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diff --git a/old/60139-0.txt b/old/60139-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 2f3c0a9..0000000 --- a/old/60139-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11893 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, February -1852, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, February 1852 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - -Release Date: August 20, 2019 [EBook #60139] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 1852 *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net -from page images generously made available by Google Books - - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XL. February, 1852. No. 2. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - Philadelphia Navy-Yard - The Physiology of Dandyism - The Death of the Stag - “Graham” to Jeremy Short - A Life of Vicissitudes (continued) - Mozart’s Don Giovanni - Anna Temple - Nature and Art - The Lost Deed (continued) - Letty Rawdon - Père-la-Chaise - First Ambition - Charlotte Corday - Review of New Books - Graham’s Small-Talk - - Poetry and Music - - Granny and I - Sonnet. To Julia - Flowers and Life - A Filial Tribute - Madeline - Moorish Memories - Autumn Rain - To Mary on Earth - To Adhemar - Ernestina - Ode on Idleness - Rain and Sunlight in October - Fragment from an Unpublished Poem - Snow - Joy and Sorrow - Stanzas - The Spirit of Beauty - The Star of Destiny - Rail-Road Song - Love’s Messenger - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: J. Hayter, W.H. Mote - SWEET SIXTEEN. -Graham’s Magazine 1852] - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: =IFE AT THE SEA-SIDE.] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XL. PHILADELPHIA, FEBRUARY, 1852. No. 2. - - * * * * * - - - - - PHILADELPHIA NAVY-YARD. - - -[Illustration: Philadelphia Navy-Yard.] - -Our engraving presents a view of the Navy-Yard, taken from a point of -view below the city of Philadelphia. From this yard have come some of -the best sailing and steam-vessels that have ever been built for Uncle -Sam. The largest vessel that ever floated upon our waters, “The -Pennsylvania,” was built here. She is useless, and is most scandalously -given over—we believe, as a sort of “receiving ship,” and is rotting -ingloriously. She should have been sent to the “World’s Fair” by -Congress, filled with American products, and the Arts of Peace. But -Congress was _busy_—talking about the “dissolution of the -Union”—_Pshaw!_—and had no time for _national_ business. - -We have no inclination to talk much about Navy-yards since we read the -following. We give you _the picture_, reader—but give us a cheaper -postage upon Newspapers and Books, and fewer Soldiers and Naval -Commanders. - -“Victor Hugo estimates the annual cost of maintaining the standing -armies of Europe at five hundred millions of dollars. This outlay would, -in a very few years, pay off every national debt of Europe. In a few -years more it would, if wisely expended, so equalize the population of -the globe, by a great system of emigration, that every man might have a -fair opportunity to earn a competence by his labor. Mr. Upham, in his -‘Manual of Peace,’ thus classifies the causes of the wars of Europe -since the age of Constantine the Great—that is, since the Christian -religion became the prevailing one: wars of ambition, forty-four; of -plunder, twenty-two; of retaliation, twenty-four; of honor, eight; of -disputed territory, six; of disputed titles to crowns, _forty-one_; of -alliances, thirty; of jealousy, twenty-three; of commerce, _five_; civil -wars, fifty-five; of religion, twenty-eight: total, two hundred and -eighty-six. The national debt of England, caused by wars alone, is equal -to about one-ninth of the whole property of the United Kingdom. The cost -of maintaining the war establishments of Europe and the United States is -fifty-four per cent. of the whole revenue of the nations. Of the revenue -of the Austrian government, thirty-three per cent. is expended in -maintaining the army and navy; France, thirty-eight per cent.; Russia, -forty-four per cent.; Great Britain, seventy-four per cent.; _the United -States, eighty per cent_.” Uncle Sam should take a fresh look at his -figures. - - * * * * * - - - - - GRANNY AND I. - - - BY ELIZA SPROAT. - - -[Illustration: an old woman sitting on a stool by a spinning wheel and -speaking to a lad eating an apple and sitting with a cat] - - Days agone, days agone! - When my life was all at dawn, - Ye are sweet to muse upon - ’Mid the world’s sad dinning. - I an aproned urchin trim, - And, within the cottage dim, - Crooning quaint an ancient hymn, - Granny at her spinning. - - Spinning at her cottage-door, - Where upon the sanded floor, - Through the leaves, the light ran o’er, - All the summer weather. - Granny’s cheek was old and lean; - Mine was round and hard, I ween; - Very quaint it must have been - To see them close together. - - Very old was granny’s hair, - Short and white, and none to spare; - Very old the lips so dear - That dropped my nightly blessing; - Very old the shrunken eyes, - Through her specs of goggle size, - Looking down their kind replies - On my rude caressing. - - I could spell my primer o’er; - Granny knew but little more— - Bible readings all her lore, - Spinning all her glory. - Yet—how was it? now and then, - Something past the thoughts of men - Opened heaven to my ken - Through her teachings hoary. - - Tones that age could ne’er destroy, - Struck her little wondering boy - With a majesty of joy; - And at times has striven - Something grand within her eyes, - As from out the cloud-heaped skies - Some strong angel vainly tries - To call to us from heaven. - - Days agone! days agone! - When the world was all at dawn, - And the heaven round it drawn, - Smiled so near above us; - Then the sun shone real gold, - Then the flowers true stories told, - Then the stars were angels bold - Reaching down to love us. - - Then a marvel, now a flower, - Seen in any common bower, - Fed with common earth and shower, - Common sunlight under. - Then an angel, now a star, - Small and bleak and very far; - Nothing left for folly’s mar, - Naught for happy wonder. - - I have learned to smile at youth; - I have learned to question truth; - I can hear my brother’s truth - With a sage misgiving. - I have grown too wise to see - False delights in things that be; - Far too wise for childhood’s glee— - Nay—is learning living? - - Days agone, days agone! - Bitter-sweet to muse upon, - Counting up the lost and won - In the coals at even. - Never more—never more! - Comes the witless bliss of yore; - Baby faith and baby lore— - God! is knowledge heaven? - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNET. TO JULIA, - - - ON HER OWN EYES, AND HER SISTER LESBIA’S. - - - BY G. McC. M. - - - Night’s star-gemmed coronal is not more bright - Than are those flashing, joy-lit eyes of thine; - Me thinks I should not need the day-orb’s light, - When on my path such lovely planets shine. - Like veins of gold that sparkle in the mine, - Their glittering radiance dazzles the beholder; - And yet to me thy brilliant eyes seem colder - Than Arctic ice or snows. Far more benign - And beauteous are the windows of her soul - Whom I have loved—the long desired goal - Of my most cherished hopes. The paly moon - Sheds not a softer light on copse and stream - Than on my heart her lucid orbs. The moon - Of Summer is not warmer than her blue eye’s beam. - - * * * * * - - - - - FLOWERS AND LIFE. - - - BY MARY HOWITT. - - -[Illustration: figure of a man and woman standing on a pedestle and -framed by flowers] - - The autumn sun is shining, - Gray mists are on the hill; - A russet tint is on the leaves, - But flowers are blowing still! - - Still bright, in wood and meadow; - On moorlands dry and brown; - By little streams; by rivers broad; - On every breezy down. - - The little flowers are smiling, - With chilly dew-drops wet, - Are saying with a spirit-voice— - “We have not vanished yet! - - “No, though the spring be over; - Though summer’s strength be gone; - Though autumn’s wealth be garnered, - And winter cometh on; - - “Still we have not departed. - We linger to the last. - And even on early winter’s brow - A cheerful ray will cast!” - - Go forth, then, youths and maidens, - Be joyful whilst ye may; - Go forth, then, child and mother, - And toiling men grown gray. - - Go forth, though ye be humble, - And wan with toil and care; - There are no fields so barren - But some sweet flower is there! - - Flowers spring up by the highway - Which busy feet have trod; - They rise up in the dreariest wood; - They gem the dullest sod. - - They need no learned gardeners - To nurture them with care; - They only need the dews of earth, - The sunshine and the air. - - And for earth’s lowly children; - For loving hearts and good, - They spring up all around us, - They will not be subdued. - - Thank God! when forth from Eden - The weeping pair was driven, - That unto earth, though cursed with thorns, - The little flowers were given! - - That Eve, when looking downward, - To face her God afraid, - Beheld the scented violet, - The primrose in the shade! - - Thank God, that with the thistle - That sprang up in his toil, - The weary worker, Adam, - Saw roses gem the soil! - - And still for anxious workers; - For hearts with anguish full, - Life, even on its dreariest paths, - Has flowers for them to cull! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE PHYSIOLOGY OF DANDYISM. - - - BY THOMPSON WESTCOTT. - - -[Illustration: as gentleman dressed in tophat and coat with other men -and boys looking at him] - -Like auriferous deposits in common quartz, the readers of Graham, the -precious ore amidst duller literary encompassment, brighten the -continent from Canada even to California. A few rich veins are to be -found in large cities, but the valuable aggregate is scattered through -the more rural portion of the country, where the free air whistles by, -uncontaminated by the smoke of thousands of chimneys, and where night -reigns in sable supremacy, and is not turned into decrepit day by -blazing gas and brilliant illuminations. The great mass of Grahamites -are, therefore, but slightly versed in the etiquette of towns, and know -little of city follies and city pride. - -In farm-houses midst pleasant valleys, in log-cabins which dot clearings -midst western prairies, even in the unsubstantial tents of seekers in El -Dorado, they turn to its pages for amusement, moral cultivation and -instruction. These demands have been often attended to, though perhaps a -trifle too gravely. The time has at length come, when the growing public -taste bids us prepare to have a little fun. Human folly is the best and -most natural subject for human ridicule. To laugh with the manes of the -Jolly old Grecian philosopher, is more agreeable than to snivel with the -lugubrious ghost of his weeping rival. We therefore must needs have a -hearty guffaw together, and as the most appropriate subject for mirth, -suppose we select that incarnation of vapid creation, but that idol of -self-esteem—a City Dandy. - -The assertion made by the ancient sage Socrates, that “a dandy is like a -jackass, because he wears his Sunday-coat every day,” would scarcely fit -a modern exquisite, whose diurnal attire varies with each revolution of -the sun. The apothegm of Plato, that “a monkey owes his distinction to -his tail and a fop to his tailor,” is not thoroughly apt, because the -human ape owes something (generally a considerable sum) to his hatter -and boot-maker. The well-known assertion of Virgil, “_in squirtibus -nihil sed aquæ lactissimus_”—in squirts you will find nothing but milk -and water—has about it the usual license taken by poets, inasmuch as if -we examine _our_ squirts, they will be pronounced empty. Bacon’s -celebrated maxim in his Novum Organum, that “what are considered petty -matters are often of importance, but there is no importance in a _petit -maître_,” will probably be acquiesced in by common people, though those -implicated by the serious pun may think it uncommonly impudent. Newton’s -position taken in the _Principia_, that “in apples and men there is much -specific gravity, but mushrooms and dandies are of trifling lightness,” -may be disputed by the latter, who with some show might liken their -weight to that of “some pumpkins.” Euclid’s celebrated rule, “a plane -superficies is every where flat, _e.g._ a dandy who is plainly -superficial is a flat every where,” has long been a fixture in -geometrical lore, which may be doubted, though dangerous to dissent -from. We, therefore, seek in vain in the lessons of ancient science and -wisdom for competent authority to settle the question—“What is a -dandy?” _Hamlet_, who being the “glass of fashion and the mould of -form,” was of course a fop, did on one occasion confess that himself and -some other leaders of the ton at that time, yclept _Horatio_ and -_Marcellus_, were “fools of nature,” and horribly shook their -dispositions “with thoughts beyond the reaches of their souls.” His -candid admission that exquisites are natural fools—“rather weak in the -upper story,” and unable to stand the overpowering weight of grave -thought—has long been admired as a fine picture of the mental condition -of the dandies when something was “rotten in the state of Denmark.” But -even this idea of the immortal bard will scarcely assimilate to a proper -notion of our modern bucks, because the foppery natural to a Hamlet -would not be similar to that of a large City. - -[Illustration: Ladies and gents looking at two dandies] - -We therefore rummage the books with little success in search for -authorities upon this subject. We are constrained to a belief that -Linnæus has not classified the _genera_ or Buffon discriminated the -species. If exquisites, by reason of their sappiness, are vegetable, the -Swedish naturalist has passed over the variety—if they are animals, the -Frenchman has not given them a proper place among the _mammalia_. The -history, habits and peculiarities of these mandrakes, these “forked -radishes,” these nondescripts, who afflict the south side of Chestnut -street, Philadelphia, or the west side of Broadway, New York, has not -yet been written, but the subject has latterly assumed an importance -which can be no longer disregarded. If the comic dissector, with scalpel -in hand, were to desire the fop for a subject, he would have to wait -until he was defunct, but the dandy never dies; he is a living example -of the verity of the adage, true whenever made—“the fools are not all -dead yet”—and it is therefore impossible to imagine the time when there -will not be a dandy. We cannot consequently dissect. We may apply the -stethoscope to the chest of the exquisite; we may feel his weak pulse, -or examine his silly tongue. So may we make our diagnosis, and though we -cannot “minister to a mind diseased,” we may, at least, “hold the mirror -up to nature,” for the benefit of all gazers. Therefore, in pursuance of -the task, come we to our first great inquiry: - - - HOW ARE DANDIES MADE? - -This is a grave question, for fops are like veal pies—in the opinion of -the waggish Weller—the crust may be rather respectable, but the making -up of the interior is “werry duberous.” Exquisites at this present -writing, are a conglomeration of lanky legs, hairy heads and creamy -countenances. Such are their natural peculiarities. But it is evident -that in considering this subject, the great topic of inquiry is, What is -a dandy sartorially? Here description will proclaim him to be a being -stuck into tight trowsers, ditto coat and vest, ditto boots, not so much -ditto overcoat, and crowned with a cylindrical structure of felt, which -is called a hat. Mentally the subject of dandyism offers little field -for remark, because the weakness which distinguishes the unfortunate -class of our fellow citizens now under consideration, is caused by -natural imbecility and want of common sense. - -It is a topic of inquiry worthy of the most acute philosophical research -whether buckishness is a natural or acquired folly. Some who have argued -upon the matter have taken the ground, that all such vanities are the -consequence of the great fall, and that as the expulsion from Eden was -followed by the assumption of apparel, good Mother Eve was tempted and -overcome by the fascinations of dress. For support of this view of the -subject it may be urged, that with the fall came dress, with dress came -fashion, and with fashion came the Dandy. Others suggest that such an -argument as this, going back beyond the flood, is far-fetched, and they -profess to be able to assign a much better cause for dandyism. According -to these philosophers every fop has “a soft place in his head,” which -has been very beautifully described by the poet as - - “The greenest spot - In Memory’s waste.” - -They affirm that this weak portion of a skull otherwise thick, is the -chosen place of the “organ of dandyism,” and controls the habits of its -possessors. If this were so, we might pardon a failing which cannot be -remedied, but, with Combe in our hands, we in vain run over the head to -find this organ, which is certainly not a hand-organ. None of the -phrenological authorities—it is a striking fact—give the locality of -this bump. - -No; “the milk of human kindness” which was “poured into Gall,” forbade -him from making known the situation of the protuberance, and Fowler -unfairly dodges the question. - -Nothing is to be made out of this inquiry, and after considering the -matter with great gravity, we are driven to the conclusion that Dandyism -is like a bad cold, caught nobody knows how, or when, or where, or why. -Some may be afflicted because they have the pores of vanity open—others -who sit in the draught of affectation, may suddenly be seized by a -fashionable influenza—going suddenly from the warm room of common sense -into the cold air of ostentation, may give the “_grippe_” to some—but -with many it is chronic, having been acquired in childhood when their -dear mammas tricked them out in fantastic velvets and fine caps, with -feathers, making them juvenile dandies among the little boys of their -neighborhood. - -But all this may be tiresome to the reader who desires to plunge at once -in the middle of the subject. We must really get on with this important -theme, and responding categorically to the inquiry, “how dandies are -made?” respond: by eight honest mechanics, to wit, the tailor, hatter, -boot-maker, linen-draper, haberdasher, glover, hosier and jeweler. Take -away the articles fabricated by these men, what is he but a helpless -mortal, a mere man and terribly unfashionable? We might once have added -to the list of dandy manufacturers the barber—but our modern exquisites -have so little to do with that artist that the claims of Figaro to the -distinction would be strongly controverted. - -An inspection of a buck in this month of February, anno domini eighteen -hundred and fifty-two, will convey to the mind of the spectator ideas of -a pair of very thin legs, surmounted by a very short specimen of an -overcoat, with monstrous buttons and wide sleeves—a cravat with a bow -about six inches wide and three inches broad, with fringes at the -ends—a standing shirt collar, running up to a very sharp -point—something like a face, covered with hair over what, in -Christians, are the chin, cheek and upper-lip—and a hat thereon. Simile -fails in ability to convey any adequate notion of this figure. Two -pipes, bowl downward and stems upward, might give an idea of the lower -extremity of the dandy. We will carry out the nicotian metaphor by -placing on the upper portions of the stems a paper of “Mrs. Miller’s -best”—the short-cut, oozing from the top of the torn paper, will do -very well for the hair on the face—a tobacco-box placed on the whole, -will give some idea of a figure, which, if greatly magnified, would in -the outline much resemble a modern fop. - -The clothing of an exquisite is a work of time and science. We can -imagine how much of the labor is done. But there are two subjects, in -the making of a fop, that have long been considered puzzles. One of -these questions is—how does he manage to tie those huge bows in his -cravat, which stand out just below his chin, giving him thereabout the -appearance of a cherubim, all head and wings? What a work of fixing must -there be before he gets the knot exactly right! What gazing into the -mirror—what pulling of ends—what twisting of folds—what tying and -untying! Every thing must be just so. There must be no wrinkles—all -must be smooth and “ship-shape,” or the dandy so remiss upon this -subject would be avoided forever by his associates. It has been asserted -that a smart exquisite is able to tie his cravat in half an hour, but -the general average of time is believed to be an hour and a half. There -is a melancholy instance on record, of a fop who once took three hours -to fix the bow of his cravat. The sad occurrence took place on what -should have been his wedding-day. He commenced the work at seven o’clock -in the morning and had “a nice knot” at ten. Unfortunately, the hour of -the wedding was fixed at nine. The anxious intended wailed impatiently -at the altar for her expected lord, for half an hour, and then -concluding that he meant to insult her, went away in a huff, so that the -unfortunate dandy, by being too particular as to tying a nice knot, lost -the opportunity of fastening a nicer knot, and worse still, a bride -“worth a hundred thousand.” - -This inquiry into the time occupied at the cravat, though very -interesting, must yield in importance to another, to wit:—How do -dandies get into their boots? - -In former years this puzzling topic could not have arisen. Loose -trowsers gave plenty of room to boots which were wide in the legs. There -was no difficulty in getting heels into them, and though there might -have been some screwing and stamping, it was certain that eventually the -articles would be drawn on the feet. Then, too, the tightness was only -in the foot part of the boot. It required considerable muscular exertion -to coax the five toes into the close prison designed for them, but by -pulling one moment, working the foot the next, and then screwing the -face into ugly contortions, considerable progress was usually effected. -The power of the human countenance over upper leather is one of those -extraordinary psychological facts which dabblers in animal magnetism -have failed in accounting for satisfactorily. Yet that it does exist, is -vouched for by all experience. Tight boots have always been susceptible -to this influence. History herself cannot point to an instance where a -new leathern foot-envelope was drawn on the walker with a countenance -“calm as a summer’s morning.” It is notorious that no boot of character -ever yielded until it saw, from the knitting of the eyebrows, the -puckering of lips, and the distortion of muscles, that the putter-on was -in absolute earnest. And how stubbornly the leather yields when it comes -under the influence—how it relaxes with stiff dissatisfaction, and at -last creeps over the part assigned, with an air of unwrinkled disgust. -The philosophy of this subject is strange, and should be investigated by -some modern Mesmer of sole and upper leather. - -But really this is a digression, which the importance of the correlative -subject has drawn us into. “Let us return to our—mutton.” (We might -have said our _veal_, were it not that the idea of dandies’ legs and -calves are incongruous and unnatural.) It is an inflexible rule in the -making up of an exquisite, that there shall be no calves to his legs. -The mere osteological peculiarities of that part of the frame are to be -preserved, and the epidermis must clasp the attenuated limb, without -embracing a superfluity of muscle similar to that which we see in the -lower limbs of the statues of Hercules. Hence it follows that the heel -of a true dandy is expected to protrude an inch at least beyond what, -under happier circumstances, would be the calf of his leg. There is -really no difference between the formation of the lower pedalities of a -pure dandy, and those of a pure Ethiopian. In this anatomical fact lies -the great difficulty in the way of modern “squirts.” The heel -unfortunately requires a greater opening at the top of the boot than can -be filled up by the upper part of the leg when the article is upon the -foot. This is a very distressing difficulty. The pantaloons are expected -to hug the leg as tightly as possible, so that the thinness of the -“trotters” may be revealed in all their natural beauty. But an obstacle -exists in the shape of an inch or two of superfluous leather at the top -of the boot, which will have a tendency to give the limb an appearance -of greater circumference than nature or fashion permits. This trouble is -really of disgusting importance. How do the dandies manage, then, to -produce those thin legs, the slightness of which is so strikingly -graceful? The world has long wondered over this subject, and it was not -until lately that a true philosopher revealed the mystery. He asserts -that after fops get into boots and unmentionables, they turn up the -latter until they get a fair purchase on the leather inconveniencies. -Then, with broad bandages they swathe their legs and the upper part of -their boots quite carefully, until the superfluous leather is bound -tightly down, and there is a comparatively smooth surface all the way -down the limb. After having got his trowsers pulled down, the fop is -ready for a promenade upon Chestnut street, or a conquest in a -drawing-room. In the former exercise he gets along as well as can be -expected, being very careful in his mincing steps lest an unlucky rip -should damage the integrity of his apparel. In the latter situation he -is often put to great inconvenience. When sitting down, the -unwhisperables are, by the disposition of his body, drawn a considerable -distance above the ankle. To get them down again is a matter which no -thorough dandy can accomplish. If he were to bend to do it, the -consequence would be disastrous. He therefore takes his leave of the -ladies with pantaloons half-way up to the knee, and, stopping in the -entry, exclaims—“Wait-ah! wait-ah! hea-ah, fell-ah, assist me! Come -hea-ah and pull down my pants! Really, ah, they-ah have risen until they -are quite uncomfortable.” - -Thus much for the present division of our task, from which we draw the -deduction that every exquisite has his troubles like plainer people. One -day he may be in agonies because his cravat is not decently tied. On -another he may be in torture because, notwithstanding all his efforts, -his legs seem thick. These and other ills are occasional misfortunes. It -is not considered by him that although these griefs come once in a -while, he is at all times in manners a puppy, and in mental strength -only a ninny. - - * * * * * - - - - - A FILIAL TRIBUTE. - - - BY CORNELIA B. BROWNE. - - - We thank thee, Father, for thy kindly teaching; - It makes our “desert blossom as the rose,” - When a fond parent, exile over-reaching, - His arm of counsel round as gently throws. - - Daily we’ll ponder, as a sacred pleasure, - These calm outpourings of a tender love: - Nightly our prayer shall be, this precious treasure - So to receive, as to be thine above. - - Thou heedest, then, that three swift lustres, wending - O’er Time’s winged course, have made me soberer now; - That maidenhood with infancy is blending, - To cast a shade of thought upon my brow? - - As the meek virgin merges in the woman, - Aid me to drink of waters more divine; - To purify the needful, earnest, human, - And lay soul-offerings on a holy shrine. - - Upon this day, that sealed her blissful union, - Our mother bids us offer thanks to thee: - Permitted foretaste of that high communion, - Where all earth’s exiles are supremely free. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: THE DEATH OF THE STAG.] - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DEATH OF THE STAG; - - - OR THE TALBOTS IN TEVIOTDALE. - - - BY FRANK FORESTER. - - - [SEE ENGRAVING.] - - The stag at eve had drunk his fill, - Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill, - And deep his midnight lair had made - In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade; - But when the sun his beacon red - Had kindled on Benvoirlich’s head, - The blood-hound’s deep resounding bay - Came swelling up the rocky way. - Lady of the Lake. - -“Tayho! Tayho!”[1] - -And straightway to the cry responded the long-drawn, mellow notes of the -huge French-horns which were in those days used by every yeoman pricker, -as the peculiar and time-honored instrument of the stag-hunt, the _mots_ -of which were as familiar to every hunter’s ear, as so many spoken words -of his vernacular. - -It was the gray dawn of a lovely summer morning in the latter part of -July, and although the moor-cocks were crowing sharp and shrill from -every rocky knoll or purple eminence of the wild moors, now waving far -and wide with the redolent luxuriance of their amethyst garniture, for -the heather was in its full flush of bloom, although the thrush and -black-bird were caroling in emulous joy, at the very top of their -voices, from every brake and thicket which feathered the wild banks of -the hill-burns, the sun had not lifted a portion of his disc above the -huge, round-topped fells which formed the horizon to the north and -westward of my scene. That scene was the slope of a long hill— - - “A gentle hill, - Green and of mild declivity—the last, - As ’twere the cape of a long ridge of such, - Save that there was no sea to lave its base - But a most living landscape and the wave - Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men - Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke - Arising from such rustic roofs.” - -The hills above and somewhat farther off to the southward and eastward, -are clothed and crowned with oak woods of magnificence and size so -unusual, and kept with such marked evidences of care and culture that no -one could doubt, even if it were not proved by the gray turrets of an -old baronial manor and the spire of a tall clock-house shooting up high -over the tops of the forest giants, that they were the appendages and -ornaments of some one of those ancient homes of England, which, full of -the elegancies and graces of the present, remind us so pleasantly of the -ruder, though not less homely, hospitalities of the past. - -The immediate summit of the slope I have mentioned is bare, yet -conspicuous for a single tree, the only one of its kind existing for -many miles in that district—a single white pine, tall enough for the -mast of some huge admiral, and as such visible, it is said, from points -in the four northern provinces of England, and the two southernmost of -Scotland—whence it is known far and wide, in many a border lay and -legend, as the one-tree hill on Reedswood.[2] Below the bare brow of -this inland promontory, for such indeed it is, which is covered with -beautiful, short, mossy grass, as firm and soft as the greensward of a -modern race-course, and used as one vast pasture of two hundred acres, -lies a vast tract of coppice, principally of oak and birch, but -interspersed with expanses of waving heather, where the soil is too -shallow to support a larger growth, and dotted here and there with bold, -gray crags which have cropped out above the surface, and amongst these, -few and far between, some glorious old, gnarled hawthorns, which may -well have furnished May-wreaths to the yellow-haired daughters of the -Saxon before the mailed-foot of the imperious Norman had dinted the -green turf of England. This coppice overspread the whole declivity and -base of the hill, until it melted into the broad, rich meadows, which, -with a few scattered woods of small size, and here and there a patch of -yellow wheat, or a fragrant bean-field, filled all the bottom of the -great strath or valley, down to the banks of a large stream, beyond -which the land rose steeply, first in rough moorland pastures, divided -by dry stone walls, then in round heathery swells, then in great, -broad-backed purple fells, and beyond all, faintly traceable in the blue -haze of distance, in the vast ridges of the Cheviots and the hills of -Tevydale. Along the base of the hill-side, parting it from the meadows, -ran a tall, oak park-paling, made of rudely split planks, not any where -less than five feet in height, through which access was given to the -valley by heavy gates of the same material, from two or three winding -wood-roads into the shadowy lanes of the lovely lower country. - -Such was the scene, o’er which there arose before the sun, startling the -hill echoes far and near, and silencing the grouse-cocks on the moors, -and the song-birds in the brake and thicket by their tumultuous din, the -shouts and fanfares that told the hunt was up. - -“Tayho! Tayho!” - -Tarà-tarà-tara-tantara-râ-taratantara-tantara-rà-rà-râh. Which being -interpreted into verbal dog-talk is conceived to say—“Gone-away! -gone-away! gone-away! away! away! away!” and is immediately understood -as such not by the well-mounted sportsmen only, but by what Scott calls, -himself no unskilled woodsman, “the dauntless trackers of the deer,” who -rush full-mouthed to the cheery clangor, filling all earth and ether -with the musical discords of their sweet chidings. - -The spot whence the first loud, manly shout “Tayho” resounded, was -almost within the shadow of the one tree, where, as from a station -commanding the whole view of the covert, which a powerful pack of the -famous Talbot blood-hounds, numbering not less than forty couple, were -in the act of drawing, a gay group was collected, gallantly appareled, -gallantly mounted, and all intent, like the noble steeds they bestrode, -eyes, ears and souls erect on the gallant sport of the day. - -Those were the days of broad-leaved hats and floating plumes, of velvet -justaucorps, rich on the seams with embroideries of gold and silver, of -the martial jack-boot and the knightly spur on the heel, and the -knightly sword on the thigh, and thus were our bold foresters accoutred -for such a chase as is never heard tell of in these times of racing -hounds and flying thoroughbreds, when the life of a fox is counted by -the minutes he can live with a breast-high scent before the flyers, and -the value of a hunter by the seconds he can go in the first flight with -a dozen horseman’s stone upon its back. - -Things then were otherwise, the fox was unkenneled, or the stag -unharbored at daybreak, and killed if the scent lay well, sooner or -later, before sunset—runs were reckoned by hours, hounds picked for -their staunchness not their fleetness, horses bought not for their speed -but for their stoutness, and the longest, steadiest last rider, not the -most daring or the foremost won the palm of the chase, were it brush or -antler, when the game fox was run into, or the gallant stag turned to -bay. - -The gentlemen, who were gathered on the broad, bare brow of the one-tree -hill, were in all, twelve or thirteen in number, all at first sight men -of gentle blood and generous education, although as there ever is, ever -must be in every company, whether of men or of inferior animals, there -was one to whom every eye, even of the unknown stranger or the ignorant -peasant, would have naturally turned as evidently and undoubtedly the -superior of the party, both in birth and breeding; he mingled -nevertheless with the rest on the most perfect terms not of equality -only, but of intimate familiar intercourse and friendship. No terms of -ceremonial, no titles of rank or territorial influence, but simple -Christian names passed between those gay and joyous youths; nor was -there any thing in the habit of the wearers, or the mounting of the -riders, to indicate the slightest difference in their positions of -social well-being and well-doing. One youth, however, who answered to -the name of Gerald, and sometimes to the patrimonial Howard, was so far -the handsomer both in form and feature, the statelier in stature, the -gracefuller in gesture, the manlier in bearing, the firmer and easier of -seat and hand on his hunter, that any one would have been prompt to say -almost at a glance, there is the man of all this gentle and generous -group, whom, if war wakes its clangor in the land, if external perils -threaten its coasts, or internal troubles shake its state, foreign war -or domestic strife will alike find the foremost, whether in his seat -with the senate, or in his saddle on the field, wielding with equal -force and skill the stateman’s, scholar’s, soldier’s eye, tongue, -sword—all honored him, indeed, and he deserved that all should honor -him. - -I have omitted, not forgotten or neglected, to mention as first and -fairest of that fair company, a bevy of half a dozen fair and graceful -girls—not like the gentlemen, all of one caste, but as was evident, not -so much from the difference of their grace and beauty—though in these -also there was a difference—as from the relative difference of position -which they maintained, four remaining somewhat in the rear of the other -two, and not mingling unless first addressed in the conversation, and -from some distinction in the costliness and material of their attire. - -A mounted chamberlain, with four or five grooms, who stood still farther -aloof, in the rear of the ladies in waiting, and two or three glittering -pages standing a-foot among the latter, in full tide of gallantry and -flirtation, their coursers held by the grooms in attendance, made up the -party. From which must always be excepted the huntsman, the verdurer, -and eight or ten yeomen prickers, in laced green jerkins, with round -velvet caps, like those worn by the whippers-in of the present day, and -huge French-horns over their left shoulders, who were seen from time to -time appearing, disappearing, and reappearing in the glades and dingles -of the hill-side covert, and heard now rating the untimely and -fallacious challenge of some wayward and willful puppy, now cheering the -earnest and trusty whimper of some redoubted veteran of the pack, as he -half-opened on a scent of yester-even. - -The hounds had been in the coppice above an hour, and two-thirds of its -length had already been drawn blank—the gentlemen were beginning to -exchange anxious and wistful glances, and two or three had already -consulted more than once or twice their ponderous, old-fashioned -repeaters—and now the elder, shorter and fairer of the two damsels, -giving the whip lightly to her chestnut palfry, cantered up to the side -of Gerald Howard, followed by her companion, whose dark redundance of -half-disheveled nut-brown tresses fell down from beneath a velvet cap, -with a long drooping plume, on each side of a face of the most exquisite -oval, with a high brow, long, jet-black eyelashes, showing in cold -relief against her pure, colorless cheeks, for her eyes were downcast, -and an expression of the highest intellect, which is ever found in woman -mingled with all a woman’s tenderness and softness. She was something -above the middle height, with a figure of rare slenderness and symmetry, -exquisitely rounded, and sat her horse at once most femininely and most -firmly, without the least indication of manliness in her seat or -demeanor, yet with a certain of-at-homeness in her position and posture, -that showed she could ride as well, perhaps as boldly, as the best man -among them. - -“Ah! Gerald, Gerald,” said the elder girl, laughingly, as she tapped him -on the arm with the silver-butt of her riding-whip, “is this your faith -to fair ladies, and especially to this fairest Kate, that you deluded us -from our soft beds at this untimely hour, with promise to unharbor us a -stag of ten within so many minutes, all for the pleasure of our eyes, -and the delectation of our hearts, and here have we been sitting on this -lone hill-side two hours and upward, to the great craving of our -appetites and the faintness of our hearts, yearning—as the queen’s good -Puritans would have it—after creature comforts—out on you! out on you, -for a false knight, as I believe not, for my part, that there is one -horn or hoof from the east to the west on the hill-side—no, not from -the ‘throstle’s nest’ to the ‘thorny brae.’” - -“Ah! sister mine, art so incredulous—but I will wager you or ere the -Talbots reach that great gray stone, with the birch boughs waving over -it like the plumes, as our bright Kate would say, of a dead warrior’s -helmet over his cold brow, we _will_ have a stag a-foot—ay, and a stag -of ten.” And instantly raising his voice to a quicker and clearer -note—“See now!” he cried, “see now!” as a superb, dark-colored animal, -not lower than a yearling colt at the forehand, leaped with a bound as -agile as if he was aided by wings, on the cope-stone of the dry stone -wall which bounded the hither side of the hill coppice, with vast, -branching antlers tossed as if in defiance, and a swan-like neck swollen -with pride and anger. He stood there an instant, self-poised, -self-balanced, “like the herald Mercury new lighted on a heaven-kissing -hill”—uttered a hoarse, belling cry, peculiar to the animal in his -season, and then sailing forth in a long, easy curve, alighted on the -springy turf, whose enameled surface he scarce dinted, and then swept up -the gentle slope almost toward the admiring group on the brow, but in a -diagonally curved line that would carry him in the long run to the -south-west of them, at the distance of perhaps a hundred yards. - -“Tayho! Tayho!” burst in a clear and cheery shout from the excited lips -of Gerald Howard. - -And instantly from every part of the hill-side from east to west, from -the throstle’s nest to the “thorny brae,” from ten well-blown -French-horns burst the wild call -Tarà-tarà—tara-tantara-ra—tara-tantara-tantara—ra—ra—rah—“Gone -away—gone away—gone away—away—away!” and the fierce rally of the -mighty Talbots broke into tongue at once through the whole breadth and -length of the oak coppice, as they came pouring up the hills, making the -heather bend and the coppice crash before them like those famed Spartan -hounds of Hercules and Cadmus, - - “When in the woods of Crete they bayed the bear— - So flewed, so randed, and their heads were hung - With ears that sweep away the morning dew; - Crook-kneed and dew-lapped like Thessalian bulls; - Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells - Each under each” - -As fifty separate spots they leaped the wall nearly abreast, but four -were it may be a spear’s length the leaders, and they laying their head -right at the noble quarry, which was still full in view, came straining -up the hill, making all ring around them with their deep-mouthed -thunder. The rest topped the wall one by one, in view too, and on a -breast-high scent at once came streaming up the rich grass slope on -converging lines, so that as they passed the attentive group to the -westward within a hundred yards, the pack had got all together within, -perhaps, another hundred yards of his haunches, running so that a large -carpet might have covered the whole forty couple, and raving with such a -din of harmonious discords, such shrill and savage trebles of the fierce -fleet bitch hounds, such a deep diapason of the old veteran dogs, such -sweet and attuned chidings of the whole, that not an ear but must have -listened with delight, not a heart but must have bounded with rapture at -the exulting sounds. - -And ever and anon there rang up from the wildwood, the deep, mellow -blasts of the French-horns, blent with the jangled cries of the Talbots -into a strange and indescribable clangor and crepitation, at once most -peculiar and most entrancing. - -At the same moment the sun burst into full view above the eastern hills, -and pouring down a great flood of golden lustre over the whole glowing -scene, kindled up every thing into light and life—tinging with ruddy -light the dappled sides of the noble beast as he swept by them now -within fifty yards—for he had circled round them wantoning and bounding -to and fro, perfectly unconcerned by the nearer presence of his -pursuers, and seemingly desirous to display the miracles of his speed -and beauty to the fair eyes that admired him—enlivening the dappled -hides of the many-colored glossy pack—burnishing the sleek and satin -coats of the noble coursers, till they glowed with almost metallic -splendor—flashing upon the rich laces, the bright buckles, and the -polished sword-hilts of the hunters, and gilding the bridle-bits and -brazen horns of the verdurers and yeomen prickers, until the whole -hill-side was glittering with a thousand gay hues and salient lights, -filling the mind with memories of faëry land and magic marvels. - -Hitherto the little group on the brow of the one-tree hill had stood -motionless, while the gay, animated scene revolved around them, a -glittering circle wheeling around the stationary centre; but now, when -the servants of the chase, huntsman and verdurer, prickers, all streamed -up the long hill at their best pace, all wheeled around the tree and its -gay company, swelling the din with the flare and braying of their horns, -the gallant stag appeared to comprehend that a fresh band of enemies -were added to his first pursuers—for he half turned his head to gaze on -them, half paused for a moment to snuff the air, with nostrils -pridefully dilated, and flanks heaving, not with weariness as yet, but -with contempt and scorn, then with a toss of his antlers, and a loud -snort of indignation, set his head fair to the north-west, full for the -hills of Scotland, and went away at long sweeping bounds that seemed to -divide the green slope by leaps of eight yards each, soared back again -over the rough stone wall, and went crashing through the thickets -straight for the tall oak palings and the river, as if he were bound for -some distant well-known point, on a right line as the crow flies it. - -And now for the gentlemen the chase was begun, and Gerald Howard led it, -like their leader as he was in all things, and the rest followed him -like men as they were, and brave ones—but to the ladies it was ended so -soon as they had breathed their palfries down the slope to the stone -wall and the wood-side at an easy canter; and they returned to the -hill-top, where they found viands and refreshments spread on the grass; -and long they lingered there watching the hunt recede, and the sounds of -the chase die away in the far distance. But it was long ere the sights -and sounds were lost all and wholly to their eyes and ears—for the -quarry still drove on, as straight as the crow flies, due northward—due -northward the chase followed. - -They saw the gallant stag swoop over the oak-pales as if they were no -obstacle—they saw the yelping pack crash and climb after him; then they -saw Gerald Howard on his tall coal-black barb soar over it -unhindered—but all the rest turned right and left to gate or gap, or -ere they might follow him. The valley was crossed as by a whirlwind—the -river swam by hart, hound, and hunters, unhesitating and unheeding—and -far beyond up the green moorland pastures, over the stone walls, now -disappearing over the hill-tops into the misty hollows, now glinting up -again into light over some yet more distant stretch of purple heath, and -still the chiding of the hounds, and still the wild bursts of the -French-horns fell faintly on the ears, as the wind freshened from the -westward—but at length sound and sight failed them, and when silence -had sunk still and solitude reigned almost perfect over the late peopled -slope of thorny brae and the one-tree hill, the gay bevy of dames and -damsels returned homeward, something the more serious if not the sadder -for the parting, to await the gathering of their partners to the gay -evening meal. - -Long they awaited—late it grew—the evening meal was over—the close of -night had come—the lights in bower and hall were kindled—the gates -were locked and barred—long ere the first of the belated foresters, -returned soiled and splashed, way-worn and weary, with the jaded and -harassed hounds, and horses almost dead from the exertion and exhaustion -of the day. At midnight, of the field all the men save one were -collected, though two or three came in on foot, and yet more on borrowed -horses—their own good steeds left in the morass or on the moorland, to -feed the kites and the hill-foxes—of the pack all save two mustered at -the kennel-gates in such plight as the toil they had borne permitted. - -The man missing was Sir Gerald Howard, the master of the pack, the two -hounds were its two leaders, Hercules and Hard-heart, of whom no rider -had ever yet seen the speed slacken or the heart fail. - -The old verdurer, who gave out the last, reported Gerald Howard going -well, when he saw him last, with the stag and two Talbots of all in full -view—and this many miles into Scotland within the pleasant vale of -Teviotdale, with the great Scottish hills grim and gray, towering up -before him, and the night closing fast on those dim solitudes. - -It was late on the next day when Sir Gerald Howard was seen riding up -the road on the same steed he had backed so gallantly, still weary and -worn, though recruited—with the huge antlers at his saddle-bow, but no -brave Talbots at his heel. - -He had ridden far into the darkness, still guided by the baying of the -staunch hounds; and when he could see to ride no longer, had obtained -timely succor and refreshment from a stout borderer of Teviot-side. At -daylight remounted a fresh horse, a garron of the country, to renew the -chase; but it was now soon ended. Scarce had he gone a mile on the -straight line they had run throughout ere he found Hard-heart stiff and -cold on the mountain heather, and not a hundred yards yet onward, ere -the great stag lay before him, not a hair of his hide injured, and -Hercules beside him, with his head upon his haunches, where he had -breathed his last, powerless to blood the brave quarry he had so nobly -conquered. - -Sixty miles had they run on that summer’s day from point, they had died -together, and in their graves they were not confounded, for a double -tomb was scooped in the corrie or hollow of the mountain-side, wherein -they were found, and above it was piled a rough, gray column, whereon -may be seen rudely sculptured this true epitaph, - - Hercules killed Hart O’Grease, - And Hart O’Grease killed Hercules. - -For, reader mine, this is a real and true tale, and I, who tell it you, -have sat upon the stone, and tempered my cup of Ferintosh from the -little rill beside it, with the wild peak of the Maiden’s Pass before -me, the dark Cheviots at my right, the blue heights of the Great Moor -looming away almost immeasurably to the westward, and no companions near -me save the red grouse of the heather, and the curlew of the morass, -nothing to while away the time that my weary setters slept in the -noonday sun, save this old-time tradition. - ------ - -[1] “Tayho!” is the technical hunting halloa when a stag has broken -cover, as is “Talliho!” the corresponding cry for the fox. Both words -are corruptions from the French “_Taillis Hors!_” “Out of the thicket,” -French being used to a very late day as the especial language of the -chase. - -[2] In Northumberland a few miles from the Scottish border. - - * * * * * - - - - - “GRAHAM” TO JEREMY SHORT. - - -[Illustration: WINTER.] - - “When icicles hang by the wall, - And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, - And Tom bears logs into the hall, - And milk comes frozen home in pail; - When blood is nipt—” - - -Winter is here—Jeremy! Desolate winter! and the white fields are -shivering in the sunlight—the old woods are solemn and sad—the voices -of the air are hushed, and a quiet, save the moan of the wind, tells us -that nature is passing through the dark valley, typical of death. We -know that she will burst the stern fetters, and rising from her sleep, -shall laugh again with infant glee in all her brooks; and spreading her -motherly arms over the earth, will shower with parental liberality her -treasures into our laps once more. Yet still we feel her silence—we are -sad because of her desolation. - -Winter is here—Jeremy! The long nights have come—the long, dark winter -nights; and we draw the heavy curtains, and sit down in our warm -parlors, carelessly to ponder and to dream. The light has gone out of -the starry skies which bended over us in youth, and the dun clouds surge -up from the horizon, and grow heavier and blacker as we muse—the -Present is dreary! We turn back with memory, and over all the Past we -wander. We remember the snug cottage nestled in the hills—the crackling -faggots on the old hearth-stone—they have their young vivacity now, and -the whole picture of our youthful home in this beautiful cloud-land -rises gradually and expands before us. Faces all rosy with the light of -the Immortals appear and vanish—bright wings of angels flash and fade -to the view—and as the scene swells to our mental vision, the old -familiar tones of the old familiar lips ring out their silver syllables -again. We listen to the joyous laugh, as to the gushing of music, and -almost feel the presence of soft hands in ours. The glad, beaming face -of the young creature we first worshiped, with all the innocence of -love’s first delusion, sparkles with the radiant beauty of those happy -hours. The mother in that quiet chamber, with the dim lamp and the snowy -curtains gleaming out from the corner, where we knelt at her side and -uttered the evening prayer, lifts her white hands to our brow again, and -says, “God bless and keep thee, my boy!” God help us now—how have we -wandered since our souls felt that earnest benediction! - -Winter is here! and the long, stormy nights have come, Jeremy—the -nights of dread and desolation to the poor. The roar of the tempest has -the voice of a demon out there! Do the moan and the howl, which sound so -fearfully now, stir in the heart a thought of the perishing ones, who, -in the midst of this splendid city, sit shivering, ragged, and starved? -The pale brow and the hollow eye of the consumptive mother, sitting -desolate amid her famishing ones, grow paler and sadder as the storm -rolls on! Does her low wail of agony reach the ears of angels to-night? -If not—God help her! - -Scores of Christian churches stand grandly out in the storm, and bravely -defy the tempest. They are tenantless, now, of the rosy lips and bright -eyes which have looked appealingly to Heaven, and muttered prayers for -the poor. Are willing hands employed to-night in confirmation of the -Sunday’s sincerity? Or do cards, the piano, or the dance, lend a sorry -confirmation of the utter hollowness of words? Is all the wealth and -splendor of Gothic steeples and stained-glass—the majestic column—the -lordly porch, and the sweeping aisle, but the magnificence of -delusion?—mere monuments of the wickedness of man endeavoring to cheat -the Creator with tinsel—with show, not worth—with words, not deeds! -God help the homeless, Jeremy, where this is true! And help the -disciple, too, who prays, but never _thinks_! God bless the humble -Christian, who _labors_ and cares for THE POOR! - - “Poor naked wretches, whereso’er you are, - That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, - How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, - Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you - From seasons such as these?” - - G. R. G. - - * * * * * - - - - - A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES. - - - BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. - - - (_Continued from page 11._) - - - FIRST LOVE. - -The poor little girl by my side made no struggle to quit me, no effort -to return to her mother, but ran along holding my hand, with perfect -docility and confidence, weeping bitterly, it is true, and never -uttering a word. It was a strange situation for a boy of twelve years of -age, and yet I felt a certain sort of pride in it—in the trust which -was reposed in me—in the right, and, as I fancied, the power of -protecting. I would have fought for that little girl to the death, if -any one had attempted to molest her; and although I had never at that -time heard of paladins and knights-errant, I was quite as valiant in my -own opinion as any one of them ever was. I was not very hard-hearted at -that time—youth seldom is—and I felt greatly moved by the poor child’s -grief. - -After we had gone about a mile, at a very quick pace, I began to slacken -my speed, and to try and comfort my little companion. At first she -appeared inconsolable, but by trying hard, I at length made some -impression—won her mind away from the terrors and sorrows of her -situation, and got her to speak a word or two in reply to my question. -She told me that her name was Mariette, and that she had walked some way -that day—that her mother had rushed into the room where she was -playing, all covered with blood, as I had seen her just before—had -caught her up in her arms, and rushed out of a château where they lived, -by a back way, plunging at once into the wood. They had then walked a -long distance, she said, her mother sometimes carrying her, sometimes -letting her run by her side; and I could perceive that, delicately -nurtured and unaccustomed to hard exercise, the poor little thing was -already considerably tired. I was a strong, big boy, and so without more -ado, I took her up in my arms and carried her. After some way, I put her -down again, and she walked on refreshed, and then I carried her again, -and then we sat down upon a bank and rested; and I got her water from -the stream in the hollow of my hand, and tried to amuse her by telling -her stories. But I never was a good story-teller in all my life, and I -did not succeed very well. All this occupied time, however, and when we -arrived within half a mile of the town, light was fading fast. This -alarmed me; not that I had any fear of darkness, but it was good -Jeanette’s custom, in the gray of the evening to walk out through our -little garden in the tower, down the stair-case, the door of which lay -on the left-hand side, and lock the door below. I did not like to go in -by the great gates of the town, both because the distance was greater, -and because I thought some questions might be asked about Mariette; and -I resolved, at all events, to attempt our private entrance before I -yielded to necessity. I encouraged my little companion to hurry her -steps, by pointing out the town rising before us, and telling her that -if she made haste, she would in a few minutes be with Father Bonneville, -and he would be so good and kind to her she could not think. I told her, -also, of good Jeanette, and what a nice creature she was, and I -succeeded in engaging her attention and leading her on much faster than -before. We soon reached the foot of the hill, climbed the steep little -path which led to the door at the foot of the tower, and with great joy -and some surprise I found it open. - -“Now come in, Mariette,” I said, “and don’t be afraid of the dark; for -this stair-case leads to our garden, and the garden to the house.” - -She said she was not at all afraid of the dark; that her papa often made -her walk with him in the dark; and she followed me quite readily, -holding tight by my hand, however. - -In the garden above we found good old Jeanette, with her snow-white cap, -and her mittens. I found that she had become anxious at my long absence, -and had abstained from locking the door lest I should determine to come -in that way. Her surprise to see my little companion, and the state of -grotesque agitation and bustle into which the sight threw her, I shall -never forget. My explanations soon banished surprise by other emotions. -I told all I knew of poor Mariette’s story as simply as I could, and the -good creature’s heart was instantly touched; the tears gathered in her -eyes, and taking the poor little girl in her arms, she said, “Come with -me, my child—come with me. Here we will make you a home where you will -be as happy as the day is long.” - -“I can’t be happy without papa and mamma,” replied Mariette, bursting -into tears again, and Jeanette, weeping for company, carried her off -into the house, while I ran down the stairs to lock the door of the -tower. When I entered the house again, I found that Father Bonneville -was out visiting some sick people, and had been absent for several -hours. Mariette wanted no kind of tendence, however, that was not given -to her by good Jeanette. She put her pretty little feet in warm water; -she gave her a cup of the thin chocolate which usually formed the good -priest’s supper, and she endeavored, with far greater skill than mine, -to wile away her thoughts from all that was painful in memory, or her -new situation. Mariette soon began to prattle to her, and leaning her -head upon her shoulder, said she loved her very much; but then, after a -few minutes, the bright young eyes closed, the little head leaned -heavier, and Jeanette, moving her gently, carried her away to my small -room, and placed her gently in my bed, “to sleep it out,” as she said. - -About half an hour after, good Father Bonneville returned, and his face -showed evident traces of sorrow and perplexity. But still my story was -to be told, and it seemed to perplex him still more. - -“Do you know her name?” he asked. - -“Mariette, Father,” I replied. - -“But what more, besides Mariette?” he asked; and as I could give him no -information, he made me describe, as accurately as I could, the -appearance of the lady I had seen. I spoke of her bright and beautiful -eyes, and I described her as very pale; but the good priest inquired -whether she was tall. - -“Oh yes,” I replied; “a good deal taller than Jeanette.” - -The good priest smiled; for Jeanette was a good deal below the height of -the Medicean Venus, and she is no giantess. - -“It must be Madame de Salins,” he murmured, after a moment’s -consideration. “Holy father, have mercy upon us! Killed Monsieur de -Salins, have they, before his poor wife’s eyes? A better young man did -not exist, nor one who has done more good, both by his acts and his -example.” - -“Wouldn’t you know Mariette, if you saw her, Father?” I asked; and -Jeanette coming in from the room where the child was at the moment, led -the good Father away to see her. When he came back, he said no more for -some time, but sat thinking, with his head bent forward, and his eyes -half closed. Then he called Jeanette, and somewhat to my surprise, gave -very strict orders for concealing the fact of the little girl’s -residence in our house. My little room was to be assigned to her; a -large, wide, rather cheerful, long uninhabited room, up stairs, was to -receive a table, and a few chairs from somewhere else, and to be made a -sort of play-room for her, and I and Jeanette were to do the very best -we could to make the little prisoner happy, while her existence was to -be kept secret from every one but our three selves. At the same time he -laid the strongest injunctions upon me to abstain from even hinting to -any one the adventure I had met with in the wood, and never to call the -child Mariette de Salins, but merely Mariette, or Mariette Brun. - -And now began a new sort of existence for me. Mariette became, as it -were, my property—at least I looked upon her almost as such. I had -carried her in the forest. I had led her along by the hand. I had -brought her there. She was my little foundling, and my feelings toward -her were as strange as ever came into the breast of a boy of thirteen. -There was something parental about them. I could almost have brought -myself to believe that I was her father; and yet I looked upon her very -much in the light of a toy, as grown-up parents will sometimes do in -regard to their children. I was with Mariette the greater part of every -day, playing with her, amusing her, devising all sorts of games to -entertain her. She soon became very fond of me, and quite familiar; -would sit by the hour with her arms round my neck, and would tell me -little anecdotes of her own home. A pleasant home it seemed to have been -till the last fearful events occurred, full of harmony, and peace, and -domestic joy. Continually she seemed to forget the present, in pictures -of brighter hours gone by, but from time to time—especially at first—a -torrent of painful memories would seem to burst upon her, and the end of -the little tale would be drowned in tears. - -Two months passed over in this manner, and little Mariette seemed quite -reconciled to her situation. With the elasticity of childish hope, she -had recovered all her spirits, and no two young, happy, innocent things -were ever gayer than we were. Her state of imprisonment, too, was -somewhat relaxed; for, in our own town at least, a lull had come upon -the political storm, which, as every one knows, came up sobbing, as it -were, in fits and starts, like a south-westerly gale, till the full -hurricane blew and swept every thing before it. After some hesitation, -Father Bonneville permitted her to go out with me into the garden, and -there to play amongst the shrubs, now, alas! destitute of flowers, for -an hour or two before she went to bed. In the town she was never seen, -and with a sort of prescience, which was, perhaps, not extraordinary, -the good Father explained to me that it would be wiser to use, as little -as possible, the way out of the town by the garden and the tower. He -treated me with a degree of confidence and reliance on my intelligence -and discretion, which made me very proud. The agitated and terrible -state of the country, he said, and the anarchical tendencies which were -visible throughout society in France, had induced a number of the most -wealthy and influential people to seek a refuge in other lands. Those -who had got possession of power, he continued, were naturally anxious to -put a stop to this emigration, and a system of espionage, which was -well-nigh intolerable, had been established to check it. The advantage -we possessed of being able to go in and out of the town when we pleaded, -without passing the gales, might be lost to us by the imprudent use of -it; and although two or three other citizens, whose houses abutted upon -towers of the old wall, had the same facilities, he knew them to be -prudent and well-disposed men, who were not likely to call attention to -themselves by any incautious act. - -Although the door below was unlocked and locked every morning and -evening, it may well be supposed that I adhered strictly to the good -Father’s directions, and always when I wanted to get out of the city -took the way round by the gates. This was not very often, indeed, for I -had now an object of interest and entertainment at home, which I had -never had before, and Mariette was all the world to me for the time. -Good Father Bonneville in speaking of her to me used to call her with a -quiet smile “Tu fille”—thy daughter—and pleasant was it for me to hear -him so name her. Certain it is, what between one thing and another—the -little vanity I had in her—the selfish feeling of property, so strong -in all children—the pleasant occupation which she gave to my thoughts, -and her own winning and endearing ways, (for she was full of every sort -of wild, engaging grace,) together with her real sweetness of -disposition, which had something more beautiful and charming in it than -I can describe—certain it is, I say—I learned before a month was over -to love nothing on all the earth like her. Nay more, amongst all the -passions and objects and pursuits of life I can recall nothing so -strong, so fervent, so deep, as that pure, calm, boyish love for little -Mariette de Salins. I could dwell upon it, even now, for ever, and from -my heart and soul I believed she returned that affection as warmly. Two -months and a fortnight had passed by: heavier clouds than ever were -beginning to gather on the political horizon: menaces of foreign -invasion to put down the disorderly spirit which had manifested itself -in the land, roused the indignation both of those whose passions refused -correction, and those who loved the independence of their country. The -very threat swept away one of the few safeguards of society which -remained in France. There was a great body of the people who disliked -the thought of anarchy; but a short period of anarchy seemed to them -preferable to the indefinite domination of foreign soldiers in the land, -and multitudes of these better men were now driven to act with or submit -to the anarchists. - -I could see that Father Bonneville was very much alarmed, and in much -agitation and distress of mind. I twice saw him count over the money -which I had brought him from Madame de Salins, and looking up in my -face, he said, with a thoughtful air: - -“I suppose I ought to send her away—the time is past—but I know not -really what to do—where could I put her in England?—who could I send -with her?—how could I let her mother know where she is to be found? -This is a small sum, too, to support her for any time in England. A -hundred and forty-seven louis! England is a dear country—a very dear -country, as I know. Every thing is thrice the price that it is here.” - -Youth always argues from its wishes. They form the goal to which, -whatever turns the course may take, the race is always directed in the -end. Father Bonneville’s words were very painful to me, and I ventured -to strive to persuade him that it would be better to wait a little: that -Mariette was well where she was: that something might have occurred to -delay Madame de Salins. - -The good Father shook his head, with a sigh, and he then took a little -drawer out of a cabinet, and counted some forty or fifty gold pieces -that were within. I could see, however, that there were, at least, three -little rolls of thin white paper diapered by the milling of the coin -within, and I knew by their similarity and size with the one which I had -myself received, that each must contain somewhere about a hundred louis. -To me this was Peru; but Father Bonneville, who knew better, sighed over -it, and put it back again. - -One very stormy night the wind blew in sharp, fierce gusts against the -front windows, and the rain pattered hard. The streets were almost -deserted, and utterly unlighted, as they were in those times, they -offered no pleasant promenade on such a night as that. Suddenly the bell -rang, as I was sitting by Father Bonneville reading, when Mariette was -sound asleep up stairs, and Jeanette was working away in her kitchen. - -“Who can that be?” said Father Bonneville, turning a little pale. “Stay, -Jeanette, stay for a moment;” and he put away one or two things that -were lying about, and locked the door of the little cabinet. - -Now, it might seem a cruelty to keep any one waiting at the door even -for a minute or two in the pitiless pelting of the shower; but I forgot -to mention in describing the house, that it, and a neighboring house, -which bent away from the main into a side street, formed a very obtuse -angle, and that between the two there was a little arched entrance -overshadowing a flight of steps which led to the good Father’s door. -Thus, any visitor was as much sheltered from the rain on the outside, as -if he had been in the house itself. - -Jeanette had, at length, permission to go to the door, and to tell the -truth, both Father Bonneville and I peeped out to see who was the -applicant who made so late a call. - -“I wish to see Father Bonneville,” said a woman’s voice, marvelously -sweet and pleasant. - -“Is your business very pressing, madam?” asked Jeanette, adding, “it is -late, and just the good Father’s time for going to bed.” - -“Life and death!” said the visitor. “I _must_ see him, and see him -alone.” - -“Well, madam, come in,” was the reply, and at the same moment Father -Bonneville said in a low tone, but it seemed to me with a happy air, -“Leave me, François. Go to bed, my son.” - -I obeyed at once, and in moving across the passage to the kitchen for a -light, I crossed the visitor, nearly touching her. All I could see, -however, was that she was tall, dignified in carriage, dressed in deep -black, and wrapped up in a large mantle with a veil over her head. - -I felt sure that it was Mariette’s mother, and hurrying away to my new -room, which was over the little archway sheltering the entrance, I shut -the door and gave myself up to a fit of despair. I fancied that she had -come to take my little pet away, to separate her from me forever, to -deprive me of my property, and I cannot describe in any degree what I -felt. The anguish of that moment was as great almost as I ever -experienced in life. All I did within the next ten minutes I cannot -tell, but one thing I know I did, which was to sit down and cry like a -great baby. I would have given worlds to have known what was passing; -but I did not listen though I might have done so easily from the top of -my little stairs. But good Father Bonneville had so early, so well, and -so strongly impressed upon my mind the duty of avoiding any meanness, -that eaves-dropping seemed to me in those days almost as great a crime -as murder. Indeed it was in somewhat of that shape that the good Father -placed it before my eyes. “What right,” he said, “has one man to rob -another of his secrets any more than of his money? They are both his -property, and if they are not given they are stolen.” - -I was not very long kept in suspense, however, for by the time I had got -my little coat off, and was still sitting on the edge of the bed crying, -I heard the lady quit the good Father’s little study, and his voice -speaking as he escorted her toward the door. I knew that Mariette could -not have been awakened, dressed, and carried off in a quarter of an -hour, and I went to bed and slept with a heart relieved. It was only a -respite, however. Four days after that good Father Bonneville took an -opportunity when Mariette and I were at play of telling her that she was -that night to go away with her mamma, and take a long journey. He -advised her therefore not to tire herself, but to keep as quiet as -possible till the evening came, even if she could not lie down and take -a little rest during the day. - -The poor child’s agitation was extreme. The idea of seeing her mother -evidently gave her great delight, but the thought of going away from a -house where she had been made so happy, and from a companion who loved -her so much, seemed not exactly to qualify her joy, but to tear her -between two emotions. Her face was, for an instant, all smiles and -radiant with satisfaction. The next instant, however, she burst into -tears, and snatching Father Bonneville’s hand she kissed it once or -twice. Then pointing to me, she said, “Cannot I take him with me?” - -The good priest shook his head, and soon after left us to pass the time -till the hour of separation came as best we might. I do not think he -knew, and indeed it would be difficult to make any one comprehend, who -has left the period of early youth far behind him, what were the -feelings of Mariette and myself. I am very much inclined to believe from -my own remembrances, that the pangs of childhood are much more severe -than most grown persons will admit. - -Day wore away; night came. Little Mariette was dressed and prepared, and -about nine o’clock the bell rang. In a moment after the poor child was -in her mother’s arms, and weeping with joy and agitation. Madame de -Salins hardly sat down, however, and there was a look of hurry and -anxiety as well as of grief in her face which told how much she had -suffered, and how much she expected still to encounter. - -“I am somewhat late,” she said, speaking to Father Bonneville; “for -there were two men walking up and down before the house in which I have -been concealed, and I dared hardly venture out. Let us lose no time, -good Father. Who will show us the way?” - -“Louis, my son, get the lantern,” said the good Father; and turning to -Madame de Salins he added, “He will show you the way.” - -These words first seemed to call the attention of the lady to myself, -and advancing toward me she embraced me tenderly and with many thanks -for the charge I had taken of her little girl in a moment of danger and -of horror. I felt gratified, but I do not know that I altogether forgave -her for coming to carry off my little companion, and I was also -struggling with all my might not to show myself so unmanly as to shed -tears; so that I replied somewhat ungracefully I am afraid. I went away -for the lantern, however and by the direction of good Father Bonneville, -lighted Madame de Salins and Mariette through the garden, and down the -stair-case in the tower. I then proceeded to open the door for them, -almost hoping that the key might be rusted in the lock so as to prevent -their going. It turned easily enough, however, and when I opened the -door I was startled at seeing the figure of a man standing at the top of -the little path which led down to the foot of the hill. Madame de -Salins, however, accosted him at once by his name, and he told her that -Peter and Jerome were waiting down below. The parting moment was now -evidently come, and it seemed as bitter to poor little Mariette as -myself. She threw her arms around me. She held me tight. She kissed me -again and again, and her tears wetted my cheek. At length, however, she -was drawn away from me, and her mother holding her hand led her down the -hill while the man followed. I looked after them for a moment or two, -till they were nearly lost in the darkness. Then locked the door, and -turned sadly toward the house. - - - THE FLIGHT. - -Oh, how dull and tedious was the passing of the next month to me. There -was a vacancy in all my thoughts which I cannot describe, a want of -object and of interest, which nothing seemed to supply. But the dullness -of the calm was soon to be succeeded by the agitation of the storm. The -populace, particularly of the suburb, was becoming more fierce and -unruly every hour. If at any previous period there had been such a thing -as tyranny in France—of which I knew, and had felt nothing—it must -have been the tyranny of one, far removed from the humble or even the -middle stations of life, and much less terrible than the tyranny of -many, which now came to the door of every house in the land. There was a -butcher living in the lower part of the town, the terror of his -neighbors, and an object of abhorrence to all good men. Fierce, -licentious, and unprincipled, his courage—the only good quality he -possessed—was the courage of a tiger. On more than one occasion in -former years good Father Bonneville had had to reprove him, and it would -seem he had not forgotten it. - -One day, about a month after Mariette had left us, I had walked out into -the town during Father Bonneville’s absence from home, and was crossing -the square in front of the great church. On one side of the square was -the best inn in the place, and upon the steps of that inn were standing -several officers of a dragoon regiment which had lately been quartered -in the town. In the midst of the square, I saw a great crowd of people -moving to and fro, and apparently busy and agitated. There were muskets -amongst the crowd; for in those days the more ragged and -poverty-stricken a man was, the more certain was he of having some -weapon of offense in his hand; and amongst the rest, with a red -night-cap on his head, and his shirt sleeves tucked up to the elbow, I -could perceive the great stalwort figure of the butcher I have -mentioned. I saw also, however, other garments than those of the mere -populace. There was the black gown of a priest in the middle of the -crowd, and as I approached with a faint and fearful heart, I not only -saw that the mob were dragging along a priest by the arms, but also that -he was good Father Bonneville. I heard shouts too of “up with him! Hang -him up, hang him up! To the spout with him, to the spout!” - -The officers I have mentioned were standing quietly looking on, laughing -and talking with two or three of the more respectable citizens. But at -the first impulse I ran toward them, caught the hand of one of the young -soldiers, who seemed to bear a high rank amongst the others, and whose -face was a kindly one, and with eager and terrified tones exclaimed— - -“Oh, save him, sir, save him. They are going to kill the best man in all -the town.” - -“Who are they going to hang, boy?” asked one of the citizens in a tone -of assumed indifference; for few persons ventured in those days to show -any sympathy with the victims of popular fury. - -“Father Bonneville,” I answered, “Oh it is Father Bonneville—Save him, -save him—pray make haste!” - -“He is, indeed, one of the best men in the world,” said the gentleman, -with a look of deep distress. - -The young officer, however, without more ado, ran down the steps and -plunged into the crowd. One or two of his companions followed, I saw a -sudden pause in the mob, and heard a great outcry of voices; some -apparently in persuasion, others in mere brute clamor. A moment after, -however, while the parties seemed still disputing, a squadron of -dragoons came into the square, and their appearance, though they took no -part in what was going on, seemed to have a great effect upon the mob. A -number of the ragged ruffians dropped off every moment, some walking -away down the street, singing ribald songs, some coming up to the -soldiers, and speaking a word or two to them as if to show that they -were not afraid, but walking away in the end. At length, however, I had -the satisfaction to see the young officer emerge from the little crowd -that remained, holding Father Bonneville by the arm, while another of -the dragoon officers walked on the good priest’s other side. The only -one who followed them was the butcher, and he continued pursuing them -with execration and abuse till they reached the steps of the inn, in -which they lodged the good Father for the time. The young officer made -no reply to all the ribald language with which he was assailed, except -on the inn steps, where he turned, and said in a calm tone— - -“It may be all very true, but proceed according to law. If he has -refused to take the oath required, he can and will be punished for it, -but you are not to be the judge, and shall not break the law while I am -in command of this town.” - -Thus saying, without waiting for any answer, he walked into the inn, and -I ran after Father Bonneville. The good old man was somewhat out of -breath with the rough handling he had received, but I could not perceive -any traces of fear or great agitation either in his face or manner. As -soon as the young officer and I entered the back-room in which he had -taken refuge, he held out his hand kindly to me, but addressed his first -words to the other. - -“I have to thank you much, my son,” he said. “I do believe if you had -been two minutes later those poor misguided people would have hanged -me.” - -“I do believe they would,” replied the officer, with a smile; “but you -have to thank this good lad for my coming as soon as I did. I did not -perceive what they were about till he told me.” - -“Thank you, Louis, thank you,” said Father Bonneville. “I have had a -narrow escape, my son. Although, God knows, I have never done these -people any harm, and have tried to do them good, yet they seemed -resolved to have my blood. Do you think it will be safe for me to go -now, sir? I have some sick people to attend upon.” - -The young officer besought him however to stay till the town was more -completely quieted, and advised him even then to betake himself to his -own house, and remain concealed and quiet for a day or two. - -I knew quite well that Father Bonneville would not follow this counsel -implicitly, and he did not. He got safely home two or three hours after, -and remained within till nightfall; but then he went out to visit the -sick persons he had named, and on the following morning was pursuing his -usual avocations as if nothing had happened. It was not long, however, -before he became convinced that such conduct could only lead to -martyrdom, without being of the slightest benefit to his flock. Death -would have been nothing in his eyes, if by it he could purchase good to -others, but that was not a period at which such sacrifices would be at -all available. - -One day while he was out, a Sister of Charity came to the house, and -talked long and earnestly with good Jeanette in the kitchen. I was not -present at their conference, but when the Sister went away again I saw -that the old housekeeper was in a state of the utmost consternation and -grief. The expression of these passions took a curious form with her. It -seemed as if she could not be still for one moment. She bustled about -the kitchen, as if it were too small for her energies, took down and put -up again every pot, kettle, saucepan, and spit, at least a dozen times, -gazed into the frying-pan with an objectless look, and seemed only -anxious to spend the superfluous activity of her body upon something, -while her mind was equally busy with something else. When Father -Bonneville returned, however, she had a long conference with him, and he -seemed very thoughtful and anxious. At night the Sister of Charity again -returned, and this time she bore a letter with her. I only know what -took place between her and the good Father by the result; for as soon as -she was gone, he called me into his study, where Jeanette had been all -the time, and I at once saw that my good old friend and instructor had -made up his mind to some great and important step. - -“My dear Louis,” he said, with a calm but very grave face, “we have -heard very evil news. A persecution is raging against the ministers of -religion, which must soon reach me if I remain here. They have already -commenced in a town not very far distant, a practice of tying priests -and nuns together, and drowning them in the river, adding, by the term -they apply to these massacres, impiety to murder. This good creature and -Sister Clara, who has just been here, both urge me strongly to fly. I -should have hesitated to take such a step, but I find that it is -necessary that you should be removed to another country as soon as -possible. I have no one to send with you, and I trust I am not biased -from my duty by any mere fears for my own life when I determine to -accompany you myself. I shall still be fulfilling at least one of the -tasks which I have undertaken to perform, and I sincerely believe it is -the one in which the remains of my life can be most serviceable.” - -He then went on to explain to me that he had determined to pass the next -day in the town, and to make his escape at night. Disguise, he added -with a sigh, would be necessary. But good Jeanette undertook to procure -what was fitting for the occasion, and good Father Bonneville retired to -rest that night grave and sad, but, apparently, in no degree agitated. -On the following day, a few minutes before noon, a great mob passed up -the street, carrying a bloody human head upon a pole. They stopped -opposite to the good priest’s house, shouting for him to show himself, -and with a quiet and undismayed air he walked to an upper window, and -looked out. He was instantly assailed with a torrent of abuse, and I do -not feel at all sure that the mob would not have sacked the house and -put him to death, if it had not been so near the tiger’s feeding-time. -All the lower classes dined at twelve, and Father Bonneville retiring -from the window as soon as he had shown himself, the crowd marched on -again down the street with their bloody ensign at their head. - -Nothing that I remember worthy of notice occurred during the rest of the -day, though Jeanette was in a good deal of bustle, and went in and out -more than once. Several persons came to see Father Bonneville, and -talked with him for some time; but the day passed heavily with me, -although I will acknowledge that I felt a good deal of that eager and -pleasant expectation with which youth always looks forward to change. - -At length night fell; the outer door of the house was carefully locked; -Father Bonneville retired to his own sleeping-room; I assisted Jeanette -to bring down a pair of somewhat heavy saddle-bags, the one marked with -black paint L. L., the other J. C. Shortly after I heard a step upon the -stairs, and a gentleman entered the room, whom I did not at first -recognize—and could hardly, for some time, persuade myself that it was -Father Bonneville. Soutane and bands, and small black cap, and -cocked-hat were all gone, and he appeared in a straight-cut black coat, -with a small sword by his side. His thin, white hair, powdered and tied -behind, and a round hat, with a broad band and buckle, on his head. The -effect of this change in costume was to make him look very much smaller -than before. He had seemed a somewhat portly man in his robes, but now -he looked exceedingly lank and spare, and even his height seemed -diminished. He looked strange and ill at ease, but showed no indecision, -now that his mind was made up. - -“I thought of burning my papers,” he said, speaking to Jeanette, “but I -don’t know, ma bonne, that they contain any thing unworthy of a good -Christian or a good citizen. I shall therefore leave them as they are, -to be examined by those who may take the trouble. You understand all, -Jeanette, that I have said, and what you are to do, and where I am to -hear from you.” - -Jeanette comprehended every thing; but the feelings of the good -creature’s heart were at this time surging up against her understanding -with greater and greater force every minute. At length, when all was -ready for our departure, she fell upon her knees at good Father -Bonneville’s feet, weeping and kissing his hand, and begging his -blessing. The old man put his hand upon her head, and with an air of -solemn affection, called down the blessing of God upon her. Then -embracing her kindly, he said, “You have striven, I know, Jeanette, to -be as good a servant to God as to a mere mortal master. He deserves more -and better service than any of us can give, but he is contented with -less than any of us require, if it be rendered with a whole heart. -Farewell, my Jeanette—farewell for the present! We shall meet again -soon—I trust—I believe.” - -The good Father took one of the saddle-bags, and I took the other; -Jeanette loading me, moreover, with a large paper parcel of which she -bade me take great care, hinting at the same time that it contained -sustenance for the good Father and myself which might be very needful to -us on our first night’s journey. She followed us in tears through the -garden in the tower, and down the stairs to the foot. There she hugged -and kissed me heartily, but she had no power to speak, and by this time, -all the pleasant fancies in regard to setting out to see new scenes, and -to find new enjoyments, which I had entertained for a moment or two, had -passed away, and nothing remained but sorrow and regret. We made our -way, not without difficulty, down the little path to the valley; for the -night was as black as crime, and then walked on along the road by the -stream, which, however, we were obliged to quit soon, in order to avoid -a party of men who had a sort of guard-house where the two roads met. -This was easily done, however. The river was not very full; for the air -was frosty, but dry, and neither snow nor rain had fallen for two or -three days. Some large stones served us as well as a bridge, and -crossing the meadows on the other side, we reached the high road from -the town toward Paris without going through the suburbs. About a quarter -of a mile farther upon this road, we found an elderly man standing with -two horses; and although I could hardly see his face, I recognized in -him an uncle of good Jeanette, who was accustomed every fortnight to -bring poultry to the house, and who, to say the truth, looked a good -deal younger than his niece. Few words passed between him and us; the -saddle-bags were arranged on the horses’ backs nearly in silence. Father -Bonneville mounted one, and the good farmer helped me to mount the -other. I had never been upon a horse’s back in my life before, and the -animal upon which I was perched, though somewhat less than that which -carried Father Bonneville, seemed to me a perfect elephant. I was -awkward enough, and uncomfortable enough, no doubt, at first, but I soon -got accustomed to my position, and took rather a pleasure in the ride -than not, till we had gone some eight or nine miles, when I began to -feel the usual inconveniences to which young horsemen are subject. - -A good deal of apprehension was entertained both by my reverend -companion and myself, lest our flight should be discovered, and -immediate pursuit take place. But we found afterward that such fears -were quite vain, the minds of the people of the town, especially of the -anarchists, were turned by various events in a direction quite different -from Father Bonneville. They had their mayor to guillotine, and two or -three of the principal inhabitants to throw into prison, which occupied -them satisfactorily for several days. Father Bonneville’s absence was -never noticed by any but his own immediate parishioners, who wisely -forbore to talk about it till Jeanette, with a bold policy which did her -credit, judging that our escape had been safely effected, went up to the -municipality, and begged to know what she was to do, as her master had -gone away several days before, and had not returned. - -In the meanwhile we rode on through that live-long night, neither -directing our course straight toward Paris, nor to the sea-side. When -morning dawned I was terribly tired and sleepy, and saw all sorts of -unreal things in the twilight—the mere effect, I suppose, of -exhaustion. Father Bonneville had talked to me from time to time, giving -me directions for my general conduct and demeanor toward himself. I -found that it was his intention to assume the name of Charlier, and that -I was to pass for his nephew, still retaining the name of Lacy, deprived -of its aristocratic prefix of dé. The name, however, soon got corrupted -by the people of the inns as we went along, and I passed as young -citoyen Lassi throughout the whole of the rest of our long journey. - -At daylight, after the first night’s march, we halted on a piece of -uncultivated ground at the side of a wood, and suffering our horses to -crop the grass, of which they stood in some need, we seated ourselves on -a dry bank under the trees, and made free with the food which good -Jeanette had provided for us. After I had satisfied my keen appetite, -and drunk some wine out of a flask, I fell into a sound sleep before I -was at all aware what was coming upon me, nor did I wake till Father -Bonneville shook me gently by the arm, at about one o’clock in the day. - -We then resumed our journey, having to take the first very dangerous -step after quitting the town, in entering the busy haunts of men, and -exposing ourselves to the eyes and inquiries of strangers. - -A tall church-tower was soon seen rising before us, at a considerable -distance, and Father Bonneville took the opportunity of a peasant woman, -passing us on the road, to ascertain the name of the town to which the -church belonged. This gave him the key to his topography, which he had -lost during the night, and as the town was still full fifteen miles -distant, he determined to stop at any village he found a few miles ere -we reached it, in order to avoid the stricter examination which was -likely to be enforced in a city. Upon calculating as nearly as our -knowledge of the country enabled us to do, we found that we had made -five-and-thirty miles during the night, and ten or twelve miles more -would put what might be considered a sufficient distance for the time -between ourselves and our enemies. We jogged on quietly then, -encountering a good number of the peasantry who were returning from -market or fair. For a part of the way we rode by the side of an old man -who was journeying in the same direction with ourselves. He had a -shrewd, thoughtful, but quiet eye, and a bland, easy smile, which -perhaps might have made a man well versed in the world doubt his perfect -sincerity, notwithstanding his tall, broad forehead, and a certain -dignity of air that did not bespeak low cunning. He addressed good -Father Bonneville at once as “Monsieur L’abbé,” but looked at him -several times before he said more. - -At first my old companion did not seem to notice the epithet he bestowed -upon him, but after a few more words had passed, he inquired somewhat -abruptly, “What made you call me ‘Abbé,’ citizen?” - -“Your dress,” replied the countryman, “your manner, and your look. The -aristocrat is proud, because he has always commanded, and thinks he has -a right to command. The peasant is vain, because God has implanted in -every French breast the notion that each man is equal to his neighbor, -whether he be a fool or a wise man, a scholar or a dunce, a brave man or -a poltroon, a good man or a knave. But the teacher of religion has a -different look. He has been accustomed to guide and to exhort, and he -knows that it is not only his right but his duty so to do. There is, -therefore, in him a look of confidence and authority, very different -from the haughtiness of the one or the vanity of the other I have -mentioned.” - -“You must have thought and studied more than might have been expected,” -said Father Bonneville, examining him closely. - -“There is no reason why any man should not study, and still less why he -should not think,” replied the other. “I have done both, I acknowledge. -There are more sins committed in France every day than that.” - -“And pray where do you live?” asked Father Bonneville. - -“Come and see,” replied the stranger. “Your horses seem tired, and I -have still some nine miles to go, but we can ride slowly, and at this -next turn we shall quit the high road, which will be a convenience.” - -Father Bonneville agreed to the proposal, and we rode on by the side of -our inviter in desultory conversation, pointed occasionally by -references to passing political events, but generally referring to -subjects altogether indifferent. I was dreadfully tired, I confess, -before we got to the end of our long, slow journey. At length after two -hours’ quiet ride, the stranger said, “We are coming to my home, where -you will be very welcome, and it is as well for you to stay there -to-night; for there is a grand fête of Liberty going on in most of the -villages round, and that lady, like most other pagan deities, is very -fond of human sacrifices. Now it does not much matter whether one is -crushed under the wheels of Juggernaut, or burned by Druids in a basket -of wicker-work, or made to pass through the fire like the children of -those obedient and docile Israelites of old, or have one’s head chopped -off on a little platform in a public square, before the image of a -monstrous woman, in a red night-cap, and with a spear in her hand. It -does not much matter, I say; but all are disagreeable, and all are to be -avoided by every reasonable means. You will therefore be better in my -home there, than in any inn in the neighborhood.” - -“Where?” asked Father Bonneville, gazing on before him, in expectation -of seeing a farmer’s house. - -“There,” replied the stranger, pointing to a magnificent château upon a -rising ground near. “You marvel, I see, and I can guess your -inquiry—how I have contrived to keep possession of my own, when the -universal war-cry through all France is, ‘War to the Castle, Peace to -the Cottage.’ I have not time for long explanation; but sufficient may -be told briefly. You see this coat of coarse gray cloth. It is the sign, -the key, of my whole life. I too was bred an ecclesiastic. The death of -three elder brothers put me in possession of that thing upon the hill. I -have unfrocked myself, but I retain my early habits, and respect my -voluntary vows. I remain in two or three little chambers, while very -often boors revel in the halls of my ancestors. But they have a shrewd -notion that if I were gone they would not have the means of revelry to -as great an extent as at present—that if my property was confiscated, -it would fall into the hands of worse men than myself; and so long as I, -the master of it, act but as the steward of it, they are well contented -to leave me alone in my office without bringing my head to the -guillotine, which would be of no use at all to any one, and without -seizing upon my lands, it would be a great embarrassment to themselves. -Moreover, I have once or twice threatened to resign all my possessions -into the hands of the Commune, and the very lowest of the people have -been those to beseech me the most earnestly to refrain, knowing very -well that they get a better part of the spoil now than they otherwise -would. Thus I have got a certain command over them, and I do what I like -without fear of any buzzing rumors, or public denunciations. The man who -denounced me would very soon find his way to the lantern, and as it is -unpleasant to occupy in darkness the place of a light, with a rope round -one’s neck, people abstain. There are a hundred people in yonder town -who could hang me to-morrow; but my death would be sure to hang a -hundred of themselves, and therefore I have the majority on my side. But -come, let us go in through the gates.” - -We entered the château, leaving our horses in the care of a laboring man -in the court, who seemed not a bit less respectful to the master of the -house than the servant of any old noble in the ancient days. This was in -itself an anomaly in those times; for the vain desire of equality had -completely perverted men’s judgments, and they sought not alone to sweep -away the differences created by a long established social system, but -even those fundamental differences produced by the will of God. I -believe, in those days—amongst a great mass of the people at least—as -much jealous hatred was felt toward superior intellect as toward -superior wealth or superior station. - -On passing the doors of the building we found some ten or twelve men -seated in the eating-room drinking and talking. The master of the house -passed through, nodded to them, called them citizens, and said, “Make -good cheer of it. There is more where that comes from.” - -A cheerful, good-humored laugh was the reply, and he walked on up the -stairs, leading us to a little suite of apartments which he reserved for -himself, and where his privacy was respected even by the rude men who -surrounded him. There he left us, and went out to procure some -refreshment for us, part of which he brought in himself. The rest, with -a considerable quantity of plate, which he seemed to think in perfect -security, notwithstanding open doors and strange visitors, was brought -in by a servant of the old school, but not in livery. When the man was -gone we ate and drank and refreshed ourselves, and a conversation, not -only of interest but of importance, occurred between our entertainer and -Father Bonneville. The former seemed to comprehend our situation, or at -least as much of it as was necessary, without any explanation; and he -gave a great deal of very good and minute advice as to our conduct while -traveling through France. He advised the good Father, strongly, to put -on a brown coat, saying that the reputation of an abbé was worse than -that of a priest. He advised him also to give up the plan of traveling -on horseback, and betake himself to a _chaise de poste_. - -“I don’t ask where you are going, or what you intend to do, but by -coming with post-horses, and lodging at the post-house, wherever they -entertain there, you gain favor with one class of the community whose -assistance is of great importance to travelers.” - -Father Bonneville ventured to tell him that there were difficulties in -the way of posting, as we were not furnished with those papers which -were sometimes inquired for at post-houses. - -“Oh, I will manage that very soon for you,” said our host. “The mayor -shall furnish you with the necessary passports.” - -“But he knows nothing of us,” replied Father Bonneville. - -“He knows me,” replied the other, with a significant nod of his head, -“he wont refuse me. It is rather a painful state of things when each -man’s life is in another man’s power. There are plenty to misuse the -advantage, and I have never seen why I should not employ it to better -purposes. The mayor will probably be guillotined in six months. He -calculates it will be longer, but I think he makes a mistake. However, -he knows I could have him guillotined in six days, and is therefore very -compliable.” - -“And pray,” said Father Bonneville, with a somewhat rueful smile, “how -long do you contemplate keeping your own head where it is?” - -“It is hardly worth consideration,” replied the other; “for I say of my -head, as a friend of mine said of his house which was likely to fall -about his ears, ‘It will last my time.’ In truth it is of very little -use to any but myself, or I dare say they would have taken it long ago. -The same worthlessness may or may not protect it for a month, a year, or -even till these evil times pass away; for you are not to suppose, my -good friend, that this state will last for ever. It is a mere irruption -of human vanity. We Frenchmen are the vainest people upon earth, the -whole nation is vain, and every individual is vain. This vanity makes -each man unwilling to see any other a bit higher, richer, or in any -respect better off than himself; but there are certain fundamental laws -of order which man may overturn for a time, but which always resume -their power. The wise rule in the end. Industry and talent raise -themselves in spite of resistance, forethought and care produce wealth, -and if you were to take every acre of land throughout France, and every -louis d’or, and divide them equally amongst the whole people, so that -there should not be the difference of a sous, before fifty years had -passed you would find the differences all restored, some men rich, other -men poor, some men ruling, other men obeying, some enjoying, others -laboring. Nay more, my belief is, that within the same time, you would -find rank, titles and distinctions restored also.” - -Father Bonneville shook his head. - -“I am very sure of it,” replied the other, in answer to the doubtful -shake. “There are many countries in which a pure democracy might -exist—perhaps in England—but certainly not in France. Our very blood -is feudal and chivalrous. History, which is the memory of nations, is -filled with nothing but feudal and chivalrous facts. We are too light, -too vain, too volatile to do without distinction for any length of time, -and we have not a sufficient spirit of organization in our character to -do without a king in some shape or other. I think it must be an absolute -shape; but take my word for it, France will never be forty years at any -one time without counts, barons and marquises, dukes, peers, stars and -ribbons. You might as well attempt to make us Quakers as real -republicans. A lion may perhaps be taught to dance like a monkey for an -hour or two, but take my word for it, in the end he will eat his -dancing-master; and you might as well attempt to change a lion’s nature -as a Frenchman’s. However, you shall have the passports to-morrow, or I -do not know the mayor. He is a very excellent person, but has an -over-strong regard for the integrity of his neck.” - -“I wish I possessed your secret of living so much at ease amidst such -scenes, and exercising so much influence over such men,” said Father -Bonneville. - -“Mystery, mystery!” said our host with a smile. “That is the whole -secret. No one knows what I am going to do next. No one knows why I am -going to do it. Whenever there is any great question agitated in regard -to which I am forced to take a part, I give a full and complete -explanation of my views, in terms which not a man who hears me can -comprehend. I use the language of the times, the cant words and pet -phrases of the multitude, and generally I go one little step before any -of the movements I see coming; for where millions of people are running -a race, as we are in France, the man who stops even to buckle his shoe -is certain to be knocked down and trampled to death. But now I will show -you your sleeping place. You will find the beds good. May you never have -worse.” - -Our host was as good as his word in all respects. Before we woke in the -morning the passports had been procured, containing a very tolerable -description of Father Bonneville under the name of Citoyen Jerome -Charlier, and of myself under that of Louis Lassi. Our horses were sold -to no great disadvantage by the intervention of our entertainer, a -little post-chaise bought from the post-master himself, at about five -louis more than it was worth, and at about eleven o’clock in the day we -set out on the direct road for Paris, in a manner which suited me much -better, I confess, than that which we had previously pursued. I have -little doubt that the good Father, too, who had not ridden for twenty -years, was in the same predicament. I will only dwell upon our farther -journey toward the capital so far as to state that it passed easily, and -without interruption, which we attributed to the fact of having cut -across the country, in such a direction as to be now traveling upon a -line of high road totally different from that which led from Paris to -the place of our previous residence. - - - THE CAPITAL. - -My remembrance of the journey to Paris, and the conversations which took -place upon the road, is more perfect than of any other of the events -which took place at that time. But it is, perhaps, in some degree a -factitious memory; for I have talked about it so frequently since, that -I hardly know which are the facts supplied by my own mind, which those -related to me by others. I recollect clearly and distinctly, however, -our entrance into Paris on a dark and stormy night, our detention at the -gates, and the examination of the carriage by lantern-light. I shall -not, I think, ever forget the impression produced upon my mind by the -long, tortuous streets of that great capital, with the dim lanterns -swinging on chains stretched across from house to house, the enormously -tall buildings on every side, and the multitude of people who thronged -the streets even at that hour, and in that weather. I thought the -journey through Paris would never have come to an end, but at length the -_chaise de poste_ drove into the court of a second-rate inn, in the Rue -des Victoires, not far from the hospital of the Quinze-vingts. Our -arrival created no sensation. No active porters, no ready waiters were -there to welcome or assist. The house rose dark and gloomy, on the four -sides of the court-yard, up to an amazing height in the sky, leaving us, -like Truth, in the bottom of a well, and as good Father Bonneville knew -not much more of the ways of Paris than I did myself, I do not know what -would have become of us if it had not been necessary to pay the -postillion. It was too dark in the court to see the money, and as he did -not choose to take it upon trust, he said he would go and fetch the -concierge and his lantern. Accordingly, he dug out of a den, at the side -of the port-cochere, a very curious, antiquated specimen of humanity, -with a broad belt over his shoulder, very much like one of those in -which the beadles of old French churches used to stick their useless -swords. He held the lantern while the money was counted out, and then -was kind enough, though somewhat slowly, to lead us up a very dark and -narrow stair-case to the first floor of the house, where the hotel in -reality began. I never discovered what was done with the ground floor; -for there were no shops in it, and it seemed to be left entirely to take -care of itself. The mistress of the house—she had a husband, but poor -little thing, he never presumed to interfere in any thing—was an -enormously tall, and tolerably portly woman, apparently of five or six -and thirty years of age, very fresh, good-looking and good-humored. She -was a Fleming by birth, and bore evident traces of her origin in her -fair hair, blue eyes, and brilliant complexion. She was enchanted to see -us, she assured us, would provide for our accommodation as no other -people had ever been provided for before, ordered some supper for us -immediately, and in the meanwhile, took us to see our rooms, which were -a story higher. There was a great, large, gloomy chamber, tesselated -with brick well waxed, a bed in an alcove, two small closets on each -side of the alcove, and a fire-place big enough to burn a forest. This -was for Father Bonneville. My own room was about the size of the alcove -and its two closets, and close by the side of the good Father’s chamber. -To my young eyes it looked more snug and comfortable than his. But we -were each contented it would seem. The bags were brought up, the -post-chaise put in the remise, and my little store of clothing being -placed in my room, I washed away the dust of travel, brushed the young, -unfrosted hair which then curled so thickly over my head, and feeling -somewhat solitary in the great world around me, found my way to the -chamber of my good preceptor, who was sitting with his feet, one upon -each andiron, contemplating with deep interest, as it seemed to me, the -blazing logs as they fizzed and crackled on the hearth. Poor man, his -thoughts, I fancy, were very far away, and he took no notice of me for a -minute or two, while I meditated on the intense smell of roasting coffee -and veal ragout which seemed to form the atmosphere of the house. - -Father Bonneville had just wakened from his reverie, and was speaking a -word or two as the commencement of a conversation, when a waiter came in -to announce that our supper was ready, with as discreet and deferential -an air as if we had been two aristocrats living under the ancien regime. - -“Go down with him, Louis,” said Father Bonneville, “and I will join you -directly.” - -I followed the waiter down the stairs which I was now happy to find -lighted by a single lamp, and entered the _salle à manger_. How can I -describe the dinginess of that strange room? It was long and not very -large, with a good-sized table down the middle, and a fire-place with a -broad mantlepiece in one corner. Three windows, which were supposed to -give it light in the day time, but which, as they looked into the narrow -court, never caught one genuine, unadulterated ray of the sun, now -looked as black as ink upon the wall, although, sooth to say, that wall -itself was of a hue little less sombre. Who was the inventor of painting -panneling in oil, I really do not know, but I cannot imagine that any -hand but his own could have so decorated that wall, or that a brush of -any kind could ever have touched it afterward. I believe that there were -nymphs dancing, represented on the spaces between the windows, but they -certainly looked like Hottentots dancing in the dark. The furniture of -the room was very scanty, consisting of nothing but the long -dining-table, and chairs enough to fit it, but over the end of the table -nearest the fire-place, was spread a beautifully white damask cloth, on -which appeared two candlesticks, two napkins, a number of knives and -forks and plates, and no less than eight dishes, from which exhaled a -very savory odor, I mechanically walked up toward the fire, when -suddenly, to my horror and consternation, a voice addressed me from the -mantlepiece, exclaiming, “Petit coquin, petit coquin!” and the next -instant there was a whirr, and I felt something brush my cheek and fall -upon my shoulder. On examination, it proved to be a bird of a kind which -I had never seen before, and which, in this individual instance, I -probably should not have recognized, if I had seen a thousand of its -species. It was a cockatoo, which had thought fit to moult in the midst -of the winter, and had done it so completely, that though warmly enough -robed in a covering of fine down, not a feather was to be seen upon its -body, except the pen feathers of the wings, those of the tail, and a -long yellow crest on the head. I call it yellow, because that is the -color it ought to have been, but, to say sooth, its fondness for the -chimney-corner had so completely smoked my new friend, that the general -hue of its whole body was a dull but most decided gray. - -It seemed an amiable and affectionate bird, however, although with its -yellowish crest, and unfeathered form, it looked very much like one of -those meagre dowagers whom we see at parties with dresses a great deal -too much cut down for the satisfaction of the beholders. It continued -repeating in a playful and endearing tone, “petit coquin, petit coquin!” -as if it imagined the epithet to imply the greatest tenderness. While -the words were yet in its beak, however, and before any regular -conversation had begun between us, the party was augmented by another -gentleman carrying in his hand a round hat with three broad bands, which -was generally one of the signs or symbols of a man well provided in -official situations. - -He was a stout and self-important, but evidently a very keen personage. -He was one of those for whom trifles have much importance, not from any -peculiar capacity for dealing in details, but because a natural tendency -of the mind of man to attach a certain degree of magnitude to all he -observes himself had not been properly corrected in his youth. The bird -was still rhyming, “petit coquin, petit coquin,” and advancing at once -toward me with an air of jovial frankness, he caught me by the arm, -saying, “Ah, little rogue, the bird knows you, it seems. Now, you are -some young aristocrat, I will warrant.” - -Now it so happened, that I made the exact answer which was required -under the circumstances. Let it be understood that I had received no -instructions whatever; that Father Bonneville had never even touched -upon the subject of politics in his own house; that while deploring -excesses, and excited and alarmed by the crimes, which he saw going on -every day around him, he had never even hinted an opinion upon any of -the great questions which agitated the public mind at the time. But in -my walks through the town and the country, I had been so much -accustomed, for the last twelve months or more, to hear the name of -aristocrat applied to any one who wore a better coat than his neighbor, -that I gradually learned to look upon that term as implying the basest, -meanest, and most pitiful of all things. My cheek flushed, my brow -contracted with an expression of anger which could not be assumed, and I -replied, sharply, “No, citizen, no! Neither I, or any one I know, are -aristocrats. You insult us by calling us so.” - -My passion was ridiculous enough; for I had not the slightest idea in -the world what the word aristocrat meant. Nevertheless, it had its -effect, although that might have been lost for want of witnesses, had -not Madame Michaud entered the room at the moment, to see that -everything was properly provided for her honored guests. - -“There, Monsieur Le Commissaire,” she said, “I think you have got your -answer. You do not expect to find aristocrats in my house, I suppose.” - -“I have found one,” answered the commissary, nodding his head; “and he -will find soon that he is discovered. Shake hands, citizen, if you are -really and truly a lover of your country and the rights of man. But -mind, you don’t presume to touch my hand if you are only shamming a love -of freedom.” - -I placed my hand in his boldly, and shook it warmly; for I had as little -idea of that in which true freedom consists as most of his patient -followers in the political career, who, with very rare exceptions, were -devout worshipers of words, with a very indefinite notion, indeed, of -things. - -He was satisfied, it seemed, and sat down to take a cup of coffee and -drink a glass of liqueur with Madame Michaud—without paying for them. -Indeed, he seemed upon very amicable terms with the lady, and I strongly -suspect that it was good policy in all hostesses of Paris, not to refuse -any thing that commissaries of police might think fit to demand. - -Shortly after, Father Bonneville made his appearance, and although he -answered all civil interrogatories, he played his part so discreetly, -that no suspicion seemed to be aroused. - -The commissary quitted the room in jovial good-humor, and the rest of -the evening passed without any thing remarkable. - -About this time, the images which memory presents in her long -looking-glass, are somewhat vague, and ill-defined—perhaps I have not -had the opportunity of refreshing my remembrance as to the minute -details, and many a scene stands out in strong relief from a picture -generally dark and obscure. Only one of those scenes will I notice here, -before I go on to matters more immediately affecting myself. - -There was what is called a _table d’hôte_ at the inn where we stayed—a -great accommodation to travelers—which is now very common, though in -the time I speak of, it was more customary to lodge in what is called an -_hôtel garni_, and to obtain one’s food from without. One day, I know -not whether it was the second or third after our arrival, we were seated -at the dinner-table in the hall, when the same commissary of police I -have mentioned, entered the room, and slowly looked round the guests. I -could see many a changing countenance at the table—some rosy faces -which became white, and warm, glowing lips, which partook of on ashy -paleness. The commissioner, however, fixed his eyes upon one particular -gentleman, a man, perhaps, of fifty-seven or fifty-eight years of age, -who had been one of the lightest and gayest of the guests. He saw the -peculiar look of the officer, and probably understood its meaning -completely; but he staid to finish quietly the joke which hung upon his -lips, and then asked with the laugh still ringing around him— - -“Mister commissary, is your business with me?” - -The commissary slowly nodded his head, and our friend who was sitting -next to Father Bonneville on the right, instantly rose, saying with a -jocund smile—“I anticipated great things from the second course, but I -must resign it, and do so with the self denial of a hermit. Ladies and -gentlemen, there are three things greatly to be desired in life: a -pleasant hopeful youth; a warm and genial middle life; and a short, -unclouded, old age. The two first I have obtained, by the mercy of -God—or of the Gods—or of any God that you like, Monsieur -Commissaire—the third is very likely to be granted to me likewise. I -will therefore only drink one more glass to the good health of all here -present, before I drink another draught little less acceptable, and -infinitely more tranquilizing.” - -Thus saying, he raised a glass of wine already filled, toward his lips, -bowed gracefully round the table, drank the wine, and walked out of the -room with the commissary of police. - -The next day, at noon, we heard he had just been guillotined. - - - OLD ACQUAINTANCES RENEWED. - -Why we lingered in Paris I never knew, or have forgotten. It is very -probable, there were difficulties in the way to the frontier, which good -Father Bonneville feared to encounter—or, perhaps, he was sensible of -the approach of severe illness, and feared to undertake the journey in -such a state of health. The fatigues of our flight had been too much for -the old man, and although he never appeared upon the way half as tired -as I was, yet, after our labors were over, while I rallied and became as -brisk and active as ever in four-and-twenty hours, he remained languid -and feeble, and unwilling to stir out of his room. He would not confine -me, however, to the hotel, but suffered me to visit various parts of -Paris, where objects worthy of attention were to be seen. I thus -acquired a tolerable knowledge of the principal leading thoroughfares of -the town, and could find my way from one part of the city to another, -with perfect ease. - -For some time, I shut my eyes to the fact that my old friend and -protector was really ill; but when we had been in Paris about a -fortnight, the change which had taken place in his appearance, his pale -and haggard face, and the thinness of his always delicate and beautiful -hands, awoke me to a sense of his real state. - -“I fear you are not well, my Father,” I said, as I sat by his side, -while he leaned back in his great chair, with his feet to the fire. - -Father Bonneville shook his head mournfully, and I urged him to let me -go for a physician. - -“I believe you must, Louis,” he answered; “for I do feel very ill, and I -would fain recover strength enough at all events, to place you, my son, -in safety before I die.” - -“There is a physician lives close by,” I said, “I can run for him in a -minute.” - -“No, no,” cried the good priest, “that will not do. There was a -physician here in Paris, whom I knew in days of old—a good and a -sincere man, who would not betray us, but on the contrary, would give us -aid and advice in other matters, besides those of mere health. Do you -know the Place Du Petit Chatelet, Louis?” - -I replied, that I knew it well, and Father Bonneville wrote down the -name of a physician, and the number of his house, saying in the -desponding tone of sickness— - -“Very likely he may be dead, and then I know not what we shall do.” - -Without any loss of time, I sallied out into the streets of Paris, in -search of Dr. L——. It was a fine, clear, cold afternoon, with the snow -lying piled up at the sides of the streets, the fountains all frozen, -and the chains of the street-lamps covered with glittering frost. The -wind was keen and cutting, and few people, especially of the lower -orders, were in the street; for though _sans culottism_ may be a very -good thing, it is by no means warm, and the worthy rulers of the -destinies of France at that moment, had not great-coats enough amongst -them to render them indifferent to a north-east wind. I could thus -pursue my way rapidly, uninterrupted by the crowds which usually -thronged the streets of the French capital, and though doubtless I did -not take all the shortest ways, I soon reached the place I was seeking. -The houses were tall, dirty, well-smoked, and ever open doors round the -whole place, gave entrance to innumerable stair-cases which led up to -the dwellings of low advocates, notaries public, physicians, artists, -poor men of letters, and all that class who scrape a precarious -existence from the faults, the follies, the misfortunes, the miseries of -others. But now I had a very puzzling calculation to make. Father -Bonneville had written down, after the name of Dr. L——, number five, -Place du Petit Chatelet, but not a house was to be seen which had a -number on it, and I was obliged to guess at which corner the numeration -commenced. I was evidently wrong in my first essay, for no Doctor L—— -could I find in the house which I fixed upon; and short and snappish -were the answers I got at the various doors where I applied. - -That could not be number five, and so I turned to the other side of the -square, and began in the opposite direction. As I was counting the -houses from the corner, I saw a little girl coming from a street nearly -in face of me, with a basket in her hand, and poorly dressed. She turned -suddenly into one of the door-ways, and I sprang after her, running as -fast as possible and nearly overturning an old woman, who was roasting -chestnuts in a tin kettle—for which I had my benediction. Little cared -I, however; for my heart beat wildly, and the only thing I feared at -that moment, was, that I should lose sight of that little girl with the -basket; for I had taken it into my head at once that she was Mariette de -Salins. She had gone up the stairs, however, when I reached the door, -and without pausing for an instant I ran up after her, just in time to -see her enter an apartment on the second floor, the door of which was -closing as I approached. I knocked sharply, without a moment’s -consideration, when an elderly man, with thin and powdered white hair, -and a pleasant, though grave expression of countenance, presented -himself, asking who I wanted. - -A moment’s consideration had shown me that it might be dangerous to -mention the name of Mariette; nor must it be supposed that such -discretion was at all marvelous in a boy of my age at that time; for -those were days of constant peril, when every act was to be thought of, -every word weighed, and the habit of caution and reserve was inculcated -as a duty upon even mere children. On the spur of the occasion, then, I -replied that I was seeking Dr. L——, still keeping my eyes fixed upon a -door which stood ajar heading into a room beyond. - -“My name is Doctor L——,” replied the old man. “What is it you want -with me, my son? And why are you looking so earnestly in there?” - -“I want you to come and see a gentleman who is sick,” I replied, “in the -Hotel de Clermont, close by the Quinze-vingts.” - -“Is he very ill?” asked the doctor. “What is his name?” - -But before I could answer either of his questions the inner door I have -mentioned was drawn back, the beautiful little face peeped out, and in a -moment after Mariette was in my arms. - -“I thought it was you, dear Mariette,” I cried, kissing her tenderly, -while she seemed never tired of hugging me. “Where is your mother? How -is she?” - -“Hush, hush!” said the old doctor, closing the outer door; “no questions -or answers of any kind here, except medical ones. Mariette knows well -that she must be silent, and answer no inquiries—and so,” he continued, -after having thus stopped all explanations between us, “I suppose I am -to conclude, my son, that this story of the sick man is a fiction, and -that your object was to catch your little playfellow here.” - -“No indeed,” I replied, with some indignation, “I have not been taught -to speak falsehoods, sir. The gentleman I mentioned, does wish to see -you, and is very ill. His name you will know when you see him; for you -have met before—not that I mean to say I did not want to see Mariette, -and indeed you must let her tell me where I can find her; for it is a -long, long time since I have seen her.” - -“That cannot be,” said the doctor, gravely; “she must learn to keep -counsel—are you of the same town, then?” - -“Oh, she lived with me for a long time,” I replied; “and the gentleman -whom I want you to come and see is the same who was so kind to her -there.” - -“I should like to see him very much,” said Mariette, looking down. - -“Well, well, I will go to him,” said the doctor, gravely, “and if it be -proper that you two children should meet again, I will bring it about. -Now you, Mariette, go in and empty your basket as usual. You, my son, go -back to your friend, and say I will be with him in an hour.” - -Thus saying, he led me gently by the arm to the door and put me out, and -I hastened back with all my intelligence to Father Bonneville, asking -him if it were not strange that I should find Mariette just at the house -of Doctor L——. - -“Perhaps not,” replied the good priest, with a faint smile. “The doctor -is a native of our own province, and known to many of the good and the -wise there.” - -He said no more upon the subject, and made no inquiries, but remained -somewhat listlessly in his chair gazing into the fire, till at length -came a gentle knock at the door, and the physician entered, dressed with -somewhat more care than he had been an hour before, with a -three-cornered hat on his head, and a gold-headed cane in his hand. He -approached Father Bonneville with an unconscious air, and without the -slightest sign of recognition, till the old priest held out his hand to -him, saying—“Ah, my friend, do you not remember me? You have not -changed so much as I have, it would seem.” - -Doctor L—— started back; for the sweet, silvery tones of the voice -seemed to wake up memory, and he exclaimed—“Is it possible? my good -friend, Bonneville!—Nay, nay. You are too much changed for time to have -done it all. You must be really ill. Leave us, my young friend, I doubt -not we shall soon set all this to rights.” - -I retreated into my little room where it was cold enough, for there was -no fire-place, and waited there shivering very tolerably for nearly an -hour, while Dr. L—— and the good priest remained in consultation. At -the end of that time Dr. L—— came and called me back, and when I -re-entered Father Bonneville’s room, held me by the arm at a little -distance from him, gazing very earnestly in my face, and seeming to -scrutinize every line. - -“Yes,” he said at length, turning to my old friend; “yes, he is very -like him—Poor boy, what a fate!—Well, my young friend,” he said, -suddenly changing the subject. “We must get good Citizen Charlier here, -to his bed as soon as possible. He will be well soon, and would have -been well by this time if he had sent for me before. But we must try and -make up for lost time. I will not send him to the apothecary’s,” he -said, “for drugs, for we are never sure of them at those places—one man -acknowledged the other day that during twenty years he had never sold -one genuine ounce of rhubarb. I have two other visits to pay; but let -him come to my house in an hour and a half, and I will send what will do -you good. Perhaps I may see you again to-night.” - -“Shall I find Mariette with you?” I asked, looking up in the doctor’s -face. - -The good man shook his head, and then turning to Father Bonneville, said -with a smile—“I think these two children are in love with each other; -but little Mariette is so discreet that she would not even tell me who -he was or who you were. She has had bitter lessons of caution for one so -young—perhaps you may sometimes see her at my house, my son; but you -must imitate her discretion, and neither ask any questions, nor answer -them if put to you by strangers.” - -“Oh, Louis is growing very discreet,” said Father Bonneville; “for we -have had warnings enough since we have been in this house to prevent us -from taking the bridle off our tongues for a moment—fare you well, my -good friend, I shall be glad to see you again to-night if you can -contrive to come; but yet I do not think it is needful for my health -that you should take such trouble.” - -“We will see, we will see,” replied the doctor, and shaking him by the -hand he left the room. - -The good Father, then, with my assistance, undressed and went to bed, -where, to say sooth, he would have been much better three or four days -before; and at the appointed hour I went for the medicines which had -been promised, but saw no one except an old female servant, who gave me -two bottles addressed to Citizen Charlier. - -As I returned, I met a furious mob coming up the streets with a bloody -head upon a pike, and perhaps I was in some peril, though I was not -aware of it at the time. My dress, though very plain, was neat and -whole, and I was seized as I attempted to pass through the mob, by a -gaunt, fierce-looking man, with hardly one untattered piece of clothing -on his back. He called me a cursed little aristocrat, and made the man -who bore the head upon the pike, lower the bloody witness of their -inhuman deeds to make me kiss it. They brought it to the level of my -head, and thrust its dark, contorted features into my face. But I -stoutly refused to kiss it, saying I was not an aristocrat; and why -should I kiss a head that they told me had belonged to one. - -“If you can make me out an aristocrat,” I exclaimed, “I will kiss it.” - -“What have you got here in your hand?” cried the sans-culotte, snatching -the bottles from me. - -“Only medicines for a sick man,” I replied. - -He tore off the paper, however, opened one of the bottles and put it to -his mouth, then spat upon the ground with a blasphemous oath, -exclaiming—“He is only a garçon apothecaire. Let him pass, let him -pass! He will kill as many sacre aristocrats with his cursed drugs as we -can with the guillotine. Let the imp pass. His is a trade that should be -encouraged.” - -Thus saying, he marched on, and his fierce and malignant companions -followed. I cannot say that I was in reality at all frightened. Every -thing had passed so quickly that I had not had time to become alarmed; -but I felt bewildered, and paused for a moment to gather my senses -together after the mob had passed into the Place du Petit Chatelet which -was close at hand. I was still standing there when I heard a voice -saying, “Louis, Louis.” - -I looked round, but could see nobody, and the only place from which the -sound could proceed, appeared to be one of those open doors so common in -Paris at the time, with a dark passage beyond it. - -“Louis, Louis,” said the voice again; “come in here, I want to speak to -you.” - -It was not the tongue of Mariette certainly; for her sweet, child-like -tones I should have known any where; and I hesitated whether I should go -in or not. I resolved not to seem cowardly, however, and walked into the -passage. I could then see faintly, a tall, and as it appeared to me, -graceful figure move on before me, and I followed into a little room -quite at the back of the house, to which the light was admitted from a -little court behind. There the figure turned as I entered, and I beheld -Madame de Salins. - -The room itself presented a painful picture of poverty. It could not -have been above ten feet square, and in one corner, without curtains, or -any shelter from the wind, was the bed of Madame de Salins herself, and -close by it a little bed for her daughter. The latter, indeed, was -fenced round with a shawl hung upon two chairs, which only left one in -the room vacant. A table, a broken looking-glass, a few cups and -glasses, with a coffee-pot standing by the fire, seemed to form all the -other furniture of the chamber. I had very little time to look round me; -for Madame de Salins at once began to inquire after the health of Father -Bonneville. - -“I saw you from a front window,” she said, as soon as I had answered her -first questions, “and feared that those men would maltreat you; for they -have the hearts of tigers, and spare no one.” - -A sudden fear seized me, lest Mariette should be even then coming from -the house of good Doctor L——, and encounter the ruffians whom I had -just escaped. - -“Is Mariette at the Place du Chatelet?” I asked, eagerly. “Let me go and -see that no harm happens to her.” - -“No, no,” replied Madame de Salins. “She is here with the old lady in -the front room, who lets us sometimes sit with her, as a relief from -this dark, dismal hole. You are a good, brave boy, however, Louis, and -for every kind and generous act you do, depend upon it you will have -your reward. Mariette, thank God, is quite safe, and she has learnt -whenever she sees a crowd to avoid it. But tell me more about Father -Bonneville. Does Doctor L—— think he is in danger?” - -I was not able to give her any satisfactory answer, for I really did not -know what was the physician’s opinion of my good preceptor’s case. - -“Tell him,” said Madame de Salins, “that I will come to see him if I can -do so secretly; but I am under surveillance, and all my movements, I -fear, will be watched till some new change takes place in this -ever-shifting government. I have several things to say to him, and could -wish to see him much.” - -She spoke in an anxious and thoughtful tone, and doubtless had many -matters of deep and painful importance pressing upon her mind at the -moment. Boy-like, however, my attention was directed principally to the -more obvious inconveniencies which she suffered, and I said, “I am -afraid you must be very badly off here, madame.” - -The lady smiled. “Badly enough, my dear boy,” she replied. “But yet we -might be very much worse—nay, we have been much worse in mind, if not -in body. But I will not keep you now. Tell Monsieur de Bonneville what I -have said, and add that if he has any thing to reply, he can communicate -it to me through Doctor L——.” - -When I reached the inn, my first task was to give good Father Bonneville -the medicine prescribed for him, and then to tell him of my interview -with Madame de Salins. He seemed greatly interested, and repeated once -or twice, “Poor thing! poor thing! I hope she will be successful; but I -can’t help her—I can do nothing to help her. I know too little to give -her advice, and have no power to give her assistance.” - -I did not press the subject upon him, nor make any inquiries, but sat -for a long time by his bed-side reading to him both in Latin and in -French. English was by this time quite forbidden between us, and we had -no English books. - -In the evening, toward nine o’clock, Doctor L—— came again, and felt -his patient’s pulse with a cheerful air. - -“The good woman of the house,” he said, “waylaid me on the stairs, to -ask if you were likely to die, my good friend, and to suggest that in -that case it would be as well to send you to the hospital. I have spared -you that journey, however, by assuring her that in a week or ten days -you will be well enough to go to the opera, if by that time they have -left any singers with their heads on. They guillotined poor Benoit this -morning. I ventured to suggest that they would not get such another -tenor in a hurry; and so they made him sing before they put him into the -cart, to try, I suppose, how they liked it. Whether he sang too well or -too ill to please them, I don’t know, but they drove him off to the -guillotine, while I was seeing another prisoner.” - -Father Bonneville gave a shudder; but sickness is always more or less -selfish, and though naturally one of the most unselfish men in the -world, his thoughts speedily reverted to himself. “I trust,” he said, -“that there will be no necessity for sending me to the hospital. Did you -quite satisfy the good woman?” - -“Quite,” replied Doctor L——. “I told her that I would be answerable -for your not giving occasion to a funeral from her house, which is what -all these good aubergiste fear. I told her, moreover, that when your -daughter and your granddaughter arrived from the country, you would very -speedily rally.” - -“My daughter,” said Father Bonneville, with a faint smile. “I have no -daughter but spiritual daughters, my friend.” - -“Perhaps we may find you one for the occasion,” said Doctor L——, -laughing. “But I will tell you more about it to-morrow; for although you -must be, of course, consulted whether you will have a child or not, yet -in this case, out of the ordinary course of nature, the child must first -be asked whether she likes to be born. In short, I have a scheme in my -head, my good friend; but it requires maturing, and the pivot upon which -it all turns is your rapid recovery. So take care of yourself; cast care -from your mind for the present, and you will speedily be both well and -strong again.” - -Thus saying, he left him, and for two or three days no event of any -importance occurred, except the gradual improvement of Father -Bonneville, under the kind and zealous treatment of the good physician. - - - A PERIOD OF CHANGES. - -At the period I speak of there were changes in Paris every day. True, -one horror was only succeeded by another, and one fierce tyranny but -made place for a tyranny more fierce and barbarous. The condemnation of -the king, and his death, which followed shortly after, occupied for a -time all thoughts, and filled many a bosom which had previously felt the -strongest, nay, even the wildest aspirations for liberty, with gloom, -and doubt, and dread. The moment, however, the head of the good king -fell upon the scaffold the death-struggle began between the Mountain and -the Gironde, and in the many heaves and throes of the contending -factions, many persons found opportunity to escape from perils which had -previously surrounded them. Although a mere boy at the time, I was quite -familiar with the daily history of these events; for they were in every -body’s mouth, and I might even greatly swell this little memoir, by -narrating minutely the various scenes, some terrible, some ludicrous, -which I myself beheld. The most terrible was the death of the king, of -which, jammed in by the multitude, without a possibility of escape, I -was myself present, and within a few yards of the instrument of death. -But it is my object to pass as lightly as possible over these young -recollections, though many of them were too deeply graven on memory ever -to be effaced. I shall never forget, as long as I live, the face of a -tall, gaunt man, who was close to me at the moment when the king -attempted to speak to the people, and the drums were ordered to beat, to -drown the voice of the royal martyr. Rage and indignation and shame were -written in every line, and I heard him mutter between his teeth, “Oh, -were there but an hundred men in Paris true to France and to -themselves!” - -My own belief is, that a very few acting at that moment in concert, and -fearless of their own safety, might not only have saved the effusion of -the king’s blood, but might have given a different direction to the -revolution, and saved the lives of thousands. However that might be, I -went away from the scene with horror, and shut myself up for the rest of -the day with good Father Bonneville, who was now able to rise. The -physician saw him twice during the day, and once I was sent out of the -room for a short time. Doctor L—— spoke jokingly more than once in my -presence, of the good priest’s daughter and granddaughter, and though I -did not see the point of the jest, I imagined it was one way he had of -amusing himself. - -Father Bonneville, however, seemed to me to humor him strangely, -answering him in the same strain, and inquiring when he thought his -daughter would arrive. - -“I really cannot tell,” replied the physician. “But, of course, you will -have a letter from her before she comes.” - -Three days afterward a letter was brought from the post-office, and -Father Bonneville examined the seal with a smile. It had not been -considered inviolable, that was clear; for either at the post-office or -in the hotel, they had thought fit to open the letter without even -taking the decent precaution of resealing it again. The contents of the -epistle I saw, and they certainly puzzled me a good deal when first -Father Bonneville gave the paper into my hand. - -The letter began, “My dear Father,” and went on in the usual strain of a -child writing to a parent, telling him how much grieved she was to hear -that he had been sick in Paris, expressing fears that he had -over-fatigued himself in seeking for news of her dear husband, and -informing him that she would soon be in Paris herself, with her little -girl, to pursue the inquiry. The letter throughout was filled with a -great number of the cant expressions of republicanism, then common, and -it ended with declaring that if the writer’s dear husband was dead, she -could console herself with the thought that he had died in defense of -his country, though she could not bear the idea that he might be -lingering ill of his wounds without any affectionate hands to tend him. -The letter was addressed to “Citizen Jerome Charlier,” was dated from a -provincial town in Poitou, and was signed “Clarisse Bonfin.” - -Father Bonneville smiled as he marked the expression of my face in -reading the letter; and when I had done, he asked me if I knew who these -relations of his were. I replied in the negative, and he answered, -nodding his head, “Some whom you know very well; but you must remember, -Louis, you are only to know them as my daughter and granddaughter, and -as your own aunt and cousin. Call the lady ‘Aunt Clarisse,’ or ‘Aunt -Bonfin,’ and the little girl, ‘Mariette Bonfin.’” - -The last words threw a ray of light upon the whole affair—and I was -delighted. There is nothing, I believe, that children love so much as a -little mystery, especially boys of thirteen or fourteen; but I had the -additional satisfaction of having to play a part in the drama—a task -always charming to a child brought up in France. I acted my character -rather well, I flatter myself; and when Father Bonneville, well knowing -that the letter had been read before it reached him, sent me to talk to -our good hostess about rooms for our expected relations, I gave the -buxom dame quite enough of Aunt Bonfin and Cousin Mariette, and -described them both so accurately, that she could have no doubt of my -personal acquaintance with these supposed connections. She thought it -best, however, to deal with Citizen Charlier himself in regard to the -apartments to be engaged, and visited him in his room for that purpose. - -The old gentleman was very taciturn, and seemed to think it a part of -his character to drive a hard bargain. - -“His daughter,” he said, “was not rich: she had a great deal of -hard-work and traveling before her to find out what had become of her -husband, who had been wounded if not killed at Jenappes, and she could -not afford to throw her money away in inns.” There was a good deal of -skirmishing on these points, and a good deal of laughter and jest upon -the part of our hostess, who seemed as well contented, and as -comfortable as if there were no such thing as a guillotine in the world, -though her table d’hôte rather suffered from time to time, in -consequence of her guests being deprived of the organs of mastication -amongst others. The whole, however, was settled at length, and two days -afterward, I was informed that Madame Bonfin had arrived with her -daughter in a little post-chaise. - -The good priest was not yet well enough to quit his room, but I ran down -the dingy stair-case into the court-yard, and as I expected, found -Madame de Salins and Mariette just getting out of a dirty little -vehicle, with a wooden apron, which bore the name of a cabriolet. Madame -de Salins embraced me kindly, and I did not forget to call her Aunt -Clarisse, while Mariette literally sprang into my arms, and I thought -would have smothered me with caresses. If there had been any doubts -previously in the minds of the people of the inn, they were all -dissipated by the tenderness of this meeting, and Madame de Salins and -her daughter followed me up stairs to the room of good Father -Bonneville. One of the waiters accompanied us, but there the meeting was -conducted as naturally as it had been below, and the words, “my -daughter” and “my father,” passed habitually between the good priest and -the high-born lady without any pause or hesitation. - -Her own apartments were next shown to Madame de Salins, and her baggage -was brought up from below, when I remarked that every thing had been -carefully marked with the initials C. B., to signify Clarisse Bonfin. - -Oh what actors every body in Paris became at that period! Some were so -by nature; for very nearly one half of the world is always acting a -part. Others did it because it was the tone of the day; and these formed -the heroic or tragic band, who did every thing with Roman dignity and -firmness, and carried the farce of representation into the very last act -of the tragedy. Others were driven to act parts which did not belong to -them, by the perils or necessities of their situation; and amongst -these, was Madame de Salins, who, dressed somewhat in the _mode -paysanne_, was out frequently, went boldly to police offices, and to -military authorities, inquiring diligently after her husband, John -Bonfin, and demanded intelligence regarding the state and condition of a -man who had never existed. A change in the direction of civic affairs, -and the decapitation of two or three gentlemen, who had watched her -diligently while in her lodging near the Place du Petit Chatelet, had -now set her comparatively free, and she used her powers of persuasion, -and her liberty, so well, that she obtained letters of recommendation to -the medical officers of the armies of Dumouriez and Kellerman, with a -satisfactory pass for herself, and her father, with two children. Upon -what pretence she made her traveling party so large, I do not know; but -she certainly carried her point. She was out more than once at night, -too, and I remarked that Mariette was now sent daily to the house of -Doctor L——, to bring the bottles of medicine which were still required -by Father Bonneville—a task, which I always previously fulfilled. - -As the distance was considerable, and the way somewhat intricate, I was -permitted to accompany and guide my little companion, as far as the -street leading into the Place du Chatelet, but was directed to go no -farther, and wait there for her return. I had learned by this time to -ask no questions, but I could not help thinking that Mariette often -stayed a long time. - -I do not know that I was of a very observing disposition, or inclined to -be particularly censorious, but one thing I remarked which surprised me -a good deal, and I recollect, quite well, that it gave me uncomfortable -feelings. In my first interview with Madame de Salins, she had appeared -overwhelmed with grief and terror, her clothes stained with her -husband’s blood, and a look of wild, almost frantic horror in her face, -which was never to be forgotten. Now, however, she had not only -completely recovered her composure, but was generally cheerful, and -sometimes even gay. Clouds of anxiety, indeed, would occasionally float -over her beautiful brow, and she would fall into deep fits of thought; -but it often seemed to me very strange that she should have so soon and -so completely forgotten the husband, for whom she had seemed to mourn so -sincerely. Indeed, there is nothing which so shocks—I might say, so -terrifies, the earnest heart of youth, as to perceive how transient are -those feelings of which to them life is made up, in the bosoms of -persons older, of more experience, and more world-hardened than -themselves. I loved Mariette, however, and Mariette loved me, and that -was a feeling which I then fondly fancied could never decay or alter. - -At length, one day, Father Bonneville declared himself strong enough to -go out, and as there was a slight lull at the time in the political -storm, we went to see—that is he and I—some places of public interest. -I recollect an elderly gentleman coming up and joining in conversation -with us, in a very mild and placable tone. The good Father was very much -upon his guard, however, and in answer to some questions, said he had -been very ill since he had come to Paris, and had enjoyed no opportunity -of seeing the sights of the capital till the time of his stay was nearly -expired. Whether the old gentleman considered us as very stupid or not I -do not know, but he soon left us, and we found afterward that he was one -of those worthy public denunciators, who at that time brought so many -heads under the axe of the guillotine. He lived to a good old age, and I -saw him afterward in London, playing at cards with great devotion, and -furnished with a handsome diamond snuff-box. - -This little incident, which I have only mentioned as characteristic of -the times, had no result that I know of upon our fate. Three days -afterward, the two post-chaises were got in order, horses were brought -from the post-house, and to my infinite satisfaction we all rolled away -together out of that grim city of Paris, which will ever remain -associated in my mind with memories of blood and crime. It was a fine -day—one of those days in February which come as if to bid us prepare -for summer, long ere summer is near, and which I think are more -beautiful and striking in France, than in any other country I know. The -sunshine lay softly upon the face of the country, and on the top of a -tall, bare tree, near the post-house, where we first stopped to change -horses, a thrush was pouring forth its evening song, and making the air -thrill with melody. I got out of our own little post-chaise to call -Mariette’s attention to the bird, but when I looked into their -cabriolet, to my surprise I saw that Madame de Salins was weeping -bitterly. The post-master approached and looked in likewise; but she had -great presence of mind, and instantly beckoning the man up, she asked -him some questions regarding the movements of the armies, and whether he -could give her any news of Citizen Bonfin, who commanded a company in -Davoust’s volunteers. The man, who seemed to compassionate her greatly, -replied that he could not, and asked if she had any apprehensions -regarding him. She answered that the last she had heard of her husband, -was, that he had been very severely wounded, but that careful nursing -might yet save his life. The good post-master was not a Parisian, nor a -litterateur, and so without affecting atheism, he prayed God to bless -her endeavors, and we rolled on upon our way. - -We went on for two or three hours after dark, and lodged as we found it -expedient, at a post-house some little distance from Clermont. There, -however, our landlord, the post-master, proposed a change in our -arrangements, which was a very agreeable one to me. He laughed at four -persons of one family traveling in two post-chaises, assured us that it -would be much more convenient for us to go in a larger vehicle, having -one to dispose of which would exactly suit us, and that we should save a -good deal of money by the number of post-horses. His arguments seemed -quite conclusive both to Father Bonneville and Madame de Salins, -although he demanded two hundred livres, and our two carriages, for the -one he intended to supply, which was not worth two hundred livres in -itself. I was surprised at their acquiescence; for I did not believe -they had much money to spare; but I rather imagine that they were afraid -to oppose any thing he thought fit to suggest, and that if he had known -their exact situation, he might have taxed them still more largely. By -one contrivance or another, however, the papers of the family had been -put into such good order, that no suspicion seems to have been excited -any where. Perhaps, indeed, we were too insignificant to attract much -attention, and at the end of a four days’ journey, we found ourselves -rapidly approaching the frontiers of France, somewhat to the right of -our then victorious army. This was, perhaps, the most dangerous point of -our whole expedition, and at a spot where two hours more would have -placed us in security beyond the limits of France, we paused for the -night, in order to consider carefully the next step, lest we should lose -the fruit of all our exertions at the very moment that it seemed within -our grasp. - - - A BOY’S MANŒUVRE. - -It was decided to drive right toward the frontier, beyond which the -advance of the French army has already been considerable. All the -country, almost to the banks of the Rhine was virtually in the hands of -France; but no general system of administration had been thought of. The -people were foreign, monarchical and anti-Gallican, and were ready -enough to give every assistance to fugitives from a system which they -hated and condemned. - -This decision was taken, like all desperate ones, upon the calculation, -right or wrong, of the chances. I was in the room when all points were -discussed between Father Bonneville and Madame de Salins. Mariette lay -sleeping in a corner of her mother’s bed, looking like a cherub; but I, -more anxious perhaps, and more alive to the real perils of our situation -than any one of my age could have been, not disciplined by the scenes -which I had gone through during the last two months, was still up, and -listening eagerly for every word. The order was given for the -post-horses to be put to, the next morning, and as was necessary, the -route was stated. - -The post-master showed some little hesitation, saying that the road we -proposed to go was directly that to the head-quarters of the army, and -that we were none of us military people. - -“But I am the wife of a soldier,” replied Madame de Salins, at once, and -with a tone of dignity, “and these letters are for the surgeons-general -of that army, to whom I must deliver them.” - -She laid her hand upon the packet of letters which she possessed, as she -spoke, and the post-master replied in a more deferential tone—“Very -well, citoyenne, I dare say it is all right, and I can send you to the -frontier; but whether you can get horses beyond or not, I can’t tell. -Mind, I am not responsible beyond the frontier.” - -The next morning at the hour appointed the horses were put to the -carriage. They were three in number—we had previously had four—and -they were harnessed, as was very common then in France, and is now, -abreast. The postillion, instead of getting into his great jack-boots, -as I had always previously seen, got upon the front seat of the -carriage, gathered up the reins, and with the crack of a long whip set -out toward the frontier. He was a sullen-looking, dull, uncommunicative -person of that peculiar race found in the neighborhood of Liege, and -called Walloons; and I, who was sitting with my shoulder close to his, -though with my back toward him, and with nothing to intercept our -communication—for the carriage was open in front—endeavored in vain to -make him speak a word or two, addressing him frequently but obtaining no -reply. - -At first I supposed that he could speak no French, and at last gave up -the undertaking. But I soon found that he could speak French enough when -it suited his purpose. - -We drove along for about seven miles without meeting a single human -being, and seeing very few cultivated fields; for as frontier districts -generally are, the land was left nearly untended, nobody caring much to -plant harvests that they were never sure of reaping. - -We at length came to a rude stone pillar, upon as bleak and desolate a -spot as I ever remember to have seen. The ground was elevated, but -sloped gently down to the neighboring country both before and behind us. -At least three miles of desolate marsh, which retained its moisture, -heaven knows how, swept around us on every side, and the only object -which denoted human habitation was the outline of a village, with some -trees, seen at the distance of some four or five miles on the plain -which lay a little below us in advance. When we reached the rude sort of -obelisk I have mentioned, the driver drew in his reins, and the horses -stopped to breathe, as I supposed, after climbing the hill: but the next -moment the man got down from the front seat, and approaching the side at -which Father Bonneville sat, demanded his drink-money. - -“I will give it you when we reach the next post-house,” said Father -Bonneville. - -“This is the only post-house I shall take you to,” replied the man -sullenly, but in very good French, “I am not bound to go an inch beyond -the line.” - -The good priest remonstrated mildly, but the postillion answered with -great insolence, threatening to take out the horses and leave us there. - -Father Bonneville answered without the slightest heat, that he must do -so if he pleased; that we were at his mercy; but that he was bound, if -possible to take us to the next post-house. - -Seeing that this menace had produced no effect upon the quiet and gentle -spirit of the good old man, the postillion now determined to try another -manœuvre, and grumbled forth that he knew very well we were aristocrats, -seeking to fly from the country, and that therefore, like a good -citizen, he should turn his horses round, drive us back, and denounce us -at the municipality. - -I had listened anxiously to the conversation, with a heart beating with -the fear of being stopped, and indignation at the man’s conduct. At -length a sudden thought struck me—what suggested it I do not know—nor -how it arose, nor whether indeed thought had any thing to do with it, -though I have called it a thought. It was more an impulse—an -instinct—a sudden determination taken without reason, which made me -clamber with the activity of a monkey over the back of the seat on which -I was sitting, and snatch up the reins and the whip which the postillion -had laid down upon the foot-board. I was determined to be out of France -at all events, whoever staid behind; and I cut the horses on either -flank without waiting to give notice or ask permission. I had once or -twice driven a cart, loaded with flour, from the mill by the banks of -the stream, up to Father Bonneville’s house and back again. I had not -the slightest fear in the world; Father Bonneville cried, “Stop, stop!” -but I drove on. - -Madame de Salins gave a timid cry of surprise and fear, but I drove on. -The postillion ran shouting and blaspheming after the carriage and tried -to catch the reins; but I gave him a tremendous cut over the face with -the whip, and drove on. - -I know not what possessed me; but I seemed as if I was suddenly set -free—free from the oppressive shackles of everlasting fear, and -forethought and anxiety. The frontier of France was behind me. I was in -a land where there were no guillotines—no spies, as I thought—no -denouncers—no sans-culottes with bloody heads upon their pikes. I was -free—to act, and to think, and to speak, and to come, and to go, as I -liked. The cold, leaden, heavy spell of terror which had hung upon me -was broke the moment I passed that frontier line, and the first use I -made of my disenchantment was to drive the horses down that hill like a -madman. Father Bonneville held tight on by the side of the carriage. -Madame de Salins caught up Mariette, and clasped her tightly in her -arms; but still I drove on without trepidation or pause; not that I -disregarded the commands of my good preceptor: not that I was insensible -to the alarm of Madame de Salins; but a spirit was upon me that I could -not resist. I had no fear, and therefore I saw not why they should have -any. The course I was pursuing seemed to my young notions to offer the -only chance of safety, and therefore I thought they ought to rejoice as -well as myself; and on I went, making the dry dust of a March day fly up -into clouds along our course, and leaving the unhappy postillion, -cursing and swearing, far, far behind us. - -Happily for me, the horses were docile, and had been long accustomed to -run between the two post-houses. If they had had a will of their own, -and that will had been contrary to mine, I am very much afraid the -majority of heads and legs would have carried the question; but they -comprehended the object of which I aimed, and though unaccustomed to the -hand that drove them, yielded readily to its direction—which was -lucky—for about half-way down the hill there was an enormous stone in -the middle of the road, which would have inevitably sent us rolling down -into the middle of the valley if either of the off wheels had come in -contact with it. The third horse puzzled me a little; but it did not -matter. They had but one way to go, and we got to the bottom of the hill -without accident. - -“Stop them, stop them, Louis,” cried Father Bonneville, when all danger -was in reality passed. - -“I cannot just yet, Father,” I replied, tugging a little at the reins, -“but they will go slower in a moment themselves;” and for nearly a mile -we went on at a full gallop. Then the good beasts fell easily into a -canter, with the exception of one, who shook his head and tugged at the -rein when I attempted to bring him in, but soon yielded to the influence -of example, and was reduced to a trot as speedily as the other two. - -When our pace was brought to a speed of about eight miles an hour, I -looked round joyously into the carriage, saying—“We have left that -rogue far behind.” - -“Louis, Louis, you should not have done this!” exclaimed Father -Bonneville, shaking his head. - -But Madame do Salins put her hand on his arm, saying, “He has saved us, -Father. Do not—do not check such decision and presence of mind. -Remember he is to be a man, and such qualities will be needful to him.” - -I was very proud of her praise: got the horses easily into a quiet, -ordinary pace, and drove directly into the village which we had seen -from above, and where, as I had expected, the post-house was to be -found. - -The horses stopped of their own accord at the door, and we soon had two -or three people round us. Thanks to Father Bonneville’s peculiar skill -in acquiring languages, the people who seemed good and kindly disposed, -were soon made acquainted with as much of our story as was necessary to -tell. They entered into our cause warmly; but the post-master—or rather -the post-mistress’s son—a little in awe of the French army, some thirty -or forty miles distant, strongly advised that we should proceed without -delay, lest our French postillion should come up, and embarrass the -authorities by demanding our apprehension. - -The advice was very palatable to us all; the French horses were -unharnessed in a few minutes; four fresh ones—somewhat fat and slow, -indeed—were attached to the carriage; and Father Bonneville -conscientiously deposited with the post-master the “_pour boire_,” or -drink-money, for our abandoned postillion, with a couple of livres -additional for the long walk he had to take. - -It mattered little now whether we went fast or slow; for we were in a -hospitable country, and amongst friendly people, and ere nightfall we -were many miles beyond pursuit. - - [_To be continued._ - - * * * * * - - - - - MADELINE. - - - A LEGEND OF THE MOHAWK.[3] - - - BY MRS. MARY O. HORSFORD. - - - Where the waters of the Mohawk - Through a quiet valley glide, - From the brown church to her dwelling - She that morning passed a bride; - In the mild light of October - Beautiful the forest stood, - As the Temple on Mount Zion - When God filled its solitude. - - Very quietly the red leaves - On the languid zephyr’s breath, - Fluttered to the mossy hillocks - Where their sisters slept in death: - And the white mist of the autumn - Hung o’er mountain-top and dale, - Soft and filmy as the foldings - Of the passing bridal veil. - - From the field of Saratoga, - At the last night’s eventide, - Rode the groom—a gallant soldier - Flushed with victory and pride; - Seeking as a priceless guerdon - From the dark-eyed Madeline - Leave to lead her to the altar - When the morrow’s sun should shine. - - All the children of the village, - Decked with garlands white and red, - All the young men and the maidens - Had been up to see her wed; - And the aged people, seated - In the doorways, ’neath the vine, - Thought of their own youth, and blessed her - As she left the house divine. - - Pale she was, but very lovely, - With a brow so calm and fair, - When she passed the benediction - Seemed still falling on the air. - Strangers whispered they had never - Seen who could with her compare, - And the maidens looked with envy - On her wealth of raven hair. - - In the glen beside the river, - In the shadow of the wood, - With wide open doors for welcome, - Gambrel-roofed the cottage stood, - Where the festal board was waiting, - For the bridal guests prepared, - Laden with a feast, the humblest - In the little village shared. - - Every hour was winged with gladness, - Whilst the sun went down the west, - Till the chiming of the church bell - Told to all the hour for rest: - Then the merry guests departed— - Some a camp’s rude couch to bide; - Some to bright homes—each invoking - Blessings on the gentle bride. - - Tranquilly the morning sunbeam - Over field and hamlet stole, - Wove a glory round each red leaf, - And effaced the frost-king’s scroll. - Eyes responded to its greeting - As a lake’s still waters shine, - Young hearts bounded—and a gay group - Sought the home of Madeline. - - Bird-like voices ’neath the casement - Chanted through the fragrant air - A sweet orison for wakening— - Half thanksgiving and half prayer. - But no white hand raised the curtain - From the vine-clad panes before; - No light form with buoyant footstep - Hastened to fling wide the door. - - All was silent in the dwelling— - All so silent a chill fear - Of some unseen ill crept slowly - Through the gay group waiting near. - Moments seemed as hours in passing, - Till the mild-eyed man drew nigh, - Who had blessed the blushing orphan - Ere the yester sun was high. - - He, with glance of dark foreboding, - Passed the threshold of the door; - Paused not where a crimson torrent - Curdled on the oaken floor: - But sought out the bridal-chamber— - God in Heaven! could it be - Madeline who knelt before him - In that trance of agony? - - Cold, inanimate beside her, - By the ruthless Cow-boys slain - In the night-time whilst defenseless, - He—the brave—she loved was lain. - - O’er her snowy dress were scattered - Stains of deep and fearful dye, - And the soul’s glance beamed no longer - From her tearless, vacant eye. - Round her slight form hung the tresses - Braided oft with pride and care, - Silvered by that night of madness - With its anguish and despair. - - She lived on to see the roses - Of another summer wane, - But the light of reason never - Shone in her sweet eyes again. - Once, where blue and sparkling waters - Through a verdant forest run, - And the green boughs kiss the current, - Wandered I at set of sun. - - Twilight, as a silver shadow, - O’er the softened landscape lay, - When amid a rambling village - Paused I in my wandering way: - Plain and gray the church before me - In the quiet grave-yard stood, - And the woodman’s axe resounded - Faintly from the neighboring wood. - - Through the low, half-open wicket, - Slightly worn, a pathway led— - Silently I paced its windings, - Till I stood among the dead. - Passing by the grave memorials - Of departed worth and fame, - Long I paused before a record - That no pomp of words could claim. - - Simple was the slab, and lowly, - Shaded by a jessamine, - And the single name recorded, - Plainly writ, was “Madeline.” - But beneath it, through the clusters - Of the jessamine, I read - “Spes,” engraved in bolder letters— - This was all the marble said. - ------ - -[3] A detail of the incident related in the poem may be found among the -records of the Revolutionary War. - - * * * * * - - - - - MOORISH MEMORIES. - - -(SUGGESTED BY A TILE FROM THE ALHAMBRA—THE GIFT OF THOMAS H. HYATT, ESQ., - LATE CONSUL-GENERAL TO THE BARBARY STATES.) - - - BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. - - - An hour of precious romance I owe, my friend, to thee, - And on the wings of Fancy my spirit crossed the sea; - The same transporting magic did to thy gift belong - That sparkled in Aladdin’s Lamp, old theme of Eastern song! - An Andalusian summer clad earth in brightest guise— - Gave dark green to the foliage, deep azure to the skies, - And sternly mountain-barriers up reared their crests of snow, - While palace-spire and minaret flashed at their feet below. - - Approached by winding avenues, Grenada lay in sight— - Gay pleasure-grounds and gardens basked in the dazzling light; - To groves of palm and cypress flocked birds of plumage rare, - And happy genii were afloat upon enchanted air. - Throned on a height, commanding the Darro’s vale of flowers, - I saw the red Alhambra’s tall battlements and towers; - Oh! would that mine were language to paint its pictured walls, - Its colonnades and court-yards, its galleries and halls. - - Methought the dreams of childhood were realized at last, - And magic hands uplifted a pall that hid the past, - While looking on its panels with colored stones inlaid, - And alabaster vases on which the sunbeam played. - In gem-embroidered kaftan, and grave with cares of state, - Dispensing equal justice, a king was at the gate— - The hajib[4] was in waiting to hear his high command, - And in the foreground gathered proud nobles of the land. - - Luxurious rooms I entered through quaintly carven doors, - And trod on fretted pavements and tessellated floors; - And in secluded chambers, for beauty’s use designed, - On gorgeous silken cushions voluptuous forms reclined. - To win their smiles full often had gallant cavaliers - Met with a shock, like thunder, at the Tournament of Spears, - And all had won the homage by Love and Valor paid, - When, under moon-lit balconies awoke the serenade. - - Xarifa, rose of sunset—Zoroyda, star of dawn! - Ye never can be numbered with things of beauty gone: - Poetical embalmment bestows a glorious light, - That frights away the minions of darkness, dust and blight. - Umbrageous courts I traversed, where lime and orange grew, - And fig and date their shadows on beds of roses threw, - Then bathed in perfumed waters, and listened to the sound - Of singing founts diffusing a grateful coolness round. - - While silvery Xenil wandered through blooming bower and plain, - Back came once more the splendor of Moorish rule in Spain; - I heard the stormy clarion, the atabal’s deep roll, - And felt the joy of battle awake within my soul. - Elvira’s gates unfolded, and, grim with many a scar, - A host of Moorish horsemen rode fiercely forth to war; - The standard of the Prophet above them was unrolled, - And dallied with the lifting wind its green and golden fold. - - Gemmed saddle-cloth and armor were blinding to the gaze, - And burnished lance and scimetar flashed back the sunbeam’s blaze, - While prancing in the van, as if their nostrils scented gore, - The milk-white steeds of Yemen, king, sheick and emir bore. - When fled that martial pageant, like vapor on the gale, - Woke on the banks of Darro a startling voice of wail, - And tones so full of sweetness and wild, despairing wo, - Were never heard by listening ear from mortal lips to flow. - - LAMENT FOR GRENADA. - - Alas for thee, Grenada! - Thy Crescent waned away - When traitors leagued to shatter - Thy mace of royal sway. - Unworthy of the mother - That warmed them into life, - They heard the Gothic trumpet, - And armed not for the strife. - Look round! an earthly paradise - Is changed into a tomb, - A blight is on thy loveliness, - And mildew on thy bloom; - Where streamed the Moorish pennon - Triumphantly of old, - Decay and mournful silence - Divided empire hold. - - Alas for thee, Grenada! - Thy chiefs are shadows now, - And ashes have been sprinkled - Upon thy crownless brow: - Thy glory is departed, - Thy day of pomp is o’er, - And “Allah illah Allah!” - Is a battle-cry no more. - Castilian valor vainly - To cloud thy glory strove - Ere Treachery within thy walls - His cunning web-work wove; - By bloody parricidal hands - Inflicted was the blow - That brought thee, gem of cities! - In all thy grandeur low. - ------ - -[4] Prime Minister. - - * * * * * - - - - - MOZART’S DON GIOVANNI. - - - BY JOHN S. DWIGHT. - - -This masterpiece of Mozart must always stand as the highest type of -musical drama. Yet most persons who go to this famous opera for the -first time, and look over the libretto, are disappointed in a worse -sense than the travelers who complain of the first unimposing view of -Niagara. It seems to them a waste of so much fine music, to couple it -with the mere story of a desperate rake, (a young cavalier _estremamente -licenzioso_, as he is set down in the list of characters,) who, after -running a most extravagant career, is brought to judgment in a marvelous -way; namely, by his inviting in jest the statue of an old man whom he -had murdered, the father of the noble lady he had sought to ruin, to sup -with him; and by being surprised in the midst of his feast by the statue -in good earnest, with the whole _posse comitatûs_ of the nether world -rising to claim him! We are at a loss at first to account for the charm -of so vulgar and grotesque a tissue of absurdities. Yet there is a -meaning in it that concerns us all. - -Don Juan is one of the permanent, traditional types of character; and -Mozart’s music sympathetically, instinctively, rather than with any -conscious philosophical purpose, brings out the essence of it. The gay -gallant, magnetic disturber of every woman’s peace that comes within his -sphere, is not intended for that vulgar sensualist, that swaggering -street-rake, which caricatures the part in most performances we may have -seen. The true conception of Mozart’s Don Juan is that of a gentleman, -to say the least, and more than that, a man of genius; a being, -naturally full of glorious passion, large sympathies, and irrepressible -energies; noble in mind, in person, and in fortune; a large, imposing, -generous, fascinating creature. Dramatically he is made a little more -than human, yet in a purely human direction. He is such as we all are, -“only more so,” to borrow an expressive vulgarism. Remarkably is he such -as Mozart himself was. He is a sort of ideal impersonation of two -qualities, or springs of character, raised as it were to the highest -power, projected into supernatural dimensions—which is only the poet’s -and musician’s way of truly recognizing the element of infinity in every -passion of the human soul, since not one ever finds its perfect -satisfaction. Mozart in his own life knew them too well, these two -springs or sources of excitement! They are: (1.) the genial temperament, -the exquisite zest of pleasure, the sensibility to every charm and -harmony of sense, amounting to enthusiasm, and content with nothing -short of ecstasy; that appetite for outward beauty, which lends such a -voluptuous, Titian coloring to his music. And (2.) as the crowning -enthusiasm of the young, fresh soul, as the highest mortal foretaste of -celestial bliss, the sentiment of sexual love—that sentiment which is -the key-note of every opera. In Mozart, music appears as the peculiar -native language of these passions, these experiences. His music is all -fond sensibility, pure tranquillity of rapture, and most luxurious -harmony of soul and sense; and therefore in him we have the finest -development of the dramatic element in music. The two together make the -genuine Giovanni creed—the creed of Mozart and of Music—the natural -creed and religion of joy. This free and perfect luxury of passion and -fruition, Mozart imagines raised (as we have said) to the highest power, -in the hero of the old tradition. His Don Juan is a grand believer in -the passions and in pleasure; he is the splendid champion and Titan of -that side of the problem of life, a superb vindicator of the senses. He -stands before us in the glorious recklessness of self-assertion and -protests against the soul-and-passion-starving conventionality, the -one-sided, frigid spiritualism of an artificial, priest-ridden, -Mammon-worshiping society; opposing to those meshes of restraint his own -intense consciousness of _being_, (with a blind instinct that it is -good, divine at bottom, and only needing to appear in its own natural -language of a Mozart’s music to prove this;) strong in the faith, -against the world, that Joy, Joy is the true condition and true sign of -life; but blindly seeking to realize this in the ecstatic lawlessness of -love, which necessarily involves sooner or later a proportional reaction -of the outraged Law and Wisdom of the Universe. - -Excessive love of pleasure, helped by a rare magnetism of character, and -provoked by the suppressive moralism of the times, have engendered in -him a reckless, roving, insatiable appetite, which each intrigue excites -and disappoints, until the very passion in which so many souls are first -taught the feeling of the Infinite, becomes a fiend in his breast and -drives him to a devilish love of power that exults over woman’s ruin, or -rather, that does not mind how many hearts and homes fall victims to his -unqualified assertion of the everywhere rejected and _snubbed_ faith in -Passion. The buoyant impulse, generous and good in the first instance, -goes on thus undoubtingly, defying bounds, till it becomes pure -willfulness, and the first flush of youth and nobleness is hardening to -Satanic features. The beauty and the loveliness of woman have lost to -him now all their sacredness; they are mere fuel to the boundless -ambition of a passion which knows no delight beyond the brief excitement -of intrigue and sensual indulgence. He becomes the impersonation and -supernatural genius of one of the holiest springs of human sentiment -_perverted_, because _denied_; and he roams the earth a beautiful, -terrible, resistless, fallen angel, and victim after victim are quaffed -up by his hot breath of all-devouring passion. And so he perseveres -until Hell claims its own in the awful consummation of the supper scene. -Art could not choose a theme more fraught with meaning and with -interest. It is still the old theme and under-current of Opera: the Body -and the Soul;[5] the Liberty of passion, unmeet for its own guidance, in -conflict with the Law, intensely narrowed down by social custom from -God’s great law of universal harmony. - -The character of Don Juan, thus conceived, this splendid embodiment of -the free, perfect, unmisgiving luxury of sense and passion, would be no -character at all, but only an absurdity, an impossibility in the spoken -drama. There is no prose about it; nothing literal and sober; take away -the exaltation, the rhythmical nature of it, and it falls entirely to -the ground. Only Music could conceive and treat it; Music, which is the -language of the ideal, innermost, _potential_ life, and not of the -actual life. But music equally does justice to both sides of the fact. -In this triumphant career of passion, inasmuch as it is among men and -laws and sympathies and social customs, a fearful retribution is -foreshadowed. But not in _him_, not in this Titan of the senses, this -projected imagination of unlimited enjoyment and communion. It is -through the music that the shuddering presentiment continually creeps. -Through music, which in acknowledging the error, in laying bare the -fatal discord, at the same time symbolizes its resolution. Through -music, in whose vocabulary sin and suffering and punishment are never -final; in whose vivid coloring the great doom itself is but a vista into -endless depths of harmony and peace and unexclusive bliss beyond. - -The splendid sinner’s end is rather melodramatic in the opera; and yet -there is a poetic and a moral truth in it; and the spectre of the -_Commendatore_ is a creation fully up to Shakspeare. No man ever -literally came to that; but many have come to dread it. Beings, as we -are, so full of energies and of exhaustless passional promptings to all -sorts of union and acquaintance with the rest of being; urged, just in -proportion to the quantity of life in us, to seek most intimate -relationship all round, materially and spiritually, we dread the mad -excess of our own pent up forces. Surrounded by set formulas; denied -free channels corresponding to our innate tendencies and callings; -plagued by traditions, and chafed by some social discipline, in which -the soul sees nothing it can understand, except it be the holy principle -of Order in the abstract, do we not often start to see what radicalism -lurks in every genuine spring of life or passion, in everything -spontaneous and lovable? Who, more than the pleasure-loving, -sympathy-seeking, generous, child-like, glorious, imaginative, -sensitive, ecstatic, sad Mozart, would be apt to shudder in dreams, in -the night solitudes of his over-worked, and feverish and wakeful brain, -before the colossal shadow of what possibly _he_ might become through -excess of the very qualities that made him diviner than common mortals? -This allegory can certainly be traced through “Don Giovanni.” The old -governor or commander, whom he kills, personates the Law. The cold, -relentless marble statue, that stalks with thundering foot-fall into the -middle of his solitary orgies alter him, is the stern embodiment of -custom and convention, which he defies to the end, and boldly grasps the -proffered stony hand, from an impulse stronger than his terrors. - -It is an old Middle-Age Catholic story. Under many forms it had been -dramatized and poetized as a warning to sinners, before Da Ponte[6] -found it so much to the purpose of Mozart, when he wanted to do his best -in an opera composed expressly for his dear and own peculiar public at -Prague. Coarse as the story seems, perhaps the conflict between good and -evil in the human soul was never represented in a better type. It was -for Mozart’s music to show that. That in adopting it for music he had -any metaphysical idea at all about it, there is no need of supposing. -His instinct found in it fine sphere for all his many moods of passion -and of music. Here he could display all his universality of musical -culture, and his Shaksperian universality of mind. Genius _does_ its -work first; the theory of it is what an appreciating, philosophical -observer must detect in it when done. “They builded better than they -knew.” Love, if it was the ruling sentiment of Mozart’s nature, was for -that very reason his chief danger. If it was almost his religion and -taught his soul its own infinite capacity, so also seemed the danger -therefrom infinite, raising presentiments and visions of some -supernatural abyss of ruin, yawning to receive the gay superstructure of -man’s volatile enjoyments here in time. Life, power, love, pleasure, -crime, futurity and judgment—and a faith left beyond _that!_—what -dream more natural, what circle of keys more obvious to modulation, to a -soul, whose strings are all attuned to love and melody, whose genius is -a powerful demon waiting on its will, and whose present destiny is cast -here in a world so false and out of tune that, to so strong a nature, -there seems no alternative besides wild excess upon the one hand, or a -barren sublimity of self-denial on the other. - -In this old legend the worldly and the supernatural pass most naturally -into one another. Don Juan, gifted with all the physical and -intellectual attributes of power, urged by aspirations blind but -uncontainable, full of the feeling of _life_, and resolved to LIVE, if -possible, so fully as to fill all with himself and never own a limit, -(and this is only a perversion of the true desire to live in harmony -_with_ all,) finds the tempting shadow of this satisfaction in the love -of woman, and the poor bird flutters charmed and trembling toward his -fascinating glance. Imagine now the elegant, full-blooded, rich, -accomplished and seductive gallant on his restless rout of pleasures and -intrigues. At his side his faithful knave, droll Leporello, -expostulating with his master very piously sometimes, yet bound to him -by potent magnetism, both of metal and of character (for passion like -Giovanni’s _will_ be served.) Leporello is the foil and shadow to his -master, and adds to the zest of his life-long intoxication by the -blending of the comic with this exquisite wild fever of the blood. -Throughout the whole he plays the part of contrast and brings all back -to reality and earth again, lest the history should take too serious -possession of us. He is the make-weight of common sense tossed into the -lighter scale. He justifies its original title of “Don Giovanni, _un -drama giocoso_;” for this opera is tragedy and comedy and what you -please, the same heterogeneous yet harmonious compound that life itself -is. He on the one side gives a dash of charlatanry to Don Juan, just as -on the other side he borders on the supernatural. Mark the poetic -balance and completeness here: this passion-life of Don Juan has its -outward and its inward comment: on the one side Leporello, on the other -the supernatural statue and the bodily influx of hell. On the one side -it is comic, grotesque and absurd; on the other, it is fearful. Seen in -one light he is a charlatan, a splendid joke; seen in the other, he is -an unfolding demon and a type of doom; while in his life he is but the -free development of human passion in human circumstances. Man always -walks between these two mirrors! One shows his shadow, as of destiny, -projected, ever-widening, into the Infinite, where it grows vague and -fearful. The other takes him in the act, and literally pins down all his -high strivings and pretensions to such mere matter of fact, that he -becomes ridiculous. - - * * * * * - -We come now to the Opera itself, which we can only examine very briefly -and unequally, touching here and there. Were we to set about it -thoroughly, our article would soon overflow all magazine bounds, since -there is not a scene, an air, a bit of recitative, from the beginning to -the end, that would not challenge our most critical appreciation. - -And first the Overture, composed, they say, in the single night before -the first public performance of the opera in Prague; his wife keeping -him awake to his work by punch and anecdotes and fairy tales, that made -him laugh till the tears ran down his cheeks; and only ready for the -orchestra (which had not its equal in all Europe) to play at sight -without rehearsal. He may have _written_ it that night, that is to say, -have copied it out of his head. It was his habit of composition; his -musical conceptions shaped themselves whole in his brain, and were -carried about there for days until the convenient time to put them upon -paper; and it is not possible that his brain that time could have been -without an overture, since there the opera existed as a perfect whole, -and in that glowing and creative mood, the instrumental theme and -preface to the same must have floated before him as naturally as the -anticipation of his audience. Moreover, the first movement of it, the -Andante, is essentially the same music with the grand and awful finale -of the opera, and is properly put first in the overture (whose office it -is to prepare the hearer’s mind) as the grand end and moral of the -piece. Accordingly it opens with three stern, startling crashes on the -chord of D minor, the sub-bass dividing the measure into equal halves, -but the upper parts syncopated; then a pause, and then the same repeated -in the Dommant—like the announcement of a power not to be trifled with. -Then a series of wild modulations, full of terror, enhanced by the -unearthly brass and low reed tones, surging through chromatic intervals, -which make the blood creep, and presently overtopped by a pleading -melody of the first violins, while a low, feeble whimper of the second -violins is heard all the time like the moaning of the wind about an old -house. Then alternate sharp calls and low, tremulous pauses; the ground -quakes; the din becomes more fearful; the melody begins to traverse up -and down all kinds of scales, through intervals continually shifting, -and expressive of all manner of uncertainty, like the quick and -fruitless runs in all directions of a beast surrounded by the hunters. -It is like the breaking up of the familiar foundations of things, that -unsettling of the musical Scale!—All this is brief, for it is but a -synopsis and foreshadowing of the last scene in the opera. The string -instruments then dash off, in the major of the key, into a wild, -reckless kind of Allegro, than which there could not be a better musical -correspondence of the general subject, that is, of the restless, -mischievous career of one outraging all the social instincts and defying -all pursuit. This spends itself at leisure, softening at the close -toward the genial F natural, the key of nature and the senses, where the -overture is merged into the dramatic introduction. - -The curtain rises. Scene, a garden in Spain. Time, just before daybreak. -Leporello, cloaked, with a lantern, paces watchfully to and fro before a -noble villa, and sings with heavy bass of his drudgeries and dangers in -the service of his graceless master; kindling half seriously at the -thought how fine a thing it would be to play the gallant and the -gentleman himself. The light and exquisite accompaniment of the -instruments meanwhile is like the softness of a summer night, and seems -to count the moments of pleasure. The dreams of the valet are soon -disturbed. Don Juan, his face hid by his mantle, rushes from the house, -struggling from the grasp of Donna Anna, who, pale and disheveled, -clings to him convulsively, and seeks to detain and to discover the -bold, mysterious man, who has dared thus to invade her privacy and her -honor. Her hurried and accusing melody, in these snatches of recitative, -is full of a dignity and a pure and lofty fire that characterize alike -her person and the whole music of her port. With drawn sword in one -hand, and a torch in the other, her old father, the Commendatore -(commander of a religious order) rushes out and challenges the bravo, -who deals him a death-thrust. The startlingly vivid orchestral picture, -which accompanies and as it were guides these sword thrusts, is followed -by a slow, mournful trio of bass voices, in which are gloomily -contrasted the scornful triumph of Don Juan, the dying wail and warning -of the old man, and the comic terror of Leporello. Nothing could be more -thrillingly impressive; that music could mean nothing else but death -stalking suddenly into the very midst of life! Then comes the passionate -outpouring of the daughter’s grief, and that inimitable scene of the -most musical as well as most dramatic dialogue in the whole range of the -lyric drama. It is the perfection of recitative. What exquisite -tenderness and sincerity of sorrow in that violin figure which -accompanies her inquiry for her father, (_padre mio_,) when she first -recovers from her swoon! How sweet and comforting that fall of the -seventh, where Ottavio tells her: _Hai sposo e padre in me_ (Thou hast -husband and father in me!) And how fiery and grand the passage where she -inspires the tame lover with that sublimely solemn oath of revenge, and -the hot, scouring blast of their swift and wonderful duett which follows -it. In all this there is no delicate touch of feeling, no spiritual -token of great passion and great purpose, possible to voice or -instruments, omitted; no note omissible or of slight significance. Here -is an opening of most pregnant import. One scene of moderate length has -impressed us, as by the power of fate, to the seeing through of the -profoundest drama of life. Here we have witnessed, as it were, the first -reaction of the eternal Law, the first hint of destiny in this splendid -libertine’s thus far irresistible career. Already is this almost -superhuman pleasure-hunt of genius past its climax, and the dread note -of retribution is already sounded. - -The next scene introduces us to one of the personified reproaches of Don -Juan’s better nature. As the Don and his man are plotting new -adventures, a lady passes, in hat and feathers, with excited air, and, -as they retreat into the shade to note her, she pours out her most -musical complaint against the traitor who has played falsely with her -heart. The introductory symphony or ritornel, in E flat major, by its -bold and animated strain indicates the high-spirited and passionate -nature now before us, whose song of ever constant though wronged love, -to words that would fain threaten terrible revenge, commences the -Terzetto, mainly solo, to which the mocking by-play of the Don and -Leporello, accompanied by a mocking figure of the instruments, supplies -the other two parts. As he steps up to offer consolation to the lady, he -recognizes his own simple, loving, poor deserted mistress, Donna Elvira, -and while the same mocking instrumental figure leaves the song hanging -in the air, as it were, without any cadence or any close, he slips away -and leaves the task of explanation to the disconcerted servant. There is -an ardent, passionate yearning in this as in all of Elvira’s melodies, -which climb high and are perhaps the most difficult in the opera. The -character is seldom conceived truly by the actress. Interpreted by its -music, its intention is distinct enough. Elvira is no half-crazed, -foolish thing; but one of the highest moral elements in the _personnel_ -of the opera; next in dignity, at least, to Donna Anna. However she may -appear in the libretto and in the common usage of the stage, Mozart in -his music makes her the soul of ardent and devoted love and constancy, -still fondly hoping in the deeper, better self of the man who has -trifled with her; like a sweet, genuine ray of sun shine, always -indicating to Don Juan a chance of escape from the dark labyrinthine -fatality of crime in which he goes on involving himself; always offering -him true love for false. - -Let her not listen then (like the silly girl we commonly see upon the -stage, half-magnetized out of a weak sorrow into a weaker involuntary -yielding to the ludicrous) to the exquisitely comic appeal of Leporello, -when the vain-glorious fellow unrolls his tremendous list of his -master’s conquests among the fair sex, enumerating the countries, ranks, -styles of beauty, etc. The melody of this “Catalogue Song” is altogether -surpassing. It is the perfection of _buffo_, as we have before had the -perfection of serious recitative. After naming the numbers for Italy, -Germany, etc., when it comes to the climax (Elvira’s own land): _Ma in -Espagna mille e trè_, [But in Spain one thousand and three,] it is -ludicrously grave; the orchestra meanwhile has chopped the measure into -short units, alternate instruments just touching different points of -height and depth, till they seem at last to count it all up on the -fingers, first downward in the tripping _pizzicato_ scale of the -violins, then upward in gruff confirmation in the basses. In the slow -time, where it comes to the specification of the different qualities of -beauty, the _grande maëstosa_, the _piccina_, etc., the melody is one of -the most beautiful and pathetic that could be imagined. One wonders how -Mozart could have expended such a wealth of melody upon so light a -theme; it seems as lavish a disproportion of means to end, as when we -read of travelers roasting their eggs in the cinders of Vesuvius. But -such was the musical fullness and integrity of Mozart; the genial vein, -once opened, _would_ run only pure gold; and his melodies and harmonies -are not merely proportioned to the specialities of the subject, but are -at every moment moulded in the style and spirit of the whole work. -Besides, the comedy consists here in the contrast of a pathetic melody -with a grotesque thought. Moreover the whole thing is truer in the fact, -that not only Leporello’s, but Don Juan’s own melodies, as indeed the -very nature of music, seem mournfully to rebuke the desperado. In the -most comic and most bacchanalian strains, the music saddens with a -certain vague presentiment of the fearful _dénouement_ of the drama. - -The Don’s next adventure is the meeting of a gay group of peasants at a -wedding festival, where he attempts to seduce away the pretty bride, -Zerlina, whose naïve and delicious songs, right out of a simple, good, -loving heart, a little coquettish withal, are among the purest gems of -the piece, and have mingled their melody with the civilized world’s -conceptions of truth and nature and the charm of innocence. Those of our -readers who have enjoyed with us the privilege of hearing and seeing a -worthy, indeed a perfect personation of Zerlina, by that refined and -charming artist, Signora Bosio, will need no words to give them a just -conception of the character, and of its music, which is as individual as -that of Anna or Elvira. Suffice it to say, that the simplicity, the -tenderness and the coquetry of this pretty peasant, have the natural -refinement of a superior nature. Mozart must have been in love with the -part. The rustic chorus opening this scene, in which the bridal pair -lead off, is one of perfect simplicity, (Allegro, 6—8 time,) and yet -inimitable beauty. The Duett, _La ci darem la mano_, in which Don Juan -overcomes the hesitation of the dazzled, spell-bound girl, breathes the -undoubted warmth of passion; few simple souls could be proof against -such an eloquent confession. Indeed the _sincerity_ of all this music is -a great part of its charm; it has never the slightest symptom of any -striving for effect, and yet it is consummate art; it flows directly out -of the characters and situations and the dramatic tendency of the whole. -The poor girl is rescued this time by the entrance of an experienced -guardian angel, who sees through the case at once. It is Donna Elvira, -who, just as she is tripping away with the fascinator to the gay, -consenting tune of _Andiam_, (let us go,) snatches the bird from his -hands. Her song of warning to the simple one, _Ah! fuggi ’l traditor_, -is a strangely elaborate Handelian aria, so different in style from the -rest of the opera that it is never performed. As if all things conspired -to confound the traitor, Donna Anna and her lover also enter, (Zerlina -having withdrawn,) and here ensues that wonderful Quartette, _Non ti -fidar_, in which each voice-part is a character, a melody of a distinct -genius, and all wrought into a perfect unity. Elvira warns Anna and -Ottavio against confiding in this generous-looking Don, whose aid they -have unwittingly bespoken in their search for the murderer of the first -scene (namely himself;) Don Juan declares that she is crazy, and not to -be minded; the others are divided between pity for her and respect for -such a gentleman; and all these strands are twisted into one of the -finest concerted pieces in all opera. It is one of those peculiar -triumphs of opera which make it so much more dramatic than the spoken -drama; for here you have four characters expressing themselves at once, -with entire unity of effect, yet with the distinctest individuality. The -music makes you instantly clairvoyant to the whole of them; you do not -have to wait for one after the other to speak; there is a sort of -song-transparency of all at once; the common chord of all their -individualities is struck. Especially is this achieved in the concerted -pieces, the quartettes, trios, and so forth, of Mozart, which are beyond -comparison with most of those in the Italian opera of the day, since the -harmony in them is not the mere coloring of one thought, but the -interweaving of so many distinct individualities. - -Zerlina is saved, but by arrangement with her protectors agrees to go up -to the Don’s palace, whither Leporello has conducted the whole wedding -party, and even coaxed along the jealous bridegroom. A scene ensues -between Donna Anna and her lover. The orchestra, in a few startling and -almost discordant shrieks, indicates the intense excitement of her mind, -for, as Don Juan took his leave, she recognized the look and voice of -one whom she had too much cause to remember; and in impassioned bursts -of hurried recitative, alternating with the said spasmodic bits of -instrumentation, she exclaims, _Quegli è il carnefice del mio padre_, -(this man is my father’s murderer,) and in the same grandly lyric style, -rising higher and higher, she tells Ottavio the story of her outrage. -Having reached the climax, this magnificent recitative becomes melody, -and completes itself in the sublime Aria, _Or tu sai_, “Now thou knowest -who attempted my honor,” etc. There can be nothing greater, more -Minerva-like in dignity and high expression of the soul of justice -outraged, and at the same time full of all feminine tenderness and -beauty, in the whole range of opera or drama. And it is Music, it is -Mozart that has done it all. We have here the character of Donna Anna in -its most sublime expression; a character that transcends mere personal -relations, that bears a certain mystical relationship with the higher -power beginning to be felt in the development of this human history. In -this song she rises, as it were, to the dignity of an impersonation of -the moral principle in the play, and this high sentiment of hers is like -a foretaste of the coming fate and supernatural grandeur, which are to -form the never to be forgotten finale of the piece. Elvira is entirely -in the sphere of the personal; she _loves_ Don Juan to the last, and -like the simple good humanity that still appeals to him though still -rejected. But Anna is superhuman and divine; she reveals the -interworking of the Infinite in all these finite human affairs; to -Heaven, rather than to Ottavio, is her appeal; and from beyond this life -she looks to see the vindicator of her cause appear. The loftiness of -the music just considered, and the stately trumpet-tones of the -orchestra, which always herald the entrance of Donna Anna and her party, -connect her unmistakably with the marvelous elements of the drama; she -is Feeling prophesying Justice; she is Faith in the form of woman; and -the singer who could perfectly present Donna Anna would be worthy to -sing Handel’s song, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.” - -From one extreme we pass to its opposite. In strongest possible contrast -with the high moral passion of this last, is what now follows. We have a -song embodying the very frenzied acme of Don Juan’s zest of sensual -pleasure. He directs Leporello about the feast, and trolls off, like one -possessed, his famous champagne song, _Finch’an del vino_, whose -rapidity and glorious _abandon_ are too much for almost all the -baritones; those, in whose dragging utterance it does not become -commonplace, are apt to give it with a swaggering glibness, and a -coarseness that has nothing of the fine champagne enthusiasm about it. -In this song and that last of Donna Anna’s the two electric poles, as it -were, of the whole play, have met. And now for the pretty episode of -peasant life again; the inimitably sweet, insinuating, loving song in -which repentant little Zerlina seems to invite chastisement from her -offended, jealous lover, _Batti, batti, O bell’ Masetto_, (beat me, beat -me, dear Masetto!). With what soft tendrils of melody, enhanced by the -delicious instrumentation, she steals around his senses and his heart! -And to what unaffected rapture (to say nothing of a little coquettish -triumph) the strain changes when he forgives her, as she knew he would! -This seems a very simple song, but it is the perfection of art. O that -Mozart could go into ecstasies with his own pet Zerlina, hearing Bosio -sing this! - -We have now reached the musical Finale of the first act, though there is -much shifting of scenes and characters before the last grand _ensemble_, -which is the ball in the Don’s palace. But these only suspend, to -wonderfully enhance, the final stroke. We can only enumerate the -delicious series of ever new and characteristic musical ideas -preliminary to the feast: (1.) Masetto urging Zerlina to hide -herself—how full of the bustle of approaching splendors is the music -during this little hurried duett! (2.) The Don’s voice stimulating the -peasants to the coming mirth, with their responsive chorus. (3.) Then -his discovery of the shy bird and half reclaimal of her love, with his -blank surprise (so perfectly depicted in the sudden modulation of the -music) as he leads her off only to meet the watchful bridegroom: -_Masetto si, Masetto_! (during all which the light twittering phrases of -the accompaniment make the whole atmosphere instinct with joys -expected.) (4.) Then, as the instruments suddenly change to a cautious, -half-hushed, tip-toe melody, unflagging in its speed, yet in the minor -mood, (for these have no festivity in their hearts that now come) the -entrance of Donna Elvira, Donna Anna, and Don Ottavio, in black dominos, -and masked to the outward eye, though each betrayed by a distinctive -style of melody. (5.) Then the sounding (from within the house) of that -stately _minuett_, a strain which everybody knows and loves, and still -as fresh as when first written, here introduced as a mere foretaste of -itself, and of the ball, and made the musical ground-work of lordly -courtesy and hospitality to the salutations of Don Juan and Leporello, -who appear above at the window, and invite the maskers in. (6.) The -surpassing Trio, in which the three, lingering on the threshold, invoke -Heaven’s protection to innocence ensnared. Can any other opera show such -an exuberance of musical ideas in the same space? And it is all _en -passant_, all incidental to what follows, to what now bursts instantly -upon the view as the back scene is withdrawn, and you see all the crowd -and splendor of the ball-room, and are transported by the indescribably -rich Finale, that ever climbing, widening _crescendo_ and accumulation -of all musical effects, till the climax is reached in a general storm -and inundation of harmony. The simple, gay, continuous six-eight melody, -to which the whole brilliant spectacle moves at first, is the very soul -of festivity. Suddenly there is a full chord in C from the whole -orchestra, with trumpets, and a stately, march-like strain, preluding -the entrance of the three in masks, with the lordly welcome of the -Amphytrion. He will have no time lost, however, for into this one high -hour he has concentrated all the delights and harmonies of sense—short, -bright and strong be the blood-quickening chorus, _Viva la liberta!_ and -now let the dance go on. And now are crowded into a brief but most -capacious moment, the reintroduction of the Minuett in a bolder key than -before, to whose grave, deliberate measure the more elegant company -begins to move in antique, solemn steps; then presently, commingling -with the Minuett, but not disturbing it, two other tunes, to other -rhythms, namely, a rustic contra-dance, and a most rapid waltz, -inspiring the heels of the peasants; the droll attempts of Leporello to -make Masetto dance, while his master has bespoken the arm and ear of the -pretty bride, to win whom he has planned this whole array; the indignant -observation of this game by Donna Anna, with difficulty moderated until -due time by her companions; the piercing shriek of the music as Don Juan -whirls Zerlina away out of the dance; the cry for aid; the general rush -to the door whence the sounds proceed, and when it is broken in, the -grotesque brief diversion of the Don dragging Leporello by the ear, and -trying to fasten his own crime on him; the incredulous and accusing -phrase, in which the voices of the trio, now unmasked, confront him -successively in _Canon_ style; and the out-bursting of the general -tempest of wrath upon the exposed deceiver, heightened, too, by the -sweeping wind and hissing lightnings of an actual physical storm that is -supposed to be passing without. The strength of the accusing chorus is -splendidly terrific, and like the rush of a whirlwind, where all the -voices in unison swiftly traverse up and down several times the first -five notes of the scale. But he of the dauntless will and the magnetic -eye, with one sword awes back and penetrates the maddened mob, escaping -with a loud laugh of defiance. - -Our very slight and hasty sketch has already grown to considerable -length, and yet we have examined only one act of the three, into which -“Don Giovani” is usually divided in the performance. One act was enough -to show (if _that_ were all our object) how this opera wells up as from -an exhaustless fountain of musical ideas, all of which are of the -inspired, enduring quality; we have listened to materials enough already -for some twenty of the fashionable operas of our day. We must glance -more hastily at the remainder. - -Act II. opens with one of those half humorous, half serious -conversations between the Don and Leporello, which ever and anon relieve -the story. The servant, stung by the ungrateful and outrageous conduct -of his master in the ball-room explosion, announces his determination to -quit him; but they are too essential to each other, and the Don soon -coaxes, laughs, and bribes him out of that notion. This duett is in real -Italian _parlando_ style, a syllable to every note, quick and brief as -it is comically expressive; for this enemy of woman’s peace has new -business on hand; the unlucky night is not too far gone to try one more -adventure. So here follows the summer warmth and beauty of the serenade -scene under Donna Elvira’s window, who sits above there, pouring out her -nightingale complainings under the stars, in a melody of ravishing -sweetness and tenderness, forming the upper part of a _Terzetto_, in -which the _sotto voce_ dialogue of the Don and his man below grotesquely -blends. He changes garments with Leporello, and lending his own voice, -while Leporello gesticulates, in strains of feigned repentance and -returning love, entices the too easily persuaded lady down into the arms -of his counterfeit, while he takes up his guitar to serenade, not -Elvira, but Elvira’s maid, now that the field is clear, in that most -graceful little serenading air, which seems so easy and so off-hand, -with its light _arpeggio_ accompaniment by violins alone: _Deh vieni -alla finestra_. But the fortunate stars of our all-seducing hero seem -this night to have forsaken him; again his business is balked. Mirth and -melody, fun and sentiment are strangely mingled in this scene, and, -indeed, in this whole act. The serenade gets finished; the tree, as it -were, is climbed; but before the fruit can be gathered, the game is -interrupted by Masetto and the peasants armed, hot from the ball-room -scene, in search of the splendid scoundrel. Masetto gets the worst of -it; and here we have one of the world’s three or four very choicest and -purest gems of melody, Zerlina’s exquisitely tender and comforting song -to her poor, bruised, and beaten bridegroom, _Vedrai carino_; so -beautifully simple, in the homely key of C natural; so innocently -voluptuous; so full of blissful love; so like the balsam (_un certo -balsamo_) of which she hints with fond and arch significance! And as she -makes him place his hand upon her heart at the words, _sentilo battere_, -(feel it beat,) you seem to hear its glad and honest beating in the -music. We cannot forbear inserting here the following interpretation of -this song, which we have read since our analysis of the opera was made. -It is from the pen of an intelligent Russian gentleman, who has written -in French and German an admirable Life of Mozart, with a critical -examination of his works. We translate from the German copy: - -“_Vedrai Carino_ is, like so many pieces of our opera, super-dramatic -music. When we hear it, we forget the text, we forget the person. There -is no longer any Zerlina or Masetto. Something infinite, absolute, and -verily divine announces itself to the soul. Is it perhaps nothing but -love, represented under one of the countless modifications by which it -is distinguished in each individual, according to the laws of his -nature, and the peculiar vicissitudes of his fortune? No; the soul feels -rather a direct effluence of the principle itself, from which all youth, -all love, all joy, and every vital reproduction flows. The genius of the -Spring’s metamorphoses, he namely, whom the old theosophists called -Eros, who disembroiled chaos, who fructified germs and married hearts; -this genius speaks to us in this music, as he has so often spoken in the -murmurings of the brook that has escaped its icy prison, in the rustling -of the young leaves, in the melodious songs of the nightingale, in the -balmy odors which pervade the eloquent and inspiring stillness of a May -night. Mozart had listened to and firmly held this ground-accord of this -universal harmony; he arranged it for a soprano voice with orchestral -accompaniment, and made of it the nuptial air of a young bride. Zerlina -sings, surrounded by the shadows of the marriage night, while just about -to cross the threshold, at which virginity pauses with prayer and -trembling, expecting the confirmation of the holy title of wife. In this -place the Aria becomes a genuine _scena_ of love, the source of life and -of eternal rejuvenescence for all nature—of love, the spring-time of -souls, and the most unstinted revelation of the all-goodness of the -Creator. It is a marriage-song for all that loves, conceived in the same -spirit with the ‘Ode to Joy’ by Schiller, allowing for the difference of -tone and style between a Dithyrambic and an Eclogue. The theme, the -image of the purest bliss, betrays none the less that inexplicable and -seldom justified exaltation, which, in the fairest poetic hours of our -existence, leads us to that unknown good whereof all other goods of -earth are only shadows and foretastes. A rhythm without marked accent; a -harmony without dissonances; a modulation which rests in the Tonic, and -forgets itself, as if held fast there by a magic spell; a melody which -cannot separate itself from its ineffaceable _motiv_; this tranquil -rapture, this soft ecstasy, fill out the first half of the air. After -the pause, hosts of nightingales begin to sing in chorus in the -orchestra, while the voice, with exquisite monotony, murmurs, _Sentilo -battere, toccami quà_. Then the same words are again uttered with the -expression of passion; the heart of the young woman beats stronger and -stronger; the sighs of the orchestra are redoubled, and the last vocal -phrase, which bears the impress of chaste devotion, shows us the wife as -she sinks softly upon the bosom of her husband. Mozart seems to have -anticipated the desire of the ear, in that he lets the orchestra repeat -the whole _motiv_ and the enchanting final phrases once again. He knew -that the piece would be found too short, as it actually is the case.” - -Good-night, then, to this happy couple, whom we leave, to trace the -sequel of the comic vein just opened in that ‘Sartor’-ian exchange of -personality between the master and the servant; but also at the same to -receive still more distinct and solemn intimations (all the more -significant for this very contrast of the comic) of the supernatural -reaction that is preparing soon to burst upon the head of the -magnificent libertine and outlaw. The Sextette which now follows is -altogether unique and unrivaled among concerted pieces in opera. The -music of this Sextette covers such an ever-shifting variety of action, -and so much of a _scene_, that one may hear it once without thinking of -its wealth and admirable structure as music. Yet for every point in all -this action, and for all shades of relation between the persons, as well -as for each separate personality, there is a correspondence in the -music. The scene has changed to a _bujo loco_, or dark place, (the -libretto says, a porch to Donna Anna’s palace.) First appear the -counterfeit Giovanni and Elvira, who is too happy to walk with him to -the end of the world, if need be; while he, (Leporello,) tired of -imitating his master’s voice, is groping about to find an exit. In an -Andante melody, in the same key, and of a kindred character with that by -which we first knew her (_Ah! chi mi dice mai_,) she utters her fear of -being left alone in this bujo loco. Just as her companion finds the -door, the groping, cautious music brightens into the bold key and -trumpet-style which always heralds Anna and Ottavio, who enter amid -blaze of torches. Sweet is the consoling appeal of the _tenore_ to his -grief-stricken Anna, whose response, less fiery and commanding, but not -less sublimely spiritual than her last great solo, even hints of death -as the only solution of life’s riddle for her. Meanwhile the first two, -who have lurked unnoticed, are just making good their exit, when Zerlina -and Masetto appear, who thinks that now he has the _briccone_ at his -mercy; the bluster of Masetto, the surprise of Anna and Ottavio at the -sight of the supposed Giovanni, the grotesque, crouching plea of the -valet, the intercession of still deceived Elvira for “her husband,” then -their recognition of _her_, then a new brandishing of Masetto’s club, -and then the ass throwing off the lion’s skin, and begging mercy, all -are made thrice expressive by the music, which varies instinctively each -moment, and yet ceases not to weave the unitary complex whole. At last -all the six voices join in a swift and wind-like Allegro, in which -Anna’s voice takes the highest and most florid part, Zerlina’s the -second, Elvira’s the third, and so on, and in which there is now and -then a wild Æolian-harp-like passage of harmony, which seems the -fore-feeling of the higher powers which henceforth are to take part in -the drama. - -But first we have the masterpiece and model of all tenor solos. In it -Ottavio commends his _Il mio tesoro_ to the care of these friends, and -in it he proves himself the truest, tenderest, most devoted and most -religious of lovers, if Heaven _has_ reserved it to a stronger force -than his to crush the mighty sinner against whom he has taken such an -oath of vengeance. But the opera could not rob itself of the statue, and -its last scene, and its whole sublimity, to make him a hero, when it was -enough that he should know how to _love_ a Donna Anna. - -Passing over a duett between Leporello and Zerlina, rarely sung, in fact -an after-thought of the composer, which he is said to have added to -conciliate the lower taste of a Viennese manager or audience; and -passing over (for we must be brief) a truly transcendent solo for -Elvira: _Mi tradi quell’ alma ingrata_, in whose fluid, ever-modulating -melody her musing, sad soul seems dissolved in reverie, we come to the -marvelous church-yard scene. Here glimmers the white equestrian statue -of the murdered commander in the back-ground; and here the Don and -Leporello seek a rendezvous after their new discomfiture, to re-exchange -hats and mantles, and so forth. Their loud levity is suddenly hushed by -a voice of warning from the statue, accompanied in strange chords by the -unearthly tones of the trombones (which instruments, instead of being -lavished in Verdi fashion, upon all the strong passages, have been -entirely kept back till now for this supernatural “beginning of the -end,”) mingled with the low reed tones. _Di rider finirai_, etc. (“Thou -shalt cease to laugh before dawn!”) A short old choral strain, in which -the voice ends, spectral-like, upon the Dominant of the key (A minor), -struck with the major Third. This is a church cadence; it belongs to -eternity, which knows no Minor, no such type of “earthly un-rest.” It -freezes to the heart of Don Giovanni, who starts dismayed, but only for -a moment; and soon the marble lips break silence once more to rebuke his -mockery. So far it has been introductory recitative; but now the -orchestra is all life and melody again, for the luscious music of the -duett in which Giovanni compels the trembling servant at the sword’s -point to salute the statue and invite him to sup with him. There is no -more exquisite fairy-work in the whole opera than the instrumentation of -this scene. It were hard to tell whether the impression left by it -partakes most of the comic, of the supernaturally terrible, or of the -beautiful. All these elements are grotesquely blended in it, yet without -seeming incongruity. The beauty of the music harmonizes and idealizes -the action; it lends its singular fascination to the marvelous; it makes -the terror doubly real, by expressing the vague charm which every terror -has after all to the soul, glad (even in its terror) of the excitement -of something altogether strange and infinite. Mozart knew better than to -freeze the blood up here entirely, with unearthly tones of horror, -except during those brief utterances of the marble rider; that he -reserved for the end, of which this is but the beginning. He has -lavished all the luxury of melodic invention upon the instrumentation of -this duett; the music in the main still gushes warm and genial and -human, and hence you feel the supernatural all the more inwardly and -powerfully, when shudders of strange awe cross occasionally its placid, -sparkling flow. _O statua gentillissima_—cheerily and bravely the -beautiful strain sets out, in the rich key of E major; but as the knave -shrinks back in terror, crying _padron! mirate!_ etc., the deprecating -expression of his voice dropping through the interval of a Seventh, with -the instruments accompanying in unison, is alike droll and marvelous. -Still the cheerful melody goes on, in spite of ghosts, until the statue -nods acceptance, when the unearthly modulation and _tremolo_ of the -music, falling with sudden emphasis upon Leporello’s _Ah! — —h! che -scena!_ (Ah! what a sight!), gives the whole scene for the time the -superstitious coloring of his soul. But when he comes to tell his master -how the spectre nodded, and when his master repeats the strain and -gesture with him, the fear has become subordinate to the charm of -adventure, and the music takes the gay and reckless tone of Giovanni. -Life shall be all a feast, is _his_ creed, ghosts and miracles to the -contrary; and festally the bright strain dies away, softer and softer, -as they depart, to the tune of _Andiamo via di qua_ (let us quit this -place), to which the servant’s voice chimes in as second very heartily. - -Here the curtain usually falls, closing a second Act, although the -composer covers the homeward flight of the pair, fatigued and hungry -with that night’s adventures and discomfitures, and the preparation of -the supper, by a beautiful and elaborate recitative and aria of Donna -Anna, addressed to her devoted Ottavio, whose urgent plea for the -consummation of their union she tenderly puts off, as with a -presentiment that her love is to know no earthly consummation, and that -her life is already too much of the other world. This song: _Non mi -dir_, bloomed one of the heavenliest and purest in the wreath of Jenny -Lind. - -Act Third is the grand Finale, with its tremendous music, its -apparition, its supernatural vindication of the Law, and the splendid -sinner’s doom. Remember, day has not dawned yet since that other Finale, -to the First Act; their supper that time was stormily broken off, and -they have had little rest in the mean time. But they have got home at -last, and _Gia la mensa è preparata_: now the supper is prepared; a -smart and animated strain of full orchestra in the bold key of D. The -Don has shut himself in by himself with all the harmonies of sense and -appetite; it is the pure feast of egoism; there are no guests, but his -own appetites and riotous imaginations, for whom all things are -provided; and little thinks he of the guest whom he _has_ invited! Droll -Leporello, now all appetite, is in attendance, devouring furtive morsels -of the rich dishes, and uncorking the champagne, (a situation commonly -too tempting to our buffo, who makes the fun excessively and -disgustingly broad,) and making broad allusions to the _barbaro -appetito_ of his master. There is a band of wind instruments, too, from -whom all the while proceed the most enlivening appeals to composite -enjoyment, in a succession of rare morsels of melody from well-known -operas of the time, for which both master and man show an appreciating -ear. The last of these is the famous _Non piu andrai_, from Mozart’s own -“Nozze di Figaro,” to which Leporello may well exclaim: “That I know too -well.” Through all this the Titian-like, voluptuous quality of Mozart -comes out afresh. It is the music of pure, unalloyed sensuous enjoyment; -not a shadow of aught serious or sentimental comes over its harmony, -until once more his better nature makes one final appeal, entreating him -to repentance, in the person of poor, constant Donna Elvira, who -suddenly rushes in and kneels at his feet. But the Don laughs at her -simple lecture, and preaches up to her his bacchanalian gospel. - -Here mark a fine point in the action, a fine touch of poetic truth, -worthy of Mozart’s genius. It is _she_, his better nature, as we have -said, his own rejected truer self, who loves him better than he loves -himself; it is she, Elvira, who, as she leaves the stage, is the first -to meet the fearful apparition and by her shriek give warning. That -shriek, thrown into the music, has suddenly changed its smooth, -sparkling surface into fierce boiling eddies, and stirred up the whole -sea of harmony from its profoundest depths. The musicians on the stage -have vanished. No time now for their toy melodies! Every chord now -cleaves the dark veil of the supernatural, like lightnings in the -blackest night; the syncopated rhythm tells of vague and wonderful -forebodings. _Che grido è questo?_ (What noise is this?) And Leporello -is sent out to see. Wilder and heavier grows the music, as he returns -white and speechless, and only able in his half-wittedness of terror to -imitate with his feet the heavy _ta, ta_, the approaching foot-fall of -the man of marble, who has descended from his charger in the grave-yard. -It requires the master’s hardihood to open the door for him, and amid -those solemn and terrific crashes of the orchestra, with which the -overture commenced, the strange guest stalks into the middle of the -scene. - -With hard, ponderous, marble tones, like blows, falling whole octaves, -the statue announces himself as good as his word in accepting Giovanni’s -invitation. The amazed unbeliever, trembling and yet summoning up his -whole pride of will, which never yet forsook him, would fain prove as -good as _his_ word, too, and orders Leporello, who has crawled away -under the table, to get ready another supper. But “not on mortal food -feeds” this guest from the other world; “graver concerns” have led him -here; and the instruments are again traversing those _unsettled_ scales, -whose wonderful effect we noticed in the overture. _Parla, parla_: rings -out the rich, fresh baritone of the dauntless Amphytrion, as much as to -say: “talk on, old fellow! I listen; you are a ghost, but I am a -substance; I believe in myself, say what you will.” All very brave! but -listen to the orchestra (as you cannot _help_ listening) if you would -know how nevertheless it goes with him in the inner workings of his -soul, in those mysterious depths of consciousness which hitherto he has -so wilfully refrained from sounding. That heavy, muffled tread of the -sub-bass in triplets, making the ground quake, means more than the -“tertian ague” of poor Leporello there, with head thrust out cautiously -from under the table, and voice, automaton-like, moving in unison with -the _basso profondo_ of the orchestra. A pause is filled with a -monotonous beat of the basses, when the crashing diminished-seventh -chords begin anew, and louder than before, while the spectre again opens -its marble jaws to tender the Don an invitation in its turn, which he, -stout-hearted to the last, in spite of Leporello’s trembling, grotesque -warnings, accepts. The statue asks his hand in pledge; he boldly gives -it, starts as if an infinite pang and sense of death shot from the cold, -stony hand through all the marrow of his bones; with an infinite -audacity of will he refuses to repent; the spectre sinks through the -ground; he is a doomed one; the flames of hell burst in on every side, -with visions of the damned; a chorus of spectres: _vieni!_ (come!) is -heard amid the infernal whirl and tempest of the music; he wrestles with -the demons and drops dead, the whole phantasmagoria vanishing, just as -the other characters of the piece come in search of the reprobate, who -listen to Leporello’a chattering story, dispose of their several -destinies after the approved fashion of dramatic conclusions, and wind -up with chanting a solemn canon over the _Dissoluto punito_, to the -words: “Such is the end of the evil-doer!” - -It is usual, however, to terminate the performance with the fall of -Giovanni. The parts which follow, although admirable as music, are -plainly superfluous to the action, as a poetic and artistic whole, and -must have been added by Mozart out of mere conformity to old dramatic -usage, which assembles and disposes of all the surviving characters of a -piece in the last scene. - -There is great room for melodramatic nonsense and _diablerie_ in this -judgement scene, in which the theatres have used full license. But if -the orchestra be complete and efficient, there is no possibility of -travestying or perverting the sublime and terrible intention of the -music, which from the moment that the statue enters is enough to freeze -one’s blood, and preoccupies all avenues of sense or consciousness with -supernatural and infinite suggestions. And yet does Music’s sweet and -faithful prophecy of reconciliation, like the “still, small voice” out -of the inmost heart of things, still reach us somehow through it all! - - * * * * * - -The reader, who has followed us through this review of “Don Giovanni,” -clinging always to the musical thread of interpretation, will find -himself as little able as ourselves to sympathize with the regret, so -frequently expressed, that Mozart should have prostituted his genius in -this composition, by the false marriage of so much divine music with an -unworthy subject. We believe the marriage was a true one. He did not -merely cater to a low, licentious taste, in the selection of this story. -Never was a choice made more heartily. Or, if he did not himself -_choose_ the plot, yet he _fell in_ most heartily, and as it were, by a -providential correspondence with the invention of Da Ponte—as heartily -as he afterward fell in with the terrific images of the old Latin hymn, -when he composed his own “Requiem,” in writing a Requiem to order for -another. In these two works the life and genius of Mozart found their -highest expression. “Don Juan” and the “Requiem,” in all their contrast, -are alike true to the very texture and temper of the man. “Don Juan,” -written in the hey-day of his genial faculties, in his hour and scene of -greatest outward success, in the city of Prague, where he was understood -and loved as nowhere else, surrounded by devoted friends, and with an -orchestra and troup of singers worthy to be his interpreters, represents -his sunny side, his keen sensibility to all refined delights of sense -and soul, and his great faith in joy, in ecstasy, in all material and -sensual harmonies. The “Requiem” bears to “Don Juan,” as a whole, the -same relation that the last scene of that opera bears to the preceding -parts; it expresses the religious awe and mystery of his soul, his -singular presentiment of death, his constant feeling of the Infinite. -The opera, in its last scene, rises to a sphere of music kindred with -the “Requiem;” there vibrated the same deep chords of his nature. It was -the very subject of all others for him to pour the whole warm life-tide -of his soul and music into, and thus lift up and animate a poor old -literal fiction, that somehow strangely kept its hold upon the popular -mind, with all its weight of grotesqueness, extravagance, vulgarity and -tom-foolery, into a vivid drama of the whole impetuous, bewildered, -punished, yet far-hoping and indomitable experiment of human life. - -Here are the two elements which seem in contradiction. Here, on the one -side, is this bold, generous passion-life, with its innate gospel of -joy, and transport, and glorious liberty; how well could Mozart -understand it, and how eloquently preach it in that safe, universal -dialect of Music, which utters only the heart-truth, and not the vulgar -perversion of any sentiment! Here, on the other hand, is the stern -Morality of being, frowning in conflict with the blind indulgence of the -first. The first is false by its excess, by losing Order out of sight; -while Order, sacred principle, in its common administration between men, -in its turn is false, through its blind method of suppression and -restraint, blaspheming and ignoring the divine springs of passion, which -it should accept and regulate. The music is the heavenly and prophetic -mediator that resolves the strife. - -Hence the music of “Don Giovanni” presents two sides, two parts in -strongest contrast. Love, joy, excitement, freedom, the complete life of -the senses, are the theme of the first part, represented in the keen and -restless alternation of the Don’s intrigues and pleasures—a downright, -unmistrusting, beautiful assertion of the natural man—and you have it -all summed up to one text and climax, in the first Finale, in the brief -champagne sparkle and stormy transport of the little chorus, _Viva la_ -Liberta! As the burden of that part is Liberty, so the burden of the -last part, the counter-text and focus, is Order, the violated Law; and -as the central figure here stalks in the supernatural statue, stony and -implacable. It is the whole story of life, the one ever-repeated, -although ever-varied drama of dramas; and it is set forth here, both -sides of it, most earnestly in this sincere and hearty music, which in -its own exhaustless beauty hints the reconciliation of the two -principles, and to the last is true to the divine good of the senses and -the passions, and to the presentiment of a pure and perfect state, when -these shall be, not dreaded, not suppressed, but regulated, harmonized, -made rhythmical and safe, and more than ever lifesome, and spontaneous -by Law as broad and deep and divine us themselves. - -Do we defy the moral of the matter, when we feel a certain thrill of -admiration as Don Juan boldly takes the statue’s hand, still strong in -his life-creed, however he may have missed the heavenly method in its -carrying out, and somehow inspired with the conviction that this -judicial consummation is not, after all, the end of it; but that the -soul’s capacity for joy and harmony is of that god-like and _asbestos_ -quality that no hells can consume it? - ------ - -[5] It is a curious fact that the first opera of which we read, and -which was produced at Rome in the year 1600, bore the title of: -_Rappresentazione del Animo e del Corpo_. - -[6] “Don Giovanni” was composed in 1787. The Abbé Da Ponte, who wrote -the book, and who enjoyed at Vienna the same distinction with Metastasio -as a writer of musical poetry, died in New York, in December 1838, at -the age of 90 years, in a state of extreme destitution. For thirty years -he had sought a living in that city by teaching the Italian language. - - * * * * * - - - - - AUTUMN RAIN. - - - BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY. - - - How I love the Autumn rain! - Pattering at my window-pane, - With a liquid, lulling tone, - As I sit all day alone— - Thinking o’er and o’er again - Only how I love the rain! - - How I love the Autumn rain! - When it brings a thoughtful train— - When in meditative mood - I enjoy my solitude, - While the full and active brain - Works as busy as the rain. - - How I love the Autumn rain - When, without a care or pain, - I can dream, and dream all day, - Or with loitering Fancy stray— - Weaving some capacious strain - Musical as Autumn rain. - - How I love the Autumn rain! - When gray twilight comes again: - When the flickering hearth-flumes dance, - While the shadows dart askance— - Seeming goblins to the brain, - In the dreamy Autumn rain. - - How I love the Autumn rain! - Pattering at my window-pane, - When upon my bed reposing— - Half in waking, half in dozing, - Then a dulcet music-strain - Seems the pleasant Autumn rain. - - How I love the Autumn rain! - Though it come, and come again, - Never does it weary me - With its dull monotony; - Never on my ear in vain - Falls the pattering Autumn rain. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO MARY ON EARTH. - - - BY A. J. REQUIER. - - - I’m thinking of thee, Mary, - And twilight shadows fall - With mournful stillness o’er the scene - And deepen on the wall; - But with the dim, departing light, - Breaks faintly, from afar, - Upon the bosom of the night, - A solitary star! - - I’m thinking of thee, Mary, - For like that twilight scene, - The dusk and dew were on my heart, - To darken what was green; - The dusk and dew were falling fast - Upon its faded dreams, - When, through the gloom, thy young love cast - The fervor of its beams. - - I’m thinking of thee, Mary, - For in this lonely hour - A thought of other times will come, - Of parted friends will lower; - And early images arise, - With freshness flushed in pain, - Of tender forms and tearful eyes - I may not see again. - - I’m thinking of thee, Mary, - For when such moments dwell - Upon my spirits with the weight - Of a departing knell, - A thought of thee breaks through the night - Of memories that mar, - With the lone glory of that bright, - That solitary star! - - Oh, Mary, Mary, Mary dear! - If in my bosom shine - One hope, one dream, one single wish, - That single wish is thine; - And if to see and feel and hear - But thee, in heart and brain, - Be love, I love thee, Mary dear, - And cannot love again! - - * * * * * - - - - - TO ADHEMAR. - - - BY E. ANNA LEWIS. - - - ’Tis just one year ago, beloved, to-day, - Since, my pale hand between thy hands compressed, - I laid my burning brow upon thy breast, - And bade the flood-gate of my heart give way— - Then shut it down upon its streams for aye. - We sought to speak, yet neither said farewell; - Fate rung her larum through my spirit’s cell - Until the chill of death upon me lay. - I never could relive that hour again: - Through every artery shot an icy pang, - As if an adder pierced me with its fang, - And dashed the roseate fount of life with bane. - My eyes were open, yet I could not see— - I breathed, yet I was dead. All things were dead to me. - - * * * * * - - - - - ANNA TEMPLE. - - - A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. - - - BY JANE GAY. - - - CHAPTER I. - - Death makes no conquest of this conqueror, - For now he lives in fame, though not in life. - King Richard III. - -The Lord Protector was seated beneath a royal canopy in the lofty -parliament-chamber of England. At his left stood Thurloe, his secretary, -on his right was seated a part of the bold Puritan band who had dared -affix their signatures to the death-warrant of Charles Stuart. There was -Bradshaw, the intrepid judge who wrote his name first on that fatal -paper; there was Ireton—the fiery-hearted Ireton—who had come up in -defense of Protestantism fierce and raging “as a lion from the swelling -of Jordan;” Goffe, and Whalley, and Dixwell, too, were there, whose -ashes repose in our own quiet “City of Elms,” and many others of that -fearless band of regicides that three years after were fleeing from home -and country, to escape the block or gibbet. Ambassadors from every -nation were there—princes and courtiers, officers of the army, judges, -petitioners, all helped to make up the illustrious Protectorate Assembly -of 1655. - -Seated side by side, and discoursing in low tones of the projected -treaty, were Sir Matthew Hale and Milton, the world-renowned bard; and -in a listening posture near them, was the accomplished Lambert. No -purple robe or kingly crown distinguished the chief of this august body, -but nature had stamped a seal on him that could not be mistaken, for -Oliver Cromwell bore in the parliament-hall the look and bearing of a -man born to command, while at the same time the most unconquerable -determination and the highest-wrought enthusiasm were traced on every -lineament of his face. But to our story. - -A gentleman, in the splendid dress that distinguished the court of Louis -Fourteenth, approached the Lord Protector, and bending low, presented a -paper to his highness. It was Bordeaux, the French ambassador, and the -treaty so long in contemplation between the two nations, was this day to -receive the seal of the Protectorate. The hand of Cromwell was already -on the paper, when some confusion near the door arrested his attention, -and a frown was gathering on his brow, when his piercing eye detected a -youth with foreign air and aspect boldly striving to make his way -through the guards that were stationed near the entrance of the hall. - -“Silence, guards!” shouted the deep, nasal voice of the Protectorate, -“stay not the boy; let him approach our presence if he have petition to -offer.” - -The guards gave way, and a slender but graceful-looking youth of some -fourteen years came forward, and, knelt at the feet of the sovereign. -Every eye was fastened upon him, and a deep silence came over the throng -as he knelt there with clasped hands, his dark, earnest eyes fixed on -the stern-looking, shaggy-browed Puritan in mute supplication—for no -word fell from the boy’s lips. A heavy mass of raven curls were gathered -back from the snowy forehead of the strange youth, and fell in singular -beauty over his shoulders, and his simple peasant garb, had forced the -idea of some wandering minstrel-boy, but for the deep and earnest -pleading of the eyes, which told of excitement and anguish too deep for -the utterance of the lips. - -The silent but impassioned pleading of the poor youth touched the -susceptible heart of Cromwell, and he laid his hand kindly and -caressingly on the locks of the fair stranger, and said, in his gentlest -accents, - -“Whence come you, my son, and how can the Protectorate aid you? Be -calm,” added he, noticing a nervous tremor on his countenance, “you have -nothing to fear here—speak your errand plainly.” - -“I am come from the valley of Piedmont, my noble lord,” replied the -youth, “and the snow was red with the blood of the poor Vaudois;” and a -cold shudder passed over his pale face. - -“Hell and furies!” shouted Cromwell, in momentary wrath; “Are the cursed -heretics on their track again?” Then bursting into tears, he added, in a -subdued tone, “Poor martyred saints of the Most High, ye shall wear a -glorious crown, in spite of your persecutors, and your blood shall not -redden the Alpine snows in vain! If there is might in human arm, your -enemies shall be humbled, and know that the Lord of Hosts will avenge -his elect.” - -Then taking up the paper on which the sovereign seal was not yet fixed, -he delivered it to the French ambassador, saying somewhat haughtily, -“Take it back to your monarch, and tell him that Oliver Cromwell, Lord -Protector of England, rejects the treaty, until the King of France, and -his prime minister, shall pledge their assistance in succoring the -persecuted Protestants of Piedmont! Until such pledge shall be given, -our negotiations are ended.” - -Bordeaux reddened with resentment as he folded the rejected paper. “The -war is then inevitable,” he muttered. “Shall I say, sire, that you -refuse the treaty?” - -“Say I will wage war with all Europe but this persecution of Christians -shall cease!” - -“But the King of France can do nothing, my lord,” persisted Bordeaux. -“The Duke of Savoy may make laws for his subjects as independently as -your highness; and no foreign force can be brought to bear upon them in -those mountain wilds.” - -Cromwell stamped his foot with impatience. “My word has gone forth, and -‘the ships of England shall sail over the Alps,’ sooner than another -hair of their heads shall perish! Tell _both your masters_ that this is -my decree.” - -The Frenchman was indignant at this speech of the Lord Protector, for -although every Frenchman understood that Mazarin, the prime minister, -was the real monarch, they could not endure to have it thus thrown in -their teeth, and he angrily asked permission to retire, which was -readily granted; and the parliament was soon after adjourned. - -That same evening young Francois Waldo—for that was the name of the -Vaudois youth—sat in the palace of Whitehall, with the Protector and -his family; and though but a simple peasant-boy, he looked with a calm -indifference upon the courtly splendor that surrounded him; for he had -been bred amid the wild magnificence of the snow-capped Alps, and they -pictured to his youthful imagination the “everlasting hills,” of which -he had early been taught to sing, as he sat with the pious shepherds -tending their flocks in the evening starlight. - -It was a sad story he told of his poor, persecuted people, how, in the -very heart of winter, six stout Catholic regiments had broken in upon -their quiet homes, to overpower and destroy; how the innocent children -had been dashed from the icy pinnacles—the fathers and mothers -beheaded—their villages burned to the ground—and those who fled for -safely to the mountain-caverns, were hunted like wild beasts by the -Pope’s minions; and Cromwell—the lion warrior and the dauntless -regicide—the unflinching patriot, and the powerful sovereign, clasped -the poor fugitive to his heart, and loudly bewailed the fate of these -martyred Christians. - -“Had you parents, and were they victims of this terrible slaughter?” -weepingly inquired Mary Cromwell, one of the Protector’s daughters. - -“Yes, lady—parents; and a sweet little blue-eyed sister, like the -little girl by your side;” and he pointed to a beautiful child that had -been listening with a sorrowful face, and eyes brimfull, to his sad -recital. “We called her our mountain violet; but in one night I was left -alone—for they burned our cottage, and slew both parents and child. I -was away, but came next morning and sat awhile by the mouldering embers -of my home, and then rose up determined to seek the shores of Christian -England, and plead for succor. I hid myself among the rocks and cliffs -by day, and at night wandered, hungry and alone, until I reached the -sea-coast, lest I should fall into the hands of the soldiers, and none -escape to carry aid to my suffering nation.” - -“You are a brave, blessed boy, and you shall not go hungry any more,” -said little Anna Temple, forgetting her childish timidity; and going up -close to him, she gazed earnestly and lovingly in his face. “Stay here, -and we will _all_ love you, because you have no sister—wont we, Mary?” -said the child, in the warmth and innocency of her heart. - -“Yes, darling,” replied she, “and he shall go to school, if he wishes, -with you and Robert, and Eugene.” - -The heart of Francois Waldo was nigh to bursting, as the gentle accents -of the child fell on his ear—so like the tones of his own Christine, -which had so often gladdened him in their happy home—and he bowed his -head and wept for the first time since his bereavement; and every member -of that lordly household wept in sympathy. - -Months went by, and the Vaudois youth was still an inmate of the -Protector’s family—a calm, intellectual, devoted student, destined as a -preacher of that faith for which his kindred had suffered martyrdom. He -went not back to his native valley, for here he might better fit himself -for the work of the glorious mission he felt desirous of fulfilling; and -Cromwell had been true to his word—the arm of oppression had been -unnerved, and peace and plenty secured to the faithful survivors. - -Anna Temple was the only earthly being that withdrew his thoughts for a -moment from the prosecution of his great and holy purpose; but when her -soft blue eyes pleaded, as they often did, with her lips, for an hour’s -relaxation and amusement in the park or garden, he would sometimes -unbind the mental chain for a little space, and go forth with spirit -unfettered and free. Then he would talk to the fair child of his lost -home—of the icy palaces of the Alps, pure as spirit-haunts—of the -wild-flowers springing from their rocky beds, and of the holy starlight -of the mountains, until the enthusiastic creature would regard Francois -as a being of purer mould, more spiritual and good, than any other -person with whom she held companionship. - -And thus years passed; Francois still saw in the beautiful Anna Temple, -or fancied he saw, the image of his lost Christine; and the young girl -read in the large, soul-earnest eyes of the Vaudois student, the first -mysterious leaf of womanhood—and they were both happy. - -Meantime a shadow was darkening the sky of England—a storm-cloud, -destined to shake from its foundation her political fabric, and place -another Stuart on the throne. Cromwell, the Protector—the hero of the -seventeenth century, was summoned to repose! Bravely had he borne his -armor on the great battle-ground of life, and his valiant heart had not -fainted in the heat of the conflict. The humble plebian had dared boldly -to take up arms against his country’s foes in defiance of his king; and -subsequently, at the same country’s call, and in defense of her -liberties, with the Book of God in his hand, and a psalm on his lips, to -affix his signature to the death-warrant of the sovereign traitor. Ever, -where duty called, was he found foremost in the ranks of the faithful, -battling for the right; and when in the maturity of manhood the sun of -glory brightened his gray hairs with the splendor of royalty, he turned -coldly away from the crown of a king, preferring the simple title of -Protector of the Commonwealth. His sword was still girded against the -Lord’s enemies, when a voice from above summoned him from earthly glory -to heavenly rest; and on the third of September, one thousand six -hundred and fifty-eight, Oliver Cromwell stood girded for his last -conflict. - -Historians have recorded _that_ as a fearful night when the Lord -Protector lay struggling with the final enemy. Wildly wailed the wind -around that earthly palace; but the eye of the dying was on the eternal -mansion, and so amid the fury of the elements, the great spirit of -Cromwell achieved its final victory. - -A loud wail burst from the whole army of Puritans, for well they knew -there was none powerful like him to cope with their adversaries. The -master-spirits among their opponents would not reverence his son, -because the father had held them in check; and the inefficient Richard -Cromwell had nothing to claim for himself. He beheld the country rent by -faction, and having no power to quell insubordination, and, moreover, -fearing the result to himself, he quietly resigned his Protectorate, and -all that had been gained to England by Cromwell’s life, was lost in his -death. Whither would now flee the fifty-nine judges who had decreed -Charles Stuart to the scaffold, or where the friends of the Protector -find safety? - - - CHAPTER II. - - When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks; - When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand. - _Ibid._ - -Not far from the shores of a sunny lake in the depths of the American -forest stood the rude log-hut of an emigrant. The site was one of -surpassing loveliness—for nature here, in her unbounded domain, had -done the work of ages, and the majestic oak towered in silent grandeur -beside the graceful elm and the drooping willow, making mockery of art. -Birds of glittering plumage sang all day in this wildwood retreat—for, -save this one log-cottage, for miles and miles around was no human -habitation. The slight clearing, scarcely sufficient for a garden-patch, -sloping down to the water-side, told of no hardy adventurer hunting -fortune in the wilderness of the new world; and it would have puzzled -even a Yankee of this present age to have _guessed_ at the pursuit or -object of the tenants of that forest home, so contradictory seemed they -in outward aspect. - -The family consisted of but four members—a tall, noble-looking man, a -little past the meridian of life, with piercing eyes, and dark locks -sprinkled with white, falling rather thinly over his broad forehead. His -dress was of the plainest, coarsest drab cloth; indeed, there was -nothing to distinguish it from that of the negro servant who attended -him, except the natural grace and dignity imparted by the manly form of -the wearer. The other two occupants of this secluded abode were a young -girl, who might have numbered seventeen summers, and an elderly female, -who had once been her nurse, but who was now a sort of housekeeper in -general, inasmuch as there was none other to superintend the domestic -arrangements; but had you taken a peep into the interior of the cottage, -you would have seen no lack of comfort, and even some faint show of -taste, considering the dearth of material. A coarse carpet was thrown -over the rough log-door, and ranged around the sides of the apartment -were rustic seats composed of branches of trees, covered, sofa-like, -with skins of animals, forming comfortable couches for sitting or -reclining. Indian blankets, tastefully embroidered, served as a -partition between this and a small room adjoining, which was fitted up -for the young lady’s boudoir, and which was occupied in common by both -females. Here, on a table of oak, covered with kid-skin, lay a few -books, and a guitar, evidently the relics of other days. A large -sea-shell served for a vase, and stood on the rude table, filled with -wood-flowers, the first gift of summer. Perhaps, too, you might have -noticed some large, massive chests in either apartment, and wondered how -such ponderous articles had found place in so small a habitation; but we -have a key to the mystery, reader, and will give it thee, together with -the secret of this secluded family. - -Some eighteen months prior to the time our chapter commences, a -gentlemanly-looking resident of the new Quaker city, calling himself, -John Brown, saw every where posted up, by order of the new king, -directions for the seizure and arrest of all persons known or supposed -to be implicated in the fate of Charles Stuart—with large rewards held -out as an incentive, to those who should successfully aid the king’s -officers in their search. - -It was an hour of darkness to many a poor fugitive, for disguises were -no longer to be trusted, and life’s last hope lay in strict concealment -in rocks or forests, or amid the haunts of the savages. Every tie of -kindred was now to be sundered—every communication with the world of -mankind to be cut off, and the wanderer was henceforward to live with -all the golden threads of being rudely snapped by a tyrant. There was no -time to be lost, for “blood for blood” was the royal watchword, and his -legions were on the track. - -Brown was fully alive to his danger, but with the cool, undaunted heart -of a man accustomed to war with obstacles, he sat down calmly to -meditate the best course of procedure. To remain a day longer in the -city he knew full well was madness, and every hour was fraught with -danger. Could he leave here in a land of strangers, alone and -unprotected save by one frail woman, the delicate blossom he had -cherished as “Love’s lost token,” and borne over the waters to cheer his -declining age? How could he talk of a separation of years, perhaps -forever, from the gentle creature, whose life was all centered in -his—how could she bear this last stroke also? True, he had -wealth—treasures of gold and silver; wealth would purchase friends, but -dangerous friends, too, he thought, for a lonely orphan girl. - -He sat deep in thought for a moment longer, then reached his hand and -touched a silver bell, exclaiming—“It shall be as _she_ wishes. I will -abide _her_ choice at all events!” - -The ring was speedily answered by a good-looking man-servant. - -“I here, Massa Brown,” said the ebony, making a full display of ivory. - -“Is Miss Anna in, Carle?” inquired the master. - -“Do no! rudder tink she be, Massa.” - -“Go then, and tell her I would see her. Be quick, Carle, and do you wait -until I call, for I shall want you again soon.” - -A moment after, a fairy-like creature bounded into the presence of her -father, and winding her arms caressingly around his neck, waited his -pleasure. - -“You are ill, dear father,” said she at length, observing his pale -forehead. “I have wasted all the morning on my pet birds, thinking you -were out as usual.” - -He kissed her cheek fondly, and replied— - -“I did go out, my child, but quickly returned, for there is danger -abroad, and there is no more rest for thy father. ’Tis a mournful -summons for thee, darling, but there is no time to be lost in revealing -the true cause of it. I must flee speedily, or the new king’s officers -will soon bear me back to drop my head at Whitehall. Bear it bravely, -Anna, you are my own daughter, and know well the happy days of the -Protectorate are ended. There is gold, more than sufficient for all thy -wants!” - -“But, father, _you_ are _my wealth_; all the treasure of this world to -me! Whither would you flee, and wherefore leave me behind?” - -“I know not, daughter—some secret hiding-place where the hand of a -Stuart may not reach me, far from the abodes of civilized life. Every -thing is to be encountered—want in its worst forms, and you, who have -been nurtured in a palace, could poorly cope with cold and hunger! Stay -here, my child, amid ease and plenty, and let thy father go forth to -meet his fate alone.” - -“No, father, Anna Temple is not the weak child you suppose, if you can -urge her to forsake her gray-haired parent, because, perchance she must -leave behind the downy pillow on which she was cradled! There is no -privation in going which I cannot readily undergo, and who knows, -father, but we may make us a new home in the wilderness. At all events, -wherever thou goest I will go, and thy lot shall be mine for ever!” - -The noble Lord Temple—for the self-styled John Brown was no other than -the friend and ally of Cromwell, clasped his child to his heart, and -said— - -“If this be your wish, Anna, I will see what can be effected in a few -brief hours. Carle must be summoned immediately, and you may proceed to -put in as small compass as possible your own treasures and your mother’s -relics, and provide yourself with plain Quaker apparel, for such must be -our disguise. Judy, your old nurse must be let into the secret without -loss of time, and I will inform Carle; the other servants must be kept -in the dark.” - -Anna departed with alacrity to obey the directions of her father, for in -her breast the fount of life still sparkled with the delightful romance -of youth; while her sire, who had seen bubble after bubble rise and -break upon its surface, proceeded with emotions entirely different to -unfold to the faithful Carle the plan of procedure. - -The trusty negro was directed to go and purchase a number of suits of -Quaker clothing for his master, with the broad-brim hat, to render the -disguise as complete as possible, while he, himself made haste to fill -the large chests they had brought over sea with treasure, and whatever -they would be most likely to need in their unknown resting-place; and in -less than three hours every thing had been prepared for their departure. -John Brown, with his felt-hat and wide lappel made a pattern Quaker, and -Anna looked rogueishly out from beneath her straight bonnet—then arose -the question when, and how they should depart. After some consultation, -it was agreed they should wait until nightfall; when master and the -ladies should set forward on foot, and walk on as fast as possible, and -Carle should put the carriage-horses into an emigrant’s waggon, with -boxes, chests, etc., not forgetting a supply of axes and fire-arms, and -meet them at a spot designated a few miles from the city. - -There remained but one more apparent difficulty; the other servants of -the household must be informed of their sudden purpose, as all efforts -to conceal their departure would be ineffectual, and the truth could not -be confided to them with safety. The disguises were again thrown aside, -the servants all summoned, and Lord Temple addressed them, thus— - -“I have received an unexpected summons from the new king, and must -depart immediately. I shall take but Carle with the young mistress and -her nurse, and leave the rest of you in charge of the house until our -return; but should any thing occur to prevent my coming back in the -spring, you are one and all entitled to your freedom. Until then you -will be faithful to the interest of your master!” - -“Yes, massa. Lord bless good Massa Brown and young missey, too!” chimed -in half-a-dozen voices at once; for the refugee had maintained an -independent household, and lived as became a man of wealth and fashion. -He had left England immediately after the death of Cromwell, foreseeing -the probable issue of the Protectorate; and wishing to spend the residue -of his days in peace, he dropped at once his name and title, and was -known only in the young city as a private gentleman of good fortune. - -That night, when all was hushed in the good “City of Brotherly Love,” -Lord Temple, with his daughter and nurse Judy, stole softly from their -new and pleasant home, to seek some sheltering asylum from the merciless -hand of persecution. They walked on in silence until they gained the -outskirts of the city, the young and delicate Anna clinging to both her -father and nurse; for the deep silence of the night filled her heart -with strange fancies. - -“Your strength is not sufficient for your purpose, Anna,” said her -father, noticing how nervously she clung to him. “The way will be long -and solitary for a tender child like you! Will not my daughter return -now to a home, that will afford her still a shelter at least?” - -“And would not the way seem longer and darker to my father, if his only -child were behind him? Think not because I tremble a little now at first -that my heart is weak and cowardly. I have never before walked in the -street at midnight, you know, and every rustle seems a king’s officer to -me.” - -“Bless you, my darling,” exclaimed her father. “The blood of the -Temple’s is in your veins, warm and noble; I cannot bear to see it -chilled by misfortune.” - -“I have no regrets for the world we are leaving behind save on your -account, my dearest father; on the contrary, I feel it will be charming -to dwell alone in the great forest of the West, where the fetters of -fashion, pride and ambition will cease to enthral, and we may learn of -the great Creator by the infinity of his works, instead of the multitude -of man’s words.” - -Thus did the brave girl attempt to cheer the desponding spirits of her -father as they moved forward amid the darkness of their solitary way. -They directed their course northward, and although they were in the main -road, the “woods of centuries” were all around them, and their giant -shadows seemed like some spectral army gathered in the gloom of night. - -The morning dawned on the little band nearly ten miles from the city, -and although they had two or three times paused for a little rest by the -wayside, it found them weak and weary; but the spot where they were to -turn aside and wait for their wagon and refreshments was near, and they -pressed forward. Their stopping-place was a few hundred yards from the -road-side—a beautiful spot, by a spring of fresh water, where hunting -parties often stopped to regale themselves with a dinner of game, or at -least, to quaff a drink of water from the spring. Carle had often been -there, and had described the spot so minutely it could not be mistaken; -and when at length they seated themselves, and Judy took from her pocket -some cakes, which, woman-like, she had been provident enough to bring -along with her, their drooping spirits revived, and they ate the morsel -cheerfully and drank from the spring, for they were faint as well as -weary. - -It was a bright morning of early autumn! The breath of summer yet -lingered in the air, though the mists were on the hill-tops, and the -forest was tinged with the faintest hue of red—the first presage of -decay. - -“O, father, is it not magnificent!” exclaimed Anna Temple, as she -pointed to the boundless woods rising like an ampitheatre on either -hand! “This is like what I have read of the new world, only more sublime -if possible. Positively there is more of grandeur in this one scene than -in all the courts of royalty in the world. Why, just see—the Eastern -kings have never worn mantles more elegantly tinged with scarlet and -gold, than these old patriarch trees have put on. It really makes our -Quaker garb look sombre, and I expect the very birds will be _theeing_ -and _thouing_ us as we pass on through their territory.” And the -happy-hearted creature clapped her hands and laughed until the hills -sent back an echo. - -“Hush, hush, daughter; there is the rumbling of wheels near—nearer than -the main road, too, I fear! It may be some party of hunters who have -made this a place of rendezvous; it cannot be that foes are thus early -on the track, I think.” - -At the mention of foes the cheek of Anna was pale as clay, and she -nestled close beside her father; but a moment afterward she started to -her feet, and the red blood again mantled her brow as she exclaimed: - -“’Tis Carle, I really think—’tis only Carle, father! I know by the snap -of his whip, for no other person ever snapped one like him. Why, Judy, -he thinks it time you are making coffee, and has whipped up!” - -It was indeed Carle, who came thus unexpectedly upon them, two hours at -least sooner than looked for by his master, who had recommended him to -stay behind until they had got a fair start, lest some suspicious eye -should detect them, and the whole plan be frustrated. - -“He! he! he! You got here fust, anyhow,” said the darkey, as he brought -his horses to a stand beside them; “though I tried hard to catch up and -give young missy a ride. Guess we had better eat breakfast in a hurry -and be off, for some of dem nigger ask a great many question last night -’specting de big boxes we load in. But I guess I set ’em on de wrong -track, any how. He! he! he!” - -A flint was produced and fire struck, and shortly after the air was -fragrant with boiling coffee, and a very comfortable breakfast was eaten -on the green grass by the spring side; after which, things were quickly -put in place, and the little company took the seats arranged for them in -the broad, emigrant’s wagon, and sped on as ignorant of their -destination as the ancient patriarch journeying on to the “Land of -Promise.” - -For five long, tedious days they went forward as fast as the miserable -state of the roads and the jaded condition of the horses would allow, -stopping occasionally to refresh themselves by some pleasant stream that -crossed their path in the wilderness. They occasionally fell in with -some person who questioned them of their journey, and their reply was -invariably, “Going north to settle;” but one _real Quaker_ was not thus -contented. - -“Thee lookest tired friend, wilt thou partake of a brother’s hospitality -on thy way? Nay, no refusal, the young woman looketh sick and needeth a -night’s rest! Rachel will give her nursing right gladly, for no Friends -have crossed our threshold for months.” - -It was the third day of their flight, and worn down with fatigue and -loss of rest, they could not resist this pressing appeal of the good -brother, and accordingly the horses were allowed to stop in front of a -large log farm-house on the banks of the Susquehanna. - -But the _soi disant_ John Brown had some trouble in sustaining the new -character he had assumed, for he not only made laughable blunders in the -Quaker dialect, but when questioned of the prosperity and welfare of his -brethren in the good city, betrayed an ignorance certainly unwarrantable -in a brother; but his host was a shrewd, sensible man, and soon guessed -more of his guest’s secret than would have rendered his stay comfortable -had he surmised it. But the secret was in safe keeping, and the poor -fugitives were loaded with kindness and sent forward on the morrow with -the nicest provisions of the dairy for their future necessity. - -“Beware of New England Friends,” said their hospitable host, with a sly -look, at parting, “or the _good Puritans_ there may send thee back _with -holes in thy tongue_, or _minus ears_.” - -The last two days of their journey were beset with difficulties and -dangers. They had forsaken the public way, and their path was literally -in the wilderness, and so thickly strewn with obstacles as to render -every step tedious and toilsome; but death was behind, and the hope of -life before, and so they went forward steadily and patiently. - -Near the close of the fifth day they came suddenly into a beautiful -valley, sheltered on all sides by bold hills, and encircling in its -bosom a clear, quiet lake. Not a vestige of human kind was discernible -in this spot, so charming that it seemed fresh from the hand of its -Creator. - -“Is not this such a spot as we have been seeking, father?” inquired -Anna, with a pleading look. - -“Yes, daughter, if there is peace and safety on earth it must be in this -Eden of the forest. Here we will fix our dwelling-place, in the midst of -this romantic scenery. To-morrow, Carle, we must set to work to prepare -a habitation; you are something of a carpenter I think?” - -“O, yes, massa; me learn de trade in good old England, but not wid such -big log as dis.” - -We have now traced the flight of the illustrious but unfortunate Judge -Temple from the Quaker city—his first resting-place in the Western -world—to the forest home introduced to our reader at the commencement -of the chapter. More than a year and a half had passed since the -wanderers had sought refuge in the friendly wild, whose shelter had -afforded a safe retreat from friend or foe; for no white face had smiled -or frowned on them in their new habitation. They had lived alone! The -forest and lake supplied them with food, and they had a little garden -which furnished them with vegetables, having brought with them a variety -of seed and utensils for the culture of the soil. They had a few books, -and Anna and her father read together, to while away the long hours of -winter; but in summer they dragged not heavily; for there was life and -beauty around them, and in the warm breast of Anna Temple was a -perpetual fountain of sunlight. To her father she seemed as happy as the -birds that warbled all day in gladness—and she was truly happy—happy -in herself, in her only parent, and in every thing bright and beautiful -around her; still her thoughts in their loneliness often reverted to her -_first home_, and the blessed hours of her childhood. - -But not for lost splendor did she dwell thus fondly the memory of the -past, it was for the lost companions of those rainbow-tinted years, -whose fate she might never know. Scattered far and wide over the earth -she knew them to be, but who among them had fallen victims, she vainly -strove to conjecture. - -And one among those whose images were linked with her dreams, was the -dark-haired Vaudois student, who had taught her the Alpine shepherd -songs which she still loved to play at nightfall, as she watched the -stars peering out, with their angel-eyes, and she would sometimes weep -as she thought that pale-browed youth might even then be wearing the -golden crown he had so early sought to win. - -It surely was a solitary life for an ardent young creature like Anna -Temple to dwell thus apart from the world, shut out from every -association of her earlier and happier years; still she was never for a -moment discontented with her lot. A nest of young birds she fed and -tamed, and every wild-flower of rare beauty was transplanted in her -garden-plot—so her loving heart had food for its impassioned yearnings. -One human creature, too, had found a place in her affections even here -in the wilderness. The summer after their arrival, a party of Indians -from a neighboring tribe had sought, as was their custom, the shores of -this sunny lake to fish. Among them came the chief, with his only -daughter, nearly the same age as Anna. - -Weetano was a most superb creature; graceful as a fawn, with eyes clear -and dark as a gazelle’s, and she burst upon them like a glorious -vision—so unlike any thing they had seen, or even fancied. Her father, -the old chief, seemed not at first well pleased to find his summer -retreat invaded by a pale face, but Lord Temple’s courteous address soon -won his favor, and he came with confidence to the cottage, where he was -entertained with so many presents and novelties, that he went and -brought his daughter to see the “white squaw,” as he called Anna, and -hear her sing. - -Anna took her guitar and sang with it to the infinite delight of her -visitors, who asked her if the creature were alive, for they had learned -a little English from the fur-traders. She then displayed to the Indian -maiden her treasures, and presented her with a beautiful coral necklace, -that had pleased her fancy better than any thing else. The chief looked -highly gratified to see Anna clasp the trinket round his daughter’s -neck, and he inquired with some pride—“Will the Pale-Lily sail in the -canoe with Red-Bird?” for thus he called his daughter. - -Anna was delighted with the novelty of the proposition, and hastened to -accompany her new companion to the lake-side, leaving the old chief with -her father at the cottage. She had never before seen a canoe like -Weetano’s, it was befitting a chief’s daughter, or a princess royal, -with its snowy mat of swan’s-down, and decorated with the quills of the -porcupine and feathers of every hue. The Indian girl seized the paddles, -and jumping into the fairy-looking bark motioned Anna to a seat on the -mat opposite, but with all the romance and enthusiasm of her nature, she -hesitated; for the thing seemed all too frail for the burden of a human -weight on the dark waters. - -“Does the white girl fear?” inquired Weetano, in most musical accents. -“Look how Red-Bird can guide a canoe.” - -And quick as thought she dipped the oars, and the boat darted away like -a bird on the wing. Round and round she went in swift circles, and a -more picturesque looking creature could not be imagined than the -beautiful forest-girl in the wild costume of her tribe. Her richly -beaded robe, clasped on the right shoulder, fell gracefully over a form -of the most perfect mould, and was confined around the left knee, -leaving the arms and limbs entirely bare; while her long, raven hair -floated wildly over her neck; but encircling her head was a fillet of -beads, into which were woven feathers of the white-hawk—the insignia of -their tribe. Anna gazed with delight and astonishment on the glorious -creature in her fantastic bark skimming the blue lake with a motion as -light and graceful as we image a fairy’s. - -The Indian girl soon rowed to the shore again, and Anna now seated -herself on the soft mat beside Weetano with delight, and away they -went—the high-born daughter of Europe and the red forest-maiden in -happy companionship; and though differing widely in outward mien, each -wore the seal of beauty and the air of nobility. - -From that day there was an ardent attachment between Anna Temple and the -chief’s daughter. Every day found the little canoe moored at the point -of the lake nearest the cottage, and many a bright summer hour was -passed by them roaming the woods, or sailing the fairy boat, before the -chief and his party were ready to depart. It was with real sorrow that -Anna heard she was to lose her new companion, but Weetano told her they -would come again the next summer, and Pale-Lily should have a canoe like -hers. - -Oliwibatuc was the chief of the Mohawks, and his principal village was -about thirty miles from the north shore of the lake. He was a powerful -chieftain, and held a stern body of warriors and braves ready to do his -bidding. His wigwam was hung with the trophies of his own deeds and -daring. He was now going back to sound the war-cry and seek revenge for -the real or fancied injury done his tribe by the French traders on the -Canadian frontier. It was a dark passion and bloody would be its fruits, -but surely one less reprehensible in an unenlightened savage than in -those who wear the garments of Christianity. - -The second winter passed more fleetly with our fugitives than the first, -and at the time our chapter commenced they had gathered around them many -conveniences and comforts in their forest home. As the season advanced, -Anna began to watch with impatience for their summer visitors, for she -longed for something to disturb the monotony of her life, and Red-Bird’s -visit would be sure to bring with it new amusements and pleasures. - -One morning she descried a speck on the distant water, and exclaimed -with delight—“A canoe, father—it must be a canoe! There is a speck on -the lake; now another, and another—it must be the party of Oliwibatuc -with darling Red-Bird! O, I am so happy! Hasten, and go with me, father, -to the shore to meet and welcome them.” - -It was indeed the party of the Mohawk chief, who had come this season to -encamp on the south shore of the lake at a little distance from the -emigrant’s cottage. Their number was much greater than on the summer -preceding, and their dress and appearance far more imposing. Every -warrior wore the tuft of hawk’s-feathers, and a gay wampum-belt, and -Oliwibatuc was borne down almost with his symbolic decorations, among -which the claws of the eagle were most conspicuous. They had come back -from their last campaign victorious, and the savage and Christian victor -must alike wear the regalia in the hour of triumph. - -Weetano had been true to her promise, and brought the Pale-Lily a little -canoe, the very counterpart of her own, and after she had gained a -little experience in rowing side by side, they glided over the smooth -waters gathering white lilies in the shallows to wreathe in their hair, -or starting up the wild birds that often lay in multitudes on the bosom -of the lake. - -But Anna was not long in discovering that a change was on her young -companion. Weetano was not now the glad, sunny-hearted creature she had -known in the year gone by. Her wild, musical laugh no longer awoke the -mountain echo, and her step had lost its fleetness—for, the delicate -white girl could now outstrip the forest-maiden who so lately -outstripped the deer. She would sometimes sit silent and motionless in -her canoe, gazing down into the deep waters with an intensity that both -surprised and alarmed her companion, and once, when questioned by her, -she replied—“She was listening for whisperings of the Great Spirit.” - -“Will the Lily teach Weetano to read the Great Book of the white man?” -inquired the Indian girl one morning, as they were sitting alone in -Anna’s little room. “She has a new brother in her father’s lodge; he is -a Book man, and will not take up the bow and tomahawk! He sings the -songs of the spirit-land, but no war-song; and when Weetano was sick and -dying, he pointed her to the blue home of the weary! Weetano has looked -on the face of her pale brother, and the image of her Brave has faded -from her heart! The Huron’s spirit no longer comes to me in dreams! -Owanaw should take a warrior maiden to his wigwam, and leave the -daughter of the Mohawk to dwell in peace! Teach me the Book then, but -tell it not to Oliwibatuc.” - -It has been already stated that the Mohawk chief and his party had -returned from their last campaign victorious. The hair of many a scalp -was braided with serpent-skins around their necks, and twelve young -captives had been brought home to suffer in the presence of the whole -tribe. As they drew near their principal city, the captors sent up a -savage yell, and prolonged it until the hills sent back the sound; but -the aged warriors and the braves who remained at home echoed it not. -Wherefore came they not forth as was their custom, to greet their -triumphant brethren? The silence boded no good, and Oliwibatuc led on -his band with a sullen, down-cast eye. He approached his lodge with the -prisoners and their guard, and entered it in silence; but within, all -was noise and distraction. Hideous outcries, mingled with strange -incantations saluted his ears, and there on a low couch lay the -prostrate form of the chief’s daughter. The low moaning of the poor -maiden was a sad welcome for the old warrior, for Weetano had been the -song-bird of his lodge, and the sunlight of her face had once been the -sunlight of her mother’s. He stood by her couch with stern composure, -and thrice uttered “Weetano,” but the ear of his daughter was dull to -the voice of affection, and the haughty warrior uttered a deep groan, -and bowed his head, for his pride was low. - -There was one among the prisoners of Oliwibatuc who looked not unmoved -on the mournful spectacle—one, whose faith taught “Love to enemies,” -and whose mission on earth was that of his Master—_to do good_. It was -a youthful “soldier of the Cross,” that stood a captive in the lodge of -the Mohawk chief. Torture and death he was expecting soon to receive -from the hands of his merciless captors, but the light of his faith was -clear and bright, and his last deed should be one of mercy. He saw that -the disease had formed a crisis, and the poor sufferer seemed rapidly -sinking with exhaustion; but there was still life, and a shadow of hope, -and he approached the stricken chief, and laying his hand gently on his -arm, said— - -“The Great Spirit has given the Pale Face the art of healing; if it be -not too late, I will restore thy daughter; but the tumult must first be -hushed!” - -There was gratitude in the old chief’s eye: for a tone of sympathy falls -never unheeded, no matter how barren the heart; and with a motion of his -hand the savage din was hushed. - -“Yes, save her, and ye shall live, young Pale Face!” murmured the chief. -“She is my only child—the last of the eagle’s nest! Save her, and ye -shall be as Olo, the son of Oliwibatuc, who fell by the great Lakes in -battle!” - -The captive knew that a flask of brandy was in possession of one of the -prisoners. The Indians had not then learned its use, though something of -its abuse they had found out in their intercourse with the traders. He -obtained this immediately, and diluting a little with water, put it to -the lips of the poor girl, who lay unconscious of all around her. She -swallowed with great difficulty, and he perceived an unearthly chill in -the perspiration that damped her forehead. - -“Blankets and fire, chief,” said the young man, with a trembling voice. -“Soon, or it will be too late! Set these prisoners to work,” added he, -on looking round and perceiving the lodge deserted save by the chief and -his captives. “Hot blankets must be had immediately!” And he set himself -to work, chafing the cold hands of the poor moaning sufferer, with an -activity that manifested the earnestness of his purpose. - -Oliwibatuc went to the door of his wigwam, and sent up a cry, that -immediately brought a dozen of his tribe at his feet. - -“Fire and hot blankets must be had instantly,” said he, in the tone of -one accustomed to command. “Where is the old woman, Zohah? Summon her -again—the maiden must not die!” - -His directions were promptly obeyed. But the red men looked sullen and -displeased to see the young captive employed in the service of their -chief. The old Indian nurse-woman, too, had come again, and seeing the -preparations, she muttered— - -“No good! No good! Bad Spirit will not submit, and Good Spirit has -forsaken Weetano! Zohah has used all healing herbs, but—bad, bad. -Zohah’s arts cannot hush the voice from the far south-west! The maiden -has heard the call! She will die!” - -“Perhaps, not, mother,” said the young physician, soothingly. “The Great -Spirit can hush the voice. Will you not lend your aid, that the daughter -of your chief may live?” - -Thus addressed, old Zohah seemed pleased to follow his directions, and -after the patient had been carefully wrapped in the heated blankets, and -a few more drops of the brandy put into her mouth, they sat down to -watch for its effects, on the unconscious girl. Long, long seemed the -moments of that weary watch, and yet the anxious prisoner could discern -no change. He took her hand in his, and counted the feeble -pulsations—it was still chill and cold, yet his heart encouraged him on -in his ministry of mercy. - -“Some herbs, good Zohah. Put some herbs on her feet—the long -dock-leaves will do, if bruised and withered. She must have some more of -the liquid, too,” and for the third time the red beverage was put to her -lips. She now swallowed with less difficulty, and her breath was not so -hurried and faint; still there was no sign of consciousness, and her -attendant relapsed again to his watch, still retaining the wrist of the -sufferer in his hand. - -The old chief stood a little apart, gazing with an eagle-eye on every -movement, but not a word had escaped his lips since his first orders had -been obeyed, and he betrayed no sign of weariness, though he had not -been seated since his long march. - -An hour afterward, the low moaning had died away, and the voice of the -captive youth whispered in the ears of Oliwibatuc— - -“_She sleeps: thy daughter sleeps!_” - -“Seven suns have set, and this is the maiden’s first quiet sleep,” said -old Zohah. “The Pale Face brings witch-water.” - -“Nay, nay, mother, thy good herbs and gentle nursing have aided the -sufferer; but we must still watch, for on this slumber perhaps, depends -her life.” - -The old chief approached his captive, and said in grateful accents— - -“Thy life is not sufficient; what boon wilt thou ask at the hand of the -Mohawk?” - -“That thou wilt send my fellow-captives back to their country, chief; -and I will still be thy prisoner. They have homes there. I have neither -country nor home. I will stay and watch the recovery of thy daughter, -but let my brethren go without torture.” - -It was a great request for an Indian to give up his prisoners, and for a -moment he seemed wavering—then he added— - -“It is more than leagues of wampun—but it shall be done. To-morrow, -they shall go, and thou shalt stay in the lodge of Oliwibatuc—not my -prisoner, but my son, instead of Olo.” - -All was silence again in that forest wigwam, and the youthful captive -held on his watch. Old Zohah was snoring loudly on one hand, and the old -chief had at last spread his blanket, and laid down to rest after his -weary march. The youth was alone. The deep shadows of the night hung a -solitude over the wilderness, and as he sat there in the rude wigwam of -the savage, his thoughts took backward wing: he was a child again, -climbing the mountain-path with the flocks—gathering wild grapes in the -valleys, and returning to a happy cottage-home at evening. Then a soft -footstep was in his ear, and a gentle tone—_they were his mother’s_! A -little hand was nestled in his, as his sire took the Book of God and -read the words of wisdom from its holy pages; then came back to his -weary heart those home-voices mingling in the evening psalm, and his -face brightened—but memory was soon too faithful to the reality, and a -tear rolled down his cheek. - -A new leaf was turned in his life-book! He was a youth in a foreign -land: strange objects were around him—the tones of strangers in his -ears. The cottage of the Alps had been exchanged for a home in a kingly -palace. Men of learning and science had there been his teachers, and his -ardent heart had loved and treasured up the words of wisdom. Gentle -forms had floated around him, and the image of _one_ sweet, youthful -face, was yet a dew-drop on his spirit. - -Another leaf—and he was again a wanderer! Another cloud had burst in -storm over his head, and a wide ocean spread its stormy waves betwixt -him and the land of his birth. He had come a fugitive over its waters, -bearing the gospel seed, which he hoped ere long to see springing up in -the boundless field of the west; but a twelvemonth had scarcely passed, -ere a merciless war-party had numbered him with its victims. Persecution -and torture had no power to make his youthful spirit quail, for men of -iron purpose had moulded him for a martyr to his creed, and as he sat -there that night in his lonely watch, he looked upward to his home -above, with a clear unshaken confidence, and forward into the dim, -uncertain future without a fear. He had been the happy instrument of -saving a number of his fellow-beings from torturing death, and on the -morrow they would be restored to home and freedom. He had no home—had -left behind him no kindred, and here, perchance, was the vineyard which -his Master had given him to plant with the “Living Vine.” - -Such were the thoughts that rapidly winged their way through the mind of -the young captive as he sat listening to the now low, soft breathing of -the Indian maiden, and his heart was happy in the consciousness of its -right and holy purpose. - -There was a low murmur—he turned his head and the dark eye of the -chief’s daughter was fixed upon him with a look of conscious scrutiny, -but in a moment the lids were heavy again with slumber. He went -cautiously to Zohah and awoke her, lest the maiden might fear finding -herself with a stranger. Old Zohah took the cup, and bending over the -couch said— - -“Is Weetano thirsty? Here is drink.” - -She opened her eyes again, and said— - -“Is it you, good Zohah? I dreamed a Pale Face was beside me. Has my -father yet returned?” - -“He sleeps weary with the war-chase. He spoke to Weetano, but she -answered not. Will the maiden see her father?” - -“No, let him rest until morning. The warrior is aged, and comes to his -lodge weary.” - -But the old chief was awake to the first tone of his daughter’s voice, -and he bent over her couch caressingly, saying— - -“Red-Bird is better now; she has a new brother, and he has saved her -life! He must slumber now, for the march was long! He shall eat, -hereafter, at the board of Oliwibatuc.” - -The captive came forward again, and gave some directions to Zohah for -the remainder of the night, and then gladly lay down as the chief -desired, for the danger was past, and he was sorely fatigued. Sweet were -his first slumbers in the lodge of the Mohawk chief, and his dreams like -the waking vision, were of the Alps; for as the reader has already -imagined, the stranger was no other than Francois Waldo—the Vaudois -peasant-boy. - - - CHAPTER III. - - Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep, - And patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour, - And sumless riches from affection’s deep, - To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower! - And to make idols, and to find them clay, - And to bewail that worship—therefore pray! - Hemans. - -As the summer wore on, the change in Weetano grew more and more apparent -to the watchful eye of Anna Temple, and awoke in her loving heart an -earnest anxiety for her safety. Her strength was no longer sufficient to -urge forward her canoe—and it rested like a bird on the water; and -though she still insisted on the daily ramble in the greenwood, she -followed her companion with faltering footsteps, and each day their -resting-place was some fallen trunk or mossy rock nearer home than on -the day preceding. - -It was during these summer rambles that Anna had acceded to the earnest -entreaty of her friend to instruct her in the “Book of the Pale Face;” -and the avidity with which she gathered the words of instruction -betrayed an ardent thirst for wisdom. She was soon able to read with a -little assistance, and Anna presented her with a little Pocket-Bible, -that had been the companion of all her wanderings, with her own name in -gilt on the cover. It was her sole copy of the Scriptures—but the -family Bible lay on the shelf, at their cottage; and she wisely thought -her little volume would be of greater worth to Red-Bird than to -herself—and much cause had she afterward for joy that her gift of love -was thus bestowed. - -As the season advanced, Weetano manifested an anxiety with regard to -their return, and evidently dreaded her father’s orders to depart—for -she had learned a little of the tastes and habits of her white friends, -and they seemed more congenial to her now delicate frame than the ruder -customs of her tribe. There seemed, moreover, some secret care weighing -down her spirits; and although she, Indian-like, buried it for a time in -her own bosom, and Anna forbore questioning, it at length found voice in -words. They were sitting by the lake-side one morning, and Anna plucked -a pretty blue flower just opening there, and gave it to Red-Bird. - -“’Tis the first herald of autumn,” said Weetano. “The gentian opens for -the corn-dance, and Oliwibatuc will soon go to his tribe. Would that -Red-Bird might stay in the lodge with Pale-Lily until the feast of the -braves is over! She cannot dress the lodge of the chief—Weetano is -weary;” and the Indian girl burst into tears. - -“You are sick, darling Red-Bird,” said Anna, taking her hand in a -caressing manner. “Tell me what is the matter, and I will nurse you, for -you are all the sister I have here in this distant home. You are not -afraid to trust _me_, Weetano?” - -“No! Weetano love the pale face! Listen, she will whisper all! Next moon -the Mohawk chief will spread the corn-feast, and the Huron warriors will -come with their braves to smoke the pipe with our tribe, and bury the -bloody tomahawk! ’Tis a hundred moons since our fathers took it up, but -the young chief of the Hurons sent presents to the Mohawk’s wigwam, and -comes to seek his daughter; Oliwibatuc has sent back the belt of -friendship, and Weetano must go to the lodge of Owanaw, to make sure the -bonds of the warriors. She had sooner die, for the shadow of her pale -brother will go with her to the land of spirits; but it will not follow -her to a warrior’s wigwam—for he loves not the bow and tomahawk.” - -“But your father will not force you to go, Weetano; why do you speak so -mournfully?” - -“His word was pledged more than twenty moons ago. A warrior breaks not -his word! Weetano was a gay child then, and loved the feast and the -dance of the braves. But she has learned another life now—her new -brother has awakened it, and she reads it in Pale-Lily’s book; but -Oliwibatuc will shut his ears and be angry, and Weetano must go. She is -the last of his race, and must wed a warrior.” - -There was a mournful look of despair depicted on the countenance of the -Indian maiden as she uttered these last words, that went to the heart of -Anna—and she sought to divert her from the unwelcome theme, by telling -her stories of her first home over the blue waters. After exhausting -many a topic, she told her of the beautiful peasant-boy who had been her -companion for years, and the story of his persecuted people, and of his -little sister, whose fate he had so often bewailed in her childish ears. -She then told her she would sing her a song he had learnt her of his own -wild hills; but before she had proceeded far, Weetano stopped her with -an exclamation of delight. - -“My pale brother sings the Lily’s song at the silence of nightfall in -the lodge of Oliwibatuc! He, too, came over the great waters, but he -speaks the words of the French.” - -A sudden thought flashed through the mind of Anna, flushing her cheek -with crimson at first, and then leaving it paler than before. “Could it -be possible!” she thought; “but no, the idea was preposterous! The -Canadians were all French—many of them would, doubtless, sing the songs -of their own mountain peasantry!” The object of her young imaginings had -probably gone back to his native valley, if, indeed, he had escaped the -hands of the new Stuart: and so the thought was dismissed with a sigh. - -Weetano was right in her conjecture that Oliwibatuc would soon return to -his tribe, as his directions next morning proved; but the old chief read -plainly in his daughter’s countenance a reluctance to comply, which he -attributed to the parting from her white friend. “Red-Bird is the -daughter of warriors;” said the old chief, reprovingly! “Doth she carry -a faint heart in her breast?” - -“No,” she replied; “but Weetano is weary, and her way is in the mist! -She can no longer lay the couch for the warriors, or spread the cup for -the braves! Let her stay until the feast is over, for she hears the -voice of spirits, and is no longer a mate for the young eagle of the -Hurons!” - -There was stern pride in the look of the chief, but he only replied, -“The maiden will go to her lodge with Oliwibatuc! The Pale-Lily will -come thither to the corn-feast with her father!” No other word was -spoken—and the chief, with his party, went his way. - -Lord Temple and his daughter were both highly pleased with the Mohawk’s -invitation to be present at the corn-dance, and witness the meeting of -tribes long hostile, at the feast of peace. Oliwibatuc had promised to -send a convoy of braves to conduct them thither, but the anticipated -pleasure could not remove from Anna’s mind the mournful tone of -Red-Bird, and the words still haunted her memory, “Weetano must dwell in -the Huron’s lodge to make sure the bonds of peace. She would sooner -die.” And she wondered much whether the poor girl would really undergo -so great a sacrifice. Could not her pale brother save her? Why had she -not counseled Weetano to make a confident of him? - -From thoughts like these she was one day aroused by her father, who -observed, “There is something on the lake that appears like a canoe; but -it cannot be the Mohawks, for it wants nearly two weeks of the time -specified for our visit. They may be stragglers from some other tribe -come to fish in the Mohawks’ waters.” - -“But is there no danger, father? In our long security I fancied I had -become a stranger to fear; but I find it revives upon the least -suspicion of evil. I am really less courageous than I imagined!” - -“There is no cause for alarm, Anna. We have injured none—have defrauded -none. Moreover, an Indian will not harm a Quaker—and _our garb at least -is true_.” - -They watched the boat, and half an hour afterward saw it approaching the -cottage, when they recognized the hawk’s-feathers—the well-known badge -of the Mohawks, and they strove in vain to conjecture the cause of their -sudden appearance. It gained the landing-place, and to their surprise, -there sprang on shore a gentleman, clad in the garb of their own nation. -He paused a moment, as if giving some directions to those he left -behind, and then advanced rapidly toward the abode of the emigrant. Lord -Temple went forth to meet him, and Anna stole a cautious peep at the -stranger whom her father had gone to welcome. There was something -mysteriously familiar in that stranger’s look, as her father’s greeting -fell on his ears, and a faint smile passed over his features; by that -smile he was recognized. She had never seen but one like it—it was the -same; and she sprang out, exclaiming, “Do you not know him, father! We -knew him well in dear old England, and I know him even here! ’Tis -Francois Waldo—my old playmate, and teacher, too;” and the next moment -they were clasped in each other’s arms—and Anna was shedding the -happiest tears that had ever dimmed her eyes, whilst her father looked -on in bewildered amazement, scarcely able to determine whether the scene -was real, or one of the strange phantasms of slumber. - -After recovering a little from his astonishment, however, he said, -“Whence come you, my son, and how in the world did you discover our -hiding-place? Strange! that the first white face which has greeted us -since our flight, should be that of a dear old friend! But, tell me—how -came you here among the Quakers, as rigid a Puritan as you were educated -under our good Lord Protector?” And Lord Temple greeted the new comer -with a hearty shake of the hand, accompanied with a significant glance -at his own altered attire! - -“I came hither, my lord, with your friends, the Mohawks, among whom I -have been for nearly a year captive. I have had suspicions that their -new pale face friends might possibly be yourselves, since Weetano showed -me the volume which she said the White Lily had given her—for on the -cover was the name of Anna Temple. Still, with all my inquiries, I could -ascertain nothing with certainty, for the old chief said you were ‘Blue -Jackets!’ meaning Quakers; and that ‘on the head of his new brother, -John Brown, had fallen much snow.’ I remembered you with raven locks, -and thought not of the changes a few years will sometimes occasion. But -tell me a little of your wanderings, for time urges me back. Let me -first, however, state the immediate cause of this visit. Weetano is ill, -and she has entreated her father to send for Anna to his lodge, that she -may hear her talk again before she goes to be the companion of spirits. -The old chief is sorely afflicted, for she is his only child, and he was -soon to have sealed with her hand an alliance with his warlike -neighbors, the Hurons. The young brave to whom she is betrothed will -soon be there; but, if I can read the Indian girl aright, she shrinks -from the coming of Owanaw, though in my hearing she has never spoken of -him. However, she has nothing to fear, for she will soon change her -dwelling for a long resting-place. Consumption is upon her. Will you -return with me, Anna? Can you undergo the privations of an Indian wigwam -for a few days?” - -“O, gladly! gladly! May I not go, father, to nurse poor Weetano a -little, or will you feel too lonely in my absence?” - -“I certainly should prefer to have Francois remain with us,” replied -Lord Temple, “but Oliwibatuc has been a faithful friend; if his daughter -is sick, you shall go if he desires it; I believe I can entrust you a -few days with your old companion. But how is the journey to be -performed, my child? You surely cannot walk from the opposite -lake-shore?” - -“Oliwibatuc ordered his trusty warriors to bear her as they bore -Red-Bird on her return,” replied Francois. “I will see that she is not -overwearied, and secure from accident. Her carriage shall be made firm, -and I will be _her footman_—she shall be _the Lady Anna_ again!” - -Her father proposed sending one of the old carriage-horses round by -Carle, but the young people would not listen to the plan, for it would -delay their journey at least a whole day; and so Nurse Judy was ordered -to put up some medicine for Red-Bird, with a few articles of necessary -clothing for Anna—and in a little time they were crossing the blue -water, Anna in a canoe with her father, who crossed the lake with them, -and Francois, with the dusky Mohawks, among whom he was a great -favorite, for many a deed of kindness and charity had this young -captive-minister done for their tribe. - -The close of the second day found them approaching the Mohawk village, -and the journey had been performed with the greatest ease by -Anna—indeed, two pleasanter days she had not passed since the green -lawns of England had been exchanged for the western forest. Waldo had -been accompanied by eight young warriors, who, according to the fashion -of their nation, had constructed a light carriage of green boughs and -branches interwoven, which was alternately carried forward by four of -their number, without the least inconvenience or fatigue. Borne along -thus by her fantastic guides, she felt not the least emotion of fear. By -her side was one who watched her with the most unwearied care—who -plucked for her every flower in the wild pathway, and brought her water -from each cool spring. It was the living form of one whose image had -often been with her in dreams, when the spirit’s messengers link again -the parted in sweet companionship. They recounted to each other the -story of their wanderings, and each felt that time and absence and -sorrow had but strengthened the ties of youthful affection; and the dark -eye of Francois had not been so lit up with sunshine since the days long -gone by, when his simple mountain reed awoke a hundred echoes in the ear -of the happy peasant-boy of the Alps! - -Anna, too, was happy. O, how happy! as she read in the earnest gaze ever -fixed upon her that it was her presence that had imparted unwonted color -to the pale cheek, and additional lustre to the dark eye—but mournful -memories would come flashing over her mind, and the low, confiding tones -of Red-Bird would sound again in her ears—“Weetano has looked on the -face of her pale brother, and the image of her brave has faded from her -heart”—and for the first time she felt in her spirit a rising of -selfishness. Poor Anna—there was a bitter struggle, but brief; and her -better nature was triumphant! No wonder, she thought, the forest-maiden -should love the fair-browed captive who had come to her father’s wigwam -and saved her life! No wonder her ardent, grateful heart should treasure -up the rich, low tones of her preserver, and turn with sickening disgust -from the stranger Huron! And, then she thought of Weetano, sick and -wasting away perhaps with an untold sorrow, and she wished in her heart -the love of her red friend had been requited, even though the bright -spark she had so long nursed in her own breast had gone out in another’s -joy. The daughter of the Indian chief was a fit mate for the gifted or -noble of any nation—one such had already shone with peerless lustre at -a royal court, and Weetano was as rich in beauty and intellect as the -far-famed daughter of Powhatten! - -Such were the thoughts that rapidly coursed through Anna’s brain, and -when her companion announced to her that they were already in view of -the village, and that Weetano was coming forth to meet them, her heart -leaped only with gladness—not a trace of its tumultuous workings -remained! She soon descried her friend, supported by the old chief, -followed by a long train of warriors. She had been borne forth on a -couch to the outskirts of the village to await the Pale-Lily, and now, -weak and feeble as she was, at her earnest entreaty, had been permitted -to walk forward a few steps to meet and welcome her. - -As they drew near Oliwibatuc stepped forward and courteously presented a -belt of wampum; and Anna, seeing her friend for the moment unsupported, -sprang forward, and clasping her in her arms, exclaimed— - -“You, darling sick, Red-Bird! I have come to nurse you in your own -home.” - -“Pale-Lily has come in time,” she calmly replied. “The summer is over, -and the song of Red-Bird will cease with the early frost. But you are -weary now—come to the feast of Oliwibatuc.” - -The couch of Weetano was now brought forward, and she was laid gently -thereon, and supported by her father on one side, and on the other by -Francois and Anna, followed by those of her tribe who had come forth to -welcome the “Lily of the Pale face,” she was borne back to her father’s -wigwam. Here a feast had been spread in honor of the expected guest, of -every variety which river and forest afforded, and a soft, downy mat was -spread for her and Weetano beside the old chief, who seemed pleased to -see Anna smiling familiarly on the dusky warriors whom she recognized as -Oliwibatuc’s companions of the past summer. - -The meal was taken in silence, and at its close Red-Bird took Anna by -the hand and led her to a soft couch of furs, tastefully spread over -with embroidered blankets, side by side with her own. - -“The way was long for the weak Lily,” she said in pleasant accents, “she -must rest; Weetano will watch her first slumber—it will be secure in -the lodge of the Mohawk chief. She will not fear,” added she, in an -inquiring manner; and placing her hand at the same time in hers, Anna -was struck with its mortal coldness. - -“Why, you are cold, Weetano,” said she, pressing the hand -affectionately, “it is _you_ who most need rest, and I came to watch -beside you—not _you_ with _me_.” - -“Only to-night, white maiden; Red-Bird has spread your couch with her -own hands to-day, and when she has seen you sleep she will lie down on -her couch beside you happy, though her heart is frozen, and its streams -are fast wasting. Slumber will revive the weary Lily, and Weetano will -sing her a song of the Great Spirit. She has learned it of her white -brother.” - -Thus prevailed on, Anna Temple lay down on the downy bed her friend had -spread for her, but she felt no disposition to sleep, for too many -thoughts came crowding thickly on her mind, and when, to her surprise, -the child of the dusky Mohawk half sung, half chanted the “Cradle Hymn -of the Shepherds,” in a voice wildly musical, it brought back with -overpowering force the hours of her childhood and the dimly remembered -tones of her mother’s voice, for that hymn had often been her lullaby. -She buried her face in the blankets, but in spite of her utmost efforts -her sobs reached the sharp ear of her companion, who paused quickly in -her hymn. - -“Does the song of Red-Bird make the tired Lily weep? She meant it not -so—but the wounded bird has ever a mournful strain. She will sing no -more!” - -“Nay, nay, dear Weetano, it is not that; but long years ago my mother -used to sing me that hymn, and it seemed so very strange that its echo -should come back to me far away in these dim old woods. Francois Waldo -must have heard it, too, among the Alpine hills.” - -At the mention of that name Weetano started slightly, and looking -earnestly at Anna, said—“I remember those words—the Frenchman spoke -them—they mean my pale brother. You knew him, then, over the great -waters?” - -“Yes, Weetano. I knew him there. His enemies burnt his home and murdered -his parents—then he fled to my country for shelter. Did I not tell you -once of the peasant-boy and his poor little sister Christine? He used to -be my tutor there, in my first home—that is all, Weetano.” - -“Nay, maiden, doth thy heart whisper truly? Listen! When he read the -name on the beautiful book which the Lily gave to Red-Bird, his brow -grew whiter, and his eyelids quivered like the poplar before the storm. -’Tis not every breath that moves my brother!” - -The shrewd girl’s artifice revealed a truth which the lips denied, and -the heart would fain have concealed; but those few words had called it -forth, and it was written on every lineament of her face too plainly for -an eye less penetrating than an Indian’s to have mistaken its import. -Weetano smiled meaningly on her confused and trembling companion, and -continued— - -“Why would you hang mist before the eyes of Red-Bird? Did she not trust -the white maiden, and does she suppose the daughter of the Mohawk cannot -hold her tongue?” - -“Nay, nay; you wrong me, Weetano. ’Tis but now I learned that my old -companion dwelt in the Mohawk’s lodge. Had not my sister already told me -before, ‘that she had looked on the face of her white brother and a new -life had been awakened in her heart.’ Should the Lily pluck the sweet -morsel from the taste of Red-Bird? No, she is not so selfish—she would -sooner feed her with her own heart’s food.” - -“But the food is poison for Weetano, she will not eat it,” persisted -she, somewhat mournfully. “My brother loves the fair maiden of his own -land—why should he not! Oliwibatuc, too, would have given his daughter -to a dog sooner than to an idle ‘book man.’ When he brought the hatchet -and bow of my dead brother and gave them to his captive, he turned away -from them and spoke the words of peace, and the warrior sighed—‘Who -will hang the trophies of Olo in his father’s wigwam? By his true spirit -Weetano shall wed a brave, and he shall be the chief of the Mohawks -instead of Olo!’ He has spoken, but the Great Spirit loves Weetano, and -will not give her to the Huron, for he will soon lay her beside the -still waters to slumber, and the Lily shall bloom for my new brother. -Nay, do not weep so—the eye of Weetano can now see the path plainly, -and the way looks pleasant, but she was sorry to leave her new brother -alone, for though he toils hard to do the Mohawks good they are not his -own people, and I know he must sometimes be very sad and lonely. It was -for this I plead for him to bring you hither; I knew you were his -spirit-mate, and longed to see you both happy.” - -Anna Temple gazed long and earnestly on the beautiful face that bent -over her couch, but was unable to trace thereon a shadow of emotion; its -expression was calm and unvarying, and though the clear, dark eyes -sparkled brightly, the light they shed was as the brightness of a silver -fountain that reflects the moonbeams from its surface soft and almost -holy. Her own heart beat wildly, and when she attempted to speak, her -voice was choked and broken with sobs. - -“O, Weetano, do not speak so low and mournfully,” she at length uttered. -“You will still live and be happy, you are so good and true! Nurse Judy -has sent some medicine, and I know well how to administer it; then I -have something else to offer beside; so bend down your ear close to me, -Weetano, and I will whisper it.” - -Weetano did as she was desired, and whatever the words of her companion -might have been, they had no effect on the Indian girl, for when she -raised her head the same serene smile rested on her features. - -“The heart of Red-Bird would be weak, indeed, to listen to the words,” -she replied. “The white maiden has not read it rightly, for its pride is -as stern as the rock of her mountains, that may be broken but cannot be -bowed. It fears not the blast! Weetano’s heart is like it—it will bide -its lot.” - -“And its lot may yet be happy—yea, I am persuaded it will be, only do -not indulge in dark fancies, Weetano.” - -“Weetano has no dark fancies now! Sunshine has broken through the dim -future since the words of the Lily’s book fell on her ears. The shadowy -land has no fears now, and beautiful images beckon me there in slumber! -Weetano will come again with messages of good to the Lily and her pale -brother, for they taught her the way.” - -The next morning Anna awoke early, and refreshed, although her slumber -had not been unbroken; for whenever she stirred the dark eyes of Weetano -were fixed upon her with the same placid smile that had greeted her -coming, and sorely, bitterly did her heart ache for the poor creature -who regarded her with an affection so earnest and grateful. She feigned -sleep at length, fearing her friend would become exhausted with care for -her, but when the low, soft breathing of Weetano assured her she had -relapsed from her watching, she turned away from her and wet her couch -with tears. When she awoke in the morning, Weetano still slept, and she -arose noiselessly, lest she might disturb her; but when some time passed -and she still betrayed no signs of waking, Anna seated herself beside -her couch, murmuring softly, “This sleep will do her good—she looks so -happy now.” Her dark, glossy locks had fallen over her forehead, and she -stroked them gently back, smiling on the beautiful picture before her, -for though the cheek of Weetano had lost its roundness, the outline was -still perfect, and still she was marvelously beautiful. - -An hour or more passed on, and Anna had not left the side of the -sleeping maiden. Over her features brooded the same tranquil repose, so -hushed indeed, that she would often bend down her ear to catch the low -breathing, and satisfy her mind that there was nothing unnatural in a -repose so profound. Without she heard the murmur of voices, and cautious -footsteps, for only a hanging of skins separated them from the large, -open space where the feast had been spread the evening previous, and -where breakfast was now preparing. At length an old Indian woman peeped -cautiously from behind the curtain, and seeing Anna already dressed, she -came forward with a look of surprise that her companion was yet -sleeping. - -“What!” said she, “is not the daughter of the chief risen? ’Tis her -custom to rise with the dawn; she must be weary with the labor of -yesterday. Oliwibatuc gave orders not to disturb you, thinking the white -maiden would need rest; but Red-Bird has slept long now, we will break -her slumber. Weetano, Weetano!” said the Indian woman, “the sun is high -in the east, ’tis time the Lily should eat something, Oliwibatuc has -called for his daughter.” - -A smothered murmur escaped from her lips, like one half aroused to -consciousness, and the eyelids unclosed for a moment, but were soon -heavy with sleep again. - -“Wake up, wake up, Weetano,” continued she, “the morning is fair, and -the air as fragrant as the month of flowers. The chief will take you -forth to sail on the river—wake up maiden.” - -Weetano breathed a low sigh, and there was a struggle, like one who -strives to burst a charm. The effort seemed ineffectual, but she spoke -faintly, “Weetano is weary, Zohah—leave her to rest a little.” - -“Yes, let her rest,” whispered Anna, “she will gain strength, and I will -watch beside her until she awakens.” - -“The maiden sleeps strangely,” muttered the old woman, as she retreated -behind the curtain, leaving Anna to resume her watch. - -Another hour passed by, and she ventured to lift the hand that had -fallen over the blankets of her couch—it was soft and warm as a -slumbering infant’s. She pressed it in her own, whispering, “Weetano, -Weetano!” and a happy smile passed over the features of her companion, -and the pressure of her hand was gently returned. “She must have watched -longer than I supposed,” thought Anna, “and is exhausted with the -effort; it would be wrong to disturb her.” - -She arose and lifted the curtain, for it was growing late, and she began -to feel faint and weary herself; no one was to be seen, and she went -forward to the open air. Oliwibatuc was sitting on the ground, at a -little distance from the lodge, with a number of his warriors in an idle -manner, but when he saw Anna standing in the door of the wigwam, he came -forward with a smile on his dark, grim features, and said—“The Lily has -slumbered long; was she wearied with her journey through the woods?” - -“No, chief, very little,” she replied. “’Tis Red-Bird who is fatigued, -and she still slumbers; I have watched her for hours, but her sleep was -so quiet I would not waken her.” - -“Why, what aileth the maiden,” he exclaimed; “she was never last to -leave her couch, but her song has been sad of late, and her feet have -trod lightly in the wood-paths. She hath leaned on the strong for -support. I will rouse her myself, while Zohah helps you to break the -long fast of the morning.” - -Anna partook lightly of some refreshments from the hand of Zohah, while -the chief went to Red-Bird; but he soon returned with a satisfied air, -saying, “She sleeps well; I will let her rest until we go forth with the -canoe on the river.” - -The sun was high in the heaven and the daughter of the chief had not -awakened! Hour after hour had Anna Temple lingered by the low bed-side, -while her repose seemed only deepening, and an indefinite fear crept -over her—a mysterious sense of evil, and she felt sad and lonely. Near -the curtain sat the old chief, for he, too, seemed ill at ease, and Anna -put aside the skin hanging, and said— - -“Shall not we rouse her now, chief; she must require nourishment, and -this long sleep alarms me!” - -“Say you so, maiden; the slumber must then be broken, for I, too, have -fears! Wake up, Red-Bird!” said he, advancing toward her, “’tis noonday, -you must not sleep;” and he shook her gently by the shoulder. - -She partially opened her eyes, murmuring as before—“Weetano is -weary—let her rest.” - -“Take some food, first, Weetano,” said Anna, imploringly; “don’t go to -sleep again for I am very lonely.” - -The sound of her voice seemed to reanimate her for a moment, and looking -round, she said, “Where is my brother?” - -“Gone,” said the chief, “to his daily toil, (for every day he visited -the sick of the tribe,) but he will be here soon to go forth with us on -the river. Rouse up then.” But the head of Weetano was drooping again -like a sleeping flower. - -“Drop the curtain, and let in more air and light,” said Anna in a -beseeching tone, “she is faint and languid; something must be done to -revive her. _What can we do!_” - -“Send for the ‘medicine man,’” said old Zohah; “he will arouse her if -any one can.” - -“Yes, send for Francois Waldo quickly,” exclaimed Anna Temple; “his -voice may have power to break this dreadful slumber.” - -Oliwibatuc made a motion with his hand for some one to depart, but his -eyes were fixed earnestly on the prostrate form of his daughter. “Raise -her up, Zohah,” said he to the old woman, who was wetting her lips with -some beverage, “perhaps she will drink.” - -They pillowed her up on her couch, and Anna knelt there beside her, -taking her hand in her own and supporting her head on her shoulder, -while she vainly endeavored to render her conscious by numerous -questions. The messenger soon returned, accompanied by the young -missionary, who had hastened at the first mention of Weetano’s illness. - -“What has been the matter with Red-Bird?” asked he in a whisper, at the -same time regarding her closely. “She sleeps quietly now.” - -“She has slept thus all day, and will not waken,” replied Anna, bursting -into tears. “O, Francois, can you not arouse her?” - -“_Thus_, did you say—has she slept peacefully all day? ’Tis strange,” -added he, taking her hand, “her pulse beats well, and her breathing is -regular: has she spoken?” - -“Two or three times,” replied Zohah. “Once she inquired for you. Let her -know you have come.” - -“Weetano, Weetano!” said he, bending his lips close to her ear, “speak -to your brother, Weetano—he has come back from his toil. Will not his -sister welcome him?” - -Those tones fell not unheeded; there was another struggle as if to burst -the leaden chain, and an expression of happiness spread like sunlight -over her features. Her dark eyes were again unsealed, and a momentary -brightness fell from beneath the long lashes, as she said faintly, -“Weetano heard her brother’s voice in her dream, but she cannot awaken -to its music—her slumber is not over;” and her voice died away in a -murmur, like the lingering pulsations of a harp, and her head hung -heavily. - -All through the long afternoon did they labor to break that strange -lethargy, but no care or remedy proved successful, and her breath grew -shorter and fainter until evening, when she revived a little, and looked -consciously on all around. The old chief was near, gazing mournfully on -his drooping child, and beside her were Francois Waldo and Anna Temple, -upon whom she still leaned for support. She bestowed on each a look of -the most earnest affection, then said, in clear, unbroken accents— - -“The Lily will brighten my brother’s pathway, but Oliwibatuc will be -alone! You will not forsake my father,” continued she, fixing her dark -eye on the pale youth before her, inquiringly. - -“Never, Weetano, I promise in the sight of heaven, while I live he shall -find in me a son to lean upon; he has been as a father to his captive—I -will never desert him.” - -“I believe you,” she said, pressing his hand to her lips—“Your words -are true.” Then placing the hand of Anna Temple in that of her white -brother, with a quiet smile she closed her eyes again for their last -slumber. - -All night the spirit of Weetano clung to its earthly tenement, and the -morning found it still hovering around its beautiful abode, as if -unwilling to forsake its companionship. The lodge was filled with the -sorrowing faces of those who had gathered to obtain a last look of the -daughter of their chief, who lay there in their midst like a breathing -statue—but while the dew still lingered on the flower, the lips of the -sleeper parted gently, her eyelids quivered—a momentary shudder passed -over her frame, and the strife was over. - -Captive Red-Bird had at last burst her prison bars, and unfolded her -wings in the sunnier bowers of the spirit-land. One by one those who had -gathered near to witness the last moments of the chief’s daughter went -forth, that Oliwibatuc might stand alone in the presence of his dead. -Francois and Anna withdrew to a little distance from the couch of the -dear departed, and gazed with tearful faces on the old warrior, who -stood with a mournful face gazing on the last of his household! He -stooped at length, and took the hand, scarcely yet cold, in his own, -and, pronounced in an unbroken tone an Indian farewell: - -“The Great Spirit help thee on thy journey, my daughter—the way is long -and fearful! Thou art a tender bird to try the unseen path alone, but -let not thy wing falter in the misty valley, for the blue hills are -shining brightly beyond! Pass onward—thy mother hath spread her couch -there; thou art the last bird of our nest, and she waiteth for thee! -Tell her—her warrior hath dwelt alone in his wigwam since we laid her -by the quiet river! Tell her—that thou alone hast been the sunbeam of -his lodge, and hast spread the couch of the weary! O, Weetano! thy -father is lonely now—why didst thou go before him to the dwelling-place -of the happy? The hunter will come to his wigwam weary at evening, but -the torch will not be lighted, for Weetano will not be there! His cup -will be empty, and his board desolate! No song shall lull him to -slumber, for Red-Bird has gone to her mother!” - -The old chief’s voice faltered here, for the first time; and he bowed -his head. They saw him brush a tear from his eye—then another rolled -down his dusky face, and Anna would have rushed to his side to pour -forth her sympathy, had not Francois withheld her—he knew, better than -her, the customs of the people among whom he dwelt, that they share with -none their woes, but bear their burden alone. The momentary struggle was -past, and Oliwibatuc spoke again, calmly, but with lower, sadder tone. - -“Weetano, thou hast led us in all thy beauty! Thou hast gathered up the -flowers of a few summers—but the great snows have not fallen on thee! I -will lay thee gently by thy mother, and the braves shall rear the green -mound, where I will sit with my bow at evening, gazing on the bright -hills of the far south-west. Farewell! Weetano, I go to make thy grave -by the river-side!” - -He drew himself up to his full height, and passed slowly out of his -wigwam, and Anna now went forward, and stood sobbing by the couch where -darling Red-Bird lay as in a peaceful slumber. How short to her the -period since she first beheld her a creature radiant with health and -beauty—the fleetest fawn of the wilderness—the gayest bird on the -wing! But how soon had all this glory and beauty departed. Weetano had -lived, loved, suffered, and died. Thus had she fulfilled her woman’s -lot; early indeed—but fully and truly. There remained but to lay her in -her last resting-place, according to the custom of her nation, without -coffin or shroud—but what matter? Beside her grave the clear tones of -the young Vaudois preacher pronounced—“_The dead shall be raised_,” and -as his voice went up in prayer, there, in the mighty forest, the red -warriors looked at him in wondering silence, and the captive “Book Man” -was a mystery. - - - CHAPTER IV. - - “We lift our trusting eyes - From the hills our fathers trod; - To the sunshine of the skies. - To the sabbath of our God.” - - -Ten years after the events noticed in our last chapter, a pleasant -village was rapidly springing upon the sunny lake-side, so long tenanted -only by the lonely refugees. The broad old forest had been rudely cut -away by the axe of the settler, and cottage-homes were reared thickly -side by side. The emigrant’s hut had been transformed into an elegant -mansion, whilst the green lawn in front, sloping down to the water, and -planted with shrubbery and vines—was the play-ground of happy children. -At a little distance, among the trees, a pretty church raised its -slender spire toward heaven, and behind it, several mounds of fresh -earth told plainly there was no retreat from death. But who was the -dark-haired pastor that had first awakened the voice of prayer in that -remote settlement? The imagination of the reader will furnish a ready -reply. - -Oliwibatuc had gone to his rest! Faithfully, had his devoted young -captive labored to sow with good seed the hearts of his red brethren, -and in some instances, the scalping-knife and tomahawk had been buried -by the living warrior; but after the death of the old chief, he had -taken up his abode with Lord Temple, having been married to Anna soon -after the death of Red-Bird. Long and happily did they dwell together, -wondering much that an over-ruling providence should have watched over -the divided current of their lives, and united them so mysteriously in a -far, foreign land. Lord Temple lived until his head was white with -four-score years; but until death retained his Quaker dress and -appellation. - -That village is now a beautiful and flourishing town in the heart of the -old empire State. The lone canoe of the Indian long since disappeared -from the blue lake, but hundreds of snowy sails now whiten its waters. -Few of the busy multitude that now throng these streets, could point the -curious traveler to the spot on which stood the humble cottage of the -first settler—many would not even remember his name; but go to the -ancient records, and there you will find that as early as 1660, a -wealthy Quaker, calling himself John Brown, made purchase of a large -territory of the Mohawk chief, and settled upon it with his own -family—that he afterward built a church of the _Presbyterian order_, -and endowed it with a fund, for its after-support, and left at his death -many rich legacies. It is also added, that much mystery shrouded the -aforesaid Brown, and by some he was supposed to have been an associate -of Oliver Cromwell. - -An elegant edifice stands now on the site of the little church of the -first settler; but the burying-yard behind it remains unchanged, and -there on a broad slab may still be traced, a long obituary of John -Brown, the earliest settler, and by his side sleeps the first pastor of -that ancient church, of whom it is recorded, that he labored for a -number of years as a faithful missionary among the Mohawks, by whom he -was taken captive; and, afterward, for nearly forty years, as the -minister of the first church of Christ in the wilderness. By his side, -sleeps Anna, his wife—and children, and children’s children are around -in long ranks, with the slumber of years upon them. - -Reader! My story is brought to a close. It but feebly illustrates the -chance and change of life—but if it serve to awaken a more earnest -interest in those who have gone before us, its author will not have -spent those few pleasant hours amid the records of the past in vain. -Life is not all with us! Those who trod the paths we are now treading, -knew as much of its joys and sorrows—perchance even more than -ourselves, and would we search more deeply the annals of our -forefathers, our toil would often be rewarded with histories as full of -vicissitude and adventure, as that of the illustrious Judge Temple, or -the Vaudois peasant-boy of the Alps! - - * * * * * - - - - - ERNESTINA. - - - (OR THE GILIA TRICOLOR.) - - - BY ERNESTINE FITZGERALD. - - - Thus have ye named this modest flower, - Bright Gilia—of colors three: - What hath God given as its dower? - In what doth it resemble me? - Tiny, it hath persistent power— - It heedeth storm nor frost, ye see. - - If therefore ye have named it thus, - More fitting fond ye will not find: - “But Ernestina makes more fuss, - At wintry frost and chilling wind, - Than hosts on hosts, robust like us!” - Persistence, love, is in the mind. - - The little blossoms of her soul - Come forth at every sun-ray’s will: - Glance at the seed-calls! every stroll - Of warmth from heaven doth some one fill: - Let cloud and tempest o’er her roll, - The flowret and the fruit come still. - - Well has love named the humble flower, - Meek Gilia, of colors three; - Well have ye placed it in your bower, - To emblem there, Humility; - Thus may it gain a higher power - Than it may ever claim from me. - - * * * * * - - - - - ODE ON IDLENESS. - - - BY T. YARDLEY. - - - With walking wearied, sat I, at the time - When, pausing far above the world, the sun - Seems musing whether he shall higher climb - The pathway up to heaven; or the one - Retrace till eve, which was at morn begun; - Or drive his cloud-clad coursers from the shade - Where lie the lightnings when the storm is done, - And where the rainbows by the saints are made, - O’er many a western wild and island everglade. - - ’Twas one of those sweet noons the restless soul - Most loves to dream of. Just enough of breeze - To chase the overheated air and roll - Away in music. Silent symphonies, - Among the olden avenues of trees, - The spirit gathered, weaving into wings, - To waft it up through space-encircling seas, - Whose waves are inspiration, and where rings - The octave of the spheres, with quiv’ring echoings. - - My ever eager eyes, with quenchless thirst, - Drank in the glory of the scene. Before, - Commingling mountains, indistinct at first - And far, sublimely rose: each range would o’er - The rearward, slow-ascending summits soar, - Like some vast army on the Appenines, - With all the bright artillery of war, - Banners of painted clouds, with proud designs, - Helmets and jeweled shields along the glitt’ring lines. - - Below me slept a valley, with its fields - O’erflowing with the ripe and yellow corn: - And harvesters, whose distance-mellowed peals - Of laughter touched the ear, as echoes borne - At vesper hour from some far Alpine horn, - Reclined, at length, beside a narrow stream - That lingered lullingly beneath its worn, - Wild-blossomed banks awhile, and then would gleam - Away and windingly, like music in a dream. - - Slow sloping shores, o’er-velveted with green— - Old oaks, which, sighing softly, seemed aware - That summer is not always, as between - Their branches breathed the wing-unweary air— - Blue skies that bent above, serenely fair— - And tinklings faint of distant bells among - The snowy sheep and herds of kine, that where - The grass was deepest browsed—gave to the young, - Reposing there, an Eden-hour, and brightly hung, - - Round age’s mem’ries, as at eventide, - By lighted lamps, glow carved transparencies. - I felt the perfume-freighted zephyrs glide - On tiptoe by me from the midst of these: - And as they whispered lowly, by degrees - My brain grew dizzy with felicity; - And fancy, with the warm realities, - Mingled such floating, fairy imagery, - That all was isles of Greece and air of Italy. - - There seemed low music swelling from afar. - Which, as it nearer came, grew lovelier; - And then smooth, iv’ry voices, such as are - Heard only from some heavenly messenger, - With harp-like pinions, warning ere we err - In words that die not, and through after time, - When evil tempts us, draw us nearer her. - And as in thought I saw the Past, sublime, - With many a sunny sky and calm Arcadian clime, - - The cooling rippling of the stream of song - More deeply in its tone went sweeping by; - For other rills, its winding way along, - Had mingled with its waters leapingly. - And skimming swift the waves with ear and eye, - I found the fountains whence the river came— - A group of singing sylphs—and standing by - The one that _looked_ the queen, though robed the same, - And languishingly lovely—Idleness her name. - - Her dark, luxuriant hair fell loosely o’er - A neck that said a thousand things unthinking, - And soft as if ’twere only fashioned for - A pillow to support a loved head sinking - Beneath the draught, deliriously drinking, - Of her resistless beauty; and her eyes - Were open volumes, which, like planets blinking, - Seemed saying, “Read us, all around us lies - The starry Infinite—the realm of Mysteries.” - - Her thoughts environed me, for with a smile - And gesture of her hand, the group arose; - And pausing as they neared me, for awhile, - Drew round, encircling, in converging rows, - Enshrouding me in incense. A repose - Crept through my senses, such as sweetly stole - Over the Lotus-eaters—such as throws - Its dreamy spells around the bounding soul, - Like silken lassos, where the waves of Lethé roll. - - And I was borne aloft through azure air, - Her warm, white arms around me, and her cheek - Close pressed to mine; her cooling, curling hair - Bathing my temples, as in Easter week, - In Rome’s cathedrals, ere the Fathers speak, - They lave in holy-water. Unopposed, - My burning, lightning-learning lips would seek - With hers communion; and though undisclosed - The secrets whispered, yet our hearts full well supposed. - - We floated on, with wings extended wide, - To that fair region, where the thoughts of men, - The holiest they breathe, like angels glide, - Gathering the purely beautiful, and then - Returning laden to the earth again— - Imagination’s realm—the vast Unknown, - Full of as glorious images as when - The first Thought-angel gazed within, alone, - And will be while the world has evil to atone. - - I touched Futurity’s thrice veiled domain. - And felt the moments of swift coming years - Fall sparklingly around me, like the rain - From over-heavy clouds of unwept tears, - Dropping through sunlight; while my eager ears - Caught from far sounding avenues, a name - Like mine, breathed in the tones affection hears - Swelling so sweetly on the earth the same, - Though lowly laid in flowers, the lips from whence they came. - - My brain reeled with repletion, and no more, - Through such celestial scenes, and thus to be - Clothed with mortality, could I explore. - Fading, still fading slowly, I could see - The rolling prairie-land of Poesy, - Blooming with stars, and eastwardly a light, - Like the full moon rising gloriously, - Which streamed o’er it from Heaven—then our flight, - Unwilled, was earthward, with the soul’s archangel, Night. - - Full many a shadow o’er the sun and me, - Subduing both a time, has passed since then; - And darker, colder ones in store may be - Unopened, with the woes awaiting men: - But still, in rose-wreathed summer, sometimes, when - The hour is noontide, and the noontide fair, - Sweet Idleness bends over me again - And whispers of Elysium—while Care - Flaps her broad, vulture wings and melts away in air. - - * * * * * - - - - - RAIN AND SUNLIGHT IN OCTOBER. - - - BY EMILY HERRMANN. - - - The grape-leaf’s edge is crisping - Beside our window-pane; - Small chirping things are shrinking - From cold October rain. - - I hear the pattering of its feet - All round about our home— - Among the loosely garnered shocks, - Along the runnel’s foam. - - There sings no bird among our trees— - Whose robes are waxing thin— - And yellow leaves, on withered grass, - Dim graves are sinking in. - - Chilling is touch of Autumn rain, - Darkly the gray cloud lowers, - Shutting the sunlight from our paths - Among the drooping flowers. - - Yet gently, as to our weary brows - Come folding wings of sleep, - It moves along the furrowed fields - Where summer dust lies deep. - - Bravely ’twill nurse the infant grain - That in its cradle lies, - And nerve it to struggle with the storm - Before old Winter’s eyes. - - And now how quietly all about - October sunlight falls; - Tracking, with stars, the evening rain, - Sparkling on dead leaves’ palls. - - Moving, in shocks of garnered maize, - Is many a fluttering wing; - And the wheat smiles to gentle light - As if ’twere a living thing. - - In showers, their crimson garments fall - From off majestic forms, - Whose hearts, in the living sap kept warm, - Are fearless of wildest storms. - - Round us the forest, in mellow haze, - Shuts a still glory in; - Under its shadow the cattle graze— - Soon to it we shall win! - - Shaking their nuts from laden limbs, - Sharing the squirrel’s mite, - Gaily we’ll gather on tufted moss - In the yellow Autumn light. - - By freshening green on the fading grass - Life in its depth has stirred, - We are not alone among changing leaves, - For, hark! there’s a singing bird! - - * * * * * - - - - - FRAGMENT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. - - - BY JAMES M’CARROLL. - - - When, in his strength, the monarch of the air - Soars proudly through the azure fields of heaven, - His pinions burning in the noontide glare, - Or flashing in the deep red dyes of even, - He sees the earth receding from his eye, - And looking round him, in his chainless glee, - Utters a loud, a long, wild, piercing cry— - And that’s the joyous shout of Liberty. - - But when he leaves those vast ethereal plains, - And falls into the fowler’s hidden snare, - Beneath the icy pressure of his chains, - How soon his sounding wing hangs listless there;— - And oft, as o’er their galling links he broods, - Dreaming of the bright hours when he was free, - He looks up through those shining solitudes, - And shrieks—the bitter shriek of Slavery. - - If thus ’tis, from the eagle to the dove, - Say, how can we upon our fetters smile, - Save those that, woven by the hand of Love, - Are round us flung with many a tender wile? - So pure a shrine of Freedom is the soul, - That could our chains lose all their weight and chill, - And, ’twined with light, extend from pole to pole, - We’d sigh and feel that we were captives still. - - * * * * * - - - - - NATURE AND ART. - - - BY SAMUEL MARTIN. - - -When we see an insect in the fields pumping a sweet fluid from the -nectaries of flowers, and carrying it home and storing it in convenient -receptacles, which it carefully covers so as to exclude the dust and -hinder evaporation, we are filled with devout astonishment; and as we -write hymns about the “Little Busy Bee,” in her industry and foresight, -and curious contrivances, we recognize an all-pervading Mind and an -all-controlling Hand. And in this we are right. But here is another -animal, still more resourceful and provident. The bee collects the honey -from such flowers as happen to contain it, and which yield it almost -ready-made; but she takes no trouble to secure a succession of those -flowers or to increase their productiveness. This other creature is at -infinite pains to propagate and improve his favorite mellifluent herbs. -From the sweet juices of flowers the bee can only elaborate a single -fluid, while her rival from the same syrup can obtain a multitude of -dainties; and, according to the taste of the consumer, he offers it in -the guise of nectar or ambrosia, in crystals of topaz or in pyramids of -snow. And when the manufacture is complete, the bee knows only one mode -of stowage; this other creature packs it, as the case may require, in -bags or baskets, in boxes or barrels, all his own workmanship, and all -cleverly made. What, then, is the reason that when we look at a -honeycomb we are apt to be reminded of the wisdom and goodness of God; -but looking at the same thing magnified—surveying a hundred hogsheads -of sugar piled up in a West Indian warehouse—we have no devout -associations with the ingenuity and industry which placed them there? -Why are chords of pious feeling struck by the proceedings of an insect, -and no emotion roused by the on-goings of our fellow-men? - -We examine two paper-mills. The one is situated in a gooseberry-bush, -and the owner is a wasp. The other covers some acres of land, and -belongs to a kind-hearted and popular legislator. But after exploring -the latter with all its water-wheels and steam-engines, and with all the -beautiful expedients for converting rags into pulp, and then weaving and -sizing, and cutting and drying, and folding and packing, we go away -admiring nothing except human skill; whereas, the moment Madam Vespa -fetches a bundle of vegetable fibres and moistens them with her saliva, -and then spreads them out in a patch of whitey-brown, we lift our hands -in amazement, and go home to write another “Bridgewater Treatise,” or to -add a new meditation to Sturm. That a wasp should make paper at all is -very wonderful; but if the rude fabric which she compiles from raspings -of wood is wonderful, how much more admirable is that texture which, as -it flows from between these flying cylinders for furlongs together, -becomes a fit repository for the story of the universe, and can receive -on its delicate and evenly expanse, not only the musings of genius but -the pictures of Prophecy and the lessons of Inspiration! - -However, it is said, the cases are quite distinct. Man has reason to -guide him; the lower animal proceeds by instinct. In surveying human -handiwork, we admire the resources of reason; in looking at bird -architecture or insect manufactures, we are in more direct contact with -the Infinite Mind. Their Maker is their teacher, but man is his own -instructor; and, therefore, we see the wisdom and goodness of God in the -operations of the lower animals more clearly than in our own. - -Without arguing the identity of reason and instinct, it will be admitted -that the lower animals frequently perform actions which imply a -reasoning process. Reverting to our insect illustrations, Huber and -others have mentioned cases which make it hard to deny judgment and -reflection to the wasp; and the reader who is himself “judicious” will -not refuse a tiny measure of his own endowments to the bee. On a bright -day, four or five summers since, we were gazing at a clump of fuchsias -planted out on a lawn, not far from London. As every one knows, the -flower of the fuchsia is a graceful pendent, something like a funnel or -red coral suspended with the opening downward; and in the varieties -planted on this lawn the tube of the funnel was long and slender. In the -case of every expanded flower, we noticed that there was a small hole -near the apex, just as if some one had pierced it with a pin. It was not -long till we detected the authors of these perforations. The border was -all alive with bees, and we soon noticed that in dealing with the -fuchsias they extracted the honey through these artificial apertures. -They had found the tube of the blossom so long that their haustella -could not reach the honey at its farther end; and so, by this -engineering stratagem, they got at it sideways. Surely this was -sensible. When a mason releases a sweep stuck fast in a chimney by -digging a hole in the gable, or when a chancellor of the exchequer gains -a revenue by indirect taxation, he merely carries out the principle. And -what makes the manœuvre more striking, is the fact that the problem was -new. The fuchsias had come from Mexico and Chili not many years ago; -whereas the bees were derived from a long line of English ancestors, and -could not have learned the art of tapping from their American congeners. -In cases such as these, and hundreds which might be quoted, no one feels -his admiration of the all-pervading Wisdom lessen as instinct approaches -reason, or actually merges in it. In the case of the inferior animals no -one feels—The more of reason, the less of God. And, because man is all -reason together, why should it be thought that in human inventions and -operations there is nothing divine? How is it that in the dyke-building -of that beaver, or the nest building of that bird, so many mark the -varied evolutions of the Supreme Intelligence; but, when they come to -the operations of the artisan or the architect, they are conscious of an -abrupt transition, and, feeling the groundless holy, they exclaim, - - “God made the country, but man made the town?” - -One would think that the right way to regard human handiwork is with the -feelings which an accomplished naturalist expresses:—“A reference to -the Deity, even through works of human invention, must lead to increased -brotherly love among mankind. When we see a mechanic working at his -trade, and observe the dexterity which he displays, together with the -ingenious adaptation of his tools to their various uses, and then -consider the original source of all this, do we not see a being at work, -employing for his own purposes an intelligence derived from the -Almighty?—and will not such a consideration serve to raise him in our -opinion, rather than induce us to look down slightingly upon him for -being employed in a mechanical trade? For my own part, when I watch a -mechanic at his work I find it very agreeable, and, I believe, a very -useful kind of mental employment, to think of him as I would of an -insect building its habitation, and in both see the workings of the -Deity.”[7] - -And yet it must be admitted that few have the feelings which Mr. -Drummond describes. They cannot see as much of God in the manipulations -of the mechanic as in the operations of the bird or the beaver; nor can -a life-boat send their thoughts upward so readily as the shell of a -nautilus or the float of a raft-building spider. - -The difference is mainly moral. Man is sinful. Many of his works are -constructed with sinful motives, and are destined for evil purposes. And -the artificer is often a wicked man. We know this, and when we look on -man’s works we cannot help remembering this. It is a pure pleasure to -watch a hive of bees, but it is not so pleasant to survey a sugar -plantation in Brazil, there is a painful thought in knowing how much of -their produce will be manufactured into intoxicating liquors. It is -pleasant to observe the paper-making of a hymenopterous insect; for it -does not swear nor use bad language at its work, and, when finished, its -tissues will not be blotted by effusions of impiety and vice; but of -this you can seldom be assured in the more splendid manufactures of us -lords of the creation. But if this element were guaranteed—if the will -of God were done among ourselves even as it is done among the high -artificers of heaven and among the humble laborers in earth’s deep -places—our feelings should be wholly revolutionized. If of every -stately fabric we knew, as we know regarding St. Paul’s, that no profane -word had been uttered all the time of its construction; if of every -factory we could hope, as of the mills at Lowell, that it is meant to be -the reward of good conduct and the gymnasium of intelligence and virtue; -if of every fine painting or statue we might believe that, like Michael -Angelo’s works, it was commenced in prayer; this suffusion of the moral -over the mechanical would sanctify the Arts, and in Devotion’s breast it -would kindle the conviction, at once joyful and true, “My Father made -them all.” - -Still, however, in man’s works, we are bound to distinguish these two -things—the mechanical and the moral. When God made man at first, he -made him both upright and intelligent; he endowed him with both goodness -and genius. In his fall he has lost a large amount of both attributes; -but whatever measure of either he retains is still divine. Any dim -instincts of devotion, as well as every benevolent affection which -lingers in man’s nature are relics of his first estate; and so is any -portion of intellectual power which he still possesses. Too often they -exist asunder. In our self-entailed economy of defect and disorder, too -often are the genius and the goodness divided. Too many of our good men -want cleverness, and too many clever men are bad. But, whether -consecrated or misdirected, it must not be forgotten that talent, -genius, dexterity, are gifts of God, and that all their products, so far -as these are innocent or useful, are results of an original inspiration. - -It is true that his Creator has not made each individual man an -instinctive constructor of railways and palaces, as he has made each -beaver a constitutional dyke-builder and each mole a constitutional -tunnel-borer. But he has endowed the human race with faculties and -tendencies, which, under favoring circumstances, shall eventually -develop in railways and palaces as surely as beaver mind has all along -developed in dykes, and mole mind worked in tunnels. And just as in -carrying out His own great scheme with our species, the Most High has -conveyed great moral truths through all sorts of messengers—through a -Balaam and a Caiaphas as well as a Daniel and a John;—so, in carrying -out His merciful plan, and gradually augmenting our sum of material -comfort, the Father of earth’s families has conveyed His gifts through -very various channels, sometimes sending into our world a great -discovery through a scoffing philosopher, and sometimes through a -Christian sage. Be the craftsman what he may; when once we have -separated the moral from the mechanical—the sin which is man’s from the -skill which is Jehovah’s—in every exquisite product, and more -especially in every contribution to human comfort, we ought to recognize -as their ultimate origin the wisdom and goodness of God. The arts -themselves are His gift; the abuse alone is human. And just as an -enlightened Christian looks forth on the landscape, and in its fair -features as well as its countless inhabitants beholds mementoes of his -Master; so, surveying a beautiful city, its museums and its monuments, -its statues and fountains, or sauntering through a gallery of art or -useful inventions—in all the symmetry of proportion and splendor of -coloring, in every ingenious device and every powerful engine, he may -read manifestations of that mind which is “wonderful in counsel and -excellent in working;” and, so far as skill and adaptation and elegance -are involved, piety will hail the Great Architect himself as the Maker -of the Town. - -Reason may be regarded as the Instinct of the human race. Like instinct, -commonly so called, it has an irresistible tendency toward certain -results; and when circumstances favor, these results evolve. But reason -is a slow and experimental instinct. It is long before it attains to any -optimism. The inferior races are only repeating masterpieces which their -ancestor produced in the year of the world One. Man is constantly -improving on his models, and there are many inventions on which he has -only hit in this 59th century of his existence. Nevertheless, as the oak -is in the acorn, so these inventions have from the first been in the -instinct of humanity. That is, if you say that its nest was in the mind -of the bird, or its cocoon in the mind of the silk-worm as it came from -the hand of its Maker, and if you consequently deem it true and devout -to recognize in these humble fabrics a trace of the wisdom which moulds -the universe; so we say that the Barberini Vase and the Britannia Bridge -existed in the mind of our species when first ushered into this earthly -abode, and now in the providential progress of events these germs have -developed in structures of beauty or grandeur, whilst admiring the human -workmanship, it is right and it is comely to adore the original -Authorship. - -His are the minerals and the metals, the timbers and the vegetable -tissues, from which our houses and our ships, our clothing and our -furniture, are fabricated. Of these, the variety is amazing, and it -plainly indicates that, in the arrangements of this planet, the Creator -contemplated not only the necessities but the enjoyments of his -intelligent creatures. For instance, there might have been only one or -two metals; and the eagerness with which tribes confined to copper, or -to gold and silver, grasp at an axe or a butcher’s whittle, shows how -rich are the tribes possessing iron. But even that master-metal, with -all his capabilities, and aided by his three predecessors, cannot answer -every purpose. The chemist requires a crucible which will stand a -powerful heat, and which, withal, does not yield to the corroding action -of air or water. Gold would answer the latter, and iron the former -purpose, well; but every one knows how readily iron rusts and how easily -gold melts. But there is another metal—platinum—on which air and water -have not the slightest action, and which stands unscathed in the eye of -a furnace where iron would run down like wax, and gold would burn like -paper. In the same way there are many ends for which none of these -metals are available, but which are excellently answered by tin, and -lead, and zinc, and rhodium, and mercury. Or will the reader bestow a -passing thought on his apparel? His forefathers found one garment -sufficient, and for mere protection from the weather a suit of cat-skin -or sheep-skin might still suffice. But, oh reader! what a romance is -your toilette! and should all the rest of you be prose, what a poem you -become when you put on your attire! That snowy lawn once blossomed on -the banks of the Don or the Dnieper, and before it shone in a London -drawing-room, that broad-cloth comforted its rightful owner amidst the -snows of the Cheviots. Did these boots really speak for themselves, you -would find that the upper leathers belonged to a goat, and the soles to -a horse or a cow. And could such metamorphic retributions happen now as -in the days of Ovid, the best way to punish the pride of an exquisite -would be to let every creature come and recover his own. A worm would -get his satin cravat, and a pearl oyster his studs; and if no fabulous -beaver laid claim to his hat, the rats of Paris or the kittens of -Worcester would assuredly run off with his gloves. But viewed in a -graver and truer light, it is marvellous from how many sources we derive -the several ingredients in the simplest clothing, many of them essential -to health, and most of them conducive to our well-being; so that we need -not go to the crowded mart or the groaning wharf in order to convince -ourselves of earth’s opulent resources. Few will read these pages who -have not the evidence at home. Open that cupboard, unlock that wardrobe, -look round the chamber where you are seated, and think a little of all -the kingdoms of Nature and all the regions of the globe from which their -contents have been collected, and say if the Framer of this world is not -a bountiful Provider. “O Lord, how manifold are thy works! The earth is -full of thy riches; so is this great and wide sea.” - -The Supreme Governor has so ordered it, that the progress of the -arts—that is, of human comfort and accommodation—shall be nearly in -proportion to human industry, sobriety, and peacefulness. The last -thirty years have been fraught with inventions, chiefly because they -have been years of peace. In England, however, the reign of Charles II. -was tolerably tranquil; but, except for the accident of Newton and the -Royal Society, its peace was the parent of few discoveries, for it was a -peace which had converted the noise of the warrior, not into the quiet -of the artisan, but into the din of the drunken debauchee. Such honor -does the Most High put upon peaceful activity and sober perseverance, -that wherever these exist economic comfort is sure to follow. Thus, -without uncommon intellectuality, and with a false religion, the Chinese -anticipated many of the arts of modern Europe. Whilst Christendom, so -called, was divided betwixt lazy monks and a brutal soldiery—whilst -mediæval churchmen were droning masses, and feudal barons amused -themselves in knocking out each other’s brains—the Chinese, neither -fierce nor indolent, were spinning silk and manufacturing porcelain, -compiling almanacs, and sinking Artesian wells. And long before any -Friar Schwartz, or Gutenberg, or Flavio di Gioia, had revealed them to -the Western World, the pacific and painstaking Chinese were favored with -prelibations of our vaunted discoveries—gunpowder, book-printing, and -the mariner’s compass. - -We have compared our world to a well-furnished dwelling, in which, -however, many of the treasures are locked up, and it is left to patience -and ingenuity to open the several doors. Caoutchouc and gutta percha -have always been elastic and extensible; but it is only of late that -their properties have been ascertained and turned to profitable account. -The cinchonas had grown for five thousand years in Peru before the -Jesuit missionaries discovered the tonic influence which the bark exerts -on the human system. Steam was always capable of condensation, so as to -leave in its place a vacuum; but it is only a century and a half since -it struck the Marquis of Worcester to employ this circumstance as a -motive power. And ever since our earthly ball was fashioned, electricity -has been able to sweep round it at the rate of ten times each second, -though it is only within the last few years that Professor Wheatstone -thought of sending tidings on its wings. And doubtless the cabinets -still unlocked contain secrets as wonderful and as profitable as these; -whilst the language of Providence is, “Be diligent, and be at peace -among yourselves, and the doors which have defied the spell of the -sorcerer and the battle-axe of the warrior will open to the prayer of -harmonious industry.” - -So thoroughly provided with all needful commodities is the great house -of the world, that, in order to obtain whatever we desiderate, seldom is -aught else requisite than a distinct realization of our want and a -determined effort to supply it. In working mines, one of the -difficulties with which the excavator has to contend is the influx of -water. The effort to remedy this evil gave birth to the steam-engine; -and, with the relief afforded by the steam-pump, many mines are easily -and profitably wrought which otherwise must have long since become mere -water-holes. But a worse enemy than water encounters the collier, in the -shape of fire-damp, or inflammable gas. Formerly, in quarrying his -subterranean gallery, the axe of the unsuspecting pitman would pierce a -magazine of this combustible air, and unlike water, there being nothing -to bewray its presence, it filled the galleries with its invisible -serpent-coils; and it was not till a candle approached that it revealed -itself in a shattering explosion, and a wretched multitude lay burning -and bleeding along its track—a fearful hecatomb to this fiery dragon. -What was to be done? Were the blast furnaces of Wales and Wolverhampton -to be extinguished, and were household fires to go out? Or, for the sake -of a blazing ingle and good cutlery, were brave men still to be -sacrificed to this Moloch of the mine? The question was put to Science, -and Science set to work to solve it. Many good expedients were -suggested, but the most ingenious was in practice the simplest and -safest. It was ascertained that a red heat, if unaccompanied by flame, -will not ignite the fire-damp; and it was also known, that the most -powerful flame will not pass through wire-gauze, if the openings are -sufficiently small. A lamp or a candle might, therefore, be put into a -lantern of this gauze, and then plunged into an atmosphere of -inflammable air; and whilst the flame inside the lantern gave light -enough to guide the laborer, none of that flame could come through to -act as a match of mischief. And now, like a diver in his pneumatic -helmet, the miner, with his “Davy,” can traverse in security, the depths -of an inflammable ocean. - -So plentiful is the provision for our wants, that little more is needed -than a distinct statement in order to secure a supply. During his long -contest with England, and when both the ocean and the sugar-growing -islands were in the power of his enemy, Napoleon said to his _savans_, -“Make sugar for the French out of something which grows in France.” And, -like Archimedes with the tyrant’s crown, they set to work on the -problem. They knew that sugar is not confined to the Indian cane. They -knew that it can be obtained from many things—from maple, and parsnips, -and rags; but the difficulty was to obtain it in sufficient quantities, -and by an inexpensive process. However, knowing the compartment in which -the treasure was concealed, they soon found the key; and it was not long -till beet-root sugar was manufactured in thousands of tons, nearly as -good, though not nearly so cheap, as the produce of England’s colonies. -A few years ago the British Foreign Office had a dispute with the -Neapolitan Government. The best sulphur is found in Sicily, and from -that island Great Britain imports for its own manufactures about 20,000 -tons a year. On the occasion referred to, the Neapolitan Government was -about to complete an arrangement which would have enormously enhanced -the price of this important commodity. Some wished that England should -make it a _casus belli_, and send her ships of war to fetch away the -brimstone by force. But the chemists of England took the quarrel into -their own hands; and, had not the King of Naples yielded, doubtless we -should now have been supplied with sulphur from sources at command but -yet undeveloped. - -A modification of the same problem is constantly occurring to practical -science, and its almost uniform solution shows that our world has been -arranged with a benevolent eye to the growing comfort of the greater -number. Science is perpetually importuned to cheapen commodities; and by -substituting a simple method for an intricate process, or by making a -common material fulfill the part of a rare one, it is every year giving -presents to the poor. Few substances are more essential to our daily -comfort than soda. It is a large constituent of glass and soap, and many -other useful articles. The cleanliness of a nation depends on the -cheapness of soda; and if soda is cheap, you can substitute plate-glass -for crown in your windows, and you can adorn your apartments with glazed -pictures and mirrors. So that from the bleacher who spends -thousands-a-year on the carbonate, to the apprentice who in the dog-days -lays out a penny on ginger-beer or soda-water, all are interested in the -cheapness of soda. But this alkali used to be dear. Small quantities -were found native, and larger supplies were obtained from the burning of -sea-weed. Still the cost was considerable. However, it was well known -that a vast magazine of the precious article surrounds us on every side. -The sea is water changed to brine by a salt of soda. If only a plan -could be contrived for separating this soda from the hydro-chloric acid, -which makes it common salt, there is at our doors a depot large enough -to form a Mont Blanc of pure soda. That plan was discovered; and now a -laundress buys a pound of soda (the carbonate) for three half-pence, and -the baker of unfermented bread can procure the more costly bicarbonate -for sixpence. - -Lately, if not still, in the shops of provincial apothecaries, no -article was in such demand as one styled in the Pharmacopœia, muriate of -magnesia. This popular medicine was first obtained by evaporation from -certain mineral waters, and as the supply was limited the price was -high. But few ingredients could be cheaper than the earth and the acid -from which it is combined. The earth forms whole mountains, and the acid -is that cheap one set free when the soda is separated from common salt. -Accordingly, chemists went to work, and in their laboratories did what -the mineral spring had been doing since the Deluge, and by a simple -process they manufactured the muriate of magnesia. A few years ago, -looking at the remarkable rocks of magnesian limestone which defend the -Durham coast, near Shields, our companion remarked, “Many a hundred tons -of these rocks have we converted into Epsom salts!” - -“Waste not, want not.” An adage which received a touching sanction when, -after a miraculous feast, and when He could have converted the whole -region into bread, the Saviour said, “Gather up the fragments, that -nothing be lost.” And in the progress of discovery, God is constantly -teaching us not to waste anything, for this is a world of which nothing -need be lost. At the woollen factories of Rheims there used to -accumulate a refuse, which “it cost something to throw away.” This was -the soap-water containing the fatty matters washed from the woollen -stuffs, along with some soda and other ingredients. With its offensive -scum this soap-water was a nuisance, and required to be put out of the -way with all convenient speed. But now, from one portion of it gas is -manufactured, sufficient to supply all the works, and the remainder -yields a useful soap.[8] In the same way, when Lord Kaims found himself -proprietor of an extensive peat-moss in the neighborhood of Stirling, -with characteristic energy he commenced its improvement. On digging -through the moss, he came to a rich alluvial soil; so that to his -sanguine imagination, fifteen hundred acres, at whose barrenness his -neighbors laughed, were a splendid estate, covered over meanwhile by a -carpet seven feet thick. To lift this carpet was the puzzle: for every -acre of it weighed some hundred tons. But “the mother of invention” is -the near kinswoman of most Highland lairds, and “necessity” suggested a -plan to Lord Kaims: a plan which must have approved itself to the mind -of a judge, for, by a sort of retributive process, it forced the element -which had done the damage to undo it again. By a hydraulic contrivance, -a powerful current of water was made to traverse the moss and carry off -the loosened fragments, till they reached the river Forth, and were -finally floated into the German Ocean. And now “a waste,” which last -century was the haunt of the curlew, is covered with heavy crops, and -yields its proprietor a revenue of two or three thousand pounds a year. -But had Lord Kaims foreseen Mr. Reece’s researches into the composition -and capabilities of “bog-earth,” he would, perhaps, have hesitated -before he consigned such a treasure to the deep. At this moment we are -writing by the light of a candle which last year was a peat! And, -however opinion may differ as to the probable expense of the process, -there can be no doubt that peat yields in large quantities the ammonia -which is so largely used by farmers; the acetic and pyroligneous acids, -extensively employed by calico-printers, hatters, etc.; and, along with -naptha, a fatty substance capable of being converted into beautiful -candles; so that Mr. Owen’s benevolent calculation will, doubtless, -sooner or later be fulfilled, and “Irish moss” become a cure for Irish -misery.[9] It is pleasant to know that on every side we are surrounded -with mines of unexamined wealth. Some of the old workings may be -exhausted; but if we be only devout and diligent new veins will open. -Forty years ago, so much oil was required for lighting the streets of -cities as well as for private dwellings, that fears began to be -entertained lest the great oil-flask of the Northern Ocean might run -dry, and the whale family be extirpated. That fear was superseded when, -in 1812, gas illumination was introduced. - -“The best of things is water.” So sang a very ancient Greek; and of all -the fragments preserved in Aristotle’s “Rhetoric,” hydropathy and -teetotalism have assigned the palm to this old water-poem. Not so our -ship-owners. To them the sorest of problems and the saddest of expenses -is water. Soup can be inspissated into osmazome, and meat can be -squeezed into pemican; but water is not compressible, and it is rather -provoking to see the space available for stowage occupied by tanks and -barrels of this cheap element. Many expedients have been suggested, and -some have partially succeeded. But since we began to write this paper, -our attention has been called to a beautiful contrivance which promises -to conquer every difficulty. By means of Mr. Grant’s Distilling -Galley,[10] the brine may be pumped up from the ocean, and, after -cooking the mess of the largest ship’s company, it may be collected in -the form of the purest fresh water, to the extent of some hundred -gallons each day. Nor is it only a vast saving of room which is effected -by this beautiful expedient. It is a saving of time. Frequently ships -are compelled to leave the straight route, and sometimes lose a favoring -wind, in quest of water. But a ship provided with this apparatus is as -independent as if she were sailing over a fresh water lake; and, instead -of putting into port, she has only to resort to the never-failing pump. -And we may add that it is not only space and time which are saved, but -the health of the crew and the passengers. With every precaution -cistern-water is apt to spoil, and in the Indian Seas and other regions -the water obtained on shore is apt to occasion disease. But the produce -of this engine is always as pure as the rain which falls from the -clouds. - -When Pythagoras demonstrated the geometrical proposition, that in a -rectangular triangle the sum of the two lateral squares is equal to the -square of the hypotenuse, he is said to have offered the sacrifice of a -hundred oxen. In modern art we fear that there are many discoveries for -which the thank-offering has not yet been rendered. - -Both the reader and the writer are deeply indebted to that gracious -Providence which has cast our lot in the most favored of all times. -Chiefly through the progress of the Arts, the average of existence has -been lengthened many years, and into these years it is possible to -concentrate an amount of literary acquisition, and moral achievement, -and intellectual enjoyment, for which Methuselah himself had not -leisure. For lives thus lengthened let us show our gratitude by living -to good purpose; and, remembering that railways and telegraphs and -steam-printed books are the good gifts of God, let the age which enjoys -them be also the age of holiest obedience and largest benevolence. - ------ - -[7] Drummond’s Letters. - -[8] Knapp’s “Chemical Technology,” p. 179. - -[9] See Professor Brande’s “Lecture,” Jan 31, 1851. - -[10] The invention of Mr. Grant, of the Victualling Department, Somerset -House. - - * * * * * - - - - - SNOW. - - - BY J. P. ADDISON. - - - Falling, falling, - The snow is falling; - Floating, falling, - To the earth tending - With motion unending; - Floating, falling. - - Veiled are the mountains, - Dim is the plain; - Who looketh afar, - He looketh in vain; - Wrapped in the shower, - Dark pines tower, - Shadow-like near, - Arms outspread, - As over the dead, - Solemn and drear. - - Snow-birds cheerily - Chirp as they fly; - Ravens drearily - Answer on high: - Else, in the distance, - One who listens, - Naught may hear, - Voice nor sound, - In the country round, - Far or near. - - Roof of the cottage - And vine at the door, - Chimney and lattice - Are rounded o’er; - The black tree - Is fair to see - In its net of snow, - And the apple-bough - Bends nearer now - To the casement low. - - The paths lie buried, - The storm covers all, - The high-road wide - And the house-path small; - Hid is the stain - Of wind and rain - On the fences nigh, - And afar, each row - With the feathery snow - Is rounded high. - - Muffled and heavily - Moveth the wain, - Wearily waiteth - And moveth again; - How for his hearth-fire - Sigheth the farmer - Here in the storm; - There, the fire verily - Crackleth merrily - Thinks he, and warm. - - Gained that warm hearth-side, - Glad by the fire - ’Mid his dear loved ones - Sitteth the sire. - “Ah the fire verily - Crackleth merrily, - Children mine,” - In the answering gleam - Glad faces beam, - The white walls shine. - - Still it is falling, - The snow is falling, - Floating, falling; - To the earth tending - With motion unending, - Floating, falling. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LOST DEED. - - - A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM. - - - BY E. D. ELIOT. - - - (_Continued from page 29._) - -One day after one of the youth’s little visits to the terrace, Captain -and Mrs. Stimpson were sitting at the door enjoying the afternoon breeze -which came fresh from the ocean, and watching the craft in the harbor, -when Judith came skipping up to the door, with a great red rose in her -hand. Her father accosted her: - -“Judy, my gal, where have you been? Sir’s flower! Come, light old -daddy’s pipe for him, and tell what that youngster has been talking -about so long at the gate.” - -“Oh, I will, sir,” (jumping on her father’s knee, and putting the rose -in his button-hole,) “if you will please call me Judith, and not keep -calling yourself old daddy. You are not old, I am sure. He always says -pa, or my father, and it sounds so much prettier—don’t it, ma?” - -“He! who’s he?” chuckled the delighted father, winking to his wife. - -“Why, didn’t you say George Fayerweather, sir?” asked Judith, stroking -his chin. “He often asks me why I don’t call you two, pa and ma. Now, -wont you promise not to laugh at me if I call you so sometimes?” - -“You may call me what you please, if you don’t call me too late to -dinner,” said her father. “But you don’t tell your old dad—father, I -mean—what you’ve been talking about.” - -“Why, he says,” she replied in a tremulous voice, her rosy lip -quivering, “he’s going to sea soon, to be gone a year; and he says”—her -eyes brightening—“that he means to bring you home the handsomest pipe -he can find up the Straits.” - -“I thank the lad, I thank him,” said the captain, with his usual -sonorous h-m-gh; “that youngster’s a smart chap.” Turning to his -wife—“Mind what I say, he’ll turn out something remarkable.” - -“And he is going to bring you, mother, a beautiful tortoise shell -snuff-box.” - -“And what is he going to bring you, my darling?” said her father. - -“I told him I would not have any thing.” - -“And what did he say to you, dear?” asked her mother. - -“Here comes old Mary to call us to tea,” said Judith, glad to dispose of -the interrogatory in so propitious a manner. - -Could you have seen Captain Stimpson at his well-furnished board, you -would have been at no loss to account for his rotundity. Judith -presided, with her father and mother on the side at her left hand, old -grandsir Stimpson, in his arm-chair, at her right, and Mr. Solomon -Tarbox, the foreman of the rope-walk, on the fourth side, opposite to -her. A small, japanned tea-tray was placed before her, upon which were -ranged the tea-cups of burnt china, about the size of egg-shells, with -saucers to match, a silver sugar-dish and cream-pitcher, but little -larger than those which would grace a child’s baby-house at the present -day, and two shining black tea-pots, each holding about a pint, one -filled with the best bohea and the other with boiling water. - -A pewter tankard, filled with small-beer of Mrs. Stimpson’s own brewing, -was placed at her husband’s right hand; it being a beverage of which he -was fond, not being able to bring himself to like the new-fangled -wishy-washy stuff called tea. Before grandsir was placed a small mug of -peppermint-tea, which the old gentleman thought more healthful. A -lobster in his scarlet suit occupied the centre of the table; flanked on -one side by a parallelogram of smoked salmon, six inches by seven; on -the other by a dish of cold baked beans. A plate of white bread and -another of brown, half an oblate spheroid of butter, and a truncated -cone of Dutch cheese found a place on the table; and to crown all, a -dish of miracles, a kind of cake much in vogue in those days, and not -differing materially from the crullers of New York, being the same, -under a different name, with the Massachusetts dough-nuts of more modern -date, excepting that the dough was formed into grotesque figures, -displaying the fancy of the compounder to great advantage. In this -article Judith particularly excelled, few possessing either her taste or -fancy. - -The old grandsir, in his white linen cap, pushed a little back from his -furrowed brow, with clasped hands, and in a tremulous voice, asked a -blessing; to which his son responded with an audible amen, followed by -his usual h-m-gh. Judith commenced the operation of pouring out the tea, -first ascertaining that her grandfather’s peppermint was to his taste, -and being commended by him for having his little slip of salt fish -broiled to a nicety; for notwithstanding the usual abundance of his -son’s table, the good man always chose to have something prepared -exclusively for himself. Judith handed the tea with a natural grace, -equaling any elegance acquired at a modern boarding-school. - -Her father, after seeing that all were well supplied with the good -things on his table, took up his pewter tankard, and with a respectful -nod to the old gentleman said, “Father, my sarvice to you; Miss -Stimpson, my sarvice; sarvice, sarvice,” nodding to Judith and Mr. -Tarbox; then applying the vessel to his lips, he took a long and -apparently a very refreshing draught. Judith, though a beauty and a -heroine, despised not the vulgar enjoyments of eating and drinking, but -valued them as social pleasures. - -After ample justice being done to the meal by all parties, Captain -Stimpson and Mr. Tarbox went off to the rope-walk. Grandsir, removing -his chair to a window, where the afternoon breeze blew in refreshingly, -and placing his Bible, his favorite companion, on his knees, was soon in -a gentle slumber; his head thrown back on his comfortable chair, and his -hands folded on the pages of the sacred volume before him, opened at his -favorite last of Revelations. Mrs. Stimpson, taking up her -knitting-work, sat herself down by the side of the table, to superintend -the clearing away of the tea-things. She followed Judith with her fond -eyes, as the little maiden tripped lightly about in her neat, speckled -apron, putting every thing in its place in the most housewifely manner, -and directing old Mary in an affectionate and cheerful tone of voice. - -She put away the tea-things in their accustomed places, in the little -buffet with glass-doors, at the corner of the room, in which three -mandarins of china were conspicuous, one on the middle projection of -each shelf: then seating herself down at the window, she began to ply -her needle in the embroidering of various figures in fine cat-gut to -imitate lace; a kind of ladies’ work as much in vogue in those days as -the worsted and crochet-work has been in our day. - -Captain Stimpson soon joined them with his pipe, but their conversation -was interrupted by a gentle rap at the tea-room door, and on the -captain’s opening it, George Fayerweather appeared, with a lame excuse -for so soon repeating his visit. He was cordially received by the -captain, who invited him to sit down, which he immediately did, in such -a manner as to occupy the whole width of a window in the front parlor, -to which the family now all adjourned; grandsir rousing and going with -them, as he loved to doze by the sound of his children’s voices. The -evening being fairly set in, a light was brought by old Mary; but being -placed in a little cupboard, the door of which was nearly closed, the -rest of the room was left in obscurity. - -The little party remained for some time almost in silence; the coolness -of the hour, after the heat of the day, bringing to each a sense of -tranquil enjoyment, which none felt disposed to interrupt by -conversation. It is in such moments, that throwing off the cares of -life, and forgetting its sorrows and disappointments, in the presence of -those best loved, one feels possessed of a treasure of happiness—though -the hoard maybe small—which wholly fills the mind and satisfies the -wishes. “The heart” does not “distrustful ask if this be joy,” secure in -the sober certainty. These are the moments, which, in their flight, mark -their traces most deeply in the memory, over which we brood as a miser -over his gold, and which, when past never to return, leave the heart -most desolate. - -The beauty of the evening drew many from their dwellings to enjoy it in -the open air, and others whom thrift or need forbade to suspend longer -their occupations, resumed them with fresh vigor—a murmur of voices, -mingled with other sounds of busy life, softened and blended by -distance, found its way into the open windows of the apartment. - -At intervals, a faint and distant strain of music was heard, at first -scarcely perceptible, and which each one might have attributed to -imagination as it occasioned no remark; but on the breeze freshening the -sounds drew nearer, and at length a strange and beautiful melody was -poured forth, melancholy though delicious, which drew an exclamation of -surprise and delight from the whole party. - -“Oh, what is it!” exclaimed Judith; “what can it be, and where does it -come from?” as a sensation almost amounting to superstition stole over -her. - -“It sounds,” said the father, “almost like the music which I’ve heard -many a time, when I was before the mast, from some of the big churches -in foreign parts, as it came over the water, whilst I kept watch on deck -of a moonlight night, when the vessel was near port.” - -Here the old gentleman arousing, cried out, “I’ve been asleep, I -declare—what a beautiful dream I’ve had. I dreamed I was in the New -Jerusalem, and was walking by the side of the river, where was the Tree -of Life, with twelve manner of fruits hanging from its branches. I heard -the angels with their golden harps—though somehow I couldn’t see -them—why, there it is again!” - -Here a swell of wild harmony filled the room, prolonged and varied for a -moment, and dying away in a low wail. Judith felt her eyes fill with -tears as the strain ceased, and looking in the direction where George -was sitting, exclaimed, “Oh, it comes from that window! I know it does! -I thought so all the time.” - -George now spoke—“Well, come let us see if we can find it.” - -On her approach, as he sought her hand to draw her to the window, she -drew back, saying she must get the light; on bringing which, a long, -slender box of polished wood was discovered, filling the space in the -window, which was opened just wide enough to admit it. The sounds were -now found to proceed from strings stretched across its upper surface, -(which was carved and gilded,) and fastened at each end by pegs of ivory -and brass. The delighted girl asked in wonder— - -“What is it? Where did it come from? Whose is it?” - -The latter of which interrogatories George answered by pointing to her -name carved at full length at one end, his own initials, in very small -characters, appearing beneath. - -“It is an Eolian harp,” he said, “it is played upon by the winds, and is -a little conjuror—if you should happen to have an acquaintance at -sea”—here he looked full in her blushing face with an expression of -much feeling, his voice slightly trembling—“and should care to know any -thing how he fared, put the harp in the window, and the winds will waft -the intelligence across the ocean, and as the strains are in harmony or -in discord you may judge of his welfare.” - -She replied—“Oh, how much I thank you for it. But I am sure I should -not forget you without it—oh, I am sure I should not,” she added, in a -lower tone. - -He then seized her scissors, which hung at her side by its silver chain, -and looking into her face for permission, separated a silken ringlet -from her head, and, folding it carefully, placed it in his bosom, then, -the evening being somewhat advanced, he took his leave. - -When the point of George’s going to sea was first settled, his mother’s -lamentations were loud and deep; but at length, when the voyage was -engaged, and the time drew near for his departure, as was usual with her -when an evil was unavoidable, she bore it as well as any one could, and -busied herself with alacrity in his equipments. She made great -complaints that he could be allowed but one sea-chest; in which, -however, she managed to find room for two plum-puddings, half a dozen -minced pies, and a roast-turkey, that he might at least keep -Thanksgiving, which was near at hand, if not Christmas, on board the -vessel. - -On the day before he was to sail, a new idea seemed to strike her. She -called Mrs. Wendell, who was present and assisting, as usual, when any -thing extraordinary was going on in her aunt’s family; and they both -went again to the chest. It had been packed and repacked six times -already; but with Amy’s assistance, a closely-folded pile of sea-clothes -was once more taken out, and by still closer packing, and a different -arrangement, room was made for an oblong pasteboard box. She then went -to the high chest of drawers of black mahogany, which stood in frowning -majesty in her chamber, and was taking out an article laid with great -care in one of the drawers, when her husband, who had thought all was -finished, entered to see what more she had found to do. - -“High! high! what are you doing with my best cravat with the Brussels -lace?” he cried. - -“La, Mr. Fayerweather, my dear, you know you never wear it only on great -occasions—such as a wedding or so; and there is nobody to be married -now, before George comes home. I am going to let him have it, for -there’s no time to send to Boston for any; and if any thing should -happen, you shall have my best set of lace, which is handsomer than -this.” - -“I don’t know that; but what upon earth can George do with a Brussels’ -laced cravat at sea?” - -“Oh, my dear, when he’s in London, you know, he may be invited to dine -with the king; and I should want to have him dressed suitably.” - -“To dine with the king!” cried Mr. Fayerweather, shouting with laughter; -“what could have put such an idea into your head?” - -Madam was quite offended, and said with great dignity, “Phillis Wheatly -drank tea with the queen and I am sure, I do not see why our son may not -be invited to dine with the king.” - -“Oh, well, my dear, I ask your pardon; let George have the cravat, by -all means; and you had better let him have my blue-satin waistcoat, -laced with silver, to wear also, when he dines with his majesty,” said -Mr. Fayerweather, turning away to hide a good-natured smile. - -“Why, I was thinking of that, but we can’t find room for it in the -chest; and I suppose he may find one ready made in London.” - -This weighty affair settled, and the chest packed again for the seventh -and last time, it was locked to go on board the vessel. - -The morning came, the wind was fair, and the young sailor took his way -to the wharf. “Good-bye, Cousin Amie!” he cried, to Mrs. Wendell, who -was waiting at her door to shake hands with him; “when I go up the -Straits, I’ll get you the handsomest brocade that was ever seen in -Salem.” - -In a few weeks after George’s departure, which time passed gloomily away -with his family, Madam Brinley, a sister of Mrs. Fayerweather, came to -Salem, and moved into the large house, opposite the Fayerweather -mansion, which was a joyful event to Madam. The two sisters bore a -strong resemblance to each other in features, with some shades of -difference in character. Madam Brinley was a few years the elder; her -nose might have been a little more pointed, and, perhaps, her temper -rather sharper; then she was more worldly, and took more state upon -herself. She was a widow of about ten years standing, with a handsome -estate. Having lost several children in infancy, she had remaining only -two daughters. Molly, the then fashionable cognomen for Mary, was then -just fifteen, and Lizzy, two years younger. The three families residing -so near together, made the winter a more pleasant one to the little -neighborhood—George’s absence furnishing a subject of joyful -anticipation in his return. - -Early the next spring an important personage made his appearance in -Paved Street—no less than a son to Mr. Wendell. He was, as is generally -the case with the first, the wonder of the age. Madam Fayerweather -declared, “He was the beautifullest baby that ever was seen.” Madam -Brinley said, “It was certainly a remarkably fine infant;” while Mr. -Fayerweather declared it was the exact counterpart of all the babies he -ever saw. I am sorry to say that Mr. Wendell did not comport himself -with all the dignity to be expected from his new character; for he only -laughed as if he would kill himself, whenever his son was presented to -him; but could not be prevailed upon by any means, to take it into his -arms, for fear of its falling to pieces; to the great scandal of the -little wizened old woman from Marblehead, in whose lap it usually lay, -its long robes touching the floor; she averred, “It was a sin and a -shame that its sir wouldn’t take to it more, when it was as much like -him as two peas in a pod—it was the most knowinist and the most -remarkablest baby ever she seed in her baarn days.” - -When the young gentleman was in its fourth week, his mother, according -to custom, received visitors in her chamber. In these visits, scarcely -less state was observed than in those to the bride; but matrons and -elderly ladies were alone privileged to make them. If any young damsel -had the hardihood to make her appearance within the sacred precincts, -though under shelter of her mother’s wing, she was immediately -pronounced as cut out for an old maid—and the oracle seldom failed of -fulfillment. - -The first day on which Mrs. Wendell sat up for company, when she was -just attired in a handsome undress, made expressly for the occasion, and -was seated in state in her easy chair, while nurse was preparing the -baby to display him to the best advantage, Scipio thrust in his black -head at the door with a “He! ho! he! Missy Amy, Scip’ got suthen for de -picaninny.” Here Madam Fayerweather’s voice was heard reproving him for -going before her, when the door was thrown open, and in she came with -Scipio after her, bearing a beautiful wicker cradle, lined with white -satin. Madam unfolded the cradle-quilt with great pomp and circumstance; -and now the grand secret came out—Amy’s wondering eyes beheld the great -work—the very work! which had employed all her aunt’s moments of -leisure for upward of three years. - -It was composed of pieces of silk of every pattern that had been worn in -the family for two generations, and cut into every form which Madam’s -imagination could devise, or her scissors shape. There were squares, -triangles, and hexagons; there were stripes perpendicular, horizontal, -and diagonal, with stars, double and single; of brocade, watered tabby, -paduasoy, damask, satin, and velvet; in short, it was a very grand -affair. After having sufficiently enjoyed her niece’s surprise and -pleasure, the happy and triumphant aunt took her grand-nephew from his -nurse, and laid him on his new couch, then placed the quilt over him, -turned down at the head, to display the lining of pink sarsnet; and -being quite satisfied with the additional splendor which the _tout -ensemble_ gave to the apartment, she took the baby up again, (he was -fortunately a very quiet one,) and put him into the lap of his nurse, -until visitors should be heard coming, when he was to be reinstated in -all the magnificence of his luxurious cradle. He was christened the next -Sunday at church. Mr. Fayerweather having consented to stand as one of -the godfathers, Madam, feeling some qualms of conscience, sent to Boston -privately for a very rich lace, to replace the one which she had -abstracted for George. - -The succeeding summer they received two letters from George; both -written in high spirits, and discovering a degree of intelligence and -good sense which highly gratified his father. That same season, John, -the younger son, entered college. Being of bright parts and fond of -study, he bade fair to realize all the expectations his father had -formed for his brother. - -Dark November came again, with its naked trees and sad-colored skies. -This gloomy month, in which the inhabitants of _old_ England are said to -be most prone to hang themselves, the Puritan fathers of New England, -with greater wisdom, enlivened by the only festival they ever -instituted—Thanksgiving. On this occasion, after offering up solemn -thanks in public to the bountiful Hand, “who had crowned the year with -his goodness,” with all the scattered branches of their families -gathered under the patriarchal roof, they indulged in -Thanksgiving-dinner—the only approach they ever made to -merry-making—an abundant feast of every good thing the seasons had -afforded; imparting to the poor a liberal portion. It is to be -regretted, that abuses, in time, crept in, in the train of this—it -might otherwise be truly called—sacred festival—that cruel sports -became connected with its celebration, which have since continued almost -to form a part of it. It is like associating the bloody rites of -paganism with our most pure and holy worship. - -On the Thanksgiving of this year, a family-party was collected at Mr. -Fayerweather’s, with the addition of the Episcopal clergyman, Mr. -McGregor, the family physician, Dr. Holly, and one or two other friends. -In the evening, the accustomed game of Blind Man’s Buff was called for, -in which no one was privileged to refuse joining. George’s absence was -now loudly lamented, but he was not expected until Christmas. Much -merriment and noise, however, succeeded. The good clergyman, an Oxford -scholar, and a deep and sound divine, who always went into company ready -prepared with a particular subject to debate upon, with all his weapons -sharpened for the contest; and who had at length succeeded in engaging -Mr. Wendell in a grave discussion on some knotty point in divinity, was -obliged to break off, just as he had established the premises to an -important conclusion. He joined in the “mad game” with a very bad grace, -but by degrees, warming with the sport, he enjoyed it the most of the -party, and shouted the loudest when Mr. Fayerweather, on being caught by -Lizzy Brinley, left his wig in her hand, and escaped with his bare poll. - -Dr. Holly, who loved sport better than his life, on being caught and -blindfolded, managed, by a little cheating, to catch Madam Fayerweather, -to her unfeigned astonishment. At this juncture, Flora tripped lightly -into the room, and whispered to her master, who immediately followed her -out, when Vi’let, in a flaming red gown, popped in her head for a moment -with a most remarkable expression of countenance. As she closed the door -softly, she gave a significant nod to the company, to let them know she -was in possession of a great secret. - -Mr. Fayerweather a moment after returned, bringing in with him a tall -stranger, and made signs to the company to take no notice of the -interruption. All passed so silently that Madam did not perceive either -the going out or the returning, but continued to sail round the room in -her green damask, without being able to catch any one. At length her -husband thrust the tall stranger in her way, whom she caught amidst -shouts of laughter, succeeded by deep silence, while she was naming him. -All eyes were fixed on the stranger with different expressions, which we -will not attempt to describe. - -Madam cried out, “Well, I’ve caught somebody at last!—who upon earth is -it! John, it’s you, I know; you are standing on something to deceive me, -you saucy boy.” - -Here she felt the clustering curls of the stranger’s head—John’s hair -was straight, and all the other masculine heads in company wore -peruques—when reminiscences of earlier days seemed suddenly to strike -her, and she threw off her blinder, bringing with it fly-cap and -lappets, and exclaiming with a shriek—“Can it be George!” - -George, indeed, it was; standing six feet one inch in his shoes. We -would describe, if we could, what is indescribable, but which may easily -be imagined—the exclamations—the shakes of the hand—the -congratulations which followed. After the parents of the newly arrived -son had sufficiently admired him, and had expended their stock of -wondering expressions at his growth, the rest of the party took their -turn, inwardly deciding in their own minds that he was the finest -looking fellow they had ever seen. He was, in truth, a noble specimen of -manhood; but his curling hair, the overflowing and almost child-like -good-humor—the fun, which shone in his full blue eye, and extended his -somewhat large mouth and full lips, displaying his brilliantly white -teeth, seemed to bespeak him still the boy, despite his giant frame, and -the brown tinge which darkened his cheek. The salutations over, the -company very considerately took their leave, excepting George’s -relatives, who lingered a few moments after the rest to welcome him home -again, and to bid him more affectionate adieus. - -During breakfast, next morning, the young mariner related his -adventures, and the wonders he had beheld in foreign parts; from the -first whale he saw, which awoke out of a comfortable afternoon’s nap, -just after they had passed “the Banks,” and which, lazily yawning, -opened its huge jaws and then closed them again, spouting water as high -as the top-gallant mast, to Stromboli, spouting fire for the express -entertainment of sailors on a dark night, as they neared the coast of -Sicily. Not omitting the Tower of London, where he had held his head in -the lion’s mouth for full five minutes. - -“You naughty, wicked boy!” exclaimed his mother, almost breathless with -terror; “I really believe I should have been tempted to box your ears. -Did you ever hear any thing like it, Amy?” The latter during the recital -having quietly slipped in, and taken her seat at the table. “Mr. Wendell -being obliged to go away by daylight, and the baby not having yet -awakened.” - -George made no reply, but continued his narrative, eating lump after -lump of sugar out of the basin, and escaping the rap over the knuckles, -which he would once have had. Then the Cross of St. Paul’s—on the right -arm of which he had stood upon one leg, whilst Dick did the same on the -left, shaking hands together over the top. - -John, who had been listening in silent wonder and delight, at this -climax clapped his brother on the shoulder in an ecstasy. - -“It is a pity you hadn’t both broken your necks,” exclaimed Mrs. -Wendell, in indignation. “What upon earth did you play such pranks for?” - -Mr. Fayerweather wore his comical look. - -“Why, now, cousin—when I’ve brought you home such a beautiful gown—a -rich yellow calamanco, the brightest there was in the shop. Dick went -with me on purpose to help me choose it.” - -“Where’s the brocade you promised me, you scapegrace?” - -“Why, I’m sorry, but I forgot all about it until I came back to London; -but I thought being an old married woman now, a nice calamanco would do -as well.” - -This turn in the conversation changed the current of his mother’s -thoughts, and she wished to see the rarities he had brought home. In her -impatience, before her husband had half-finished his second cup of -coffee, she ordered—I am wrong. The perogative of ordering the servants -in this family, Vi’let allowed to none but herself—she desired Scipio -to bring in the ponderous sea-chest, the weight of which was a -sufficient excuse for the appearance of the other three, each bearing a -corner. Aunt Vi’let indulgently making allowances for the curiosity of -Flora and Peter, and telling them, patronizingly, “to bear a hand.” -Madam and her niece, full of eager expectation, seated themselves on the -floor beside the chest, both ready to dive into its deepest recesses, -the moment it should be opened. - -The first thing which presented itself to view, was a red worsted cap -with a famous red tassel. This George threw to Scipio, telling him, it -was for him. It was received with a grin from ear to ear. - -“Tank you, massa, now Scip got suthen to put on his head nex ’lection. -Primus shan’t be king no longer. Scip king heself! He! he! he!” - -The others withdrew, they having too much of the pride of the family to -be willing to have it supposed they were expecting there was any thing -for them. Scipio not being able to restrain his impatience to try on his -new finery, pulled it on as he went into the kitchen, exclaiming— - -“It fits dizackly!” and in his exultation at the favor shown himself, -losing his awe of Vi’let, appealed to her, without her usual title of -respect, “if it wasn’t mighty becoming?” - -At which, with some indignation, she told him—“He looked like a black -monkey with that red cap on his head, and that great thing jigging up -and down behind,” betraying some of the infirmity of human nature, at -the preference shown her rival. - -Mrs. Wendell now pounced upon a package of some size, and opening it, -cried— - -“Oh, here’s my yellow calamanco; well, it’s really a beauty! Nobody -could tell it from a rich satin! I’ll have it made up for -Christmas—it’s full handsome enough, aunt, isn’t it? I’m sure, I am -much obliged to you, George.” - -“Stop, cousin,” said he, taking it from her, “upon second thoughts, I -cannot let you have that—I remember now, I bought it for Aunt Vi’let.” - -Aunt Vi’let was called in, the others following in her wake, and the -present unfolded before her admiring eyes. Her usually grim features -were softened into benignity at the sight. - -“That aint for me, Misser George! Well, it is a parfec’ speck, I -’clare!” - -She could say no more. Her vocabulary, rich in epithets of vituperation -only, was soon exhausted, when drawn upon for expressions of -satisfaction. Her pleasure was shown in silence. A gay Madras -handkerchief for the head was given to Flora, who received it with a -modest curtsey, and displaying a row of ivory, and a dimple which many a -fairer belle might have envied. On Peter’s looking rather solemn at -thinking himself forgotten, his young master told him that his present -had not come up from the vessel yet, he had brought him a fine parrot, -which could talk nearly as well as himself; at which Peter’s joy knew no -bounds. He capered about the room, regardless where he was, and in whose -presence, until brought to his senses by a smart rap upon the head by -Vi’let, with— - -“Please to walk off into the kitchen, sir, till you can larn to ’have -yeself.” Off went Peter, Vi’let and Flora following, each with her -present tucked under her arm. - -George now brought from under a pile of other things a large roll, -carefully wrapped in several covers. He put it into Mrs. Wendell’s hand. - -“There, cousin, I’ve brought you something, but I’m afraid you will not -like it so well as the yellow calamanco.” - -Mrs. Wendell took the roll, and with her aunt’s assistance removed -wrapper after wrapper. When the last was off, the wrong side of some -fabric appeared, presenting a brown surface, without lustre, on which -were seen rows of floss silk of various gay colors, lying without any -apparent order. The right side drew an exclamation of admiration from -both aunt and niece, for never had eyes in Salem, beheld a brocade so -magnificent. The figure was a gigantic crimson peony, and a bunch of -cherries alternately, each with its appropriate green leaves; on a -ground of lustrous chocolate colored satin, firm and thick as leather. - -“Oh, George!” his cousin exclaimed, “how could you have brought such a -silk for me! I had no idea you were in earnest—how much it must have -cost! (looking at her uncle.) I really cannot take it.” - -“Oh! if you do not like it, you can let Mr. Wendell have it for a _robe -de chambre_.” - -“Take it, Amy,” interrupted his father. “I am glad he has shown so good -a taste.” - -“Yes,” added her aunt, “he has only done just what we could have wished; -remember you are our only daughter, and Mr. Wendell is like another son -to us.” - -Amy did not attempt to reply, but laid the rich present aside, -carefully. A black case of dog-fish skin of peculiar form was now -brought forth. Mr. Fayerweather seized upon this, and undoing the little -hooks which served as fastenings, opened it, and displayed a gold watch -with its chain and seals, all richly chased, luxuriously reposing on -crimson velvet. - -“You gave Haliburton my letter then,” he said, as he took the measure of -old Time from its bed, and examined the whole carefully. Then appearing -to be satisfied with the workmanship, he wound up the watch, and -fastening its large golden hook into the binding of madam’s apron, it -hung at her side, on its chain, loaded with rich seals, and ticked away -merrily, as if wonderfully refreshed by its long nap, and in liable to -show off with its new mistress. - -She, finding the costly present really for herself, expressed her -gratification, though with glistening eyes, in the quiet way which best -pleased her husband. George then rapped his brother over the head with a -silver-mounted flute. His father finding that all had had their -presents, then asked him if he brought nothing for _him_. - -“I have something here, sir, which Mr. Haliburton said, he thought would -be valuable to you.” - -All looked in eager expectation, when George diving with his hand down -to the very bottom of the chest, and bringing up something, which in its -egress turned topsy turvy check-shirts, trowsers, pea-jackets, etc., -etc. It was a stout oaken staff, which he put into his father’s hand. -The latter bore quietly the merriment which succeeded; though madam -could not forbear expressing some indignation, at what she took almost -as an insult from their old friend to her husband, who, moving the huge -baton slowly through his fingers, appeared to be examining closely the -grain of the wood for some time in silence. - -“Haliburton judged right,” at length he said; “there are few things I -should have valued so much. This staff came from Narley Wood, the old -family estate in Leicestershire, and was cut from an oak planted by my -great grandfather’s own hand. (He pointed to some letters rudely cut in -the wood.) Wendell shall have my gold-headed cane. I shall never carry -any but this in future.” - -Mrs. Wendell was beginning to speak, when a violent uproar was heard -from the precincts of the kitchen, in which the yelping of a dog and the -screams of a cat predominated. It drew near, and the door burst open -suddenly, when in rushed a large black and white dog, yelling fearfully, -as if in the extremity of pain and terror, with old tabby on his back, -her tail erect, and looking like the cylindrical brush used in these -latter days to clear stove-pipes, her talons apparently dug deep into -his skin; while Vi’let followed, belaboring him with a broom-handle. -Leaping over the chest, he made his way to George, on whose knees he -laid his head, whining piteously. - -“Why, Jaco! how did you find your way here? I left you in the -vessel—poor fellow,” said George. The dog was released from his feline -foe by Vi’let, when she found to whom he belonged. He then leaped upon -his master, with strenuous endeavors to lick his face, and made other -extravagant demonstrations of joy at finding him. - -George then mentioned that he had bought him in Italy, of a person who -kept him to show off in the celebrated Grotto del cane. - -“I had no great curiosity to see the poor devil die and come to life -again, so I tried to beg him off. His master only laughed, and was -forcing him into the cave by blows, when he seemed to have understood -what I said, for he made out to clear himself, and came and fawned on -me. After this, I could not help taking him under my protection, so I -persuaded the rascal to sell him to me.” - -“It would have been more like you to have knocked the fellow down, and -taken the dog away in spite of him,” said his father. “I am glad you -have learned a little prudence. What did you call him? Jaco.” - -“That’s the name the sailors called him; it is a corruption they made of -his Italian name, Cicco, meaning blind—he’s blind of one eye. He’s a -good fellow, though no great beauty.” - -“Poor fellow!” said madam, patting him, “he must be hungry. John, my -dear—do ask Vi’let to give him something to eat.” - -John immediately disappeared, and soon returned bringing in nearly half -the contents of Vi’let’s larder, when all gathered round to see Jaco -eat; Mrs. Wendell for the time forgetting the baby at home. Poor Jaco, -forgetting his first rough reception, thought he was in Elysium, having -doubtless heard of such a blissful region in the classic land of his -nativity, and in his poor silly brain, not conceiving it could be -appropriated to one species only of created beings, and that, the -remorseless tyrant of all the others. He stuffed till he could scarcely -see out of his remaining eye; then laying himself down at his master’s -feet, “the sober certainty of waking bliss” was soon lost in a -comfortable nap. - -After a short time, George went out to see some of his numerous friends. -He made a call at his Aunt Brinley’s, and laughed and jested with his -cousins; he then shaped his course to Neptune street, where he made so -long a stay that dinner had been ready to put on the table some time -before he came home. Whom he could have gone to see it is not easy to -conjecture; not his friend Dick, for the latter had called twice to see -him during his absence. Where-ever he might have been, he came home in -high good-humor. - -Seeing his brother, who was watching for him at the gate, he stooped and -took him, passive and unresisting, on his arm, as a nurse would a child -of a year old, and carried him into the house. Peter was bringing in -dinner as he opened the door, and his mother had already taken her seat -at table. He then went up to his father, who had not yet risen from his -seat by the fire, slipped softly behind him, and seizing the chair on -which Mr. Fayerweather was sitting, by the two arms, he said, “By your -leave, sir,” and holding the chair out at arm’s length, he described -with it a semi-circle, himself the centre, which brought his father -directly before the smoking sirloin. He then stood at his own place at -table while Mr. Fayerweather asked the blessing. The remainder of the -day George passed by the fireside, making his mother laugh and scold -alternately, as he related the pranks of Dick and himself on board the -vessel, as well as on shore. - -This winter George remained at home, and managed to pass away the time -in making the model of a fine ship he had seen at Deptford; a little -mathematics with John during the college vacation, but more skating; and -occasionally a sleigh-ride with his aunt and cousins, with whom he was a -great favorite. Molly had arrived at an age to be admitted to the -assemblies, and was the acknowledged belle of the season; she, moreover, -had made a decided impression on Sir Harland Hartley, a young baronet -who had arrived in Boston with some dispatches the previous year, and -was visiting Salem. - -The next spring young Fayerweather and his friend Seaward again set -sail. With intervals of a month or two between, they made several -succeeding voyages together; during one of which, their vessel was -captured by a French privateer, part of the crew taken out, and a French -captain and crew, nearly double their own remaining number, put on -board. This event gave the two young men the glorious occasion they had -long desired, for displaying their courage and prowess, which until then -had been wasted or thrown away in feats of strength or hardihood to -excite the wonder of the bystanders. With their little band they rose -upon their captors, and succeeded in retaking their vessel, which they -carried in triumph to its destined British port. Their promotion -followed of course, and each returned home master of a fine merchantman. - -George’s engagement with Judith Stimpson took place soon after, -naturally occasioning some dissatisfaction to his family on account of -her plebeian origin; this, however, soon wore off, or was conquered by -the sweetness of the fair young girl, who soon gained so entirely upon -Madam Fayerweather’s affections, that she declared, “She could not have -loved Judith better if she had been the daughter of King George -himself;” which was saying much, for madam prided herself on her -loyalty. - -Sir Harland Hartley was now the declared suitor of Molly Brinley, and -great preparations were making for the wedding. The baronet, being -anxious to return to Quebec as soon as possible, in order to present his -bride to some of his near connections, who were soon to embark for -England, could not remain in Salem long enough for the three weeks’ -sitting up for company. In this dilemma Madam Brinley concluded, after -several long and deep consultations with her sister and niece, to make a -great wedding, to be followed by a ball and supper, and to invite all -the Salem world, with the court which was then sitting, and the _élite_ -of Boston. - -The preparations for this grand event occupied the heads and hands of -all the female part of the three families for ten days. Aunt Vi’let -being great in the roasting line, was a very important personage, and -the whole direction of this department was given to her, she felt her -consequence accordingly. - -Molly Brinley was glad to choose a bridemaid in Judith, whose beauty -would contribute to the _éclat_ of her wedding; feeling too secure in -her own charms and in Sir Harland’s devotion to her to fear a rival, and -Captain and Mrs. Stimpson were among the earliest bidden. What was the -trepidation of the latter on her own account in preparing for her first -appearance in the _beau monde_. The captain, determined to spare no -expense for his wife and daughter on so proud an occasion, took a -journey to Boston to make the necessary purchases; his taste, in dress -being unquestioned. The whole family were up by daybreak to set him off; -the expedition requiring the whole of a long day at that time, though -now the distance is traversed by the rail-cars in half an hour. - -After ransacking every shop in Boston, he bought for his wife a -grass-green damask for a sack, with a bright-pink lustring for a -petticoat; these being the colors in which she had captivated him, at -the never-to-be-forgotten ordination of Parson Slocum. It may be well to -inform the reader that the sack was a dress, open before, discovering -half the petticoat, which was usually of the same material. For Judith -he chose better; a delicate buff-colored satin. This was so much admired -that Madam Brinley sent for some of the same piece for Lizzy, who was -her sister’s other bridemaid. For himself, the captain bought a full -suit of mulberry color, with a blue-satin waistcoat, magnificently -flowered with red, green and purple; and a new wig, with a bag, lately -come into fashion, he had always worn a tie. - -On the day of the wedding it was thought expedient to try on their new -habiliments to see if they fitted, and how they all looked together. -Mrs. Stimpson, after surveying herself in the glass before and behind -and on each side, pleased and slightly agitated at the unwonted elegance -of her appearance, threw herself into a chair and heaving a deep sigh, -to throw off her embarrassment, said to her husband— - -“Oh dear! Mr. Stimpson, we must think over a little what we shall have -to do. I suppose, when we go into the room, Judith must be on your right -hand, and I on your left—no, I must be on your right hand and Judith on -your left—” - -“I think, Miss Stimpson,” said the captain, consequentially, “it will be -more becoming for me to go in first, and for you and Judith to take hold -of hands and follow me.” - -“Why, no, Mr. Stimpson; that doesn’t seem to me to be the right way—it -wasn’t so at Nanny Dennis’s wedding, if I remember me rightly.” - -“But, ma,” interrupted their daughter gently, “I do not think this will -be exactly like Mrs. Brayton’s wedding.” - -“No more it wont,” replied her father, “and we must go and take pattern -by the others; I was always a good hand at taking a hint, and I don’t -doubt we shall appear as well as any on ’em.” - -Here Mrs. Stimpson broke in with—“Oh, Judith, do think me on’t to make -a courtesy when I go in; like as not I shall forget it in my hurry. I -remember we all courtesied round at Nanny Dennis’s, we had each of us a -white rosy in our hands, and it was the beautifullest sight! But, -where’s my fan? Do run and get it Judith.” - -Judith tripped out of the room to get the fan, and as she closed the -door, grandsir, who was not as usual dozing, but was listening to their -conversation, and in fact, taking considerable interest in it, spoke -out— - -“I am sorry, my children, to see you are so much overtaken with the -pomps and vanities of this world; more it seems to me than that young -child, that we might expect it of. You should strive to have the -ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, and remember that pride comes -before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.” - -“So it does, grandsir,” answered his daughter-in-law meekly, after a -moment of silence; “and I wont wear this elegant dress, but will put on -my brown paduasoy; that was always thought good enough for me.” Showing -that she had the requisite ornament, and that the Scripture he quoted -was not applicable to her. - -“No, no child,” he replied quickly; “that would be disrespectful to your -husband. I suppose you will be expected to have some worthy adornments, -and I must say you become the dress.” - -“That she does,” added his son, forgetting the old gentleman’s exordium -in his conclusion, “and I don’t believe there will be a more personable -woman there than Captain Robert Stimpson’s wife.” - -“Oh, Mr. Stimpson,” said his wife, with recovered spirits, “do remember -to shut up Trip; if you don’t he’ll follow us to the wedding; and if I -was to see him in that room I do believe I should be mortified to -pieces.” - -The evening at length arrived, and the company assembled in Madam -Brinley’s parlor, which was used on this occasion for the -reception-room. This was a fine room in the fashion of the day, and so -lofty that a reasonably tall man might walk across it with his hat on, -without fear of having it knocked off by the large beam which crossed -the centre of the ceiling. A rich Turkey carpet, betokening very high -style in those days of sanded floors, formed the centre-piece of the -room. High-backed leather-seated chairs, thickly studded with brass -nails, stood stiffly against the walls. The fireplace, ornamented with -Dutch tiles, was furnished with andirons of polished steel; and the -shovel and tongs of the same metal, seemed, as the merry blaze danced on -their bright surfaces, to cast significant glances at each other across -the hearth. A large mantel-glass surmounted the fireplace, on each side -of which hung in rich black and gold frames, the respective arms of the -Brinley and Borland families, the lady of the house belonging to the -latter. A large pier-glass hung between the two front windows, in which -each lady might survey her goodly person, and compare it with that of -her neighbor; beneath this was a slab of gray marble, with highly -ornamented iron supporters fastened into the wall. A tall, oaken desk -and book-case stood in one corner of the room, opposite to which, a -round snap-table of black mahogany, with claw feet, displayed its disc -turned down, of so remarkable a polish, that little Trip—who, -notwithstanding all his master’s care in shutting him up at home, had -managed to escape from his confinement, and had followed his mistress -into the room unperceived—on seeing his image so truly reflected, ran -up to it with great glee, sniffing and wagging his tail, delighted at -having found, as he supposed, a comrade of his own species to bear him -out in his audacity. Mrs. Stimpson turned all manner of colors, and cast -many imploring looks at her husband, who pretended to be wholly absorbed -in the contemplation of a fire-screen which stood near. On a servant’s -attempting to drive Trip out, he set up a shrill bark, and ran on his -little bow-legs, with his feet turned out, to his mistress for -protection; jumped into her lap—on her very pink lustring -petticoat—and, putting his black paws on her shoulders, began whining -and licking her face with great affection. On seeing which, John -Fayerweather took his little four-footed acquaintance in his arms, and -put him in a place of safety; while Captain Stimpson electrified the -company by a more than usually sonorous h-m-gh. - -Madam Brinley in crimson velvet, and looking finely, occupied a large -arm-chair, curiously carved, on one side the fireplace. Madam -Fayerweather, in a beautiful white-grounded brocade, and looking as if -she was wishing every body joy, was on her right. Next to her sat Mrs. -Wendell, plainly, though handsomely dressed. She could boast of but -little beauty, excepting a pair of fine eyes, beaming with intellect and -benevolence; her wit and fine sense, however, rendered her the centre of -attraction at every party. - -Mrs. Stimpson had the honor of sitting next Madam Brinley on the left, -her husband as near her as possible, as if for mutual protection. The -other guests stationed themselves with great exactness, according to -their rank and affinity to the hostess. - -The bridal party entered. The bride, a sparkling brunette, with an -exquisite figure, was arrayed in a sack of white brocade, embroidered -with large silver-flowers; a necklace of oriental pearl encircled her -throat, and pendants of the same hung from her ears. Her hair combed -back from her beautiful forehead, was turned over a cushion on the top -of her head, where it was confined by a diamond bodkin, falling from the -back of her head in glossy ringlets, whose jetty hue contrasted finely -with her white neck. Altogether she was as fair a bride as one would -wish to see. - -The bridegroom, a handsome man of two and thirty, appeared to be fully -sensible of his importance, at the same time to be sufficiently enamored -of his bride, and to applaud himself on the taste he had displayed in -his choice. The fair bridemaids “looked sweetly” in their buff-colored -satins, with aprons of Brussels’ lace, and triple ruffle cuffs of the -same. The groomsmen were Mr. Lindsey, a gay young Englishman, and George -Fayerweather. The latter, from his stature and noble proportions, was -the most conspicuous figure in the assemblage; towering over every other -by at least three inches. He was in a coat of light-blue, with -under-garments of white silk. His countenance was an expansion of all -the good-humor and happiness of his mother’s, with a dash of fun and -frolic, under which might be detected traces of thought and deep -feeling. John, “a pale, intellectual-looking student,” was too reserved -and diffident to become an actor in the scene, but sat retired, and -observed every thing going on in quiet enjoyment, admiring Judith nearly -as much as his brother. - -The solemn ceremony, which was very impressively performed by Mr. -McGregor, being over and the cake cut and distributed, arrangements were -made by the master-of-ceremonies, Mr. Wendell, for the ball. The door -being thrown open, the company were ushered into the dancing-room, -brilliantly lighted up for the occasion. After a short pause, Mr. -Wendell called upon the governor to lead out the bride for the opening -minuet, which was danced in a very gubernatorial and bridal manner. The -bridegroom and Madam Brinley followed, and then Judge Wentworth of -Boston and Madam Fayerweather, who was still celebrated for her minuet. -Her husband never danced, and Mr. Wendell then called out Captain -Fayerweather and Miss Stimpson, though scarcely expecting that Judith -would be prevailed upon to dance. - -To his surprise, after a little hesitation, with a smile and a blush, -she rose, and as her partner led her to the head of the room, an -involuntary murmur of admiration ran round the assembly—for never had a -pair appeared of more singular beauty. They stood side by side, while -the accustomed prelude was played, the blue and white of his habit, -contrasting beautifully with the color of hers, as did his stately -figure with hers of bird-like lightness; she extended her dress to its -greatest width in her delicate fingers; she cast a timid glance around -the room, he one of manly greeting, her little foot slid to the right, -and she made a low and graceful courtsey, while his tall figure was -bending to the floor in perfect time to the measure, in this salute to -the company. Then rising slowly, they stood for a moment with one foot -in advance, awaiting the proper signal from the music, when they turned, -and he, with sparkling eyes, and she, with the delicate bloom on her -cheek heightened to a rose, made a like lowly reverence to each other. -Then, as the pair became animated with the music, and they floated round -the room, now advancing now receding, in their magic evolutions crossing -and re-crossing, their graceful forms rising and falling in measured -waves to the time—all their attitudes, and all their motions of -elegance and delicacy combined; they might have seemed some fair beings -of another sphere, weaving a mystic spell to drive afar all sorrow. This -was the old-fashioned minuet. How has its place been supplied in the -ball-room, by the waltz and its varieties, the mazurka, the polka, etc. - -What were Judith’s father and mother doing all the while? Entirely -forgetting the rest of the company, and following their daughter with -their eyes, Captain Stimpson, with his lips firmly compressed, moved his -head from side to side in time to the music, or rather with involuntary -imitation of Judith’s motions. - -“Did you ever! Mr. Stimpson,” said his wife, in an irrepressible -ecstasy, as Judith slowly glided through a peculiarly beautiful part of -the figure. - -“I sartainly never did,” said the captain, drawing in a very long -breath. - -“But, after all,” rejoined Mrs. Stimpson, “she has the same solemn eyes -of my poor, dear mother; and it seems to me more so than ever to-night.” - -“Look like her grandmother!” said her husband, with strong emphasis; -“she looks more like a bird of paradise, such as I’ve seen in Ingee. -That yaller satin becomes her most remarkably; she sartainly is the -comeliest person that ever I clapped my eyes on.” - -Here Madam Fayerweather joined them, and laying her hand impressively on -the arm of Mrs. Stimpson, interrupted them as she pointed to Judith, -“She’s the prettiest, the dearest creature that ever was seen, and as -good as she is pretty;” and as the object of her encomiums came up to -them with glowing cheeks, the minuet being finished, Madam could not -refrain from kissing her, saying, “My dear, you did dance charmingly.” - -George would willingly have made one of the group, but was called away -reluctantly by his co-adjutor, the young Englishman, who asked him with -more freedom than George approved of, “What he would take for his -bargain?” then surveying his noble figure with internal admiration, he -added, after a short pause, “Fayerweather, you are a lucky dog.” -Afterward, in the course of the evening, he managed to pay Judith so -much attention as to distress the modest girl not a little, and to give -some pain to George, whose office as groomsman, did not allow him to be -exclusively devoted to her. Mr. Lindsey manœuvered to be beforehand with -every one else in inviting her to be his partner in the country dances, -and her refusal necessarily obliging her to sit still, he took his seat -by her, and persisted in keeping it until supper was announced, when he -took her hand, which she had no pretence for refusing, and led her in -triumph to the supper-table. - -Mr. Fayerweather, who had intended to perform this office himself, in -order to do particular honor to his son’s choice, felt no slight -displeasure at such presumption, with a strong disposition to make known -to Mr. Lindsey, that “he considered him an impertinent coxcomb.” He -refrained, however, and advancing toward Judith’s father and mother, he -begged to have the honor of leading _Madam_ Stimpson to the -supper-table. Madam Stimpson bridled up and looked at her husband; the -dignified frown on whose brow was contradicted by the complacent smile -which, in spite of his endeavor, lurked about his mouth; then making her -courtsey—and a very good one it was—she gave her hand to Mr. -Fayerweather; and the three proceeded in state to the supper-room—the -captain marching with head erect on the other side of his wife. It was a -proud evening for Captain Bob Stimpson. - -On the whole, the wedding went off with great _éclat_. The happy pair -set off the next day for Boston, to embark for Quebec. On the following -week, Captain Fayerweather was to set sail on a two years’ voyage—on -his return from which he was to claim his bride. - -On the day previous to George’s departure, he gave his father a cabinet -of ebony, curiously inlaid, and of costly and peculiar workmanship, -which a French prisoner, whose release he had been instrumental in -procuring in one of the British ports, had prevailed upon him to accept -as a token of gratitude for the service. - -“Thank you, my son,” said Mr. Fayerweather, not a little gratified; -“that will be just the thing for my valuable papers, the little trunk I -keep them in is too crowded.” - -“I wish you would let me have that, sir, to take with me; I always took -a fancy to it,” rejoined his son. - -“You shall have it, and Judith shall have a jewel-box well filled on her -wedding-day, too.” So saying, Mr. Fayerweather ran down stairs to the -counting-room and quickly returned with the little trunk in his hand to -his own chamber, where he and his son had been communing. He sat down -panting, and remained a minute or two without speaking, with his hand on -his side. - -“What’s the matter, sir, that you are so out of breath?” his son -anxiously inquired; “why didn’t you let me go for you? I didn’t know -what you left the room for.” - -“Oh, it’s nothing but a slight palpitation of the heart, to which I have -been subject a little of late—it will soon go off.” - -It did not go off, however, and the attack continued longer than usual; -but Mr. Fayerweather without heeding it, or suffering any indications of -it to appear before his son, proceeded to remove the papers into their -new place of deposit—and George took the little trunk into his own -possession. The day after Mr. Fayerweather felt more unwell than he was -willing to make known, wishing to spare his family any additional weight -upon their spirits, at the time of his son’s departure. After this his -attacks became more frequent and of longer duration, rendering it -impossible to conceal them any longer from Madam, who, in alarm, sent -immediately for Dr. Holly. The latter, upon inquiring into the symptoms, -and examining the pulse of his patient, looked grave. His prescriptions -were successful, however, and Mr. Fayerweather in a few weeks appeared -to be restored to his usual health. - -But to return to George; his usual gay spirits deserted him as he was -taking his leave of Judith, and a depression wholly unknown to him -before seized him, as the boat which was to bear him to the vessel -appeared merrily dancing over the waves to the wharf, opposite the -window near which they were standing. - -“Farewell, Judith!” said he, then adding playfully, but with a voice not -wholly free from a slight tremor, “when I return, do not let me find you -the bride of some dashing Englishman.” - -“Oh, George! how can you say so?” she replied, the tears gushing into -her eyes; “how can you think I could ever be the bride of any man but -you; but if there is any truth in dreams, the one I had last night, -tells me I shall never be a bride.” - -“Oh, psha upon dreams!” he said, running off to hide the tears which, in -spite of his manliness, were now streaming down his own cheeks. She saw -him spring into the boat, which she kept in sight until it reached the -vessel. Then going up to her own room, with a spy-glass she watched the -vessel as it gradually receded from view, until its tallest mast sunk -beneath the waves. She yielded to a burst of anguish, which she in vain -attempted to control, and sat for some moments sobbing, then her tears -ceased to flow, and her countenance resumed its wonted serenity; she -then went below, superintended old Mary, and prepared her grandfather’s -supper with more than usual care, her generous nature not suffering her -own private feelings to interfere with the comfort or happiness of -others. - - [_Conclusion in our next._ - - * * * * * - - - - - JOY AND SORROW. - - - BY RICHARD COE. - - - “I am happy, O, how happy!” - Said a little child, one day, - At his play, - With his ball of twine and kite, - That to his supreme delight, - To the skies - Did arise, - Far from human sight. - Came a sudden gust and squall, - Gone was kite and twine and all; - Tears were in his eyes! - - “I am happy, O, how happy!” - Said a maiden young and fair; - On the air, - Scarce the words had fallen, when, - Lo! her lover, down the glen, - Now she sees, - On his knees, - Like to other men, - Vowing love to fairer maid; - Words she overheard he said - That her soul did freeze! - - “I am happy, O, how happy!” - Said a gay and laughing bride; - By her side - Stood the husband of her choice, - Who did in his strength rejoice: - Months have fled; - O’er the dead - Now she lifts her wailing voice! - From her lonely pillow now - Who may lift her pallid brow? - Who may raise her head? - - “I am happy, O, how happy!” - Said a mother fair and mild; - On her child - Gazing with her love-lit eyes— - The sweet cherub from the skies, - That in love, - Like a dove, - Strayed from Paradise: - Lo! the angel Death, one day, - Took her darling one away, - Beckoning her above! - - “I am happy, O, how happy!” - Said a Christian on his bed, - With his head - Turned toward the setting sun: - “Soon my labor will be done, - Then will I, - With a sigh, - To the mighty One, - Who is e’er the Christian’s friend - All my anxious cares commend, - And will calmly die!” - - * * * * * - - - - - STANZAS. - - - BY R. PENN SMITH. - - - The tears of morn that steep the rose - A zephyr soon may kiss away; - Sporting ’midst odor to unclose - The virgin bud to foliage gay. - - But then at eve the fragrant flower, - Oppressed with dews, will droop—decay; - For zephyr hath no longer power - To kiss the dews of night away. - - Our childhood’s tears like dew-drops flow; - A mother’s kiss soon dries the tear; - But tears the aged shed in wo, - Are only dried up on the bier. - - * * * * * - - - - - LETTY RAWDON. - - - AN EPISODE IN AMERICAN LIFE. - - - BY THOS. R. NEWBOLD. - - -The ever-changing hues of the kaleidoscope, and the varying tints of our -autumnal forests do not present more changeful or varied scenes than are -to be found in real life in this country. The decay of one family, the -rise of another, depending as they do on the pecuniary fortunes of their -possessors, render American society a scene of constant excitement, and -he who is at the top of the social ladder to-day, falls to-morrow with -the fall of stocks to the bottom. The little tale which follows is but a -type of what is daily occurring around us, and is presented as a general -outline, which all may fill up at their leisure to suit their pleasure. - -Letitia, or as she was usually called in her girlhood, Letty Rawdon, was -the only daughter of old Elias Rawdon, a thrifty and prosperous tailor -in the pleasant village of Middlebury. The old man had married rather -late in life, after he had in his own phrase “got a little something -snug about him.” She followed the usual course of village girls, and at -the dame’s school had learned those difficult arts of reading, writing, -and ciphering. In her young days, the road to learning was not the plank -or rail-road track on which our young people now travel so readily. The -A, B, C, required some study to ponder out, and in 179—, the portals to -learning were not thrown so wide open as they are in the year of grace -1852. Be that as it may, Letty, however, mastered them. From her -earliest years she had been an ambitious child, never content unless she -was among the foremost; as eager for superiority over her little -schoolmates in play as in study, as if she had been born to rule them. -She was not what would be termed a handsome child, but her features were -delicate, and her full hazel eye looked out from its long lashes with a -glance that showed full well the determined soul within. She was her -father’s darling, who denied her nothing, whence she soon obtained a -complete ascendancy in the dwelling of the old tailor. - -When Letty was about thirteen years of age, a fashionable -boarding-school was opened in the village, and the old man yielded at -once to her wishes to become a day-scholar at it. Here her ambition -carried her rapidly onward, and if Letty, when she entered it, was -comparatively a raw, ignorant country-girl, no one who saw her at the -termination of her course of studies there, could have recognized in the -graceful, intelligent, and accomplished girl before him, the little -awkward being, who, four years before had there commenced her career. -The principal of the school, an elegant and accomplished lady, was early -attracted to her by her aptitude for learning, and her desire to acquire -it, and Letty was soon a favorite pupil. Nor whilst cultivating her mind -did she neglect her person. The elegant manners of her preceptress made -a most decided impression on her; gradually she found her own forming on -the model before her, and in process of time, though she made no -pretensions to great beauty, it would have been difficult to have found -a more attractive person than Letty Rawdon, the tailor’s daughter. - -The young men of the village and neighborhood were the first to make -this discovery, and at all the general merry-makings which occurred, -Letty Rawdon was, beyond all rivalry, the village belle. We say general -merry-makings, for our village, like all others large and small, had its -aristocracy, and in the eyes of the “upper circle,” we mean the female -part of it, of its fifteen hundred inhabitants, she was only “that -conceited, forward thing, the daughter of old Rawdon, the tailor.” Mrs. -Baxter, the wife of the leading lawyer of the place, in an interview -with Mrs. Danforth, the wife of the physician, had settled—“that, -although they supposed in their small place they must know the tailor’s -daughter when they met her in the street, or at church, or other public -place, still she was not to be on any account admitted into their set.” -How often has many a lovely girl been thus tabooed, not that she would -not confer honor on them, but she might mayhap be in the way of an -advantageous settlement of some marriageable daughters, perchance less -attractive than herself. - -Letty soon found that there was a determination in the female magnates -of the village to crush her rising into any importance among them. But -the spirit of the girl rose with the occasion. In a short time it became -generally known that she was to be kept at a distance by the village -fashionables. What cared she? Her father had accumulated a snug little -competency, and few girls in the neighborhood would be as well dowered -as Letty. On this she was allowed to draw as she pleased. New and tasty -furniture adorned the best “sitting-room,” and Letty’s brilliant -performance on by far the best piano in the village, caused many a hasty -step to loiter on its way, as it passed the tailor’s door. Nor were the -listeners confined to the outside of the house, for within were -frequently found all the “most desirable” young men, who showed a -decided preference for Letty’s fine music and lively conversation, to -the more dignified, but less agreeable assemblages of the exclusives of -the place. Nor abroad did she attract less admiration than at home, and -envy itself was at length compelled to confess that Letty Rawdon was by -far the best dressed and most stylish girl in the village. - -As a natural consequence, suitors followed. Phil Dubbs, the only child -of the wealthiest farmer in the neighborhood; young Harry Edmonds, just -called to the bar, and for whom his friends already predicted a -brilliant career; Edward Simpson, the junior partner of the principal -mercantile firm in the place, were prominent among these. Each wooed in -his peculiar way. Dubbs had enjoyed no advantages of education beyond -what the village grammar-school afforded; but then he was an -accomplished graduate in all rural sports. No young man in the country -had as good a horse, or rode him as well; he had the best pointers, and -was the best shot to be found in 20 miles round, and was in all such -accomplishments perfect. To him Letty was under obligations for -finishing completely one part of her education; for he broke a favorite -colt for her especial use, and under his skillful tuition she became a -fearless and accomplished horse-woman. Edmonds quoted Byron and Moore to -her constantly, when he had better have been employed over Coke and -Starkie; and spoiled as much paper in perpetrating bad verses to her, as -would have sufficed for his pleas and declarations during a year’s -practice; and Simpson never returned from “the city,” whither he went to -make the purchases of goods for his firm, without a selection of the -choicest articles for Letty’s especial use, accompanied with directions -as to the latest style of making them up. - -Thus strengthened and fortified, Letty saw her foes gradually yielding -before her. One by one they surrendered at discretion, until Mrs. -Baxter, herself, at last sought the acquaintance, and at twenty years of -age, Letty Rawdon, the tailor’s daughter, stood the supreme arbitress of -_ton_ in her native village. Although she was grateful to her allies for -the assistance they had afforded her, she was by no means disposed to -bestow herself in return on any of them. She was not one of those whose -hearts are easily won. She was prodigal of her smiles; she was ready to -do a kind act, or say a kind word, but the surrender of her heart and -hand was another matter. She was ambitious of social distinction. She -had achieved the highest place at home, and she panted for triumphs yet -to come on a wider and loftier stage. Since she had left school her time -had not been misspent. She continued to cultivate, under the tuition of -her former master, her very decided musical talents; her mind was -strengthened and enlarged by a course of judicious reading, for which -Harry Edmonds supplied her with the material; and the foreign languages -she had acquired were not forgotten. She felt herself far superior to -all her companions, and that her genius was hidden in the comparatively -obscure place in which her lot was cast. - -There are few women who do not at some period or other, or in some form -or other, meet their fate in the shape of a man. Happy, they, who are -exempt from this general calamity of the sex; for calamity in too many -cases we believe it to be. For our part, we plead guilty to a sneaking -liking to single women, yclept by vulgar minds, old maids. Under this -denomination, we do not, however, include that numerous bond of “single -sisters,” hovering between the ages of 35 and 45, to whom a -superannuated bachelor, or an interesting widower, especially if he be a -parson with a half a dozen responsibilities, is a god-send. Oh, no! we -mean none of these, but one of these dignified ladies, of nameless age -and easy fortune, of whom all of us count one or more among our -acquaintance. Where are such complete establishments to be found as -among these? Go to visit them, and your ears are not deafened by a -practicing miss of 14, thumping an unfortunate piano, until if it had -any powers of speech it would certainly cry out “pianissimo;” or by one -of those lively squalls from the upper regions, which resembles nothing -earthly but the serenade of an amatory cat at midnight. From these, and -such like annoyances you are exempt, and then if you enjoy the privilege -of an intimacy which admits you to the tea-table—where else is such -superb Imperial or glorious Souchong to be found? Piping hot, it is -poured into a cup of such clean and delicate texture, that the fragrance -of the grateful shrub is heightened thereby. The water with which it has -been compounded has certainly boiled. Just the right quantity has been -admixed. It does not require to be ruined, by having a supply of tepid -water added to it after it has been poured in to your cup; nor does it -come on table a tasteless slops, at which even a four-footed animal, -unmentionable to ears polite, would utter a grunt of dissent if -presented to it. No. Commend me to one of those tea-tables. The muffins -also, are so hot, so “just done;” or the toast without being burned to a -cinder, or hardened to a board, is crisp and delightful as the most -fastidious could require. The cream, too—please do not mention it—the -same milk-man may serve her next door neighbor, but in her mansion no -skim-milk is mixed therewith, to eke out to a large family the amount -required in the compound used therein, and which is called by courtesy, -tea. And then the sugar, sparkling as so many diamonds in the antique -silver bowl in which it rests; no “broken-topped” or “crushed,” but -“Stewart’s” or “Lovering’s extra loaf” is alone used here. It sometimes -happens that a “_petit souper_” is substituted for the tea-table. The -oysters, Morris river coves, when they can be had, certainly: the -terrapins, none but the genuine Egg-harbors ever enter her doors, and -the inimitable John Irwin has exhausted on them all the resources of his -skill. All the appliances of her table are in keeping, and as you admire -the dignified courtesy with which she attends to the wants of each -guest, or leads the conversation into channels she thinks most -acceptable to those around her, the mind involuntarily recurs to the -days of hoops and hair-powder, trains and high-heeled shoes. - -In those days, rail-roads were a thing which had entered into the -imagination of no man as a mode of travel, and he who should have spoken -of an iron horse rushing on his course, and drawing hundreds of human -beings after him at a speed of 30 miles an hour, would have been -considered quite as great a believer in the marvelous, as those now are, -who have faith in Paine’s light. Even post-coaches were a novelty off of -the great thoroughfares, and the public conveyance usual to such small -places as Middlebury, was the old long-bodied stage, with its three or -four seats behind the driver’s, and stowing away some ten or twelve -passengers. Blessings on those old carriages, we say. It is true, their -pace rarely got up to five miles an hour, and that at every five miles -or so they stopped “to water,” at an expense of some fifteen minutes of -time; but what of that? Minutes seem to be more valuable to travelers -now, than hours were then. But what mixed feelings did not these produce -in our bosom, when seated in the old stage on our route out of town for -the holydays, between impatience to arrive at our journey’s end, and the -airy fabrics we erected, of what we should do when we reached there. -There was the best and kindest of grandmothers as impatiently waiting -for the arrival which was to enable her to spoil “the boys” with -indulgences, as we were to be spoiled. There was the well-remembered -pony, a little less anxious we opine to be dashed around the country, -than we were to dash him. Then, there was the mill-dam, where the -many-colored sun-fish awaited our hook and worms, and the bathing-place -below the dam, where we could venture to try our newly-acquired skill -across “the hole” without danger; and the store, where gingerbread and -candy, and pipes for soap-suds bubbles were bought, with those “odd -quarters” which grandma so freely bestowed. Who can ever forget these -early days? And the deeper he sinks into the sere and yellow leaf, the -brighter do they rise up. They constitute the small portion of our lives -upon which we can look back with perfect complacency; for the light -shadows which once partially clouded them have long since faded away and -been forgotten, and nought but the memory of the bright joyous sunshine -remains. - -The old stage which plied between Middlebury and the city of -Quakerdelphia, one day landed as a passenger at the former place a young -man of some thirty years of age. Whether business or pleasure attracted -him thither is of no consequence to this story, although from the -character of the man it was more probably the former. At the age of -sixteen John Smithson found himself an apprentice in a dry-goods store -of Quakerdelphia. He had come thither with a sound constitution, a good, -solid English education, such as was then less frequently obtained in -country schools than now is; great industry and indomitable -perseverance. These last traits had early attracted the attention of his -acquaintance, and his success in whatever he should undertake predicted. -He soon attracted the attention and confidence of his employers, and the -respective grades of apprentice, clerk, and junior partner were attained -by him. In the mercantile world he had for some time been noted for his -intimate acquaintance with and complete knowledge of business, and for -the integrity, straightforwardness and manliness of his character, and -no one was surprised when the senior member of the firm retired a year -before, that it took the title of Jones, Smithson & Co. John Smithson -had achieved mercantile distinction. Wealth had commenced flowing in -upon him in a continuous and unbroken stream, and a few years would in -all probability see him among the richest merchants of his adopted city. -But social distinctions were wanting to him. In his younger days he had -been too busy to think of matrimony, or indeed, of female society at -all. He was too much engaged in achieving the position he now occupied -to care much for aught else, and his intercourse with men had rubbed off -the awkward angles of the raw country lad. Still the want of refined -female society had necessarily left him without that polish which can be -derived from it alone. He occupied then no social position. His home -connection was respectable, and his growing wealth would enable him to -take a place among the magnates about him; all his future, then, -depended on his choice of a wife; for he began about this time to be -cognizant of the fact that it was high time for him to marry. - -He was fully impressed with this idea when he first met Letty Rawdon, -nor did subsequent interviews with her serve to weaken the impression. -Indeed, he began to be fully convinced of the necessity of the fact, and -after paying some four or five visits to Middlebury, determined to -inquire of Letty what was her opinion on the subject. On being -interrogated by him, therefore, on this point, she still further -strengthened his determination by agreeing fully with him thereon. Here -was one point gained. Still another step, however, was to be taken. He -again had recourse to his adviser, and she, on being interrogated -whether it would be best for her to drop the name of Rawdon and take -that of Smithson, determined it also affirmatively, to the entire -satisfaction of the querist. - -Letty, clear-sighted woman that she was, saw at an early period of her -acquaintance the influence she was gradually acquiring over John -Smithson. It is true he was not very handsome, but he had a manly, -intelligent face and a good figure. If he did not understand all the -mazes of a cotillion—waltzing was then unknown here, and the polka -would have horrified our reputable predecessors—he had not entirely -forgotten all the figures of the country-dance or the reel which he had -learned when a boy. He rode well, too, and often accompanied the young -lady in her gallops about the country. It is true he was more conversant -with the qualities of Yorkshire woolens or India piece-goods, than with -most of those lighter accomplishments by which alone many conceited -addle-pates think that women are to be caught. But he was by no means -uninformed. His reading had not been very extensive, but as far as it -went it had been good—history, biography, travels comprised the chief -of it—Shakspeare had, however, attracted him to his magic page, and -many an idle hour which had been spent by many of his brother clerks in -the theatre, the oyster-cellar or the billiard-room, had been passed by -him in the manner above described. He was a close observer also of men -and things, and Letty soon began to find his society much more to her -taste than that of any unmarried man with whom she had ever associated. - -She then asked herself the state of her own heart. Ambitious though she -was, she was too true and honest a woman to give her hand without her -heart; and after a brief, but careful consultation with herself, decided -that she could in all honesty take him “for better, for worse, for -richer, for poorer.” In a worldly point of view it was the chance of a -lifetime. The rich and rising merchant of the great city proposing to -make her, the daughter of a village tailor, the future partner of his -greatness. Letty was not insensible to this—we will not say she was -grateful for it; she had too just an appreciation of her own merits to -be so; but she was not blind to its advantages in a worldly point of -view. Had it occurred some two years sooner, all the aristocracy of -Middlebury would have cried out “shame;” but now it was received as a -thing of course, and Smithson was warmly congratulated on his admirable -taste. - -It was decided by Letty, and confirmed by Smithson, that in order to -secure high social position, a good start was necessary. There must be -no false step, no blunder at the outset. How many apparently promising -fortunes has this one false step marred. He accordingly took a good -house in the most desirable part of Hazelnut street, the very centre and -focus of fashion in Quakerdelphia. To furnish the house was in those -days the business of the wife, and Letty determined to disburse the, for -his situation, very considerable dower her father could give her, in -fitting up her new mansion, leaving it to her future lord and master to -furnish the sinews of war for carrying on the ensuing campaigns. -Accompanied by her former preceptress, the assistance of whose taste she -had evoked, Letty proceeded on her first visit to “the city.” We shall -not stop to describe her first sensations on entering so large a place. -Reading and descriptions had given her a pretty correct idea of what a -city was, and she did not, like another country-girl we have heard of, -complain “that she could not see the town for the houses.” Let not this -be considered an exaggeration, for the reverse of the case occurred in -our own presence a very few years since. We were at a country-house a -few miles from the city, when a friend of its owner arrived there, -accompanied by one of her children, a lovely little girl of some five -years of age. From some cause or other she had never since she could -remember been in the country before, and delighted with all she saw—the -trees, the green fields, the flowers, she hurried with a smiling face to -her mother, exclaiming—“Oh, mamma, is this indeed the real country?” - -After a day or so devoted to sight-seeing, the serious business which -brought her there was entered upon by Letty. Cabinet-makers were -visited, upholsterers consulted, and trades-people of various kinds -looked in upon, until finally, like a genuine woman, she stopped buying, -simply because her money was all gone. Articles of _vertu_ were not so -common in those days as now, but yet our friend contrived to mingle a -good deal of the ornamental with all of the useful in her purchases, and -when, some time after, a carriage whirled to the door of a capacious -Hazelnut street mansion, and a lady and gentleman descended therefrom, -few ladies of Quakerdelphia entered a more elegant and luxurious home -than did Mrs. John Smithson when she passed its portals. - - - CHAPTER II. - -Acquaintances Letty had none in the great city. Mrs. Jones, the lady of -her husband’s partner, of course called upon her and gave her a party, -to which her acquaintance generally were invited. Now, though Mrs. Jones -and her friends belonged most strictly to the class called respectable -and genteel, yet they were not fashionable. Letty appeared to comprehend -this as it were by intuition. Nature had certainly intended her to be -somebody—she accordingly took her line of conduct at once, and she -determined that though circumstances required that with Mrs. Jones an -air of cordiality and sociability must be preserved, yet this was not so -necessary with that lady’s friends. Letty never cut any body directly. -Her innate sense of propriety and natural good-breeding revolted from a -course to which none but people of vulgar minds and shallow parts ever -resort. She possessed, however, a tact which enabled her to drop an -acquaintance without the slightest seemingness of rudeness or -ill-manners. She knew how first to smile most cordially when she met the -“droppee,” to wonder— - -It was so long since they had met; she supposed, however, it must be her -fault, but she had been so busy she had not been able to pay half her -visits; to press the hand slightly, and with a smile an angel might -almost envy, to say, “Good-bye, I will endeavor soon—” - -And then glide gently away before the sentence was filled up. And this -was the last of it. On the next meeting a sweet smile, a courteous bow, -but no time to speak; and so the season passed; no visit exchanged, each -eradicated the other’s name from her “list”—the object was effected not -only without offense, but with such ease and grace, that the dropped was -afterward heard to say: - -“I think Mrs. A. a most lovely woman, and regret I was compelled by -circumstances I could not help to stop visiting her, and so she has -given me up.” Mrs. C. is not the only deluded mortal in this world. - -Mrs. Smithson, we have seen, had determined that Mrs. Jones’s “set” were -not to become her “set.” She was willing to bide her time. She was aware -that great events are usually the creatures of slow growth. They may at -the last grow with rapidity, but the seed which produces them has been -for a long time germinating. She believed that a cultivated mind and -accomplished person joined to a determined will, can achieve anything it -pleases in the social as in other worlds, and she was determined to -prove the truth of her convictions in her own case, and so she went on -improving her mind, perfecting her accomplishments and biding her time. - -Mr. Smithson, like all other reputable gentlemen, had, on becoming a -married man, taken a pew in church. It was in a fashionable church, -which then meant an Episcopal church, for fashion in those days was -pretty much monopolized in Quakerdelphia by Episcopalians and a few -degenerate descendants of the co-religionists of Penn, who had departed -wofully in dress and manners from the primitive simplicity of “Friends.” -Now-a-days things are somewhat altered, as one may perceive at a glance -on entering some of the Presbyterian churches in the fashionable part of -the city—the display of velvets, brocades and furs, the oceans of -feathers and parterres of flowers show that their owners have entered on -the race, and that it is almost a dead heat. Nor has the innovation -ceased here. The full, rich, deep swell of the organ has been -substituted for the bass-viol, and (rise not at the mention of it, -shades of Knox and Calvin,) it is rumored that your descendants are -about to worship in a Gothic temple, with its windows of stained-glass -through which the “dim religious light” is to penetrate, and dim enough -it is during our short winter afternoons. Whether the resemblance to the -“Mass-houses” which were torn down in the sixteenth century is to be -carried out fully in the interior as well as exterior, we have not -learned, nor whether it is only to be confined to “sedilia,” “screen,” -“south-porch,” “octagonal font at the door,” or whether any or none of -these remains of Medievalism are to have a place within. The -“Ecclesiologist” no doubt can enlighten our readers, and to that we -refer them. - -Mr. Smithson, as we said, took a pew in a fashionable church, and in a -desirable position. Thither, accompanied by his fashionable-looking -wife, who, in her turn, was accompanied by her richly-bound prayer-book, -he resorted on Sunday mornings. The attention of the devotees around was -at once attracted by her, and stray glances would slip from the leaf of -the prayer-book to the “new person” near by. “_N’importe_,” Letty might -say, as did a celebrated English dandy when an hundred opera-glasses -were leveled at him, “Let them look and die.” With her attire no fault -could be found. The material was of the richest and most costly kind, -the colors most harmoniously combined; the fit perfect, showing her -willowy and graceful figure to the utmost advantage, and the furs -genuine martin. - -“Who is she?” was the whispered colloquy, as the parties proceeded down -the aisle, with a glance over the shoulder. - -“Don’t you know—her name is Smithson. A rich Shamble street merchant. -Live in Hazelnut street, in old Corkscrew’s house—said to be splendidly -furnished.” - -“Yes; but who is she? Where does she come from?” - -“Don’t know exactly; but believe from New York, or Baltimore, or -Richmond, or somewhere.” - -“Very definite—and the last location very likely.” - -“But what do you think of her? Very lady-looking—don’t you think so? -And how beautifully she dresses. Her muff and tippet are certainly -martin—and what a love of a hat. Martine tells me she paid $25 for it.” - -Here the ladies having reached the door, the edifying commentary on the -sermon just delivered ceased, and the parties separating, pursued their -several ways. The first speaker, or querist, was Mrs. Rodgers, one of -the most decided leaders of the _ton_ in Quakerdelphia, whose father -having retired from trade as a hardware merchant when she was a very -little girl, felt her superiority to those of her acquaintances who were -still engaged in trade. Her husband was in the same position as herself, -and their united fortunes enabled him to provide his friends with the -finest clarets, the oldest Madeiras, the fattest venison, and one of the -greatest bores at the head of his own table who ever spoiled good wine -by prosing over it. His lady gave no balls nor grand routes; she was too -exclusive for that; but admittance to her “Evenings” was eagerly sought -after by all who aspired to be of the _ton_. The other lady, Mrs. -Cackle, a widow, was one of those gossips who are everywhere found. Her -pretensions to fashion were only pretensions, and she held her own in -the gay world simply by making herself useful as the purveyor of all the -fashionable scandal of the day to her fashionable acquaintance. Mrs. -Rodgers and others of her set, would have as soon thought of doing -without their cards or their carriages as without “Cackle,” as she was -familiarly called; and hence she was at home in all the “best houses” of -Quakerdelphia. - -The pew which the Smithsons occupied, was adjoining that of Mrs. -Rodgers. It was the family-pew of a certain Mrs. Edmonson, who, after a -long career in the gay world, had recently, alarmed by conscience or -gray hairs, abandoned cards for prayer-meetings, and despairing of -“grace” under what she was pleased to term “the didactic essays and -moral teachings” of Dr. Silky, her pastor, had abandoned them for the -preachings of the Rev. Mr. Thunder, a celebrated revivalist. Here a new -scene was opened for her. Possibly her jaded feelings may have required -some new and varied stimulant. We do not say so positively. We merely -repeat what “Cackle” said. - -“Poor, dear soul! she was so worn-out with whist and piquett, that any -change was for the better.” - -Be this as it may, she certainly entered upon her new course of life -with much zeal. She faithfully attended not only the three regular -Sunday services, but all the occasional week-day lectures and familiar -meetings for prayer and religious conversation. These latter were always -preceded by tea at the house of some of the sisters of the Rev. Mr. -Thunder’s flock. Projects for converting the world were then new, and -the recent convert entered upon them with all the zeal which had -formerly animated her when arranging the details of a ball or of a party -for the theatre. The dwellers in Africa and the isles of the Pacific, -occupied much of their attention; but they did not seem to know that -within a few squares of where they were engaged alternately in sipping -tea or expounding prophecy, dwelt a population, perhaps more degraded -and more requiring enlightenment, than those over whose darkness they -mourned. The inhabitant of Africa thought nothing of a Saviour of whom -he had never heard. The denizen of St. Anne’s street uttered his name -only to blaspheme. Which of these, according to the doctrine as laid -down by the Apostle to the Gentiles, most required the humanizing -influences of the missionary of the cross, we leave to each to determine -for himself. - -One thing is certain. Had Mrs. Edmonson not been thus called off, Mrs. -Smithson could not have obtained the pew which she now occupied. A -gradual acquaintance was beginning to spring up between her and Mrs. -Rodgers, arising from the principle of contiguity. Commend us to that -principle. It has settled the fate of many a son and daughter of Eve. It -commenced we know not how. It was probably from some one of those -thousand and one little offices which neighborhood induces. A shawl may -have become entangled in something requiring the friendly offices of a -neighbor to unloose; or the warmth of the weather may have created an -uncomfortable feeling, which the opportune loan of a fan may have -relieved. How the acquaintanceship in question was first brought about -we have forgotten—if we ever knew. It is of no consequence to us. Every -one knows the progress of these things. At first it is a distant bow, as -much as to say, “I should like to know you, but don’t care to advance.” -Then came a casual and passing remark, as they emerged from the pew to -the aisle. Then the walk down the aisle, side by side, until reaching -the door, when each assumed her husband’s arm, and the respective -couples mingled in the crowd; and finally the continued walk together to -the parting-place, whence each pursues the path to their own residence. -These things have often occurred before; they were enacted by Mesdames -Rogers and Smithson then, and will occur again. Their husbands followed -slowly in the rear, discussing the state of the weather, the prospects -of business, the likelihood of speedy news from Europe, there not having -been an arrival for upward of a month, with other topics of a kindred -nature. Mrs. Rodgers, a well-educated lady of considerable -conversational powers, found the mind of her new acquaintance as -agreeable as her person, and before they separated, - -“Hoped she might be permitted to improve the acquaintance thus -opportunely begun, by calling on Mrs. Smithson.” - -Letty graciously gave the required permission, expressing all that -courtesy demanded on the occasion, but carefully abstaining from -appearing overwhelmed with the compliment, as many a weaker minded and -less skillful tactician would have done. She knew that her cue was to -meet advances half-way, but not to pass the line one hair’s breadth, if -she wished any new acquaintance to be made to feel, than in seeking her, -the obligation was mutual. - -On the next day but one Mrs. Rodgers was ushered into Letty’s -drawing-room. That lady did not detain her long before she made her -appearance, but still dallied sufficiently to allow the other to take in -at a rapid glance the completeness of her establishment. Her experience, -however, was for once at fault, for she determined hastily that the -woman who could arrange her rooms with such taste, must have been -surrounded by like refinements and elegancies all her life. Her -reception of Letty, therefore, when she arrived, was most cordial and -impressive. The season was far advanced. Her last “Evening” was on that -of the succeeding day, “and it was to secure Mrs. Smithson’s appearance -as well as further to cultivate so pleasant an acquaintance thus -agreeably begun, that she had called this morning, etc.” - -Mrs. Smithson, on her part, would be very happy to make one at this -exclusive assemblage, and a very unfashionably long visit for a morning -call followed. Mrs. Rodgers was anxious to find out all about Letty, who -she was, where she came from, etc.; but was foiled in all her skillful -questions, by answers equally skillful. When at length she took her -leave, she could not help pondering on this to herself. She admitted her -curiosity about it, but wound up by saying to herself, be she who she -may, she is certainly a most agreeable personage, and I think I have -made a most decided hit in introducing her into our set. - -As for Letty, she was all exultation on the departure of her visitor. -She saw herself achieving at once the distinctions she panted after. Not -only were the doors of the drawing-room of dame Fashion opened to her, -but as she passed through them with firm step and head erect amid the -ill-concealed envy of the crowd which filled them, she saw the curtains -of the boudoir drawn aside at her approach, and she was admitted into -the inmost presence-chamber of the goddess. Not so fast, Letty. You -certainly have mounted the first rung of the ladder; and my readers and -myself know you now too well to fear for a moment that you will go -backward; but there is many a step yet to climb before you reach that -giddy height on which you aspire to stand. - -The next evening soon came, and after almost all the guests had -assembled, Mr. and Mrs. Smithson arrived. She was arrayed in a dress of -the richest kind, and with her usual faultless taste. Her ornaments were -few, but elegant; the best of them being that bright, fresh face and -elastic form, which the dissipation of city life had not yet impaired. -She had a severe and scathing ordeal to pass. It was felt by several, -with the keen intuition which women alone have, that she might prove a -formidable rival. Mrs. Rodgers’ reception and treatment of her were most -kind. She introduced several most desirable acquaintances to her, and -the gentlemen in especial were delighted with her. Letty’s earliest -allies, it may be remembered, were of the male sex; but the gallant -Colonel Lumley, and that exquisite of exquisites, Mr. Tom Harrowby, were -of a different stamp from Phil Dubbs and even Harry Edmonds, though the -latter, in after days, achieved renown both at the bar and in the -senate-chamber. The evening passed but too delightfully and too rapidly -for Letty. She felt that she was at last among kindred minds, and on -arriving at home, when she reviewed what had transpired as she was -preparing for her night’s repose, she was satisfied that her debut had -been eminently successful, and that she had made a decided hit. With -visions of much future greatness before her, she fell asleep. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: PÈRE-LA-CHAISE. -Engraved by J. A. Rolph.] - - * * * * * - - - - - PÈRE-LA-CHAISE. - - - [WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.] - - -The practice of interment in churches and church-yards prevailed in -Paris till near the end of the eighteenth century. In 1790 the National -Assembly passed a law commanding all towns and villages to discontinue -the use of their old burial-places, and form others at a distance from -their habitations. An imperial decree was issued in 1804, ordering high -ground to be chosen for cemeteries, and every corpse to be interred at a -depth of at least six feet. Another decree, of 1811, ordained a company -of undertakers, to whom the whole business of interment was to be -consigned, who arranged funerals in six classes, and established a -tariff of expense for the service rendered. The cemeteries of Paris are -four in number. Père-la-chaise, Montmartre, Vaugirard, and -Mont-Parnasse. - -Père-la-chaise, the subject of the beautiful engraving in our present -number—engraved for us by J. A. Rolph, of New York—occupies a tract of -high and sloping ground to the north-east of Paris. It derives its name -from the confessor of Louis XIV., who occupied a splendid mansion on its -site—a country-house of the Jesuits for more than one hundred and fifty -years. This beautiful burial-ground was consecrated in 1804, and on the -21st of May of that year the first burial took place within its walls. -In the _fosses communes_ the poor are gratuitously interred in coffins -placed side by side, without ornament or mark of any kind. Temporary -graves, to be held for six years, may be procured for fifty francs, and -may afterward be retained on five years’ lease by the regular payment of -the same sum. If afterward purchased, a deduction of the first payment -of fifty francs is made. The ground is purchased in perpetuity at a rate -of one hundred and twenty francs per square metre, where vaults may be -sunk or monuments erected at the pleasure of the owner. Many of the most -celebrated personages of France here repose in the dreamless sleep, amid -garlands and flowers. Baron Cuvier, Casimir Périer and Benjamin -Constant. Marshals Ney, Suchet, Massena, Lefèvre—Volney rests here, -with Talma, Mademoiselle Raucourt, Macdonald, Beaumarchais, and many -whose names are imperishable in history. - -The picturesque monument of Gothic architecture, to the right on -entering, contains the ashes of Abelard and Heloisa—this sepulchre was -constructed from the ruins of the celebrated Abbey of Paracleet. - -We rejoice that, in our own country, a wise foresight has already -disposed our citizens to set apart at a distance from the busy mart and -the thriving town, secluded and beautiful places for the quiet -resting-place of the beloved dead. From this pious feeling has sprung -our own Laurel-Hill—Mount Auburn, near Boston—Greenwood, near New -York, and scores of other places appropriately named and selected in the -vicinage of cities and towns of our country—where the monumental pile -and the humble tomb bear silent company. The roses embowering these make -the whole air fragrant, but, dying in autumn return again with the -spring, mute yet eloquent preachers of a Final Resurrection. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. - - - BY A. M. PARIS. - - - In the balmy breath of the early spring, - In the warbling notes that her songsters sing, - In her bursting buds, and her fragrant flowers, - In her azure skies and her golden hours, - In the leafy woods and the meadows green, - Are thy powers displayed, and thy breathings seen. - Thou art found in the ocean’s wide expanse, - When the gentle waves in the sunbeams dance, - Or propelled by the storm’s resistless might, - Rise foaming up to their giddy height; - When the first faint blush of the glowing morn, - Lights the dewy pearl on the flower and thorn, - And the sunbeams kiss the awakening flower, - And the zephyr stirs the enchanted bower; - Or the silvery clouds of the sunset lie - On the radiant breast of the evening sky, - And the gentle gales through the forests play, - And the requiem sing of departing day, - On the craggy steeps of the rock-based hills; - By the flowery banks of the purling rills; - From the darkling climes of the gelid north, - Where the bright Aurora flashes forth, - And the iceberg gleams in the moon’s soft light, - Through the lengthened hours of the polar night; - To the sunny south, where the palm-trees spread - Their feathery boughs o’er the sheltered head; - And a thousand flowers of brilliant hue, - Are forever expanding to the view; - And a thousand birds of plumage bright, - Rejoice in the groves of a land of light; - O’er the gladsome earth, in the stars of night, - Thou art seen, if the heart be attuned aright. - - * * * * * - - - - - FIRST AMBITION.[11] - - - BY IK. MARVEL. - - -I believe that sooner or later, there come to every man, dreams of -ambition. They may be covered with the sloth of habit, or with a -pretence of humility; they may come only in dim, shadowy visions, that -feed the eye, like the glories of an ocean sun-rise; but you may be sure -that they will come: even before one is aware, the bold, adventurous -goddess, whose name is ambition, and whose dower is Fame, will be toying -with the feeble heart. And she pushes her ventures with a bold hand: she -makes timidity strong, and weakness valiant. - -The way of a man’s heart will be foreshadowed by what goodness lies in -him—coming from above, and from around;—but a way foreshadowed, is not -a way made. And the making of a man’s way comes only from that -quickening of resolve, which we call Ambition. It is the spur that makes -man struggle with Destiny: it is Heaven’s own incentive, to make Purpose -great, and Achievement greater. - -It would be strange if you, in that cloister-life of a college, did not -sometimes feel a dawning of new resolves. They grapple you, indeed, -oftener than you dare to speak of. Here, you dream first of that very -sweet, but very shadowy success, called reputation. - -You think of the delight and astonishment, it would give your mother and -father, and most of all, little Nelly, if you were winning such honors, -as now escape you. You measure your capacities by those about you, and -watch their habit of study; you gaze for a half hour together, upon some -successful man, who has won his prizes; and wonder by what secret action -he has done it. And when, in time, you come to be a competitor yourself, -your anxiety is immense. - -You spend hours upon hours at your theme. You write and re-write; and -when it is at length complete, and out of your hands, you are harassed -by a thousand doubts. At times, as you recal your hours of toil, you -question if so much has been spent upon any other; you feel almost -certain of success. You repeat to yourself, some passages of special -eloquence, at night. You fancy the admiration of the Professors at -meeting with such wonderful performance. You have a slight fear that its -superior goodness may awaken the suspicion that some one out of the -college—some superior man, may have written it. But this fear dies -away. - -The eventful day is a great one in your calendar; you hardly sleep the -night previous. You tremble as the chapel-bell is rung; you profess to -be very indifferent, as the reading, and the prayer close; you even -stoop to take up your hat—as if you had entirely overlooked the fact, -that the old president was in the desk, for the express purpose of -declaring the successful names. You listen dreamily to his tremulous, -yet fearfully distinct enunciation. Your head swims strangely. - -They all pass out with a harsh murmur, along the aisles, and through the -door-ways. It would be well if there were no disappointments in life -more terrible than this. It is consoling to express very depreciating -opinions of the Faculty in general;—and very contemptuous ones of that -particular officer who decided upon the merit of the prize themes. An -evening or two at Dalton’s room go still further toward healing the -disappointment; and—if it must be said—toward moderating the heat of -your ambition. - -You grow up however, unfortunately, as the college years fly by, into a -very exaggerated sense of your own capacities. Even the good, old, -white-haired squire, for whom you had once entertained so much respect, -seems to your crazy, classic fancy, a very hum-drum sort of personage. -Frank, although as noble a fellow as ever sat a horse, is yet—you -cannot help thinking—very ignorant of Euripides; even the English -master at Dr. Bidlow’s school, you feel sure would balk at a dozen -problems you could give him. - -You get an exalted idea of that uncertain quality, which turns the heads -of a vast many of your fellows, called—Genius. An odd notion seems to -be inherent in the atmosphere of those college chambers, that there is a -certain faculty of mind—first developed as would seem in -colleges—which accomplishes whatever it chooses, without any special -painstaking. For a time, you fall yourself into this very unfortunate -hallucination; you cultivate it, after the usual college fashion, by -drinking a vast deal of strong coffee, and whiskey-toddy—by writing a -little poor verse, in the Byronic temper, and by studying very late at -night, with closed blinds. - -It costs you, however, more anxiety and hypocrisy than you could -possibly have believed. - -——You will learn, Clarence, when the Autumn has rounded your hopeful -Summer, if not before, that there is no Genius in life, like the Genius -of energy and industry. You will learn, that all the traditions so -current among very young men, that certain great characters have wrought -their greatness by an inspiration, as it were, grow out of a sad -mistake. - -And you will further find, when you come to measure yourself with men, -that there are no rivals so formidable, as those earnest, determined -minds, which reckon the value of every hour, and which achieve eminence -by persistent application. - -Literary ambition may inflame you at certain periods; and a thought of -some great names will flash like a spark into the mine of your purposes; -you dream till midnight over books; you set up shadows, and chase them -down—other shadows, and they fly. Dreaming will never catch them. -Nothing makes the “scent lie well,” in the hunt after distinction, but -labor. - -And it is a glorious thing, when once you are weary of the dissipation, -and the ennui of your own aimless thought, to take up some glowing page -of an earnest thinker, and read—deep and long, until you feel the metal -of his thought tinkling on your brain, and striking out from your flinty -lethargy, flashes of ideas, that give the mind light and heat. And away -you go, in the chase of what the soul within is creating on the instant, -and you wonder at the fecundity of what seemed so barren, and at the -ripeness of what seems so crude. The glow of toil wakes you to the -consciousness of your real capacities: you feel sure that they have -taken a new step toward final development. In such mood it is, that one -feels grateful to the musty tomes, which at other hours, stand like -curiosity-making mummies, with no warmth, and no vitality. Now they grow -into the affections like new-found friends; and gain a hold upon the -heart, and light a fire in the brain, that the years and the mould -cannot cover, nor quench. - ------ - -[11] From Dream Life, just published by Charles Scribner, New York. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE STAR OF DESTINY. - - - BY ANNE G. HALE. - - - [It is related of Signora Angelica Kauffman, the celebrated - Italian, that when a youthful maiden, she was one evening by the - bank of her native stream, a short distance from Mount Rosa, - near the entrance of a forest, when, charmed with the beauty of - the sunset, she fell into a reverie, during which a vision - passed before her, which led her to form the resolution—which - she patiently kept—of being a painter. She afterward obtained - the prize from the Royal Academy at London, England, for her - painting of the Weeping Magdalen. _See Graham’s Magazine, Vol. - XXX._] - - May, with thousand buds of beauty - Gemmeth o’er the valley’s breast, - Once again with chainless freedom - Are the Alpine streamlets blest; - Down the ancient, snow-clad mountains, - In their joy they leap and spring, - All entrancing with the music - Of the merry lay they sing. - - And the haughty, towering glaciers - Gazing down so stern and wild, - Yield them to the spring-time influence, - And diffuse a radiance mild— - For the glowing sunset lingers - On those crystal turrets high, - Long beyond the sun’s departure - From the clear and cloudless sky. - - Downward are the rays reflected - To each ancient forest-tree, - Standing in its solemn grandeur, - Monarch of a century; - Birds their evening hymns are singing, - And the peasant homeward hies— - ’Tis the welcome hour of vespers - And from every heart they rise. - - All, save one—her soul enraptured - With the splendor of the scene, - Listlessly reclines she—dreaming— - On the streamlet’s bank of green; - Thoughts of power her spirit burden - Clamorous for a garb of words, - But they strive in vain for freedom, - Speech no worthy aid affords. - - Longing for the tongue of Poet, - For his language bold and grand— - Or for that high power majestic, - With which oft a master-hand - On the vague and empty canvas, - Into being life-like calls - Images first etched by Fancy, - On the mind’s eternal walls. - - Dreaming on of Fame and Beauty, - Gazing still upon the sky, - Twilight gathers over nature, - Darkness draws unheeded nigh. - There before her, in the forest, - Stand the oaks in majesty— - Yet before her they are changing - To a statued gallery! - - And beneath each marble statue, - There are carved upon the base, - Names that Art hath made immortal, - Names the laurel deigned to grace! - But upon one gray pedestal, - Standing statueless—alone— - She deciphers with emotion - One familiar name—_her own!_ - - Filled with solemn awe she lifteth - To the heavens her tearful eyes, - And above that lone pedestal - Sees a glorious star arise! - For herself prepared and ready, - (She can read the mystery,) - ’Tis a niche in Fame’s high temple, - ’Tis her star of destiny. - - Years rolled on—that youthful vision - Haunted still the maiden’s brain, - Oft her fainting heart beguiling - Of its toil, and care, and pain; - Onward, upward still she passed, - By Ambition daily fed, - Till that star e’en as a halo - Threw its lustre round her head. - - But have none, save that fair maiden, - ’Neath Italia’s sunset sky, - Had pre-knowledge of the future— - Known their coming destiny? - Yea—for all—or soon or later— - Are Life’s mysteries unsealed— - If its oracle, the prescience, - Oft hath Heaven in love revealed. - - Not at even, seen but dimly, - Doth the glorious scene appear, - But at noonday, in Faith’s sunlight, - Shines in truthful radiance clear; - Not a marble statue raised - By the flattering hand of Fame— - But a cross—the Cross most holy. - Lifted up in Jesus’ name! - - Low upon its base, engraven - —Man—as if upon the stone - Constant tears had wrought the title, - Sadly, secretly—alone; - Upward o’er the cross appearing, - Brighter than the orbs on high, - One fair star full often blesses, - The upraised—the prayerful eye. - - Let us from the heavenly vision - Comfort under trial gain; - Though upon our drooping shoulders - We the heavy Cross sustain, - Still the Star of Bethlehem shineth, - With its clear, consoling light, - And by its all-powerful glory, - Day shall take the place of night! - - * * * * * - - - - - RAIL-ROAD SONG. - - - BY T. H. CHIVERS, M. D. - - - All aboard? Yes! Tingle, tingle, - Goes the bell, as we all mingle— - No one sitting solely single— - As the fireman builds his fire, - And the steam gets higher, higher— - Thus fulfilling his desire— - Which forever he keeps feeding - With the pine-knots he is needing, - As he on his way goes speeding— - And the Iron Horse goes rushing, - With his fiery face all flushing— - Every thing before him crushing— - While the smoke goes upward curling, - Spark-bespangled in unfurling, - And the iron-wheels go whirling, - Like two mighty mill-stones grinding, - When no miller is them minding— - All the eye with grit-dust blinding— - And the cars begin to rattle, - And the springs go tittle-tattle— - Driving off the grazing cattle— - As if Death were fiends pursuing - To their uttermost undoing— - With a clitta, clatta, clatter, - Like the devil beating batter - Down below in iron platter, - As if something was the matter; - Then it changes to a clanking, - And a clinking, and a clanking, - And a clanking, and a clinking— - Then returns to clatta, clatter, - Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter— - And the song that I now offer - For Apollo’s Golden Coffer— - With the friendship that I proffer— - Is for Riding on a Rail. - - Thus, from station on to station, - Right along through each plantation, - This great Iron Horse goes rushing, - With his fiery face all flushing— - Every thing before him crushing— - Sometimes faster, sometimes slower, - Sometimes higher, sometimes lower— - As if Time, the great world-mover, - Had come down for his last reaping - Of the harvest ripe, in keeping, - Of the nations waiting, weeping— - While the engine, overteeming, - Spits his vengeance out in steaming - With excruciating screaming— - While the wheels are whirling under, - Like the chariot-wheels of thunder, - When the lightning rends asunder - All the clouds that steam from Ocean, - When he pays the Moon devotion— - With a grinding rhythmic motion— - Till the frightened sheep are scattered, - Like the clouds by lightning tattered, - And the gates of day are battered - With the clitta, clatta, clatter— - Still repeating clatta, clatter, - Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter, - As if something was the matter— - While the woodlands all are ringing, - And the birds forget their singing. - And away to heaven go winging - Of their flight to hear the clatter, - Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter, - Which continues so, till coming - To a straight line, when the humming - Is so mixed up with the strumming, - That the cars begin to rattle, - And the springs go tittle-tattle— - Frightening off the grazing cattle— - Like Hell’s thunder-river roaring, - Over Death’s dark mountain pouring - Into space, forever boring - Through th’ abysmal depths, with clatter - Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter, - And a clinking, and a clanking, - And a clanking, and a clinking— - Then returns to clatta, clatter, - Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter, - Like the devil beating batter - Down below in iron platter— - Which subsides into a clunky, - And a clinky, and a clanky, - And a clinky, clanky, clanky, - And a clanky, clinky, clanky; - And the song that I now offer - For Apollo’s Golden Coffer— - With the friendship that I proffer— - Is for Riding on a Rail. - - * * * * * - - - - - CHARLOTTE CORDAY. - - - BY JULIA KAVANAGH. - - -Amongst the women of the French Revolution, there is one who stands -essentially apart: a solitary episode of the eventful story. She appears -for a moment, performs a deed—heroic as to the intention, criminal as -to the means—and disappears for ever; lost in the shadow of time—an -unfathomed mystery. - -And it is, perhaps, this very mystery that has invested with so much -interest the name of one known by a single deed; which, though intended -by her to deliver her country, changed little in its destinies. To -admire her entirely is impossible; to condemn her is equally difficult. -No one can read her history without feeling that, to judge her -absolutely, lies not in the province of man. Beautiful, pure, gentle, -and a murderess, she attracts and repels us in almost equal degrees; -like all those beings whose nature is inexplicable and strange, -according to the ordinary standard of humanity. Although it is generally -acknowledged that site did not exercise over contemporary events that -repressing power for which she sacrificed her life, it is felt, -nevertheless, that no history of the times in which she lived, is -complete without her name; and to her brief and tragic history an -eloquent modern historian[12] has devoted some of his most impressive -pages. - -The 31st of May was the signal of the fall and dispersion of the -Girondists. Some, like Barbaroux, Buzot, Louvet, and their friends, -retired to the provinces, which they endeavored to rouse for one last -struggle. Others, like Madame Roland and the twenty-two, prepared -themselves in their silent prison solitude for death and the scaffold. -The name of the Girondists now became a sound as proscribed as that of -Royalist had been during their brief sway. No voice gifted with power -was raised throughout the republic in favor of the men by whom, in the -midst of such enthusiastic acclamations, that republic had been founded. -France was rapidly sinking into that state of silent apathy which -foreboded the Reign of Terror: discouraged by their experience of the -past, men lost their faith in humanity, and selfishly despaired of the -future. A maiden’s heroic spirit alone conceived the daring project of -saving those who had so long and so nobly striven for freedom; or, if -this might not be, of avenging their fall, and striking terror into the -hearts of their foes, by a deed of solemn immolation, worthy of the -stern sacrifices of paganism, offered of yore on the blood-stained -shrines of the goddess Nemesis. - -The maiden was Marie-Anne Charlotte, of Corday and of Armont, one of the -last descendants of a noble, though impoverished Norman family, which -counted amongst its near relatives, Fontenelle, the wit and philosopher -of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and amongst its ancestors, -the father of the great tragic poet of France, Pierre Corneille. - -Her father, Jacques of Corday and of Armont, was a younger son of this -noble line. He was, however, poorer than many of the peasants amongst -whom he lived, cultivating with his own hands, his narrow inheritance. -He married in early life a lady of gentle blood, but as poor as himself. -They had five children and a noble name to support, in a vain show of -dignity, on their insufficient income. It thus happened that Charlotte, -their fourth child and second daughter, was born in a thatched dwelling, -in the village of Saint-Saturnin des Lignerets; and that in the register -of the parish church where she was baptized, on the 28th of July, 1768, -the day after her birth, she is described as “born in lawful wedlock of -Jacques Francois of Corday, esquire, sieur of Armont, and of the noble -dame Marie Charlotte-Jacqueline, of Gauthier des Authieux, his wife.” It -was under these difficult circumstances, which embittered his temper, -and often caused him to inveigh in energetic terms against the injustice -of the law of primogeniture, that M. d’Armont reared his family. As soon -as they were of age, his sons entered the army; one of his daughters -died young; and he became a widower when the other two were emerging -from childhood into youth. They remained for some time with their -father, but at length entered the Abbaye aux Dames, in the neighboring -town of Caen. - -The greatest portion of the youth of Charlotte Corday—to give her the -name by which she is generally known—was spent in the calm obscurity of -her convent solitude. Many high visions, many burning dreams and lofty -aspirations, already haunted her imaginative and enthusiastic mind, as -she slowly paced the silent cloisters, or rested, lost in thought, -beneath the shadow of the ancient elms. It is said that, like Madame -Roland, she contemplated secluding herself for ever from the world in -her monastic retreat; but, affected by the scepticism of the age, which -penetrated even beyond convent walls, she gave up this project. From -these early religions feelings, Charlotte derived, however, the calm -devotedness which characterized her brief career: for though -self-sacrifice may not be the exclusive attribute of Christianity, it -cannot be denied that the deep humility by which it is accompanied—a -feeling almost unknown to the ancients—is in itself the very spirit of -Christ. The peaceful and solemn shadow of the old cloister favored the -mild seriousness of Charlotte’s character. Within the precincts of her -sacred retreat she grew up in grave and serene loveliness, a being fit -for the gentlest duties of woman’s household life, or for one of those -austere and fearless deeds which lead to the scaffold and give martyrdom -in a holy cause. - -The scepticism that prevailed for the last few years preceding the -Revolution, was not the sensual atheism which had disgraced the -eighteenth century so long. The faith in a first and eternal cause, in -the sacredness of human rights and the holiness of duty, was firmly held -by many noble spirits, who hailed with enthusiasm the first dawn of -democracy. This faith was blended in the soul of Charlotte Corday, with -a passionate admiration of antiquity. All the austerity and republican -enthusiasm of her illustrious ancestor, Pierre Corneille, seemed to have -come down to his young descendant. Even Rousseau and Raynal, the -apostles of democracy, had no pages that could absorb her so deeply as -those of ancient history, with its stirring deeds and immortal -recollections. Often, like Manon Philipon, in the recess of her father’s -workshop, might Charlotte Corday be seen in her convent cell, -thoughtfully bending over an open volume of Plutarch; that powerful and -eloquent historian of all heroic sacrifices. - -When the Abbaye aux Dames was closed, in consequence of the Revolution, -Charlotte was in her twentieth year, in the prime of life and of her -wonderful beauty; and never, perhaps, did a vision of more dazzling -loveliness step forth from beneath the dark convent portal into the -light of the free and open world. She was rather tall, but admirably -proportioned, with a figure full of native grace and dignity; her hands, -arms, and shoulders, were models of pure sculptural beauty. An -expression of singular gentleness and serenity characterized her fair, -oval countenance and regular features. Her open forehead, dark and -well-arched eyebrows, and eyes of a gray so deep that it was often -mistaken for blue, added to her naturally grave and meditative -appearance; her nose was straight and well formed, her mouth serious but -exquisitely beautiful. Like most of the women of the Norman race, she -had a complexion of transparent purity; enhanced by the rich brown hair -which fell in thick curls around her neck, according to the fashion of -the period. A simple severity characterized her dress of sombre hue, and -the low and becoming lace cap which she habitually wore is still known -by her name in France. Her whole aspect was fraught with so much modest -grace and dignity, that, notwithstanding her youth, the first feeling -she invariably inspired was one of respect; blended with involuntary -admiration, for a being of such pure and touching loveliness. - -On leaving the convent in which she had been educated, Charlotte Corday -went to reside with her aunt, Madame Coutellier de Bretteville Gouville; -an old royalist lady, who inhabited an ancient-looking house in one of -the principal streets of Caen. There the young girl, who had inherited a -little property, spent several years, chiefly engaged in watching the -progress of the Revolution. The feelings of her father were similarly -engrossed: he wrote several pamphlets in favor of the revolutionary -principles; and one in which he attacked the right of primogeniture. His -republican tendencies confirmed Charlotte in her opinions; but of the -deep, overpowering strength which those opinions acquired in her soul, -during the long hours she daily devoted to meditation, no one ever knew, -until a stern and fearful deed—more stern and fearful in one so -gentle—had revealed it to all France. A silent reserve characterized -this epoch of Charlotte Corday’s life: her enthusiasm was not external, -but inward: she listened to the discussions which were carried on around -her without taking a part in them herself. She seemed to feel -instinctively that great thoughts are always better nursed in the -heart’s solitude: that they can only lose their native depth and -intensity by being revealed too freely before the indifferent gaze of -the world. Those with whom she then occasionally conversed, took little -heed of the substance of her discourse, and could remember nothing of it -when she afterward became celebrated; but all recollected well her -voice, and spoke with strange enthusiasm of its pure, silvery sound. -Like Madame Roland, whom she resembled in so many respects, Charlotte -possessed this rare and great attraction; and there was something so -touching in her youthful and almost childlike utterance of heroic -thoughts, that it affected even to tears those who heard her on her -trial, calmly defending herself from the infamous accusations of her -judges, and glorying with the same low, sweet tones, in the deadly deed -which had brought her before them. - -The fall of the Girondists, on the 31st of May, first suggested to -Charlotte Corday the possibility of giving an active shape to her -hitherto passive feelings. She watched with intense, though still -silent, interest the progress of events, concealing her secret -indignation and thoughts of vengeance under her habitually calm aspect. -Those feelings were heightened in her soul by the presence of the -fugitive Girondists, who had found a refuge in Caen, and were urging the -Normans to raise an army to march on Paris. She found a pretence to call -upon Barbaroux, then with his friends at the Intendance. She came twice, -accompanied by an old servant, and protected by her own modest dignity. -Pethion saw her in the hall, where she was waiting for the handsome -Girondist, and observed, with a smile— - -“So, the beautiful aristocrat is come to see republicans.” - -“Citizen Pethion,” she replied, “you now judge me without knowing me, -but a time will come what you shall learn who I am.” - -With Barbaroux, Charlotte chiefly conversed of the imprisoned -Girondists; of Madame Roland and Marat. The name of this man had long -haunted her with a mingled feeling of dread and horror. To Marat she -ascribed the proscription of the Girondists, the woes of the republic, -and on him she resolved to avenge her ill-fated country. Charlotte was -not aware that Marat was but the tool of Dunton and Robespierre. “If -such actions could be counseled,” afterward said Barbaroux, “it is not -Marat whom we would have advised her to strike.” - -Whilst this deadly thought was daily strengthening itself in Charlotte’s -mind, she received several offers of marriage. She declined them, on the -plea of wishing to remain free: but strange indeed must have seemed to -her, at that moment, those proposals of earthly love. One of those whom -her beauty had enamored, M. de Franquelin, a young volunteer in the -cause of the Girondists, died of grief on learning her fate. His last -request was, that her portrait and a few letters he had formerly -received from her, might be buried with him in his grave. - -For several days after her last interview with Barbaroux, Charlotte -brooded silently over her great thought, often meditating on the history -of Judith. Her aunt subsequently remembered that, on entering her room -one morning, she found an old Bible open on her bed: the verse in which -it is recorded that “the Lord had gifted Judith with a special beauty -and fairness,” for the deliverance of Israel, was underlined with a -pencil. - -On another occasion Madame de Bretteville found her niece weeping alone; -she inquired into the cause of her tears. - -“They flow,” replied Charlotte, “for the misfortunes of my country.” - -Heroic and devoted as she was, she then also wept, perchance, over her -own youth and beauty, so soon to be sacrificed for ever. No personal -considerations altered her resolve; she procured a passport, provided -herself with money, and paid a farewell visit to her father, to inform -him that, considering the unsettled condition of France, she thought it -best to retire to England. He approved of her intention, and bade her -adieu. On returning to Caen, Charlotte told the same tale to Madame de -Bretteville, left a secret provision for an old nurse, and distributed -the little property she possessed amongst her friends. - -It was on the morning of the 9th of July, 1793, that she left the house -of her aunt, without trusting herself with a last farewell. Her most -earnest wish was, when her deed should have been accomplished, to -perish, wholly unknown, by the hands of an infuriated multitude. The -woman who could contemplate such a fate, and calmly devote herself to -it, without one selfish thought of future renown, had indeed the heroic -soul of a martyr. - -Her journey to Paris was marked by no other event than the unwelcome -attentions of some Jacobins with whom she traveled. One of them, struck -by her modest and gentle beauty, made her a very serious proposal of -marriage: she playfully evaded his request, but promised that he should -learn who and what she was at some future period. On entering Paris, she -proceeded immediately to the Hotel de la Providence, Rue des Vieux -Augustins, not far from Marat’s dwelling. Here she rested for two days, -before calling on her intended victim. Nothing can mark more forcibly -the singular calmness of her mind: she felt no hurry to accomplish the -deed for which she had journeyed so far, and over which she had -meditated so deeply: her soul remained serene and undaunted to the last. -The room which she occupied, and which has been often pointed out to -inquiring strangers, was a dark and wretched attic, into which light -scarcely ever penetrated. There she read again the volume of Plutarch -she had brought with her—unwilling to part from her favorite author -even in her last hours—and probably composed that energetic address to -the people, which was found upon her after her apprehension. One of the -first acts of Charlotte was to call on the Girondist, Duperret, for whom -she was provided with a letter from Barbaroux, relative to the supposed -business she had in Paris: her real motive was to learn how she could -see Marat. She had first intended to strike him in the Champ de Mars, on -the 14th of July, the anniversary of the fall of the Bastille, when a -great and imposing ceremony was to take place. The festival being -delayed, she resolved to seek him in the convention, and immolate him on -the very summit of the mountain; but Marat was too ill to attend the -meetings of the National Assembly: this Charlotte learned from Duperret. -She resolved, nevertheless, to go to the convention, in order to fortify -herself in her resolve. Mingling with the horde of Jacobins who crowded -the galleries, she watched with deep attention the scene below. Saint -Just was then urging the convention to proscribe Lanjuinais, the heroic -defender of the Girondists. A young foreigner, a friend of Lanjuinais, -and who stood at a short distance from Charlotte, noticed the expression -of stern indignation which gathered over her features; until, like one -over-powered by her feelings, and apprehensive of displaying them too -openly, she abruptly left the place. Struck with her whole appearance, -he followed her out; a sudden shower of rain, which compelled them to -seek shelter under the same archway, afforded him an opportunity of -entering into conversation with her. When she learned that he was a -friend of Lanjuinais she waived her reserve, and questioned him with -much interest concerning Madame Roland and the Girondists. She also -asked him about Marat, with whom she said she had some business. - -“Marat is ill; it would be better for you to apply to the public -accuser, Fouquier Tinville,” said the stranger. - -“I do not want him now, but I may have to deal with him yet,” she -significantly replied. - -Perceiving that the rain did not cease, she requested her companion to -procure her a conveyance. He complied, and before parting from her, -begged to be favored with her name. She refused, adding, however, “You -will know it before long.” With Italian courtesy, he kissed her hand as -he assisted her into the fiacre. She smiled, and bade him farewell. - -Charlotte perceived that to call on Marat was the only means by which -she might accomplish her purpose. She did so on the morning of the 13th -of July, having first purchased a knife in the Palais Royal, and written -him a note, in which she requested an interview. She was refused -admittance. She then wrote him a second note, more pressing than the -first, and in which she represented herself as persecuted for the cause -of freedom. Without waiting to see what effect this note might produce, -she called again at half-past seven the same evening. - -Marat then resided in the Rue des Cordeliers, in a gloomy-looking house, -which has since been demolished. His constant fears of assassination -were shared by those around him; the porter, seeing a strange woman pass -by his lodge without pausing to make any inquiry, ran out and called her -back. She did not heed his remonstrance, but swiftly ascended the old -stone stair-case, until she had reached the door of Marat’s apartment. -It was cautiously opened by Albertine, a woman with whom Marat -cohabited, and who passed for his wife. Recognizing the same young and -handsome girl who had already called on her husband, and animated, -perhaps, by a feeling of jealous mistrust, Albertine refused to admit -her: Charlotte insisted with great earnestness. The sound of their -altercation reached Marat; he immediately ordered his wife to admit the -stranger, whom he recognized as the author of the two letters he had -received in the course of the day. Albertine obeyed reluctantly; she -allowed Charlotte to enter; and, after crossing with her an antechamber, -where she had been occupied with a man named Laurent Basse, in folding -some numbers of the “Ami du People,” she ushered her through two other -rooms, until they came to a narrow closet, where Marat was then in a -bath. He gave a look at Charlotte, and ordered his wife to leave them -alone: she complied, but allowed the door of the closet to remain half -open, and kept within call. - -According to his usual custom, Marat wore a soiled handkerchief bound -round his head, increasing his natural hideousness. A coarse covering -was thrown across his bath; a board, likewise placed transversely, -supported his papers. Laying down his pen, he asked Charlotte the -purport of her visit. The closet was so narrow that she touched the bath -near which she stood. She gazed on him with ill-disguised horror and -disgust, but answered as composedly as she could, that she had come from -Caen, in order to give him correct intelligence concerning the -proceedings of the Girondists there. He listened, questioned her -eagerly, wrote down the name of the Girondists, then added with a smile -of triumph— - -“Before a week, they shall have perished on the guillotine.” - -“These words,” afterward said Charlotte, “sealed his fate.” Drawing from -beneath the handkerchief which covered her bosom, the knife she had kept -there all along, she plunged it to the hilt in Marat’s heart. He gave -one loud expiring cry for help, and sank back dead in the bath. By an -instinctive impulse, Charlotte had instantly drawn out the knife from -the breast of her victim, but she did not strike again; casting it down -at his feet, she left the closet and sat down in a neighboring room, -thoughtfully passing her hand across her brow: her task was done. - -The wife of Marat had rushed to his aid, on hearing his cry for help. -Laurent Basse, seeing that all was over, turned round toward Charlotte, -and with a blow of a chair felled her to the floor, whilst the -infuriated Albertine trampled her under her feet. The tumult aroused the -other tenants of the house; the alarm spread, and a crowd gathered in -the apartment, who learned with stupor that Marat, the Friend of the -People, had been murdered. Deeper still was their wonder when they gazed -on the murderess. She stood there before them with still disordered -garments, and her disheveled hair, loosely bound by a broad green -ribbon, falling around her; but so calm, so serenely lovely, that those -who most abhorred her crime gazed on her with involuntary admiration. - -“Was she then so beautiful?” was the question addressed many years -afterward, to on old man, one of the few remaining witnesses of this -scene. - -“Beautiful!” he echoed enthusiastically, adding with the eternal regrets -of old age: “Ay, there are none such now!” - -The commissary of police began his interrogatory in the saloon of -Marat’s apartment. She told him her name, how long she had been in -Paris, confessed her crime, and recognized the knife with which it had -been perpetrated. The sheath was found in her pocket, with a thimble, -some thread, money, and her watch. - -“What was your motive in assassinating Marat?” asked the commissary. - -“To prevent a civil war,” she answered. - -“Who are your accomplices?” - -“I have none.” - -She was ordered to be transferred to the Abbaye, the nearest prison. An -immense and infuriated crowd had gathered around the door of Marat’s -house; one of the witnesses perceived that she would have liked to be -delivered to this maddened multitude, and thus perish at once. She was -not saved from their hands without difficulty; her courage failed her at -the sight of the peril she ran, and she fainted away on being conveyed -to the fiacre. On reaching the Abbaye, she was questioned until midnight -by Chabot and Drouet, two Jacobin members of the convention. She -answered their interrogatories with singular firmness; observing, in -conclusion: “I have done my task, let others do theirs.” Chabot -threatened her with the scaffold; she answered with a smile of disdain. -Her behavior until the 17th, the day of her trial, was marked by the -same firmness. She wrote to Barbaroux a charming letter, full of -graceful wit and heroic feeling. Her playfulness never degenerated into -levity: like that of the illustrious Thomas Moore, it was the serenity -of a mind whom death had no power to daunt. Speaking of her action, she -observes— - -“I considered that so many brave men need not come to Paris for the head -of one man. He deserved not so much honor: the hand of a woman was -enough. . . . I have never hated but one being, and him with what -intensity I have sufficiently shown, but there are a thousand whom I -love still more than I hated him. . . . I confess that I employed a -perfidious artifice in order that he might receive me. In leaving Caen, -I thought to sacrifice him on the pinnacle of ‘the mountain,’ but he no -longer went to it. In Paris, they cannot understand how a useless woman, -whose longest life could have been of no good, could sacrifice herself -to save her country. . . . May peace be as soon established as I desire! -A great criminal has been laid low. . . . the happiness of my country -makes mine. A lively imagination and a feeling heart promise but a -stormy life; I beseech those who might regret me to consider this: they -will then rejoice at my fate.” - -A tenderer tone marks the brief letter she addressed to her father on -the eve of her trial and death: - -“Forgive me, my dear father,” she observed, “for having disposed of my -existence without your permission. I have avenged many innocent victims. -I have warded away many disasters. The people, undeceived, will one day -rejoice at being delivered from a tyrant. If I endeavored to persuade -you that I was going to England, it was because I hoped to remain -unknown: I recognized that this was impossible. I hope you will not be -subjected to annoyance: you have at least defenders at Caen; I have -chosen Gustave Doulcet de Pontecoulant for mine: it is a mere matter of -form. Such a deed allows of no defense. Farewell, my dear father. I -beseech of you to forget me; or, rather, to rejoice at my fate. I die -for a good cause. I embrace my sister, whom I love with my whole heart. -Do not forget the line of Corneille: - - ‘Le crime faite la honte, et non pas l’échafaud.’ - -To-morrow, at eight, I am to be tried.” - -On the morning of the 17th, she was led before her judges. She was -dressed with care, and had never looked more lovely. Her bearing was so -imposing and dignified, that the spectators and the judges seemed to -stand arraigned before her. She interrupted the first witness, by -declaring that it was she who had killed Marat. - -“Who inspired you with so much hatred against him?” asked the president. - -“I needed not the hatred of others, I had enough of my own,” she -energetically replied. “Besides, we do not execute well that which we -have not ourselves conceived.” - -“What, then, did you hate in Marat?” - -“His crimes.” - -“Do you think that you have assassinated all the Marats?” - -“No; but now that he is dead, the rest may fear.” - -She answered other questions with equal firmness and laconism. Her -project, she declared, had been formed since the 31st of May. “She had -killed one man to save a hundred thousand. She was a republican long -before the Revolution, and had never failed in energy.” - -“What do you understand by energy?” asked the president. - -“That feeling,” she replied, “which induces us to cast aside selfish -considerations, and sacrifice ourselves for our country.” - -Fouquier Tinville here observed, alluding to the sure blow she had -given, that she must be well practiced in crime. - -“The monster takes me for an assassin!” she exclaimed, in a tone -thrilling with indignation. - -This closed the debates, and her defender rose. It was not Doulcet de -Pontecoulant—who had not received her letter—but Chauveau de la Garde, -chosen by the president. Charlotte gave him an anxious look, as though -she feared he might seek to save her at the expense of honor. He spoke, -and she perceived that her apprehensions were unfounded. Without -excusing her crime or attributing it to insanity, he pleaded for the -fervor of her conviction; which he had the courage to call sublime. The -appeal proved unavailing. Charlotte Corday was condemned. Without -deigning to answer the president, who asked her if she had aught to -object to the penalty of death being carried out against her, she rose, -and walking up to her defender, thanked him gracefully. - -“These gentlemen,” said she, pointing to the judges, “have just informed -me that the whole of my property is confiscated. I owe something in the -prison: as a proof of my friendship and esteem, I request you to pay -this little debt.” - -On returning to the conciergerie, she found an artist, named Hauer, -waiting for her, to finish her portrait, which he had begun at the -tribunal. They conversed freely together, until the executioner, -carrying the red chemise destined for assassins, and the scissors with -which he was to cut her hair off, made his appearance. - -“What, so soon?” exclaimed Charlotte Corday, slightly turning pale; but -rallying her courage, she resumed her composure, and presented a lock of -her hair to M. Hauer, as the only reward in her power to offer. A priest -came to offer her his ministry. She thanked him and the persons by whom -he had been sent, but declined his spiritual aid. The executioner cut -her hair, bound her hands, and threw the red chemise over her. M. Hauer -was struck with the almost unearthly loveliness which the crimson hue of -this garment imparted to the ill-fated maiden. “This toilet of death, -though performed by rude hands, leads to immortality,” said Charlotte, -with a smile. - -A heavy storm broke forth as the car of the condemned left the -conciergerie for the Place de la Revolution. An immense crowd lined -every street through which Charlotte Corday passed. Hootings and -execrations at first rose on her path; but as her pure and serene beauty -dawned on the multitude, as the exquisite loveliness of her countenance, -and the sculptural beauty of her figure became more fully revealed, pity -and admiration superseded every other feeling. Her bearing was so -admirably calm and dignified, as to rouse sympathy in the breasts of -those who detested not only her crime, but the cause for which it had -been committed. Many men of every party took off their hats and bowed as -the cart passed before them. Amongst those who waited its approach, was -a young German, named Adam Luz, who stood at the entrance of the Rue -Sainte Honore, and followed Charlotte to the scaffold. He gazed on the -lovely and heroic maiden with all the enthusiasm of his imaginative -race. A love, unexampled perhaps in the history of the human heart, took -possession of his soul. Not one wandering look of “those beautiful eyes, -which revealed a soul as intrepid as it was tender,” escaped him. Every -earthly grace so soon to perish in death, every trace of the lofty and -immortal spirit, filled him with bitter and intoxicating emotions -unknown till then. “To die for her; to be struck by the same hand; to -feel in death the same cold axe which had severed the angelic head of -Charlotte; to be united to her in heroism, freedom, love, and death, was -now the only hope and desire of his heart.” - -Unconscious of the passionate love she had awakened, Charlotte now stood -near the guillotine. She turned pale on first beholding it, but soon -resumed her serenity. A deep blush suffused her face when the -executioner removed the handkerchief that covered her neck and -shoulders, but she calmly laid her head upon the block. The executioner -touched a spring, and the axe came down. One of Samson’s assistants -immediately stepped forward, and holding up the lifeless head to the -gaze of the crowd, struck it on either cheek. The brutal act only -excited a feeling of horror; and it is said that—as though even in -death her indignant spirit protested against this outrage—an angry and -crimson flush passed over the features of Charlotte Corday. - -A few days after her execution, Adam Luz published a pamphlet, in which -he enthusiastically praised her deed, and proposed that a statue with -the inscription, “Greater than Brutus,” should be erected to her memory -on the spot where she had perished. He was arrested and thrown into -prison. On entering the Abbaye, he passionately exclaimed, “I am going -to die for her!” His wish was fulfilled ere long. - -Strange, feverish times were those which could rouse a gentle and lovely -maiden to avenge freedom by such a deadly deed; which could waken in a -human heart a love whose thoughts were not of life or earthly bliss, but -of the grave and the scaffold. Let the times, then, explain those -natures, where so much evil and heroism are blended, that man cannot -mark the limits between both. Whatever judgment may be passed upon her, -the character of Charlotte Corday was certainly not cast in an ordinary -mould. It is a striking and noble trait, that to the last she did not -repent: never was error more sincere. If she could have repented, she -would never have become guilty. - -Her deed created an extraordinary impression throughout France. On -hearing of it, a beautiful royalist lady fell down on her knees, and -invoked “Saint Charlotte Corday.” The republican Madame Roland calls her -a heroine worthy of a better age. The poet, Andre Chenier—who, before a -year had elapsed, followed her on the scaffold—sang her heroism in a -soul-stirring strain. - -The political influence of that deed may be estimated by the exclamation -of Vergniaud: “She kills us, but she teaches us how to die!” It was so. -The assassination of Marat exasperated all his fanatic partisans against -the Girondists. Almost divine honors were paid to his memory; forms of -prayer were addressed to him; altars were erected to his honor, and -numberless victims sent to the scaffold as a peace-offering to his -manes. On the wreck of his popularity rose the far more dangerous power -of Robespierre; a new impulse was given to the Reign of Terror. Such was -the “peace” which the erring and heroic Charlotte Corday won for France. - ------ - -[12] Lamartine. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DYING ROSE. - - - BY MRS. E. J. EAMES. - - - The Queen of the Flowers sat on her throne, - But the rosy gems from her crown were falling— - A paleness was over her beauty thrown, - For she heard the death-spirit on her calling! - Lowly she bent her royal head, - And mourned in tones of plaintive sweetness - That mortals should call her the fading rose— - The rose of early, perishing fleetness! - - “Ungrateful man! do I not make - My span of life, though short, delicious? - And yield you rich perfumes after death? - But there is no bound to human wishes - I see all my sister flow’rets fade, - In their blighted beauty around me lying; - Yet only of _me_ ’tis sung, and said— - Alas! for the rose—so early dying!” - - “Be not displeased with us, loveliest one”— - Said a fair young maiden standing by her— - “’Tis not that thy race is so swiftly run, - But we wish that thy destiny were higher: - We see all the flowers around us die— - And deem it their fate; but _thee_, their sovereign, - We would give a lovelier home on high, - With sister spirits around thee hov’ring! - - “Then call not that thankless, which is in truth - The prompting of tender and true affection; - And pardon the sorrow, with which our youth - Sees ever in thee but a sad reflection! - For all the beauty and joy of our life— - All the loves and the hopes we so fondly cherish, - We liken to _thee_—and when they fade - We say—‘Like the Rose, how soon they perish!’” - - * * * * * - - - - - LOVE’S MESSENGER. - - - A Favorite Song. - - - COMPOSED BY - - MATTHIAS KELLER. - - WORDS FROM THE GERMAN. - - - Published by permission of Lee & Walker, 162 Chestnut Street, - _Publishers and Importers of Music and Musical Instruments_. - -[Illustration: musical score] - - My love is no writer, - Nor truly am I, - Or often a letter should bear her my - -[Illustration: musical score] - - sigh; - A promise most tender I gave to my love. - I would her remember - Where e’er I should rove - I would her remember - Where e’er I should rove. - - II. - - Could I write her a letter, - What joy would be mine, - But, alas! ’tis a pleasure - That I must resign; - For love’s messenger only - A ring I can take, - And kiss it most fondly - For her own sweet sake. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _The Golden Legend. By Henry Wordsworth Longfellow. Boston: - Ticknor, Read & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._ - -The readers of this charming poem, whatever may be their judgment of its -merits as compared with “The Spanish Student” and “Evangeline,” will be -compelled to acknowledge its originality of plan, and the new impression -it conveys of the author’s genius. Whatever it may be, it is most -assuredly no repetition of any of his former works, for the mark it -leaves upon the imagination is essentially novel. The poem is a -succession of highly colored pictures of life in the middle ages; and -though the fortunes of Prince Henry and Elsie give a certain unity to -the whole, it is a unity that admits of more variety than -“Evangeline”—a variety which, though purchased at some expense of -interest in the story, produces a more pleasing impression in the end. -Though the poem has not the continuous richness and warmth of fancy, -diction, and melody which commonly distinguish Longfellow’s writings, it -is by no means deficient in those qualities, and has scenes and passages -on which his imagination has expended the full pomp of its luxurious -images and subtle melodies. Though filled with vivid pictures of the -middle ages, the poem can hardly be called picturesque, for the -picturesque implies not succession but combination; and “The Golden -Legend” is a succession of pictures, not a combination of many into one. -The picturesque, as defined by Coleridge, is the “union, harmonious -melting-down and fusion of the different in kind and the disparate in -degree” and it is in this meaning of the word that Coleridge denies the -quality to Spenser, thereby much puzzling even Hallam, who could not -conceive why a poem so full of pictures as the Faery Queene, was not in -an eminent degree picturesque. - -The volume opens with a scene representing the spire of the Strasburg -Cathedral, and Lucifer with the Powers of the Air, trying to tear down -the cross. This scene has a quaint sublimity which prepares the mind for -the strangeness of the representations of religion which follow; for -Longfellow, in his pictures of Catholicism, presents it, not in its -abstract doctrines, but in its concrete life—presents it as it really -existed in institutions, customs, and men, during the middle ages. This -idea must be perceived at the commencement, or else the reader, judging -not merely as a modern Protestant, but as a modern Catholic, will -condemn the poem at once as irreverently extravagant and bizarre. The -next scene introduces Prince Henry, sitting alone in his castle, -tormented with baffled aspiration and weariness of life—a sort of -Faust, but a Faust of sentiment rather than a Faust of intellect. In a -beautiful soliloquy, the prince mourns over the graves of his departed -hopes, loves, and aspirations, in a style very different from the sharp, -short, electric curses on the deceptions of life, which leap from the -lips of Goethe’s hero. We give a short extract, which is a poem in -itself: - - They come, the shapes of joy and wo, - The airy crowds of long-ago, - The dreams and fancies known of yore, - That have been and shall be no more. - They change the cloisters of the night - Into a garden of delight; - _They make the dark and dreary hours_ - _Open and blossom into flowers!_ - I would not sleep, I love to be - Again in their fair company; - But ere my lips can bid them stay, - They pass and vanish quite away. - -Just as the prince, in his hunger for rest, has asserted - - Sweeter the undisturbed and deep - Tranquillity of endless sleep, - -Lucifer appears, in his accustomed dress as a traveling physician, and -accompanied by his usual sign, a flash of lightning. He taunts and -cajoles his victim into drinking what he is pleased to call his water of -life. The immediate effect of this Satanic liquid is like that which the -cordial of the foul hag communicates to the Faust of Goethe: - - It is like a draught of fire! - Through every vein - I feel again - The fever of youth, the soft desire; - A rapture that is almost pain - Throbs in my heart and fills my brain! - O joy! O joy! I feel - The band of steel - That so long and heavily has pressed - Upon my breast - Uplifted, and the malediction - Of my affliction - Is taken from me, and my weary breast - At length finds rest. - -We are next transferred as spectators to the courtyard of the castle, -and a most beautiful scene occurs between Hubert, Prince Henry’s -seneschal, and Walter, the Minnesinger, a capital embodiment of the -knightly poet of the middle ages. The prince, it seems, has relapsed -from the glory of his exaltation, has become more soul-sick than ever, -has fallen under the malediction of the church; and has gone forth into -disgrace and banishment. We give the concluding passage of this scene, -where Walter speaks of the “beings of the wind” that attend the poet, -and, leaning over the parapet of the castle, describes the landscape: - - _Walter._ I would a moment here remain. - But you, good Hubert, go before, - Fill me a goblet of May-drink, - As aromatic as the May - From which it steals the breath away, - And which he loved so well of yore; - It is of him that I would think. - You shall attend me, when I call, - In the ancestral banquet-hall. - Unseen companions, guests of air, - You cannot wait on, will be there; - They taste not food, they drink not wine, - But their soft eyes look into mine, - And their lips speak to me, and all - The vast and shadowy banquet-hall - Is full of looks and words divine! - - _Leaning over the parapet._ - - The day is done; and slowly from the scene - The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, - And puts them back into his golden quiver! - Below me in the valley, deep and green - As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts - We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river - Flows on triumphant through these lovely regions - Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent, - And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent! - Yes, there it flows, for ever, broad and still, - As when the vanguard of the Roman legions - First saw it from the top of yonder hill! - How beautiful it is! Fresh fields of wheat; - Vineyard and town, and tower with fluttering flag, - The consecrated chapel on the crag, - And the white hamlet gathered round its base, - Like Mary sitting at her Saviour’s feet, - And looking up at his beloved face! - O friend! O best of friends! Thy absence more - Than the impending night darkens the landscape o’er! - -The next three scenes are exquisite in conception and execution. Prince -Henry has found refuge - - In the Odenwald. - Some of his tenants unappalled - By fear of death or priestly word— - _A holy family that make_ - _Each meal a supper of the Lord—_ - Have him beneath their watch and ward. - For love of him, and Jesus’ sake! - -The pictures which follow of Gottlieb, his wife Ursula, and Elsie, his -daughter, the heroine of the poem, are beautiful and touching -representations of the sturdy honesty and sublime simplicity of faith, -which distinguished the religious German peasant-family of the old time. -A legend of the Monk Felix, which Prince Henry reads, while Elsie is -gathering flowers for him and for St. Cecelia, is truly “golden.” We -cannot resist the temptation to quote a portion of it. - - One morning, all alone, - Out of his convent of gray stone, - Into the forest older, darker, grayer, - His lips moving as if in prayer, - His head sunken upon his breast - As in a dream of rest, - Walked the Monk Felix. All about - The brood, sweet sunshine lay without, - Filling the summer air; - And within the woodlands as he trod, - The twilight was like the Truce of God - With worldly wo and care; - Under him lay the golden moss; - And above him the boughs of hemlock-trees - Waved, and made the sign of the cross, - And whispered their Benedicites; - And from the ground - Rose an odor sweet and fragrant - Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant - Vines that wandered, - Seeking the sunshine, round and round. - - These he heeded not, but pondered - On the volume in his hand, - A volume of Saint Augustine, - Wherein he read of the unseen, - Splendors of God’s great town - In the unknown land, - And, with his eyes cast down - In humility, he said: - “I believe, O God, - What herein I have read, - But alas! I do not understand!” - - And lo! he heard - The sudden singing of a bird, - A snow-white bird, that from a cloud - Dropped down, - And among the branches brown - Sat singing - So sweet, and clear, and loud, - It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringing. - And the Monk Felix closed his book, - And long, long, - With rapturous look, - He listened to the song, - And hardly breathed or stirred, - Until he saw, as in a vision, - The land Elysian, - And in the heavenly city heard - Angelic feet - Fall on the golden flagging of the street. - And he would fain - Have caught the wondrous bird, - But strove in vain; - For it flew away, away, - Far over hill and dell, - And instead of its sweet singing - He heard the convent bell - Suddenly in the silence ringing - For the service of noonday. - And he retraced - His pathway homeward sadly and in haste. - -When the monk returns to the convent, every thing is changed. He finds -himself a stranger among the brotherhood. - - “Forty years,” said a Friar, - “Have I been Prior - Of this convent in the wood; - But for that space - Never have I beheld thy face.” - -At last the oldest recluse of the cloister recollects his name as that -of a monk, who, a hundred years before, had left the convent, and never -returned. - - And they knew, at last, - That such had been the power - Of that celestial, immortal song, - A hundred years had passed, - And had not seemed so long - As a single hour! - -Elsie learns that the malady of the prince will never be cured unless by -a miracle, or unless (which some Benedicts would pronounce equally -miraculous) a maiden should offer her life for his, and die in his -stead. She immediately expresses her desire to save the prince at this -sacrifice; and to the exclamation of her mother, that she knows not what -death is, she answers with a burst of religious fervor almost celestial: - - ’Tis the cessation of our breath. - Silent and motionless we lie; - And no one knoweth more than this. - I saw our little Gertrude die; - She left off breathing, and no more - I smoothed the pillow beneath her head. - She was more beautiful than before. - Like violets faded were her eyes; - By this we knew that she was dead. - Through the open window looked the skies - Into the chamber where she lay, - And the wind was like the sound of wings, - As if angels came to bear her away. - Ah! when I saw and felt these things, - I found it difficult to stay; - I longed to die as she had died, - And go forth with her, side by side. - The Saints are dead, the Martyrs dead, - And Mary, and our Lord; and I - Would follow in humility - The way by them illumined! - -Prince Henry, uncertain whether he shall selfishly avail himself of this -sacrifice, goes to take counsel of the priest. Lucifer, however, in the -absence of the regular clergy, has seated himself in the confessional, -and, preaching the gospel of expediency, convinces Henry that he can -accept the maiden’s offer. She is to go with him to Salerno to die; and -before they start she exacts a promise from him that he shall not -endeavor to turn her from her purpose, and does it in words - - That fall from her lips - Like roses from the lips of angels; and angels - Might stoop to pick them up! - -A large portion of the rest of the poem is devoted to representations of -the cities, towns, forests through which they pass on their way to -Salerno, the cloisters and convents where they stop, and the -many-colored and multiform life with which they come slightly in contact -or collision. The thread of the story is here spun very fine, and we -almost lose memory of the hero and heroine, while rapt in the gorgeous -pictures of medieval superstition, manners and character, with which the -page is crowded. It is evident that the story itself is too slight for -the bulk of the book, and that the majority of the scenes, vivid and -delightful as they are in themselves, have not that vital connection -with the chief characters and leading event which is demanded in a work -of art. And yet, if the reader sharply scrutinizes the whole impression -which the poem leaves on his imagination, he will, perhaps, discover -that there is a fine thread of union connecting the various parts, and -that the incidents and scenery of the journey have not that merely -mechanical juxtaposition which characterizes the events and scenes -recorded in a tourist’s journal. The prince and Elsie are felt when they -are not seen; and we do not know but that the poem may awake the -admiration of future critics for the singular refinement of the -imaginative power, by which the seemingly heterogeneous parts of the -work are subtly organized into a homogeneous whole, by the connection of -the profound Catholic sentiment of Elsie with the other expressions, -grotesque and besotted, of the operation of the same faith. But such -refinements are foreign to our purpose here. It is sufficient to say -that the prince and Elsie appear at least on the edges of all the -incidents which are so vividly presented. At the conclusion, the prince -repents just as Elsie is on the point of being immolated, and then finds -that his health recovers more rapidly on the prospect that she will live -for him, instead of die for him. They are accordingly married. The -account of the return to the cottage of Gottlieb and the castle of the -prince, is very beautiful. Elsie is, perhaps, Longfellow’s finest -creation, representing a woman so perfectly good, that her principles -have become instincts. The devil that appears in the book, though -sufficiently Satanic to frighten some sensitive readers, is rather a -languid Lucifer, as compared with Milton’s or Goethe’s. - -Among the many curiosities of the poem is a play, ingeniously imitated, -in form and spirit, from those monstrosities of the early drama, the -Miracle Plays. The fourth part is devoted to a convent in the Black -Forest, and the soliloquy of Friar Claus, in the wine-cellar—of Friar -Pacificus, transcribing and illuminating MSS.—of the Abbot Ernestus, -pacing among the cloisters—and the convivial scene in the rectory—are -fine descriptions of cloistered life, true both to the ideas and facts -of the time. The passionate confession of the Abbess Irmingard to Elsie, -is in Longfellow’s most powerful style, and has a fire and fierceness of -outright and downright passion, not common to his representations of -emotion. All of these would afford many choice passages for quotation; -we have but room, however, for Friar Cuthbert’s sermon, delivered in -front of the Strasburg Cathedral, on Easter Day. This, with a quaint -audacity of its own, elbows out even its betters in verse and sentiment, -and vehemently claims the right to be cited: - - Friar Cuthbert, _gesticulating and cracking a postilion’s whip_. - - What ho! good people! do you not hear? - Dashing along at the top of his speed, - Booted and spurred, on his jaded steed, - A courier comes with words of cheer. - Courier! what is the news, I pray? - “Christ is arisen!” Whence come you? “From court.” - Then I do not believe it; you say it in sport. - - _Cracks his whip again._ - - Ah, here comes another riding this way; - We soon shall know what he has to say. - Courier! what are the tidings to-day? - “Christ is arisen!” Whence come you? “From town.” - Then I do not believe it; away with you, clown. - - _Cracks his whip more violently._ - - And here comes a third, who is spurring amain; - What news do you bring, with your loose-hanging rein, - Your spurs wet with blood, and your bridle with foam? - “Christ is arisen!” Whence come you! “From Rome.” - Ah, now I believe. He is risen, indeed. - Ride on with the news, at the top of your speed! - - _Great applause among the crowd._ - - To come back to my text! When the news was first spread - That Christ was arisen indeed from the dead, - Very great was the joy of the angels in heaven; - And as great the dispute as to who should carry - The tidings thereof to the Virgin Mary, - Pierced to the heart with sorrows seven. - Old Father Adam was first to propose, - As being the author of all our woes; - But he was refused, for fear, said they, - He would stop to eat apples on the way! - Abel came next, but petitioned in vain, - Because he might meet with his brother Cain! - Noah, too, was refused, lest his weakness for wine - Should delay him at every tavern-sign; - And John the Baptist could not get a vote, - On account of his old-fashioned, camel’s-hair coat; - And the Penitent Thief, who died on the cross, - Was reminded that all his bones were broken! - Till at last, when each in turn had spoken, - The company being still at a loss, - The Angel, who rolled away the stone, - Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone, - And filled with glory that gloomy prison, - And said to the Virgin, “The Lord has arisen!” - -We think we have sufficiently quoted from this delightful volume to give -our readers an idea of its poetical merit. But no analysis or quotation -can do justice to the wealth of knowledge it evinces of the middle ages, -and to the various scholarship it displays. Longfellow, with a true -poetic insight and power of assimilation, has given us here the life and -spirit as well as the form of a by-gone age, so that the reader of the -poem can obtain more of the substance of knowledge from its pictured -page than from history itself. The work is not only one of uncommon -poetical excellence, but it is a triumph over difficulties inherent in -the subject, and over the subjective limitations of the author’s own -mind. It is broader if not higher than any thing he has previously -written, promises to be more permanently popular, and has the great -merit of increasing in the reader’s estimation with a second or even a -third perusal. - - * * * * * - - _Miscellanies. By the Rev. James Martineau. Boston: Crosby & - Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -Mr. Martineau has long been known to a numerous class of readers in this -country as an eloquent preacher and essayist. The present volume is -composed of philosophical essays, selected from his contributions to the -Westminster and Prospective Reviews, and is edited by the Rev. Thomas S. -King, of Boston, himself one of the most eloquent and accomplished of -New England clergymen. Mr. Martineau’s sermons have been repeatedly -reprinted, but this volume of Miscellanies conveys an impression of the -independence and fertility of his mind and the reach of his -acquisitions, which his sermons, with all their peculiar merit, would -never give. It evinces not only an interest in all the social and -religious problems which puzzle the present age, but a grasp of -scholarship extending far back over the philosophies and literatures of -other times and nations. The bent of his nature, however, is toward -mental hospitality to the radical opinions of the day, and new thoughts, -new hopes, even new paradoxes, are ever welcomed by his heart and -disposition when his cool head doubts, discusses, demurs, and withholds -its assenting judgment. He seems to have more sympathy for reformers -than their productions, as his rich and various culture enables him to -detect one-sidedness or superficiality in many a plan of amelioration, -the spirit of which he approves. Both, however, in politics and religion -he would be classed with the extremely “liberal” party; and though the -conservative elements of his mind are, to a discriminating reader, -visible in almost every page of the present volume, the author appears -all the while desirous to share the glorious unpopularity of a class of -thinkers with whom he but imperfectly sympathizes rather than to -indicate his points of disagreement with their schemes and systems. He -has a deep mental disgust for the moral timidity and intellectual -feebleness which characterize so many of the fashionable and -conventional thinkers on politics and theology, and is perhaps from this -cause too apt to overlook defects in heretical systems in his admiration -of the courage of the heretics. In his own words, “it is a dishonorable -characteristic of the present age, that on its most marked intellectual -tendencies is impressed a character of FEAR. While its great practical -agitations exhibit a progress toward some positive and attainable good, -all its conspicuous movements of thought seem to be retreats from some -apprehended evil. The open plain of meditation, over which, in simpler -times, earnest men might range with devout and unmolested hope, bristles -all over with directions showing which way we are _not_ to go. Turn -where we may we see warnings to beware of some sophist’s pitfall, or -devil’s ditch, or fool’s paradise, or atheist’s desert.” - -This “despair of truth,” this intellectual cowardice, is more offensive -to Mr. Martineau than unbelief itself. He describes the class of -thinkers he most dislikes in one sentence of beautiful sharpness. -“Checked and frightened,” he says, “at the entrance of every path on -which they venture, they _spend their strength in standing still_; or -devise ingenious proofs, that, in a world where periodicity is the only -progress, retrogradation is the discreetest method of advance.” His -whole volume is therefore a protest against the practice, common both in -England and the United States, of erecting in the republic of thought a -despotism of dullness and timidity, by which independent investigation -is to be allowed only so far as it results in fortifying accredited -systems, and a bounty is put on that worst form of disbelief, infidelity -to the laws of thought, the monitions of conscience, and the beckonings -of new and inspiring truths. But while he is properly angry at such -noodleism as this, which, if unlashed and unrebuked, would reduce men of -thought into a corporation of intellectual Jerry Sneaks, he does not -appear to us properly to distinguish between that independence which -seeks truth and that independence which is merely a blustering egotism, -and ostentatious exhibition of the commonplaces of error. His -discrimination is not always of that sort which detects through the -verbal disguises of moral energy the unmistakable features of moral -pertness. The charlatans of dignity and convention have provoked a -corresponding clique of charlatans, who revel in the bravadoes of -license and anarchy; and it is no part of a wise man’s duty to allow his -disgust of one form of nonsense to tempt him into championship of -another form, because it happens to be on the opposite extreme. - -The defect of Mr. Martineau’s nature appears to be the dominion of the -reflective portion of his nature over all its other powers. He is -emphatically a thinker, but a thinker on subjects so allied to sentiment -and passion, that some action should be combined with it, in order that -the mind shall receive no morbid taint, be not “sicklied o’er” by a -thought that broadens into unpractical comprehension. The fertility of -his mind in thoughts is altogether out of proportion to the vigor of his -nature, and though intellectually brave he is not intellectually robust. -Hence a lack of muscle and nerve in his most beautiful paragraphs; hence -the absence of electric force and condensed energy of expression in his -finest statements; hence a certain sadness and languor in the atmosphere -spread over his writings, the breathing of which does not invigorate the -mind so much as it enlarges its view. He communicates thoughts, but he -does not always communicate the inspiration to think. - -Although these drawbacks prevent us from ranking him, as a writer, in -the highest class—for a writer of the highest class impresses his -readers by the force of his character as much as by the affluence of his -conceptions and the beauties of his style—still Mr. Martineau ranks -high among contemporary prose writers for the sweetness, clearness, -pliancy and unity of his style, his happy felicities of imagery, his -unostentatious intellectual honesty, and his command of all the -rhetorical aids of metaphor, sarcasm and figurative illustration. His -style is also strictly vital, the exact expression of his nature as well -as opinions; but its melody is flute-like rather than clarion-like; is -so consistently ornate and so tuned on one key, that commonplaces and -originalities are equally clad in the same superb uniform, and move to -the music of the same slow march; and the sad earnestness and languor, -which we have mentioned as characterizing his will, steal mysteriously -out from his exquisite periods, and pass into the reader’s mind like an -invisible essence. Almost every professor of rhetoric would say that Mr. -Martineau is a better writer than the Bishop of Exeter, a church -dignitary for whom Mr. Martineau’s liberal mind has a natural antipathy. -Mr. Martineau has evidently a larger command of words and images, more -taste, more toleration, more intellectual conscientiousness and -comprehension, a better metaphysician, a more trustworthy thinker, with -less mosaic work in his logic, and less casuistry in his ethics. But -behind all the Bishop of Exeter’s sentences is a great, brawny, -hard-fisted, pugilistic, arrogant _man_, daring, confident, indomitable, -with as much will as reason, and with all his opinions so thoroughly -penetrated with the life-blood of his character that they have all the -force of bigotry and prejudice. He is equally unreasonable and -uncreative as a thinker, but his unreason has a vigor that Mr. -Martineau’s reason lacks. Wielding with his strong arm some piece of -medieval bigotry, he goes crashing on from sentence to sentence, angrily -pummeling and buffeting his opponents—a theological “ugly customer,” -who, when the rush of his coming is heard afar off, makes the -adversaries he is approaching glance instinctively to the -direction—“look out for the engine when the bell rings!” Mr. -Martineau’s large understanding would be benefited by some of the -Bishop’s will; and one is driven to the conclusion, that, a man of -purely independent thought, who abides in conceptions of his own, -entirely apart from authority, must be a genius of the first order to -escape from that weakness of will which distinguishes the most -adventurous of Mr. Martineau’s abstract and uninvigorating speculations. - -Indeed, in all declamations about the advantages of strict individualism -in matters of faith and speculation, there is not the right emphasis -laid on the distinction between abstract and concrete ideas. A faith -which rests on some union of authority with reason, which is connected -with institutions, which combines the principle of obedience with that -of liberty, may be narrow but it is sure to be strong, and if not -distinguished by reach of thought will compensate for that deficiency by -force of character. Mr. Martineau’s tendency is to the abstract, the -impalpable, the unrealized in speculation, and spends much of his -strength in supporting himself at the elevation of his thought. But as -his thinking is not on the level of his character, he insensibly exalts -opinion over life, and is more inclined to tolerate the excesses of -unbridled and unreasonable egotism, than the prejudices of pious -humility. As a thinker his mind demands breadth and largeness of view, -and we hardly think he could be satisfied with a saint who was not -something of a philosopher. But while he has a literary advantage over -his adversaries, they have a personal advantage over him. In courage, -even, there can be little doubt that the Bishop of Exeter is his -superior, for all the coarser human elements which enter into courage -Mr. Martineau lacks. Mr. Martineau has the courage to deny in his Review -any proposition which any established church might proclaim; but he -could not have assailed the Archbishop of Canterbury, and bearded Lord -Campbell, like the bishop. The difference in the case is, that the -bishop battled for a positive institution around which for years his -affections and passions had clustered; while Mr. Martineau has no such -inspiration to support the abstract conclusions of his intellect. - -The subjects of the essays in this volume are Dr. Priestley, Dr. Arnold, -Church and State, Theodore Parker’s Discourses of Religion, Phases of -Faith, The Church of England, and the Battle of the Churches. Of these -we have been particularly impressed with the analysis of the mental -character of Priestley, the review of Mr. Parker, and the articles -relating to the English Church. The essay on Dr. Arnold has something of -the some merit which distinguishes that on Dr. Priestley; it is acute in -the examination of principles but dull in the perception of character. -Mr. Martineau is always strong in the explication of ideas and the -statement and analysis of systems, but he constantly overlooks men in -his attention to the opinions they champion and represent. The dramatic -element not only does not exist in his mind, but he hardly accepts it as -a possibility of the human intellect; and therefore he always fails in -viewing ideas in connection with the individuality or nationality in -which they have their root, and is accordingly often unintentionally -intolerant to persons from his want of insight into the individual -conditions of their intellectual activity. But we gladly hasten from -these criticisms on his limitations to some examples of his peculiar -merits as a writer. In speaking of Dr. Priestley’s intellectual -processes as a scientific explorer and discoverer, he shrewdly remarks: -“He was the ample collector of materials for discovery rather than the -final discoverer himself; a sign of approaching order rather than the -producer of order himself. We remember an amusing German play, designed -as a satire upon the philosophy of atheism, in which Adam walks across -the stage, going to be created; and, though a paradox, it may be said -that truth, as it passed through Dr. Priestley’s mind, was going to be -created.” In referring to the purely independent action of Dr. -Priestley’s mind in the formation of his opinions, our analyst gives a -fine statement of the real sources of most men’s “positive” knowledge -and doctrines. “It would be difficult,” he says, “to select from the -benefactors of mankind one who was less acted upon by his age; whose -convictions were more independent of sympathy; in the whole circle of -whose opinions you can set down so little to the prejudgments of -education, to the attractions of friendship, to the perverse love of -opposition, to the contagion of prevailing taste, or to any of the -irregular moral causes which, independently of evidence, determine the -course of human belief.” Again, how fine is his statement of the -indestructibility of Christian faith: “Amid the vicissitudes of -intellect, worship retains its stability; and the truth, which, it would -seem, cannot be proved, is unaffected by an infinite series of -refutations. How evident that it has its ultimate seat, not in the -mutable judgments of the understanding, but in the native sentiments of -Conscience and the inexhaustible aspirations of Affection! The Supreme -certainly must needs be too true to be proved: and the highest -perfection can appear doubtful only to sensualism and sin.” - -“The Battle of the Churches,” the most exquisite in thought and style of -all the essays in the volume, and well-known to most readers for its -clear statement of the hold which Romanism has upon the affections of -mankind, contains many examples of the fine irony and bland sarcasm -which enter into the more stimulating ingredients of Mr. Martineau’s -softly flowing diction. His statement of Comte’s Law of Progression, as -followed by his view of the complicated theological discussions which -now divide England into furious parties, is most demurely comical. “In -1822,” he commences, “a French philosopher discovered the grand law of -human progression, revealed it to applauding Paris, brought the history -of all civilized nations to pronounce it infallible, and computed from -it the future course of European society. The mind of man, we are -assured by Auguste Comte, passes by invariable necessity through three -stages of development: the state of religion, or fiction; of -metaphysics, or abstract thought; of science, or positive knowledge. No -change in this order, no return upon its steps, is possible; the shadow -cannot retreat upon the dial, or the man return to the nature of the -child. Every one who is not behind the age will tell you, that he has -outlived the theology of his infancy and the philosophy of his youth, to -settle down on a physical belief in the ripeness of his powers. And so, -too, the world, passing from myth to metaphysics, and from metaphysics -to induction, begins with the Bible and ends with the ‘_Cours de -Philosophie Positive_.’ To the schools of the prophets succeeds -‘_L’Ecole Polytechnique_;’ and our intellect, having surmounted the -meridians of God and the Soul, culminates in the apprehension of -material nature. Henceforth the problems so intensely attractive to -speculation, and so variously answered by faith, retire from the field -of thought. They have an interest, as in some sense the autobiography of -an adolescent world: but they were never to return in living action upon -the earth.” - -We can only, in conclusion, recommend to our readers an examination of -this volume, and to its editor a continuation of his well-rewarded -labors in Mr. Martineau’s mine. - - * * * * * - - _The Women of Early Christianity. A Series of Portraits, with - appropriate Descriptions, by several American Clergymen. Edited - by Rev. J. A. Spencer, M. A. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. - 8vo._ - -This magnificent volume, with its superb illustrations, letter-press and -binding, seems to have been published with a determination to rival -those English houses who supply the American market with splendid -gift-books. It contains seventeen ideal portraits, engraved from -original designs for this work, and conveying all the varieties of -expression which religious emotion communicates to the human -countenance, from the humblest penitence to loftiest rapture. The -notices are by the editor, assisted by Dr. Sprague, Dr. Kip, Dr. Ingen, -Dr. Parks, the Rev. Mr. Osgood, and a few other eminent clergymen. The -volume will be found especially interesting to those who delight in -whatever increases their knowledge of the manners and the character, the -sufferings and the heroic resolution of the early Christians. The lives -of these women is a representation of Christianity as embodied in -feminine character; and the study is curious in its metaphysical as well -as its theological aspect. Among the best of the communicated articles, -is that of St. Agnes, by Mr. Osgood. The conclusion we quote for the -pointedness of its application. “To us,” says Mr. Osgood, “this Roman -girl stands as a sacred ideal of the Christian maiden. Her name we may -not invoke in prayer. Her purity and heroism we may admire and commend -to the honor of the maidens of our time, who are tempted by powers more -insidious than the arts and threats of Sempronius. The world has not -changed its heart so much as its creed and costume. Its corrupt fashions -would tyrannize over our daughters with the pride of the Cæsars, and a -meretricious literature lurks in our journals and romances more -dangerous to maidenly purity than the den of shame which assailed only -to illustrate the virtue of Agnes. True to her soul and to her Saviour, -the Christian maiden wins to her brow a radiance which, instead of being -dimmed by marriage, is rather brightened by the affections of the wife -and the sacrifices of the mother, into the aureola of the saint.” - - * * * * * - - _Greenwood Leaves. A Collection of Sketches and Letters. By - Grace Greenwood. Second Series. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. - 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This series of sketches is superior to the first, and indicates plainly, -not only the growth of the author’s mind, but a firmer and more -confident grasp and control of her various resources of intellect, -sentiment and acquisition. It is the production of the same -individuality which gave zest to her first volume, but an individuality -of larger moral and mental stature. The full, easy, almost majestic flow -of emotion and sentiment, which gave vividness to the conceptions and -vigorous movement to the style of her former sketches, is visible here -in a brighter and more powerful form; and, it may be added, that the -faults proceeding from the intensity of her mind, and her custom of -surveying things which properly claim the decision of judgment through -an atmosphere of feeling, are not altogether absent from her present -work. She exaggerates both in her praise and blame; her eulogy being too -generous, her condemnation sometimes too sharp and indiscriminating; and -many of her criticisms are, therefore, but an ingenious and splendid -exhibition of likes and dislikes, rather than a record of intellectual -judgments. She has not yet obtained the faculty of viewing things as -they are in themselves, independent of the feelings they excite in her -own soul. This fault is a source of raciness, and doubtless makes her -books all the more stimulating to a majority of renders; but it would -seem that a mind which gives such unmistakable hints of sharp insight, -penetrating wit, and clear, intuitive reason as Grace Greenwood’s, -should keep the enthusiasm of her nature a little more under control; -and this could be done, we opine, without breaking up into waves and -ripples that superb sweep of her prose style, which is her great charm -as a writer. We may add that the Letters in this volume, especially -those from Washington, have often a delightful combination of -observation, wit and fancy, and in their rambling references to -individuals, almost raise gossip to the dignity of a fine art. - - * * * * * - - _Moby-Dick; or The Whale. By Herman Melville. New York: Harper - and Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This volume sparkles with the raciest qualities of the author’s voluble -and brilliant mind, and whatever may be its reception among old salts, -it will be sure of success with the reading public generally. It has -passages of description and narration equal to the best that Melville -has written, and its rhetoric revels and riots in scenes of nautical -adventure with more than usual glee and gusto. The style is dashing, -headlong, strewn with queer and quaint ingenuities moistened with humor, -and is a capital specimen of deliberate and felicitous recklessness, in -which a seeming helter-skelter movement is guided by real judgment. The -whole work beams with the analogies of a bright and teeming fancy—a -faculty that Melville possesses in such degree that it sometimes betrays -his rhetoric into fantastic excesses, and gives a sort of unreality to -his most vivid descriptions. The joyous vigor and elasticity of his -style, however, compensate for all faults, and even his tasteless -passages bear the impress of conscious and unwearied power. His late -books are not only original in the usual sense, but evince originality -of nature, and convey the impression of a new individuality, somewhat -composite, it is true, but still giving to the jaded reader of every-day -publications, that pleasant shock of surprise which comes from a mental -contact with a character at once novel and vigorous. - - * * * * * - - _The Land of Bondage; its Ancient Monuments and Present - Condition: Being a Journal of a Tour in Egypt. By J. M. - Wainwright, D. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._ - -This volume, one of the most sumptuous in external appearance of the -season, beautifully printed and profusely illustrated, has many peculiar -excellencies also as a book of travels. Dr. Wainwright is both an eager -and acute observer, and his volume bears continual evidence of the -patience with which he investigated for himself, his disregard of -discomfort and danger, and his desire to see with his own eyes what any -eyes had seen. The book is full of information, much of which is -valuable, and all of which is entertaining. The illustrations, -twenty-eight in number, are exceedingly well executed, and are important -aids to the author’s descriptions. The volume is one of the most elegant -that ever the Appletons have issued. - - * * * * * - - _Sixteen Months in the Gold Diggings. By Daniel B. Woods. New - York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -The author of this valuable volume is a man of education and -intelligence, who gives us the results of his observations and -experience during sixteen months of practical mining, and who, as having -written the most sensible book on the subject, deserves to have his -facts and opinions carefully studied by every man who meditates a -California journey. The extravagant expectations formed by most -emigrants have been miserably baulked by the stern realities of the -case, and the plain facts given by Mr. Woods will, we hope, induce the -adventurous portion of the public to pause and reflect before they -undertake an enterprise whose common result is four dollars a day, and -broken health, instead of a fortune. - - * * * * * - - _The Practical Metal Worker’s Assistant. With Numerous - Engravings on Wood. Containing the Arts of Working all Metals - and Alloys, Forging of Iron and Steel, etc. etc. By Oliver - Byrne. Philadelphia: Henry Carey Baird, Successor to E. L. - Carey._ - -This is another of the very valuable series of works upon the Arts of -Mechanics, which Mr. Baird has, with great shrewdness, made his own. The -series embraces the whole, or nearly the whole, of the various -mechanical branches of trade, and cannot fail to reach a wide sale, and -to remain standard authorities upon the subjects of which they severally -treat. - - * * * * * - - - - - GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK. - - -Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges. - - -Reader! we have determined to be more familiar with you. We shall talk -right at you, in defiance of any over nice rules. If you like us, we -shall have much to say to you—telling plain truths in our own off-hand -way, and occasionally giving you a punch in the ribs with our -fore-finger, by way of impressment. _Our_ punch, however, is “our own -peculiar”—with but little acid—and may be taken in moderation, without -fear of a headache from its excessive strength. It is new, and though -not as heady as the imported, it costs us no pains of conscience by way -of unpaid duties. Like the old lady’s gingerbread, “it costs nothing to -make, for the molasses is already in the house.” So you may make a meal -on ours, and spices being hot, you will find yourself comfortable -without a bear-skin. Indeed we hope to make “vituals and drink and -pretty good clothes” out of it ourself, and to be vulgar and quote a -proverb, “What is fat for the goose _ought_ to be fat for the gander.” -So you see you are in for a living as long as you read “Graham.” But -whether a person of robust constitution could survive long on the viands -that are served up at some of the other magazine tables, is a question -more in the line of another Graham to answer—who has invented a bran -new way of growing gracefully stout, on the shadow of cabbages, by a -process of “small by degrees and beautifully less.” It is expected that -any fellow who comes to our table shall smoke his cigar, and laugh with -the rest of the company, and not mar the general hilarity by looking -grave (? stupid) and asking when the fun is over—“What is it all -about?” - - * * * * * - - - THAT BILL AGAIN! - -[Illustration: A man is seated at a table and a woman presents him with -a magazine.] - -_Wife._ Now here is my Graham for February, with 112 pages, as the -editor promised, and you have never sent him that $3. Aint you ashamed -of yourself! - -_Husband._ Don’t bother me—I am busy. - -_Wife._ Well—the money _shall_ go, as I shall put it in a letter—put a -three cent stamp upon it, and post it this very day. - -_Cross Husband._ Money is worth 2 per cent. a month—let the fellow -wait! - -Reader—that is the very reason we can’t wait. We are poor, and we want -every dollar. We have a fancy for _short_ paper ourself, now. “Cash on -the nail, or no books.” Having $10,000 at sea, that we should like to -see, of last year’s bright prospects, we shall trust no more, and go in -debt no deeper. Wisdom and Poverty are Fellows in our college. - -If Magazine publishers could only, like cotton brokers, draw against -shipments, what a delightful business they would have. But who advances -cash upon snowed-up mails? Who has an available credit in bank, or can -go at the market rates upon over-due subscriptions? Not Graham! - -You can’t conceive how agreeable it is not to have a discount—to be -able to look a Bank Director in the face without asking him if “they are -doing any thing now”—to feel perfectly indifferent as to whether your -friend has “any thing over”—to know that you have no interest in the -gold that is going to England—to be able to say to a dun, “look you, -fellow! I have no money, and you know it!” - -[Illustration: hand with finger pointing] Mail the money at once, _at -our risk_—Don’t wait for - - The Traveling Collector. - -_For $10 we send Graham for five years._ - - * * * * * - -A Horrible Deafness.—Godey, in praising the plates of his own number -for January, says, “We have never _heard_ of any other Magazine giving -an original plate.” Well! as we gave _four_ “original engravings” in -January, and three of them from original designs, we have hopes of -working a miracle on Godey. “The eagle suffers little birds to sing.” - - * * * * * - -Refreshing.—The editor of the International Magazine asserts that as -his German articles are _germaine_ to the American spirit—his is the -most _American_ of all the magazines. A nice Irish bull for a doctor of -divinity. “Cousin! let there be less of this, I pray you.” - -The editor of the _Boston Farmer_, wearied with the toils of the field, -turns poet, and comes down upon our December number in the following -epigram. It is evident he is no judge of “picture books.” - - Mr. Graham, now don’t you be vexed, - But own up to the insinuation; - You’ve given us _six_ pages of text, - And _fifty_ of mere illustration! - -You shall not run the teeth of your poetical harrow over us in that -fashion, Mr. _Farmer_—so here’s at you! - - ’Tis plain you’re no judge of a baby, - Or ladies that we put much cost on; - Although we’ve no doubt that you may be - A very good farmer—_for Boston_. - -Dost think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and -ale? Why, look you, sir! We were a farmer’s boy ourself once—but we -mowed, reaped, cradled, ploughed, ditched, and chopped wood—we didn’t -write execrable poetry, upon pretty women and innocent children. How are -crops in State Street? - - * * * * * - -“Bizarre.”—This is the title of a neat periodical—issued in the style -of Dickens’ Household Words, and it is filled with graceful and -sparkling tributes from the pen of Mr. Church, its editor. We have a -right to speak out in meeting about Church, for he was an associate of -ours in Auld Lang Syne—in a daily paper—and we know him. His modest, -gentlemanly demeanor conceals a world of honest good stuff, of which a -dozen literary reputations could be made, if cut up and divided among -the “distinguished contributors” of some periodicals. The readers of the -Bizarre will soon have occasion to admit this. - - * * * * * - -Arthur’s Home Gazette.—We call the attention of our readers to the -prospectus of this valuable literary Journal; and we do it with the more -heartiness as we have known its editor intimately for many years, and -have known him as one of the most upright, consistent, laborious, -talented, yet modest of our literary men. Mr. Arthur is an earnest, good -man—practically the moral editor he pretends to be—there is no sham or -flummery in his composition, but truthful and fearless, he conducts his -Journal as much as a matter of conscience, as a matter of dollars. He is -totally free, too, of all small jealousies of other people’s -success—but with a keen eye to life and its surroundings, he attends -rigidly to his own concerns, and labors to embody his observations and -experiences, so as to make men wiser and better. - -To his well-known ability as an author, Mr. Arthur unites the rare gift -of a capital writer for a journal, seizing with happy tact upon the -passing occurrences of the hour, and so combining them with his own -manly reflections as to give us just views of life and of its -responsibilities, too, at the same glance. In the management of his -journal Mr. A. has had the sagacity to enlist brains—the best writers -are among his regular contributors, and without any parade or pretence, -he quietly issues his sheet each week, teeming with thought, and -overflowing with the generous sentiments of a thorough Christian -gentleman. - -If any of our readers desire to see a copy of the Gazette, he will -furnish it upon application—if they desire to subscribe they can have -this Magazine and that paper for $4. We have spoken frankly of Mr. -Arthur and his paper—we have spoken what we believe. - - * * * * * - -Plain Talk.—It has become fashionable to tell all manner of fibs to the -country by _prospectus_ and editorial personal horn-blowing. We shall -stop this business right off, as if ’twere a sort of gas burner. Why not -tell the whole truth at once, without attempting to throw dust in -people’s eyes about extra pages when there are none—or new fashions, -which are but copies of old French designs—American literature -contributed by English and Swedish writers, or by Mrs. Hall, an Irish -lady. Jonathan is not as stupid as he looks, and we doubt whether there -is much _made_ in attempting to cheat him. So here’s into the -confessional—Jontey, my boy, the plate called “Sweet Sixteen,” in this -number, was not engraved for Graham—and you will observe he does not -say it was—but it cost us $120 for all that, on account of its beauty. -If you have never seen it, you will like it much—if you have, go one -eye on it from an original point of view, and refresh your -admiration—that’s a good boy! If that engraving don’t suit you, look at -Père-la-Chaise, which we paid Rolph, of New York, $175 for engraving; or -admire Devereux’s fine wood-engravings. Then take up the literary -department and read _that_, and if you haven’t got your “quarter’s -worth,” amuse yourself with reading the advertisements on the cover. - - * * * * * - -The Froth of Small Beer.—One word as to the sly hits at us for engaging -“Mr. James, an English writer.” Well! Mr. James _is_ a writer of -English, and notwithstanding the gnat-like buzzing of small critics who -singe their wings in his light, we think him one of the most agreeable -of all novel writers. He is a gentleman, of modest demeanor, who does -not come to this country to raise a hurrah, or a row, by flattering our -vanity or assailing our foibles. He has settled snugly down on his farm -at Stockbridge, Massachusetts—claims the proper protection of his -property as a resident citizen, by copyrighting his books; and attends -quietly to his own affairs. We paid him $1200 for his novel, and think -it a good one—he is satisfied—we are satisfied—and the readers of -Graham are delighted. So that we hope to survive the small malice of -small men. If Graham lives, he will, before he closes the year 1852, -have the largest list of good paying subscribers that ever blessed a -publisher’s eyes with the sight of dollars, and will show such energy -_in_ “Graham” as will astonish those who imitate, but can never excel, -and whose highest achievement it is, to be looking through a piece of -smoked glass, in the vain hope of seeing an eclipse of Graham’s -Magazine. - - * * * * * - -Always 112 Pages.—At the risk of being thought a little malicious, as -well as prophetical, we ask of our readers, and of editors with whom we -exchange, to compare the quantity of literary matter in Graham of this -month, with those who endeavor to follow in our footsteps with the -January number, but trip up, or get leg-weary as soon as the number is -published, and the _subscriptions_ are received. - -We also ask—and in this we do _not_ think we are impertinent, that our -editorial friends will, in so far as their leisure will permit, look -over Graham before noticing it, even if the notice be delayed a week or -more. We are in no expiring agony or apprehension that we are forgotten -by our exchanges—so we can wait their pleasure about the notice always; -and should prefer a candid expression of sentiment, favorable or -adverse, to any solicited puffery. Indeed, it would be refreshing to be -scored up a little or quizzed once in a while. Only if you have but _a -word_ or _a line_, to say of Graham, don’t bundle him into a bag with -any body! He comes to your table by invitation—so give him his own -plate and knife and fork; and if you treat him to but plain fare, he -will be as jolly as if you champagned him, or killed the fattest -chicken, in your desire to honor his visit with a barbecue. - -Our readers, of course, _read_ “Graham”—they can _tell_ their -acquaintances what a happy rascal he is, and how much they miss it by -not having him drop in upon them these long winter evenings. Will you do -this?—each _one_ of you—YOU! - - * * * * * - -A New Feature.—In addition to, and separate from, the regular review of -new books, we shall introduce a new feature in “Graham”—that of giving -well-chosen chapters of new books—bound volumes which do not readily -find their way into a large circulation—that our readers, far and near, -may be kept _booked_ up in all that appertains to the fresh literature -of the day. In this number, we give a short chapter from Ik Marvel’s new -work—“Dream-Land”—and in subsequent numbers of “Graham,” shall devote -some eight or ten pages to interesting and sparkling chapters or -passages of choice and rare volumes, the proof sheets of which we can -often obtain in advance. The great addition to _the size_ of the -Magazine, readily affords us space for this improvement—and if our -readers receive but half the gratification which we design to impart to -them by this new feature, Graham will be amply rewarded. - - * * * * * - -The Home Journal.—One of the most delightful of all the journals we -have upon our exchange—and they number _over twelve hundred_—is the -Home Journal of New York, Edited by N. Parker Willis and George P. -Morris, two men whose _names_ are household words, and whose fine genius -seems to expand in its sparkling pages. There is no paper in the country -upon which there is such manifest employment of brain-work or -pains-taking labor—of tact or taste. The editorial page alone will -furnish food, at any time, for a day of pleasant reflection—the whole -sheet, indeed, is the siftings of golden sand. It is a sort of -intellectual placer, where Beauty may grow radiant and wise. - - * * * * * - -Liberal.—Duval, of The Phœnix, Camden, Ala., offers to exchange his -Weekly with the Daily of the Boston Post, provided Green will publish -his prospectus _six times_. If Green declines that offer he don’t -deserve his name. Duval has a fair hit at the catch-penny affairs which -offer to give an exchange and an “engraving,” (? wood-cut) as a premium -to those who publish a two-column prospectus and get up a club. - -It is about time the country press took this matter in hand. We send -“Graham” to whom we please, and if noticed—well, if not—weller. We -shall not die out from exhaustion if an editor with whom we exchange -fails to say that Graham _is_, or is not, “himself again”. - - * * * * * - -Welcome Brother.—We welcome to the corps editorial of the Magazine -fraternity, John Sartain, Esq., who, with all the blushing honors thick -upon him as an artist of the first ability, comes like another Alexander -to conquer in a new field. We have confidence in Mr. Sartain’s tact and -taste, and look for a very fresh, sparkling and original periodical. Mr. -S. is a disciple of the doctrine of progress—“_onward!_” is his -motto—though all the fiends oppose. He is a revolutionizer, and has -commenced _cutting_ the heads off in style. We don’t want to take off -any thing in Sartain, but if he can “keep it up” long, he must get a new -bat-man for his Puck’s port-folio—not even a Puck could _stand_ that. - - * * * * * - -Wont Do It.—The State Guard of Wetumpka, Ala., “hopes George R. will -forgive it, for lending “Graham” to six young ladies.” The sin is -unpardonable. Look you—Messrs. Hardy and Stephens! what right have you -to be making love to half a dozen pretty girls? Where are their beaux, -that each of them has not a “Graham” of her own? Inquire into this -business, and report at the next meeting. No young lady has a right to -read “Graham” unless her beau pays the damage. - - * * * * * - -Godey will find it impossible to get the Mote out of his own eye, when -he contrasts “Sweet Sixteen” in this number with his Americanized -Fashion plates, Our own have a beam of pleasure in them, as we gaze upon -its surpassing loveliness. The original _must be_ a beauty. We have -never seen her—indeed, should never have had this copy, were it not for -_a_ heart in the business, loading us to brave all dangers to conquer. - - * * * * * - -Robert Morris, of the Inquirer, is a friend that never wavers, but in -sunshine or in storm, his benignant countenance and cheering words are -never wanting Morris must have a rich treasury in the memory of good -deeds done—of kindly words spoken in dark hours to the sad and -desolate—a wealth of remembrance of generous hours, worth all the gold -of misers. - - * * * * * - -Acknowledged.—Godey had the most beautiful cover on his Magazine for -January that we have ever seen. Having beaten him in our Paris Fashion, -we submit and are penitent. - -We shall start a bank with Godey on the profits of our January -numbers—notes to be kept at par for thirty days. There is no joke in -this—it is as serious as Sartain’s fun. - - * * * * * - -Curious, Isn’t?—They intend, in Kentucky, to blacken the _noses_ of all -convicts, so that if they escape, they may be detected. Pike, of the -Flag, suggests that the operation be extended to all delinquent -subscribers to periodicals and newspapers—he _knows_. - -Graham lays down and expounds the law as it _ought to be_ applied to -those who _forget_ to pay up _once a year_. - - “Lives there a man with soul so dead - Who _never_ to himself hath said,” - _This_ is _the_ paper—and ’tis read— - I’ll go and pay the printer. - Then let his face be covered o’er, - That he may _face it out_—no more, - But, if he don’t pay up his score, - Remain an _aquatint_—er. - -Graham wrote the above under the inspiration of the discovery that he -has over $10,000 due on his books in little California lumps of $3—and -is poorer than he was last year—which he resists, and don’t intend to -stand. - -Graham had occasion last year to say, “take your country papers”—and -good doctrine it is, too; he says, _now_ “GO AND PAY FOR THEM!—TIME’S -UP!” - -[Illustration] - -Reader—this is a mournful picture—a sad evidence of the depravity of -man. This fellow has read, and has allowed his family to read, his -cousins and his neighbors, too, to ponder over, the lessons of wisdom -imparted by “Graham,” and yet for a year, or two years, or more, has not -paid. We are giving him _the Kentucky benediction_! But he has a chance -yet, you see—he must pay up before the next number is out, or we shall -make him as black as Sambo, and _tell you who he is_! - - * * * * * - -Harry Hazel, the editor, says, “The sailing qualities of ‘The Yankee -Privateer’ come fully up to our expectations. The breezes of popular -opinion are blowing freshly in her favor, and there in every prospect -that she will walk ‘like a thing of life.’” We thought, from her rig and -stowage, that she was a sort of _clipper_—for she has all the good -things in her. We wish her a fresh breeze and flowing _sale_. Harry -offers to “pay liberally for tough yarns.” Here is a chance for the -writers of some of the Magazine Prospectuses—_All hands ahoy!_ - - * * * * * - -Improving.—Brother Harper promises “_one_ or more original articles,” -and “_copious_ selections,” in the new volume. - -“One swallow does not make a summer,” nor will one swallow sustain “an -author and his family.” - -_Quære._ Whether “Swallow Barn” contains any allusion to authorial -capacity for gulping—Bird could tell. - - * * * * * - -Delusion Extraordinary.—To suppose that because a man is poor, he has -unlimited credit at bank, and can pay all manner of absurd bills and -drafts at sight—and gold going out at the rate of a million per -steamer, and the rocks in _California_ not all crushed, either. - - * * * * * - -Minute.—One of the Magazines, in _numbering_ the illustrations for the -month, treats us to the following: - -“No. IX. Pattern for Baby’s Cap, _one_ engraving, with directions for -working it in crotchet.” - - Who has a nice, small mitten - For a very young kitten? - Charley! I am afraid of your morals. - - * * * * * - -The Game Won.—Our January number was a “sensation number”—and the -press and the public are in ecstasies with it. “We turn up Jack” with -this number—having but one _point to make_. - - * * * * * - -Awful.—Snooks wants to know whether we have “still eighty thousand!” -No! we have a very noisy _one hundred and ten_—a good many of them -Temperance folk at that—clamorous for “more—still.” - - * * * * * - -Sartin.—A cotemporary says, “With the present number we _commence_ -securing the copyright of our Magazine.” Where’s the International -Americanized German Frenchman? - - * * * * * - -A Proper Present.—The New York Tribune, in noticing appropriate gifts -to those we love, at New Year, says, “A year’s subscription to some good -Periodical is an appropriate and excellent gift.” - -If you want to pay a delicate attention to your sweet-heart, send her -“Graham.” - - * * * * * - -Cheap Literature.—A new edition of Cooper’s novels is now in course of -publication in England, _in penny numbers_. - -_Husband._ “Economy, my dear, is the source of wealth.” - -_Wife._ “I wish, husband, you would go there.” - - * * * * * - - A “SPLENDID EMBELLISHMENT.” - -[Illustration: A silouette of a hatless man, standing with his back -toward a mirror, holding a long barreled shotgun over his shoulder -pointing at the mirror which has been shattered.] - -_A distressed black-man_, who seeing the portrait of his ladie-love in a -fashionable magazine, is driven to desperation, and blows the brains out -of—_his master’s best mirror!_—exclaiming, “Dat’s Dinah! _Sartin._” - - * * * * * - -Curious.—John S. Hart, L. L. D., has retired from the editorship of -Sartain’s Magazine, and the series of very funny religious illustrations -is ended. Sartain who is a graver man, now gives us comic cuts which are -sad enough to make a Momus weep. - - * * * * * - -Mr. James.—Several witty dogs wish to know “whether Mr. James has _the -solitary horseman_ in the novel now running through the pages of -Graham?” No. Any equestrian fond of solitary rides may put the novel in -his pocket without danger of having “the other fellow” with him. - -By the way, the American gentleman mentioned in the opening chapters of -Mr. James’ novel, in the January number, as having first stimulated his -ambition to become a literary man, is our own distinguished countryman -Mr. Washington Irving, as will be seen by the following letter from Mr. -James, addressed to us, in answer to an inquiry upon the subject: - - “_Stockbridge, Mass., 15 Dec., 1851._ - - “My Dear Sir—In answer to your note, inquiring, who was the - American gentleman to whom I alluded in the first part of the - work publishing in your Magazine, called “A Life of - Vicissitudes,” I have no reluctance at all to say that I spoke - of Mr. Washington Irving. My personal regard for that gentleman, - my esteem for him as a man, and my admiration of him as an - author are well known, and it must always be a pleasure to me to - acknowledge that a suggestion from him in early life, led me to - enter upon a career which has been eminently prosperous to - - Yours, faithfully, - G. P. R. James. - - “_Geo. R. Graham, Esq., Philadelphia._” - - * * * * * - -Scott’s Weekly Paper.—Scott, the great “Practical Printer” who was bred -in “Alexander’s time,” has, by eating a good deal of it, become a hero -in ours—and survived the decay which usually attaches itself to mortals -who press “the rugged pathway up the steeps of Fame.” He lives on -air—or at least on that _fast_ press which came off with a feed at the -Astor. Hoeing his own row most elegantly, he disdains in ’52 the mean -competition of trade, which leads men to haggle for sixpence profit, but -becomes a prophet himself, and carries out his own predictions. - -Scott, last year, having announced a sheet “as big as all out doors”—if -we except one from a Dutch barn in Berks—was accused of endeavoring to -pull down the whole literary temple, like another Sampson—of proceeding -at a gait that would not pay, and of throwing dust in people’s eyes, who -were expected to go it blind. The charge was a plain one—being -delivered by people who use the plain language—the inclined plane—and -Scott, who having lived “in Alexander’s time,” had opportunities to -observe that people who play with “edged tools,” however expert, are apt -to suffer from such familiarity with such hardware—determined, like a -true Caledonian as he is, to make somebody smart for it, and to - - “Meet the devil an’ Dundee.” - -So, never minding the expense, but paying his price like a man, he -rushed into the fray, shouting his war cry: - - “Cock up your beaver, - And cock it fu’ sprush, - We’ll over the border - And gie them a brush; - There’s something there - We’ll teach better behavior— - Hey, brave Johnnie lad, - Cock up your beaver.” - -The foe, who in all his life was no “devil,” soon found his head in -chancery, and “suffered some”—as “the Fancy” say—realizing, too, the -proverb, “that listeners hear no good of themselves” in the freedom of -debate of a legal set-to. - -Having witnessed the fight, and delivered a few hints in this game of -cross-purposes, we are testimony. In fact, we are rather more driven to -test other people’s money, now, than to handle our own. The battle was -not drawn—but a check for $500 was—to put a check upon future -proceedings out of the pale of equity—and Scott was conqueror! - - “So said—so done—he made no more remark, - Nor waited for replies; - But marched off with his prize— - Leaving the vanquished merchants in the dark.” - -Most men would have reposed upon their laurels, and considered the glory -sufficient, but the redoubted cotemporary of Alexander now “carries the -war into Africa,” and in abounding greatness—“very like a whale”—“_a -Leviathan_” great, he comes forth a terror to see. - -There is nothing like Scott in the museum—indeed, he is a museum in -himself and a whole circulating-library in the bargain. He counts more -feet of paper than any poet could measure in a month, and threatens to -stop the supply of all small dealers. The rumor that Scott has -_purchased_ a paper-mill, is, we are assured, “an invention of the -enemy”—having been successful in one mill, he turns his thoughts to the -million, and _feels_ a good deal like Park Benjamin, when he exclaims, - - “The whole boundless continent is ours!” - -Though nobody ever believed Park, for he was never with Alexander in his -campaigns, when he took the world by arts—not arms. Not “The New -World,” for that was rather heavy. We speak the truth—but speak it in -sadness, Park! for the day of “first-rate notices is over”—unless Scott -chooses to call this “one of ’em”—and this is over. - - * * * * * - -The “Rival Captives.”—This story—the publication of which we were -obliged to suspend in November, in consequence of the severe illness of -the author—we shall conclude in our next issue; the _last part_ having -reached us too late for this number. - - * * * * * - -_Freas_, of the Germantown Telegraph, has justified his name, like a -good printer, as he is, and has locked up his notice of our January -number, in the ice, somewhere. His paper of Dec. 24th has never reached -us, breaking our file, and the heart, too, of a very lovely woman. - - * * * * * - -A loss.—Some of the most beautiful engravings printed up and intended -for forthcoming numbers of Graham’s Magazine, were ruined by the fire at -Hart’s Building. Graham was in the same predicament himself once, but he -rose like a phœnix from the ashes. He has already selected some of his -most beautiful original drawings and engravings, and has artists and -copper-plate printers at work night and day. Graham will be as handsome -as ever when he appears, and will be called “sweet” by whole bevies of -pretty girls. It is a fact worthy of mention, that there is not upon the -whole list of Graham a single ugly woman. There is something in -philosophy about _attraction_ and _repellents_, (or ought to be,) which -our friend Bird, of the North American, could _tell_ all about, but -which we realize in being surrounded by “a _blaze_ of beauty,” which -used to light Godey’s path when he was younger. It is astonishing how -popular Magazine publishers are when they are young! But Godey has been -“_a publisher_ for twenty-two years!” _Shocking!_ Yet there is -consolation in this, too, for some of the Magazines will never be able -to imitate Godey in that “feature”—we’ll bet a “dollar” on’t. - - * * * * * - -If people will say handsome things of “Graham,” the public must know it. -S. A. Godman, of South Carolina, has the following in his last week’s -paper: - -“The Best of the Monthlies.”—We always have had a partiality for -Graham. Years agone, before we ever dreamed of inditing a line for the -printer, many and many are the pleasant hours we have spent, beguiled -from all surrounding things, by the captivating articles with which -Graham, by an art known only to himself, has for years past kept his -Magazine—filled. In the days of our juvenility, too, not a few thoughts -have we spent, wondering what manner of man he was, who could thus -monthly gather together such an amount of valuable and interesting -reading matter—to say nothing of the choice embellishments that -accompanied it. And, in after times, when we had the pleasure of forming -his acquaintance, we found that the pictures of the imagination had -scarcely done justice, fairly drawn as they were, to the original—for, -than George R. Graham, there is not a more whole-souled, liberal, -generous, or enterprising man in the Union. With a kindness that has no -ebb, he is ever ready to appreciate merit in the young, and by his -means, and through his encouragement, have some of the best authors that -America can now boast of been induced to launch their barks—which since -have made such successful voyages—upon the sea of public opinion. His -liberality, too, keeps pace with his kindness—and instead of -endeavoring to underrate the value of brain-labor—he always stretches -his figures to the utmost limits of prudence—and whilst he advises like -a friend, he pays like a prince. Success, then, say we, to Graham, and -his Magazine! They both deserve it! And with a people so prompt to -perceive, and so ready to reward merit, as are the inhabitants of the -Southern States, to be encouraged, it is only necessary to deserve -encouragement. - -“Graham’s great rival now is Harper’s Magazine. But the palm by rights, -and all odds, belongs to the former. For whilst his January number now -lying before us, is equal to Harper’s in the amount and quality of its -literary contents, it far exceeds it in beauty of illustration—and in -the fact that its contributors are all honestly paid for their -labors.”—_Illustrated Family Friend, Columbia, S. C._ - - * * * * * - -Graham’s Magazine.—The January number of Graham is incomparably the -most magnificent periodical ever issued from the American press. -_Gazette, Bellefontaine, Ohio._ - - - CUT OFF, - AND - SHUT OUT. - -[Illustration: A silouette of a man wearing a tophat, looking upward -while standing in front of a door, and holding the severed end of a -bell-rope in his hand.] - -A young gentleman, who had failed to pay up for Graham, finds on -visiting the lady of his heart, that the bell-rope is cut, and the door -shut in his face. She having been notified that he had received _the -Kentucky benediction_. That is the word, and this the _style, now_. -Godey’s “Americanized Paris Fashions” are no touch to this—not half as -“truthful.” - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic -spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting 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. - -page 134, Father Bonneville. Sautane ==> Father Bonneville. Soutane -page 135, man or a paltroon, ==> man or a poltroon, -page 136, was gone we eat and ==> was gone we ate and -page 147, horses were unharnassed ==> horses were unharnessed -page 153, fearful _denouement_ of the ==> fearful _dénouement_ of the -page 153, whose näive and delicious ==> whose naïve and delicious -page 158, they had have little rest ==> they have had little rest -page 171, each others arms—and ==> each other’s arms—and -page 178, deep red dies of even ==> deep red dyes of even -page 189, of earlier day’s seemed ==> of earlier days seemed -page 216, joy of the angel’s ==> joy of the angels -page 219, Mobby-Dick; or The Whale. ==> Moby-Dick; or The Whale. - - -[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, February 1852] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, -February 1852, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 1852 *** - -***** This file should be named 60139-0.txt or 60139-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/1/3/60139/ - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net -from page images generously made available by Google Books - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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