance.
The morning rose as serene and clear as if no pleasure
excursion had been intended. A large party of children
set out from their homes on the day alluded to.
This was composed, with very few exceptions and
additions, of the same group which had been collected
the previous winter about the frozen brook on the
day of the accident to the young niece of the governor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The utmost harmony and good conduct prevailed
among the youthful corps, which was generaled by
the sage and skillful Lucy Ellet, who, in order to preserve
order on all festive occasions, lent the young
people her decorous example, and the experience of
her superior years. The young procession made a
beautiful appearance as it wound along the verdant
banks of the village rivulet, and was lost among the
neighboring hills.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The spot selected as the place of rendezvous was an
umbrageous woods in a green valley, surrounded by
various rocky hills of considerable height, rising in
some places one above another with great regularity,
the highest apparently touching the horizon, and the
progressive ascent seeming like a ladder of approach
to the sky. The cavities and crevices of these hills
were numerous, serving as excellent retreats for the
children in their game of hide-and-seek, as well as for
the retirement of separate groups apart from each other.
This vicinity had, therefore, for years been the stated
resort on May-day occasions; yet not alone for the
advantages mentioned, since the shady grove attached
to it, well cleared beneath the tread, might of itself
have been sufficient cause for its selection. Even in
winter it was a sheltered and sequestered spot; but
when arrayed in the verdure of Spring, the earth bringing
forth all her wild-flowers, the shrubs spreading their
wealth of blossoms around it, and the thick branches
interweaving their leaves to intercept the sun, it was a
peculiarly appropriate place for the purpose in question.
If a gardener would have deplored the opportunities
of embellishment which had been here suffered
to lie undeveloped, a true lover of scenery would have
been glad that the wild and picturesque spot had been
left undisturbed by the hands of industry or art. The
situation had been first discovered, and its aptitude for
the purpose which it served, pointed out by Lucy
Ellet, ever interested, since she had emerged from her
own childhood, in considering the happiness and pleasure
of the little community.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the day in question it was therefore remarked as
somewhat strange that that young lady strove to exert
her influence in prevailing on the party to turn another
way, expending much eloquence in extolling the superior
advantages of a spot of ground situated in an opposite
direction. The former prejudice in favor of the
other prevailed, and the assemblage repaired thither as
usual.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In this glade the forest trees were somewhat wildly
separated from each other, and the ground beneath was
covered with a carpet of the softest and loveliest green,
that being well shaded from the heat of the sun was
as beautifully tender as such spots are in the milder
and more equable climes of the South.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The morning was occupied in crowning and doing
honor to the lovely little Jessy Ellet, who had been
unanimously chosen, according to a custom prevalent,
the queen of the day. At noon dinner was served upon
the grass from the contents of the various baskets, and
the afternoon passed in the customary sports.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It had been noticed by such of the children as were
old enough to be in any wise observant, that Lucy
Ellet, so far from busying herself as usual to devise
rambles among the hills, and promote diversity of
amusement, would have used her persuasions to detain
the young people the whole day in the grove.
Her amiable disposition, however, prevented her from
employing positive authority in restraining their footsteps,
and she had been obliged, however regretfully,
to behold them wander abroad at their pleasure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When the members of the scattered assemblage
were re-collecting around her, late in the afternoon,
previous to their return home, she anxiously scanned
their several countenances as they appeared, as if to
detect whether any individual had made an unusual or
curious discovery. She seemed satisfied, at length,
that this was not the case, and evinced extreme satisfaction
when, a little before sunset, the party set out on
their return to L.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They had not proceeded far, however, ere it was
discovered that the young May-queen was missing
from the party. In small alarm, they retraced their
steps, expecting to find her fallen asleep under the
trees where they had dined. But on arriving at the
spot, she was nowhere to be seen. Her name was
next loudly called, yet there was no reply. Apprehension
now seized every member of the young party,
who dispersed in various directions in search of the
lost child.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frank Stanley, the youth who, it will be remembered,
had once been her preserver from a watery
grave, evinced especial uneasiness at her singular absence,
and was, perhaps—her sister excepted, whose
anxiety amounted almost to frenzy—the most active
in his endeavors to discover her. Separating himself
entirely from the rest, he climbed among the rocky
hills, and searched in every nook and cavity, at the
<span class='pageno' title='254' id='Page_254'></span>
same time shouting her name until his voice was
drowned in the resounding echoes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At length he had given up his search in despair, and
was in the act of descending, when he heard a soft
call from behind him. He turned, and on a higher hill
than any of the young villagers had ever been known
to climb, stretched out upon its side in calmness sleeping,
lay the fair object of his search! On the rock
above her, round which the dew of evening had
gathered the thickest, he beheld standing, apparently
to keep watch upon the child’s slumbers, a full-grown
female figure. This form, reflected against the sky,
appeared rather the undefined lineaments of a spirit
than a mortal, for her person seemed as light and almost
as transparent as the thin cloud of mist that surrounded
her. The smoky light of the setting sun gave a hazy,
dubious, and as it were, phantom-like appearance to
the strange apparition. He had scarcely time, however,
to note this, ere she vanished from his view, so
suddenly and mysteriously, that he could hardly distinguish
whether he had been subjected to a mere
illusion of the senses, or whether he had actually seen
the aereal figure we have described. Yet he could in
no other wise account for the voice he had heard, except
by ascribing it to the same vague form, for the
child was evidently in too deep a sleep to have uttered
any sound. Doubtful what to believe in regard to this
phantom-image, and in that perplexed state natural to
one not willing to believe that his sight had deceived
him, ere he yielded himself up to the joy of recovering
Jessy Ellet, whom he loved with the depth and sentiment
of more mature age, he hastily climbed to the
spot where it had appeared. There was no trace,
however, of the vision to be seen. It had melted again
into that air from which it had seemed embodied.
Immediately descending again, he lifted the slumbering
child, whom he had found at last, and imprinting a kiss
upon her face, proceeded to bear her down the hill.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On reaching the valley, he found the rest of the party
collected in the grove, after an unsuccessful search, in
great anxiety awaiting his return.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER IX.</h2>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Night wanes—the vapours round the mountain curled</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Melt into morn, and light awakes the world.</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Man has another day to swell the past,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And lead him near to little but his last.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Byron’s Lara.</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The double night of ages, and of her,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Night’s daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wraps</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>All round us; we but feel our way to err!</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>The adventure of young Stanley, recorded in the last
chapter, made a strong impression on his mind. The
more he reflected on what he had beheld, the more
he became convinced that it was no mere conjuration
of his fancy. Nothing in his feelings at the moment,
absorbed as they were with thoughts of the little
truant he had been seeking, could have suggested to
his imagination the image which arose before him.
That it was an embodiment of some kind he became
therefore convinced, though he could not believe either
that it was human, when he remembered the sudden
and mysterious manner of its disappearance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frank Stanley was by nature neither timorous nor
credulous, and a course of reading, more extensive
than usual for boys at his age, had in some degree fortified
his mind against the attacks of superstition; but
he would have been an actual prodigy, if, living in New
England in the end of the seventeenth century, he had
possessed a philosophy which did not exist there until
much later. Those, therefore, who will recall to mind
the superstitious feelings at that time prevalent among
the early settlers, will not be surprised that our youthful
hero should have closed his reflections with the conviction
that he had beheld a supernatural visitant.
That its mission, however, was not an unholy one he
might have believed, when he recollected that he had
seen it keeping watch over the lost child of his boyish
love, and that its voice had been the means of directing
him to the spot where she lay. But he had so strongly
imbibed the common idea that all supernatural indications
were demonstrations of the Evil One, that his
cogitations the rather resolved themselves into fears that
she who had been so guarded by one of His emissaries,
though in the form of the being of light that he had beheld,
was marked out as a victim of future destruction.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This idea became agony to the sensitive mind of the
boy, whose heart had outstripped, in a great measure,
his years, and was fixed with sentiments of strong attachment
upon the little girl. He determined, therefore,
to keep constant watch upon the child’s movements,
and should he behold her again in the hands of
the tempter, by timely warning to her sister to enlist
her in attempts to destroy the power of the enemy by
fasting and prayer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Thoughts of the kind described had disturbed Stanley’s
mind during the whole night succeeding his adventure,
and caused him the first sleepless pillow he
had ever known. He rose earlier than usual the next
day. Feeling languid from want of his customary rest,
he walked out to recover his freshness in the morning
air. Even to those who, like Stanley, have spent a
sleepless and anxious night, the breeze of the dawn
brings strength and quickening both of mind and body.
He bent his steps involuntarily toward the place of the
previous day’s innocent revel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The day was delightful. There was just enough
motion in the air to disturb the little fleecy clouds
which were scattered on the horizon, and by floating
them occasionally over the sun, to checker the landscape
with that variety of light and shade which often
gives to a bare and unenclosed scene, a species of
charm approaching to the varieties of a cultivated and
planted country.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Stanley had reached the borders of the grove
in which the party had dined, he cast his eyes upward
on the hills where he had climbed in search of Jessy
Ellet. Curiosity suggested to him to ascend again to
the spot where he had beheld the strange apparition.
Fear for himself knew no place in his brave young
soul. He felt that his virtuous and strong heart was
even proof against the power of Satan and his agents.
He proceeded, therefore, to remount the hills, in hopes
that he might again behold the shadowy spirit, and
perchance have time to question it of its errand to
earth, ere it a second time disappeared. When he
<span class='pageno' title='255' id='Page_255'></span>
arrived beneath the well-remembered rock, he raised
his eyes, more however in the expectation of being disappointed
in the object of his quest, than with any actual
idea of meeting a return of his former vision.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was consequently with the astonishment of one
utterly unprepared, that he beheld, standing upon the
rocky elevation, the same figure of the mist which had
filled his waking dreams throughout the night. The
sudden sight took from him, for the instant, both speech
and motion. It seemed as if his imagination had raised
up a phantom presenting to his outward senses the object
that engrossed his mind. She seemed clad in
white, and her hair of threaded gold, while her complexion
looked radiant and pure through the rising
beams that reflected upon it. In the morning vapor
she appeared even more transparent than in the sunset
dew; so much so, that the broken corner of the rock
which she had chosen for her pedestal, would have
seemed unsafe for any more substantial figure than her
own. Yet she rested upon it as securely and lightly as
a bird upon the stem of a bush. The sun, which was
rising exactly opposite, shed his early rays upon her
shadowy form and increased its aereal effect. Internal
and indefinable feelings restrained the youth from
accosting her as he had thought to have done. These
are easily explained on the supposition that his mortal
frame shrunk at the last moment from an encounter
with a being of a different nature.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As the boy gazed, spell-bound, he observed that this
being of the vapor was not alone. Ere long, however,
he became aware that near her, in the middle of the
rock, where the footing was more secure, stood another
form. Fixing his bewildered gaze steadily upon
this second object, in order to scan it as carefully as
he had done the other, he became convinced that it
was a familiar figure. For a moment his memory
failed him, and he could not place that round and coquetish
form, with its garb of rich pink, nor that face,
with its sparkling eyes of jet, and its raven braids.
His doubt, however, lasted but for an instant. It was
Lucy Ellet whom he beheld. She perceived his
proximity before her companion, for, turning to the
phantom-form, she pointed to him just as he himself
was about to speak. Ere his words were uttered, the
misty figure had vanished from her side, and she remained
upon the rock alone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Awe-struck, the youth turned to depart. “Both the
sisters, then,” thought he, “are in league with this spirit-messenger
of darkness. Alas! each so fair in their
different styles, so idolized in the village, one of whom,
too, I have treasured up her childish image in my
heart, and mixed it with all my young dreams of the
future!” He perceived, moreover, that such an association
as he had witnessed with the emissaries of
evil, might not only be a soil upon the virtue of Lucy
and Jessy Ellet, but a lasting disgrace to their names,
should the knowledge of it come to the ears of the
pious community. Congratulating himself that he alone
was privy to the unhappy circumstance, he was wending
his way down the declivity when his meditations
were interrupted by the gay voice of Lucy Ellet behind
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Out on your vaunted politeness, Master Frank,
to trudge down hill in front of a lady, and never turn
to offer her your arm.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Excuse me, Miss Lucy,” replied Stanley, stopping
and much embarrassed, “methought you would not
desire to be troubled with my company.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I honour your delicacy, Frank,” resumed Lucy,
taking his arm, as they walked on. “You saw me but
now in circumstances which you rightly judge I intended
to be secret, and would not mortify me by
forcing me to meet you just at the moment of my
detection.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>After an instant’s pause, she continued. “I will
let you into the secret, Frank, for there may one day
be need to employ your services; and I am sure I
may rely on your judgment and discretion not to
divulge what I shall unfold. Your occasional assistance
is the only return I demand for my confidence.
Yon stranger lady is——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hold, Miss Ellet, I cannot consent to obtain any
knowledge of your secret under the condition that I
am to become a party in the sinful affair. I not will
unite in league with any daughter of the clouds or
spirit of darkness.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then you deem her whom you saw beside me on
the rock one of those visionary beings you mention?”
asked Lucy, looking at him steadily, to learn if he
were in earnest, and an arch smile curling on her
mouth, and sparkling in her eyes, when she perceived
that he had spoken seriously.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What else can I think of one who hath scarce the
weight of a feather, is transparent as a cloud, and dissolveth
in a moment into air?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lucy Ellet here laughed outright. But instantly
checking herself and looking grave, she replied in a
mysterious tone, “I have, indeed, a strange associate
in yonder lady of the mist. And you positively decline
an introduction to her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I did not think thou would’st thus seek to destroy
others as well as thyself, Miss Ellet. Is it through
thine influence that thy sister has been made acquainted
with the evil spirit?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, thou fearest for her, dost thou?” said Lacy,
mischievously seizing the opportunity of turning the
conversation. “Thou wouldst have her kept stainless
from sin in order that she may be thine when thou
art a man, eh, Frank? Nay, you need not blush,
though you see I read your heart.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanley’s thoughts were now completely diverted
from the first topic of conversation, and talking on
indifferent subjects, Lucy Ellet and himself entered
the village.</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='tbk114'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='256' id='Page_256'></span><h1><a id='uriel'></a>URIEL.</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='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>A haughty</span>, high-born maiden was the Lady Uriel,</p>
<p class='line0'>  With stately step, majestic mien and royal falcon eyes,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Whose glory scintillated like auroras in the skies.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>She sat her steed, and held her hawk, and ruled her father’s board,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Among her maidens, like a queen; and all her noble guests</p>
<p class='line0'>  Swore fealty to her beauty, and obeyed her least behests.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>From East to West, from North to South, the wonder of her charms</p>
<p class='line0'>  Had been the theme of troubadours, who sang, with many sighs,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The splendor of her beauty and the grandeur of her eyes.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>From East and West, from North and South, came many a gay gallánt,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Like pilgrims to Jerusalem, to worship at her shrine;</p>
<p class='line0'>  And each one swore that song did wrong to beauty so divine.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>All day in panoply of steel these young chivalrous knights</p>
<p class='line0'>  Strove gracefully and gallantly in deeds of bold emprise,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Seeking to call down sunny smiles from her imperial eyes.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>All night, beneath the icy orbs of the unheeding moon,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The invisible breath of music filled the castle’s gray arcades;</p>
<p class='line0'>  But Uriel’s heart replied not to her lovers’ serenades.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Some sought her father—paladins, whose names for centuries</p>
<p class='line0'>  Had sparkled, like a necklace, on the snowy bust of fame,</p>
<p class='line0'>  With hosts of anxious aspirants who struggled for a name.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And haughty merchant-princes, who, in countless argosies,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Possessed the wealth of Orient Ind, sued humbly at her feet;</p>
<p class='line0'>  And monarchs put aside command and followed in her <span class='it'>suite</span>.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But all in vain, for Uriel loved none, nor cared to love;</p>
<p class='line0'>  She only prized her sire and home; she sought no other ties;</p>
<p class='line0'>  So not a single suitor saw his image in her eyes.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>More beautiful with every moon became the maiden’s face,</p>
<p class='line0'>  More queenly still her stately step, more luminous her eyes,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Until her lovers thought her charms translations from the skies.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>One day, perchance attracted by the maiden’s marvelous fame,</p>
<p class='line0'>  An unknown knight, in humble guise, rode slowly to her gate.</p>
<p class='line0'>  No page, no man-at-arms had he; he came in simple state.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>His armor was as dark as night, his tossing plumes were black,</p>
<p class='line0'>  As was his gaunt gigantic steed;—no arms were on his shield —</p>
<p class='line0'>  Only a deadly night-shade shone upon its ebon field.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Next day the tournament gave birth to doughty deeds of arms,</p>
<p class='line0'>  For down before the Nameless Knight the lady’s suitors went;</p>
<p class='line0'>  And, strange to say, that Uriel’s eyes now sparkled with content.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Next night a mournful melody swept from the plain below,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And from her oriel, bright as stars, peered Uriel’s luminous eyes:</p>
<p class='line0'>  Her heart made echoes to the strain, and answered it with sighs.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Hunting, or hawking, in the dance when jewels made the hall</p>
<p class='line0'>  Shine like the heavens on starry evens, the tall and shadowy knight</p>
<p class='line0'>  Followed her form from place to place, as darkness follows light.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And Uriel’s cheek grew crimson, and Uriel’s glorious eyes</p>
<p class='line0'>  Shone brighter when his step was heard in palace, or on plain,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Though her other guests shrunk from him with expressions of disdain.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>For all her father’s titled friends—the lords who sought her hand —</p>
<p class='line0'>  Hated the bold adventurer; but no one spoke a word —</p>
<p class='line0'>  They only looked their anger;—they knew he wore a sword.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And sadly as he came he went, and Uriel’s anxious eyes</p>
<p class='line0'>  Followed him, step by step, until the distance closed their view;</p>
<p class='line0'>  And when her guests came once more round, they saw them moist with dew.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And Uriel’s cheek grew pallid, and Uriel’s eyes grew dim,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And Uriel’s form grew slender, and her beauty, day by day,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Seemed stricken like the morning moon, and sinking to decay.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Her father called her to him, and he kissed her icy brow,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And gave her gentle names; for he saw her mother’s eyes</p>
<p class='line0'>  Looking pleadingly upon him from her daïs in the skies.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>A warm and rosy brightness, like the bloom upon a peach,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Blossomed on Uriel’s marble cheek, and the light in Uriel’s eyes</p>
<p class='line0'>  Came back at once, like light to stars, when clouds have left the skies.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>For Uriel’s sire, forgetting his long ancestral line,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Consented that his gentle child should wed the nameless knight:</p>
<p class='line0'>  What wonder, then, that Uriel’s eyes resumed their olden light!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>—The chapel bells were ringing; the priest was in his place,</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='pageno' title='257' id='Page_257'></span></p>
<p class='line0'>  And the incense clomb in clouds from the censers by his side,</p>
<p class='line0'>  While the organ’s billowy melodies breathed a welcome to the bride.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The princely train came slowly in, for Uriel’s satin feet</p>
<p class='line0'>  Fell fainter on the pavement than the snow-flake on the stream,</p>
<p class='line0'>  As she walked, in silence, by her groom, like a vision in a dream.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But when she reached the altar, grandly, and like a sun,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Shone out the marvelous brightness of her supernatural eyes</p>
<p class='line0'>  So vividly, the aged priest stepped back in mute surprise!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But the groom—his eyes shone brighter still, like lightning in the night.</p>
<p class='line0'>  As he motioned to the monk to expedite the rite;</p>
<p class='line0'>  But Uriel’s cheek grew pale again, and her eyes became less bright.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Slowly the priest proceeded, while the organ’s swan-like song</p>
<p class='line0'>  Swept toward the gilded dome and died, and lived and died again,</p>
<p class='line0'>  As the monk in mellow monotones chanted his deep refrain.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The priest was silent: with a sigh the bride sunk on the breast</p>
<p class='line0'>  Of him she loved so wildly, as a bird sinks on its nest,</p>
<p class='line0'>  As her sire, her bridemaids and her friends around the couple prest.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Suddenly, like an expiring lamp, her large, unusual eyes</p>
<p class='line0'>  Flashed, and went out, as forward, with a simple rustling sound,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The noble Lady Uriel fell lifeless to the ground!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The maidens shrieked in terror when she sunk, as through a mist,</p>
<p class='line0'>  For where the bridegroom stood was space—his form was gone in air;</p>
<p class='line0'>  And the lonely sire embraced his child in agonies of despair!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>From his place behind the railing came the shorn and shaven priest,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And quoth he, while the expectant crowd stood mute and held their breath —</p>
<p class='line0'>  “Take up the dead: <span class='it'>its</span> Nameless Groom was the <span class='it'>Invisible</span> <span class='sc'>Death</span>.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk115'/>
<div><h1><a id='out'></a>OUT OF DOORS.</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 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.</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'>’Tis</span> good to be abroad in the sun,</p>
<p class='line0'>His gifts abide when day is done;</p>
<p class='line0'>Each thing in nature from his cup</p>
<p class='line0'>Gathers a several virtue up;</p>
<p class='line0'>The grace within its being’s reach</p>
<p class='line0'>Becomes the nutriment of each,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the same life imbibed by all</p>
<p class='line0'>Makes each most individual:</p>
<p class='line0'>Here the twig-bending peaches seek</p>
<p class='line0'>The glow that mantles in their cheek—</p>
<p class='line0'>Hence comes the Indian-summer bloom</p>
<p class='line0'>That hazes round the basking plum,</p>
<p class='line0'>And, from the same impartial light,</p>
<p class='line0'>The grass sucks green, the lily white.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Like these the soul, for sunshine made,</p>
<p class='line0'>Grows wan and gracile in the shade,</p>
<p class='line0'>Her faculties, which God decreed</p>
<p class='line0'>Various as Summer’s dædal breed,</p>
<p class='line0'>With one sad color are imbued,</p>
<p class='line0'>Shut from the sun that tints their blood;</p>
<p class='line0'>The shadow of the poet’s roof</p>
<p class='line0'>Deadens the dyes of warp and woof;</p>
<p class='line0'>Whate’er of ancient song remains</p>
<p class='line0'>Has fresh air flowing in its veins,</p>
<p class='line0'>For Greece and eldest Ind knew well</p>
<p class='line0'>That out of doors, with world-wide swell</p>
<p class='line0'>Arches the student’s lawful cell.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Away, unfruitful lore of books,</p>
<p class='line0'>For whose vain idiom we reject</p>
<p class='line0'>The spirit’s mother-dialect,</p>
<p class='line0'>Aliens among the birds and brooks,</p>
<p class='line0'>Dull to interpret or believe</p>
<p class='line0'>What gospels lost the woods retrieve,</p>
<p class='line0'>Or what the eaves-dropping violet</p>
<p class='line0'>Reports from God, who walketh yet</p>
<p class='line0'>His garden in the hush of eve!</p>
<p class='line0'>Away, ye pedants city-bred,</p>
<p class='line0'>Unwise of heart, too wise of head,</p>
<p class='line0'>Who handcuff Art with <span class='it'>thus and so</span>,</p>
<p class='line0'>And in each other’s foot-prints tread,</p>
<p class='line0'>Like those who walk through drifted snow;</p>
<p class='line0'>Who, from deep study of brick walls</p>
<p class='line0'>Conjecture of the water-falls,</p>
<p class='line0'>By six feet square of smoke-stained sky</p>
<p class='line0'>Compute those deeps that overlie</p>
<p class='line0'>The still tarn’s heaven-anointed eye,</p>
<p class='line0'>And, in your earthen crucible,</p>
<p class='line0'>With chemic tests essay to spell</p>
<p class='line0'>How nature works in field and dell!</p>
<p class='line0'>Seek we where Shakspeare buried gold?</p>
<p class='line0'>Such hands no charmed witch-hazel hold;</p>
<p class='line0'>To beach and rock repeats the sea</p>
<p class='line0'>The mystic <span class='it'>Open Sesame</span>;</p>
<p class='line0'>Old Greylock’s voices not in vain</p>
<p class='line0'>Comment on Milton’s mountain strain,</p>
<p class='line0'>And cunningly the various wind</p>
<p class='line0'>Spenser’s locked music can unbind.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk116'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='258' id='Page_258'></span><h1><a id='fan'></a>FANNY.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>A NARRATIVE TAKEN FROM THE LIPS OF A MANIAC.</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. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.</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;'>                        I am bound</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Do scald like molten lead.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>King Lear.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>They</span> tell me I am mad—<span class='it'>mad</span>! No, I am not
mad! In this den of horror I at least am sane. Reason
bursting from the heavy shackles which would
press her down to death, now asserts her right—yes—I
am sane—though they tell me I am mad—<span class='it'>mad—ha!
ha!</span></p>
<p class='pindent'>Around me I hear the incoherent ravings of insanity—the
wild screech and terrific yells of demoniac rage
as the unhappy wretch dashes against the iron bars
and tears his very flesh in torture. Bursts of laughter
echo around my prison walls, and eye-balls red and
wild glare at me through yonder grating—but <span class='it'>I</span> am
not mad!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fanny! Fanny! where are you, my life, my love!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ah-h! now the past comes up before me. Distinct
as the clouds mirrored in some placid lake do the
events of my life float by.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stay—stay—fleeting images of pleasure and of wo—let
me trace distinctly as your wavelets sweep over
my soul the causes which have brought me here!</p>
<p class='pindent'>A boyhood spurning parental control. A youth of
wild, ungoverned passions. These—these—first point
the path I trod. And whither—ah whither have they
led me!</p>
<p class='pindent'>My God—to a mad-house! <span class='it'>But I am not mad!</span></p>
<p class='pindent'>At twenty, giddy with the possession of uncontrolled
riches, which, as an only son, fell to me at the death
of my parents, I plunged wildly within the Maelstrom
of dissipation. On—on in its soul-destroying vortex I
was whirled for months—nay, years—madly, blindly,
sweeping to my destruction. In a fortunate hour my
reason, even as now, was restored to me—for remember
I am not mad!</p>
<p class='pindent'>I suddenly became disgusted with that which had
before seemed to me the <span class='it'>all</span> that life was designed for.
I forsook my gay companions. I filled my library
with the choicest books—my walls with the rarest
paintings—my halls with master-pieces of sculpture.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I traveled—not to see life in the haunts of folly—but
the world—poised in the Creator’s hand—to learn
from her majestic mountains, heaped up to the skies—from
her mighty rivers—her foaming torrents—from
the wild cataract and the flaming volcano, the power
of God—and the insignificance of man!</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was in Italy, pure land of song, that I first met
Fanny—the bright, the beautiful star of my destiny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ah, pause memory—pause on this blest vision!
Pass not too soon from my tortured brain—but for a
moment stay, and soothe me into forgetfulness of all
save Fanny and love!</p>
<p class='pindent'>A wasting malady had brought the father of Fanny
from the bleak climate of Canada to the pure skies and
genial airs of Italy, in the flattering hope that health
would once more invigorate his feeble frame—and
she, ministering angel, came with him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The lily is not purer than was the soul of Fanny—nor
the rose more beautiful than her cheek. She had
been nurtured in the lap of indulgence—heaven’s
breath scarce allowed to fan her brow—her delicate
foot to touch the earth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And I—I won this peerless one to be my bride!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Has Heaven aught in store for the blessed can rival
that rapturous moment when I called Fanny mine!
Fanny! Fanny! where are you now, my beautiful,
my injured wife? And I—where am I—the tenant of
a mad-house—the companion of maniacs—but I am
not mad—no, not mad!</p>
<p class='pindent'>We laid her father, in the sleep of death, among the
vine-clad hills, and then to my native shores I brought
my lovely bride.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was my idol, and at her feet I worshiped.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But a day of reverses came. The riches which I
had foolishly deemed inexhaustible I found were melting
like the morning dew. Too late I saw the ruinous
tendency of the life I had led. To retrieve if possible
my sinking fortunes, I plunged deeply into speculations—seizing
eagerly the wild, visionary schemes of artful
or misguided men—and so lost all!</p>
<p class='pindent'>I had studiously concealed the truth from poor
Fanny, hoping even yet to seize some golden opportunity
to re-create a mine of wealth. But now the
fatal fact must be told—poor, poor Fanny!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Like an angel she listened to me. She soothed my
grief, and hushed my self-reproach by her embraces.
Never had I loved her so well—never had she appeared
to me in a light so beautiful.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Thus the sharpest wound was healed—and the loss
of wealth for a time scarce heeded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The necessity of doing something for our support
pressed upon me, and my angel wife encouraged
my efforts. I sought employment from those against
whom wealth had barred my doors, and whom
in my exaltation I scarce deigned to acknowledge—but
now my pride was gone, and for Fanny’s sake
I sought from them to earn my daily bread. I obtained
a lucrative business, and for a time was
happy, for I was still enabled to place my dearest
Fanny above want—even to surround her with some
few of the luxuries with which her young life had
been crowned.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But soon a new fear begat itself. I found my health
rapidly declining. The life of pleasure I had led, and
<span class='pageno' title='259' id='Page_259'></span>
the shock lately sustained by my reverse of fortune,
had materially injured a constitution naturally nervous
and weak. What was to become of my poor Fanny
in the event of my death! Upon this one thought I
brooded despondingly. My exertions even for our
present support were paralyzed—my health suffered
more and more—my form wasted, and my countenance
became so changed that even my best friends
scarce recognized me.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Shall I go on! Shall I call up the monster-fiend that
awoke me from my misery, only to plunge me by degrees
into horrors deeper than the pit of hell!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ay, gibe and grin at me, fiend! I defy you now—you
have accomplished your worst—there is not a
deed more damnable left for me to do! ha! ha! you
would drive me mad—you say I <span class='it'>am</span>—but, fiend, I am
not mad!</p>
<p class='pindent'>One morning a friend came into my office. With
my elbows resting on my desk, and my hands supporting
my aching temples, I sat brooding over the one
dark thought, which, like an incubus, pressed upon
my brain.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Townsend was an old acquaintance—one whom I
loved and trusted—but I am now convinced he was no
other than the Devil, who had come to tempt me here—<span class='it'>here</span>
amid the rattling of chains and shrieks of wo!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Cheer up, Denton—cheer up, my man—what ails
you?” he cried, gaily slapping me on the back.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Townsend, I am miserable,” I replied. “My
wife—my poor wife—my angel Fanny, what is to become
of her? Were she less kind—less sympathizingly
affectionate, I might perhaps be less sensitive
for the future. Poor girl! I feel I shall not live long,
and then—ah, Townsend, must her delicate frame
bear fatigue—her tender hands be forced to labor!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tut—tut, man—all nonsense, I tell you,” answered
my <span class='it'>friend</span>. “If you have a mind to die, so be it—but
I have come in on purpose to suggest to you a
means by which you can secure to Mrs. Denton not
only a competence but comparative wealth.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How! how!” I exclaimed, eagerly interrupting
him and starting to my feet—“only tell me, and I will
forever bless you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, my dear fellow, the simplest thing in the
world—you have only to get your life insured!” cried
the tempter.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How—my life insured!” I echoed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To be sure—come go with me to some responsible
office, and insure your life for three, five, or ten thousand
dollars, as you please. You will only have to
pay a small premium—a mere trifle in comparison, and
then, my dear fellow, you may welcome death as you
would a <span class='it'>douche</span> in August, sure that her you love will
be benefited by your demise.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My dear friend,” said I, warmly embracing him,
“how can I sufficiently thank you for your suggestion—come—why
my heart already feels lightened of half
its load—don’t let us lose a moment’s time—let me
secure to my dear Fanny an independence, and then I
may die in peace!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am ready,” replied Townsend with a gay laugh.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>Such a laugh!</span> It yet rings in my ear—it pierces
my brain—it echoes from corner to corner of this dismal
cell—it rattles like a serpent through the straw on
which my worn body rests—but—it cannot drive me
mad!</p>
<p class='pindent'>In less than an hour the business was accomplished,
and the policy in my hands, by which, in the event of
my death before the expiration of the year, I secured
to my dear wife the sum of ten thousand dollars—and
feeling happier than I had done for months, I sought
my home.</p>
<p class='pindent'>My charming Fanny met me with a sweet kiss, and
her watchful eyes soon read in mine that joy I was
eager to speak.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, my dearest Henry,” she said, caressing me,
“I see you have good news for me—what is it has
brought back the long banished smiles to your dear
face?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wait until we are alone, my dearest,” I answered,
for our <span class='it'>one</span> servant was then placing dinner on the
table, “and I will tell you why it is that I am so
happy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>No sooner therefore was our meal ended and the
servant retired than drawing Fanny on my knee, and
tenderly embracing her, I related the events of the
morning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But instead of sharing my happiness, as I imagined
she would, she grew paler and paler as I proceeded,
and finally throwing her arms around my neck she
burst into a passionate flood of tears.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Harry, how cruel to talk to me of riches which
can only be mine through your death! Henry—Henry,
do you think so meanly of me—would not every dollar
speak to my soul as from the grave of all I hold dear.
I will die with you, my husband—but I beseech of you—I
pray you by all our love to give up that hateful
policy—no good will result from it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Was her angel voice prophetic!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Would to God I had obeyed her—then these chains
would not confine me—but I am not mad—no—not
mad!</p>
<p class='pindent'>I could not but admit her reasoning to be perfectly
natural—just such as one might expect from a young,
loving heart—for it is a bitter thought that by the death
of our souls’ idols worldly comforts are to be granted
us! And does not this tend to harden the feelings of
the survivor—to crush the sensibilities, and render
them insensible to those holy influences which come
to the sincere mourner—turning sorrow into joy—mourning
into gladness! nay, does it not produce selfishness
and unrighteous wishes, even <span class='it'>before</span> death!</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>Life Insurance!</span> Ay, write it, fiend, in letters of
flame, and seal it with the blood of sacrifice! ha—ha!
you would scorch my brain—but you cannot—it is
<span class='it'>seared—seared!</span></p>
<p class='pindent'>[The reader must recollect this is the speech of a
madman—for certainly no sane person can deny or
doubt the immense benefits daily arising from the
noble institution of Life Insurance. In the case of
this poor wretch, it would seem that the sudden loss
of wealth acting upon a mind unhealthy from youthful
excesses, and shattered by illness, had produced a
morbidness upon which any chimera long dwelt upon,
no matter in what shape it appeared, might at length
impel to insanity—indeed, the very fancy brooded
<span class='pageno' title='260' id='Page_260'></span>
over, that Fanny in the event of his death would become
a beggar, had already driven him, as we have
seen, to the verge of madness when his friend advised
the life insurance, and it is easy to conceive how the
re-action from despondency to joy might, in the sickly
state of his mind, have produced the lamentable result.
Whatever, therefore, the unhappy Denton utters
in his delirium against that institution for whose blessings
the widow and the fatherless daily offer up prayers
of thankfulness, must be considered only as the
ravings of insanity.]</p>
<p class='pindent'>I labored in every way to do away the prejudices of
my darling Fanny. I pictured to her in the strongest
language what would be her wretched situation, left
friendless and penniless by my death, and little by
little she yielded to my arguments, and conversed
calmly, though with an air of touching sadness, upon
the subject.</p>
<p class='pindent'>My heart thus relieved of the burthen so long oppressing
it, I became cheerful. My sighs and melancholy
no longer grieved the tender sympathies of
Fanny, and as in my happiness her own was found,
what wonder her gayety soon outmeasured mine. Indeed
one would have thought we were possessed of
all the treasures of the earth, we were so happy. And
what are the treasures earth can boast to equal love
and contentment! I know it—ah, I know it—for these
treasures were once mine—but they are gone—<span class='it'>gone</span>
I say—ha! do you mock me, fiend—do you laugh at
my agony!</p>
<p class='pindent'>This state of bliss soon ended.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The demon came—whispering words which turned
my heart to ice, and set my brain on fire!</p>
<p class='pindent'>I began to look jealously upon poor Fanny’s uniform
cheerfulness—well may she laugh—well may she
sing, urged the demon—what care has she for the
future—<span class='it'>she</span> is provided for—true, you are near death—what
of that—wont it shower down gold upon <span class='it'>her</span>—ha—ha—ha!
She will turn from your grave with a
smile, and revel in the proceeds of—A Life Insurance!</p>
<p class='pindent'>From that hour I grew suspicious of every thing my
poor wife said or did—her every action was scanned,
every word translated to meet my own bitter jealousy.
I became moody, rude, fretful—nay, harsh to my angel
Fanny, and if, when I saw her tears, and her cheek
turn pale at my cruelty, my heart moved with pity,
the demon with a hideous laugh would cry “<span class='it'>cockatrice</span>—she
only weeps and wishes you were dead.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>One day I came home with a violent headache and
threw myself upon the sofa. Fanny stole to my side
with a step so noiseless and gentle I heard her not, and
kneeling down she parted the hair from my fevered
brow, and kissed my closed eye-lids.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dear Henry, can I do any thing for you?” she
softly murmured. “You are sick—your hands are
hot, and your cheek feverish—tell me what I can do
for you, dearest?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I made her no answer—but I glared upon her with
<span class='it'>such</span> a look that she trembled and turned pale—then
once more stooping over me until her golden ringlets
touched my cheek, she said again—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Henry, let me send for a physician—indeed you
must.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ha, wretch! traitress!” I cried, suddenly starting
up and pushing her from me with violence—“you
would have the work finished soon—eh! You would
soon put me under ground if you could, woman!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Henry! Henry!” cried Fanny, with a look which
is fastened on my brain—and with a convulsive groan
she sank fainting upon the floor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In a moment all my affection returned. I hung over
her insensible form—I kissed her pale lips—I besought
her to forgive me. I bathed her temples—I called her
by every endearing name. At last she opened her
eyes, and catching her to my breast I wept my contrition.
I added falsehood to my infamy—attributing
the words I had uttered to the effects of opium taken
to relieve a raging tooth-ache.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The dear girl believed me, and with a sweet angelic
smile forgave, and blamed herself for being so easily
disturbed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We passed the evening happily, and for several days
my jealousy slumbered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But again the demon got possession of me, and again
my infernal suspicions goaded me almost to madness.
Why did I not go mad! See how the fiends mock
me, and with their fleshless fingers point at me, crying—“You
are mad <span class='it'>now</span>”—but no—no—I am not mad!</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was a lovely day in October. I had walked out
far from city haunts. The pure breath of heaven
cooled my fevered brain—my pulse beat less wildly,
until by degrees a sweet serenity crept over me. I
thought of Fanny—of her love—of the patience and
forbearance with which she had met my cruel treatment
of her. My heart bled for her, and tears of pity
bedewed my cheek.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Once more I sought my home. It was long since I
had offered my injured Fanny any of those kind attentions
it should be a husband’s pride and pleasure, as
well as his duty, to bestow—but in this softened, subdued
moment I resolved to take her to ride—the day
was so lovely, the air so bland, it would do her good.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I entered the house—<span class='it'>and the demon stole in by my
side</span>—though I felt him not. I ran up stairs—Fanny
was not in her room, so again I went below, and was
about to enter the parlor, when the words “life insurance”
met my ear. It was the voice of Fanny.
“Ha!” cried the demon, grasping my heart in his
sharp talons, and wringing it until my life’s blood
seemed bursting out—“ha! do you hear!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Unperceived we stole into the room—the demon and
I. Fanny was in earnest conversation with a female
friend, whose husband I knew to be wasting away in
a consumption. Tears stood in the beautiful eyes of
Fanny—while her friend held her handkerchief to her
face as if in deep grief. Their conversation was low—the
only words I could catch were those I have
named. My wife grew more earnest as she proceeded—her
companion removed her handkerchief and appeared
to listen intently—she even smiled—and so did
Fanny—and again the words “life insurance” hissed
through my brain!</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was proof enough. My artful wife was no
doubt setting forth to her friend the pleasures she
would reap from my death, and that when I was
placed in the tomb—then, and only then, should she
<span class='pageno' title='261' id='Page_261'></span>
begin to enjoy life! And not only was she thus
wickedly anticipating my death, but she was also encouraging
this <span class='it'>worthy</span> friend of hers to take advantage
of this same institution, instigated and supported by
the Evil One, to secure to herself a good round sum
of money, and a round sum of enjoyment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Perhaps they were even then devising means to
murder us! So said the demon.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I could bear no more. I rushed upon them <span class='it'>like</span> a
maniac.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Vile, unfeeling wretches!” I exclaimed, “is it
thus you plot and plan for the death of your husbands!
Is it thus you form schemes for reveling in the ill-deserved
wealth which may then be yours! With
suppressed laughter you would close the coffin-lid, and
dance over our scarce cold remains, shouting, Ho-ho-ho!
for the merry Life Insurance!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Before I had done speaking, poor Fanny was
stretched senseless upon the floor, while frightened
and amazed her companion fled the room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And so did I. Leaving my wife in a state of insensibility,
I flew to my chamber. I raved and tore like a
madman—but remember, I was not mad! No, it was
not madness—for madness utters it knows not what,
and memory takes no heed; but <span class='it'>I</span>—I knew all—no, I
was not mad—I <span class='it'>am</span> not mad!</p>
<p class='pindent'>From that day I saw poor Fanny’s heart was broken.
She breathed no complaint—she uttered no reproach,
not even from those languid eyes which ever beamed
on me with so much tenderness—wretch, infamous
wretch that I was; but I saw the fatal blow was given.
And I also saw, with a fiendish joy, that she was
afraid of me—yes, <span class='it'>afraid</span>—ha! ha! She thought me
mad—<span class='it'>me</span>! How I reveled in this idea; what gambols
I held with my demon, in my joy that I could affright
her timid soul—how I gloried in it! Her monomany
was such a farce, to believe <span class='it'>me</span> mad! I knew she
would die sooner than complain of my treatment—and
the demon shouted, “Take your revenge now for the
happiness she expects from your death; give ten thousand
deathly stabs to her heart by your unkindness, for
the <span class='it'>ten thousand dollars</span> she will finger! Leave her
no peace—waste her to a skeleton, and then—<span class='it'>let her
enjoy the Life Insurance—ha! ha!</span>”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sometimes I resolved I would live until the day the
policy expired, and then die—<span class='it'>cheat her at last</span>.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There were seasons, however, when I threw off the
mask of the madman—for, remember, I was not mad—when
I would take my Fanny to my arms with love
and kindness, when I would entreat her to forgive me,
while with her true woman’s heart she would bless
me and pardon my guilt toward her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the first of February the policy on my life would
expire. For some weeks I had been uniformly kind
to my poor wife. The demon had departed for a
season, but you may be sure he was not far off. As
the first of the month drew near she became more
cheerful—her step was lighter, and a smile, as of old,
played around her sweet mouth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was the afternoon of the 31st of January that I
drew Fanny to my bosom as I reclined upon the sofa,
and carelessly playing with her beautiful ringlets as I
spoke, said,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you know, dearest Fanny, the policy on my
life expires to-morrow, and yet you see here I am hale
and hearty—what a pity!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank God, my dear Henry, that you are so!” she
replied, tenderly embracing me, “thank God!” and
tears glistened on her long curling lashes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shall I renew it, Fanny?” I asked smiling in her face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh no, Henry, not for worlds—if you love me, don’t
renew it!” she cried, slipping from my arms upon her
knees, and pressing my head to her bosom. “Oh, my
dear Henry, you know not the agony I have suffered
from that simple act of yours, done in all love and
kindness to me—no, Henry, don’t renew it!” she
added, while a shudder passed over her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah,” whispered the demon, tugging at my heart-strings
till they snapped, “is not she a good actress—how
well she feigns; she weeps, don’t she—but it is
because you are not in the church-yard!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For the first time I paid no heed to the demon, but
kissing my darling Fanny, and promising I would
comply with her wishes, I withdrew to my office.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That evening—little did I think it was to be my last
with my beloved—my angel wife—my <span class='it'>last—last—last</span>!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ay, howl, ye mocking fiends! gibe and chatter, and
clap your hands with hellish joy! shriek to my burning
brain, “<span class='it'>It was the last!</span>” What care I—you cannot
drive me mad!</p>
<p class='pindent'>That evening we were so happy—we talked of the
future, we reared temples of happiness wherein our
days were to be spent—but the demon set his foot upon
them, and lo, they were dashed to pieces, and in an
instant I was transformed from the tender, loving husband
to the maniac—but I was not mad.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I turned upon my wife with the demon’s eyes. She
grew suddenly pale. She went to the side-board and
poured out a glass of wine; she brought it to me and
said timidly, “Will you drink this, Henry?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I dashed it from her hand—I struck her a blow!
Heavens! why was not my arm paralyzed! and cried
in a voice of fury,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wretch! murderess!—would you poison me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fanny stood for a moment transfixed with wo unutterable—it
was too deep for tears; then taking the
lamp, she slowly, slowly left the room, casting back
upon me a look so full of grief—of pity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In a few moments I softly followed her up stairs—I
gently pushed open the door of our sleeping chamber.
She did not hear my approach. She was kneeling by
the bedside, her white hands uplifted in prayer. Yes,
she was praying—praying God for <span class='it'>me</span>—praying Him
to restore my <span class='it'>reason</span>, to remove the darkness from my
mind! <span class='it'>My reason!</span>—ha—ha—how I chuckled as I
listened.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I threw myself on the bed without speaking, and
was soon asleep, or feigning to be so—narrowly
watching, meanwhile, every motion of Fanny, for the
demon whispered, <span class='it'>she meant to kill me to save the
Life Insurance!</span></p>
<p class='pindent'>She did not undress, but sat for a while in a large
easy chair. Sometimes she wept, sometimes she
seemed engaged in prayer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Kill—kill—kill!</span>” I muttered, as if in sleep.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='262' id='Page_262'></span>
She started—her eye-balls dilated with terror. She
rose quickly from her seat, as if to fly; but the next
moment she softly approached the bed, her countenance
changing from terror to pity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My poor, poor Henry—God help thee!” she
murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She then cautiously stepped across the room and
carefully examined the windows, to see if they were
fastened. She then took down my pistols. I knew
they were not loaded; she, too, appeared to recollect
it, and gently replaced them. With a timid step she
next approached the bureau and opened my dressing-case,
glancing uneasily at the bed as she did so. Good
heavens! what was she about to do!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ah, I knew—though I cunningly closed my eyes and
lay still—still—she could not make me believe she was
only anxious to put all dangerous weapons from the
power of a <span class='it'>madman</span>—no—no, I knew better!</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>She drew forth a razor</span>—and then softly, softly,
softly, she turned from the bureau and—</p>
<p class='pindent'>But I waited for no more. With a horrible cry I
sprung from the bed, and with one bound stood before
her. I snatched the razor from her hand—I waved its
shining blade in triumph.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wretch—murderess!” I cried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I attempted to seize her—she eluded my grasp, and
ran shrieking from the room. I rushed wildly after her,
shouting madly down the stairs—through the hall. I saw
her white garments as she sprang through the street-door.
“On—on—after her—after her!” cried the demon.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But strong men seized me; they bound me with
cords—they called me <span class='it'>mad</span>—they brought me here—they
shut me up with maniacs; but I am not mad—no,
no, no—not mad!</p>
<p class='pindent'>The demon, with a fiendish joy, whispers, “Fanny
was an angel—Fanny was innocent—that I have
killed her!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fanny! Fanny! Fanny—where are you? Come to
me, my love! No, she will not come! the fiends are
keeping her from me! Ah, I see them as they wind
themselves around her delicate form—break from them,
my angel—my wife, come to me! <span class='it'>See!</span> she too laughs
and mocks my groans! Now—now I am, indeed,
growing mad—mad!</p>
<hr class='tbk117'/>
<div><h1><a id='dix'></a>MISS DIX, THE PHILANTHROPIST.</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. E. C. KINNEY.</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'>From</span> the deep heart of Wo went up a groan</p>
<p class='line0'>  That, piercing the cerulean vault of heaven,</p>
<p class='line0'>Found access to the great Eternal’s throne,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Amid the prayers of such as are forgiven: —</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>When, from that throne—where none but seraphs gaze,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And only they as reverent worshipers —</p>
<p class='line0'>Like lightning through th’empyrean did blaze</p>
<p class='line0'>  A mandate writ in shining characters!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And then a spirit meek, yet pure as snow,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The mission craved, and swiftly winged to earth,</p>
<p class='line0'>Where, in the modest form of woman, lo!</p>
<p class='line0'>  That angel took a new, terrestrial birth!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The form was woman’s—but the voice that spoke</p>
<p class='line0'>  To love’s key-note attuned—the dauntless heart —</p>
<p class='line0'>The smile, that on Wo’s night like morning broke,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Were still the angel’s—still of Heaven a part.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And when the man of crime that eye beheld,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And felt the power of that transforming smile,</p>
<p class='line0'>Beneath sin’s iron breastwork beat and swelled</p>
<p class='line0'> The heart that seemed in contrast doubly vile.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Next to that glance of calm divinity,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Through which the Saviour’s eye could guilt disarm,</p>
<p class='line0'>Was her mild look, from human passion free,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Subduing evil by its silent charm.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And as Christ’s voice made frantic demons flee,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Or lulled the raging elements at will;</p>
<p class='line0'>So her soft tone made discord harmony,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And frenzied minds obeyed its “peace, be still!”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>She through the dungeon’s gloom did fearless grope —</p>
<p class='line0'>  Herself a light that on the sufferer gleamed —</p>
<p class='line0'>As if the day-star of celestial Hope</p>
<p class='line0'>  Serenely through his grated window beamed.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The eye, whose intellectual ray obscured,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Had fixed on vacancy its soulless stare,</p>
<p class='line0'>Grew lucid from a spirit reassured</p>
<p class='line0'>  In faith and trust, through Mercy’s brooding care.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The ear, that only jarring sounds had heard,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Now, listening to Love’s heavenly dialect,</p>
<p class='line0'>Was moved, as when an exile’s heart is stirred</p>
<p class='line0'>  By native tones, ’mid strangeness and neglect.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And Madness soothed, coherently replied —</p>
<p class='line0'>  The arm resistant raised, submissive fell,</p>
<p class='line0'>And sunken eyes, by burning anguish dried,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Grew moist again from feeling’s latent well.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Chaotic Intellect took Beauty’s shape</p>
<p class='line0'>  At the omnipotence of gentle speech,</p>
<p class='line0'>And hands unbound, exulting in escape,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Wrought works that taste to saner minds might teach.<a id='r2'/><a href='#f2' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[2]</span></sup></a></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Oh, wondrous power of holy, heaven-born Love!</p>
<p class='line0'>  Whose spirit, in that woman’s humble form,</p>
<p class='line0'>Doth noiseless yet ’mid human suffering move,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Unchecked by frenzy’s strife, or passion’s storm.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And when her mission to this earth shall end —</p>
<p class='line0'>  When love’s pure essence seeks its native heaven,</p>
<p class='line0'>Her glory there the angels’ shall transcend,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And loftier place than theirs to her be given.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<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'>Some of the most ungovernable subjects of insanity
have been so changed in a <span class='it'>few days</span>, by the soothing kindness
of Miss Dix, as to execute various articles of fancy-work,
under her teaching, with remarkable neatness and
taste.</p>
</td></tr>
</table>
</div>
<hr class='tbk118'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='263' id='Page_263'></span><h1><a id='gods'></a>GODS AND MORTALS.</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 A. K. GARDNER, M. D., AUTHOR OF “OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES.”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Monday</span> 19th of March, 1849, was one of those beautiful
days which make Spring so delightful. The
smiles of nature never appear more charming than
when they expel the frowns of winter. At the time
above-mentioned, the world had just thrown off its
fleecy mantle, preparatory to making a new toilet for
the coming season. One would have imagined that
the wardrobe of mother earth was very scantily provided,
for the day previous her soiled coat of snow was
sent to the washerwoman, who had employed the
whole twenty-four hours in soaking the poor garment,
scouring it with sand, and drenching it with continual
showers of rain-water, so that when finally in a state
to hang up to dry, scarcely a patch could be found, and
those not apparently much benefited by its severe
laundress. Mother Earth was surely in a most unfortunate
state! Her old clothes not come home from the
wash, and the new ones not ready to put on. She determined
at first to lie a-bed till one or the other were
ready for use. But Dame Luna was then mistress,
and absolutely refused to harbor such an impoverished
individual. “Credit, indeed!” she echoed. “To trust
you I shall truly be a Luna-tic.” You should have
seen this individual, as she stood with arms akimbo, in
the fullness of her pride. Her face pale with anger,
and her eyes losing their usual mildness, glared forth
upon our unfortunate mother. None could account
for this unwonted spirit. Some of the fixed stars,
however, very different from our M. P.’s, who sometimes
sleep on their posts, had noticed Mistress Luna
walking in the Milky Way; and it was charitably supposed
that she had been taking a little too much of the
celebrated punch of that locality. These celestial M.
P.’s had winked at the matter, and hence all the trouble.</p>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Hinc illæ lachrymæ.</p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>The irate Luna was inflexible. In spite of all that
could be said, she persisted in turning our mother out
of the house.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Think of the mortification of our common parent,
standing on the threshold of night, without a rag to
cover her nakedness. Just then came Aurora on her
morning’s work to put out the gas. Her beautiful
face and neck were covered with crimson blushes, as
she discovered the situation of our poor mother Earth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hide yourself quickly,” she cried, “for Phœbus is
coming, riding in the chariot of day.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Now our mother had for some time carried on a
little flirtation with him. She called him Apollo in
those happy days; but for some time there had been
a coldness between them. He was of a warm and
impetuous disposition, and fond of having every thing
bright about him. He objected to her white dress,
which he considered to reflect upon his taste. It is
true that this colorless robe, with only a few green
pine sprigs upon it, did give mother rather a frigid and
puritanical air. If he should be so offended at this
dress, she thought, though a gay youth, I fear me much
he will be greatly scandalized at seeing me with none.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Aurora’s lantern, by good fortune, showed to my
mother a little strip of Crocuses, with which she hastily
covered her bosom. It was truly a scanty scarf—merely
a pattern of the spring fashions, which the
manufacturer had sent on in advance of the season for
a specimen—nevertheless it was some protection. Her
benumbed form she wrapped in a rosy mist, which
was found overhanging the horizon, and by the time
that Mr. Apollo, Hyperion Phœbus, came up, she was
in a most delightful <span class='it'>demi-jour</span> ready to receive him.
Mr. Phœbus was entranced; and, to tell the truth, our
mother was warmed up at his presence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From that time an ardent attachment commenced.
Throwing aside the mists of formality, and the fogs of
prejudice, they appeared imbued with a mutual spirit,
created for one another, and shortly after parson Summer
united them together in the happiest of states.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I have described to you the proceedings of celestials;
but we mortals have a commonplace way of doing up
these little matters, far more interesting to us to my
fancy. A ferry crossed—a short trip in the cars, and
we are landed in the centre of a charming neighboring
city. A bright sky and balmy air give vivacity, and
life, and joy to all. Still a step further, where the tall
spire casts its lengthened shadow across the way.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We enter the church, and many colored lights from
diamond panes shed a mellowed hue around. Its oaken
benches are filled with the smiling faces of friends and
neighbors. There are few greetings for us, and the
solemnity of the place, and the occasion, have an opportunity
to exert that influence which the most thoughtless
cannot entirely escape in a similar situation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A moment longer and the organ’s roll announces the
entrance of the surpliced priest. The pure lawn bespeaks
respect for the unspotted character of the man
of God. And now a general rustle of dresses and
smothered whispers say that the bridal party approach.
The gentle bride whose color rivals the hue of the
camellias that adorn her jetty hair, leans on the arm of
one who henceforth is to be her all in all—for whom
she leaves parents, family, friends, home and country.
Is it strange that the cheek is blanched and the eye
moist? His is a firm step and a manly form, and a
gentle eye. Affection looks out at every glance, while
pride and good-fortune rejoice together. “Happy is
the bride that the sun shines upon,” runs the adage.
But the sun is not more ominous for good, than the
mutual affection which gilds all around with its beams.
Next comes the sister, whose sympathies, from nearness
of age and common interests are strongest, her
<span class='pageno' title='264' id='Page_264'></span>
warm heart evincing itself by a hurried breath and a
nervous step. Behind follow the dear friends of her
youth, whose path so long the same, now separates, and
the only brother, on whom falls the hope of the family,
its perpetuated name, future reputation, and influence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Now as they kneel about the altar, while parents,
sisters, friends, stand silent around, one wish animates
all that “God may have them in his holy keeping.”
The service goes on. Those pledges of mutual love
and fidelity—oaths, not lightly to be taken, never to be
broken—vows, registered in heaven by the Great Jehovah,
the almighty witness—are said. The warm-hearted
father gives away the bride. The ring—the
benediction—and again the fresh air salutes us. The
most important of all earthly rites is finished. It is a
solemn occasion. Those who have passed through this
scene, are forced to recall it to themselves, to examine
if they have kept the faith—to make good resolutions
for the future. To the young a lesson is given. Thoughtfulness
is compelled to the importance of proper care
in the selection of a partner, so that inclination and
duty may go hand in hand together. The rolling peals
of the organ grow fainter and fainter behind us.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Still another scene. A lordly mansion, whose wide-oped
doors invite our entrance. From the sanctity of
the church, the sanctuary of home receives us. The
voices of friends and the merry laugh greet our ears.
All is gay and joyous. Out of the <span class='it'>pale</span> of the church
the lovely bride, with blushing cheeks, receives the
envious congratulations of her friends.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The table that groaned with the feast now yields its
rich supplies. The wassail bowl spreads gayety
around. But hush! the clang of glasses, and the busy
tongues are stilled. A manly voice, with mellowed
cadence, reads a heartfelt epithalamium—an ode becoming
a laureat—to the health and prosperity of the
young couple.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The occasion was indeed worthy of the brilliant
pen of the gifted authoress. Its reading produced
various effects upon its auditors. Some wondered at
its beauty, some were impressed with the honor done.
Those of sensibility wiped their overflowing eyes,
wondering whether it was the intrinsic beauty of the
poem or its peculiar appropriateness that so moved
them. All felt its influence, for the children of the
heart, like the carrier-pigeons, fly always to their native
home.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A toast! a toast! To the bride and the poetess—and
on went the feast.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The hour for separation approaches. The rolling
ocean is to divide the daughter from her tender mother,
beloved father, and friends. Their pangs of parting
cast the only gloom upon the occasion. But now all
is over. The business of every day life, with its
noise, and bustle, and heartlessness, is again resumed.
The scenes just described have left their subjects of
contemplation too lightly treated in this day of frivolity
and Fourierism, viz., the sacredness and responsibilities
of marriage, and the affectionate devotedness
of loving, trusting woman.</p>
<hr class='tbk119'/>
<div><h1><a id='sleep'></a>INVOCATION TO SLEEP.</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 ENNA DUVAL.</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'>Through</span> the night’s weary vigils</p>
<p class='line0'>  My pulse doth keep time</p>
<p class='line0'>With the clock’s never ceasing</p>
<p class='line0'>  And passionless chime.</p>
<p class='line0'>Sweet Hope with my spirit</p>
<p class='line0'>  In daylight doth dwell,</p>
<p class='line0'>But Sadness at nightfall</p>
<p class='line0'>  Weaves o’er me her spell.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>In the twilight of dream-land</p>
<p class='line0'>  Dear forms hover near,</p>
<p class='line0'>And their sweet, tender love tones</p>
<p class='line0'>  Sooth each rising fear.</p>
<p class='line0'>Come, come to my pillow,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thou dreamy-eyed Sleep!</p>
<p class='line0'>For thou bringest with thee</p>
<p class='line0'>  Charms potent and deep.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Through my casement the moon beams,</p>
<p class='line0'>  I look on the sky,</p>
<p class='line0'>And my fancy there pictures</p>
<p class='line0'>  Sleep’s form soaring high.</p>
<p class='line0'>I see in the white clouds</p>
<p class='line0'>  Her head drooping low,</p>
<p class='line0'>Her thin, trailing garments.</p>
<p class='line0'>  Her poppy-bound brow.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>She is queen of the dream-land,</p>
<p class='line0'>  That pure, blest retreat:</p>
<p class='line0'>And the loved that are parted</p>
<p class='line0'>  In spirit there meet.</p>
<p class='line0'>Come, come to my pillow,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thou poppy-crowned queen!</p>
<p class='line0'>Bear off my sad spirit,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Of Hope let it dream.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Cruel Love by my pillow</p>
<p class='line0'>  Keeps hovering near:</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the absent he murmurs—</p>
<p class='line0'>  Quick starts the sad tear.</p>
<p class='line0'>I know that the fluttering</p>
<p class='line0'>  Of his tiny wing</p>
<p class='line0'>Drives away the dear forms</p>
<p class='line0'>  Sleep only can bring.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>For with sleep come the loved ones,</p>
<p class='line0'>  In dream-land we meet,</p>
<p class='line0'>And our spirits there mingling,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Hold commune most sweet.</p>
<p class='line0'>Come, come to my pillow,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thou poppy-crowned queen!</p>
<p class='line0'>And bring to my spirit</p>
<p class='line0'>  Sweet Hope’s soothing dream.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk120'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='265' id='Page_265'></span><h1><a id='minna'></a>MINNA.</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 W. S. SOUTHGATE.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>In</span> the midst of a beautiful valley on the Rhine, known
as the “Vale of Peace,” stood the cottage of an honest
peasant. The lofty mountains, with their woody sides,
seemed to shut out every thing but peace and contentment.
A bubbling brook ran close by the cottage-door,
and sweet-scented flowers grew along its sides.
Merry birds sung sweetly the live-long day, and unaffrighted,
built their nests around the peasant’s door.
It was as if Paradise had been restored. Well might
Peace love such a dwelling-place. Here the peasant
had lived for years in the enjoyment of that quiet contentment
which only peasants know. Every year he
had reaped his unblighted grain, and gathered his
purple grapes. No cruel wolf entered his sheep-fold,
no disease carried off his cattle. For the fairies of the
valley delighted to protect him, and would only do him
good. Often would they come by moonlight, and play
their merry pranks near the cottage, and he would
wake and lie listening to their joyous shouts, blessing
them in his heart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Often would they work while he was sleeping, and
in the morning peep from their hiding-places, and
laugh at his surprise at what they had done for him.
And it seemed as if one half their merry lives was
spent in making the peasant and his good wife happy.
Thus the years had passed, and they had lived in quiet,
wanting nothing but the merry shouts of childhood to
make their happiness complete. Soon this joy came
also, and a prattling daughter was added to their household.
Loud were the fairies’ rejoicings, and long their
dances on Minna’s birth-night. The rising moon had
just begun to cast the long shadows of the mountains
over the quiet valley, and its white light was just struggling
through the silent tree-tops, when the fairy-queen
summoned her elfin band to their bower. And well
might fairies choose such a retreat. Myriad wild-rose
vines, that had crept up the trunks of the trees, met
overhead, and formed the fairy hall. The vine-leaves
and the branches were so thickly entwined, that even
the sunbeams could find no place to enter. Each side
sloped gently down to the murmuring fountain which
gushed forth from the midst, gladdening every thing
with its coolness. The air was filled with the fragrance
of the roses as the wind stirred lightly amongst
their leaves. The humming-birds built their nests in
the bower, and fed upon its sweets, for the fairies love
them of all birds. Here would the fairy band repose
all day. And many a time, when working away from
his cottage, had the peasant heard their merry songs
rising above the murmur of the forest. And when the
sun went down, he would hasten home, loving them
more than ever.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Here they assembled, while their queen addressed
them. “Listen, fairies. This night brings on its
wings the sweet hope of the peasant, and a welcome
care to us. Ye have long guarded this our
valley against the coming of hurtful spirits; ye have
many a fairy-circle in it, where ye sport in the moonlight
dance; but to-night brings your greatest joy. Ye
truly love the forest, the valley, and the peasant; but
now Minna is your chief delight. Ye three spirits,
Love, Virtue, and Peace be ever with her, nor once
forsake her. And ye, Grace and Beauty, preside at
her birth. Now hence to the valley, for the moonlight
waits.” And to the valley they did go—scampering,
flying, tumbling, and rolling, like so many dried leaves
before a whirlwind. And all that night were they rejoicing,
nor ceased till the dawning light heralded the
approaching sun. And now the once lonely cottage
echoes all day with the childish laughter of Minna.
And the peasant toils daily in the valley with a lighter
heart than ever. The good wife’s soul overflows with
a mother’s joy. For the three spirits, Love, Virtue,
and Peace abide with them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Years passed, and with them fled the childhood of
Minna. The little sporting fawn had become a stately
deer. Her joyous girlhood had slipped away, and womanhood
found her still playing by the silvery brook, as
pure in heart as its own clear water. The twin fairies,
Grace and Beauty, were ever with her. And all the
fairies so loved her, that they had once even taken her
to their sacred bower.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And now many noble knights had heard of the beauty
of the peasant’s daughter, and many desired to see her.
But one, the good knight Edchen, determined to seek
her hand, for a spirit seemed to whisper to him, that
she was destined to be his. One day as she sat singing
by the brook, twining wild-roses and lilies in her hair,
she looked up, and lo! a manly knight gazing upon her.
She started to her feet, and like a surprised deer, stood
wondering at the sight. And the renowned knight
Edchen, for he it was that stood before her, was astonished
at her beauty. For she seemed to him more
like an angel or the being of a dream, than the daughter
of an humble peasant. And ere either had spoken,
their hearts met in love. And now he knew that some
good spirit had directed him, that he might find his
heart’s mate. For truly every heart has somewhere
in the world a loving companion. And thus he spoke,
“Fair lady, if I am bold, forgive; but when first I saw
thee, a spirit whispered to my heart—‘she is thy mate.’
I am Edchen, and can boast only good. I have sought
thee long, and have loved as no other since first I
heard of thy loveliness. And now behold me ready to
follow thy command as a faithful knight, if I may but
carry with me thy love.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then the happy Minna answered the knight, “Noble
Edchen, I heard of thy goodness even here in this
lonely valley, and wished thee near me, that I might
love thee as I love this little brook, and all these hills.
<span class='pageno' title='266' id='Page_266'></span>
Dear as is my home, my heart longs for a companion,
and truly thy face betrays thee good. Welcome my
heart’s mate, I’m glad a kind spirit sent thee.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And thus quickly did their hearts become one! for
loveliness and goodness are ever congenial. Soon
Edchen returned to his home, carrying with him the
plighted love of Minna, promising quickly to return
and take her with him as his own dear bride.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Now the brook and the flowers were forgotten, for
the heart of Minna was filled with love for Edchen.
And like a merry bird she would sing all day long, and
all her song be love. The peasant and his good wife
were rejoiced to see her so happy, yet they looked
forward with sorrow to the time when the knight
should come to claim his bride, and take her away
from the valley. And when the peasant looked sad
at the thought of this, his wife would say, “Henri, we
are old, and have naught to live for but the happiness
of Minna—and will she not be happy with the noble
Edchen?” Then the peasant would cheer up and be
as light-hearted as ever, for the words of the good wife
drove away sorrow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Two months had worn away slowly—how slow is
time to waiting love! When one day as Minna tripped
along the valley, she heard the fairies singing in their
bower; she listened, and this was their song:</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;'>“Two roses together</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>   In love shall twine,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> O cruel the spirit</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>   That breaks the vine.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>Minna trembled; before she had heard the fairies sing
only joyous songs, but now they seemed to be mourning
as if some evil were coming. She hastened home;
nor did she sleep that night for thinking of the fairies’
song. All night a fairy voice seemed to whisper,
“Thy love is blighted.” ’Twas now a year since
they parted, and yet no word had come from Edchen.
And now the gentle Minna began to droop and fade;
as you have seen a fair lily droop its head, and its pure
white leaves become dry and yellow, when some rude
blast has broken its stem. And ever and anon the fairy
voice whispered, “Edchen is dead.” One night she
dreamed, and a band of freed spirits seemed flying
from earth to heaven. Amongst them she saw the
pure white spirit of Edchen; and it seemed to beckon
and say, “Come, Minna.” The shock was too strong;
the stem too tender. The feeble flower drooped and
died. And now it seemed as if peace had fled from
the valley, and left only grief. But it soon returned
and dwelt again in the peasant’s heart, for as he worked
in the valley, he heard the fairies sing,</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 vines that grew on earth</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> Have gone to bloom in heaven.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<hr class='tbk121'/>
<div><h1><a id='poets'></a>GERMAN POETS.</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. E. J. EAMES.</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'>             I.—GOETHE.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>    Light! more light still! <span class='sc'>Goethe.</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Thou unto whom was given the golden key</p>
<p class='line0'>  To unlock the portals of the human mind, —</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh! Spirit grand—adventurous—and free —</p>
<p class='line0'>  In that last awful moment didst thou find</p>
<p class='line0'>“<span class='it'>More</span> light” than shone upon thy earthly vision?</p>
<p class='line0'>  Was the Great Idea to thy sense made clear?</p>
<p class='line0'>The solemn secrets of the veiled Elysian —</p>
<p class='line0'>  Say—were they whispered in thy closing ear?</p>
<p class='line0'>“Light! more light still!” it was thy last, <span class='it'>last</span> prayer!</p>
<p class='line0'>  And oh! how strove thy straining, dying eyes,</p>
<p class='line0'>  To pierce the far, impenetrable skies,</p>
<p class='line0'>And read the mighty mystery, written <span class='it'>there</span>!</p>
<p class='line0'>Alas! to <span class='it'>us</span>, poor dwellers in the clay,</p>
<p class='line0'>Are given but glimpses of the Land of Day!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>             II.—SCHILLER.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>     “Keep true to the dream of thy youth.”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Thy dream of youth! ah, no! it ne’er forsook thee,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The worshiped Ideal of thy boyhood’s time;</p>
<p class='line0'>Still pure and beautiful as when it took thee</p>
<p class='line0'>  To cross the Holy Land of Truth sublime!</p>
<p class='line0'>So earnest thy Belief—to later age</p>
<p class='line0'>  The visions of thy childhood stayed to bless thee —</p>
<p class='line0'>Though sorrow dimmed the lustre of life’s page,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And shadows deepened round—and pain opprest thee —</p>
<p class='line0'>  The Beauty of thy Being still caressed thee.</p>
<p class='line0'>Still didst thou reverence thine early dream,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And woo fair Nature as thy loveliest bride; —</p>
<p class='line0'>Still from thy Soul did Faith’s pure radiance stream,</p>
<p class='line0'>  So was the Angel of thy Youth, thy guide,</p>
<p class='line0'>  In snow-white raiment clad, forever at thy side.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>             III—RICHTER.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>My Jean Paul, I shall never forget. <span class='sc'>Herder.</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Never forgotten! still do they enshrine thee</p>
<p class='line0'>  The pride and glory of thy Fatherland:</p>
<p class='line0'>Before the altar of the true Shekinah,</p>
<p class='line0'>  O priestly poet! it was thine to stand</p>
<p class='line0'>Clothed in the purity of thy high nature —</p>
<p class='line0'>  And wearing on thy spiritual features</p>
<p class='line0'>(Illumined with the tenderest charities)</p>
<p class='line0'>  A world of kindness for thy fellow creatures.</p>
<p class='line0'>Ah, yes! the Universal heart of man</p>
<p class='line0'>  The Holiest of Holies was to thee: —</p>
<p class='line0'>Thy everlasting covenant and plan</p>
<p class='line0'>  To love and trust—believe: wait patiently!</p>
<p class='line0'>Never forgotten thou! true Poet of Mankind,</p>
<p class='line0'>Still in their hearts thy words a general echo find.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>             IV—KORNER.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>      “Lord of the Sword and Lyre!”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Oh, Warrior Poet! thou before whose eyes</p>
<p class='line0'>  Rose the enchanted realm of the Ideal —</p>
<p class='line0'>The star-lit land of Fancy, whose fair skies</p>
<p class='line0'>  Bent in unclouded loveliness around thee —</p>
<p class='line0'>  The angel of the world of visions found thee —</p>
<p class='line0'>Bore thee from the cold Winter of the Real,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And with unfading wreaths of Poesy crowned thee.</p>
<p class='line0'>Lord of the Lyre and Sword! O, blest wert thou</p>
<p class='line0'>  To live and die, amid thine early dreams!</p>
<p class='line0'>Nor bay, nor blossom faded from thy brow —</p>
<p class='line0'>  No star of Promise, shed its dying gleams</p>
<p class='line0'>  Upon thy path—and left thee, <span class='it'>thus</span> to bow</p>
<p class='line0'>A lone survivor! Oh! <span class='it'>no</span> lot so blest</p>
<p class='line0'>As that which calleth <span class='it'>early</span> unto rest!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk122'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='267' id='Page_267'></span><h1><a id='life'></a>LIFE OF GENERAL BARON DE KALB.</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='pindent'><span class='sc'>Very</span> little is known of this illustrious officer till
about the year 1755, when we find him filling an inferior
station in the quartermaster-general’s department,
in the imperial army of France; his intimate acquaintance
with the details of that department led his
friends in America to believe that he had held it for
some considerable time.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Toward the close of the French war with England,
Baron De Kalb was dispatched by his sovereign to
North America, to visit the British Colonies there, expressly
to ascertain the points in which they were
most vulnerable, and to discover how far it was practicable,
by well-timed insinuation and winning intrigue,
to generate dissatisfaction, and excite a suspicious
jealousy against the mother country, so as to shake
their confidence in the purity of her views, and beget
and cherish a desire of asserting their independence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He traversed the British provinces in a concealed
character; and when speaking of the existing war,
often expressed his astonishment how any government
could have so blundered as to efface the ardent and
deep affection which, to his own knowledge, existed
on the part of the colonies of Great Britain previous to
the late rupture. Just before the peace our incognitus
becoming suspected, was arrested, and for a few days
imprisoned. On examination of his baggage and
papers, nothing was found to warrant his detention,
and he was discharged. Such discovery was not
practicable, as, during this tour, the baron himself declared
that he relied entirely upon his memory, which
was singularly strong, never venturing to commit to
paper the information of others, or his own observations.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the restoration of peace, the baron returned to
France, and there remained in the service of his country
till 1777. When the news of the war of the American
Revolution reached France, the youthful and chivalrous
Lafayette, accompanied by the Baron De Kalb,
left their native shores to offer their assistance in the
struggle for independence. They came in the same
ship, and arrived in America early in July, 1777, and
presented their credentials to Congress, who gave
them commissions as major-generals—their commissions
bearing date on the same day, July 31st, 1777.</p>
<p class='pindent'>General De Kalb served in the main army, under the
immediate command of General Washington, until
March, 1780, when the entire Maryland and Delaware
lines, with the 1st regiment of artillery, were
detached from the main army and placed under his
command, and ordered to South Carolina, to reinforce
and take command of the southern army, which had
almost been destroyed by the unfortunate surrender of
General Lincoln.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In this command he remained until the 25th July,
1780, when General Gates, having been appointed by
Congress commander-in-chief in the South, arrived in
camp, and assumed the command; General De Kalb
remaining second in command. General Gates, having
broken up the camp and made suitable preparations,
subsequently marched his army to within a few miles
of Camden, South Carolina, unfortunately, was persuaded
that he had nothing further to do but to advance
upon his enemy, never supposing that so far
from retiring, the British general would seize the proffered
opportunity of battle.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Unhappily for America, unhappily for himself, he
acted under this influence, nor did he awake from his
reverie until the proximity of the enemy was announced
by his fire in the night preceding the fatal
morning. Lord Cornwallis having been regularly informed
of the passing occurrences, hastened to Camden,
which he reached on the 13th of August. Spending
the subsequent day in review and examination, he
found his army very much enfeebled, eight hundred
being sick, his effective strength was reduced to somewhat
less than two thousand three hundred men, including
militia, and Bryan’s corps, which, together,
amounted to seven hundred and fifty men. Judging
from the Congressional publications, he rated his enemy
at six thousand, in which estimation his lordship was
much mistaken, as from official returns on the evening
preceding the battle, it appears that our force did not
exceed four thousand, including the corps detached
under Lieutenant-Colonel Wolford; yet there was a
great disparity of numbers in our favor; but we fell
short in quality, our continental horse, foot, and
artillery being under one thousand, whereas the British
regulars amounted to nearly one thousand six hundred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In case of a disaster, the American commander had
an eye to the three powerful and faithful counties,
Cabarrus, Rowan, and Mecklenburgh. The inhabitants
of these three counties, amongst the most populous
in the state, were true and zealous in their maintenance
of the Revolution; and they were always ready to
encounter any and every peril to support the cause of
their hearts. Contiguous to the western border, over
the mountains, lived that hardy race of mountaineers,
equally attached to the cause of our common country,
and who rolled occasionally like a torrent on the
hostile territory. The ground was strong, and the soil
rich and cultivated. In every respect, therefore, it was
adapted to the American general until he had rendered
himself completely ready for offence. Notwithstanding
his diminished force, notwithstanding the vast expected
superiority of his enemy, the discriminating mind of
the British general paused not an instant in deciding
<span class='pageno' title='268' id='Page_268'></span>
upon his course. No idea of a retrograde movement
was entertained by him. Victory only could extricate
him from the surrounding dangers, and the quicker the
decision, the better his chance of success. He therefore
gave orders to prepare for battle, and in the evening
of the 15th put his army in motion to attack his
enemy next morning in his position at Rudgely’s
Mill. Having placed Camden in the care of Major
McArthur, with the convalescents, some of the militia,
and a detachment of regulars expected in the course
of the day, he moved at the hour of ten at night, in two
divisions. The front division, composed of four companies
of light infantry, with the twenty-second and
twenty-third regiments, was commanded by Lieutenant-colonel
Webster.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The rear division, consisting of the legion infantry,
Hamilton’s regiment of North Carolinians, the volunteers
of Ireland, and Bryan’s corps of loyalists, was
under the orders of Lord Rawdon.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Two battalions of the seventy-first, with the legion
cavalry, formed the reserve.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After Gates had prepared his army to move, it was
resolved in a council of war to march on the night of
the 15th, and to sit down behind Saunder’s Creek,
within seven miles of Camden.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Thus it happened that both the generals were in motion
at the same hour, and for the same purpose, with
this material distinction, that the American general
grounded his conduct in his mistaken confidence of his
adversary’s disposition to retreat; whereas, the British
commander sought for battle with anxiety, regarding
the evasion of it by his antagonist as the highest misfortune.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After sending the baggage, stores and sick, off to the
friendly settlement of the Waxhaws, the army marched
at ten o’clock at night. Armand’s legion, in horse and
foot, not exceeding one hundred, moved as a vanguard,
flanked by Lieutenant-colonel Porterfield’s corps on
the right, and by Major Armstrong’s light infantry of
the North Carolina militia, on the left. The Maryland
and Delaware lines, composed the front division,
under Baron De Kalb; the militia of North Carolina,
under General Caswell, the centre; and the Virginia
militia, under Brigadier Stevens, the rear. Colonel
Lee, in his Notes, says, “Armand was one of the many
French gentlemen who joined our army, and was one
of the few who were honored with important commands.
His officers were generally foreign, and his
soldiers chiefly deserters. It was the last corps in the
army which ought to have been entrusted with the van
post, because, however unexceptionable the officers may
have been, the materials of which the corps was composed,
did not warrant such distinction.” About one
o’clock in the morning the two armies met, and from
the darkness of the night they came almost in close
contact before either was aware of their position.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As soon as the corps of Armand discovered the near
approach of the enemy, they shamefully took to flight,
carrying dismay and confusion through the whole
ranks. The leading regiment of Maryland was disordered
by this ignominious flight; but the gallant Porterfield,
taking his part with decision on the right,
seconded by Armstrong on the left, soon brought the
enemy’s van to pause. The two armies halted, each
throbbing with the emotions which the van encounter
had excited. The British army displayed in one line,
which completely occupied the ground, each flank
resting on impervious swamps. The infantry of the
reserve took post in a second line, one half opposite the
centre of each wing, and the cavalry held the road
where the left of the right wing united with the volunteers
of Ireland, which corps formed the right of the
left wing. With the front line were two six and two
three-pounders, under Lieutenant McLeod of the
artillery; with the reserve were two six-pounders.
Thus arrayed, confiding in discipline and experience,
the British general waited anxiously for light.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Maryland regiment soon recovered from the
confusion produced by the panic of Armand’s cavalry.
General Gates saw the moment fast approaching, and
arrayed his army with promptitude. The second brigade
of Maryland, with the regiment of Delaware,
under General Gist, took the right; the brigade of
North Carolina militia, led by Brigadier Caswell, the
centre; and that of Virginia, under Brigadier Stevens,
the left. The first brigade of Maryland was formed in
reserve, under the command of General Smallwood,
who had on York Island, in the beginning of the war,
when colonel of the first regiment of Maryland, deeply
planted in the hearts of his countrymen, the remembrance
of his zeal and valor, conspicuously displayed
in that the first of his fields. To each brigade a due
proportion of artillery was allotted; but we had no
cavalry, as those who led in the night were still flying.
Major-general Baron De Kalb, charged with the line of
battle, took post on the right, while the general-in-chief,
superintending the whole, placed himself on the road
between the line and the reserve. Light now began to
dawn, and every moment was an hour of anxious suspense;
the signal for battle was given, and instantly
our centre opened its artillery, and the left line, under
Stevens, was ordered to advance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The British general, closely watching our motions,
discovered this movement, immediately gave orders to
Webster to lead into battle with the right. The command
was executed with the characteristic courage and
influence of that officer. Our left was instantly overpowered
by the assault, and the brave Stevens had to
endure the mortifying spectacle exhibited by the flying
brigade. Without exchanging more than one fire with
the enemy, they threw away their arms, and sought
that safety in flight which generally can be obtained
only by courageous resistance. The North Carolina
brigade, imitating that on the right, followed the disgraceful
example. Stevens, Caswell, and even Gates
himself, struggled to stop the fugitives, and rally them
for battle; but every noble feeling of the heart was
sunk in anxious solicitude to preserve life; and having
no cavalry to assist their exertions, the attempted reclamation
failed entirely. The continental troops,
with Dixon’s regiment of North Carolinians, were left
to oppose the enemy, every corps of whose army was
acting with the most determined resolution. De Kalb
and Gist yet held the battle on our right in suspense.
Lieutenant-colonel Howard, at the head of Williams’
regiment, drove the corps in front out of line. Rawdon
<span class='pageno' title='269' id='Page_269'></span>
could not bring the brigade of Gist to recede—bold was
the pressure of the foe; firm as a rock was the resistance
of Gist. The Marylanders appeared to gain
ground; but the deplorable desertion of the militia
having left Webster unemployed, that discerning soldier
detached some light troops with Tarlton’s cavalry in
pursuit, and opposed himself to the reserve brought up
by Smallwood to replace the fugitives. Here the
battle was renewed with fierceness and obstinacy.
The Marylanders, although greatly outnumbered, firmly
maintained the desperate conflict; and De Kalb, now
finding his once exposed flank completely shielded, resorted
to the bayonet. Dreadful was the charge!
This appeared to be his last hope, and making a desperate
charge, drove the enemy before him with considerable
advantage.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But at this time, Cornwallis perceiving the American
cavalry had left the field, ordered Tarlton to make a
decisive charge; this was done, and our brave troops
were broken; and his lordship following up the blow,
compelled the intrepid Marylanders to abandon the unequal
contest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>To the woods and swamps, after performing their
duty valiantly, these gallant soldiers were compelled
to fly. The pursuit was continued with keenness, and
none were saved but those who penetrated swamps
which before had been deemed impassable.</p>
<p class='pindent'>De Kalb, sustaining by his splendid example the
courageous efforts of our inferior force, in his last
resolute attempt to seize victory, received eleven
bayonet wounds. His lingering life was rescued from
immediate death by the brave interposition of one of
his aids-de-camp.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lieutenant-colonel De Buysson saw his prostrate
general in the act of falling, rushed through the clashing
bayonets, and stretching his arms over the fallen hero,
exclaimed, “Save the Baron De Kalb! Save the
Baron De Kalb!” The British officers interposed and
prevented his immediate destruction; but he survived
his wounds but three days.</p>
<p class='pindent'>To a British officer, who kindly administered every
consolation in his power, he replied, “I thank you for
your generous sympathy, but I die the death I always
prayed for—the death of a soldier fighting for the rights
of man.” The heroic veteran employed his last moments
in dictating a letter to General Smallwood, who
succeeded to the command of his division, breathing in
every word his sincere and ardent affection for his officers
and soldiers, expressing his admiration of their late
noble, though unsuccessful stand; reciting the eulogy
which their bravery had extorted from the enemy;
together with the lively delight such testimony of their
valor had excited in his own mind. Trembling on the
shadowy confines of life, he stretched out his quivering
hand to his friend and aid-de-camp, Chevalier De
Buysson, proud of his generous wounds, he breathed
his last benediction on his faithful, brave division.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In this disastrous conflict, besides the gallant De
Kalb, this country lost many excellent officers, and
among them Lieutenant-colonel Porterfield, whose
promise of future greatness had endeared him to the
whole army. On the 14th of October, 1780, Congress
resolved that a monument should be erected to his
memory, in the town of Annapolis, in the State of
Maryland; but this resolution, it is believed, has never
been carried into effect, and the gratitude and plighted
faith of the nation both remain unredeemed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was in the forty-eighth year of his age, most of
his life, with the exception of the last three years spent
in the American Revolution, he had passed in the
armies of France, having entered at the early age of
sixteen years. In the resolution of Congress we find
the following inscription, which was intended to have
graced the monument of this gallant officer:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='lgc' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'>Sacred to the memory of the</p>
<p class='line'>BARON DE KALB,</p>
<p class='line'>Knight of the royal order of Military Merit,</p>
<p class='line'>Brigadier of the armies of France,</p>
<p class='line'>and</p>
<p class='line'>Major General</p>
<p class='line'>In the service of the United States of America;</p>
<p class='line'>Having served with honor and reputation</p>
<p class='line'>For three years,</p>
<p class='line'>He gave a last and glorious proof of his</p>
<p class='line'>Attachment to the liberties of mankind</p>
<p class='line'>And the cause of America,</p>
<p class='line'>In the action near Camden, in the state of S. Carolina,</p>
<p class='line'>On the 16th of August, 1780;</p>
<p class='line'>Where, leading on the troops of the</p>
<p class='line'>Maryland and Delaware lines,</p>
<p class='line'>Against superior numbers,</p>
<p class='line'>And animating them by his example</p>
<p class='line'>To deeds of valor,</p>
<p class='line'>He was pierced with many wounds,</p>
<p class='line'>And on the nineteenth following, expired,</p>
<p class='line'>In the 48th year of his age.</p>
<p class='line'><span style='font-size:smaller'>THE CONGRESS</span></p>
<p class='line'>Of the United States of America,</p>
<p class='line'>In gratitude to his zeal, services and merit,</p>
<p class='line'>Have erected this monument.</p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>No man surpassed this gentleman in simplicity and
condescension, which gave to his deportment a cast of
amiability extremely ingratiating, at the same time exciting
confidence and esteem.</p>
<p class='pindent'>General Washington, many years after, on a visit
to Camden, inquired for the grave of De Kalb. After
looking on it a while with a countenance expressive of
deep feeling, he breathed a deep sigh, and exclaimed,
“so there lies the brave De Kalb, the generous stranger,
who came from a distant land to fight our battles, and
to water with his blood the tree of our liberty. Would
to God he had lived to share its fruits!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>When General De Kalb came to the United States
with Lafayette to enter into the service of America,
he left his wife and children in France—two sons and
a daughter. Soon after his arrival here the troubles in
France arose, which terminated in revolution. In this
revolution, the eldest son, who had joined one of the
parties, perished under the guillotine; the second son
received a commission in the army; and the Baroness
De Kalb, with her daughter, fled into Switzerland.
The second son remained in the service of France
until the downfall of the Emperor Napoleon, when he
retired from public service to the family <span class='it'>chateau</span> at
Milon, in the vicinity of Paris, the residence of the
late Baron De Kalb, before he left his native country.</p>
<hr class='tbk123'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='270' id='Page_270'></span><h1><a id='hus'></a>THE HOUSEKEEPING HUSBAND.</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 ANGELE DE V. HULL.</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;'>Nor does he govern only, or direct,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  But much performs himself.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Cowper.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Now</span>, dear reader, do not think for a moment that
Mr. Bettyman is any relation of yours. He is nobody’s
uncle, cousin, or brother, though, indeed, accident may
have thrown into your way a kinsman of his peculiar
temperament. But if, out of the fifty thousand readers
of Graham’s Magazine, forty of whom I, in my insignificance,
may know but slightly, six in every town or
village were to take offence at my penchant for the
ridiculous, and call upon me to deny any particular
caricature of any particular individual, what sort of a
postage-bill do you think mine would be, allowing a
letter for each very sensitive reader? Understand,
then, loveliest of your sex, whichever you be, that I
don’t mean any body in particular, nor any thing in
general—I only mean to inform you, best reader, that
Mr. Edwin Bettyman was a newly married man at
the time I knew him, and had just carried his pretty
little wife to his elegant but simple home near the
suburbs of <span class='it'>his</span> native place, which, of course, is not
yours. As for myself, I am not fond of these half-way
sort of places; I like to be in the country, amid the
green fields and wild-flowers, or in town, amid its concomitants,
smoke, dust, and fuss. But, as my opinion
cannot possibly be of any consequence to any body, I
will merely mention that Mr. and Mrs. Bettyman both
disagreed with me, and were delighted with their location.
The house was unexceptionable—a large, airy
cottage, with front and back piazzas, a fine yard, and
the greenest of grass-plots on either side of the gate,
around which was a hedge of juniper in beautiful
luxuriance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Bettyman was enchanted. The furniture was
light and graceful; Edwin had guessed her own taste,
and she ran about surveying her new home as blithe
of heart as any bride on earth. As to household affairs,
she knew enough to call herself an accomplished <a id='men'></a><span class='it'>ménagère</span>,
and shaking back her sunny curls, she gayly
challenged her cousin Isabel and myself to dine with
her that day week. So “all went merry as a marriage
bell;” and as we returned home Isabel expressed
her satisfaction at the choice Edwin had made,
and the sweet relative he had given her, for, as I ought
to have mentioned before, she was <span class='it'>his</span> cousin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They seem well matched,” said I, musingly, and
half sadly, too. “I wonder, now, how much there is
for each to learn of the other. How many failings to
come out, like dark spots upon the deep, clear blue of
love’s happy horizon.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why really, you grow fanciful,” laughed my companion.
“Surely they must know one another by
this time!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I opened my eyes in wonder. The idea of any man
or woman being aught but a faultless monster, after
three weeks’ marriage, was preposterous in the extreme.
How few weddings there would be, were
lovers sent to the Palace of Truth for a month or two.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Does not Josephine think her husband free from
faults, Isabel?” asked I, after a pause.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I fear that she does,” said she, smiling, “but,”
added earnestly, “I hope not. Even I, who have
been Edwin’s favorite cousin, cannot presume to say
what kind of a husband he will be. A very pleasant
acquaintance may become a disagreeable person to live
with; a gentle manner may conceal an evil heart.
Not that I suspect Edwin of either, but you have conjured
me into seriousness somehow, and I begin to
doubt the existence of that perfect happiness supposed
to follow the union of two loving hearts.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A poet’s dream,” exclaimed I. “The Eden of
early faith changes too soon to dread and despair.
There is no perfect bliss on earth, and of quiet, sober
happiness, how few instances!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Isabel turned toward me with an air of astonishment
that amused while it abashed me. I might be accused
of experimental knowledge and I looked away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have you foresworn marriage, my dear, or have
you had an escape after a sentence of banishment to
the Palace of Truth?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Just as I said—an accusation in set terms. So
I laughed very affectedly at my homilies, and confessed
that I was in a reflective mood. We changed
the subject, and went home through a pleasant wood,
stopping a while to choose some bright wild-flower, or
watch the “lazy pacing clouds” pile themselves into
enormous masses of blue and silver, to melt away into
mysterious shapes as we gazed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Some time after this I was called away and remained
absent for several months. On my return,
I found Isabel Stewart an inmate of her Cousin
Edwin’s house, having lost her only near relative,
an old uncle, during my absence. As we had
been dear friends from early childhood, I gladly accepted
an invitation to spend a portion of my time with
her, and drove out “armes et baggage” to the pretty
residence of my hero and his lovely wife, too willing
to escape from the thraldom of a hotel life.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Isabel was paler and thinner, and threw herself
without speaking into my arms. Josephine was as
pretty as ever, as cordial and hospitable as hostess
could be. But she had lost that catching gayety that
so enchanted me at the time of her marriage, and
seemed to grow timid as her husband’s step was heard
upon the gravel-walk.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How do you do, my dear Miss Ellen?” said he,
<span class='pageno' title='271' id='Page_271'></span>
taking my hand and shaking it heartily. “I am glad
to see you once more. Have you had lunch yet? No.
Josephine, my love, how could you neglect your
guest?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I this moment arrived,” said I, smiling and seating
myself. “Do let us take breath before you send Josy
off to the pantry. Knowing her boast of housekeeping
accomplishments, I am sure of a grand lunch by
and bye.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She smiled and answered cheerfully, “Oh, you must
not remember what a braggart I was, Ellen. Edwin
is not at all pleased with my housekeeping, and pretends
that I know nothing about it. But it <span class='it'>is</span> time to
get something to refresh you after your drive, so excuse
me, I leave you with Isabel—and you want no
better companion.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No better, indeed,” said I, drawing her closer to
me as Josephine left the apartment. “Now do tell me,
dear Isabel, all about yourself, for you have not written
me very explicitly since your change of residence.
Are you happy here?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And receiving an answer in the affirmative, we
talked, like two egotists, of nothing but ourselves until
summoned to the dining-room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Bettyman seemed to me a <span class='it'>fussy</span> man—(dear
reader, you <span class='it'>must</span> understand the term.) He got up and
unlocked the sideboard, looked very mysterious as he
examined the decanters, took one out, relocked the
door, and returned to his seat. The wine-glasses were
as usual at each place. Taking mine, he was about to
fill it when something attracted his attention, and he
tittered an exclamation of tragical amazement.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is it possible! Cracked already! Not eight months
since we came here and another glass ruined. Two
wine-glasses cracked—I cannot say how may tumblers
broken—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Only one, Edwin,” said his wife, blushing slightly
as she glanced at me. “And that, you know, cracked
from the ice with which it was filled.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ay, always some excuse. It is perfectly useless,
my dear Miss Ellen,” interrupted he, and I expected
from the expression of wo he assumed, to see him
burst into tears, “it is perfectly useless for me to purchase
any articles of value for my house. Every thing
goes to ruin;” and he shrugged his shoulders, mournfully
looking around for sympathy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And in the meantime, Ellen is waiting for a glass
of wine,” said Isabel, “and I for a piece of that tongue
before you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh! I beg pardon—I am neglecting my duty as
host; but you must really excuse me, I am so shocked—so
often surprised at the destruction of property—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Josy, do give Ellen some of that pine-apple jam,”
interrupted Isabel, looking as though she had not heard
Mr. Bettyman speak, “I want her to see what excellent
preservers we are. Indeed, I never tasted better
sweetmeats than those we made this season.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nearly an entire barrel of the finest crush sugar
consumed! I hope that Josephine will acquire more
knowledge of economy as she grows older,” said Mr.
Bettyman, encouragingly. “A half pound to three-quarters
of fruit, I remember, was my mother’s rule—and
I mentioned this to Josephine.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My dear cousin, what a pity you were not born an
old lady!” said Isabel, gravely, “you are too good for
a man.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>My politeness was very nearly upset by this sally, and
I looked at Edwin. He seemed rather <span class='it'>flattered</span>, yet
doubtfully examined his cousin’s eyes, deceived by the
gravity of her tone into an assurance of her sincerity.
Still the appellation of old woman was not very respectful,
and while he pondered in silence, we talked
without further interruption. His wife was evidently
mortified, as must be the case on the introduction of
any stranger into her domestic circle; but her sweet
and amiable manner throughout all, was truly commendable.
I must own my perfect astonishment at
Mr. Bettyman’s meddling disposition. I had never
seen such an exhibition before, but concealed my feelings,
and <a id='ate'></a>ate lunch enough to frighten him, had he
been actuated by avarice. But he was not a “stingy
man;” he had no meanness about him. Providing
handsomely for his house, lavishing every comfort
upon his wife, loving her with true devotion, he embittered
her life by this love of control, this singular
passion for leaving his sphere of husband to interfere
with her household cares in a way as unmanly as it was
annoying. His place was as intrusive there as Josephine’s
would have been in his counting-room. As
well might she seat herself at his desk and examine
his books—and what would he have thought and said,
had she ever attempted it? Surely Mr. Bettyman,
like Lady Macbeth, unsexed himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Isabel and I were too busy chatting to notice his
display of old ladyism, by any remark to one another;
and as I then concluded it to be merely an accidental
humor of Mr. Bettyman’s, I descended to the breakfast-room
the next morning, more and more delighted
with my change of apartments, from the refreshing
sleep I had enjoyed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come, Ellen,” said Josephine, as she bade me
good morning, “do justice to my cook’s rolls. You
never eat better bread in your life; and as for fresh
butter, look at it and then taste it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Josy grows vain,” said Isabel, putting an egg into
my cup. “She will tell you how much smarter her
hens are than city hens.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Indeed they are,” cried Josephine, laughing. “You
shall visit my poultry-yard this morning, Ellen, and
see what a collection I have. Dorking, Bucks County,
Polish, Chinese, Java, etc., to say nothing of native
hens to the manor born. And such broods of chickens—pretty
little creatures!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And breakfast passed very pleasantly, Mr. Bettyman
making himself agreeable without being useful,
until Josephine was ready to give her orders for the
morning and show me her pretty place. To the poultry-yard
we were going, sun-bonnets in hand, when Edwin
mounted the steps, wearing a most unhappy look, and
holding in the tips of his fingers, a something that
seemed a conglomeration of mud, mire, and cloth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My dear Josy, do look at this! One of those excellent
cup-towels in the ground—buried actually in
the ground! This is really too bad! You should see
to your servants—you seem to take no interest in any
thing about your domestic affairs. Just see this towel!”
<span class='pageno' title='272' id='Page_272'></span>
and Mr. Bettyman contemplated it with a look of
sorrow, as though it had been a deceased friend instead
of the skeleton of a bit of crash. Isabel descended
the steps and taking it from him, examined it in the
four corners. At length she looked up, and the wonder
is to me how she could preserve her gravity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Was your mother’s maiden name Brown?” asked
she with <span class='it'>such</span> an innocent look!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why surely not, Isabel,” replied he, surprised.
“Why you must know—what did you ask for?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because this towel is marked Brown, printed in
large letters, and as your name is Bettyman and Josy’s
was Singleton, I cannot imagine to whom it belongs.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh! it must have fallen over the wall, Miss Isabel,
and belongs next door. Mrs. Brown lives in there,
and I expect it blew over with the wind and rain lately.
I’ll wash it out and carry it home,” said the servant,
as she took it from Isabel, who turned smilingly to
Josephine, while Mr. Bettyman walked away a little
disconcerted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As for myself, I opened my eyes to twice their usual
size, and pulled my long bonnet over them, to hide my
wonder. While we were admiring Josy’s beautiful
poultry, her husband came running toward us, and I
dreaded some other muddy discovery; but it was to
bid us good morning, and kiss his wife before he drove
off to the city. As I remarked his sincere look of
affection when he pressed his lips to her blooming
cheek, I could not help sighing as I remembered how
grieved she was at his reproach, “you take no interest
in your domestic affairs.” He might speak kindly
now, but he had spoiled her pleasure for the hour, and
seemed to feel no extra gratitude for her perfect freedom
from every thing like resentment. Her smile was
so sweet and winning, that I felt like reminding him
how little he deserved it, after his <span class='it'>bêtises</span>. She left
us to get a basket for the eggs that were scattered in
great profusion about the nice nests ranged along the
side of the coop; and where the cackling and clucking
of a hundred hens was a safe preventive against overhearing,
I exclaimed to my companion,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Isabel! what sort of a <span class='it'>lusus naturæ</span> is your
Cousin Edwin? If it would not be considered offensive,
I should offer him a petticoat, and make one long
enough to cover his pantaloons and boots.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And he would do honor to it, Ellen,” was the
reply. “This Miss Molly-mania of Edwin’s is the
one spot that has risen on Josephine’s otherwise happy
union. She is the loveliest woman I ever knew, so
sweet and patient; and I feel so provoked at her husband
that I often am afraid to do mischief by interfering.
But I cannot help it! As ridiculous as it is—as
it helps to make him—we cannot laugh at it, because
it is an evil—a source of serious unhappiness in
any household. And Josy bears it so nobly! And
never smiles when at times I cannot contain my amusement
even before him. I am afraid he is incurable,
for if he is not content with her neatness and order, an
angel’s efforts could not please him. I wish you would
think of some cure for his disease.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’d put a cap on him, and make him mend his own
stockings,” said I, with more indignation than dignity;
but Josephine was at the gate, and after filling the
basket with what New Orleans calls creole eggs, a
fortune to the one who could have taken them to St.
Mary’s Market, we returned to the house and spent
a pleasant morning together.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fortunately no further opportunities presented themselves
to Mr. Bettyman, and I found him a very pleasant,
well-informed person, capable of being as entertaining
as he had been in the beginning disagreeable.
Two more delightful days I never passed, when on the
third morning I heard Mr. Bettyman give orders to take
back his rockaway to the stable, as he intended remaining
at home for the day. Isabel lifted her hands in
dismay, as he leant out of the window, and I guessed
that we were to be favored with some more of his attempts
at housekeeping. Ah! and so we were! I saw
him enter Josy’s pantry, putting on a light blouse, and
soon after he came in to us, his head pretty well
powdered. He had been at the flour-barrel!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My dear! the flour goes very fast. Two weeks
since that barrel was opened, and there is, I can
assure you, a very large portion gone. How much do
you give out for the day? I’m sure that five pints
ought to be sufficient for our use.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not think it can be wasted, Edwin,” said his
wife, rising hastily, as though prepared for some announcements.
“I’ll go and see myself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, <span class='it'>I</span> will speak to Maria about it,” replied he,
obligingly. Poor Josy! how much she dreaded his
being laughed at by his servants—but Isabel was there
ever ready to protect her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Stop, Edwin!” said she, meeting my eye, and
looking so arch that I had to smile and turn away.
“<span class='it'>Ellen</span> eats a great deal of bread, and perhaps Maria
found it necessary to use more flour in consequence.
I think she is excusable if she takes <span class='it'>more</span> than five
pints.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Poor Mr. Bettyman! He piqued himself upon his
exceeding politeness, and had Isabel given him a galvanic
shock he could not have felt it worse. After
expressing his surprise at her injustice, he turned to
me with so many explanations and apologies that but
for the good lesson taught him, I could have been half
angry at my friend’s zeal for his improvement. At
all events, he was stopped in his visit to Maria, and returning
to the pantry, armed with a dusting brush, very
industriously applied himself to cleaning every shelf,
and peeping carefully behind each row of china, glassware,
and jars, assured that no one ever peeped so
effectually before. At dinner he appeared much fatigued
as well he might; and after entertaining us and
improving himself with a discourse upon the manner
in which a house should be governed, he turned to
his wife.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I did not see the cheese in the jar, my dear, when
I was examining the pantry. Certainly, you cannot
have used all that I sent home but a short time since.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Josephine colored deeply, and paused a while before
answering. At length she took courage,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It grew mouldy, Edwin, and I sent it into the
kitchen. I did not think—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He clasped his hands in apparent agony of mind.
“In the kitchen! That delightful old cheese that
<span class='pageno' title='273' id='Page_273'></span>
would have kept for months! Do you know, my dear,
what such cheese as that costs?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was the signal for a series of “pokings,” as
Isabel called them, and from the table Mr. Bettyman
went into the kitchen at last. Through the window
I watched him giving directions to the cook, who stood,
broom in hand, patiently awaiting them. Pots, kettles,
stew-pans, ovens, and what not, were lifted out in
obedience to his warning finger. Not Hercules, with
the distaff, so labored for his Dejanira, and I could not
help wishing that some spiteful elf would suddenly
transform him into an old woman at once.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We had retired to our separate chambers as soon as
the coffee had disappeared, for each wished to conceal
from the other the feeling of indignation, amusement,
and anger, that my host had called forth. Josephine’s
eyes were red when she joined us in the evening, for
she had been deeply mortified at the ridicule to which
he inevitably exposed himself, and a burning spot on
her cheek told that for once she began to feel some resentment
at this tacit condemnation of her own part in
her household affairs. She seemed nervously expecting
her husband’s appearance, and seated herself
at length by Isabel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Josy,” said she, smiling, and putting her arm
around her, “why do you not give up the keys at
once? I’m sure, since Cousin Edwin is so fond of
playing housekeeper, that he might as well accept
your abdication in his favor. Besides, and curiously,
my dearest Josy, you will soon be obliged to resign
the office, and as it then falls to my lot, depend upon it
I shall not be the patient, enduring creature that
you are.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have been thinking of the very same thing,
Isabel,” replied Josy, laughing now in spite of herself,
and at the same moment her husband came, “puffing
and blowing” into the hall where we were assembled
to enjoy the summer air and take our tea. (I
never could imagine how it is, that people <span class='it'>will</span> swallow
boiling liquid on the hottest of days, but somehow or
other we cannot do without it, even when fanning ourselves,
and exclaiming at the heat. This much for the
consistency of human nature.)</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Bettyman seated himself in a fan-chair, and
began rocking to his apparent content.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have done a good day’s work, ladies, allow me
to tell you,” said he, with much complacency; and
turning to his wife, “all for your benefit, Josy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And I am not ungrateful, Edwin. To prove to
you how much I am humbled at your discovery of my
incompetency to see to my <span class='it'>ménage</span>, I have resolved
to give it up entirely, and beg you to continue in my
place. Here are the keys,” and stepping forward,
Josephine dropped the basket at his feet. “Martin—Lucy!
hereafter you will go to your master for orders,
and remember that I am on no account to be disturbed
by any one of you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was impossible to laugh, for the quiet dignity of
her manner forbade it. Martin bowed—Lucy curtsied
and ran off. Edwin remained as if spell-bound. He
had never once dreamed of Josy’s rebelling, and had
looked upon himself as a model husband from the daily
assistance he afforded her. Moreover, he began to
perceive his absurd position, and reddening to the
temples, arose from his chair.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are surely not in earnest, Josephine, in offering
me these keys. I am not the proper person to carry
them; certainly, I have endeavored to assist, and enable
you, knowing your inexperience, to become more careful
with your property and mine; but I do not wish to
usurp your place at all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have done so until now, my dear Edwin,”
was her mild but firm reply. “When you become
convinced of my ability to be my <span class='it'>own</span> housekeeper, I
may then offer to take back the place; but my mind is
made up, I do assure you,” and she placed the basket
of keys once more in his hands. He dared not accuse
her of spite, she had borne it so long; but he was too
much humiliated and vexed to conceal it. Courtesy
prevented his refusing to take his seat at the table, or
I verily believe he would have left us in high dudgeon.
Isabel and I talked as fast as we could, and Josy took
her part as gayly as either of us. And after a while
so did he, supposing in his inmost mind, that his wife
would revoke her decision on the morrow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But the morrow came, and Martin, as firm as his
mistress, went to know what Master Edwin wanted
from market. It was of course very early, and to say
the truth very unusual, as Josy was in the habit of
giving her orders at night.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“D—n it,” said Mr. Bettyman, half asleep, “what
do you come to me for?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My mistress told me to do so, sir,” was the respectful
reply, though poor Martin had to struggle
with a laugh, as he again applied himself to rouse his
master. “Would you prefer a breast of veal to-day,
sir? I think that you were not pleased with the
leg of mutton this day week.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Confound the leg of mutton!” muttered the master,
rubbing his eyes and sitting up. “Martin, am I dreaming,
or you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are, sir, I think,” replied Martin, smiling
now in good earnest. “My Mistress sent me to you to
know what was to be got in market today. We always
have mutton on Wednesdays, sir, but you didn’t like—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Pshaw! get what you please! Give me my vest
there—take the money, and let me be quiet;” and Mr.
Bettyman fell back on his pillow, and closed his eyes
once more in sleep. A few moments after he was
again roused.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Master Edwin will you have toast this morning—milk
toast? And shall Maria broil the chickens, or
stew them, sir?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do I know about chickens? Are you all
crazy, that you come one after another to disturb my
rest to-day? I have just gotten rid of Martin, and
now you must come and rouse me from my morning
sleep. Why don’t you go to your mistress? Hang
the chickens!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lucy ran out as Mr. Bettyman turned over grumbling
to resume his nap.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Maria, I can’t get Maus Edwin to answer me a
word, excepting that you are to hang the chickens.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hang em!” cried the cook, indignantly. “Did ever
any one hear of such a thing! I’m going to my misses
and ax <span class='it'>her</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='274' id='Page_274'></span>
“Miss an’t here, she’s out walkin’ with Miss Isabel,
and she’s done give up the housekeepin’ to Maus
Edwin. Cos why? Cos he pokes his nose every
where, and hit an’t his bizness.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Here’s Martin from market! My stars! Set down
the basket, boy, and let me see. Kidneys! Now how
is I to know how to cook these without being informed?
I’m gwine to Maus Edwin myself!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And off she marched without any kind of ceremony
into Edwin’s room. An old servant, she was not
<span class='it'>quite</span> so particular about noise as the younger ones,
so she screamed out at the door.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Maus Edwin! oh, Maus Edwin! How you want
the kidneys done? Broiled, or stewed in wine? It’s
late, and I want to know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go to the d——l with your kidneys!” cried Mr.
Bettyman, now fairly awake. “If you come to me
with any more questions, I’ll throw the boot-jack at
your head!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Maria scampered down stairs, and reached the
kitchen in a second. The breakfast that day was
cooked and served without direction from master or
mistress; and when we sat down to table every thing
looked so creditable to cook and house-boy, that Mr.
Bettyman, now refreshed by his last nap, quite forgot
his late instalment, and did the honors with his usual
hospitality. But no sooner had he risen from his chair,
after finishing his meal, than Maria appeared with a
perfect pyramid of pans, and stood grinning before
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Maus Edwin! gwine give out dinner, and all that?
Miss Josy always do it just after breakfast—and I
guess you want to be off to town soon.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By Jupiter! what is all this jargon for? What
have I to do with you and your pans, unless I throw
them at your head? Have my buggy around instantly!”
cried Mr. Bettyman, now fairly out of patience;
and as he remembered his wife’s resignation
of keys, etc. the evening previous, came back into the
Hall and stood before her. Josy was busy with her
little mop and cup-pan about to wash her own china
and silver.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Josy,” said he, somewhat humbly, for he <span class='it'>could</span>
not blame her, “you surely do not intend to carry out
this farce any longer, do you? This is making me too
ridiculous!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And what have you been doing, then, my dearest
husband?” replied she, cheerfully. “I cannot content
you—you will take my place and find fault with either
‘too much’ or ‘not enough,’ and I begin to feel housekeeping
<span class='it'>two</span> ways a little fatiguing. Not only must I
arrange matters to please myself, but on your return I
must begin anew to satisfy your <span class='it'>exigéance</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, well, Josy,” said Edwin, “say that you are
not serious, in giving me so absurd an office, and I
will promise not to interfere again. Will that do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will try you for one week then; if within that
time, beginning from this hour, you trespass again by
interfering once only in my housekeeping, I give back
the management of all into your hands.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Done! done!” cried he, delighted, and sealing the
bond with a kiss, “you shall not hear a word of complaint
from my lips, Isabel and Ellen to witness.
Given under my hand, etc.;” and he ran off, with one
bound was in his buggy, and drove rapidly away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is certainly very amiable and good-natured,”
said Isabel, looking after him affectionately, for he
deserved the eulogium. Feeling the justice of his
wife’s complaint, he did not, as many, oh, how many!
would have done in his place, fly into a rage, and
exert that tyranny of marital power which every day
some lord of the creation delights to show. Refuse,
in virtue of that very power, to acknowledge my
wrong, and turn a “heaven into a hell” of domestic
discord. “He is certainly very amiable,” continued
Isabel, “and divested of this unpleasant mania, will
make the best husband in the world.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He will, indeed,” said his wife, looking much
gratified. “I have never seen any one with a more
lovely disposition than Edwin. He is never cross,
even in the midst of his housekeeping,” and she laughed.
So did I, and I could not but wish that Edwin’s week
of probation were well over. Meddling with pantries,
cellars and kitchens, was his second nature, and we
took our seats around the well-supplied dinner-table,
awaiting with some curiosity the results of the morning
compact. Soup being served, Martin proceeded to
remove the plates and bring in the second course.
Alas! alas!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How is this Martin? What a waste of vegetables!
Josy, my dear—” He stopped, and we all burst into
a laugh, in which he had to join.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The bond is broken,” said Josephine at length. “I
did hope and pray for your triumph, my dear Edwin.
Take back the keys.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will no one intercede for me?” said he, with a
woful look. “May I not have one more trial, ladies—only
one more?” He was really mortified and distressed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Give him one more, Josy,” cried I, pitying him,
for he had really a victory to win. “Let this one
little mistake be thrown from the balance.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Be it so,” said she, “but let this be the last. I
grant no more grace, Mr. Edwin Bettyman; remember
the warning in time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Once I saved him, while Isabel and his wife were
busy in the parlor covering picture frames. The pantry
door stood open, he glanced in and could not resist
the temptation and entered. I heard him rummaging
about in there, among dishes, plates, and finally the
tins began to rattle. Suddenly he appeared, with a
cake pan in one hand and a cheese mould in the other.
Taking me at the moment for Josy, he commenced,
“I have rubbed my finger around the inside of these
pans, my dear, and—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I turned and shook my head at him, pointing to the
parlor. He started, and thrusting his burdens into my
hand ran down the steps, saying “don’t betray me,
Ellen, the week is almost out.” I replaced the things
silently, and returned to my companions. They were
just congratulating themselves upon Edwin’s forbearance
until then.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We shall see, what we shall see,” thought I, taking
up some muslin, and busying myself with a beautiful
painting on copper, destined to ornament Josephine’s
pretty little sewing-room. Her husband took
<span class='pageno' title='275' id='Page_275'></span>
such pains to beautify this chosen “sanctum” of hers
that I could almost have prayed for his triumph over
this one fault—yet no sin. It seemed hard that for a
failing of this peculiar nature, Mr. Bettyman should be
looked upon generally as an unkind husband, when in
all other respects he was so considerate for the comfort
and happiness of his wife. Yet, so it was, and
knowing this “general” opinion, his kind cousin determined
to cure him of its cause.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Saturday came, and we all breathed freely—if this
one day were but over. Edwin jested with his wife
upon her being obliged to retain her basket of keys
“nolens volens,” for he contended that it was but a
ruse to get rid of the trouble of looking and unlocking
after all. He felt sure of his triumph now, for “of
course I shall not forget myself within these few
hours.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Tant mieux</span>,” said Josephine, and rattling a bunch
of keys at his ears she bade him begone, “lest,” added
she, “the spell be broken at sight of some old duster
lying loose, or a cracked pitcher with no handle.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ay, do begone,” continued Isabel declaimingly,
“for as</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;'>    ‘Heat and cold, and wind, and <span class='it'>steam</span>,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Moisture and <span class='it'>mildew</span>, mice, worms and swarming flies,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Minute as dust and numberless, oft work</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Dire <span class='it'>meddling habits</span> that admit no cure</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And which no care can obviate’—</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>we fear to trust you in our presence longer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Abominable parody,” cried Mr. Bettyman, laughing.
“I doubt if Cowper were ever before so applied.
But good-bye, signorinas, <span class='it'>que beso las manos</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He returned home in rare good-humor, even for
him; as, though cheerful, he was never in very high
spirits. But the foreign and <span class='it'>domestic</span> state of affairs
was encouraging—cotton was up, and “the day”
nearly over. He challenged us to a walk, and through
fields and flowers we wandered joyously until the
bright lady moon was looking down in all her beauty,
and shedding silver light over land and sea. We
reached home as pleased as wanderers could be, each
remembering some distant dream in days gone by,
that came back to us with the scene and hour. All
love to see,</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 moonbeam sliding softly in between</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The sleeping leaves,</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>and we paused a while before entering, to linger over
the loveliness of the fair fragrant buds that were just
bursting into perfume. The night jasmine, with her
tiny star-bells hanging fragilely along its bending stem,
and her pale, sweet sister blooming amid its “deep
dark green,” and sending forth its incense upon the
summer air. Here, too, was the constant heliotrope,
which, at decline of sun, exhales in deepest sighs her
balmy breath. How much more pure is the odor of
flowers at evening, as though a voiceless prayer were
ascending in praise of the Hand that fashioned them!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Such were some of the thoughts busy in our hearts
as we turned away to mount the steps, and seating
ourselves in the light arm-chairs upon the piazza, we
recollected that there was such a feeling as the one of
fatigue. Mr. Bettyman had preceded us some time
into the house, and now came through the hall with
his blouse and slippers on. How these lords do love
their slippers and their ease! When women express
a wish to change their shoes forsooth, they forever
get the credit of wearing tight ones. (N. B. Is it not
time when so many revolutions are taking place, that
we should revolutionize <span class='it'>some</span> things in this world?
Sisters! to the rescue!)</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do turn the lamp down, Martin,” said Isabel, as
the bright glare of the solar globe burst upon us, “I
love a mellow light in summer. Do not you, Ellen?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” replied I, “one can think so pleasantly in
the twilight, or the moonlight. If you sit in silence
where your face is visible, your nice air-castles are all
at once tumbled down by some one exclaiming ‘Why
what is the matter? Yon look so grave.’ And then
you start and look foolish, answering stupidly, or begin
an account of your thoughts, which cannot possibly
interest any one but your own self.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Tene</span>; but I love to trace a chain of thought—threading
a mental way through all its intricacies, to
find how very, very small the ‘baseless fabric’ from
whence we started. It is like watching the circle
upon circle that sweeps out from around the troubled
water of a small stream. A commotion that a single
drop may occasion. No very new comparison, to be
sure, but one may be excused a plagiarism when one
has no genius. Josy, give us an idea or two to start
on, you who think so prettily.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A silver penny for Edwin’s thoughts!” said Josy,
laying her little hand on his and looking up into his
face. “Now tell us where you have been wandering
all this while, grave man? Do you too weave
romances at this witching hour, and for whom? <span class='it'>Your</span>
day is gone, Sir Benedict, and I am here to remind
you of it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who can say that I am free?” exclaimed he.
“Forced to answer this syren’s questions, I must
plead guilty to wondering if the man in the moon had
a family, and, if so, what can be the nature of the
little moonses.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“O lame and impotent conclusion,” cried Josy,
laughing merrily. “Oh, Edwin! I did expect something
poetical at least, after your silent meditation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Que voulez-vous?</span>” said he, with a shrug. “I
was commanded to open my heart to the present company,
and dared not disobey. If my astronomical
observations are not acceptable to the learned triumvirate,
I throw myself upon their mercy. What is it,
Martin?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is a boy here, sir, who wishes to know if
you will let Colonel Robinson have your rockaway
to-morrow. He has broken down on his way out, and
says he knows you have your buggy for your own
use. The rockaway will be returned in the evening.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The deuce it will!” said Mr. Bettyman, impatiently
rising from his chair and following the servant
out into the yard. “I do not like to lend my vehicles,
I must confess, for they are never returned in order.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And neither does any one else, I believe, gentlemen
particularly. I have known <span class='it'>ladies</span>, however, whose
carriage, driver and horses could wait attendance a
whole day on a fashionable acquaintance, when the
convenience would be denied “poor relations.” But
this means nothing, dear reader; of course you are
<span class='pageno' title='276' id='Page_276'></span>
not one of <span class='it'>my</span> acquaintances, I have very few I assure
you; I care most for old friends, and hope you will
pardon my wandering from the subject.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Bettyman remained some time absent, and we
still sat on the piazza, discussing Col. Robinson and
the bad habit of borrowing rockaways. But when he
returned, oh, angels and ministers of grace! he had
mounted his hobby. Holding in his hand a spoon and
tumbler he approached his wife.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now, Josy, my dear, where do you think I discovered
these? Such unheard of carelessness! You
see, my love, how I am forced to take care of every
thing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Josy arose and laid the keys at his feet. “You
have earned the honor at last, Edwin, and now you
are <span class='it'>my</span> housekeeper, I am no longer responsible for
any carelessness of the servants, and you are free
from further anxiety, as you will direct and take the
government of the whole concern.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And as the spoon is mine, and he has obliged me
by throwing out the gum arabic which had all day
been dissolving, that I might make Josy some mixture
for her cough, I must beg him to replace every thing
upon my window seat as he found it. I can have you
taken up for purloining silver, Cousin Edwin; look at
the mark now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Poor Mr. Bettyman! I could not but pity him,
amusing as his mania was. In the morning early, the
servants were again calling upon him for orders, and
getting blessed at each new disturbance. In pity,
then, I took the keys myself. But, called away shortly
after, had to resign them into his unwilling hands. He
took them with a woful countenance. “Ah, Ellen!
you were my only friend, and now you desert me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>When I next visited the house, it was to congratulate
Joey upon the birth of a dear little girl; and Edwin
was busy amid stew-pans and pap-cups, enraging the
nurse until she vowed to leave the house unless
allowed her own way with mother and child.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Make slops for yourself and go to bed and swallow
them, Mr. Bettyman, but indeed I will not poison the
baby with your mixtures. Nor can I allow your lady,
sir, to drink that mess you’ve been cooking half
the day.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Nurses are privileged people, and poor Edwin had
to surrender. Josy’s grateful smiles, however, were
some consolation, and the lovely babe another. I inquired
of Isabel how long he kept the keys.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Until Josephine’s confinement,” was her reply.
“I was determined to give him a hard lesson; and
never was man more ruffled than he. However,
my dear, don’t think he is cured! By no means;
he comes to me constantly as he did formerly to Josy;
but I pay no attention to him, except by offering him
again the housekeeping. He shall never annoy Josy
again, depend upon it. The baby is enough occupation
for her now, and Cousin Edwin stands enough in
awe of me to let me have my way about every thing.
He will meddle, and he may, but to no purpose.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And when you leave them, Isabel?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shall not leave them though.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And should you marry, dear Bella?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Pas si beta!</span> I love Josy too well to leave her,
now that I find myself necessary to her happiness. I
love Edwin, too; he has behaved nobly to me, and
generously. The only man I ever could have married
is lost to me. So, Ellen, I can lead a single life, and
be a nice old maid.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And she kept her word, reader; never was there so
kind, so pleasant a companion as my friend Isabel.</p>
<hr class='tbk124'/>
<div><h1><a id='axe'></a>THE SONG OF THE AXE.</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 ALFRED B. STREET.</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 was</span> born deep down—deep down in the sable depths of the mine,</p>
<p class='line0'>  (Thus commenced the iron,)</p>
<p class='line0'>Where I lay in dull and sullen sleep,</p>
<p class='line0'>Till the miner, gaunt, naked and strong,</p>
<p class='line0'>With his sharp pickaxe,</p>
<p class='line0'>And by the light of his flaring torch,</p>
<p class='line0'>Torch of flary and smoky crimson!</p>
<p class='line0'>That lit up the gloom like a star,</p>
<p class='line0'>Forced me from my dull and sullen sleep.</p>
<p class='line0'>And whistling like the keen northwest over a peak of the Ural mountains, (oh mountains, stern mountains of snow.)</p>
<p class='line0'>Lifted me, dull and sullen as I was, to the dazzling eye of the sun-god,</p>
<p class='line0'>I hated the miner, that miner, gaunt, naked and strong,</p>
<p class='line0'>With his flaring and crimson torch,</p>
<p class='line0'>And his sharp pickaxe,</p>
<p class='line0'>I hated him, and I wished I was a weapon to bite into his heart —</p>
<p class='line0'>Ho! ho! ho! how I would have laughed, as I bit into his heart,</p>
<p class='line0'>That miner, gaunt, naked and strong,</p>
<p class='line0'>For lifting me from my dull and sullen sleep</p>
<p class='line0'>Into the presence of so radiant a being as the golden-tressed, beautiful sun-god.</p>
<p class='line0'>For I was black, from my dull and sullen sleep,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the dross of long years, of long years that I spent in the mine, clung about me like barnacles to a ship.</p>
<p class='line0'>So I was glad when I was hurried to the forge;</p>
<p class='line0'>But, oh, how I writhed and bent in my anguish as the red hot furnace!</p>
<p class='line0'>Yea, the furnace “heated to a white heat,”</p>
<p class='line0'>Made my heart melt within me, and my whole body change to a mass of living flame —</p>
<p class='line0'>That fierce and merciless forge.</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh how my heart melted within me, and how my whole body changed to a mass of living flame,</p>
<p class='line0'>That softened each agonized pore, and made me turn liquid with sorrow.</p>
<p class='line0'>I was taken then from the forge,</p>
<p class='line0'>And beaten into a long, slender wand, like a spear,</p>
<p class='line0'>And I thought I was changing to a spear,</p>
<p class='line0'>And laughed, for then I could bite into heart</p>
<p class='line0'>Of that miner,</p>
<p class='line0'>That miner, gaunt, naked and strong,</p>
<p class='line0'>That took me from my dull and sullen sleep,</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='pageno' title='277' id='Page_277'></span></p>
<p class='line0'>And hurried me, all black, and covered with dross like the barnacles on a ship,</p>
<p class='line0'>Into the golden presence of him the bright, beautiful sun-god.</p>
<p class='line0'>But I was not destined to bite into the heart of that miner:</p>
<p class='line0'>And I was hurried then to the smithy,</p>
<p class='line0'>Where stood the stalwort blacksmith leaning on his sledge:</p>
<p class='line0'>That blacksmith, with his leathern apron and arm that would fell a buffalo.</p>
<p class='line0'>And he smiled, that blacksmith,</p>
<p class='line0'>When he placed me in <span class='it'>his</span> forge, and wakened his monstrous bellows.</p>
<p class='line0'>And I—I knew that my foe the red fire would leap again into my entrails,</p>
<p class='line0'>And melt my heart;</p>
<p class='line0'>And I tried to yell out my wrath, but could not —</p>
<p class='line0'>And so I lay dark and sullen, yea, dark and sullen as when</p>
<p class='line0'>I slept deep down in the sable mine,</p>
<p class='line0'>Until I felt my foe the red fire again melting my heart,</p>
<p class='line0'>And again softening my strong, well-knit muscles</p>
<p class='line0'>Into a mass of living flame —</p>
<p class='line0'>Ah then that sharp anvil!</p>
<p class='line0'>“Swank! swank! swank!” rang the blows of that stalwort blacksmith, and a smutty faced lad that he called “son!”</p>
<p class='line0'>“Son!” oh how I wished I had his throat in my strong and well-knit muscles —</p>
<p class='line0'>I would have torn it as the wild wolf tears the throat of the deer —</p>
<p class='line0'>But as for the stalwort blacksmith, I was afraid of him —</p>
<p class='line0'>So I lay and let him smite me.</p>
<p class='line0'>Then I felt myself beaten into a shape—the welcome shape of the axe —</p>
<p class='line0'>And I laughed,</p>
<p class='line0'>For the axe was made for slaughter —</p>
<p class='line0'>Then I was taken from the burly blacksmith’s,</p>
<p class='line0'>And keen, clear, flashing teeth of steel</p>
<p class='line0'>Were given me,</p>
<p class='line0'>And I laughed again,</p>
<p class='line0'>For I thought that if I had a chance how I would bite in the heart of that miner,</p>
<p class='line0'>That miner, gaunt, naked and strong!</p>
<p class='line0'>And the smutty-faced boy whom the burly blacksmith</p>
<p class='line0'>Called “son.”</p>
<p class='line0'>But the burly blacksmith himself, I would not bite him,</p>
<p class='line0'>No, not even were his veins beneath the gripe of my clear, keen, flashing teeth,</p>
<p class='line0'>For I loved the burly blacksmith,</p>
<p class='line0'>The burly, stalwort blacksmith,</p>
<p class='line0'>With his apron of leather and arm that could fell a buffalo.</p>
<p class='line0'>And then I was hung up in a village store;</p>
<p class='line0'>A paltry village store, amidst onions, and turnips and tape,</p>
<p class='line0'>To wait my destined doom.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I was born in the pleasant wood;</p>
<p class='line0'>    (Thus commenced the helve,</p>
<p class='line0'>    Not rough and fierce and hateful</p>
<p class='line0'>    Like the iron, but modest and mild)</p>
<p class='line0'>I was born in the pleasant wood;</p>
<p class='line0'>I was an arm of the sturdy oak;</p>
<p class='line0'>And I bore a wealth of green leaves</p>
<p class='line0'>In the long bright summer days,</p>
<p class='line0'>Where the sunlight loved to sparkle and the rain-drops loved to hum —</p>
<p class='line0'>And I bent a green roof o’er the nest of the merry bird.</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh, I was happy!</p>
<p class='line0'>I danced in the liquid wind,</p>
<p class='line0'>And murmured my joy at all times;</p>
<p class='line0'>In the golden dawn, and sunny noontide;</p>
<p class='line0'>In the crimson evening and beneath the seraphic moon;</p>
<p class='line0'>Yea, I was happy!</p>
<p class='line0'>The oak loved me; for I was his sturdiest arm,</p>
<p class='line0'>And I bore my leaves like an emerald shield.</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh, I was happy!</p>
<p class='line0'>But my time came.</p>
<p class='line0'>The woodman saw me, and he looked at the handle of his axe —</p>
<p class='line0'>The woodman saw me, and grasped the handle of his axe —</p>
<p class='line0'>The woodman saw me, and before I could shrink behind my emerald shield,</p>
<p class='line0'>Ay, even before I could call upon my father oak</p>
<p class='line0'>To bend his green plume and protect his son,</p>
<p class='line0'>I was crashing on the earth —</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh! I fell headlong to the moss, and I lay without motion,</p>
<p class='line0'>As the woodman,</p>
<p class='line0'>As the whistling woodman,</p>
<p class='line0'>As the free and careless woodman,</p>
<p class='line0'>Rent from me my emerald shield, and made me bare</p>
<p class='line0'>As a bird just emerged from its shell.</p>
<p class='line0'>And then he shaped me into a thick stick,</p>
<p class='line0'>A thick white stick, with his wood-knife,</p>
<p class='line0'>And carried me to the village store,</p>
<p class='line0'>And bargained me off, me, the strong arm of the oak,</p>
<p class='line0'>That wore an emerald shield, and made arrows of all the beams,</p>
<p class='line0'>And flashed and murmured at dawn, in the red eve,</p>
<p class='line0'>And beneath the seraphic moon;</p>
<p class='line0'>Yes, me, did that careless woodman</p>
<p class='line0'>Bargain for a keg of apple-sauce,</p>
<p class='line0'>The mean, sneaking villain!</p>
<p class='line0'>That pitiful woodman!</p>
<p class='line0'>And here the helve sang out keen and shrill like the sap</p>
<p class='line0'>When it shrieks in its prison for help,</p>
<p class='line0'>As the red flame enters its chamber.</p>
<p class='line0'>    (But again murmured the helve.)</p>
<p class='line0'>There in that paltry village store,</p>
<p class='line0'>Amidst onions, and turnips, and tape,</p>
<p class='line0'>There did I rest in my dusky nook,</p>
<p class='line0'>Whilst the smooth-faced shopman smirked and smiled,</p>
<p class='line0'>With “yes marm!” and “no marm!” “did you say calico!</p>
<p class='line0'>Calico or tape!</p>
<p class='line0'>Joe, measure a yard of tape!”</p>
<p class='line0'>Good heavens! even the blood of my father the oak</p>
<p class='line0'>Began to boil in me.</p>
<p class='line0'>But as for the axe,</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh, how he showed his keen, clear, flashing teeth,</p>
<p class='line0'>As if he would bite into the heart of that shopman,</p>
<p class='line0'>That shopman, so smooth-faced and smirk,</p>
<p class='line0'>So smiling, so smooth-faced and smirk,</p>
<p class='line0'>With his “yes marm” and “no marm!” “did you say</p>
<p class='line0'>Calico</p>
<p class='line0'>  or</p>
<p class='line0'>Tape? Joe, measure a yard of tape!”</p>
<p class='line0'>At length an honest settler</p>
<p class='line0'>Came in from his hill-meadows</p>
<p class='line0'>And spoke for an axe.</p>
<p class='line0'>I was dragged from my corner,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the iron was released from his thraldom,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the sharp knife of the honest settler,</p>
<p class='line0'>As the sundown turned his hill-meadows into golden velvet,</p>
<p class='line0'>Shaved me down and shaped me,</p>
<p class='line0'>Smooth and white, and then married me to my husband the iron,</p>
<p class='line0'>The iron, with his purple head,</p>
<p class='line0'>And his keen, clear, flashing teeth.</p>
<p class='line0'>Since then have we dwelt together,</p>
<p class='line0'>Me and my husband the iron,</p>
<p class='line0'>In the hut of the honest settler.</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='pageno' title='278' id='Page_278'></span></p>
<p class='line0'>The helve ceased.</p>
<p class='line0'>And then a blended song</p>
<p class='line0'>In which rang the clear treble of the helve</p>
<p class='line0'>And the gruff notes of the iron</p>
<p class='line0'>Swelled on my ear.</p>
<p class='line0'>But at length the settler harnessed his oxen,</p>
<p class='line0'>And bent a canvas tent over his wagon,</p>
<p class='line0'>His wagon, broad-wheeled and wide,</p>
<p class='line0'>And filling it with his household wealth,</p>
<p class='line0'>And casting us, married as we were,</p>
<p class='line0'>On his brawny shoulder,</p>
<p class='line0'>Started on his journey.</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh! long was our way through the forest;</p>
<p class='line0'>The broad-wheeled wagon crushed the violets in its path,</p>
<p class='line0'>The purple, fragrant violets looking with their blue eyes</p>
<p class='line0'>From the knotted feet of the pine-tree —</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh, how the pine-tree shook!</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh, how the pine-tree roared!</p>
<p class='line0'>As the violets, that looked with their blue eyes</p>
<p class='line0'>From his knotted feet,</p>
<p class='line0'>Screamed in their purple blood underneath the broad-wheeled wagon,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the red strawberries, with their pouting lips,</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh! how they splashed with their sweet blood</p>
<p class='line0'>The broad wheels</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the ruthless wagon.</p>
<p class='line0'>In vain did the laurel hang</p>
<p class='line0'>Its magnificent bouquet of pink and pearl</p>
<p class='line0'>Over that broad-wheeled wagon!</p>
<p class='line0'>In vain did the loftier dog-wood</p>
<p class='line0'>Arch his blossoms of creamy silver,</p>
<p class='line0'>Both forming a triumphal arch,</p>
<p class='line0'>Worthy a Roman general in his most glorious days,</p>
<p class='line0'>Over that broad-wheeled wagon.</p>
<p class='line0'>On did the wagon plough,</p>
<p class='line0'>Staying for nothing, and crushing still,</p>
<p class='line0'>Oh, that broad-wheeled wagon!</p>
<p class='line0'>The huddling violets with their blue eyes,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the red strawberries with their ripe pouting lips,</p>
<p class='line0'>Letting their sweet blood flow</p>
<p class='line0'>Till the green velvet of the grass blushed like a sunset cloud.</p>
<p class='line0'>And so we journeyed on,</p>
<p class='line0'>Resting upon the brawny shoulder</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the honest settler.</p>
<p class='line0'>At sunset he made us work,</p>
<p class='line0'>And we bit into the trees,</p>
<p class='line0'>And formed his night-bower in the forest.</p>
<p class='line0'>And so we journeyed on</p>
<p class='line0'>Till we came in sight of the home</p>
<p class='line0'>That the settler had chose in the forest,</p>
<p class='line0'>The forest that blackened the tide</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the Delaware, mountain-born;</p>
<p class='line0'>Here he made his home—here he looked at his sylvan empire,</p>
<p class='line0'>And led his band to hew and slaughter the forest,</p>
<p class='line0'>The forest that blackened the tide</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the Delaware, mountain-born.</p>
<p class='line0'>Bright was the August morn</p>
<p class='line0'>That laughed on the vales and the tree-tops,</p>
<p class='line0'>When he led his stalwort band</p>
<p class='line0'>To slaughter the virgin forest</p>
<p class='line0'>That blackened the Delaware’s brow,</p>
<p class='line0'>And gayly and freely they slaughtered</p>
<p class='line0'>The trees of the creek-fed river,</p>
<p class='line0'>The river that leaped from its mountain-goblet</p>
<p class='line0'>Glittering, clear as dew, and pure as a thought of the Deity,</p>
<p class='line0'>Far up in its deep scoop of rock.</p>
<p class='line0'>How they laughed as they swung their blows</p>
<p class='line0'>On the hemlock and spruce and green maple</p>
<p class='line0'>That arbored the glen of the eagle,</p>
<p class='line0'>And bent o’er the cave of the wolf.</p>
<p class='line0'>How they laughed as they heard the deep groans</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the hemlock and spruce and green maple</p>
<p class='line0'>And their proud plumes were bowed to the ground.</p>
<p class='line0'>The forests thus vanished away</p>
<p class='line0'>Like the fog that is breathed from the water,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the eagle screamed keen from the top</p>
<p class='line0'>Of his dwelling, laid bare from her brood,</p>
<p class='line0'>Whilst they shivered and shook with the cold,</p>
<p class='line0'>Icy cold of the gauntlet that Jack Frost</p>
<p class='line0'>Laid upon the soft down of their breasts.</p>
<p class='line0'>Thus vanished the forests away,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the green smiling farm-fields succeeded,</p>
<p class='line0'>Some like the tawny lion-skin,</p>
<p class='line0'>Some spotted like the robe of the ounce,</p>
<p class='line0'>And some striped like the splendid glory of the tiger.</p>
<p class='line0'>The cabin arose in its clearing,</p>
<p class='line0'>The kine-bells sent tinklings like sounds of silver amidst the thickets and bushes,</p>
<p class='line0'>That grouped in rounded clusters the grassy and quiet glades.</p>
<p class='line0'>Then the log hut was swept away</p>
<p class='line0'>With its chimney of sticks,</p>
<p class='line0'>And its little window, like the eye of the deer</p>
<p class='line0'>Peering out from its leafy ambush.</p>
<p class='line0'>The village spread out with its roofs</p>
<p class='line0'>And its delicate finger-like steeple</p>
<p class='line0'>That pointed forever toward heaven,</p>
<p class='line0'>Like the prayer of the pastor ascending.</p>
<p class='line0'>On an emerald knoll, with the shape</p>
<p class='line0'>Of the delicate finger-like steeple</p>
<p class='line0'>Cutting black in the sunshine beside it,</p>
<p class='line0'>The pioneer’s white modest dwelling</p>
<p class='line0'>Sparkled out of its bosom of verdure.</p>
<p class='line0'>There lived the brave old patriarch,</p>
<p class='line0'>The father of many children —</p>
<p class='line0'>There lived the gray old patriarch,</p>
<p class='line0'>Awaiting his summons to go</p>
<p class='line0'>To the land, the bright land of his hopes —</p>
<p class='line0'>To the land, the sweet land of the happy.</p>
<p class='line0'>On the spot where he saw the brindled form of the stealthy panther</p>
<p class='line0'>Prowling like guilt through the tangles of the wood,</p>
<p class='line0'>He sees the quiet steed, born in the spacious Merrimac meadows,</p>
<p class='line0'>The old, faithful, honest steed,</p>
<p class='line0'>Whose feet seemed shod with wind,</p>
<p class='line0'>And whose snort was like the deep bass note of the ophicleide</p>
<p class='line0'>In the fiery days of his youth;</p>
<p class='line0'>Stamping the flies and whisking his stump of a tail</p>
<p class='line0'>As he sluggishly moves toward the sparkling spring</p>
<p class='line0'>Welling up to the rim of the mossy hogshead.</p>
<p class='line0'>Ah, the old father in Zion was blest!</p>
<p class='line0'>Blest in his household, his home and his goods!</p>
<p class='line0'>Ah, he was perfectly happy!</p>
<p class='line0'>As the full golden moon of his purified soul</p>
<p class='line0'>Wheeled down to the rim of the west,</p>
<p class='line0'>Where the angel of God stood with waiting pinions</p>
<p class='line0'>To waft him high upward to glory.</p>
<p class='line0'>My song is done.</p>
<p class='line0'>(And the blended tones of the axe sunk away</p>
<p class='line0'>Like the last water-like notes of the lute of the winds,</p>
<p class='line0'>Sunk away—away—swooned deliciously away,</p>
<p class='line0'>And I treasured it in the inner chamber of my ear,</p>
<p class='line0'>And sung it to myself in the deepest nook of my heart,</p>
<p class='line0'>And then gave it to the world.)</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk125'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='279' id='Page_279'></span><h1><a id='case'></a>THE DARKENED CASEMENT.</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>
<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;'>What lit your eyes with tearful power,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Like moonlight on a falling shower?</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Who lent you, love, your mortal dower</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Of pensive thought and aspect pale,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Your melancholy sweet and frail</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>As perfume of the cuckoo-flower?</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-left:1em;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Tennyson.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Frederic Preston</span> was the eldest son of a respectable
merchant, in one of the most important seaport
towns of New England. He was a young man
of fine personal appearance, a warm and honorable
heart, and a spirit singularly brave and adventurous.
From his boyhood his inclinations had led him to a
seafaring life, and at the age of twenty-six, when he is
presented to the reader, he had already made several
voyages to the East Indies, as supercargo in the employ
of the house in which his father was a partner.
He was now at home for a year, awaiting the completion
of a vessel, which was to trade with Canton,
and which he was to command.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Preston had, for all his love of change and adventure,
a taste for literature—always taking a well-selected
library with him on his long voyages—was
even, for one of his pursuits, remarkable for scholarly
attainments; yet he sometimes wearied of books and
study, and, as he had little taste for general society,
often found the time drag heavily in his shore-life.
Thus it was that he one day cheerfully accepted the
invitation of his mother to accompany her to a school
examination, in which his sister was to take a part.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Our young gentleman was shown a seat in front,
near the platform on which were ranged the “patient
pupils”—“beauties, every shade of brown and fair.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He gazed about rather listlessly for a while, but at
length his attention became fixed on a young lady who
stood at the black-board, proving with great elegance
and precision a difficult proposition in Euclid. He was
observing the admirable taste of her dress, the delicacy
and willowy grace of her figure, when suddenly,
while raising her arm in drawing her diagram, a small
comb of shell dropped from her head, and a rich mass
of hair fell over her shoulders.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And such hair!—it was wondrously luxuriant, not
precisely curly, but rippling all through with small
glossy waves, just ready to roll themselves into ringlets,
and of that peculiar, indescribable color between
a brown and a bright auburn.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Preston, who felt that the possessor of such magnificent
hair must be beautiful, waited impatiently for
a sight at the face of the fair geometrician; but, without
turning her head, she stepped quietly back, took
up the comb, quickly re-arranged her hair, and went
on with her problem. It was not until this was finished,
and she took her seat among the other pupils, that
Preston had a full view of her face. He was more
keenly disappointed than he would have acknowledged,
when he saw only plainness, in place of the beauty
he so confidently expected. Yet Dora Allen was by
no means disagreeably plain; her features were regular,
and her complexion extremely fair. She was only
thin, wan and somewhat spiritless in appearance.
Her face was “sicklied o’er with the pale cast of
thought”—with thought her young eye seemed shadowed,
her young brow burdened. But there was a
sweet and lovable spirit looking out from the depths of
those dreamy eyes, and hovering about those quiet and
almost colorless lips, which told the observer that her
rare intellectual attainments had not stood in the way
of her simple affections, to hinder their generous development.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frederic Preston liked Dora Allen’s face somewhat
better as he regarded it more closely, and when, at the
close of the exercises, this young lady was called forward
to receive the highest honors of the institution—when
she advanced timidly, and bowed modestly, to
be crowned with a wreath of rose-buds and lilies of
the valley, while a sudden flush kindled in her cheek,
flowed into her quivering lips, and illuminated her
whole countenance, she grew absolutely beautiful in
his eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Our hero was not sorry to learn that Miss Allen was
the most intimate friend of his sister Anna, from whom
he soon ascertained that she was an orphan, within a
few years past, adopted by an uncle, a clergyman of
the place—that she was about eighteen—of an amiable,
frank and noble disposition, yet chiefly distinguished
for her fine intellectual endowments and studious
habits.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I will not dwell on what my shrewd reader already
anticipates—the love and marriage of Frederic Preston
and Dora Allen. I will not dwell on the sad parting
scene, when, within six months from “the happiest
day of his life,” Captain Preston set sail for Canton,
his brave spirit strangely cast down, the once gay light
of his eyes quenched in tears, and with a long tress of
rich auburn hair lying close against his heart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On account of some business arrangements which
he was to make at Canton, he must be absent somewhat
more than two years. He desired greatly to
take his young wife with him, but feared, from knowing
her delicate organization, that she could not endure
the voyage. He left her in a pretty cottage-home,
which he himself had fitted up for her, in sight of the
harbor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Dora had living with her a widowed elder sister,
whose society and assistance were much comfort
to her, in her otherwise most lonely lot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Among the many letters which Captain Preston
received from his loving and constant wife during his
absence, there was one which he read with peculiar
joy—with tears of grateful emotion. For this was not
<span class='pageno' title='280' id='Page_280'></span>
alone from the bride of his bosom, but from the mother
of his child. Thus wrote Dora:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Our boy is four weeks old to-day, and my heart
is already gladdened by his striking resemblance to
you, dearest. He has your fine olive complexion,
your large black eyes and dark, curling hair. I call
him <span class='it'>Frederic</span>, and have great joy in often repeating
the beloved name.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was early on an April morning that the merchantman
“Bay State” came into —— harbor. Scarcely
waiting for daylight, Captain Preston took his way
homeward. He found only Mrs. Mason, his sister-in-law,
up; but received from her happy greeting, the
assurance that all was well. With his heart on his
lips, he softly stole up to Dora’s favorite room, a pleasant
chamber which looked out on the sea. He entered
and reached her bed-side unheard. She was
yet sleeping, and Frederic observed that her hair had
escaped from her pretty muslin cap, and was floating
over her neck and bosom—then looking closer, he saw
peering through it, two mischievous black eyes—a
pair of bright, parted lips—a rosy, chubby, dimpled
little face—yes, caught his first view of his infant boy
through a veil of the mother’s beautiful hair. Then,
with a light laugh, he bent down, and clasped them
both, calling their names, and in a moment, seemed to
hold all heaven in his arms.</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;'>“I seek her now—I kneel—I shriek—</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>I clasp her vesture—but she fades, still fades;</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And she is gone; sweet human love is gone!</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>’Tis only when they spring to heaven that angels</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Reveal themselves to you.”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-left:2em;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Browning.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>From that time the voyages of Captain Preston were
not so long as formerly, and he often spent many
months, sometimes a year or two with his family.
He frequently spoke of resigning his sea-faring life
altogether, but was ever concluding that he was not
yet in a situation to render the step a prudent one for
his business interests. Finally, when he had been
about fifteen years married, he set out on what he intended
and promised his family should be his last
voyage. He was at this time the father of three children;
the son, of whom we have spoken, a healthful,
high-spirited boy, and two daughters, Pauline and
Louise—the first greatly resembling her father, the
second very like the mother.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Preston was pained to leave his gentle wife
looking paler and more thin than usual, and to observe,
for she said nothing of it, that she was troubled with a
slight cough. Yet he was of a most hopeful spirit, and
even as he heard her low voice, and saw her faint
smile, so much sadder than tears, he trusted that the
coming summer would bring her health, and more
cheerful spirits.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Preston had usually a remarkable control over
her painful emotions, and was peculiarly calm in all
seasons of trial; but at this parting, she clung long and
closely about her husband’s neck—it seemed that she
could not let him go. She buried her face in his
bosom and wept and sobbed in irrepressible anguish.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At last, unwinding her fond arms, he resigned her,
half-fainting, to the care of her sister, hastily embraced
his children, and rushed from the house. He heard his
name called in a wild, pleading voice, yet he dared
not look back, but ran down the long garden-walk, and
paused not till he reached the road. Here he turned
for one look at his home, ere a thick clump of pines
should hide it from his sight. He lifted his eyes to
that pleasant window looking out on the sea, and there
stood Dora, weeping and waving her slender white
hand. He drew his cap over his eyes, turned again,
and hastened down to the harbor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>During this last absence, Captain Preston received
but one letter from his wife—but this was very long—a
sort of journal, kept through the spring and summer
succeeding his departure. In all this, though Dora
wrote most pleasantly of home affairs, and very particularly
of the children, she made no mention of the
state of her own health, and this he knew not whether
to regard as matter for assurance or apprehension.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At length he was on his homeward voyage—was
fast approaching his native shores. Never had he
looked forward to reaching port with such eager,
boyish impatience—never had his weary heart so
longed for the rest and joy of home.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But a severe storm came up, drove them off their
course, and kept them beating about, so that for some
days they made no headway. One night—it was a
Sabbath night—Capt. Preston, completely exhausted,
flung his cloak around him, and threw himself down
on the cabin-floor for a little rest, for he could not lie
in his berth. It was full midnight—his eyes closed
heavily at once—he was fast falling into sleep, when
he thought he heard his name called very softly, but
in a tone which pierced to the deeps of his heart.
He looked up, half raising himself, and <span class='it'>Dora was before
him</span>! Yes, his own Dora, it seemed, with her
own familiar face, still sweet and loving in its looks,
though it seemed strangely glorified by the shining
forth of a soft, inward light. Again she spoke his
name, drew nearer, and bent down, as though to kiss
his forehead. He did not feel the pressure of her lips,
but he looked into the eyes above him—her own dear
eyes, and read there a mournful, unspeakable tenderness—a
divine intensity, an eternity of love. He
reached out his arms and called her name aloud; but
she glided, faint smiling, from his fond embrace—the
blessed vision faded, and he was alone—alone in the
dim cabin of a storm-rocked vessel, with the tempest
shrieking through the cordage, with the black heights
of a midnight heaven above, and the blacker depths of
a boiling sea below.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frederic Preston did not sleep that night. In spite
of all the efforts of his reason, his heart was racked
with anxiety, or oppressed with a mortal heaviness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the course of the following day the storm abated,
and they afterward crowded all sail for land; yet it
was a week ere they cast anchor in —— harbor. It
was ten o’clock at night, and Captain Preston was immediately
rowed to shore. Without waiting to speak
to any one, he hurried up the road toward his cottage.
As he drew near the bend in the road, by the clump
of pines, he said to himself that if all were well at
home, there would surely be a light shining from that
window of Dora’s chamber looking out on the sea.
<span class='pageno' title='281' id='Page_281'></span>
But as he came in full view, he paused, and dared not
look up, while the thick, high beating of his heart
seemed almost to suffocate him. At last, chiding himself
for this womanish weakness, he raised his eyes—<span class='it'>and
all was dark</span>!</p>
<p class='pindent'>He hardly knew how after this he made his way up
the garden walk, to the cottage, nor how, when finding
it all closed, he still had strength to go on to his father’s
house, where he was received with many tears, by
his parents, his sisters, and his children. The deep
mourning dress of the whole sad group told of itself
the story of his desolation. For some time, he neither
spoke nor wept, but supported by his father, and
leaning his head on his mother’s breast, he swayed
back and forth, while his deep, constant groans shook
his strong frame, and burdened all the air about him.
Finally, in a scarce audible voice, he asked:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When did she go, mother?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Last Sunday, near midnight, my son.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank God, it was she, then! I saw her last!
She came to me—her blessed angel came to bid me
farewell. Oh, that divine love which could not die
with thee, Dora, Dora!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then with a light over his face which was almost a
smile, he turned to his poor children, gathered them to
his embrace, and wept with them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Preston, who, as we have said, had ever been
fragile and delicate, had at last died of a rapid decline.
She had been confined to her room but a few weeks,
and to her bed scarcely a day. She passed away with
great tranquillity of spirit, though suffering much physical
pain. Her children were with her at the last, and
her patience, serenity, and holy resignation seemed to
repress the passionate outbursts of their childish grief
till all was over.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was not until some time had passed that Captain
Preston felt himself able to open a large package
placed in his hands by his mother, and which Dora
had left for him—sealed up and directed with her own
hand, the very day before she died.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At length, seeking his own now desolate home, and
shutting himself up in that dear familiar chamber, with
the pleasant window looking out on the sea—there
where he had seen her last—where she had breathed
out her pure spirit—where her form had lain in
death—there he lifted his heart to God for strength,
kissed the seal and broke it. Before him lay a rich
mass of dark auburn hair—Dora’s beautiful hair! With
a low cry, half joy, half pain, he caught it, pressed it
to his lips and heart, and bedewed it with his abundant
tears. Suddenly he observed that those long, bright
tresses were wound about a letter—a letter addressed
to him in Dora’s own familiar hand. He sank into a
seat, unfolded the precious missive, and read—what
we will give in the chapter following.</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;'>“Earth on my soul is strong—too strong—</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Too precious is its chain,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>All woven of thy love, dear friend,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Yet vain—though mighty—vain!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“A little while between our hearts</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  The shadowy gulf must lie,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Yet have we for their communing</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Still, still eternity!”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Hemans.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:0.5em;'><span style='font-size:smaller'>THE LETTER.</span></p>
<p class='pindent'>“Frederic, my dearest—pride of my heart—love of
my youth—my husband! A sweet, yet most mournful
task is mine, to write to you words which you may
not read until my voice is hushed in the grave—till the
heart that prompts is cold and pulseless—till the hand
that traces is mouldering into dust. Yes, I am called
from you—from our children—and you are not near to
comfort me with your love in this dark season. But I
must not add to your sorrow by thus weakly indulging
my own. Though it may not be mine to feel
your tender hand wiping the death-dew from my
brow—though I may not pant out my soul on your
dear breast, nor feel your strong, unfailing love sustaining
me as I go—yet I shall not be all forsaken, nor
grope my way in utter darkness; but leaning on the
arm of our Redeemer, descend into ‘the valley of the
shadow of death.’</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And now, dearest, I would speak to you of our
children—our children, of whose real characters it has
happened that you know comparatively little. I would
tell you of my hopes and wishes concerning them—would
speak with all the mournful earnestness of a
dying mother, knowing that <span class='it'>you</span> can well understand
the mighty care at my heart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is Frederic, my ‘summer child,’ our bright-eyed,
open-browed boy, almost all we could desire in
a son. I resign him into your hands with much joy,
pride and hope. Even were my life to be spared, my
work in his education were now nearly done. I have
had much happiness in remarking his talent, his enthusiasm,
his fine physical organization, his vigorous
health, his gay, elastic spirits,—and far more in being
able to believe him perfectly honest and truthful in character.
Oh, my husband, can we not see in him the
germ of a noble life, the possible of a glorious destiny?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yet, Frederic has some faults, clear even to my
sight. I think him too ambitious of mere greatness,
of distinction as an <span class='it'>end</span>, rather than as the means
of attaining some higher good. Teach him, dear
husband, that such ambition is but a cold intellectual
selfishness, or a fever thirst of the soul; a blind and
headlong passion that miserably defeats itself in the
end. Teach him that the immortal spirit should here
seek honor and wealth only as means and aids in fulfilling
the purest and holiest, and, therefore, the highest
purposes of our being;—to do good—simple <span class='it'>good</span>—to
leave beneficent ‘foot-prints on the sands of time’—to
plant the heaven-flower, happiness, in some of life’s
desolate places—to speak true words, which shall be
hallowed in human hearts—strong words, which shall
be translated into action, in human lives. And oh!
teach him what I have ever earnestly sought to inspire—a
hearty devotion to the right—a fervent love
of liberty—a humble reverence for humanity. Teach
him to yield his ready worship to God’s truth, <a id='where'></a>wherever
he may meet it—followed by the multitude strewing
palm-branches, or forsaken, denied and crucified.
Teach him to honor his own nature, by a brave and
upright life, and to stand for justice and freedom
against the world.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have seen with joy that Frederic has an utter
aversion to the society of fops, spendthrifts and skeptics.
<span class='pageno' title='282' id='Page_282'></span>
I believe that his moral principles are assured, his religious
faith clear. Yet I fear that he is sometimes too
impressible, too passive and yielding. His will needs
strengthening, not subduing. Teach him to be watchful
of his independence, to guard jealously his manliness.
I know that I need not charge you to infuse
into his mind a true patriotic spirit, free from cant and
bravado—to counsel him against poor party feuds and
narrow political prejudices. God grant that you may
live to see our son if not one of the world’s great men,
one whose pure life shall radiate good and happiness—whose
strong and symmetrical character shall be a
lesson of moral greatness, a type of true manhood.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Our daughter Pauline is a happy and healthful
girl, with a good, though by no means a great intellect.
She has a dangerous dower in her rare beauty, and I
pray you, dear Frederic, teach her not to glory in that
perishing gift. She is not, I fear, utterly free from
vanity, and she is sometimes arrogant and willful. I
have even seen her show a consciousness of her personal
advantages toward her less favored sister. You
will seek to check this imperiousness, to subdue this
will—but not with severity, for with all, Pauline is
warm-hearted and generous. You know that she is
tall for her age, and is fast putting away childish
things. It will not be long now before as a young
lady she will enter society. I surely need not charge
you to be ever near her—to watch well lest a poor
passion for dress and a love of admiration invade and
take possession of her mind, lowering her to the heartless
level of fashionable life; to teach her to despise
flatterers and fops—to shrink from the ostentatious,
the sensual, the profane, the scoffing and unbelieving.
I feel assured that you will imbue her spirit with
your own reverence for honest worth, and your own
noble enthusiasm for truth and the right—an enthusiasm
never lovelier than when it lights the eye and
glows on the lips of a lovely woman.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For my daughter Louise, our youngest, I have
most anxiety, for she seems to have inherited my own
physical delicacy, and has moreover an intense affectionateness
and a morbid sensibility, which together
are a misfortune. Dear husband, deal gently with this
poor little girl of mine, for to you I will confess that
at this hour she lies nearest my heart. Her whole
nature seems to overflow with love for all about her,
but the sweet waters are ever being embittered by the
feeling that she is not herself an object of pride,
scarcely of affection to us. She is very plain, you
know—yet, look at her, she is not ugly—her plainness
is that of languor and ill health. Poor Louise is seldom
well, though she never complains, except mutely,
through her pallor and weakness. She also inherits
from me an absorbing passion for reading and study,
and perhaps you will think it strange in me when I
call upon you—earnestly entreat you to thwart and
overcome this, if possible—not forcibly, nor suddenly,
but by substituting other pleasures and pursuits, thus
turning the current of her thoughts.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Though I do not remember to have ever been very
strong, yet I do not think that I had at the first any
disease in my constitution. Yet what was the course
pursued in my training? It was unfortunately discovered
that I was <span class='it'>a genius</span>, and so I was early put to
study—my young brain stimulated into unhealthy action,
the warm blood driven from my cheek and lip,
the childish light quenched in my eye, by a thoughtful
and sedentary life. I wasted long bright mornings
over books, when I should have been riding over the
hills, or frolicking with the waves—rambling through
the healthful pine-woods, or fishing from the rocks,
inhaling the invigorating ocean breezes. And sweet
evenings, instead of strolling abroad in the summer
moonlight, I sat within doors, alone, wrapt in deep,
vague reveries; and on winter nights, I read and
wrote, or pored over Euclid, or Virgil, in my close,
dull chamber, instead of joining the laughing, chatting
circle below, mingling in the dance and merry game.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yet, it was not alone my passion for study which
prevented me from taking that vigorous exercise, and
indulging in those out-door amusements so absolutely
necessary for both physical and mental health, but
ideas of propriety and feminine delicacy carefully inculcated
and wrought into my character. I have since
seen their folly, but too late. Habit and old associations
were too strong for the new principles.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, had my early training been different—had I
been suffered to remain a child, a simple, natural
child, through the appointed season of childhood—had
my girlhood been more free and careless—less proper,
and studious, and poetic, I might now have been in my
happiest season, the prime of a rich and useful life.
But as it is, now, when my husband is at last returning
home for his life-rest—when my son is soon to take
his first step into the world—when my daughters need
me most, at <span class='it'>thirty-five</span>, my course is already run!
Oh, Frederic, see that our little pale-faced Louise does
not pursue her mother’s mistaken course—does not
re-live her mother’s imperfect existence. Take her
out into the fields, on to the beach—teach her to ride,
to row, to clamber—to fear neither sunshine nor rain—let
fresh air in upon her life, get her young heart in
love with nature, and all will be well with the child, I
doubt not.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your own dear mother has promised to take home
our children when I am gone, and have charge of
them, with your consent, for some years to come.
The education of our daughters you should direct, for
you alone know my plans and wishes. As to their
marriage, that seems so far in the future that you will
scarcely expect me to speak on the subject. I can
only say, dearest, teach our children in the coming
years, never to be content with a union which promises
less of love, harmony and trust, than have made
the blessedness of ours.”</p>
<hr class='tbk126'/>
<p class='pindent'>“I wrote the foregoing, dear Frederic, more than
two weeks ago, and now, I must say farewell to you,
for my hours are indeed few. I think I may not see
another morning on earth. I have of late suffered
much about midnight, from extreme difficulty of
breathing, and something tells me that I shall not survive
another such season. But I am not dismayed—God
is yet with me in his sustaining Spirit, and I fear
no evil.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And now, my husband, before I go, let me thank
<span class='pageno' title='283' id='Page_283'></span>
and bless you for all your tenderness and patience
toward me, in the years gone by. And oh, let me
implore you not to sorrow too bitterly when I am
dead. We have been very happy in one another’s
love, and in our children—our children still left to you.
Can you not say ‘blessed be the name of the Lord?’</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I enclose with this my hair, just severed from my
head. I remember to have often heard you say that
you might never have loved me but for this happy
attraction—my one beauty. I desired my sister to cut
it for you, and she tried to do so, but the scissors fell
from her hand, and she went out, sobbing bitterly.
Then I looked around with a troubled expression, I
suppose, on our Frederic—he understood it, came at
once to my side, and calmly, though with some tears,
cut from the head of his dying mother this sad legacy
for his poor absent father. Is he not a noble boy?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will not say to you farewell <span class='it'>for ever</span>, for I know
your living faith in God, who will bring us home,
where there shall be ‘no more pain, nor sorrow, nor
crying.’ And, Frederic, if it be permitted, I will see
you once more, even here. To me it seems that my
love would find you, wherever you might be in the
wide universe of God, and that my freed spirit would
seek you first—over the deep, through night and tempest,
cleaving its way to your side. But as heaven
willeth, it shall be.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And now, farewell! best and dearest, farewell!
My beloved, my beloved! Oh, that I could compress
into human words the divine measure of the love
which glows and yearns in my heart, at this hour.
That love the frost of death cannot chill, the night of
the grave cannot quench. It is bound up with the
immortal life of my soul—it shall live for thee in the
heavens, and be thy eternal possession there.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“May God comfort thee in thy loneliness, my love,
my husband. Again, again farewell!</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>“Again, again farewell!</p>
<p class='line0'>Now indeed the bitterness of death is past.</p>
<p class='line0'>And yet, once more, <span class='it'>farewell</span>!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;margin-top:0.5em;'><span class='sc'>Thy Dora.</span>”</p>
<hr class='tbk127'/>
<div><h1><a id='books'></a>REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS</h1></div>
<hr class='tbk128'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Anne Boleyn: A Tragedy. By George H. Boker, Author
of “Calaynos.” Philadelphia: A. Hart. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Boker was favorably known as a dramatic poet
previous to the publication of his present work, but
“Anne Boleyn” indicates a firm movement forward when
compared with “Calaynos.” It is more impassioned in
style, action and thought, more intense in conception,
more artistic in execution, with sentiments more richly
poetic, with characters more vigorously discriminated.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The subject of the drama is taken from one of the actual
tragedies of history, with which every schoolboy is familiar,
and it is therefore admirably adapted for dramatic
treatment. The names of the characters are familiar to
all, but here we have substantial persons attached to the
names, living out a portion of their lives before our eyes,
with almost every act and word symbolical of character.
Such a representation increases our knowledge of history,
by conducting us near to its heart and life, giving us the
concrete meaning of such terms as irresponsible power,
court intrigues, political unscrupulousness, and unbitted
passion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The plan of the drama is the exhibition of the various
intrigues of the courtier statesmen of Henry VIII. to
murder, under a legal form, his imperious but large-hearted
wife, and the final triumph of their villany over justice,
and of his lust over common humanity. In the most exacting
law of dramatic composition, that which demands
the mutual connection of the parts, and a relation of each
with the main idea of the piece, the author has, we think,
been very successful. There are no characters and scenes,
hardly any thoughts and sentiments, which could be
omitted without injury to the design, which do not contribute
to the general effect of tragedy. The style, also,
though it occasionally evinces some immaturity, is commonly
close to the matter, and takes its tone and coloring
from the characters. The diameters themselves are
strongly conceived and sustained. King Henry, Norfolk,
Richmond, Wyatt, Smeaton, Queen Anne, Jane Seymour
and Lady Boleyn, are especially felicitous. We could
give many specimens of the author’s dramatic powers
had we space for extracts, but we prefer to commend the
drama to the reader’s attention in its wholeness. There
are, however, scattered over the piece, morsels of beauty
and wisdom which spring naturally out of the events, and
yet have a universal application. Queen Anne, in repenting
of the harsh imperiousness of her judgments of
others, drops a remark which every modern reformer
should adopt as a preventive check on the fertility of his
tongue:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I have been arrogant to judge my kind</p>
<p class='line0'>By God’s own law, not seeing in myself</p>
<p class='line0'>A guilty judge condemning the less vile.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The scene in which the queen attempts to regain the
king’s affections, by sending his mind back to the period
of their early love, is very touching and beautiful; and
until that sly witch, Jane Seymour, appears, the reader
almost believes that the crowned disciple of lust is capable
of fidelity to a sentiment. We give a few passages:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>            O, Henry, you have changed</p>
<p class='line0'>From that true Henry who, in bygone days,</p>
<p class='line0'>Rode, with the hurry of a northern gale,</p>
<p class='line0'>Towards Hever’s heights, and ere the park was gained,</p>
<p class='line0'>Made the glad air a messenger of love,</p>
<p class='line0'>By many a blast upon your hunting-horn.</p>
<p class='line0'>Have you forgotten that old oaken room,</p>
<p class='line0'>Fearful with portraits of my buried race,</p>
<p class='line0'>Where I received you panting from your horse;</p>
<p class='line0'>As breathless, from my dumb excess of joy,</p>
<p class='line0'>As you with hasty travel? Do you think</p>
<p class='line0'>Of our sweet meetings ’neath the gloomy yews</p>
<p class='line0'>Of Sopewell nunnery, when the happy day</p>
<p class='line0'>That made me yours seemed lingering as it came,</p>
<p class='line0'>More slowly moving as it nearer drew?</p>
<p class='line0'>How you chid time, and vowed the hoary knave</p>
<p class='line0'>Might mark each second of his horologe</p>
<p class='line0'>With dying groans, from those you cherished most,</p>
<p class='line0'>So he would hasten?—</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>          <span style='font-size:smaller'>KING HENRY.</span></p>
<p class='line0'>                      Anne, that was you.</p>
<p class='line0'>Have you forgotten my ear-stunning laugh</p>
<p class='line0'>At your quaint figure of time’s human clock,</p>
<p class='line0'>Whose every beat a soul’s flight registered?</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>          <span style='font-size:smaller'>QUEEN ANNE.</span></p>
<p class='line0'>God bless you, Henry! (<span class='it'>Embraces him.</span>)</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>          <span style='font-size:smaller'>KING HENRY.</span></p>
<p class='line0'><span class='pageno' title='284' id='Page_284'></span></p>
<p class='line0'>                     Pshaw! why touch so deep?</p>
<p class='line0'>These softening memories of our early love</p>
<p class='line0'>Come o’er me like my childhood.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>          <span style='font-size:smaller'>QUEEN ANNE.</span></p>
<p class='line0'>                          Love be praised,</p>
<p class='line0'>That with such reflections couples me!</p>
<p class='line0'>Be steadfast, Henry.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>          <span style='font-size:smaller'>KING HENRY.</span></p>
<p class='line0'>                     Fear not: love is poor</p>
<p class='line0'>That seals not compacts with the stamp of faith.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>          <span style='font-size:smaller'>QUEEN ANNE.</span></p>
<p class='line0'>My stay is trespass. We will meet anon.</p>
<p class='line0'>Love needs no counsel in his little realm.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>“Anne Boleyn” is not only a fine dramatic poem, considered
in respect to character and situations, but it is as
interesting as a novel, and continually excites those emotions
which exact attention, even in the least cultivated
reader. Taken in connection with the author’s previous
work, it evinces not only genius, but a genius which
grows. The <a id='per'></a>perusal of it has strongly impressed us
with the feeling that the country, in him, has a new poet,
and one whose present productions are even richer in
promise than performance. We cordially wish him an
appreciating public, and trust that he will not lack stimulants
to renewed exertion.</p>
<hr class='tbk129'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Saint Leger, or the Threads of Life. Second Edition. New
York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>“Saint Leger” has been considered by some critics to
be of German origin; it has been thought to bear a striking
family likeness to a class of books of which “Wilhelm
Meister” is the type and paragon. This erroneous opinion
must have arisen either from an imperfect acquaintance
with German literature, or from not giving to “Saint
Leger” that careful analysis which it certainly deserves.
The class of German novels, to which “Saint Leger” has
been compared, cannot, strictly speaking, be said to possess
any plot. There is no regular sequence of events—no relation
of parts to a whole—no dramatic bearing of character
upon character, to produce an ultimate result—no
apparent effort to close the story at the very start, which
an influx of conflicting circumstances alone prevents, and
toward which it ever struggles, overcoming obstacles and
softening down discordances, until the end is gained by
an unforced blending into one harmonious mass of all the
opposing elements of the plot. But these very qualities,
for which we look in vain through “Wilhelm Meister”
and its fellows, “Saint Leger” possesses to a degree beyond
any work of a semblable character with which we
are acquainted; and from the crowning result of its plot
arises what has been called, from the days of Æsop to
those of Walter Scott, the moral of the story. Without
such a moral, expressed or implied, any fable, however
well told in detail, is a crude, lifeless mass, wanting
altogether that vital principle which alone can give fiction
endurance. It is to this fact that posterity will owe its
safety from the pernicious influences of the thousand well
written immoralities that crowd their betters from our
modern book-shelves, while the downfall of these literary
falsehoods must as surely make way for the continued
popularity of such books as “Saint Leger.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>That “Wilhelm Meister” and kindred works are entirely
without moral, we will not attempt to say; but that
they want the directness of purpose which everywhere
characterizes “Saint Leger,” and the consequent dependence
of action upon action, in order to work out a clear
and significant result, we may say, without fear of controvertion.
A lie, written or spoken, is always a bungling
thing. The straggling, touch-and-go manner of hinting
out a story—admitting the author not to be thoroughly depraved,
and willing, like the George Sand School, to
blazon his vices, and glory in his iniquities—seldom fails
to betray the false and shallow principles upon which it is
founded. Truth seeks the light; the author of “Saint
Leger” does not shun it. There is a zealousness of purpose,
and a lucidness of style and exposition upon every
page of his book, which at least proves our author’s conscience
to be in his work, and must forever free him from
the imputation of endeavoring to hide falsehood, either
under the covering of silence or of sophistry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The object of the author of “Saint Leger,” if we understand
him aright, is to trace the career of an individual
soul in search of a faith. The innumerable external trials,
temptations and dangers through which the hero passes,
forms one of the most interesting stories we have read for
many a day. To this moving narrative another, and
entirely original interest is superadded, by exhibiting to
us, not only the immediate effects of surrounding events
on the hero’s feelings and actions, but in tracing up their
consequences, first, to the changes in his character and
moral nature, and last, to the ultimate results produced
on his religious faith. Our author appears to be a sturdy
opponent of all forms of intellectual faith. The hero is
accordingly taken through the whole round of modern
metaphysics; and issues from them weary and dispirited,
having learned only to doubt, not to believe. In the latter
pages of the book, the instructive lesson of the whole is
taught, viz., that faith is founded, not on the intellectual,
but on the moral nature; that all strivings after faith,
through the intellect, can but end in doubt and pain; that
the elements for the formation of a perfect faith lie around
us on every hand, as much within the reach of the illiterate
as of the learned, which</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;'>“——justifies the ways of God to man;”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>that faith is not to be encompassed in creeds, or laid down
in philosophies, but is the simple language of the heart
appealing to the will for support.</p>
<p class='pindent'>These are bold thoughts, boldly spoken. The sectarian
may base his faith upon other and far different grounds, or
may think the opinions of other men sufficient foundation
for his own belief; he cannot, however, arrive at a higher
or a purer state of hopefulness than that reached by “Saint
Leger” through his fiery martyrdom of thought and
feeling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We will not forestall the reader’s interest, by attempting
a sketch of our author’s plot. Let it be sufficient
to state that the story appears to be evolved of necessity
from the agency of the actors in it, the natural result
of their characters and the actions to which such characters
must lead; not a tissue of ingeniously contrived
plots and counterplots, into which a certain amount
of sham humanity has been thrust, to give the whole
a life-like air. This is a dramatic excellence, rare
since the Elizabethan era, which even the glorious
creations of Scott do not possess. Whoever has read
“Guy Mannering,” and afterward seen its miserable
dramatized counterfeit, will be able to appreciate our
meaning, and to understand how sadly the works of the
greatest modern novelist stand the dramatic test. After
witnessing such an experiment, there will be no difficulty
in recognizing the immeasurable distance between Shakspeare
and Scott.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Saint Leger’s adventures are not completed at the close
of the volume, and from the concluding words, we should
judge the author intended a continuation of his story. We
shall anxiously await the appearance of another volume;
meanwhile we heartily commend this to the studious attention
of our readers.</p>
<hr class='tbk130'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='285' id='Page_285'></span></p>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Lectures and Essays. By Henry Giles. Boston: Ticknor,
Reed & Fields. 2 vols. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Giles, as a lecturer, is celebrated all over the country,
and few public speakers equal him in the power of
thrilling a popular audience. The present volumes prove
that his influence as an orator has not been purchased at
the expense of purity of style or accuracy of thought, and
that as a writer he presents equally strong claims to consideration
and regard. The subjects of the work run into
various departments of thought and information, and they
all evince meditation and study. The lecture on Falstaff,
one of the best papers in the volume, exhibits the
author’s philosophical discrimination, as well as his forgetive
fancy and overflowing humor. The essays on
Crabbe and Ebenezer Elliott are two grand expositions of
individual genius, and at the same time indicate a knowledge
of the condition of England’s poorer classes, and an
intense sympathy with their character and sufferings,
which prompt many a passage of searching and pathetic
eloquence. The two lectures on Byron are hardly equaled
by any other criticisms of his genius, in respect to the
balance preserved between sympathy with his misfortunes
and indignation at his satanic levities and caprices. Goldsmith,
in another paper, is represented with a sunny
warmth, and sweetness of style, which carries his image
directly to the reader’s heart. Carlyle, Savage, Chatterton,
and Dermody, are the subjects of the remaining articles
on persons, and each is analyzed with much sympathetic
acuteness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The subjects of the other essays are The Spirit of Irish
History, Ireland and the Irish, True Manhood, Patriotism,
The Worth of Liberty, The Pulpit, Music, and Economies.
In these Mr. Giles’s genius is admirably displayed
in its peculiar sphere of action, that of great ideas and
universal sentiments. He is, in many important respects,
an excellent critic and expositor of men, but he is most
eloquent when he commits himself daringly to a sentiment,
ignores its practical limitations, and glows and
gladdens in the vision of its ideal possibilities and real
essence. Here he stirs the deeper fountains of the heart,
makes our minds kindle and our aspirations leap to his
words, and bears us willingly along on his own rushing
stream of feeling. Here all his powers of fancy, humor,
imagination, pathos and language, are thoroughly impassioned,
and act with a vital energy directly upon the will.
The communion with a mind so thoroughly alive cannot
be otherwise than inspiring; and to the younger portion
of readers, especially, who are finely sensitive to the
heroic in conduct, and the grand in sentiment, we would
commend these beautiful and quickening orations, glowing,
as they are, with the loftiest moral principles, and
leading, as they do, to Christian manliness of thought and
conduct.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In reading the present volumes, the image of the orator
instinctively starts up before the imagination, as he appears
in the desk, flooding the lecture-room with his tones,
and evoking tears or laughter from an audience whose
sympathies he has mastered. Every note in his glorious
voice, from its sweet, low, distinct undertone, to the high,
shrill, piercing scream of its impassioned utterance, rings
through the brain the moment the listener becomes a
reader. The volumes have a sure, appreciating and extensive
public, even if their circulation be confined to lecture
audiences; but they are certain of a wider influence.</p>
<hr class='tbk131'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Montaigne’s Essays.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>It is natural to inquire how often a book which has
pleased us much has been the object of admiration to those
who preceded us in our journey through life—a road on
which a book is a “friend which never changes.” We
could not help having this feeling, as we looked at a very
recent edition of Montaigne’s Essays, (Philad’a. J. W.
Moore, 1849,) and began to rummage up our recollections
and invoke the aid of our Lowndes and Quérard—supposing
that we might do a small service to the inquirer into
such matters, by showing him how often the public taste
of other countries had called for editions of our favorite
classic—for such he is, in French as well as English.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We give the editions in the order of dates, beginning
with the French—</p>
<p class='pindent'>Montaigne (<span class='it'>Mich.</span> de) Ses Essais, Livres, 1 & 2. <span class='it'>Bordeaux,
Millanges.</span> 1580, in 8vo. The <span class='it'>original</span> edition,
which is, however, incomplete.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The same work, with the addition of a <span class='it'>third</span> book, and
many additions (600) to the two first. <span class='it'>Paris, Langelier</span>,
1588, in 4to.</p>
<p class='pindent'>An edition at <span class='it'>Brussels, Foppens</span>, 1659, 3 vols. 12mo.
and one at <span class='it'>Paris</span>, the same year, in 3 vols. 12mo.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The French admit, that of the earlier editions, that of
Touson, which appeared in London in 1724, with the remarks
of P. Coste, in three volumes 4to., is the finest. A
supplement to it was published in 1740.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Editions appeared at Paris in 1725, (3 vols. 4to.) at the
Hague in 1727, (12mo.) in London in 1739, and 1745, reprints
of Coste’s edition. There were editions in Paris
in 1754, and in Lyons in 1781, and subsequent editions in
Paris in 1783, 1793, and 1801 and 1802—since which, editions
have followed, in that city, in rapid succession, and
more than twenty, with the “Notes of all the Commentators,”
are to be had for the asking.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The English translations are, first:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Essays of Michael, Lord of Montaigne, translated
by John Florio, London, 1603, folio.” Florio was the
Holofernes of Shakspeare. This edition, with a portrait
of Florio, by Hole, again appeared in 1613, and 1632.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Essays of Michael, Seigneur of Montaigne, made
English by Charles Cotton. London, 1680.” There are
editions in 1711, 1738, and 1743.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A new edition of this translation appeared in 1776, with
many corrections, which was reprinted in 1811, but by
whom the corrections were made does not appear. The
last edition, to which is added his “Letters and Journey
through Germany,” and which is an edition of his works
prepared by Mr. Hazlitt, from which the Philadelphia
edition has been printed.</p>
<hr class='tbk132'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Poems. By Frances Sargent Osgood. With Illustrations
by Huntington, Darley, Cushman, Osgood, etc. Philadelphia:
A. Hart. 1 vol. 8vo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This beautiful volume, the finest in point of pictorial
illustrations of a beautiful series, deserves a much more
extended notice than we are capable of giving it at present.
Mrs. Osgood occupies, among American poets, a
place peculiarly her own, where she is without a peer,
and almost without a rival. She is the most lyrical of
our poets, her nature being of that fluid character which
readily pours itself out in song, and quick and sensitive
to impressions almost to a fault. A hint from an object is
taken, and instantly her soul surrenders itself to the impression,
and sings it as if her whole life was concentrated
in the emotion of the moment. Her mind, being
thus so readily impassioned, glides easily into various
forms of character and peculiarities of situation, which
she has never actually experienced. Most of the songs in
the volume, though they burn and beat as if the writer’s
life-blood was circling through them, are essentially dramatic
lyrics—the position of the author being an imaginative
not a personal one.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='286' id='Page_286'></span>
A long article might be written on the purity, delicacy,
tenderness and strength of feeling which this book evinces,
and the exquisite melody and richness of the verse. The
signs of a sweet and passionate poetic nature, seeking the
ideal by a fine instinct, and finding in song the appropriate
expression of its inward harmony, are over the
whole volume; and we trust its bird-like music will win
for it a place in American homes by the side of the more
meditative works of Bryant and Longfellow.</p>
<hr class='tbk133'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Greenwood Leaves. A Collection of Stories and Letters. By
Grace Greenwood. Second Edition. Boston: Ticknor,
Reid & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This volume, eloquent in style and entertaining in matter,
beyond almost any similar work which has been
issued for years, was published but a month or two ago,
and has already reached a second edition. The materials
of which it is composed are essays and stories originally
contributed to different periodicals, and apparently dashed
off, without a thought of their being eventually collected
and made into a book. The impression which the whole
leaves upon the mind, notwithstanding the separate parts
were thus composed, is eminently an individual one, and
indicates that the authoress has sufficient force of being
and character to write in all varieties of mood without
parting with her personality, without assuming to be
what she is not. In short, she is a contradiction in fact
to the Mahometan doctrine, assented to by many Christians,
that women have no souls. The present volume
indicates a soul, and a broad and powerful one—a soul to
feel and to represent with equal intensity the heroic in
conduct and the tender in sentiment; a soul which penetrates
every faculty of her mind, whether it be understanding
or humor, with a vitality, and flashes out, in some passages,
in the very eloquence of disinterestedness and heroism.
The defect of her mind, at present, seems to be
its tendency to exaggeration—to transfer to objects the
emotions they excite in herself, and to make them stand
for qualities which they only rouse in enthusiastic natures
like her own. The volume is splendid in promise,
and with all its merit rather suggests than limits her capacity.
A mind so fresh, active, powerful and impassioned
as hers, cannot fail to reach the high excellence on which
her eye is evidently fixed.</p>
<hr class='tbk134'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The Annals of the Queens of Spain, By Anita George.
New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This work is introduced with the high endorsement of
Prescott, the historian, and is worthy even of his commendation.
The authoress is an accomplished Spanish
lady, who has long resided in the United States, and who
writes English with ease and dignity. The subject is entirely
new, and the materials gathered from sources of
which the general reader is profoundly ignorant. As a
work of industry and research, therefore, it is of considerable
importance to the student of history; but the authoress
has contrived to make it equally interesting to the
common reader, by the variety of novel circumstances she
has introduced, and her anecdotes of court life. The present
volume contains the Gothic queens, those of Oviedo
and Leon, of Arragon and of Castile, comprehending a
thousand years, from 415 to 1475. The early period to
which the volume is confined, though it makes each biography
short, makes each full of surprising matter. In
the hundred queens presented to us, there are all varieties
of feminine nature exhibited in connection with enough
remarkable and romantic events to form the plots of numerous
novels and dramas.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The work is elegantly printed, and will, we hope, find
a large class of readers. It should be continued in the
manner with which it has been commenced, and we can
hardly believe that annals, relating to a country so essentially
romantic as Spain, and written by one whose whole
soul is penetrated by her nation’s spirit, should not be received
with marked popular approbation.</p>
<hr class='tbk135'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The Miscellaneous Works of Oliver Goldsmith. Including
a variety of Pieces now first collected. By James Prior.
In Four Volumes. New York: Geo. P. Putnam, Vols.
1 and 2, 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Among the many good things which the accomplished
and enterprising publisher of this work has done for the
cause of classical English literature in the United States,
the present cheap and elegant edition of Goldsmith ranks
with the first. It is the only American edition which
contains the new matter which Prior has collected. The
first volume alone has a sufficiently large number of new
essays to make every lover of Goldsmith procure the edition.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Goldsmith is so universal a favorite, and the leading
characteristics of his genius are so impressed on the public
mind, that it would be useless here to speak of his
sly, searching and genial humor, his shrewd and accurate
observation, the generosity of his sympathies, the wealth
of his fancy, and the lucid simplicity and sweet fascination
of his style. Let the reader peruse the present edition
in connection with Irving’s charming biography of
Goldsmith, and we will guarantee that the works and life
of the subject will be a possession to his imagination forever.</p>
<hr class='tbk136'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The Poets and Poetry of America to the Middle of the Nineteenth
Century. By Rufus Wilmot Griswold. Tenth
Edition, Revised and Enlarged. Philadelphia: Carey
& Hart. 1 vol. 8vo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The popular estimate of this work is indicated by its
passing through nine large editions in seven years. The
present, which is the tenth edition, is almost a new book.
The editor has corrected faults of judgment and selection,
which necessarily occurred in the first edition, and had
availed himself of the benefit of the criticisms, friendly and
unfriendly, which it called forth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The poetical literature of the country has also grown
considerably during the last seven years, and Mr. Griswold
has therefore added many exquisite pieces of Emerson,
Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes, Lowell and Poe—excluded
some poems, and put better ones by the same authors in
their place—and introduced into the body of the book
liberal selections from the new poets, Palmer, Lunt, Hoyt,
Clarke, Parsons, Cooke, Fields, Wallace, Hirst, Mathews,
Taylor, Boker, Read, Legare and Butler, are among the
additions. The book, in its present form, gives a fair idea
of American verse in all its varieties of individuality and
style. It is still open to objections, and is doubtless capable
of further improvement; but we think that the
editor has more to fear from the anger of poets who suffer
from the austerity of his taste, than from that of readers
who sometimes suffer from its exceeding tolerance. As
a whole, the book is very attractive, and we wish it
another seven years of success, and a passage into edition
twentieth.</p>
<hr class='tbk137'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Poems. By John G. Saxe. Boston: Ticknor, Reed &
Fields. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This collection of metrical pieces, inspired by the muse
of frolic and fun, is sure of popularity. The writer’s
<span class='pageno' title='287' id='Page_287'></span>
favorites among the poets, seem to be Pope and Hood, the
bard of satire and the bard of puns; and his own poems
are full of good specimens both of keen hits and felicitous
word-twisting. The two satires, “Progress,” and “The
Times,” show a vivid perception of the ludicrous in conduct
and life, and “The Proud Miss Bride” puts words on
the rack to good purpose. The author’s love of wit and
humor amounts to poetical inspiration, and the volume
contains much of the poetry as well as the versification of
mirth. Mr. Saxe has not a bit of gall in his disposition,
and his severity is as genial as it is gingerly. Buoyant
spirits dance through his satire, and there is nothing
waspish even in its sting. Nobody can read the book
without envying the writer’s happy disposition, or without
having some of it communicated to himself.</p>
<hr class='tbk138'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Philo: an Evangeliad. By the Author of “Margaret.”
Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The author of this curious dramatic poem is Mr. Judd,
a clergyman of Augusta, in Maine. Like Lord Timothy
Dexter’s book, it is “a pickle for the knowing ones.” In
the strangeness of its individuality rather than the originality
of its thoughts is its hold upon the attention.
The writer has poetry in him, but it is most capriciously
brought out in connection with all sorts of moral and
semi-moral commonplaces and freaks of religious whim.
All the proprieties of poetry are violated, not from an inward
law of dissent, but from an opinionated dislike of
established methods. The author has genius, but not
sufficient genius to produce a harmonious poem out of his
materials. Still there are few poems, lately published,
which can be read with less fatigue, for the audacities and
oddities on every page are perpetual stimulants to the
mind. In passages, too, the volume is finely and powerfully
poetical; and in a certain juxtaposition of refined
spirituality with the solidest practical vision, the book is
a prophecy of the author’s future excellence.</p>
<hr class='tbk139'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The Neighbors. A Story of Every-Day Life. By Frederika
Bremer. Translated from the Swedish. By Mary Howitt.
New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This elegant volume is the first of a new issue of the
author’s works, edited by herself, with prefaces and notes.
The portrait and autograph of the author are given in this
volume, and the remarks with which she prefaces it have
the kindliness and good sense which are so characteristic of
her nature. “The Neighbors” is one of the most charming
idealizations of actual life we have ever read, and nowhere
is domesticity so winningly represented. An author,
like Miss Bremer, who is now personally abstracting so
many hearts in this country cannot fail to have purchasers
for this edition of her writings.</p>
<hr class='tbk140'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Miscellanies. By J. T. Headley. Authorized edition. New
York: Baker and Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This volume contains seven interesting papers, originally
contributed by the author to periodicals. They are
all striking specimens of Mr. Headley’s peculiar powers
of narration and description—a little less flushed in style,
perhaps, than his Napoleon, but indicating the same
vigorous abandonment to the subject. The best article is
that on Alison’s History of Europe. The Biographies of
Alfieri, Cromwell and Luther, are executed in a style
which will stamp their leading traits indelibly on the
popular imagination. The article on Griswold’s Prose
Writers, which closes the volume, is unworthy of Mr.
Headley, and should have been omitted from the collection.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From the preface we learn that the present volume has
been issued to operate against an unauthorized edition of
the author’s magazine articles, published by some bookseller
in New York, on his own account. Every respectable
bookseller and every respectable book-buyer should
avoid the pirated edition, on the principle of common
decency and justice.</p>
<hr class='tbk141'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Historical Studies, By George Washington Greene, late
United States Consul at Rome. New York: George P.
Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Professor Greene is one of our ablest historical scholars,
especially in the department of Italian literature and
history, and the present work, embodying the thoughts
and observations of many years, is a valuable contribution
to thoughtful and elegant literature. The author combines
the narrator and the thinker in just proportions, and connects
with admirable tact, thoughts that quicken with
biographical details which interest the mind. The subjects
of the papers relating to Italy are Petrarch, Machiavelli,
Manzoni, Verrazzano, The Hopes of Italy, Historical
Romance in Italy, Reformation in Italy, Italian Literature
in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century, and Contributions
for the Pope. The article on Libraries is one of
the best ever written on that subject. Perhaps the most
generally agreeable paper in the volume is that on Charles
Edward. In this we have a flowing and animated biography,
replete with novel facts, and as interesting as a
romance. The author’s style, in all the papers, is sweet,
flexible, graceful and condensed, indicating high culture,
but a culture which has developed instead of deadening
all that is peculiar in his mind and heart.</p>
<hr class='tbk142'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The Early Conflicts of Christianity. By the Rev. Wm.
Ingraham Kip, D. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co.
1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This elegantly printed volume is published for the
benefit of those Christians who have no clear idea of the
difficulties to which the faith “was subjected in the earliest
stages of its existence, or the severity of the conflict
through which it was obliged to pass.” If it reaches all
of those to whom it is addressed, it will have more readers
than Macaulay’s history or Dickens’s novels, for the subject
is one on which the strangest ignorance prevails even
among pious and intelligent Christians. Dr. Kip divides
the obstacles to the eventual victory of Christianity into
five classes—Judaism, Grecian Philosophy, the Licentious
Spirit of the Age, Barbarism and the Pagan Mythology,
each of which is represented with much vigor and beauty
of style, distinctness of thought, and wealth of information.
It is a book which deserves to be in every family which
professes a regard for the Christian faith, as it meets a
universal want; and it will save the general reader a great
deal of labor and time, embodying as it does, in a lucid
and animated style, the results of a student’s researches in
the whole field of early ecclesiastical history.</p>
<hr class='tbk143'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>James Montjoy; or I’ve been Thinking. By A. S. Roe.
New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This is an interesting and well written story of American
life, the production of a shrewd intellect, and admirable
in its practicable application.</p>
<hr class='tbk144'/>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>To Subscribers.</span>—The proprietorship of Graham’s
Magazine having passed, by purchase, into other hands,
all letters and communications of whatever kind relating
to the business of this periodical, will hereafter be addressed
to <span class='sc'>Geo. R. Graham</span>, Editor.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;margin-top:0.5em;'>SAMUEL D. PATTERSON & CO.</p>
<hr class='tbk145'/>
<p class='pindent'><a id='follet'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i136.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0005' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:left;margin-left:3em;'><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'>Robes de</span> Camille, <span class='it'>Coiffures de</span> Normandin, <span class='it'>pass. Choiseul, 19</span>.</p>
<p class='line'><span class='it'>Mouchoir de</span> L. Chapron & Dubois, <span class='it'>r. de la Paix, 7</span>.</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='tbk146'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i137.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0006' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='288' id='Page_288'></span></p>
<h2 class='nobreak'><span style='font-size:larger'><a id='mount'></a><span class='bold'>MOUNT PROSPECT INSTITUTE, WEST BLOOMFIELD, N. J.</span></span></h2>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>This School</span> is located fifteen miles distant from New York City, and six from Newark, upon a commanding
eminence of 800 feet above the level of the ocean, from which a clear view is obtained of Yew York, Brooklyn, the
Bay, and the surrounding country. This location, for retirement, health, salubrity of atmosphere, and beauty of
mountain scenery, is not surpassed by any in the country. It is easy of access, having direct communication with
New York four times each day. The object of this Institution is to prepare Young Gentlemen for entering college, or
a business life, by a thorough and systematic course of instruction. The Principal does not desire a large school, but a
select number of Pupils, well disciplined, and willing to be guided in the path of virtue and usefulness. In order to
secure and retain desirable members of this school, no vicious or unprincipled boy is received, and no one retained in
the school whose influence is immoral, or in any way injurious to his associates. The Pupils enjoy the comforts of a
home in the family of the Principal, being invited to the parlor, where they associate with other members of the
family and those who frequently visit the Institution.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Government of the School is conducted on strictly religious principles, and the pupils are controlled by appeals
to their moral feelings, rather than by fear of punishment. The Bible is the standard of morals, and each Pupil is
required to study it daily; also, to attend Church with the Principal on the Sabbath. Being desirous to secure a
proper degree of correspondence in dress, and to prevent some of the evils arising from different styles of clothing in
the same family, a uniform dress has been adopted for the School. The year is divided into sessions of five months
each, commencing on the first of May and November. It is desired that the Pupils should not be absent during the
session, and that parents should visit them at the Institution.</p>
<hr class='tbk147'/>
<h2 class='nobreak'>TERMS.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>No Scholar will be received for less time than one quarter, and no deduction will be made for voluntary absence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Each article of Clothing must be marked with the owner’s name, and an inventory placed in each trunk of the
articles he brings to the School.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The charges for Board and Tuition in the English branches and Mathematics are from $40 to $45 per quarter; in
the Latin and Greek languages, $50. Extra for the French, German, or Spanish language, $5; Drawing and Painting,
each, $5; Music, with use of the Piano, $10.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Payments will be required quarterly in advance.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:5em;margin-top:0.5em;font-size:1.1em;'>WARREN HOLT,</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:1em;'><span class='sc'>Principal and Proprietor</span>.</p>
<hr class='tbk148'/>
<h2 class='nobreak'>REFERENCES.</h2>
<div class='lgl' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'>Rev. <span class='sc'>William Adams</span>, D. D., New York,</p>
<p class='line'> " <span class='sc'>Henry White</span>, D. D., "</p>
<p class='line'> " <span class='sc'>Milton Badger</span>, "</p>
<p class='line'> " <span class='sc'>John J Owen</span>, "</p>
<p class='line'> " <span class='sc'>Horace Eaton</span>, "</p>
<p class='line'><span class='sc'>Jonathan Leavitt</span>, Esq., "</p>
<p class='line'><span class='sc'>W. M. Wilson</span>, Esq., 23 Water Street,</p>
<p class='line'><span class='sc'>W. M. Brownson</span>, Esq., 56 Gold Street,</p>
<p class='line'><span class='sc'>Newton Hayes</span>, Esq., Franklin House, New York,</p>
<p class='line'>Rev. <span class='sc'>I. S. Spencer</span>, D. D., Brooklyn,</p>
<p class='line'>Dr. <span class='sc'>L. A. Smith</span>, Newark,</p>
<p class='line'><span class='sc'>S. R. Parkhurst</span>, Esq., 116 First Avenue, New York,</p>
<p class='line'><span class='sc'>E. R. Yale</span>, Esq., Brooklyn,</p>
<p class='line'><span class='sc'>Tunis Van Brunt</span>, Esq., Jamaica,</p>
<p class='line'><span class='sc'>A. Campbell</span>, Esq., Brooklyn,</p>
<p class='line'><span class='sc'>George Loder</span>, Esq., New York.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><img src='images/H.jpg' style='float:left;' alt='H'/>A box will be found at 73 Courtlandt Street, New York, marked with the name of the Institution; any packages
deposited in this box before one o’clock, P. M., will be safely carried to the School on the same day.</p>
<hr class='tbk149'/>
<h2 class='nobreak'>THE UNIFORM OF THE SCHOOL.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>The coat and pantaloons of very dark blue cloth; the coat single-breasted, to button to the throat, with ten gilt
buttons, two upon the collar, placed three inches back—the collar to turn over, with the corners round.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For Summer, the dress suit is the dark blue coat and white pantaloons. That for common use should be gray, made
of the material known as “youth’s mixt.” For very warm weather, brown linen or drilling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Suits are made by Messrs. <span class='sc'>Thorne & Jarvis</span>, 414 Broadway, New York, where the buttons, made expressly for
the School, may be obtained.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Caps, of a particular pattern, designed for the School, are made by <span class='sc'>Mr. Mealio</span>, 416 Broadway, New York.</p>
<p class='pindent'>N. B.—Those entering the School are not expected to discard their every-day clothing, but when worn out, to
renew it with the uniform of the School.</p>
<hr class='tbk150'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='289' id='Page_289'></span><h1><a id='shawl'></a>THE SHAWL DESIGNER SALAVILLE.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>(FROM THE FRENCH.)</p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i139.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0007' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Every</span> woman who visits the French exposition of domestic
manufactures, whether she be young or old, brunette
or blonde, stops involuntarily before the beautiful
shawls exhibited, the exquisite designs of which draw
from her a half suppressed sigh of loving desire; but in
passing away from them she only laments that her limited
means do not equal her longings for possession, without
giving a thought to the artist who has labored by day and
meditated by night to produce an article of dress worthy
of her charms. The designer of a beautiful fabric, however,
merits not only a thought, but deep sympathy, particular
interest. Banished between Apollo and Mercury
to a domain where the laurel does not flourish, he at once
cultivates the fine arts and commerce, the ideal and the
real. Up to a certain point he possesses the inspiration
of the improvisatore, the conception of the painter, and
the sentiment of the colorist. But if this industrial centaur
does not join to these qualities a little of the management
of the merchant, then comes a sad result, for probably
he will at last be brought to the door of a hospital,
broken down with useless labor, without one ray of glory
having touched his brow or warmed his heart. I could
cite a remarkable but sad instance of one possessing fine
talents, united to an excellent and lovely character, to
illustrate this mournful fancy, but I should only cause
melancholy thoughts, from which I should preserve my
reader. I will, on the contrary, recall a more fresh and
joyous reminiscence apropos to this pleasant season.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Among the designers who have distinguished themselves
this year, there is one whose name has been omitted;
which is to be regretted, for Louis Salaville has contributed
greatly to the creation of that new style of designs
of which the shawl manufacturers are now so proud. In
1829 we were apprenticed to a shawl-weaving establishment,
where, like machines, or a species of spider, we
were expected to weave from five in the morning until
nine at night. Showing but little aptitude for this part of
the business, we were placed with a designer to learn that
branch. At the school of design was a youth of fifteen or
sixteen; he was pale as a daisy, simple as a child, and
light as a butterfly; but with the grace of this flying insect
he possessed unfortunately also its wandering propensities.
He absented himself so frequently that the principals
of the establishments grew impatient. Sometimes,
after an absence of eight or ten days, he would enter just
as the clock was sounding the hour of dismissal. He was
vague and dreamy in his talk, would ask if it was April
when it was December, and commenced a thousand things
without ever finishing one. Notwithstanding he designed
figures and flowers with wonderful rapidity and cleverness,
we never dreamed of his being one day a rival.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He’s a fool!” we would exclaim, “he will never be
any thing.” Laugh not, dear reader, at our blindness;
even great men have been known to undervalue youthful
genius.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The crisis which followed the accession of Louis Philippe,
<span class='pageno' title='290' id='Page_290'></span>
did not overthrow the establishment, but it affected
the school, and Salaville was dismissed with those who
were not actually needed. Once in a while he would
come in to inquire after the prospect of work; and when
we would ironically congratulate him on his love for
study, without reply he would throw off, with two or
three strokes of the crayon, ludicrous sketchy caricatures.
We accused him to ourselves of idleness, and thought him
good for nothing, because he did not spend his days as we
did daubing crooked palms, which we modestly called
compositions, simpletons that we were. Without any
apparent labor, as it were from the instinct that draws the
bee to the rose, or the plant to the sun, he would sketch
with boyish glee bits of exquisite designs—in one place a
smoky hut, over whose broken, ruined roof the ivy gracefully
twined; in another a noisy mill, surrounded with
the sweeping foliage of the willow’s weaving branches;
here and there clusters of drooping, bell-shaped flowers
and wild jonquils twining together in luxuriant confusion;
then in another corner of the paper a group of laughing,
half-naked children, playing with one of those huge, long-eared
dogs that the amiable Winterhalter calls the “First
Friend!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>To facilitate universal harmony, to inspire us with a
desire to aid and love each other, the Creator divides his
gifts: upon one is bestowed strength, upon another intelligence;
to Salaville has been given the imagination of a
poet and the susceptibility of a woman. Several years
passed in an idle, wandering way, feeling acutely, and
sketching instinctively the beauties of nature, would, as
one can readily imagine, produce a remarkable effect on
such an organization as Salaville possesses. He did not
seek to acquire knowledge, as Montaigne would have said,
it came and incorporated itself with his soul. He led this
errant life until, when about twenty, wishing to marry, he
felt the necessity of applying himself more seriously to his
business, and under this influence his compositions shot
out fresh and brilliant from his brain, like the drooping
grass and blossoms bent with the spray of the falling cascade
raise themselves under the genial beams of the warm
sun.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The talents of an artist like Salaville are stifled in a
town whose manufacturers are distinguished rather for
the economy of their combinations than for the fineness of
their webs. In 1839, Salaville came to Paris. He did not
make this move for the purpose of bettering his condition,
for at Nîmes he had an honorable and advantageous position.
But he hoped by removing to the capital to be enabled
to execute the rich compositions his imagination
conceived.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Science does not make happiness, says the <span class='it'>Opera-Comique</span>,
nor talent secure always success; to obtain the
latter skill is often better than learning. Once at Paris,
Salaville obtained an undisputed reputation, it is true; but
he had not the requisite qualities, nor means to direct and
maintain an <span class='it'>atélier</span>; nor did he find sufficient zeal and intelligence
in his associates. Then the luxurious imagination
he possessed, and which made him so remarkable,
caused him to be restless and impatient under the lingering
details which hang around the commencement of every
undertaking. At last, in 1846, Salaville, stretched on a
sick bed, tortured with pain, found himself poorer and
more destitute than he was on the day of his arrival.
Happily at this moment a situation was offered, which
once more revived hope and trust in the breast of the
almost discouraged artist.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It may be that our readers think but little of square
shawls and long shawls; however, they may not be ignorant
of the fact that at the time of which I speak the manufacturers
coped with each other in copying the Indian
Cachemires for the designs of their shawls, which made a
ruinous competition, for to obtain any success required
great waste. Messrs. Boas, Brothers & Co., so distinguished
for their rapid success in business, saw the inutility
and folly of this, which is now admitted by every
one; but they had the tact to see that in order to create a
new style, it was necessary above all to procure an artist
of the first order; their lucky stars placed in their hands
Salaville, the one most capable of carrying out their plans.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For four years these intelligent men have progressed,
improving each other. The manufacturer, with tastes corrected
and refined by the artist, has in turn softened the
eccentricities and exaggerations of genius. That which
makes the shawls of this house so remarkable now, is that
their designs have an originality of conception, a freshness
and gracefulness never seen before. The cause is easily
explained. Salaville has abandoned the old styles, which
are exhausted. He does not imitate the Arabic, nor the
Indian, nor the style of the Restoration, nor the ornamental,
but he throws upon paper a profusion of poetic reminiscences,
fruits of his joyous wandering youth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One could scarcely believe the beauty of outline and design
at which the house of Messrs. Boas have arrived.
In order to give some idea of it, we have annexed to this
article a sketch of one of their shawls. We wish we
could at the same time give a description of the new and
ingenious process employed in this establishment, to enable
the designer to use the richest tints of the palette,
that he may have harmony of tone and beauty of color, as
well as gracefulness of design. But we have no right to
divulge the mysterious secrets of the manufactory; and,
moreover, we have said enough. However, in closing,
we will ask of our readers, if in these days, when Democracy
counts for something, does not Louis Salaville merit
a place in the Journal?</p>
<hr class='tbk151'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='291' id='Page_291'></span><h1><a id='blan'></a>BLANCHE AND LISETTE.</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;font-weight:bold;'>CHARLES JEFFERYS,</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;'>COMPOSED BY</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'>CHARLES W. GLOVER.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;'>Published by permission of Mr. E. L. Walker, No. 160 Chestnut Street.</p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i143.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0008' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><a id='music'></a><span style='font-size:smaller'>First verse:</span></p>
<p class='line0'>I would I were a gipsy girl to wander at my will,</p>
<p class='line0'>Or but a village serving maid, I might be happy still;</p>
<p class='line0'>Or any thing but what I am, if I could have my way,</p>
<p class='line0'>I’d rather toil as Shepherdess, or Dairy maid all day;</p>
<p class='line0'>Ah!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Second verse:</span></p>
<p class='line0'>You ask me why I look so pale, and wonder why I pine;</p>
<p class='line0'>You think I should be happy for you know that wealth is mine,</p>
<p class='line0'>But ah Lisette! a coronet may glisten o’er the brow</p>
<p class='line0'>Yet doubt and care be lurking there despite of pomp and show.</p>
<p class='line0'>I</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='292' id='Page_292'></span></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i144.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0009' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span style='font-size:smaller'>First verse continued:</span></p>
<p class='line0'>Lady Blanche forgive me, but you’d tell another tale</p>
<p class='line0'>If only for a little while your wishes might prevail;</p>
<p class='line0'>O learn to be contented, if the world be full of care,</p>
<p class='line0'>The Duchess and the Dairy maid, be sure has each her share</p>
<p class='line0'>The Duchess and the Dairy maid, be sure has each her share.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Second verse continued:</span></p>
<p class='line0'>see you merry as a lark, it is not so with me;</p>
<p class='line0'>But I might be as joyous too, if I were half as free:</p>
<p class='line0'>You wear your bridal garb to-day, you give both hand and heart,</p>
<p class='line0'>While I for riches wanted not, with liberty must part:</p>
<p class='line0'>While I for riches wanted not, with liberty must part.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<hr class='tbk152'/>
<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. For the music, the <a href='#music'>First verse</a>
and Second verse labels have been added for clarity. 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 231, uses the same similie: ==> uses the same <a href='#sim'>simile</a>:</p>
<p class='line'>page 250, Over the mantle-piece ==> Over the <a href='#mant'>mantel</a>-piece</p>
<p class='line'>page 270, an accomplished <span class='it'>ménagere</span>, ==> an accomplished <a href='#men'><span class='it'>ménagère</span></a>,</p>
<p class='line'>page 271, and eat lunch enough ==> and <a href='#ate'>ate</a> lunch enough</p>
<p class='line'>page 281, to God’s truth, where-ever ==> to God’s truth, <a href='#where'>wherever</a></p>
<p class='line'>page 284, grows. The perusual of it ==> grows. The <a href='#per'>perusal</a> of it</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'>[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 4, April 1850]</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57736 ***</div>
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