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diff --git a/old/60141-0.txt b/old/60141-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d159524..0000000 --- a/old/60141-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12336 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 3, March 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. 3, March 1852 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - -Release Date: August 20, 2019 [EBook #60141] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, MARCH 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. March, 1852. No. 3. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - Granny’s Fairy Story - Spectral Illusions - Campaigning Stories (continued) - Law and Lawyers - A Life of Vicissitudes (continued) - Milton - The Miser and His Daughter - The Lost Deed (continued) - Beauty’s Retreat - Death - The Philadelphia Art-Union - Review of New Books - Graham’s Small-Talk - - Poetry and Music - - Belle’s Eyes - The Page - Lines Written on St. Valentine’s Day - “What do the Birds say?” - Leora - Dei Gratia, Rex - Our Childhood - I’ll Blame Thee Not - Elpholen. A Fragment - A Charm - Life’s Voyage - Bless The Homestead Law - The Deserted - The Babes of Exile - Write Thou Upon Life’s Page - Lines on a Vase of Flowers - To a Friend in the Spirit Land - Oh Share My Cottage - Stars of the Summer Night - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: A DACOTAH INDIAN COURTING. -Drawn by S. Eastman U.S.A. and Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by - F. Humphry.] - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: Boston Harbor.] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XL. PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1852. No. 3. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: An old woman leaning forward speaks to a child. “Once -upon a time.”] - - - - - GRANNY’S FAIRY STORY. - - - (FOR THE YOUNG FOLKS.) - - -There was a young woman so kind and sweet-tempered that every person -loved her. Among the rest, there was an old witch who lived near where -she dwelt, and with whom she was a great favorite. One day this old -witch told her she had a nice present to give her. “See,” she said, -“here is a barley-corn, which, however, is by no means of the same sort -as those which grow in the farmer’s field, or those we give to the -fowls. Now you must plant this in a flower-pot, and then take care and -see what happens.” - -“Thank you a thousand times,” said the young woman. And, thereupon, she -went straight home, and planted the barley-corn the witch had given her -in a flower-pot. Immediately there grew out of it a large, handsome -flower, but its leaves were all shut close as if they were buds. - -“That is a most beautiful flower!” said the woman, while she bent down -to kiss its red and yellow leaves; but scarcely had her lips pressed the -flower, than it gave forth a loud sound and opened its cup. And now the -woman was able to see that it was a regular tulip, and in the midst of -the cup, down at the bottom, there sat a small and most lovely little -maiden; her height was about one inch, and on that account the woman -named her Ellise. - -She made the little thing a cradle out of a walnut-shell, gave her a -blue violet-leaf for a mattress, and a rose-leaf for a coverlet. In this -cradle Ellise slept at night time, and during the day she played upon -the table. The woman had set a plate filled with water upon the table, -which she surrounded with flowers, and the flower-stalks all rested on -the edge of the water; on the water floated a large tulip-leaf, and upon -the tulip-leaf sat the little Ellise, and sailed from one side of the -plate to the other; and for this she used two white horse-hairs for -oars. The whole effect was very charming, and Ellise could sing too, but -with such a delicate little voice as we have never heard here. - -One night as she lay in her bed, an ugly toad hopped into her through -the broken window pane. It was a large and very hideous toad; and it -sprang at once upon the table, where Ellise lay asleep under the -rose-leaf. - -“That would be, now, a nice little wife for my son,” said the toad, and -seized, as she said it, the walnut-shell in her mouth, and hopped with -it out through the window into the garden again. - -Through the garden flowed a broad stream, but its banks were marshy, and -among the marshes lived the toad and her son. Ha! how hideous the son -was too; exactly like his mother he was, and all that he could say, when -he saw the sweet little maiden in the walnut-shell, was “Koax! koax! -breckke ke!” - -“Don’t talk so loud,” said the old one to him, “else you’ll awake her, -and then she might easily run away from us, for she is lighter than -swans’-down. We will set her upon a large plant in the stream; that will -be a whole island for her, and then she cannot run away from us; while -we, down in the mud, will build the house for you two to live in.” - -In the stream there were many large plants, which all seemed as if they -floated on the water; the most distant one was, at the same time, the -largest, and thither swam the old toad and set down the walnut-shell, -with the little maiden upon it. - -Early on the following morning the little Ellise awoke, and when she -looked about her and saw where she was, that her new dwelling-place was -surrounded on all sides by water, and that there remained no possible -way for her to reach land again, she began to weep most bitterly. - -Meanwhile the old toad sat in the mud and adorned the building with -reeds and yellow flowers, that it might be quite grand for her future -daughter-in-law, and then, in company with her hideous son, swam to the -little leaf-island where Ellise lay. - -She now wanted to fetch her pretty little bed, that it might at once be -placed in the new chamber, before Ellise herself was brought there. The -old toad bent herself courteously before her in the water, while she -presented her son in these words—“You see here my son, who is to be -your husband, and you two shall live together charmingly down in the -mud.” - -“Koax! koax! breckke-ke!” was all that the bridegroom could find to say. - -And, therewith, they both seized upon the beautiful little bed, and swam -away with it; while Ellise sat alone upon the leaf and cried very much, -for she did not like at all to live with the frightful toad, much less -have her odious son for her husband. Now the little fishes which swam -about under the water, had seen the toad, and heard, moreover, perfectly -well all that she said; they, therefore, raised their heads above water, -that they might have a look at the beautiful little creature. No sooner -had they seen her than they were, one and all, quite moved by her -beauty; and it seemed to them very hard that such a sweet maiden should -become the prey of an ugly toad. They assembled themselves, therefore, -round about the green stalk from which grew the leaf whereon Ellise sat, -and gnawed it with their teeth until it came in two, and then away -floated Ellise and the leaf far, far away, where the toad could come no -more. - -And so sailed the little maiden by towns and villages, and when the -birds upon the trees beheld her, they sang out—“Oh, what a lovely young -girl.” But away, away floated the leaf always further and further. -Ellise made quite a foreign journey upon it. - -For some time a small white butterfly had hovered over her, and at last -he sat himself down on her leaf, because he was very much pleased with -Ellise, and she, too, was very glad of the visit, for now the toad could -not come near her, and the country through which she traveled was so -beautiful. The sun shone so bright upon the water that it glittered like -gold. And now the idea occurred to her to loosen her girdle, bind one -end of it to the butterfly, the other on to the leaf; she did this and -then she flew on much faster, and saw much more of the world than she -would have done. - -But, at last, there came by a cock-chafer, who seized her with his long -claws round her slender waist, and flew away with her to a tree, while -on swam the leaf, and the butterfly was obliged to follow, for he could -not come loose, so fast and firm had Ellise bound him. - -Ah! how terrified was poor Ellise when the cock-chafer carried her off -to the tree. But her sorrow over the little butterfly was quite as -great, for she knew he must certainly perish, unless by some good -accident he should chance to free himself from the green leaf. But all -this made no impression upon the cock-chafer, who set her upon a large -leaf, gave her some honey to eat, and told her she was very charming, -although not a bit like a chafer. And now appeared all the other -cock-chafers who dwelt upon this tree, who waited upon Ellise, and -examined her from top to toe; while the young lady-chafers turned up -their feelers and said, “She has only two legs! how very wretched that -looks!” and added they, “she has no feelers whatever, and is as thin in -the body as a human being! Ah! it’s really hideous!” and all the young -lady-cock-chafers cried out, “Ah! it’s perfectly hideous!” And yet -Ellise was so charming! and so felt the cock-chafer; but at last, -because all the lady-chafers thought her ugly he began to think so too, -and resolved he would have nothing more to do with her; “she might go,” -he said, “wherever she liked;” and with these words he flew with her to -the ground, and set her upon a daisy. And now the poor little thing wept -bitterly, to find herself so hideous that not even a cock-chafer would -have any thing to do with her. But, notwithstanding this decisive -opinion of the young lady-cock-chafers, Ellise was the loveliest, most -elegant little creature in the world, as delicate and beautiful as a -young rose-leaf. - -The whole summer through the poor little maiden lived alone in the great -forest; and she wove herself a bed out of fine grass, and hung it up to -rock beneath a creeper, that it might not be blown away by the wind and -rain; she plucked herself sweets out of the flowers, for food, and drank -of the fresh dew, that fell every morning upon the grass. And so the -summer and the autumn passed away. All the birds which had sung so -sweetly to Ellise, left her and went away, the trees lost all their -green, the flowers withered, and the great creeper which, until now, had -been her shelter, shriveled away to a bare yellow stalk. The poor little -thing shivered with cold, for her clothes were now worn out, and her -form was so tender and delicate that she certainly would perish with -cold. It began also to snow, and every flake which touched her, was to -her what a great heapfull would be to us, for her whole body was only -one inch long. - -Close beside the forest in which Ellise lay, there was a corn-field, but -the corn had long since been reaped, and now, only the dry stubble rose -above the earth; yet, for Ellise was this a great forest, and hither she -came. So she reached the house of a field-mouse, which was formed of a -little hole under the stubble. Here dwelt the field-mouse warm and -comfortable, with her store-room full of food for the winter, and near -at hand a pretty kitchen and eating-room. Poor Ellise stepped up to the -door and begged for a little grain of barley, for she had tasted nothing -for the whole day. - -“You poor little wretch!” said the field-mouse, who was very -kind-hearted, “come in to my warm room and eat something.” And when now -she was much pleased with Ellise, she added, “you may if you like, spend -the winter here with me; but you must keep my house clean and neat, and -tell me stories, for I am very fond of hearing stories.” - -Ellise did as the field-mouse wished, and, as a reward for her trouble, -was made comfortable with her. - -“Now we shall have a visit,” said the field-mouse to her one day. “My -neighbor is accustomed to pay me a visit every week. He is much richer -than I am, for he has several beautiful rooms, and wears the most costly -velvet coat. Now if you could only have him for your husband, you would -be nicely provided for, but he does not see very sharply, that’s one -thing. Only you must tell him all the best stories you can think of.” - -But Ellise would hear nothing of it, for she could not endure the -neighbor, for he was nothing more nor less than a mole. He came, as was -expected, to pay his respects to the field-mouse, and wore his handsome -velvet coat as usual. The field-mouse said he was very rich, and very -well informed, and that his house was twenty times larger than hers. -Well informed he might be, but he could not endure the sunshine or the -flowers, and spoke contemptuously of both one and the other, although he -had never seen either. Ellise was obliged to sing before him, and she -sang the two songs—“Chafers fly! the sun is shining!” and “The priest -goes to the field!” Then the mole became very much in love with her -because of her beautiful voice, but he took good care not to show it, -for he was a cautious, sensible fellow. - -Very lately he had made a long passage from his dwelling to that of his -neighbor, and he gave permission to Ellise and the field-mouse to go in -it as often as they pleased; yet he begged of them not to be startled at -the dead bird which lay at the entrance. It was certainly a bird lately -dead, for all the feathers were still upon him, it seemed to have been -frozen exactly there where the mole had made the entrance of his -passage. - -Mr. Neighbor now took a piece of tinder in his mouth, and stepped on -before the ladies, that he might lighten the way for them, and as he -came to the place where the dead bird lay, he struck with his snout on -the ground, so that the earth rolled away, and a large opening appeared -through which the daylight shone in. And now, Ellise could see the dead -bird quite well—it was a swallow. The pretty wings were pressed against -the body, and the feet and head covered over by the feathers. “The poor -bird has died of cold,” said Ellise, and it grieved her very much for -the dear little animal, for she was very fond of birds, for they sang to -her all through the summer. But the mole kicked him with his foot and -said, “The fine fellow has done with his twittering now! It must indeed -be dreadful to be born a bird! Heaven be praised that none of my -children have turned out birds! Stupid things! they have nothing in the -wide world but their quivit, and when the winter comes, die they must!” - -“Yes,” returned the field-mouse, “you, a thoughtful and reflecting man, -may well say that! What indeed has a bird beyond its twitter when the -winter comes? he must perforce hunger and freeze!” - -Ellise was silent; but when the others had turned their backs upon the -bird, she raised up its feathers gently, and kissed its closed eyes. - -“Perhaps it was you,” she said softly, “who sang me such beautiful -songs! How often you have made me happy and merry, you dear bird!” - -And now the mole stopped up the opening again through which the daylight -fell, and then accompanied the young ladies home. But Ellise could not -sleep the whole night long. She got up, therefore, wove a covering of -hay, carried it away to the dead bird, and covered him with it on all -sides, in order that he might rest warmer upon the cold ground. -“Farewell, you sweet, pretty little bird!” said she. “Farewell! and let -me thank you a thousand times for your friendly song this summer, when -the trees were all green, and the sun shone down so warm upon us all!” -And therewith she laid her little head on the bird’s breast, but started -back, for it seemed to her as if something moved within. It was the -bird’s heart; he was not dead, but benumbed, and now he came again to -life as the warmth penetrated to him. - -In the autumn, the swallows fly away to warmer countries; and when a -weak one is among them, and the cold freezes him, he falls upon the -ground, and lies there as if dead, until the cold snow covers him. - -Ellise was frightened at first, when the bird raised itself, for to her -he was a great big giant, but she soon collected herself again, pressed -the hay covering close round the exhausted little animal, and then went -to fetch the curled mint-leaves which served for her own covering, that -she might lay it over his head. - -The following night she slipped away to the bird again, whom she found -now quite revived, but yet so very weak, that he could only open his -eyes now and then, to look at Ellise, who lighted up his face with a -little piece of tinder. - -“I thank you a thousand times, you lovely little child,” said the sick -swallow, “I am now so thoroughly warmed through, that I shall soon gain -my strength again, and shall be able to fly out in the warm sunshine.” - -“Oh! it is a great deal too cold out there,” returned Ellise, “it snows -and freezes so hard! only just stay now in your warm bed, and I will -take such care of you!” - -She brought the bird some water to drink out of a leaf, and then he -related to her how he had so hurt his wing against a thorny bush that he -could not fly away to the warm countries with his comrades, and at last -had fallen exhausted to the ground, where all consciousness left him. - -The little swallow remained here the whole winter, and Ellise attended -to him, and became every day more and more fond of him; yet she said -nothing at all about it to the mole or the field-mouse, for she knew -well enough already that neither of them could bear the poor bird. - -As soon, however, as the summer came, and the warm sunbeams penetrated -the earth, the swallow said good-bye to Ellise, who had now opened the -hole in the ground, through which the mole let the light fall in. The -sun shone so kindly, that the swallow turned and asked Ellise, his dear -little nurse, whether she would not fly away with him. She could sit -very nicely upon the swallow’s back, and then they would go away -together to the green forest. But Ellise thought it would grieve the -good field-mouse if she went away secretly, and therefore she was -obliged to refuse the bird’s kind offer. - -“Then, once more farewell, you kind, good maiden,” said the swallow, and -therewith he flew out into the sunshine. Ellise looked sorrowfully after -him, and the tears rushed into her eyes, for she was very fond of the -good bird. - -“Quivit! quivit!” sang the swallow, and away he flew to the forest. - -And now Ellise was very mournful, for she hardly ever left her dark -hole. The corn grew up far above her head, and formed quite a thick wood -round the house of the field-mouse. - -“Now you can spend the summer in working at your wedding-clothes,” said -the field-mouse, for the neighbor, the wearisome mole, had at last -really proposed for Ellise. “I will give you every thing you want, that -you may have all things comfortable about you, when you are the mole’s -wife.” - -And now Ellise was obliged to sit all day long busy at her clothes, and -the field-mouse took four clever spiders into her service, and kept them -weaving day and night. Every evening came the mole to pay his visit, and -every evening he expressed his wish that the summer would soon come to -an end, and the heat cease, for then, when the winter was here, his -wedding should take place. But Ellise was not at all happy to hear this, -for she could hardly bear even to look upon the ugly mole, for all his -expensive velvet coat. Every evening and every morning she went out at -the door, and when the wind blew the ears of corn apart, and she could -look upon the blue heaven, she saw it was so beautiful out in the open -air, that she wished she could only see the dear swallow once more; but -the swallow never came; he preferred rejoicing himself in the warm -sunbeams in the green woods. - -By the time autumn came, Ellise had prepared all her wedding-garments. - -“In four weeks your wedding will take place,” said the field-mouse to -her; but Ellise wept, and said she did not want to have the stupid mole -for a husband. - -“Fiddle-de-dee,” answered the field-mouse—“Come, don’t be obstinate, or -I shall be obliged to bite you with my sharp teeth. Isn’t he a good -husband that you’re going to have? Why, even the queen hasn’t such a -fine velvet coat to show as he has! His kitchen and his cellar are -well-stocked, and you ought rather to thank Providence for providing so -well for you!” - -So the wedding was to be! Already was the mole come to fetch away -Ellise, who, from henceforth, was to live always with him. Deep under -the earth, where no sunbeam could ever come! The little maiden was very -unhappy, that she must take her farewell of the friendly sun, which at -all events she saw at the door of the field-mouse’s house. - -“Farewell, thou beloved sun!” said she, and raised her hands toward -heaven, while she advanced a few steps from the door; for already was -the corn again reaped, and she stood once more among the stubble in the -field. “Adieu, adieu!” she repeated, and threw her arms round a flower -that stood near her, “Greet the little swallow for me, when you see him -again,” added she. - -“Quivit! quivit!” echoed near her in the same moment, and, as Ellise -raised her eyes, she saw her well-known little swallow fly past. As soon -as the swallow perceived Ellise, he too, became quite joyful, and -hastened at once to his kind nurse; and she told him how unwilling she -was to have the ugly mole for her husband, and that she must go down -deep into the earth, where neither sun nor moon could ever look upon -her, and with these words she burst into tears. - -“See now,” said the swallow, “the cold winter is coming again, and I am -flying away to the warm countries, will you come and travel with me? I -will carry you gladly on my back. You need only to bind yourself fast -with your girdle, so we can fly away far from the disagreeable mole, and -his dark house, far over mountains and valleys, to the beautiful -countries, where the sun shines much warmer than it does here; where -there is summer always, and always beautiful flowers blooming. Come, be -comforted, and fly away with me, dear, kind Ellise, who saved my life -when I lay frozen in the earth.” - -“Yes, I will go with you,” cried Ellise joyfully. She mounted on the -back of the swallow, set her feet upon his out-spread wings, bound -herself with her girdle to a strong feather, and flew off with the -swallow through the air, over woods and lakes, valleys and mountains. -Very often Ellise suffered from the cold when they went over icy -glaciers and snowy rocks; but then she concealed herself under the wings -and among the feathers of the bird, and merely put out her head to gaze -and wonder at all the glorious things around her. - -At last, too, they came into the warm countries. The sun shines there -clearer than with us; the heavens were a great deal higher, and on the -walls and in the hedges grew the most beautiful blue and green grapes. -In the woods hung ripe citrons and oranges, and the air was full of the -scent of thyme and myrtle, while beautiful children ran in the roads -playing with the gayest colored butterflies. But farther and farther -flew the swallow, and below them it became more and more beautiful. By -the side of a lake, beneath graceful acacias, there rose an ancient -marble palace, the vines clung around the pillars, while above them, on -their summits, hung many a swallow’s nest. Into one of these nests the -bird carried Ellise. - -“Here is my house,” said he, “but look you for one of the loveliest -flowers, which grow down there, for your home, and I will carry you -there, and you shall have every thing you can possibly want.” - -“That would be glorious indeed!” said Ellise, and she clapped her hands -together for very joy. - -Upon the earth there lay a large white marble pillar, which had been -thrown down, and was broken into three pieces, but between its ruins -there grew the very fairest flowers, all white, the loveliest you would -ever wish to see. - -The swallow flew with Ellise to one of these flowers, and set her down -upon a broad leaf; but how astonished was Ellise when she saw that a wee -little man sat in this flower, who was as fine and transparent as glass. -He wore a graceful little crown upon his head, and had beautiful wings -on his shoulders; and withal he was not a bit bigger than Ellise -herself. He was the angel of this flower. In every flower dwell a pair -of such like little men and women, but this was the king of all the -flower angels. - -“Heavens! how handsome this king is,” whispered Ellise into the ear of -the swallow. The little prince was somewhat startled by the arrival of -the large bird; but when he saw Ellise, he became instantly in love with -her; for she was the most charming little maiden that he had ever seen. -So he took off his golden crown, set it upon Ellise, and asked what was -her name, and whether she would be his wife; if so, she should be queen -over all the other flowers—ah! this was a very different husband to the -son of the hideous toad, and the heavy, stupid mole, with his velvet -coat! So Ellise said yes, to the beautiful prince; and now, from all the -other flowers, appeared either a gentleman or a lady, all wonderfully -elegant and beautiful, to bring presents to Ellise. The best presents -offered to her was a pair of exquisite white wings, which were -immediately fastened on her; and now she could fly from flower to -flower. - -And now the joy was universal. The little swallow sat above in his nest, -and sang as well as he possibly could, though at the same time he was -sorely grieved, for he was so fond of Ellise that he wanted never to -part from her again. - -“You shall not be called _Ellise_ any more,” said the flower-angel, “for -it is not at all a pretty name, and you are so pretty! But from this -moment you shall be called Maja.” - -“Farewell! Farewell!” cried the little swallow, and away he flew again, -out of the warm land, far, far away, to the little Denmark, where he had -his summer nest over the window of the good man, who knows how to tell -stories, that he might sing his Quivit! Quivit! before him. And it is -from him, the little swallow, that Granny learnt all this wonderful -history. - - * * * * * - - - - - BELLE’S EYES. - - - Those eyes, they are so bright and blue, - They seem as if just bathed in dew, - And if they but reflect aright, - Thy heart must joyous be and bright, - Where cherished images must dwell, - Oh! number mine with thine, _ma Belle_. - - * * * * * - - - - - “THE PAGE.” - - -[Illustration: figure of a man sitting on a rock near the base of a tree -and looking upward] - - Come listen, ladies! listen, knights! - Ye men of arms and glory! - Ye who have done right noble deeds, - Aye love the poet’s story. - As minstrels love the warriors bold, - And joyfully sing their fame, - O’er warriors’ hearts the poet’s tale - Shall peaceful triumphs claim. - - From distant lands Arion came, - From wandering far and long, - With gifts and gold—for princely hearts - Denied no gift to song. - The song that cheered the saddest wo, - The tale that sings of youth, - Flowing sweetly, flowing on, - Through labyrinths of truth. - - Rich tributes had been poured on him, - Arion far renowned, - And fair and gentle loved the rule, - Of one by nature crowned. - But what can gifts and what can gold, - Or Fame’s loud peal avail, - Wandering from his childhood’s home, - His own Corinthian vale? - - * * * * * - - - - - LINES - - - WRITTEN ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY. - - - BY GEO. D. PRENTICE. - - - Fair lady, on this day of love, - My spirit, like a timid dove, - Exulting flies to thee for rest, - And nestles on thy gentle breast. - Thou seemest of my life a part, - A haunting presence in my heart, - A glory in my day-dreams bright, - An angel in my dreams at night, - Like yon pure bow of airy birth - A vision more of heaven than earth. - Soft, lovely, beautiful, divine— - But wilt thou be my Valentine? - - I’ve looked into thy deep eyes oft, - Where heaven seemed sleeping blue and soft. - I’ve gazed on all thy beauty long, - I’ve heard thy witching voice of song, - I’ve listened when thy deep words came - As if thy lips were touched with flame, - I’ve marked thee smile, I’ve marked thee weep. - I’ve blest thee in the hour of sleep, - I’ve felt thy heart beat wild to hear - Love’s cadence stealing on thine ear, - And I have been supremely blest - When thou wast folded to my breast, - And thy dear lips were pressed to mine— - But wilt thou be my Valentine? - - Dove of my spirit! gentle dove, - That bring’st the olive-bough of love - To me when waters vast and dark - Are tossing wild beneath my bark, - Sweet queller of my bosom’s strife, - Blest haunter of each thought of life. - Dear brightner of my soul’s eclipse, - Sultana of my longing lips, - Queen-fairy of my fairy dreams, - Young Naiad of my soul’s deep streams, - Bright rainbow of life’s stormy day, - Lone palm-tree of my desert way, - Soft dew-drop of my heart’s one flower, - Young song-bird of my spirit’s bower, - My star when all beside is dim, - My morning prayer, my evening hymn, - My hope, my bliss, my life, my love, - My all of earth, my heaven above, - On lightning pinions wild and free, - My panting spirit flies to thee, - And worships at thy burning shrine— - But wilt thou be my Valentine? - - * * * * * - - - - - “What do the Birds say?” - - -[Illustration: figure of a woman sitting on vines with birds perched -above her] - - Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, - The linnet, and thrush say, “I love, and I love!” - In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong; - What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song. - But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather, - And singing and loving, all come back together. - But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, - The green-fields below him, the blue sky above, - That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, - “I love my love, and my love loves me!” - - * * * * * - - - - - LEORA. - - - A BALLAD OF SPAIN. - - - At her lattice sits Leora, - In the long and mellow June, - What time when whitely westward - Shines the round and pendent moon. - - Sits she silent, sits she sadly, - With her head upon her hand, - Looking outward where the Ebro - Throws its ripples on the sand. - - Never lighter blew the breezes - In the vales of Aragon, - Never smiled Hesperia’s heavens - With more lovely glories on. - - Such an evening ’tis as gladdens - Cavaliers of sunny Spain— - Such an evening ’tis when maidens - Recount their loves again. - - Now more restless grows Leora, - Fair Leora, gentle maid, - With sweet eyes so dark and fervent, - And each tress of nightly shade. - - Heaves her bosom fast and wildly - Like a billow snowed with foam, - For there’s something boding tells her - That Almagro will not come. - - Clouds are passing swiftly o’er her, - On her heart their shadows rest, - And the tear-drops from their fountains - Fall embittered to her breast. - - Listens now she to the gallop - Of a steed adown the vale; - Now with hope her face is radiant, - Now with fear her cheek is pale. - - But no lover rideth swiftly, - Swiftly to the trysting bower, - And Leora still is waiting - Through the long and dreary hour. - - And the tears cease not to gather, - And the tears cease not to flow, - And she feels like one abandoned - On the haunted paths of wo. - - Where a mountain streamlet gurgles, - From that watcher leagues away— - Where the hours amid the valleys - Listen to the waters’ play— - - Faithless Almagro is breathing - Vows of deeply passioned love, - To a maiden on his bosom - In the sweetness of a dove. - - And he tells her how he never - To another gave his heart, - Till her innocence is fallen - In the meshes of his art. - - Till another than the midnight - Throws a darkness o’er her soul, - Leaving there a troubled fountain, - Leaving there a broken bowl. - - Softly sigh the sleeping branches - On the bosom of the breeze, - Sweetly stars are gazing downward - To earth’s blue, unclouded seas: - - And in fragrance dream the blossoms - Pure and taintless as before— - But heart-flowers have been gathered - That shall blossom nevermore. - - Lowly westward walketh Dian, - On her watches with the night, - And the hours far have stolen - To the gateways of the light. - - But, ah! wo is thee, Leora, - Though hopeless, hoping on, - Till Aurora up the Orient, - Rosy-fingered, leads the dawn. - - But less wo is thee, Leora, - By thy lattice weary worn— - More’s the wo for thee, Estella, - When thou wakest at the morn. - - * * * * * - - - - - SPECTRAL ILLUSIONS. - - - BY THOMAS MILNER, M. A. - - -A series of curious and interesting phenomena, involving the apparent -elevation and approach of distant objects, the production of aerial -images of terrestrial forms, of double images, their inversion, and -distortion into an endless variety of grotesque shapes, together with -the deceptive aspect given to the desert-landscape, are comprehended in -the class of optical illusions. Different varieties of this singular -visual effect constitute the _mirage_ of the French, the _fata morgana_ -of the Italians, the _looming_ of our seamen, and the _glamur_ of the -Highlanders. It is not peculiar to any particular country, though more -common in some than others, and most frequently observed near the margin -of lakes and rivers, by the sea-shore, in mountain districts and on -level plains. These phantoms are perfectly explicable upon optical -principles, and though influenced by local combinations, they are mainly -referable to one common cause, the refractive and reflective properties -of the atmosphere, and inequalities of refraction arising from the -intermixture of strata of air of different temperatures and densities. -But such appearances in former times were really converted by the -imagination of the vulgar into supernatural realities; and hence many of -the goblin stories with which the world has been rife, not yet banished -from the discipline to which childhood is subject,— - - “As when a shepherd of the Hebrid Isles - Placed far amid the melancholy main, - (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles, - Or that aerial beings sometimes deign - To stand, embodied, to our senses plain) - Sees on the naked hill, or valley low, - The whilst in ocean Phœbus dips his wain, - A vast assembly moving to and fro, - Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.” - -Pliny mentions the Scythian regions within Mount Imaus, and Pomponius -Mela those of Mauritania, behind Mount Atlas, as peculiarly subject to -these spectral appearances. Diodorus Siculus likewise refers to the -regions of Africa, situated in the neighborhood of Cyrene, as another -chosen site:—“Even,” says he, “in the severest weather, there are -sometimes seen in the air certain condensed exhalations that represent -the figures of all kinds of animals; occasionally they seem to be -motionless, and in perfect quietude; and occasionally to be flying; -while immediately afterward they themselves appear to be the pursuers, -and to make other objects fly before them.” Milton might have had this -passage in his eye when he penned the allusion to the same -apparitions:— - - “As when, to warn proud cities, war appears - Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush - To battle in the clouds; before each van - Prick forth the airy knights, and couch their spears, - Till thickest legions close, with feats of arms - From either side of heaven the welkin rings.” - -[Illustration: The Mirage of the Desert.] - -The mirage is the most familiar form of optical illusion. M. Monge, one -of the French savans, who accompanied Buonaparte in his expedition to -Egypt, witnessed a remarkable example. In the desert between Alexandria -and Cairo, in all directions green islands appeared, surrounded by -extensive lakes of pure, transparent water. Nothing could be conceived -more lovely or picturesque than the landscape. In the tranquil surface -of the lakes, the trees and houses with which the islands were covered -were strongly reflected with vivid and varied hues, and the party -hastened forward to enjoy the refreshments apparently proffered them. -But when they arrived, the lake on whose bosom they floated, the trees -among whose foliage they arose, and the people who stood on the shore -inviting their approach, had all vanished; and nothing remained but the -uniform and irksome desert of sand and sky, with a few naked huts and -ragged Arabs. But for being undeceived by an actual progress to the -spot, one and all would have remained firm in the conviction that these -visionary trees and lakes had a real existence in the desert. M. Monge -attributed the liquid expanse, tantalizing the eye with an unfaithful -representation of what was earnestly desired, to an inverted image of -the cerulean sky, intermixed with the ground scenery. This kind of -mirage is known in Persia and Arabia by the name of _Serab_ or -miraculous water, and in the western deserts of India by that of -_Tehittram_, a picture. It occurs as a common emblem of disappointment -in the poetry of the orientals. - -[Illustration: Atmospheric Illusion.] - -In the Philosophical Transactions for the year 1798, an account is given -by W. Latham, Esq., F.R.S., of an instance of lateral refraction -observed by him, by which the coast of Picardy, with its more prominent -objects, was brought apparently close to that of Hastings. On July the -26th, about five in the afternoon, while sitting in his dining-room, -near the sea-shore, attention was excited by a crowd of people running -down to the beach. Upon inquiring the reason, it appeared that the coast -of France was plainly to be distinguished with the naked eye. Upon -proceeding to the shore, he found, that without the assistance of a -telescope, he could distinctly see the cliffs across the Channel, which, -at the nearest points, are from forty to fifty miles distant, and are -not to be discovered, from that low situation, by the aid of the best -glasses. They appeared to be only a few miles off, and seemed to extend -for some leagues along the coast. At first the sailors and fishermen -could not be persuaded of the reality of the appearance, but they soon -became thoroughly convinced, by the cliffs gradually appearing more -elevated, and seeming to approach nearer, that they were able to point -out the different places they had been accustomed to visit, such as the -Bay, the Old Head, and the Windmill at Boulogne, St. Vallery, and -several other spots. Their remark was that these places appeared as near -as if they were sailing at a small distance into the harbor. The -apparition of the opposite cliffs varied in distinctness and apparent -contiguity for nearly an hour, but it was never out of sight, and upon -leaving the beach for a hill of some considerable height, Mr. Latham -could at once see Dungeness and Dover cliffs on each side, and before -him the French coast from Calais to near Dieppe. By the telescope the -French fishing-boats were clearly seen at anchor, and the different -colors of the land on the heights, with the buildings, were perfectly -discernible. The spectacle continued in the highest splendor until past -eight o’clock, though a black cloud obscured the face of the sun for -some time, when it gradually faded away. This was the first time within -the memory of the oldest inhabitants, that they had ever caught sight of -the opposite shore. The day had been extremely hot, and not a breath of -wind had stirred since the morning, when the small pennons at the -mast-heads of the fishing-boats in the harbor had been at all points of -the compass. Professor Vince witnessed a similar apparent approximation -of the coast of France to that of Ramsgate, for at the very edge of the -water he discerned the Calais cliffs a very considerable height above -the horizon, whereas they are frequently not to be seen in clear weather -from the high lands above the town. A much greater breadth of coast also -appeared than is usually observed under the most favorable -circumstances. The ordinary refractive power of the atmosphere is thus -liable to be strikingly altered by a change of temperature and humidity, -so that a hill which at one time appears low, may at another be seen -towering aloft; and a city in a neighboring valley, may from a certain -station be entirely invisible, or it may show the tops of its buildings, -just as if its foundations had been raised, according to the condition -of the aerial medium between it and the spectator. - -[Illustration: Fata Morgana at Reggio.] - -Of all instances of spectral illusion, the _fata morgana_, familiar to -the inhabitants of Sicily, is the most curious and striking. It occurs -off the Pharo of Messina, in the strait which separates Sicily from -Calabria, and had been variously described by different observers, -owing, doubtless, to the different conditions of the atmosphere at the -respective times of observation. The spectacle consists in the images of -men, cattle, houses, rocks, and trees, pictured upon the surface of the -water, and in the air immediately over the water, as if called into -existence by an enchanter’s wand, the same object having frequently two -images, one in the natural and the other in an inverted position. A -combination of circumstances must concur to produce this novel panorama. -The spectator, standing with his back to the east on an elevated place, -commands a view of the strait. No wind must be abroad to ruffle the -surface of the sea; and the waters must be pressed up by currents, which -is occasionally the case, to a considerable height, in the middle of the -strait, so that they may present a slight convex surface. When these -conditions are fulfilled, and the sun has risen over the Calabrian -heights so as to make an angle of 45° with the horizon, the various -objects on the shore at Reggio, opposite to Messina, are transferred to -the middle of the strait, forming an immovable landscape of rocks, -trees, and houses, and a movable one of men, horses, and cattle, upon -the surface of the water. If the atmosphere, at the same time, is highly -charged with vapor, the phenomena apparent on the water will also be -visible in the air, occupying a space which extends from the surface to -the height of about twenty-five feet. Two kinds of morgana may therefore -be discriminated; the first, at the surface of the sea, or the marine -morgana; the second, in the air, or the aerial. The term applied to this -strange exhibition of uncertain derivation, but supposed by some to -refer to the vulgar presumption of the spectacle being produced by a -fairy or magician. The populace are said to hail the vision with great -exultation, calling every one abroad to partake of the sight, with the -cry of “Morgana, morgana!” - -Father Angelucci, an eye-witness, describes the scene in the following -terms:—“On the 15th of August, 1643, as I stood at my window, I was -surprised with a most wonderful, delectable vision. The sea that washes -the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, like -a chain of dark mountains; while the waters near our Calabrian coast -grew quite smooth, and in an instant appeared as one clear polished -mirror, reclining against the aforesaid ridge. On this glass was -depicted, in _chiaro scuro_, a string of several thousands of pilasters, -all equal in altitude, distance, and degree of light and shade. In a -moment they lost half their height, and bent into arcades, like Roman -aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed on the top, and above it rose -castles innumerable, all perfectly alike. These soon split into towers, -which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last -ended in pines, cypresses, and other trees, even and similar. This was -the Fata Morgana, which, for twenty-six years, I had thought a mere -fable.” - -Brydone, writing from Messina, evidently in a dubious vein, states:—“Do -you know, the most extraordinary phenomenon in the world is often -observed near to this place? I laughed at it at first, as you will do, -but I am now convinced of its reality, and am persuaded, too, that if -ever it had been thoroughly examined by a philosophical eye, the natural -cause must long ago have been assigned. It has often been remarked, both -by the ancients and moderns, that in the heat of summer, after the sea -and air have been much agitated by winds, and a perfect calm succeeds, -there appears, about the time of dawn, in that part of the heavens over -the straits, a great variety of singular forms, some at rest, and some -moving about with great velocity. These forms, in proportion as the -light increases, seem to become more aerial, till at last some time -before sunrise they entirely disappear. The Sicilians represent this as -the most beautiful sight in nature. Leanti, one of their latest and best -writers, came here on purpose to see it. He says the heavens appeared -crowded with a variety of objects: he mentions palaces, woods, gardens, -etc., besides the figures of men and other animals, that appear in -motion amongst them. No doubt the imagination must be greatly aiding in -forming this aerial creation; but as so many of their authors, both -ancient and modern, agree in the fact, and give an account of it from -their own observation, there certainly must be some foundation for the -story. There is one Giardini, a Jesuit, who has lately written a -treatise upon this phenomenon, but I have not been able to find it. The -celebrated Messinese Gallo has likewise published something on this -singular subject. The common people, according to custom, give the whole -merit to the devil; and, indeed, it is by much the shortest and easiest -way of accounting for it. Those who pretend to be philosophers, and -refuse him this honor, are greatly puzzled what to make of it. They -think it may be owing to some uncommon refraction or reflection of the -rays, from the water of the straits, which, as it is at that time -carried about in a variety of eddies and vortices, must consequently, -say they, make a variety of appearances on any medium where it is -reflected. This, I think, is nonsense, or at least very near it. I -suspect it is something of the nature of our aurora borealis, and, like -many of the great phenomena of nature, depends upon electrical cause; -which, in future ages, I have little doubt, will be found to be as -powerful an agent in regulating the universe as gravity is in this age, -or as the subtle fluid was in the last. The electrical fluid in this -country of volcanoes, is probably produced in a much greater quantity -than in any other. The air, strongly impregnated with this matter, and -confined betwixt two ridges of mountains—at the same time exceedingly -agitated from below by the violence of the current, and the impetuous -whirling of the waters—may it not be supposed to produce a variety of -appearances? And may not the lively Sicilian imaginations, animated by a -belief in demons, and all the wild offspring of superstition, give these -appearances as great a variety of forms? Remember, I do not say it is -so; and hope yet to have it in my power to give you a better account of -this matter.” - -Ingenious as Brydone was, he here indulges a most unfortunate -speculation, which, had he enjoyed the good fortune of personally -observing the phenomenon, most likely, he would not have proposed. It is -to be accounted for upon optical principles, which M. Biot, in his -_Astronomie Physique_, thus applies, from Minasi’s dissertation upon the -subject:—“When the rising sun shines from that point whence its -incident ray forms an angle of forty-five degrees, on the sea of Reggio, -and the bright surface of the water in the bay is not disturbed either -by wind or current—when the tide is at its height, and the waters are -pressed up by the currents to a great elevation in the middle of the -channel; the spectator being placed on an eminence, with his back to the -sun, and his face to the sea, the mountains of Messina rising like a -wall behind it, and forming the back-ground of the picture—on a sudden -there appear in the water, as in a catoptric theatre, various multiplied -objects—numberless series of pilasters, arches, castles, -well-delineated regular columns, lofty towers, superb palaces, with -balconies and windows, extended alleys of trees, delightful plains, with -herds and flocks, armies of men on foot, on horseback, and many other -things, in their natural colors and proper actions, passing rapidly in -succession along the surface of the sea, during the whole of the short -period of time while the above-mentioned causes remain. The objects are -proved, by accurate observations of the coast of Reggio, to be derived -from objects on shore. If, in addition to the circumstances already -described, the atmosphere be highly impregnated with vapor and dense -exhalations, not previously dispersed by the action of the wind and -waves, or rarified by the sun, it then happens that, in this vapor, as -in a curtain extended along the channel to the height of above forty -palms, and nearly down to the sea, the observer will behold the scene of -the same objects not only reflected on the surface of the sea, but -likewise in the air, though not so distinctly or well-defined. Lastly, -if the air be slightly hazy and opaque, and at the same time dewy, and -adapted to form the iris, then the above-mentioned objects will appear -only at the surface of the sea, as in the first case, but all vividly -colored or fringed with red, green, blue, or other prismatic colors.” - -Aerial images of terrestrial objects are frequently produced as the -simple effect of reflection. Dr. Buchan mentions the following -occurrence:—“Walking on the cliff about a mile to the east of Brighton, -on the morning of the 18th of November, 1804, while watching the rising -of the sun, I turned my eyes directly to the sea, just as the solar disc -emerged from the surface of the water, and saw the face of the cliff on -which I was standing represented precisely opposite to me, at some -distance from the ocean. Calling the attention of my companion to this -appearance, we soon also discovered our own figures standing on the -summit of the opposite apparent cliff, as well as the representation of -a windmill near at hand. The reflected images were most distinct -precisely opposite to where we stood; and the false cliff seemed to fade -away, and to draw near to the real one, in proportion as it receded -toward the west. This phenomenon lasted about ten minutes, till the sun -had risen nearly his own diameter above the sea. The whole then seemed -to be elevated into the air, and successively disappeared. The surface -of the sea was covered with a dense fog of many yards in height, and -which gradually receded before the rays of the sun.” In December, 1826, -a similar circumstance excited some consternation among the parishioners -of Miqué, in the neighborhood of Poitiers, in France. They were engaged -in the exercises of the jubilee which preceded the festival of -Christmas, and about three thousand persons from the surrounding -parishes were assembled. At five o’clock in the evening, when one of the -clergy was addressing the multitude, and reminding them of the cross -which appeared in the sky to Constantine and his army, suddenly a -similar cross appeared in the heavens, just before the porch of the -church, about two hundred feet above the horizon, and a hundred and -forty feet in length, of a bright silver color tinged with red, and -perfectly well-defined. Such was the effect of this vision, that the -people immediately threw themselves upon their knees, and united -together in one of their canticles. The fact was, that a large wooden -cross, twenty-five feet high, had been erected beside the church as a -part of the ceremony, the figure of which was formed in the air, and -reflected back to the eyes of the spectators, retaining exactly the same -shape and proportions, but changed in position and dilated in size. Its -red tinge was also the color of the object of which it was the reflected -image. When the rays of the sun were withdrawn the figure vanished. - -[Illustration: Spectre of the Brocken.] - -The peasantry in the neighborhood of the Harz Mountains formerly stood -in no little awe of the gigantic spectre of the Brocken—the figure of a -man observed to walk the clouds over the ridge at sunrise. This -apparition has long been resolved into an exaggerated reflection, which -makes the traveler’s shadow, pictured upon the clouds, appear a colossal -figure of immense dimensions. A French savan, attended by a friend, went -to watch this spectral shape, but for many mornings they traversed an -opposite ridge in vain. At length, however, it was discovered, having -also a companion, and both figures were found imitating all the motions -of the philosopher and his friend. The ancient classical fable of Niobe -on Mount Sipylus belongs to the same category of atmospheric deceptions; -and the tales, common in mountainous countries, of troops of horse and -armies marching and counter-marching in the air, have been only the -reflection of horses pasturing upon an opposite height, or of the forms -of travelers pursuing their journey. On the 19th of August, 1820, Mr. -Menzies, a surgeon of Glasgow, and Mr. Macgregor began to ascend the -mountain of Ben Lomond, about five o’clock in the afternoon. They had -not proceeded far before they were overtaken by a smart shower; but as -it appeared only to be partial, they continued their journey, and by the -time they were half way up, the cloud passed away, and most delightful -weather succeeded. Thin, transparent vapors, which appeared to have -risen from Loch Lomond beneath, were occasionally seen floating before a -gentle and refreshing breeze; in other respects, as far as the eye could -trace, the sky was clear, and the atmosphere serene. They reached the -summit about half-past seven o’clock, in time to see the sun sinking -beneath the western hills. Its parting beams had gilded the -mountain-tops with a warm glowing color; and the surface of the lake, -gently rippling with the breeze, was tinged with a yellow lustre. While -admiring the adjacent mountains, hills, and valleys, and the expanse of -water beneath, interspersed with numerous wooded islands, the attention -of one of the party was attracted by a cloud in the east, partly of a -dark red color, apparently at the distance of two miles and a half, in -which he distinctly observed two gigantic figures, standing, as it were, -on a majestic pedestal. He immediately pointed out the phenomenon to his -companion; and they distinctly perceived one of the gigantic figures, in -imitation, strike the other on the shoulder, and point toward them. They -then made their obeisance to the airy phantoms, which was instantly -returned. They waved their hats and umbrellas, and the shadowy figures -did the same. Like other travelers, they had carried with them a bottle -of usquebaugh, and amused themselves in drinking to the figures, which -was of course duly returned. In short, every movement which they made, -they could observe distinctly repeated by the figures in the cloud. The -appearance continued about a quarter of an hour. A gentle breeze from -the north carried the cloud slowly away; the figures became less and -less distinct, and at last vanished. North of the village of Comrie, in -Perthshire, there is a bold hill called Dunmore, with a pillar of -seventy or eighty feet in height built on its summit in memory of the -late Lord Melville. At about eight o’clock of the evening of the 21st of -August, of the year 1845, a perfect image of this well-known hill and -obelisk, as exact as the shadow usually represents the substance, was -distinctly observed projecting on the northern sky, at least two miles -beyond the original, which, owing to an intervening eminence, was not -itself at all in view from the station where the aerial picture was -observed. The figure continued visible for about ten minutes after it -was first seen, and was minutely examined by three individuals. One of -these fancied that there was a projection at the base of the monument, -as represented in the air, which was not in the original; but, upon -examining the latter the next morning, the image was found to have been -more faithful than his memory; for there stood the prototype of the -projection, in the shape of a clump of trees, at the base of the real -obelisk. - -[Illustration: men on a dock looking at ships on the ocean which have a -duplicate image of themselves suspended in the air above them] - -In northern latitudes the effects of atmospheric reflection and -refraction are very familiar to the natives. By the term of -_uphillanger_ the Icelanders denote the elevation of distant objects, -which is regarded as a presage of fine weather. Not only is there an -increase in the vertical dimensions of the objects affected, so that low -coasts frequently assume a bold and precipitous outline, the objects -sunk below the horizon are brought into view, with their natural -position changed and distorted. In 1818, Captain Scoresby relates that, -when in the polar sea, his ship had been separated for some time from -that of his father, which he had been looking out for with great -anxiety. At length, one evening, to his astonishment, he beheld the -vessel suspended in the air in an inverted position, with the most -distinct and perfect representation. Sailing in the direction of this -visionary appearance, he met with the real ship by this indication. It -was found that the vessel had been thirty miles distant, and seventeen -beyond the horizon, when her spectrum was thus elevated into the air by -this extraordinary refraction. Sometimes two images of a vessel are -seen, the one erect and the other inverted, with their topmasts or their -hulls meeting, according as the inverted image is above or below the -other. Dr. Wollaston has shown that the production of these images is -owing to the refraction of the rays through media of different -densities. Looking along a red-hot poker at a distant object, two images -of it were seen, one erect and the other inverted, arising from the -change produced by the heat in the density of the air. A singular -instance of lateral mirage was noticed upon the Lake of Geneva by MM. -Jurine and Soret, in the year 1818. A bark near Bellerire was seen -approaching to the city by the left bank of the lake; and at the same -time an image of the sails was observed above the water, which, instead -of following the direction of the bark, separated from it, and appeared -approaching by the _right_ bank—the image moving from east to west, and -the bark from north to south. When the image separated from the vessel, -it was of the same dimensions as the bark; but it diminished as it -receded from it, so as to be reduced to one-half when the appearance -ceased. This was a striking example of refraction, operating in a -lateral as well as a vertical direction. - -_Ignis Fatuus._ This wandering meteor known to the vulgar as the -Will-o’-the-Wisp, has given rise to considerable speculation and -controversy. Burying-grounds, fields of battle, low meadows, valleys, -and marshes, are its ordinary haunts. By some eminent naturalists, -particularly Willoughby and Ray, it has been maintained to be only the -shining of a great number of the male glow-worms in England, and the -pyraustæ in Italy, flying together—an opinion to which Mr. Kirby, the -entomologist, inclines. The luminosities observed in several cases may -have been due to this cause, but the true meteor of the marshes cannot -thus be explained. The following instance is abridged from the -Entomological Magazine:—“Two travelers proceeding across the moors -between Hexham and Alston, were startled, about ten o’clock at night, by -the sudden appearance of a light close to the road-side, about the size -of the hand, and of a well-defined oval form. The place was very wet, -and the peat-moss had been dug out, leaving what are locally termed -‘peat-pots,’ which soon fill with water, nourishing a number of -confervæ, and the various species of sphagnum, which are converted into -peat. During the process of decomposition these places give out large -quantities of gas. The light was about three feet from the ground, -hovering over the peat-pots, and it moved nearly parallel with the road -for about fifty yards, when it vanished, probably from the failure of -the gas. The manner in which it disappeared was similar to that of a -candle being blown out.” We have the best account of it from Mr. -Blesson, who examined it abroad with great care and diligence. - -[Illustration: Ignis Fatuus.] - -“The first time,” he states, “I saw the ignis fatuus was in a valley in -the forest of Gorbitz, in the New Mark. This valley cuts deeply in -compact loam, and is marshy on its lower part. The water of the marsh is -ferruginous, and covered with an iridescent crust. During the day -bubbles of air were seen rising from it, and in the night blue flames -were observed shooting from and playing over its surface. As I suspected -that there was some connection between these flames and the bubbles of -air, I marked during the day-time the place where the latter rose up -most abundantly, and repaired thither during the night; to my great joy -I actually observed bluish-purple flames, and did not hesitate to -approach them. On reaching the spot they retired, and I pursued them in -vain; all attempts to examine them closely were ineffectual. Some days -of very rainy weather prevented further investigation, but afforded -leisure for reflecting on their nature. I conjectured that the motion of -the air, on my approaching the spot, forced forward the burning gas, and -remarked that the flame burned darker when it was blown aside; hence I -concluded that a continuous thin stream of inflammable air was formed by -these bubbles, which, once inflamed, continued to burn, but which, owing -to the paleness of the light of the flame, could not be observed during -the day.” - -The ignis fatuus of the church-yard and the battle-field arise from the -phosphuretted hydrogen emitted by animal matter in a state of -putrefaction, which always inflames upon contact with the oxygen of the -atmosphere; and the flickering meteor of the marsh may be referred to -the carburetted hydrogen, formed by the decomposition of vegetable -matter in stagnant water, ignited by a discharge of the electric fluid. - - * * * * * - - - - - CAMPAIGNING STORIES. - - - NO. II.—THE CAPTIVE RIVALS.[1] - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “TALBOT AND VERNON.” - - - (_Concluded from page 212, Vol. XXXIX._) - - - PART III. - - I have not seen - So likely an embassador of love. - _Merchant of Venice._ - - It gives me wonder, great is my content, - To see you here before me. - _Othello._ - -The sun had not yet climbed the hills on the east of the valley, when -Harding set forth on his uncertain mission; and not one of the indolent -people of the country was any where to be seen. The houses were all -closed—no smoke issued from their rude chimneys—no sound or motion -broke the stillness. Apart from its solitude, however, it was a -beautiful scene. The haziness of the evening before was now gone—the -valley was refreshed by the dew of the night; and the reviving influence -of the cool morning seemed to have had its effect upon the inanimate as -well as the animate. The slope of the hills on the north, where the -first rays of the sun rested for hours before they touched the southern -plateau, was dotted here and there by straggling goats, browsing -listlessly upon the scanty vegetation; while lower down the valley and -along the banks of the little river, numbers of cattle were either -standing patiently around the inclosures or wandering slowly away toward -the hills. The river, silvered by the morning light, wound thread-like -down the valley toward the west, and was visible even to the turn of the -mountain miles away, where it enters the labyrinth of ridges in the -neighborhood of Parras. There were no waving fields of grain; but the -hedges were all green and fresh; verdure was springing even at that -season, where the ground had been cleared of its products; and the -evergreen trees, and groves of oranges which dotted the land imparted an -aspect of fertile beauty. The shadows of the rugged hills were traceable -along the ground, so clearly that the line of separation could be -followed through the fields—one-half in sunlight, half in shade—the -former gradually encroaching on the latter. There were no birds to cheer -the solitude with matin songs; but so peaceful was the scene that even -their presence might have seemed unwelcome. - -Harding gazed about him as he crossed the bridge as if in search of the -road. There were two paths; one leading along the front of several -_ranchos_, and apparently taking him directly to the point he wished to -reach. The other led away to the left, sweeping round the fields and -avoiding the houses, with the danger of meeting their inmates. It was -the latter that the count directed him to take; but for some reason best -known to himself he followed the first, without heeding De Marsiac’s -hail, and soon found himself riding slowly between two straggling rows -of neat cottages. There was no one astir, however, and he had ridden -nearly the whole length of the avenue without seeing any signs of -life—when, judging himself to be out of view of _Embocadura_, he turned -his horse in among the elms, and sprang to the ground. - -Throwing his bridle-rein over a limb, he first carefully examined his -pistols, and then loosening his sword in the scabbard, stepped out from -the cover and approached the nearest cottage. It was not until he had -knocked several times that any answer was returned. Then, however, the -door was suddenly swung open, and he was confronted by one of those -specimens of Mexican youth, whose faces combine in so remarkable a -degree, great beauty with an expression of wicked cunning. He was a -boy—perhaps eighteen years of age, with a slender figure, but evidently -very active, and unless an exception to his race, capable of enduring -great fatigue and privation. His eyes were dark as night, small, and -keen; his nose thin and straight, his lips rather pinched, but red and -clearly cut. The rest of his features were appropriate to these, and his -complexion was rather lighter than the general hue of his people. He -held a _lareat_ coiled in his hand, and his goat-skin shoes were armed -at the heel with enormous spurs. - -“_Buenas dias, Señor_,” said he, in a clear, sharp voice, stepping back -at the same time, in mute invitation to Harding to enter. - -The latter returned the salutation and asked— - -“On whose lands are these _ranchos_?” - -“On those of La Señora Eltorena,” answered the boy, promptly. - -“How far is it to Anelo?” he inquired. - -“Twelve leagues, sir.” - -Harding reflected for a moment, and then beckoned the boy aside. The -latter gazed at him inquiringly; but drawing the door to, followed him -to the place where his horse was standing. - -“You see that horse?” said he. - -“I do,” answered the boy “and a very fine one he is, too.” - -“Could you ride him to Anelo and back,[2] to-day?” - -“How much money could I get to do it?” asked the youth, eyeing the -officer as if to measure his liberality. - -“Twenty dollars,” Harding answered; “or, if you do not find me on your -return, you may keep the horse.” - -“Agreed,” said the boy, promptly. “I’ll set out now.” - -Harding took a blank leaf from his pocket-book and wrote a note to the -commandant of a detachment of Texan rangers, whom he knew to be then -foraging at Anelo, and handed it to the boy. - -“You must be back before midnight,” said he; “and you may ask for me at -the _hacienda_. My name is Harding.” - -“And mine is Eltorena,” said the youth. “I am six months older than -Margarita, and entitled to the name by the same right.” - -His eyes glistened as he spoke with an expression so devilish, that -Harding was half inclined to take back the note and discharge him. But -while reflecting upon the words of the boy, the latter, as if divining -his half formed intention, suddenly put spurs to his horse’s flanks and -bounded away. Harding watched him until he had crossed the river, and -avoiding _La Embocadura_ by a wide circuit, was fast disappearing among -the groves to the east. - -Concluding that if he had made a mistake it was now too late to amend -it, he turned on his heel, and was about to pursue his way toward -_Piedritas_ on foot, when his attention was arrested by a voice -pronouncing his name. - -“Señor Harding, let me speak with you for a moment.” - -He turned, and beheld a female in the very bloom of mature -womanhood—tall, elegantly formed, and possessing a countenance of -singular force and beauty. She was standing near the door at which he -had knocked, and he had no difficulty in determining from the -resemblance that she was the mother of his messenger. He advanced with -the ordinary salutation, and followed her within the house. - -“I am perfectly well acquainted,” she commenced abruptly, without -offering him a seat, “with the object of your visit to the _hacienda_. -You are here to wed the daughter of the woman who calls herself the -Señora Eltorena—” - -“Calls herself!” repeated Harding. - -“And you are doubtless like other men,” she continued, without noticing -the exclamation, “more attracted by the property than the bride. Now, I -wish to warn you that this estate, with all that the late Colonel -Eltorena owned, belongs to his son—and mine—the youth whom you have -just sent away; and that I hold General Santa Anna’s pledge to see him -righted as soon as the army marches this way. So, if you marry her, it -is with your eyes open.” - -“You are mistaken, madam,” said Harding, after a pause given to -surprise; “I am here on no such errand: I am, on the contrary,” he -added, with a smile, “only a humble ambassador, suing for the lady’s -hand in the name of another, more potent individual.” - -“In the name of the murdering thief, De Marsiac?” she exclaimed. - -“Even so,” Harding replied, “the very same, without mistake.” - -“You are a strange ambassador,” she said, with a laugh. “But,” she -continued, resuming her somewhat wild manner, “I warn him through you, -as I have done to his face, that the man who marries that woman’s -daughter, must take her portionless!” - -“In that case,” said Harding, with another smile, “I doubt whether the -count will care to take her at all. But enlighten me about your son’s -title—it may be important to my principal.” - -Her story was not an uncommon one, though it took a long time in -telling; for she dwelt with painful emphasis upon some parts, and talked -so incoherently upon others, that Harding was confirmed in his suspicion -that her mind was, upon that subject at least, quite unsettled. She had -been induced by the late Colonel Eltorena to go to his house, as his -wife, under a promise that the actual ceremony should be performed by -the first priest who came from Monclova or Saltillo. It was a remote -district in which they lived, and they might have to wait for months -before the expected visit would be made; and knowing this, and at the -earnest solicitation of her lover, she consented to an arrangement, -which was not so uncommon as it should have been. Wherever the common -law prevails as it does in the United States, this would have been a -legal marriage; and she solemnly protested that she so considered it -upon the representation of the colonel himself. Two or three priests had -passed that way within a few months; but upon various pretexts the -ceremony was postponed. - -At last, after about six months, the Colonel went to the city of Mexico -on a visit, and returned with a wife! “The woman,” said the narrator, -“who now calls herself La Señora Eltorena!” _She_, the deceived and -betrayed, was generously offered an asylum in the _rancho_, where she -had lived ever since; and six months after her ejectment from the -_hacienda_ by “the proud English woman,” her son was born. For eighteen -years she had been suing for her rights; but superior influence with the -corrupt judges of that unhappy land had foiled all her efforts; and in -the meantime, she had lived in plain view of the _hacienda_, determined -never to lose sight of her object, until she saw her son in possession. -She had never been inside of its walls: “but,” said she, “I _will_ be -there—and soon! May God give me revenge upon the sorceress, who stole -away my rights!” - -“It is a very hard case,” said Harding, when she had finished, “but I -fear like many other wrongs, it has no remedy.” - -“There is one remedy,” said she, significantly, “when all others fail.” -And drawing aside the end of her _mantilla_, she disclosed the hilt of a -long, keen dagger. She drew it forth, ran her finger along its edge, -smiled faintly, and replaced it in its sheath. - -“Well, well,” said Harding, turning away, “I am warned at all events, -and will take care that the count is enlightened, also. I must speed -upon my mission. Good morning.” - -She made no reply, and he passed out, taking his way toward the -_hacienda_, which lay in view, about a mile distant. Turning to the -right, he soon reached the bank of the river, and followed its rapid but -even current, which ran sparkling beneath the court-yard wall. It was -yet quite early; and as he reached the front of the mansion, his fear, -that as yet no one would be astir, was confirmed. Returning again to the -margin of the stream, he commenced pacing up and down the sward under a -row of elms, with the intention of awaiting the rising of the family. He -had made but two or three turns, however, and had halted, gazing about -upon the still morning scene, when he thought he observed something like -drapery pass across the arches in the wall, through which the river -entered the inclosure. He advanced somewhat closer, and could distinctly -see a pair of small feet tripping across the river on a footway made by -placing large stones a step apart from bank to bank. He could not doubt -that it was Margarita; but without going again to the front of the -house, he knew of no means of ingress. - -Casting his glance up and down the stream, to his delight, he discovered -a small boat moored to the bank, and slowly swinging in the current. A -moment sufficed to untie the rope which bound it, and in another, he was -seated on its light planks, rapidly floating toward the arched passage. -The waters, raised by the rains of the preceding day, left but scanty -room beneath the masonry; but lying down in the bottom of the boat, and -guiding her with his hands, he soon had the satisfaction to emerge -within the inclosure. On rising again, he found himself between an -extensive garden on one side and the offices of the mansion on the -other. The former seemed to be a neglected wilderness of trees, and -flowering plants and vines, but on reaching the footway over which the -feet had passed, he discovered an opening to the labyrinth, in a broad, -graveled walk, which wound away between rows of shrubbery, sparkling in -the morning sunlight, and lost itself in the distance. - -Turning the boat broadside against the stones, to prevent its floating -away, he sprang to the bank and walked rapidly down the avenue. He -discovered neither form nor sign of life for several minutes; but as he -turned from the main walk into a smaller, which led away to the left, he -saw directly before him, walking slowly toward the place where he stood, -a young girl whose exquisite beauty well justified his eagerness. She -was slightly above the medium height, slender, but well-proportioned, -with a carriage erect and graceful. Her rich, brown hair was braided in -masses over a forehead of the purest white, and drawn back loosely so as -almost to hang upon her round, snowy neck. Her eyes were of the same -color with her hair—a rich, dark brown; and their expression, though -somewhat pensive, was yet sparkling and clear. A nose of the true -Grecian model, a round, though not full chin, a small mouth with thin, -curling lips, and cheeks now tinged by exercise in the cool morning air, -completed a face which might well have attracted a man of less taste -than the Count De Marsiac. To complete the picture, she had small, -beautiful feet, such as a sultana might have envied; and her perfect, -white hands, which now lay folded together in front, might have been a -model for a sculptor. She wore a thin morning dress of the purest white, -and as she walked slowly and unconsciously, it waved like gossamer about -her person—revealing, perhaps, too much of its contour to please our -northern prejudices, but still adding to its exquisite attraction. - -Harding’s circumstances were so peculiar, that he was embarrassed for a -moment, and could not determine how to meet her. She had not yet seen -him, and acting upon the impulse of perplexity, he stepped within the -cover of the shrubbery, and allowed her to pass without speaking. She -went but a few steps, however, before he called— - -“Margarita!” - -She started at his voice, but turned and at once advanced to meet him. -Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, too, as she did so, and the hand she -extended to him trembled from emotion. Harding could not know her -feelings, and he had reason to doubt her truth; but, though he could not -tell what it was, there was something in her look and manner as she met -him which made him forget all suspicion. He took her hand in one of his, -and placing the other about her waist, drew her to him, and—the love of -a former time was renewed! - -“We meet once more,” he whispered; it was all he could say. - -“I feared we were parted forever,” she said, disengaging herself from -his embrace, but still leaning on his arm. - -“I thought you had forgotten me,” continued Harding. - -“I am not sure but I ought to have done so,” she replied, with a smile -which revealed how little she meant what she said. “But how is it that -you are here?” - -“I had forgotten,” answered he; “I am here as an envoy from another, to -ask your hand in marriage!” - -“You!” she exclaimed, drawing away from him. “From whom?” - -“From his highness,” answered Harding, laughingly detaining her, “Eugene -Raoul, Count De Marsiac!” - -She gazed at him in surprise for a few moments; and then, catching the -light of his smile, folded her hands upon his shoulder, looked archly -into his eyes and said— - -“If the envoy does not deem my hand a prize high enough to justify his -preferring a claim on his own behalf. I must even listen to the -overtures of his sovereign.” - -“Then I must deliver my credentials,” said Harding, and drawing her to -him, he kissed her upon both cheeks. “And now,” he continued, taking her -hand, “my mission is ended; and in my own proper character I claim this -hand as my own. Is it mine?” - -“Forever,” she answered, and he was about to resume his “credentials,” -when a rustling among the bushes attracted his attention; and before -Margarita could disengage herself, Lieutenant Grant confronted them, and -leveled a pistol at Harding’s breast! - -“Traitor!” he shouted furiously; “you shall pay for this with your -life!” - -Margarita screamed loudly, and threw herself in front of her lover; but -before Grant was aware of his intention, Harding drew his sword, and -passing around her, threw himself upon him. He knocked the pistol into -the air just as it exploded; and the next instant Grant was stretched -upon the sward, bleeding profusely from a wound in the head given by the -back of Harding’s sword! The latter drew the remaining pistol from the -sash of the fallen lieutenant, and kneeling beside him raised him from -the ground on his arm. - -“Bring some water from the river,” he said to Margarita. - -But as he looked up, he perceived that the party had been increased by -one! A tall, handsome woman, of perhaps thirty-six, stood gazing sternly -on the scene, while Margarita shrank back abashed. She had a face once -evidently distinguished for its proud beauty, but now remarkable chiefly -for the masculine strength of its expression. Her eye was of that deep -blue, which oftener indicates coldness than tenderness; and her lips, -now compressed and white, were full of fierce resolution. It was plain -that a sneer was more natural to her than a smile, anger than affection. -Her brow was high but narrow, and her nose a thin aquiline. It was not -at all strange that she had been the dominant spirit in Colonel -Eltorena’s household. - -“What is this?” she commenced, in a voice of powerful compass, but no -sweetness. “And who are you, sir, who dare to invade my private garden -to brawl with my guests?” - -“You know me full well, madam,” said Harding, irritated by her tone, -“and I intend that you shall know me better. But this is no time to -instruct you. Margarita, will you bring some water from the river?” - -Margarita looked doubtfully at her mother; but at a wave of her hand, -ran away toward the river. As she disappeared, her mother advanced -closer to Harding, who was endeavoring to resuscitate Grant, and said— - -“You are here, I suppose, sir, for the purpose of attempting to -interfere with my domestic arrangements; but let me assure you that you -shall hang to one of these trees rather than be even admitted within the -house!” - -“Your threats are brave enough, at all events,” said Harding, with a -smile. “But do you not think it would better become a woman to assist me -in a duty of humanity?” - -“What does she know of humanity?” demanded a sharp female voice, close -to the group; and on turning his head Harding saw the same woman, whose -story of deception and betrayal had so much interested him two hours -before. - -“What do _you_ here?” demanded the señora, with one of those scowling -looks for which her face seemed made. “Must I have you, too, thrust from -my gate!” - -“_Your_ gate!” hissed the woman, advancing nearer to the object of her -hatred, and flashing insane glances from those wild, haggard eyes. -“_Your_ gate! Impostor, witch, begone! Must _I_ have _you_ thrust from -_my_ gate?” - -There is something very appalling in the glance of an eye touched with -insanity; and the Englishwoman shrunk from it, if not in fear, at least -in dread. But, at the same moment, she saw Margarita returning with the -water, and called to her— - -“Go back, my daughter, and send some of the men here.” - -“To thrust me forth from _your gate_, I suppose,” said the woman, -advancing still closer, and fumbling with her right hand under the end -of her mantilla. - -“Yes,” said the señora fiercely; “will you go without violence?” - -“No!” the maniac almost screamed. “_No!_” she repeated; and with the -word, she suddenly drew her hand from its concealment, flourishing the -dagger which she had shown Harding, and with a bound like that of a -tiger, sprang upon her enemy and buried the steel in her heart! Harding -dropped Grant, and rushed forward to prevent another blow, but his -interference was too late! The señora screamed wildly, and with a -convulsive gasp fell to the ground, quite dead! - -Harding seized the arm of the murderess and easily wrested the dagger -from her hand. Indeed, she made no resistance—the reaction of her -excitement sapped away her strength; and, submitting without a word to -all that Harding did, she seemed intent only upon the now fast -stiffening corpse which lay before her. - -“I am sorry for her,” she murmured; “I am sorry for her—but she would -have it, and I cannot bring her to life.” - -She burst into tears, and threw herself to the ground—uttering the most -terrible imprecations of God’s vengeance upon herself, mingled with -curses of the late Colonel Eltorena, and incoherent references to his -perfidy. Harding was at a loss how to act—so strangely embarrassing was -the wild scene in which he found himself. - -The question was soon decided for him. He heard the approach of several -armed men, walking with quick steps along the path, and, the next -moment, Count De Marsiac suddenly entered the little area. - -“Villain!” he exclaimed, striding toward Harding; “you have deceived me, -and shall die the death!” - -“Back, sir!” shouted the lieutenant fiercely, presenting the point of -his sword. “If there is a greater villain than yourself here, the devil -must be present in person!” - -The count recoiled from the blade, and furiously ordered his men to fire -upon the audacious American; but two of them, who had been busied with -Grant, now sprang upon him from behind, and, after a sharp struggle, -overpowered and bound him. - -“I will dispose of you after awhile,” said De Marsiac, when he saw him -_hors du combat_. “Leave him where he is,” he added to his men; and -proceeding to give his orders with clearness and rapidity, the scene was -soon broken up. Grant was restored to consciousness and again made a -prisoner; the body of the señora was removed by the women summoned for -the purpose, the murderess was taken into custody, and the whole party -repaired to the house. Of this, De Marsiac at once took possession as if -he were already its master; Margarita was confined to her own chamber, -and Harding was thrust into a small, dingy room, and left alone, with -those unpleasant companions, his own thoughts. - ------ - -[1] The following extract from the letter of the author of the Captive -Rivals, will account for the delay in finishing this story in the -December number.—Ed. Graham. - - _Jacksonville, Ill. Dec. 12th, 1861._ - - _G. R. Graham, Esq.,_ - - Dear Sir,—I send you, inclosed, the final number of the - ‘Captive Rivals’—which has been by sickness, and other - unavoidable causes, unreasonably delayed. - -[2] The reader must recollect that the leagues mentioned are Mexican. - - - PART IV. - - All in the castle were at rest; - When sudden on the windows shone - A lightning flash, just seen and gone. - Rokeby. - - ’Tis to be wished it had been sooner done; - But stories somewhat lengthen, when begun. - Byron. - -It wanted yet an hour of noon, when, excepting the occasional clash of -arms in the court-yard, where De Marsiac had quartered his men, all -sounds in the mansion ceased. The room in which Harding found himself -imprisoned, had but one small window, and this was protected by strong, -vertical iron bars, in the fashion of the country. The only door opened -upon a corridor, along the stone pavement of which the prisoner could -distinctly hear the footsteps of a sentinel, approaching and receding, -but never quite going beyond earshot. As if to secure him, beyond the -possibility of escape, another armed man passed, from time to time, -before the window, looking curiously in at each return, and never -disappearing for more than five minutes. Harding, as the reader has -perceived, was a decidedly brave man; but when he reflected upon the -meaning of these precautions, and the character of the man into whose -power he had fallen, he could not avoid some apprehension as to his -fate. Fatigue, however, soon overcame his fears, and the drowsy monotony -of noonday conquered his wakefulness. Seating himself in the deep -window, he leaned his head against the bars and slept. - -When he awoke, the sun was declining toward the horizon, and the shadows -of the trees were lengthening along the hills. He aroused himself and -looked about him. His window commanded a view of the garden, in which he -had met Margarita, and a part of the river, along which he had entered. -The waters had subsided since morning, and the arches under the wall -were proportionably more open; but escape in this direction, even had he -been able to break his prison, was cut off by two sentinels who stood -upon the river-bank, and never, for a moment, turned their eyes from his -window. - -None but those who are deprived of it, can fully appreciate the blessing -of freedom; but even their hopelessness may be deepened, by the view of -waving fields and clear sunlight, when they feel that it is not for them -that they wave and shine. Harding turned away from the window, sick at -heart, and with rapid and impatient strides paced up and down the narrow -floor. As he passed the door for the fourth or fifth time, he heard -voices without, as if in altercation, and the next moment, a heavy step -coming along the corridor. - -“What do you want here?” roughly demanded a voice, which Harding at once -recognized as that of the count. - -“I was taking the _Americano_ something to eat,” timidly answered the -smaller of the voices, before in altercation. - -“Let him pass,” the count ordered the sentinel; and then added, aloud, -as if on purpose to be heard within, “and tell the _Americano_ that he -had better eat heartily, for it will be his last meal!” - -“_Si, señor_,” said the boy, and at the same moment the door was -cautiously opened, so as to preclude all chance of escape, and the -_peon_ entered, bearing a small waiter, on which were placed some -articles of food. - -Harding turned away, in no mood for eating—though he had tasted nothing -since morning. He had heard De Marsiac’s threat, and the character of -his enemy left him little reason to doubt that he would put it into -execution. He had hoped that his messenger would return from Anelo in -time to save him; but now all prospect of that seemed cut off; for he -knew that the count was not a man to delay when he had once taken his -resolution. As this thought flashed across his mind, he wheeled suddenly -round, determined to rush forth and try the chances of a fight; but -before he could do so, the door was drawn violently to, and hastily -bolted. - -“The _señor_ will eat something?” said the boy, timidly. - -“Set it down, then, and begone!” answered the prisoner, pointing to a -wooden bench at the side of the room. - -“The count told me to say you had better eat heartily,” said the _peon_, -“as this will be your last meal; and,” he continued, in a lower voice, -pointing to a roll of bread, “you must break this bread, even if you -don’t eat it.” - -The gesture and tone attracted Harding’s attention. He approached the -bench and raised the roll, while the boy, repeating his injunction, went -back to the door, and was cautiously let out. The lieutenant waited -until the bolts were drawn again, and then broke the bread. A small slip -of paper fell to the floor; and, on raising it, he found the following -hopeful, though unsatisfactory words: - -“_Will you pay me the twenty dollars, or shall I keep the horse?_” - -“It would be cheaper,” muttered Harding, perversely, “to let him keep -the horse, if he has ridden him thirty leagues already. But,” he added, -a suspicion flashing across his mind, “that is impossible! I ought to -have known the young scoundrel would betray me—and this is only a cruel -_ruse_ of De Marsiac!” - -He turned the paper over as he spoke, and his eye caught these words -written on the reverse: - -“_I will be with you by 9 o’clock—McCulloch._” - -“I did the boy injustice,” was his first thought; “he shall have both -the money and the horse.” And seating himself on the bench, he followed -the count’s well-meant advice, and was soon refreshed by a hearty meal. - -It is wonderful how much the state of the stomach has to do with the -moods of the mind. Indeed, the two organs seem to be inter-reactive; and -I believe some physiologists now contend, with great plausibility, too, -that the brain is really the digestive organ. If this theory be true, -mental distress must be only another name for _dispepsia_; and—though I -have seen men who ate like anacondas, when under great affliction—I am -strongly inclined to endorse the speculation. At all events, Harding was -“a case, or subject, in point;” for, but a few minutes before, when he -was apprehending many certain and uncertain evils, from the resentment -of the count, he had not the least desire for refreshment; but, on the -first glimpse of hope, he had an appetite like a soldier escaped from a -beleaguered city. And, no sooner was the inner man replenished, than—on -the aforesaid principle of inter-reaction—his spirits rose almost to -the point of absolute content. Most axioms are tautological; but none is -more so than that which asserts that “man is a _strange animal_.” The -word “strange” might be advantageously and conveniently left out. - -So thoroughly had the important act of receiving his rations -reinvigorated the captive, both corporeally and mentally, that, when he -resumed his walk up and down the floor, he dismissed all anxiety about -his own fate, and began to speculate in reference to the condition of -his fellow-prisoner, Grant. From regret that he had been compelled to -strike him, his mind wandered to a more pleasing subject of -contemplation—he began to long for some information about Margarita; -how she was treated by the ruffian count, and, more particularly—for -love is always egotistical—how she viewed _his_ captivity; and finally, -whether she had not forgotten her grief for her murdered mother, in -devising means of giving him his liberty. These, or such as these, are -often very pleasant fancies—the misfortune is, that, in most cases, -they are _only_ fancies, and are occasionally rather rudely dispelled. - -So it was, at all events, with Harding; for, just as he had reached that -supreme apex of egotism, to which lovers so easily attain—where one’s -mistress is not supposed to know that there is any thing, or anybody -else in the world, about which, or whom, she _can_ think—when he was -recalled to more substantial realities, by hearing the count, in loud, -stern tones, giving a rapid and ominous command. - -“Close the gates and bar them—muster the company, with loaded muskets, -and bring out the prisoners!” Such was the significant order of a man -who was never known to stop at half-measures! - -“McCulloch will be too late, at last!” exclaimed Harding, halting -suddenly, and dashing his hand violently against the wall. The dinner -had lost its virtues, for his heart sank even below its former point of -depression. And, in truth, his apprehension was far from groundless. De -Marsiac was incensed beyond bearing, by the consciousness that Harding -had overreached him. His suspicions were first aroused by observing him -take a road to _Piedritas_, different to the one he had pointed out. He -had watched him until he halted among the elms, and had seen him -dispatch the messenger for assistance. He was ignorant, however, of his -point of destination—supposing that the nearest American force was at -Monclova, about sixty leagues[3] distant. This supposition would give -him at least forty-eight hours, in which to prepare for the reception, -should soldiers be sent, or, at least, to retreat into the mountains. -The interview between Margarita and Harding, had also been watched by -some one of the household; and when the count came in great haste after -his prisoner, this unwelcome news had met him at the threshold. A man of -his violent temper could not have brooked this under any circumstances, -least of all, when he possessed, as did the count, ample and ready means -of vengeance. - -While the unfortunate prisoner was running these comfortless -circumstances over in his mind, the door was suddenly thrown open, and -several men rushed upon him and threw him to the floor. Almost before he -was aware of their object, his arms were drawn forcibly back and -pinioned behind him. They then lifted him to his feet, and -unceremoniously marched him out upon the corridor. Here he found Grant, -securely pinioned like himself, and held by two _rancheros_, one on each -arm. - -“This is a pretty predicament you have brought us into,” said the -younger, sullenly; “We’re to be shot, I suppose.” - -“Very probably,” answered Harding, scarcely able to resist, even in that -serious moment, an inclination to smile at Grant’s disconsolate look. -“But how came you here?” - -“I escaped from _Embocadura_ about the same time with you, and was in -the garden to learn your treachery and—” - -“And to get that blow on the head,” interrupted Harding, feeling again -an impulse to jest. - -“I’ll settle that score with you hereafter,” said Grant, his eyes -flashing fire. - -“By ‘hereafter,’ I suppose, you mean in the next world,” said Harding, -with a bitter smile. “But, seriously, Grant, this is no time for the -indulgence of such feelings; we have probably not long to live, and -ought to be thinking of more important matters. I am heartily sorry for -the blow, as well as for my insincerity—will you forgive it?” - -“With all my heart,” answered the other warmly; and each made a gesture, -as if to join hands; but the cords bound them too closely. - -“We can do but one thing, Grant,” said Harding, with feeling, “and that -is, die like Christian men—and brave men,” he added, after a pause; -“for these cursed _rancheros_ ought not to see any weakness in -Americans.” - -“They shall see none in me,” said Grant, firmly, “though I do think it -hard to be sacrificed in this way!” - -“One of the chances of war, Grant—only one of the chances of war,” said -Harding, sturdily; and, at the same moment the count, for whom the men -seemed to have been waiting, appeared on the corridor and waved his -hand. The files turned away with their prisoners, and marching around -the building, soon gained the bank of the river. Here they halted again, -awaiting the approach of the count, who, like most men when assuming a -fearful responsibility, seemed to act with much less than his usual -prompt rapidity. The sun had already set, and there was only left the -short twilight of that latitude before the falling of night, which must -suspend the bloody act, perhaps forever. - -But a few minutes were lost, however, when De Marsiac came hastily round -the building, accompanied by ten of his _rancheros_ with trailed arms. -At a gesture from him the prisoners’ guards resumed their march, and -crossing the river on the stepping-stones, before mentioned, soon gained -the little open space where Harding had met Margarita. Selecting two -trees which stood near each other, the count ordered his captives to be -lashed securely to them; and then drawing his men some five paces off, -gave the preliminary commands to a cold-blooded murder. - -“Keep a strong heart, Grant,” said Harding, endeavoring to sustain his -younger comrade in the awful hour. “Don’t let your courage fail now—it -is too late!” - -“This is a mere assassination,” said Grant, grinding his teeth. - -“And will be speedily avenged,” added Harding, “more speedily than the -vindictive scoundrel now thinks!” - -De Marsiac caught these words, and paused. For a moment he seemed to -hesitate whether to proceed. But his nature was too obstinate to admit -more than a passing thought of change in his purpose; and without -further noting the words of Harding, he resumed his attitude of command. -While he seemed to hesitate, his men had brought their guns to the -ground—and they were now to be brought up again by the successive -movements of the manual. The delay arising from this cause, probably -saved the lives of both the prisoners. - -A quick, light footstep was heard rapidly approaching along the main -walk, and a moment afterward, Margarita, accompanied by one of her -women, rushed into the area and threw herself, without hesitation, -between the prisoners and their executioners. - -“Count!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing fire, and her voice attesting -the extremity of her emotion, “is this the way you keep your promises -with one to whose hand you aspire! Down with your arms, miscreants, and -begone! _I_ am mistress here!” - -A slight sneer curled the haughty lip of the count; but, considering his -vengeance snatched from him for the present, he gave his men the order -to ground their arms, but to stand firm. Assuming, then, the most -insinuating address in his power—and he was far from ungraceful—he -approached the incensed girl, and drew her aside. - -“Margarita,” said he, taking her hand, “you must pardon an act which is -prompted only by love for yourself; and you must not judge too harshly -of one who feels that the dearest price of earth has been unfairly -snatched from his grasp. Both these men have been instrumental in -blasting my hopes of obtaining this hand; I feel that while they live, I -can never rebuild the vision I have indulged—perhaps their death may -not assist me—but,” and he raised himself suddenly to his full height, -and spoke in a deep, determined tone, the meaning of which she knew too -well, “I shall at least be avenged!” - -“What do you mean?” she asked, trembling. - -“I mean,” he replied, calmly, “that since my hopes are wrecked at any -rate, their death will give me revenge, without harm to my -interests—_they must die!_” - -“And dare you think that I would marry one whose hands were bloody with -such a deed?” she asked, proudly. - -“Listen to me,” said he, laying his hand on her arm; “my hands are not -_now_ bloody—yet you reject me. If I spare these men, you will reject -me still—and I shall lose my revenge, and not gain your love.” - -“Perhaps—” she commenced, but paused. - -“If you will be mine,” he interrupted, perceiving that the moment had -arrived, “both these men shall be sent back, unharmed, to the American -army—and I shall be not only the happiest of men, for the requital of -my love, but will also be saved, what I feel would be a great crime!” - -“If you know it to be a great crime, why commit it?” she asked. - -“Ah, Margarita! you little understand man’s feelings. But come,” he -added, suddenly, “time presses—I cannot wait. You reject me—they must -die!” - -He turned away as he spoke, as if to resume his commands; but Margarita -called him back. - -“If I consent,” she commenced, with hesitation, “when will you demand -the fulfillment of my promise?” - -“_To-night_,” he replied; “so soon as Father Aneres can be brought from -_La Embocadura_!” - -“Why such haste?” she demanded. “Will not to-morrow be quite soon -enough? Remember, my mother was only buried to-day!” - -“A few hours can make no difference in that matter,” he replied, “but -_might_ in another view. I must have your hand _to-night_, or these men -must die _now_.” - -It was a terrible alternative. But Margarita had seen Harding’s -messenger, and knew that McCulloch, with his Rangers, might be expected -within three hours. The only question was, whether she could find -excuses enough to delay the ceremony for that length of time. Could she -do so, she was safe; but—and it was a terrible thought—should De -Marsiac use his power to hasten it, she was lost! But, running over in -her mind all the plausible reasons she might give for an hour’s delay, -and especially reflecting upon the consequences of a refusal, she at -length determined to consent. - -“I can do no more,” she said. - -“Then I understand you to consent?” he asked. - -“I do,” she replied, “on the condition that you send these unfortunate -men to their army immediately.” - -“As soon as you are mine, they shall set out,” said the count; and -Margarita was obliged to be satisfied with his pledge. He at once -ordered the prisoners unbound, and taken back to their temporary -prisons; and walking beside his intended bride, he followed the little -procession to the house, and at once gave orders to summon the priest. - -The presence of a clerical functionary, in the house of such a man as De -Marsiac, was not so remarkable as at first view it would seem; for, -independent of the almost complete degradation of that order in that -part of Mexico, there was another reason for the opportune appearance of -one of its members. The count, anticipating the possibility of gaining -some advantage in the events about to happen, had manifested one of the -most valuable characteristics of a great general—preparing himself to -make the utmost of whatever success might be given him. He had summoned -Father Aneres to Embocadura, for the very purpose for which he now -called him to Piedritas. - -The _padre_ exhibited the three peculiarities of the priesthood in that -country, excepting, indeed, well-shaped hands and feet, they were the -only remarkable points about him: he possessed a rotund corporation, a -full nether lip, and a small, twinkling, black eye. He was above the -ordinary level referred to, however, for the grossness of his aspect was -rather that of easy self-indulgence, than of positive sensuality. -Indolence filled up the space in him, which, in his brethren, it usually -shared with a cruel and rapacious depravity. - -He entered the _hacienda_ within an hour after the dispatch of De -Marsiac’s messenger—a promptitude for which he received from none -there, excepting the count, any of the good wishes usually bestowed upon -such occasions on men of his profession. To Margarita, especially, his -coming was unwelcome in a very high degree; for, though but an hour -remained before the period fixed for McCulloch’s arrival with his -Rangers, this was space enough for one so determined as the count, and -far too much for her to dispose of in specious delays. - -This was soon manifested, indeed, by the unannounced entrance of De -Marsiac, who demanded that the ceremony should proceed forthwith. She -informed him that she had but now commenced her preparations; and rashly -said, that she would be quite ready at the end of an hour. - -“See that you are so, then,” said he, peremptorily; “for I will not be -cajoled into another minute’s delay. I shall be here again precisely at -nine o’clock; and if you are not ready then, I shall shoot the -prisoners, and compel you to redeem your pledge afterward.” - -She was about to make an angry reply; but, reflecting that he was fully -capable, if incensed more than he seemed already, of dragging her at -once to the altar, she suppressed her indignation, and replied as calmly -as possible— - -“Do you not think, count,” said she, “that such language is unbecoming -at such a time—and to me?” - -“If,” said he, softening at once, approaching her and taking her hand, -“if you treated me with the confidence which I feel I deserve, no one -could be more gentle and affectionate than I would be. But you leave no -room for gentleness. Even now, you are endeavoring to gain time in order -that you may be rescued by American soldiers. But—be at once -undeceived—these soldiers cannot arrive here sooner than the day after -to-morrow, and then they will find the place vacant.” - -Margarita’s heart sank within her, though she had seen Harding’s -messenger, and trusted his report. She knew not to what expedient one so -adroit as her persecutor might resort, to delay the march of the -rangers, or lead them astray; and her imagination at once conjured up -twenty plans by which he might secure his object. She made no reply, -however, other than to assert that he was mistaken in her motives, and -request that he would leave her to her preparations. - -“Very well,” said he, “I will return at nine o’clock.” - -As soon as his step ceased to be heard, Margarita summoned the two -confidential women who were most about her person, and a council was -held upon the ways or means of escaping or gaining time. But, fertile as -is woman’s wit, no feasible plan was suggested. Escape from the house -was impossible, for the count had every avenue guarded; the priest was -inaccessible, for he was completely under De Marsiac’s influence; even -her own men could not be depended upon, for the few who were in the -_hacienda_ were overawed by the _rancheros_ of her persecutor. The only -alternative was to stand obstinately silent at the altar; and yet by -this course, she inevitably sacrificed two lives—one of them dearer to -her than her own. Her position was terribly embarrassing; for, if she -should refuse to consent until her lover was murdered, she could not -even then be sure that the count would not force her to yield afterward; -making thus a bloody, and unavailing sacrifice. - -In the midst of their deliberations—if a hopeless search after -desperate expedients could be so called—a light knock was heard at the -door, and on being opened, it admitted Harding’s trusty messenger, -Margarita’s half-brother. He paused at the threshold and gazed about -him. It was the first time he had ever been admitted into the private -apartments of a place which he had been taught to consider his own, and -the gleam of his dark eye would have betrayed his thoughts to any one -less preoccupied than Margarita. The expression soon faded away, -however, and without salutation he advanced to Margarita, and abruptly -asked— - -“Are you about to marry Count De Marsiac, willingly?” - -“Why do you ask?” Margarita inquired. - -“I wish to prevent it,” he replied calmly. - -“How can you do so?” - -“By gaining time, till the _Texanos_ come,” he answered. - -“If you can do this,” said Margarita, eagerly, “your reward shall even -exceed your own expectations.” - -“My reward does not depend upon you,” he coldly replied. “It is quite as -much to my interest to prevent the marriage, as it can be to yours.” - -“How can that be?” interposed one of the women. - -“That will be explained hereafter,” the young man replied. “If you will -follow my directions the marriage shall be prevented.” - -“What do you wish me to do?” asked Margarita. - -“Only to delay your preparations as long as you can, and if the Texans -do not arrive before the hour—” - -“Nine o’clock is the time,” interrupted Margarita, “and it wants but -half an hour of it, now.” - -“I know,” said the other, “but linger as long as possible. Do not tempt -the count to any violence; when you can delay no longer, go to the -altar, and you will understand what I mean.” - -There was no alternative but to trust him; and Margarita did so the more -willingly, because he dictated the only course she could see open to -her—procrastination, in the hope of relief. His motives were plain -enough, though she could not fathom them. He claimed the _hacienda_ as -his own, but he knew that if it once fell into the hands of a man, whose -grasp was as tenacious as that of the count, his title would have but -small chance of successful assertion, and he was therefore interested in -preventing his union with Margarita. - - * * * * * - -In the mean time, the good Padre Aneres was seated in one of the -southern wings of the _hacienda_, recruiting his energies, after an -exhausting journey of two miles from _Embocadura_. The robes and -appointments of his clerical office were arranged with a neatness which -scarcely distinguished his personal appearance; for he was about to -celebrate a sacrament, which he viewed as hardly less important than the -last unction administered to the dying—to which, indeed, it furnished -no indistinct parallel. Preparatory, however, to the performance of the -ceremony, he was fortifying himself with a liberal supply of delicate -viands—that to which he applied himself most frequently being a large -silver bowl of red Parras wine. - -He had been thus agreeably occupied for half an hour or more after his -arrival, and having recovered his breath, began to feel comfortable -again, when a hasty but timid knock was heard at the door. The worthy -_padre_ pushed the bowl of wine a little farther from him, hastily -swallowed the morsel in his mouth, and having settled himself in an -attitude of meditation, gave a gentle invitation to enter. The door was -pushed timidly open, and the young messenger presented himself, in most -singular plight. His clothes were studiously disarranged; his hair was -disheveled, and covered with dust and ashes, while his eyes gave signs -of recent violent weeping. - -“_Oh, padre!_” he exclaimed, in evident distress, throwing himself at -the good Father’s feet. “_Peccavi! Peccavi!_ I have sinned! I have -sinned! O, Father! Hear me, and forgive.” - -The worthy priest was startled at this exhibition of grief, so much more -intense than he was accustomed to see; for the penitent beat his breast, -and humbled himself upon his knees in the most abandoned manner. - -“Calm yourself, my son,” said the pastor, “and remember that mercy may -be extended to the guiltiest of mortals.” - -“_Confiteor! Confiteor!_” rapidly continued the sinner. “Oh, _padre_! -Pity and forgive! _Peccavi! Peccavi! O, Miseracordia!_” - -“Entrust your sin to the Representative of Heaven,” gently urged the -Father, “and never despair of God’s mercy.” - -“Not here! O, not here!” exclaimed the youth, springing to his feet and -rushing to the door. “There are spies here—ears listening for the -confession, which must be given to you alone.” - -“Who dares to penetrate the secrets of the Confessional?” demanded the -_padre_, his little black eyes twinkling with indignation. - -“The count and his spies,” answered the youth. “We must leave the -house—we must go forth into the night, for my soul is burthened with -sin, and the load must be lifted. Come!” He seized the confessor by the -robe and dragged him toward the door, sobbing “_Peccavi! Peccavi!_” all -the time. - -“But, my son,” hesitated the priest, “the count is—” - -“Come—come—come!” repeated the penitent, impatiently; a part of his -grief giving way before his haste to be absolved. “We can return before -you will be wanted. I cannot endure to wait! O, pity and forgive!” - -The good Father, like most indolent men, was very slow of decision at -all times; and now he was carried away by the torrent of grief, and the -impatience for absolution, which seemed to flow from the consciousness -of some great crime. Half inclined to refuse, and yet too undecided to -act with promptness, he suffered himself to be dragged from the room, -and through the door into the open air. Here they were brought to a -sudden halt: a _ranchero_ stepped before them, and presented his musket. -But such an indignity at once restored the Father to his dignity. - -“Who dares to obstruct a son of the church in the discharge of his duty -to Heaven?” he indignantly demanded. “Out of the way, false man of -blood; and let the confessor and his penitent pass out from among the -oppressors of God’s people!” - -This vigorous speech was not particularly appropriate to the occasion, -nor was it thoroughly understood by him to whom it was addressed. -Neither was it such as was likely to move one of De Marsiac’s ordinary -followers; for the _rancheros_ generally stood more in awe of their -leader’s displeasure, than of the wrath of Heaven; and it is probable -that but few of the desperadoes would have hesitated to bayonet the -Pope, himself, had the count so commanded. But this sentinel seemed to -be of a more reverential nature; for no sooner did he recognize the -priest and his companion, than he raised the point of his bayonet, -shouldered his musket, and allowed them to pass. - -This disobedience of his captain’s orders—remarkable for its want of -precedent among De Marsiac’s banditti; was not the only singular -circumstance about the accommodating sentinel, as the reader will soon -observe. The young penitent disappeared among the shades of night with -his confessor, whom he hurried on faster, probably, than he had ever -walked before. He directed his course to a little group of _ranchos_, -which stood directly south of the _hacienda_. Having entered one of -these, and remained five minutes—it seemed that his sin was not long in -the confessing or absolution, notwithstanding his overwhelming -distress—for at the end of that time he issued forth _alone_, with a -well-pleased smile upon his lip, and elasticity restored to his bearing. -From the door of the _rancho_ he took his way north-ward again; verging -obliquely to the right, however, until he reached the bank of the river, -nearly a quarter of a mile east of the _hacienda_. At this point, a -grove of small trees sheltered the bank, and through them passed the -road up the valley to Anelo. The youth paused as he gained the shadows, -and gave a low, clear whistle. It was answered from the river-bank; and -in a moment afterward, a man emerged from the covert, and approached the -messenger. - -A whispered consultation ensued between the pair, but of brief duration; -for Eltorena seemed in haste. - -“Keep due south,” said he, as he prepared to return, “until you reach -Martiniez’ avenue—then turn west, until you are opposite the south -entrance, and approach cautiously.” - -With those words he turned away; and retracing his steps with great -rapidity, soon came in view of the sentinel, who had permitted him to -pass. - -“_Quien va la?_” hailed the latter, presenting his musket. But Eltorena -only answered by a low whistle, and boldly advanced. As he approached, -the sentinel again shouldered his piece, and a consultation ensued -between _them_, also—the youth pointing out the direction which he had -indicated to his confederate at the river, and then passing into the -mansion. The sentinel resumed his pace up and down his post—pausing -from time to time with his ear bent toward the east, as if waiting for -some expected sound. But every thing was as still as a summer night in -the north; and though the moon was now rising over the eastern hills, -there was not a moving thing perceptible to the eye. - - * * * * * - -While these things were going on without, the hour appointed for the -ceremony of marriage was fast approaching; and one of the parties, at -least, was filled with anxious fears. Margarita had delayed her -preparations as much as possible; but the assistance of her women, with -which it would have been more politic to have dispensed, had, even -against her will, so expedited them, that she was fully ready at the -time. Nor, had it been otherwise, was the count disposed to permit any -further procrastination; for, punctually to the minute, he knocked at -her door, and, without waiting a summons to enter, threw it open and -stepped across the threshold. - -“I am glad to see you ready,” said he, throwing as much kindness into -his manner as his consciousness of wrong permitted. “Come, the chapel is -prepared, and the _padre_ awaits us.” - -“Count,” said the intended bride, trembling with apprehension, but -anxious to make another effort for delay, “cannot this ceremony be as -well performed to-morrow? I do not like this indecent haste.” - -“It must be performed to-night—_now_,” he replied calmly. “If you -refuse, you know the alternative. I will not be trifled with.” - -“I am not trifling with you, indeed,” said she hurriedly. “But -reflect—my mother is scarcely cold in her grave!” - -“The better reason why you should observe her wishes,” De Marsiac -replied. “I have considered all that, and find no reason to change my -mind. If you intend to redeem your pledge at all, it is as well to-night -as to-morrow. If you are willing to sacrifice your friends, _los -Americanos_, your refusal to-night will only give me my revenge sooner!” - -His course of argument was too direct and forcible to be oppugned; -Margarita rose as its meaning reached her, and signified her willingness -to go at once to the altar. The count turned to one of his followers and -said— - -“Go to Father Aneres, and tell him that we will be ready by the time he -can reach the altar.” - -The man approached the door of the room where we have seen the good -_padre_ recruiting his exhausted strength. He was met at the door by -young Eltorena, dressed in a white cassock, and holding a censer in his -hand, as if in attendance upon the priest. - -“The good Father,” said the young man, “is in his closet, but will meet -them in the chapel in five minutes.” - -The man returned to his master, and the procession at once marched -toward the chapel. A room fitted up for this purpose is to be found in -almost all the larger _haciendas_ of that part of Mexico—its size and -splendor depending upon the wealth and piety of the proprietor. That at -_Piedritas_ had been somewhat neglected of late, but was still a -respectable chapel. It was separated from the priest’s room—where -Eltorena had sought the _padre_—by two partitions, between which was -the private closet; and leading out of this was a door which opened -behind the altar. It was through this door that Father Aneres was to -enter for the performance of the momentous ceremony. But the reader -already knows that the good Father was not within, and therefore could -not come forth. - -The procession entered the chapel in the following order. The count, -holding the unwilling hand of his trembling bride, was succeeded by the -two women, accompanied by his trusty lieutenant, who was to “give the -bride away.” Then came three files of _rancheros_ with trailed arms—a -desecration which the good Father, timid as he was, would not have -permitted. Behind these, each between two soldiers, who jealously -watched them, came Harding and Grant—borne in the procession, like the -prisoners of ancient Rome, to grace the triumph of the conqueror! Then -followed the remainder of the count’s band of free-companions, -numbering, in all, about twenty. All the domestics of the family crowded -in after, and the door was taken in charge by the trusty sentinel who -had disobeyed his orders! - -The count dragged his bride to the chancel-rail, and, leaving her there -for a few moments supported by her women, took upon himself the duties -of master of the ceremonies. He placed his two prisoners directly behind -the bride, well guarded however, so that they would have the -satisfaction of seeing without the power of interfering. Behind them he -ranged his followers in a compact mass, and directing the _peons_ to -seat themselves in the rear, he ordered the sentinel to close the door, -but not to leave it. Returning then to the chancel-railing, he resumed -his place beside Margarita, and took her cold and trembling hand in his. - -Although these dispositions consumed full ten minutes, when he returned -to his place, the priest still delayed his coming. The count, however, -fiery and impetuous as he was, waited patiently for a period quite as -long; when, finding that the door still remained closed, he began to -knit his brows and mutter angry threats. These signs encouraged -Margarita, for they indicated delay, if not deliverance; and she had -even the audacity to smile in De Marsiac’s face. - -“Antonio,” said the latter furiously, “go to Father Aneres and tell him -that we are waiting for him—_impatiently_!” - -The man addressed sprang to the door and attempted to open it, but it -did not yield to his efforts. - -“It is fastened on the outside,” he said. But, at the same moment, the -door behind the altar was heard to swing upon its hinges, and a slow, -heavy step was placed upon the short stairway which led up to the -platform. - -“The old dotard is coming at last,” muttered the count, not observing -the ominous report of his messenger. He laid aside his gold-laced cap, -which hitherto he had kept upon his head, and resuming Margarita’s hand, -placed himself before the railing and looked up. - -It was not the priest who stood at the altar! A tall, heavily-armed -man—evidently an American—rose suddenly from his cover, and, leveling -a pistol at De Maniac’s breast, gave his war-cry of “_Texano! Texano!_” -At the same moment the closed door was thrown open, and a band of near -twenty men filed speedily in and brought their carbines to bear upon the -_rancheros_—while a detachment, equally strong, rushed in from the -priest’s room, and marched past their leader—who was none other than -McCulloch of the Texan Rangers! A glance passed between Harding and -Grant—each understood the thought of the other—and, as if by -pre-concert, they broke away from their guards, sprang upon the count, -and, before his men could interfere, dragged him, a prisoner in his -turn, within the chancel! Scarcely giving him time to speak, two of the -rangers hurried him away through the priest’s room, and delivered him in -charge to the guard stationed at the door. - -“Lay down your arms!” shouted McCulloch, through the din which now -arose—chiefly from the domestics—“and every man’s life shall be -spared. But the _ranchero_ that holds his arms one minute, shall hang to -the first tree that’s tall enough to stretch him.” - -The word “_Texano_” had already half accomplished the conquest; the -captivity of their leader weakened their resolution, and this threat, -which every Texan was, in the estimation of a Mexican, fully capable of -executing, completed the discomfiture. Each _ranchero_ threw down his -arms with an alacrity which seemed to indicate that they were growing -hot in his hands, and the two detachments of rangers marched in and made -them all prisoners, without the least resistance. - -“There’s one good job well done, boys,” said McCulloch, “and all the -better done because we have spilt no blood.” - -Turning then to Harding, who was supporting Margarita upon his arm, -while Grant stood moodily aside, he said—cordially receiving the hand -extended to him— - -“We were very nearly too late, at last—though, thank God! not quite. I -had information from your messenger, since we entered the _hacienda_, -that the bandit, De Marsiac, designed to take your lives, even after he -had obtained the hand which was to be their ransom.” - -“I doubt not,” said Harding, frankly; “if my friend Grant and I see -to-morrow morning, we shall owe the sight to your promptness in -attending my call. You must be satisfied with our gratitude until the -chances of war shall enable us to discharge the obligation in kind.” - -“If the only mode of payment,” said the captain with a smile, “is -rescuing me from a scrape like this, I hope you may never have a -creditor more pressing than I.” - -“I do not know,” said the ranger lieutenant, Gillespie, coming forward -with the open manner of the soldier; “I think, if the prize, at the -outcome, were as great as it seems to be in this instance, Captain -McCulloch would have no special objection to dangers quite as imminent.” - -He looked at Margarita as he spoke—for she still hung upon Harding’s -arm. The captain laughed at what he considered a compliment both to -himself and the lady; a round of introductions ensued, and -congratulations, with jests and pleasant laughs—during which the -prisoners were marched off and confined, and the _hacienda_ reassumed -its aspect of dreamy quiet. - -“Gentlemen,” said Margarita, when a pause at last broke the round of -felicitations, “you have ridden far and hard, and must be both fatigued -and hungry. Will you not partake of some refreshment?” - -“With the utmost pleasure,” answered McCulloch; “but I must first see my -men quartered.” - -“I have already given orders for their accommodation,” said Margarita. -“Since I may soon be under their escort, it becomes me to consult their -comfort.” - -“Under their escort!” exclaimed Harding. - -“Yes,” she replied. “Since my mother’s death this is no longer a fit -residence for me. I have many relatives in Saltillo, and it is thither -that I wish to go. When you return to the United States,” she added, in -French, observing Harding’s doubtful look, “I shall be your -companion—if you desire it.” - -He could only reply by another look, of a different meaning, when -McCulloch asked— - -“What will become of the _hacienda_ in your absence? I have seen too -much of the steward system in this country, not to regret the absence of -the proprietor from every fine estate.” - -“I shall give it to one,” she replied, “who, though he already claims it -unjustly, has, by his services this night entitled himself to even a -greater reward. I mean the young man who led you hither.” - -“And his mother,” suggested one of the women, who did not quite relish -the generous proposition. - -“She is a confirmed maniac,” said Margarita with a shudder, “and this is -only a stronger reason why I should do as I say. She will be a burthen -upon her son, and it is but just that he should have the means of -supporting her.” This closed the discussion, and the party adjourned to -supper. - - * * * * * - -On the following day the prisoners were mustered by the order of -McCulloch—as they supposed, for the purpose of being treated as _their_ -countrymen had so often treated _his_; that is, being hung like -traitors, or shot by platoons—but really for the purpose of being -released. De Marsiac, however, as a man who might do the Americans some -injury, was retained a prisoner of war. All the rest, much to their -surprise, were dismissed with an _admonition_ not to be found again in -arms. The captain judged, very correctly, that taking their _parol_ -would be an unmeaning ceremony. - -About an hour afterward, the cavalcade set out for Saltillo, by way of -Anelo and Capellania—a long route which McCulloch’s orders compelled -them to take. Margarita, with a generosity which my readers may be -disposed to call romantic, but which was, after all, scarcely more than -justice—had conveyed the _Hacienda de los Piedritas_ to her -half-brother, who had so richly deserved his reward. The sacrifice was -small, too, for she had, still remaining, possessions ample even for -that country of overgrown individual fortunes. - -Three days brought them to the handsome city of Saltillo, where -Margarita found a refuge among her many relatives. De Marsiac was -reported at headquarters and sent to the rear; while Harding and -Grant—wiser if not better men—rejoined their companies, and resumed -their duties. The events of their captivity seemed to have cured the -latter of the pleasant malady which had afflicted him; and the pair -became, in a short time, as inseparable as ever. They visited Margarita -together, and though the younger winced a little, when by any chance the -subject of his hallucination was referred to, on the whole he bore his -disappointment with a good grace. - -The battle of Buena Vista closed the campaign in that part of the -country; and shortly afterward the regiment to which they were attached -was discharged. Before their return home, however, the ancient rivals -returned to Saltillo—where, in the handsome cathedral, Harding and -Margarita were united in marriage. And, a pleasant memento of rather -uncertain times, the officiating priest was the worthy Father Aneres, -who had figured in the history of Harding and Grant while they were -“_Captive Rivals_!” - ------ - -[3] Mexican leagues—about one hundred and forty miles. - - * * * * * - - - - - DEI GRATIA, REX. - - - BY W. E. GILMORE. - - - King “by the grace of God!” where is the token - By which we know thy right it is to reign! - Jehovah’s will, of old, in words was spoken, - Who heard His voice thy sovereignty proclaim? - - No! thou art king, _not_ by “the grace of God,” - But usurpation only—guiltless he - That doth resist thy claims, and, though in blood - Poured out like water, rids the earth of thee! - - * * * * * - - - - - OUR CHILDHOOD - - - BY JANE GAY. - - - How brightly did the summer’s sun - Wake up the dewy morn, - And chase the misty shadows from - The cot where we were born; - It stood amid the peaceful hills - Where worldlings never rove, - The violet-spotted earth around— - The glorious sky above. - - Two tall elms were its sentinels, - With arms uplifted high; - And these were all we needed, save - The watchers of the sky; - And while amid the thick, green leaves - The moonbeams dallied bright, - The stars looked down on us at play, - Oft on the summer night. - - O, every month of childhood’s years, - How well do I remember, - With all their smiles and fleeting tears, - From New Year’s till December; - No care or burden had we then— - No life-lines on the brow; - We knew it not—I wonder if - We’re any wiser now. - - Were we not with ye, brothers, when - With spade or hoe ye sped - To dig the homely artichoke - From out its winter bed? - Or when, with boyhood’s free, glad shout, - Ye ran with pole and hook, - To draw the golden-spotted trout - From out the alder-brook? - - Ay, ay! and I must tell it, too, - Ye’d _sometimes_ play the churls; - And cry, when we would run away— - “_Mother, call back the girls_!” - And then came tasks of knitting-work - For us, and dreaded patch, - With sullen faces, till we thought - To try a knitting match. - - The summer days were ne’er too long - For busy life like ours; - For every hill had berries then, - And every meadow, flowers. - And joyfully, when school was done, - We’d stay to glean our store; - For though we loved the school-book well, - We loved the free hills more. - - And very pleasant ’mid those hills - September’s sun did shine, - As we went forth to gather grapes - From many a loaded vine; - And while October’s gorgeous hues - Of red and gold were seen; - We searched for chestnuts in the wood, - Or pulled the winter-green. - - And when November’s winds came chill - With icy sleet and rain, - We knew the old brown barns were filled - With stores of golden grain; - And what cared we how bleak or cold - The wintry storms might rise— - Our dreams were of Thanksgiving-days, - And all their wealth of pies. - - Though ye have left the homestead now - Grave men to walk among, - Yet while our sire and grandsire live— - Brothers, ye still are young! - Nor, sisters, is it time for us - Life’s lantern dark to trim, - Our own dear mother has not yet - Sung her half-century hymn! - - And while our childhood’s guardians live - To bless the passing years, - ’Twere more than vain in sad regrets - To waste Life’s precious tears; - Yet if our summer sky is fair, - And green our summer bowers, - We know that many walk the earth - With sadder hearts than ours. - - * * * * * - - - - - I’LL BLAME THEE NOT. - - - BY J. A. TINNON. - - - I’ll blame thee not—for I can love, - Another eye as bright as thine, - A form as fair, and ne’er regret, - This worship at a faithless shrine. - I’ll blame thee not—love fond and true - May still be won in beauty’s bowers, - Though I may never dare again, - To wear a wreath of fading flowers. - - I’ll blame thee not—for thoughts of love - And thee no more my bosom fill; - And of that dream there lingers scarce - One trace of its deep burning thrill. - I’ll blame thee not—I smile to see - The golden vision pass away, - When its bright tints a mask have been - To hide a heart of common clay. - - I’ll blame thee not—for I, perchance, - May learn the trick of gladness well, - And none shall mark upon my brow - A trace of joy or pain to tell. - I’ll blame thee not—for I will care - No more to bind a restive heart, - Though every joy my life can know - Should with its passion-dream depart. - - * * * * * - - - - - LAW AND LAWYERS. - - - BY JOHN NEAL. - - - “Once more into the breach, dear friends: - Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the bends!” - - -With all my heart, Graham! But inasmuch as the lecture you want a copy -of has never been reduced to writing, though portions have appeared from -time to time in the newspapers of the day; and I have no notes worth -referring to, I dare not pretend to give you the language I employ; for, -between ourselves, that depends upon the weather and the House, to say -nothing of my temper at the time. For example; if I see before me a -goodly proportion of what are called the _learned_, or the _educated_, I -never mince matters—I never talk as if butter wouldn’t melt in my -mouth, but go to work with my sleeves rolled up, as if I heard a trumpet -in the hollow sky. In other cases, where the great majority of my -hearers happen to be neither learned nor educated—though there may be a -sprinkling of both—I am apt, I acknowledge, to wander off into familiar -every-day illustrations—perhaps into down-right story-telling, or what -my brethren of the bar would be likely to denominate _unprofessional_ -rigmarole. But the substance of my preaching for many years upon this -subject, and the “thing signified,” and the general arrangement, under -all sorts of provocation, I think I may venture to promise you. - -Bear in mind, I pray you, that phantoms under one aspect, may be more -terrible than giants, cased in proof, under another. Every great -mischief, being once enthroned or established, is a host of itself. - -In the open field, lawyers are not easily vanquished—out-manœuvered or -overborne. Walled about, as with a triple wall of fire—or -_brass_?—high up and afar off, their intrenchments are only to be -carried by storm. They must be grappled with, face to face. No quarter -must be granted—for no quarter do they give—no mercy do they show, -after their banners are afield. “Up, guards! and at ’em!” said -Wellington, at the battle of Waterloo; and so say I! whenever I see my -brethren of the bar rallying for a charge. - -They will bear with me, I hope—as I have borne with them for -twenty-five years; for, while I complain of their unreasonable -ascendency throughout our land, of their imperious, overbearing, -unquestioned domination, I acknowledge that, constituted as we are—We, -the People—we cannot do without them—and the more’s the pity. Law we -must have, and with it, as if by spontaneous generation—lawyers, till -Man himself undergoes a transformation, and his very nature is changed. -Both are necessary evils—much like war, pestilence, and famine, or -lunatic-asylums, poor-houses, and penitentiaries; or apothecaries’ -shops, with their adulterous abominations; and every other substitute -for, and abridgment of, human liberty, human happiness, the laws of -health, or the instinct of self-reliance. If men will not do as they -would be done by; if they will not be “temperate in all things”—then -they deserve to be drugged, and blistered, and bled here by the doctors, -and there by the lawyers, till they have come to their senses, or can no -longer be dealt with profitably by either; for, although every man, -according to the worthy Joe Miller, may be his own washerwoman—at least -in Ireland—it is very clear that in this country, he might as well -undertake to be his own jailer, as his own lawyer. - -I would go further; for, like the illustrious Hungarian, I desire to -conciliate and satisfy, not the few but the many; not only my brethren -of the bar, but everybody else worth satisfying; I would even admit—and -how could I well go further, and “hope to be forgiven?”—that, in view -of Man’s nature, as developed by our social institutions, Law and -Lawyers both, may be, and sometimes are, under special circumstances, -not only a necessary evil, but a very good thing. _There!_ I have said -it—and let them make the most of it. I mean to admit all I can—and -much good may it do them! But then, I would ask, if we may not have too -much, even of a good thing? - -I hold that we may; and I appeal for proof to the countless volumes of -law which cannot be understood by any but lawyers; nor by any two of -them alike, till every other word, perhaps, in a long paragraph has been -settled by adjudication—two or three different ways—after solemn -argument. - -I appeal to what is called the administration of justice, by jury-trial, -in our courts of law, where twelve ignorant, unreasoning men, got -together, nobody knows how—hit or miss—are held to be better -qualified—being bound by their oaths to think alike in most cases, and -to return a unanimous verdict, whether or no—than Lord Chancellor Bacon -himself, or Chief Justice Marshall would be, to settle any and every -question, however new, and however abstruse and complicated, upon every -possible subject that may happen to be brought before them for the first -time in all their lives! And this, without any previous knowledge on -their parts, or any other preparation by the lawyers who are to -enlighten them, than may have been made the night before, by “reading -up,” or “stuffing” for the occasion. - -I appeal, moreover, to the testimony of the sufferers -themselves—_parties_, they are technically called—who, after being -scorched, and sifted, and harassed, and pillaged, under one pretence or -another, year after year, and within an inch of their lives; or driven -well-nigh distracted by the vicissitudes and anxieties incident to every -well-managed law-suit, where “good pickings” are to be had, or by that -hope-deferred “which maketh the heart sick,” begin to get their eyes -opened, and to see for themselves, and are sometime ready to acknowledge -for the help of others, who are elbowing their way up—or down?—to -_see_ the elephant, that when they pass over the threshold of those -gambling-houses, that are established by law, under the name of Courts -of Justice, and put up their stakes, they will find three times out of -four—perhaps nineteen times out of twenty—that when the raffle comes -off at last—with the jury-box—it is to decide, not which of the two -parties litigant—plaintiffs or defendants—but what third party—the -lawyers—shall sweep the board. - -And I might appeal to the swarming thousands of our younger professional -brethren, who, ashamed to beg, afraid to steal, and too lazy to work, -instead of following the business of their fathers, taking their places, -and maintaining themselves honestly, give way to a foolish mother, or -sister, or to some greater simpleton still more to be pitied, or to a -most unhealthy ambition—that of being an _Esquire_, and a pauper, with -very white hands, who, having studied law, will have to be provided for -at last by marriage, or office; and with that view have literally taken -possession of our high places, our kneading-troughs and our -bed-chambers—after the fashion of their predecessors in Egypt. - -Nay, more—I am ready to acknowledge, and I do for myself, my executors, -administrators and assigns—or publishers—hereby acknowledge, and I -hope with no unbecoming nor uncourteous qualification, that, taken -together, as a power, body, or estate, the Lawyers of our land are to -the full as honest—and as trustworthy—by _nature_—as any other power, -body or estate among us, of equal numbers, wealth, dignity, or -intelligence; notwithstanding the opinion so generally entertained, and -so often expressed, to their disadvantage, in the plays and farces, or -newspapers and story-books of the day, (not always, nor altogether -synonymous, I hope;) but no honester, and no more trustworthy; for, -although I believe—and I mean just what I say—that no _great -advocate_, in the popular sense of the words, can be an honest man, -however conscientious he may be out of court, or in other business; and -however anxious he and others may be to distinguish between the Advocate -and the Man—as if a lawyer were allowed two consciences to practice -with, and two courts—one above and the other below—to practice in; yet -I believe that a great Lawyer, or Jurist, like Sir Matthew Hale, or -Chief Justice Marshall, or Chancellor Kent, or any one of a score that -might be named, or Judge Parsons, being translated to the bench, from -the corrupting influences and stifling atmosphere below, may be a very -honest man; just as I believe—and I don’t care who knows it—that -silver spoons and watches left within striking distance of an attorney -at law—I am only supposing a case—may be safe, “notwithstanding and -nevertheless.” - -By _nature_, I say, and not by education, habit, or association at the -bar. Away from the bar, I acknowledge the integrity of my brethren as -equal to that of any other class whatever. And this being admitted—what -more would they have? Would they claim to be honester and more -trustworthy than any other class, either by education or nature? - -But observe; though ready to acknowledge their honesty, by _nature_, as -men; or rather, while I acknowledge that they are, to the full, as -honest as other men are by _nature_—but no honester; and as trustworthy -in all other relations, apart from law—as good but no better, I -maintain that they are constantly exposed to such disqualifying -temptations, and to such disastrous influences peculiar to their -profession; that they have established a code of morals for themselves, -as lawyers, which would not be allowed to them as citizens; and which, -if openly avowed and persisted in, by brethren out of the profession, -would be sure to send them to the penitentiary; that they have -altogether too much power in this country—a power out of all proportion -to their numbers, their talents, their intelligence, their virtues, and -their usefulness; and that, instead of being chosen for lawgivers -throughout our land, in a proportion varying from three-fifths to nearly -seven-eighths, in all our legislative bodies, they are the very last -persons among us to be intrusted with the business of -legislation—having a direct personal interest in multiplying our -laws—in altering them—and in making them unintelligible to all the -rest of the world. - -Not satisfied with their pay, as legislators, for making the law, -varying from two to ten dollars a-day—with washing and mending, where -washing and mending are possible—they require, as lawyers, from -twenty-five to one hundred dollars a-day for telling, or rather for -guessing what it means. - -And what is the result? Just this. That a privileged body, anointed for -office and power, who, but for the blindness and prodigal infatuation of -the People, would often be the nobodies of every productive or efficient -class, are enabled to fare sumptuously every day, wear purple and fine -linen—at the expense of others—all their lives long; and to carry off -all the honors from every other class of the community. Think of this, I -pray you; and bear with me, while I proceed with my demonstration. - -That they have learned to reverence themselves, and all that belongs to -them, I do not deny; but then, if it is only themselves, and not the -image of God—if it is only what belongs to themselves and to their -estate, or craft, as lawyers, and not as Men, they so reverence—in what -particular do they differ from other self-idolators? - -Are We, the People, to be concluded by their very pretensions? Are We to -be estopped by the very deportment we complain of? Because they are -exacting and supercilious, and self-satisfied, and arrogant, and -overbearing, are we to be patient and submissive? Are we to be told, if -not in language, at least by the bearing and behavior of these gentry, -that, inasmuch as all men may be supposed to be best acquainted with -themselves, therefore Lawyers are to be taken by others at their own -valuation? - -Let it be remembered that they who properly reverence themselves, always -reverence others. But who ever heard of a Lawyer with any -reverence—worth mentioning—for anybody out of the profession? This, to -be sure, is very common with ignorant and presumptuous men. It is the -natural growth of a narrow-minded, short-sighted, selfish bigotry. A -mountebank or a rope-dancer will betray the same ridiculous -self-complacency, if hard pushed. Were you to speak of a great -man—Kossuth, for example—in the presence of a fiddler, who had never -heard of him before, he would probably crook his right elbow, and cant -his head to the left, as if preparing to draw the long bow, or go -through some of the motions common to all the great men he had ever been -acquainted with, or heard of, or acknowledged, before he questioned you -further. - -It would never enter his head that a truly great man could be any thing -but a fiddler; a Paganini dethroned perhaps—like Peter the Great in a -dockyard—or that “any gentleman as was a gentleman,” could ever so far -forget himself in _his_ company, as to call a man great who was no -fiddler. - -“What do they say of me in England?” said the corpulent, half-naked -savage that Mungo Park saw stuffing for a cross-examination under a -bamboo tree in Africa. - -Just so is it with our brethren of the bar. Law being the “perfection of -Reason,” and her seat “the bosom of God,” they, of course, are the -expounders or interpreters of both; a priesthood from the beginning, -therefore, with the privilege and power of indefinite -self-multiplication. The sum and substance of all they know, and all -they care for under Heaven, if they are greatly distinguished, being -Law, what else could be expected of them? If they are great lawyers they -are never any thing else—they are never statesmen, they are never -orators—they are never writers. Carefully speaking, Daniel Webster is -not a great lawyer—nor is Henry Clay—nor was Lord Brougham; but they -were advocates, and orators and statesmen. Sir James Scarlett and Denham -were great lawyers, before whose technical superiority and sharp -practice Lord Brougham quailed and shriveled in the Court of King’s -Bench. But when they encountered each other in the House of -Commons—what a figure the two lawyers cut, to be sure, in the presence -of the thunderer! They were phantoms, and he the Olympian Jove. William -Pinkney was a great lawyer; but for that very reason he was out of place -in the Senate chamber, and made no figure there. - -But even for this they have a justification—or a plea in bar. The law -is a “jealous mistress,” we are told, and will endure no rival; a -monarch “who bears no brother near the throne.” And well do they act -upon this belief; and well do they teach it by precept and by practice; -for few indeed are they, even among the foremost, who have gathered up, -in the course of a long life, any considerable amount of miscellaneous -knowledge, notwithstanding the reputation they sometimes acquire, in a -single day, by their insolent questioning of learned, shy and modest -professional men, or experts, after they have once got them caged and -cornered, and tied up hand and foot in a witness-box, and allowed to -speak only when they are spoken to; there to be badgered for the -amusement of people outside, more ignorant, if possible, than the -learned counsel themselves; but incapable of seeing through the -counterfeit, which, while it makes them laugh, makes the “judicious -grieve;” and mistaking for cleverness and smartness the blundering -audacity of an ignorant and garrulous, though privileged pretender, who -does not know that it often requires about as much knowledge of a -subject to propound a safe and proper question, as to answer it: nor -that the veriest blockhead may ask twenty questions in a breath, which -no mortal man could ever answer, and would not even try to answer, -unless he were a still greater blockhead. - -And now, having swept the stage fore and aft, and secured, as I trust, a -patient hearing from the profession, let us go to work in earnest. - -I maintain that among the popular delusions of the day, there is no one -more dangerous nor alarming than that which leads our People to believe -that they constitute a republic and that they govern themselves, merely -because they are allowed to choose their own masters; _provided_ they -choose them out of a particular class—that of the lawyers. - -At the opening of every great political campaign, we hear a great deal -about the privileged classes; the ruffled-shirt and silk-stocking -gentry: and sometimes men prattle about the aristocracy of talent, or -the aristocracy of wealth—but who ever heard any complaints of our -legal aristocracy—an oligarchy rather—for they make all the laws, they -expound all the laws, and they hold all the offices worth having—in -perpetuity. - -And whose fault is it? If the People are such asses, why should they not -be saddled and bridled, and ridden in perpetuity? It is their nature. -They are prone to class-worship, and to family-worship—to -self-depreciation, and to a most incapacitating jealousy of one another. -Even in the day of the elder Adams, it was found that the office of a -justice of the peace, like that of a legislator, was well-nigh -hereditary in New England. Having anointed the father, how could they -help anointing the son?—or the daughter’s husband, if the father had no -son? - -And now, let us look at the consequences. From Aristotle down to the -last elementary writer on Government, it has been every where, and at -all times, acknowledged, that every possible kind of sway upon earth, -between Despotism and Anarchy, may be resolved into three elements of -power, differently combined, or combined in different proportions. These -elements are: 1. The Legislative, or law-making power; 2. The Judicial, -or law-expounding power; and 3. The Executive, or law-enforcing power. - -Taken together we have what is called the Sovereign Power. The power of -making laws, of saying what they mean, and of carrying them into -execution being all that is ever needed for government. - -And this, the Sovereign Power, may be concentrated in one person, whence -we have the Czar, the Sultan, or the Autocrat; or it may be confined to -a few—as in Sparta, or Genoa, or Venice, or Poland—constituting either -an Aristocracy or an Oligarchy; or it may be distributed among the -people equally, as at Rome or Athens at particular periods of their -history, when they were a tumultuous unmanageable Democracy: or -unequally, as in England, or in these United States, thereby -constituting a Limited Monarchy, or a Representative Republic, -pretending to a balance, by the help of a King or President, a House of -Lords, or a Senate, and a House of Commons or a House of -Representatives, and a Judiciary, more or less dependent upon the -Executive. - -Of all these different systems the worst by far is an Oligarchy—or the -government of a privileged few—no matter whether elective and shifting, -or permanent, provided that, as a body or estate, they are allowed by -common consent to make the laws—to expound the laws—and to carry the -laws into execution, by holding all the offices worth having, from that -of the monarch or president, down to that of a clerk or -sergeant-at-arms. - -True it is, that by no human contrivance can the three elements of power -above mentioned, be kept entirely separate—for they will run into each -other—as where the Supreme Executive is allowed a veto, or required to -sanction a law: and where the Senate, as a branch of the Supreme -Legislative power, intermeddles with the appointing power of the -Executive under the name of confirmation; and where the Supreme -Judiciary, after being appointed by the Executive and confirmed by the -Senate, are made dependent upon that other branch of the Supreme -Legislative power for the payment of their salaries—the House -originating all money bills and voting supplies—turn about, in their -capacity of Supreme Judges, and are allowed to unsettle, if they please, -by their interpretation, whatever the Supreme Legislative power may -choose to enact for law. - -But although these three elements can never be wholly separated—it does -not follow that men, who desire to be well-governed, should not try to -separate them and to keep them separated as far as they can. Still less, -that because they cannot be wholly separated, they shall therefore be -encouraged to run together and to crystalize into a mischief that may -never be resolved again but by the process of decomposition. - -And now, I contend that, in effect, We, the People of these United -States, are governed by an Oligarchy; and that, by being allowed to -choose our own masters—provided we choose them, or at least, a large -majority of them, out of a particular class—we are blinded to the -inevitable consequences: till we mistake words for things, and shadows -for substances: and that our mistake is all the more dangerous and -alarming that we cannot be persuaded to treat the matter seriously. - -I contend, moreover, that, inasmuch as the Lawyers of our land make all -the laws; and as Judges expound all the laws, and as office-holders -carry all the laws into execution, therefore they constitute of -themselves the Sovereign Power. - -Are the facts questioned? In the Massachusetts legislature, we have had -two hundred and sixty lawyers out of three hundred and fifty members; -and in congress we had not long ago, the same number, two hundred and -sixty lawyers out of two hundred and ninety-seven members—the balance -being made up in this way. Manufacturers and farmers, fifteen: -Merchants, one: Unknown, (being mechanics or preachers, or something of -the sort,) twenty-one. Perhaps there may be some error here, as I find -the only note I have upon the subject so blurred, that I am not sure of -the figures; but the fact on which I rely is too notorious to be -questioned. Every body knows that lawyers constitute a large majority in -all our legislative bodies, and have done so for the last fifty years; -and that they make about all the speeches that are made there, or -supposed to be made there, and afterward reported by themselves for the -newspapers. Can it be doubted therefore, that they as a body do in fact -and in truth constitute our supreme legislative power—thereby absorbing -to themselves just one third part, and by far the most important part of -our whole sovereignty as a people. - -As little can it be seriously questioned that, inasmuch as all our -judges, from the highest to the lowest are lawyers; or ought to be, as -they are always ready enough to acknowledge—they constitute the supreme -judiciary; another third part of our whole sovereignty as a people. - -And now let us see how the account stands with the Executive Power. Are -not our presidents, and have they not been from the first—with only -three exceptions out of twelve—lawyers? And our vice presidents; and -all our secretaries of state; and most of our secretaries of war, and of -the navy; and about all our foreign ministers; our chief clerks, our -post-master generals; our collectors; our land agents; and even a large -proportion of our foreign consuls—have they not always been, and are -they not always with an ever increasing ratio—Lawyers? And if so, what -becomes of the other third part of our whole sovereignty as a -people—the Executive Power? It is in the hands of the lawyers; and as -three thirds make a whole—out of the courts of law, I mean—does it not -follow that the whole sovereign power of this mighty people—of this -great commonwealth of republics—this last refuge of the nations is in -the hands of our lawyers, hardly a fraction of the whole? - -Oh! but we have nothing to fear. Lawyers are always at loggerheads. They -are incapable of working together, even for mischief. Granted—and -there, let me tell you is our only safety, and our only hope. But, -suppose they should wake up to a knowledge of their own strength—and of -our weakness—who shall say that they must always be incapable of -conspiring together? And if they did—when should we begin to perceive -our danger? Would they be likely to tell us before-hand? Or would they -go on, year after year, quietly absorbing office, power, and -prerogative, as all such bodies do; until they had become too strong for -the great unreasoning multitude. With public opinion—with long -established usage in their favor—with a sort of hallucination, hard to -be accounted for in a jealous people; acquainted with history, what have -they to fear? Neither overthrow nor disaster—till the people come to -their senses and wake up, and harness themselves; and then, they are put -upon trial, as with the voice of many thunders; and instantly and -forever dethroned, as by an earthquake. - -But you do not see the danger. Granted. And this very thing is what I -complain of. Did you see the danger there would be some hope of you; and -it would soon pass away forever. - -But suppose we take another case for illustration. Suppose that -three-fifths of all our law-makers were soldiers instead of lawyers. -Suppose that all our judges from the highest to the lowest were -soldiers; and that all our presidents, and secretaries, and foreign -ministers, and collectors, and consuls—with here and there an -exception—were all soldiers; most of them experienced -soldiers—veterans; and the others, conscripts or new levies—what would -be the consequences, think you? How long should we be at peace with the -rest of the world? How long would Cuba, Mexico, or the rest of North and -South America be unattempted? Would not our whole sea-coast, and all our -lakes and rivers, and all our frontiers be fortified and garrisoned? -Would there not be great armies constantly marching and counter-marching -through our midst? Would not our very dwelling-houses and churches be -wanted for barracks—and if wanted, would they not be taken by little -and little? - -Would not all our young men be mustering for the battle-field? Would not -foolish mothers, and sisters, and sweet-hearts, be urging them to try -for a shoulder-knot or a feather, as the only thing on earth to be cared -for by a young man of spirit and enterprise? - -Look at Russia. The military have dominion there—and all the rest of -the world are slaves. The greatest men we have, not bearing a military -title, would be overlooked by the emperor, while any thing in the shape -of a general, though he never “set a squadron in the field,” and was -never heard of beyond the neighborhood of a militia muster, would be -fastened on horseback, and have thousands and tens of thousands, from -the harnessed legions of the north, passed in review before him. What -wonder that in such a country, the very nurses of the bed-chamber; yea, -the very bishops of the land have military titles, and are regularly -passed up through successive grades, from that of a platoon officer to -that of a colonel, and perhaps to that of a field-marshall, by the -emperor himself. - -Yet soldiers are at least as trustworthy, are they not—as lawyers? - -Take another case. It will not be denied, that physicians on the whole, -are about as intelligent and trustworthy as lawyers. Now, let us suppose -that, instead of being as in the Massachusetts legislature, eighteen to -two hundred and sixty—in a body of two hundred and ninety-seven; they -should happen to be two hundred and sixty physicians, to eighteen -lawyers, and that in our other legislative bodies they should constitute -a majority of the members: that all our presidents, and secretaries, and -foreign ministers, and chief clerks, and post-masters, and collectors, -and consuls, were physicians; or as many as are now lawyers: and that -all the laws were made subject to the decision of a bench of doctors, -eminent for the knowledge of medicine, and for nothing else—what, think -you, would be the situation of our people under such an administration? -Would any mortal man dare to refuse any pill the president might offer? -Would not our dwellings and churches be converted—not into barracks, -but hospitals? Would not millions be lavished upon theories, and -experiments, and preparations for pestilence? Would not the whole -country be divided into contagionists, and non-contagionists—parties -for, and parties against the yellow fever and the cholera? Would not -platforms be established, and pledges required, and offices filled—here -by the believers in allopathy, and there by the disciples of homeopathy? -To-day, by the rain-water, screw-auger, and vegetable doctors; and -to-morrow, by the unbelievers in lobelia, bella-donna, and pulverized -charcoal, or infinitesimal silex? In a word, if the government were -allowed to have its own way—and after they were established as the -lawyers are now, how could you help it?—would not the president, and -all his secretaries be obliged to prescribe for the sovereign people—or -suffering people—gratuitously; and would not the whole country be -drugged, and physicked, and bled and blistered—samewhat as they are -now—and would not all our finest young men be rushing into the -apothecary shops, and lying-in hospitals, and clinical establishments -for diplomas—to qualify them for the business of legislation, and for -holding office? - -And again. Suppose we had as many preachers of the Gospel for -lawgivers—for presidents, secretaries, ministers, etc., and for -judges—what would be our situation? However they might differ among -themselves upon the minor points of their faith and practice, would they -not combine together? And would it not be their duty to combine, for the -establishment of whatever opinion they might all, or a great majority of -them, have agreed to uphold, as vital to Christianity? And how could we -help ourselves? And what would become of our ambitious young men, or -still more ambitious daughters? And what—I beseech you to think of -this—what would become of the right we now claim of judging for -ourselves upon all subjects, that in any way belong to our everlasting -welfare? Yet these men are honest, and taken together, are they not as -trustworthy and conscientious under all circumstances, think you, as our -present masters, the lawyers? And if so, would they—or would the -physicians, or the soldiers be a whit more dangerous? Answer these -questions for yourselves. - -But I have not finished. I hold that the professional training of a -lawyer disqualifies him for the very business, which might be entrusted -with comparative safety to the soldier, the physician, or the preacher. - -And wherefore? Because it substitutes a new law for the law of God. He -that by his professional adroitness can secure the escape of the -bloodiest and most atrocious criminal from justice, in spite of the -clearest proof, obtains a reputation, and with it correspondent -advantages in wealth, influence, and power, which under no other -circumstances could he obtain. It is the worst cases, whether criminal -or civil—cases which he gains in defiance of law, and against -evidence—which give a lawyer reputation. To win a cause which every -body says he ought to win, _that_ never gives a man reputation, and is -therefore committed to the nobodies below him. But, if there be a case -beyond the reach of hope or palliation; clear and conclusive against the -party, so that our very blood thrills when he is mentioned, and no human -being supposes he can get clear; still if he does get clear—no matter -how—by browbeating or bothering witnesses; by bamboozling the jury, and -misrepresenting the evidence under the direction of the court; or by -down-right bullying; the advocate is complimented by his brethren of the -bar, and even by the bench; for his learned, ingenious, and eloquent, -and faithful vindication of his client; and he goes forth, carrying with -him these trophies,—and others, it may be—dabbled and stained with -blood, like the murderer’s knife, with “the gray hair stickin’ to the -haft,” only to be retained in advance by every desperate ruffian, and -every abandoned wretch, who may happen to hear of the result, and to -have the where-withal to secure his timely co-operation. - -Just observe how this affair is managed. If a father should give aid and -comfort to a child, after she had been guilty of murder; if a husband -should open his doors to a wife, or a daughter to her father, at dead of -night; or furnish a horse, or money, or a mouthful of bread, or a cup of -cold water, or the means of escape to a beloved brother, hunted for his -life, with the avenger of blood at his heels, time was, when they were -all accessories after the fact, and were treated as murderers or -principals, whatever might be the offense, and put to death accordingly; -and even yet, although that most barbarous law has undergone a few -changes, so that in some portions of our country, they who stand in the -relation of husband and wife, or parent and child, may help one another -when fleeing for their lives; yet no other man, woman, or child can do -it, in the whole community, but at the risk of death or imprisonment for -life—_except he be a lawyer_, and the prisoner’s counsel. And then he -may, and he not only may, but he is expected and required to do so: in -other words, to aid and comfort, counsel and help the prisoner, heedless -of all consequences, here and hereafter. And for this, he may receive -the very gold which has been wrenched from the grasp of the murdered -man; or the bank bills that are glued together by his heart’s blood; and -nobody shall dare to question his integrity, or to have any secret -misgivings about his honesty or conscientiousness—if it can be helped. - -Let me not be misunderstood. I do not deny that the worst of criminals -are to be tried fairly. I acknowledge, moreover, that they cannot be -tried fairly with men of the law against them, unless they have lawyers -to help them: and that it is as much a part of the law that they shall -be tried in a certain way, and proved guilty in a certain way, for the -satisfaction of the world, as that they shall be punished at all; and -that, if it were enough to be satisfied of another’s guilt as a -murderer, to justify us in putting him to death, without going through -the regular forms of law, then might we run him up at the next yard-arm, -or tree branch, or lamp-post; on happening to see the bloody act -perpetrated with our own eyes. - -But how should we know even in such a case, that “the man was not beside -himself;” or that the homicide was not justifiable, or at least -excusable? He may have acknowledged his guilt. And what if he has? He -may have been mistaken; for such things have happened, and murders which -never took place—though intended—have been acknowledged, and the -missing parties have re-appeared after a long while, and explained the -mystery. Or he may have been deranged; or being accused, and as it were -enmeshed by a web of circumstances, he may have been led away like the -son, who charged himself and his aged father, in Vermont, with the -murder of a poor helpless creature, who was afterward found alive, by -the instinct of self-preservation; hoping to lengthen, if not to save -his life, at least until his innocence might be made to appear; and -believing his father guilty. - -To prove all these things there must be a trial, and a public trial; -otherwise, whatever may be the result, he will not be _proved_ guilty, -according to the law and the evidence; nor could he be justly condemned; -and there would be no safety for others. - -No matter how clear his guilt may be; nor how bad his character may be; -the greater his guilt in the judgment of those who decide against him -before trial, and without evidence upon oath, or sifting, or -cross-examination—the more precious to him and to all, is the privilege -of being put to death according to law. The fewer his rights, the more -sacred they are. The more decided and overwhelming the evidence against -him, the more necessary it is to wall him round about, as with a sword -that turneth every way, against the influence of public opinion. It was -in this way that the elder Adams reasoned, when he undertook the defense -of the British officer, charged with the murder of Boston citizens, at -the outbreak of the revolutionary war—and triumphed. - -And how shall this be done without the help of a Lawyer? Law, living a -science, complicated, and full of mystery and fear, how is the poor -criminal to prepare himself? How is he to defend his few remaining -rights? And how is he to bear up against the ponderous and crushing -weight of public opinion? He cannot. The thing is impossible. He must -have help; and that help must be a lawyer; and that lawyer must be not -only faithful to him, but unable to take advantage of, or to betray him, -if he would; otherwise the culprit will never trust him, and his life -will be at the mercy of the prosecutor, generally chosen for his -knowledge of the law, and for his adroitness in making “the worse appear -the better reason.” - -Well, then, a lawyer must be allowed to the greatest criminal—and the -greater criminal he is, the more lawyers he ought to be allowed—if able -to pay for them! or if the court, in consideration of his deplorable and -hopeless guilt, or the atrocious character of the charge against him, be -willing to assign them. - -And now—being assigned, or otherwise engaged, what shall the _honest_ -lawyer do? He must be faithful to his client, happen what may—but is he -required to lie for him? to foreswear himself? As “the indiscriminate -defender of right and wrong,” to borrow the words of Jeremy Bentham, -“seeking truth in the competition of opposite analogies,” according to -Blackstone, shall he undertake to get the fellow clear—to bring him -off—against law, and against evidence? If such be the meaning of that -faithfulness to his client, what becomes of his faithfulness to God?—to -his fellow man—to himself? And yet, where is the great Advocate who -does not glory in doing just this? and who has not gained his whole -reputation by just such cases, and no others? - -There stands the murderer, with garments rolled in blood. There stands -his counsel, giving him aid and comfort, under the sanction of law, with -his right hand lifted to Heaven, and swearing to a belief in the utter -groundlessness of the charge, and calling upon Jehovah himself to -witness for him, that he speaks the truth! Such things have happened, -and are happening every day; and these honest lawyers are still suffered -to go at large, unrebuked and unappalled: nay, worse—for by these very -practices they get famous and grow rich and secure the patronage—that’s -the very word—the _patronage_ of all the inexorable and shameless -villains and cut-throats in the community. - -But if the lawyer may not do these things _honestly_, what may he do for -the help of his client? - -He may lay his hand reverently upon the statute book. He may show that -the law does not reach the case charged upon the prisoner at the bar, -and that he must therefore go free—though his right hand be dripping -and his garments be stiffened with blood. - -He may show that the only witness against him is unworthy of belief, on -account of self-contradictions, or utter worthlessness; or that he has -become disqualified, by the commission of some offense that -incapacitates him for life; and, by producing the record of his -conviction, he may oblige the court to let the prisoner go free. All -this he may do, and still be an honest man. - -Yet more. Having satisfied himself of the innocence of the accused; or -of the probability that the witnesses are mistaken, or dishonest, or -that they have conspired together to destroy a fellow creature, doomed -to death by public opinion without proof; he may put forth all his -strength, and appear in “panoply complete,” heedless of all -consequences, to save him—provided only that he sticks to the truth, -and is honest in what he says or does. I care not how eloquent he may -be, nor how able or ingenious—the more eloquent and able and ingenious -the better, and I shall reverence him all the more as an Advocate and as -a Man. - -But I do insist upon it, that he shall not be allowed to forget every -thing else—and every other obligation—and every other law, whether -divine or human, for the sake of his client; and that if he does, he -shall be held answerable for the consequences, and be punished, as he -deserves, with a burst of indignation—a general outcry of shame on thee -for a traitor!—a traitor to thyself, to thy Maker, and to thy brethren -at large, under pretence of being faithful to a murderer whom it would -be death, perhaps, for his own mother to help or comfort in any way. - -I would even allow him to urge upon the jury, not only in such a case, -but in every case where the punishment might be death, to bear in mind, -that no matter how perfectly satisfied they may be of the prisoner’s -guilt; still, if he has not been _proved_ _guilty_, by unquestionable -evidence, or by unimpeachable witnesses, according to law, they are -bound by their oaths to return a verdict of _not guilty_; and if they do -not, they themselves are guilty of murder. - -Otherwise they would sanction the most dangerous of Lynch-laws; those -which are executed under the forms of justice, and in mockery of all -human right. - -If _satisfied_ of the prisoner’s guilt, they must have seen the murder -perpetrated with their own eyes; and they must have known that there was -no excuse for it, and no palliation: and in that case, instead of -relying upon questionable testimony from others, it would be their duty -to leave the jury-box and go into the witness-box, and allow others to -judge of the truth of their story, and of the soundness of their -conclusions. - -And I would allow the accused the benefit of every flaw on the statute, -of every error in the forms of procedure, and of every _reasonable_ -doubt. I would even suffer him to array as many young and pretty women -as he could entrap into the witness-box fronting the jury—although, -perhaps, I might object to their appearing in tears or in mourning, like -the Ionians and Greeks and Irish, lest, peradventure, the tables should -be turned, as where an Irish barrister, pleading the cause of a little -orphan, with the mother and all the rest of the family standing about -with handkerchiefs to their eyes, held up the boy in tears. The jury, -overcome with sympathy and compassion, were about rendering a verdict at -once, and were only delayed by a question from the opposite counsel—“My -little fellow,” said he, “what makes you cry?”—“_He pinched me!_” was -the answer, and a verdict was rendered accordingly—as the Irish only -are allowed to do it—by _acclamation_. - -And I should not stop here. I would go further. For the purpose of -fixing forever and ever the responsibility of a decision upon each of -the twelve jurymen—I would have them polled, and questioned separately, -and man by man (if permitted by the law,) and not lump their verdict, as -they generally do, hit or miss: and I would call upon each to remember -that if he erred in pronouncing the judgment of death—of death here, -and it might be of death hereafter, he alone would be accountable—for -he, alone, might interpose if he would, and arrest that judgment of -death, and send the prisoner back to his family—a living man: and I -would so picture his own death-bed to every man of that jury, if I had -the power, that he should hear himself shrieking for mercy, and see and -feel and acknowledge by his looks, that if he betrayed the awful trust, -or trifled with it, by deference to others, he himself would be a -man-slayer, and utterly without excuse here and hereafter, in this world -or the next. - -All this I would do, or try to do: for all this might be done by the -_honest_ lawyer without a violation of God’s law. But, as I have said -before, I would not have him “play falsely,” nor yet “foully win.” I -would not have him brow-beat nor entrap honest witnesses. I would not -have him guilty of misrepresenting the evidence nor the law “with -submission to the court.” I would not have the opposite counsel -insulted, nor the bench quarreled with—if it could be helped— - - “——For even in the tranquilest climes - Light breezes _will_ ruffle the flowers sometimes.” - -Nor everlasting speeches made, with continual asseverations and solemn -appeals to the by-standers and the public; as if the question of life -and death were a game of chess for the amusement not only of those who -are engaged in it, but for all who may happen to be near and looking on -at the time. - -And I would have the dignity of the profession upheld by courtesy and -gravity and self-possession—by varied learning—by the utmost -forbearance—by very short speeches—by the greatest regard for truth, -and by unquestionable conscientiousness under all circumstances. - -Were this done, the Bar would be sifted and purged and purified to some -purpose. Nineteen twentieths of the rabble rout who mistake themselves, -and are mistaken by others for lawyers, would vanish from the face of -the earth—and the profession would then be not only respectable, but -worth following; though, in my judgment, lawyers would still be the last -among us to be intrusted with a disproportionate share of Legislative or -Executive power; though, from the nature of things they would be likely -to monopolize the whole Judiciary power. - -That our leading Advocates will not relish this doctrine, I know. In -theory, they may approve—but in practice, when they and their interest, -and their professional pride are once engaged, they will never yield. -Always taking it for granted that their client tells the truth—in -proportion to the fee; and always determined to prevail, if they can, -right or wrong, their reformation will depend, not upon themselves, but -upon others—upon the People at large; for whenever the People say that -a professional acquaintance with law shall be a disqualification for the -business of law-making, and no great recommendation for office, then -will the lawyers of our country begin to mind their own business, and -cease to be mere politicians, clamoring, open-mouthed, for office all -their lives long. - -And here, lest I may forget them in the proper place, allow me to -illustrate the disposition of the People to see fair play, by two or -three—Joe Millers, which I never lose an opportunity of telling under -this head. They show that my brethren of the bar sometimes get their -“come ups” where they least expect it—and very much to the satisfaction -of the multitude. - -It is told of Jere. Mason, and of some forty others at home and abroad, -that on being assigned for counsel to a sad wretch whose case he found -to be hopeless, he went to his cell, and after hearing his story, became -satisfied that the poor fellow would swing for it, if tried; and so, -seeing a sort of window open, high up and far above the prisoner’s reach -if unhelped, he suggested to him that there was a beautiful prospect to -be seen from that window—perhaps “the high-road to England,” which the -amiable Dr. Johnson said was the finest prospect a Scotchman ever -sees—and then, seeing the prisoner’s eyes begin to sparkle, he offered -himself as a sort of ladder or look out, and standing with his back to -the wall, and letting the man climb over him, he never looked up till it -was too late, and the man had disappeared—whereupon he returned to the -court-room, and on being questioned, acknowledged that he had given the -fellow the best advice he could—which advice must be a secret from -everybody, since it was the privilege, not of the counsel, but of the -client. - -All this, you see, was according to law, if not in fact, at least in -principle. A Lawyer might do this—and escape scot-free, as if it were -only a good joke: while a brother of the prisoner, or a father, might -have been sent to the scaffold. - -Another, for the truth of which I _believe_ I may vouch, because I had -it, I think, from the lawyer himself, may serve to show that such -faithfulness to clients may sometimes meet with an appropriate reward. A -member of the Down East bar was called upon to save a man charged with -passing a large amount of counterfeit money. After a long and severely -contested trial, our “learned, eloquent, and ingenious” brother got him -clear—chiefly by dint of protestation, coupled with a personal -knowledge of the jury. On being discharged, the accused tipped him a -wink in passing out, and our learned brother followed him to the lobby. -There they stopped—the liberated man overwhelmed with thankfulness, and -speechless with emotion; being a father, perhaps, with a large family, -or a man of hitherto irreproachable character, who never knew how much -he was to be pitied till he heard the speech of his lawyer. Unable to -speak—he seized his hand—slipped something into it—and turned away, -with a word or two, almost inaudible, about the inadequacy of the -acknowledgment, and disappeared forever. Whereupon, our eloquent, able, -and most ingenious friend, who was a little shy of opening the parcel in -the presence of a bystander, withdrew to another part of the house, and -ascertained—perfectly to his own satisfaction, he would have you -believe—that he had been paid in the same sort of money which he had -been laboring all day to show that the accused never had any thing to do -with. And now, on the whole—was not this a capital joke?—a just -retribution, and exceedingly well calculated to make a lawyer insist -upon being paid before-hand, whatever might be the “contingent fee” -afterward. - -Once more—for I do not like being misrepresented in the newspapers upon -this particular point—being sensitive perhaps about Joe Miller; and, -for that reason, always acknowledging my indebtedness to him and to his -fellow-laborers, the newspaper people, who never tell a story without -spoiling it, or making it look strange: there is a story told in -England, upon which a play has been founded, to this effect. A lawyer -was called to see a man charged with sheep-stealing. After a brief -consultation, he saw clearly that, upon the evidence before him, there -was no possibility of escape. And then, too—probably—the wretch was -very poor, being only a sheep-stealer, and not a murderer, nor forger, -nor house-breaker, nor highwayman, and of course, would have to be -satisfied with poor counsel. Whereupon the learned gentleman thought -proper to ask him if he had ever been deranged. - -“_Deranged?_” - -“Flighty—you understand?” - -“Oh—yes—to be sure: all my family on my father’s side have been very -_flighty_—very.” - -“That’ll do, my friend; that’s enough. You are charged with stealing -sheep—you know.” - -The fellow began to roll his eyes and look savage. - -“When you are called upon to plead—you know what that is?” - -“To be sure I do.” - -“Well, then, just plead to the indictment by saying _baa-aa_!” - -So said—so done. The prisoner was arraigned. The indictment was read -over to him very slowly as he sat with his head on one side, looking as -sheepish as possible. And when they had got through, and he was called -upon to say _guilty_ or _not guilty_, he answered, by saying _baa-aa_! - -The court being rather astonished, interfered, and told him what he was -required to do; but still he answered nothing but _baa_! Read over the -indictment again, said the judge, and read it very slowly. The clerk -obeyed, and when he had got through, and was again required to say -_guilty_ or _not guilty_, he answered, as before, nothing but -_baa-aa-aa_! - -A jury was then impanneled to see if he stood mute “by the visitation of -God.” After looking at his tongue—and his eyes—and feeling his pulse, -they returned a verdict in the affirmative. The man was forthwith -discharged; and the lawyer followed him out, and touching him on the -elbow, held out his hand—_baa-aa-aa!—baa-aa-aa!_ said the -sheep-stealer—and vanished. - -But enough on this point. If I were to write a book, I should not be -able to do more than I have done already, so far as the legal and -professional doings of my beloved brethren are concerned. - -It remains now, that I should say something very briefly, of the -disastrous consequences flowing from their political power. - -In the first place, it lures all our young men—the silliest as well as -the cleverest—who desire to live without work, and to be provided for -at the public charge, to betake themselves to the law. It is not only -the high-road—but the only high-road to political power. No other -profession has a chance with that of the law; and everybody knows it and -feels it when broad awake and thinking, instead of dozing. Hence the -profession is over-crowded, over-burthened—overwhelmed—and literally -dwarfed into comparative nothingness, apart from political power; having -not a tittle of the social power it would be fairly entitled to if it -were not so adulterated and diluted. - -In the second place, we have that national reproach—the instability of -our legislation—the perpetual change, that no sober-minded business-man -is ever able to foresee or provide against. - -And this I aver to be the natural, the inevitable consequence of having -for our legislators, men who have a direct personal interest in -multiplying or changing our laws, and in making them unintelligible to -others. - -Let us take one of our young attorneys, and follow him up, year by year, -and step by step, to the Halls of Congress, and see how he gets there, -and what he is bound to do—for he can do nothing else—after he gets -there. - -In the first place, it should be borne in mind, that the lawyers we send -to our legislative bodies, are not often the able, nor even the ablest -of their class—I speak of them as lawyers only, and not as Orators, or -Statesmen, or Scholars. They cannot afford to serve the people for the -day wages that your stripling, or blockhead of an attorney, who lives -only from hand to mouth, would snap at. He who can have a hundred -dollars for a speech, will never make speeches at two or three dollars -a-day, in our State Legislatures, nor be satisfied with eight dollars -a-day in Congress. - -And these youngsters of the bar, these third and fourth-rate lawyers, -who are held to be good enough for legislators, because they cannot -support themselves by their profession, how are they trained for that -business? - -You first hear of them in bar-rooms and bowling-alleys; then at -ward-caucuses; and then at all sorts of gatherings where they may be -allowed to try themselves and their hearers; and then at conventions or -town-meetings: and then, after being defeated half a dozen times, -perhaps, till it is acknowledged that if they are not elected, they are -ruined forever, they get pushed, head-foremost, into the State -Legislature. - -And once there, what shall they do?—how shall they manage to become -notorious—or distinguished? They must contrive to be talked about in -the newspapers; to be heartily abused by somebody, that they may -heartily be praised by somebody else belonging to another perish. Their -names at least will be mentioned, and grow more and more familiar every -day to the public ear, until they become a sort of household words; or -it may be a rallying cry, by the simple force of repetition, like -proverbs, or slang-phrases. “Why do you take every opportunity of -calling yourself an _honest_ man?” said a neighbor to another of -doubtful reputation. “Why, bless your simple heart,” was the reply, -“don’t you see that I am laying a foundation for what is called public -opinion; and that after a few years, when my character is fairly -established, the origin of the belief will be forgotten.” So with your -newspaper characters. Idols of the day—at the end of a few months, at -most, they are dust and ashes; and the people begin to wonder at -themselves that they should ever have been made such fools of. - -But how shall they manage to be talked about in the newspapers, and most -gloriously abused? There is only one way. They must make speeches—if -they cannot make speeches, they may as well give up the ghost, and be -gathered to their fathers; for most assuredly, (whatever may be their -worth, or strength, or talents, in every other way,) if they cannot make -speeches, not a man of them will ever be remembered—long enough to be -forgotten. And they must make long speeches—the longer the better; and -frequent speeches—the more frequent the better; and be their own -correspondents and report themselves for the newspapers, with tart -replies and eloquent outbreaks, and happy illustrations, never uttered, -nor dreamt of till the unpremeditated battle was over, like some that -were made by Demosthenes himself, years after the occasion had passed -by, and there was nobody alive to contradict him; or like the celebrated -oration of Cicero against Cataline. - -But they cannot make speeches about nothing at all—at least such is my -present opinion—it may be qualified hereafter, and I am well aware that -common experience would appear to be against me, and that much may be -said upon both sides, as well as upon neither side, in such a question. -They must have something to work with—and to talk about: something, -too, which is likely to make a noise out of doors; to set people -together by the ears; to astonish them, and to give them a good excuse -for fretting, and scolding, and worrying. In other words, they must -introduce a new law—the more absurd the better—or attack an old law, -the older the better; and seek to modify it, or to change or repeal it. - -And what is the result? Just this; that every Legislative Hall in the -land, from the least to the greatest, from the lowest to the highest, -becomes a debating-school; and the business of the whole Country is -postponed, month after month, and year after year, to the very last days -of the session, and then hurried through—just a little too late, -wherever the national honor is deeply concerned, as in the case of -French spoliations, and other honest debts owed by the Government to the -People—with a precipitation so hazardous and shameful, that much of the -little time left in future sessions must be employed in correcting the -blunders of the past: and all for what?—merely that the Lawyers may be -heard month after month, and have long speeches that were never -delivered, or when delivered, not heard, reported piecemeal, and -paragraph by paragraph, in perhaps two or three thousand -newspapers—that are forgotten before the next sun goes down, and -literally “perish in the using.” - -Nor does the mischief stop here. The whole business of the country is -hung up—and sessions protracted for months—and millions upon millions -wasted year after year, of the people’s money, upon what, after all, are -nothing more—and there could not well be any thing less—than -electioneering speeches. - -And then just look at the character of our legislation. Was there ever -any thing to be compared with it, for instability, for uncertainty, for -inadequacy, for superabundance, and for what my Lord Coke would call a -“tending to infiniteness!” I acknowledge, with pride, that our Revised -Statutes, all circumstances taken into consideration, are often quite -remarkable for the common sense of their language, and for -clearness—wherever common sense and clearness were possible under the -established rules of interpretation. But generally speaking, what is it? -“Unstable as water—thou shall not excel!” is written upon the great -body of our statute law, year after year, and generation after -generation. - -And what are the consequences? Nations are “perplexed by fear of -change.” Better stick to a bad law, than keep changing a good. The clock -that stands still (to borrow a happy illustration) is sure to be right -twice every twenty-four hours; while that which is always going, may -always be wrong. - -Let us apply this. We are now waiting and hoping for a change of the -tariff: and the more general and confident the expectation of a change -among business-men, whatever that change may be—up or down—higher or -lower—the more certainly will it put a stop, or greatly embarrass for a -time, the whole business of the country. And why? If it be generally -believed that the tariff is to be lowered, the dealers everywhere begin -to run off their stocks, to offer longer credits and better terms; and -however unwilling, shrewd cautious men may be about over-purchasing with -such a prospect before them, there will be found others, commercial -gamblers, or trading adventurers, who always profit by such occasions to -go ahead of their fellows; for what they gain is their own, and what -they lose, is their creditors’. And universal overtrading is the -consequence here—and stoppages there—till the mischief corrects itself -or dies out. Business no longer flows in its accustomed channels. It has -fallen into the hands of comparative stock-jobbers and lottery-dealers: -and a general bankruptcy often follows. - -But suppose the tariff about to be raised—and the belief to be -universal. The ultimate consequences are the same, so far as the regular -business of the country is concerned. Manufacturers and jobbers hold -back; they refuse to sell on six months—they shorten the period of -credit—and require acceptances in town—as being, on the whole, better -than to demand higher rates in advance of old customers. Purchasers may -be eager—but what can they do. They are obliged to wait—and live on -from hand to mouth—till the question has been settled. And so with -every other great leading law, affecting any great commercial, farming, -or manufacturing interest of the country. The legislation of a land is a -type of itself. How can our other great institutions be safe and lasting -if our legislation be unstable? - -That our legislation is unstable and changing and fluctuating, who will -deny? What great system of national policy have we ever pursued steadily -beyond the terms of two or three of our political chief-magistrates—a -paragraph at most, in the long History of the World? - -And how should it be otherwise? Lawyers with us are Conveyancers and -Notaries and Special-Pleaders: and Conveyancers and Notaries and -Special-Pleaders over sea are always, and in our country, almost always -paid by the page; and a certain number of words, you know, constitute a -page at law. Again—so sure is it that a lawyer shall not only be heard, -but paid for his “much speaking,” that I do believe people are often -better satisfied to lose a case with a long speech, than to gain it by a -short one. This may appear somewhat startling; but let us see if, on the -whole, it be not substantially true and no paradox. - -A man goes to consult a lawyer—you see how careful I am to distinguish -between the two—and states his case. The lawyer hears him patiently -through—having already touched the fee—and tells him, without opening -a book, or lifting his spectacles, or moving from his chair, that the -question lies in a nut-shell; and that if his view of the law should be -sustained by the court, of which he cannot be sure, it may be settled -easily and at once. Well—the case in due time goes up. The jury are -empanneled; a great speech is brewing on the opposite side; you can hear -the whiz of preparation in the very breathing of the Adversary; but up -rises our friend—by the supposition a very clear-headed, able and -honest lawyer—and so states the principle of law upon which he depends, -that the court rules in his favor, no speeches are made, and the jury -are discharged. And now comes the tug of war. The client begs a moment -of the lawyer’s time, and asks what’s to pay: “Fifty dollars.” “_Fifty -dollars!_—why, sir—pulling out his watch—you were not more than—” -The lawyer bows, and on turning away with a stately air, as of one who -truly respects himself, and will not suffer the dignity of the -profession to be trifled with nor tarnished, is stopped by—“I beg your -pardon, squire—there’s the money. Good morning.” And off goes the -client, who has gained the cause, to complain of the lawyer for -extravagance or extortion; saying that “the case was plain as a -pike-staff—any body might have managed it—could have done it himself -and without help—nothing but a word or two for the court—never opened -his mouth to the jury—and then, whew! what do you think he had the -conscience to charge? why, _fifty dollars!_—would you believe it! Very -well—much good may the fifty dollars do him; it is the last he’ll ever -see of my money, I promise you.” - -And now let me suppose that, instead of going to the last mentioned, -_honest_ lawyer, he had gone to some other. He is heard, to be sure, but -with visible impatience: he is continually interrupted and questioned -and cross-questioned, by the half hour. The learned gentleman has a very -large snuff-box on the table before him—two or three very large -portfolios, and at least a wheelbarrow load of papers tied with red -tape. He takes off his spectacles and snuffs, and wipes them with his -glove and snuffs, and replaces them and snuffs; now he lifts them and -looks under them, and now he lowers them and looks over them steadfast -and solemn, though troubled and perplexed, with his mouth screwed up, -and making faces at his client all the time: he shakes his head and -jumps up, and takes a pinch, and then shakes his head and sits down, and -takes another pinch: with a huge pile of authorities before him, and -ever so many lying open, and having secured a retainer, at last he tells -his client to call on the morrow at 11¼ o’clock _precisely_. The client, -awe-struck at the vastness of that legal erudition he has been favored -with a few glimpses of, steals away on tip-toe, rubbing his hands with -delight and astonishment, and talking to himself perhaps all the way -down stairs and into the street. After three or four consultations the -case comes on for trial. The Adversary goes at the jury head-first, with -a speech varying from two hours to two days. Of course, it will require -from two hours to two days to answer it—and every thing must be -answered, you know, whether it has to do with the question or not—as in -the passage between Tristram Bulges and John Randolph, about the -buzzard, or bald-eagle, I forget which; for after all, there is no great -difference between them, as I have heretofore found to my cost; or as in -that between Webster and Hayne about poor Banquo’s ghost, in the Senate -chamber. And now, having insulted the witnesses, and the court, and the -opposite counsel, and tired the jury by an everlasting speech, when they -were already more than half asleep; or by arguing questions of law and -fact wholly supposititious, for the benefit of his younger brethren and -the by-standers—the case goes to the jury, under the charge of the -court perhaps, and is lost. But who cares?—not the client; for when -told that he has a hundred dollars to pay, instead of fifty as before, -he calls it dog-cheap, and insists upon paying more, and why? Because -_that_ lawyer had made the case his own—and he goes about saying, -“Didn’t he give it to ’em!—bench, bar and jury!—didn’t he acknowledge -they were all a set of nincompoops!—and didn’t he lather my adversary -and my adversary’s counsel, and all his witnesses, little and big, and -especially the women and children, beautifully!—handsomely!—and isn’t -he the man, therefore, not only for my money, but for the money of all -my acquaintances who may ever want a zealous and _faithful_ lawyer to -manage their business for them!” - -This, though sufficiently absurd, I acknowledge, is nevertheless true: -and happens continually at the bar. I do not say that in terms a client -would prefer a long speech to a verdict; I only say that such is the -fact, although he may not always know it himself, in many a troublesome -case. And so with litigants generally; having once entered the “sacred -precincts” of a law-temple, and breathed the fiery atmosphere, and had -their names called over in a crowded court-room, and thereby having -become famous in their own little neighborhoods, and in the judgment of -their friends and witnesses, people of large experience and authority, -how are they ever afterward to forego the pleasure? If they win the -first throw, of course they can afford to throw again: if they lose, -they must throw again, the blockheads! to get back what they have lost, -when, like other gamblers, they promise to stop. - -Can it be wondered after all this, that words are multiplied in our -laws, from sheer habit, as well as from a sort of professional pride, -until a mere English reader, however familiar with the spoken language -and with the best writers of the language, both at home and abroad, such -as Bacon and Bolingbroke and Hooker and Swift, or Edwards, or Channing, -or the writers of the Federalist, or Franklin, and half a hundred more I -might mention, would be unable to make head or tail of one paragraph in -three; and few men of business would be willing to hazard any -considerable investment upon his own understanding or interpretation of -any passage in any new law. - -Talk of the dead languages! The deadest of all the languages I know, or -ever heard of, is the language of the law! Ask our friend, the learned -blacksmith, and I will abide by the answer. Nobody, not trained to the -business of interpretation—as a dragoman—or lawyer, would ever think -of trying to understand a new law without help. And even with help—it -is a plague and a mystery till the true meaning has been -settled—_settled!_—by adjudication: that is, by others in authority, -the priesthood and the patriarchs, who, under the name of judges, are -paid for all the thinking, as lawyers are paid for all the talking to no -purpose, permitted at law: for, be it known to all whom it may concern, -that is, to all the non-lawyers of our land, that no private -interpretation _of law_ is of any authority _at law_: nor is the right -of private judgment recognized or allowed or tolerated or endured in -courts of justice! You must believe at your peril. You must teach as you -are taught; and grow to the opinions or moulds about you as a cucumber -grows to a bottle; for such is the law, and with most of the profession, -all the law, to say nothing of the Gospel; for that, perhaps, would be -out of place here. - -And now, inasmuch as almost every word of importance in our language has -more than one meaning, it follows, that in proportion as you multiply -words in a law, or in a legal instrument, you multiply the meanings, and -the chances of mistake, and of course, I may as well say it, of -litigation: and the mere habit of multiplying words as conveyancers and -special-pleaders and speech-makers, being not only a professional habit, -as every body knows, but characteristic of the profession, it may be, -and often is, continued from habit, long and long after it may cease to -appear advantageous or profitable; as in the business of legislation, or -in dealing with a jury, where the lawyer is not paid by the page, but by -the day or the trick. And why? Perhaps my friend Joe may be permitted to -answer. A tailor, while cutting a coat for himself, was seen to slip a -fragment of the cloth into his cabbage-drawer. Amazed at such a -procedure, a new apprentice took the liberty of asking why he did it. -“_To keep my hand in_,” was the answer. - -Just so is it with the lawyer. He would use more words than are either -necessary or safe, merely to keep his hand in, if for no other reason. -Just compare a contract entered into between shipping-merchants for the -sale of a cargo, or between other men of business, railroad contractors, -or stock-dealers, involving the outlay of millions, perhaps, with a deed -of trust drawn by a thoroughbred conveyancer, or with articles of -co-partnership by any thing alive in the shape of an attorney-at-law, if -you wish to see the difference between the language of lawyers, and men -of business and common sense. - -By this, I would not be understood to say that some lawyers are never -needed for putting the language and meaning of parties into shape; nor -that “I. O. U.” would be a model for a charter-party, or a church -settlement; for I acknowledge that the chief business of the world -cannot be carried on _safely_ without lawyers. I only say, that we have -too many of them; and that they are encouraged to intermeddle more than -is good for themselves, or us, with every sort of business and branch of -the _Lex mercatoria_, and the _Lex non scripta_. - -Another reason why the people are not allowed to have the laws of their -own Country in their own language, but in that of the learned few—like -the Bible for the Roman Catholics—notwithstanding the ridiculous parade -of publishing all the laws in thousands of our newspapers in a year—a -better hoax, and a better joke by far than the celebrated bequest of a -guinea, toward paying off the national debt of our mother country—that -mother of Nations, so cleverly represented by Victoria, just now—is, -that we may _not_ be able to judge for ourselves; and that no _law_ -shall be of any private interpretation; for if it did, the people would -soon be independent of most lawyers; and then, what would become of the -superannuated, and the helpless, the fledglings, and the understrappers? -They would have to rely for support in their old age upon the -interpretation of themselves, and of their own cramped penmanship, -instead of the legislative enactments. - -But, say certain of my brethren, the law, after all, is a great science, -and the profession worthy of profound respect. It is over-crowded to be -sure; and some, it must be acknowledged, do not succeed at the bar, and -after trying it for a while are obliged to leave it, or starve. -Granted—but what does that prove? Can those who do not succeed be -greater blockheads, or greater knaves than many others that do? And may -it not be just possible, if they, who do not succeed in the profession -are otherwise distinguished, that they had too much self-respect, or -conscientiousness, or what may be called _honesty_? Thus much by way of -a protestanda—or the “exclusion of a conclusion,” according to my Lord -Coke. - -And now, with all seriousness, what more shall be said? I have shown: -1.—That my brethren of the bar enjoy a very dangerous and altogether -very disproportionate power as the law-makers, the law interpreters, and -the law enforcers. 2.—That however honest they may be _by nature_; and -however honest in all the other relations of life; and that they are so, -I acknowledge with pleasure; yet, as Lawyers, they have a code of morals -peculiar to themselves, making it their duty to league with knaves, and -cheats, and murderers, and house-breakers, and to furnish them with aid -and comfort, _for pay_; in other words, for _a share in their profits_, -and this _duty_ is of such a nature as to lead them continually astray, -to blind their reasoning powers, to darken their consciences, until they -are incapable of distinguishing between truth and falsehood, or right -and wrong in the defense of their clients; and that under pretense of -being _faithful_ to them, they become after a while too unfaithful to -everybody else, even to themselves, and to their Maker; and that -_therefore_ they are not trustworthy as legislators. 3.—That in -consequence of their position as the holders of political power, too -large a portion of our young men—our intellectual strength and hope, is -diverted into that particular profession, to the injury of every other, -and especially to the business, and laboring, or productive professions. -4.—That another evil is our superabundant legislation—the instability -of that legislation—the prodigious cost of so many debating societies -maintained at the public charge, under pretence of law-making all over -the land; whereby the public business of the whole country is delayed, -month after month, and year after year; and sometimes never done—or if -done at all, is done at last in such a hurry, and after such a slovenly -fashion, that when the law-makers are called together again, a large -portion of the little time they are enabled to set apart from -electioneering, is spent in patching up and explaining the laws of a -previous session; here, by taking a piece off the bottom and sewing it -on the top, as the Irishman lengthens his blanket; and there, by taking -out a piece of the same, to patch a hole with: and that _therefore_, -notwithstanding a multitude of glorious exceptions to be found, year -after year, in the senate chambers and representative chambers of our -country, Lawyers are never to _be trusted in the making of laws_; and -that, if it were not for the simple fact that, as judges, they are the -only authorized expounders of the law, they ought not to be trusted even -with the wording of a statute. - -And now, what more? We are all ambitious—lawyers above all the rest of -the world in this country. Not one but labors—if we may believe his -mother and sister, or his betrothed—not one “but labors with the -nightmare meanings of Ambition’s breast”—not one who does not feel— - - “How hard it is to climb - The steep where Fame’s proud temple shines afar!” - -and therefore it is, that the whole country is groaning under their -oppression—over-burthened with law—and taxed, and trapped, and -crushed, and trampled on by lawyers. - -But, if instead of this unhealthy ambition—this boyish uneasiness and -appetite for notoriety, which three times out of four will be satisfied -with the title of esquire, there should arise the unconquerable spirit -of one created for dominion, with the holy instincts of a reformer, and -anxious from the first hour of his revealed strength, to be the friend -of the Fatherless and the Widow, of the Wronged and the Suffering—the -champion of the poor and the helpless—the refuge of the hunted and -betrayed upon earth—let him devote himself to the study and practice of -the law, and of nothing but the law, in its vast and magnificent -comprehensiveness; let him consecrate himself with prayer, and praise, -and thanksgiving and sacrifice—let him go up to the temple with -humility and reverence, and godly fear; and let him take possession “of -the purple robe and diadem of gold,” as of right, and though his life -may be a continual warfare, and he may die in the harness at last, and -upon the battle-field, as Pinkney and Emmett, and others have died -before him—for - - “He, who ascends to mountain-tops shall find - The loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow, - Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow - Contending tempests on his naked head.” - -Yet will he die the death of the righteous, and never be forgotten: and -whole communities will pass by his grave, generation after generation, -saying to one another as if speaking of a personal friend, “that -although he was a great man, and a great lawyer, and perhaps a -statesman, he was a good neighbor, and a good citizen, a good husband -and a good father; and _therefore_ a good Christian, doing justly, -walking humbly, and loving mercy to the last.” - -And would not such a death, my dear G——, be worth living for? And such -a reputation worth dying for? - - * * * * * - - - - - ELPHOLEN. A FRAGMENT. - - - BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR. - - - Where many cedars shade Igondo’s shelf, - Like towering Dukes of Edom crowned with plumes; - Where seven rivers to an awful gulf - Fall, with much foam, from Himalaya’s flooms; - And where, from Baal-Phaxi’s caverned rooms, - Through ice-arched galleries pours tumultuous Ulf, - Are built across a swarthy savage glen, - The gates which bar the land of Elpholen. - - Above all mountains, clouds, and smoking isles, - From one huge base three stately hills arise; - A wall extends from them a thousand miles, - Steep and unbroken, builded to the skies, - _Higher than even the gray-winged condor flies_; - And compasseth, with rocks and snowy piles - A table land, both wide and wonderful, - And only by that gated pass accessible— - - Crossing a frightful plain which the sun scorches, - Which plain is full of chasms and trap-dykes, - Scoriæ, cinders, and dry river gorges, - With timber petrified, basaltic spikes, - And lava-ponds, with hard, black, stony surges - We reached the shaded pass below the peaks, - And paused to hear the roar of plunging Ulf, - And the seven rivers, far within the gulf. - - Up that defile, with fear and silent wonder, - We rode; _our horses seemed but two small mice_. - The rivers in the gulf gave forth _large_ thunder, - And rocks, above the clouds, fell, bounding thrice, - With uproar, from the grim cliffs, cracked asunder. - Aloft, like Anakim, with helms of ice - The mountains raised their huge Plutonic shoulders, - Clothed in Titanic mail of ore and boulders. - - Three Prophets of grand stature and bald brows - Sat by the gates. _They were much older than_ - _The river Nile._ One of deep eyes arose - And said: “Speak unto us what manner of man - Thou art, O, hero; if of some fierce clan - Hyperborean, or of pagan Huns?” - He of the icebergs spoke with rhetoric fit - In words and figures following, to wit; - . . . . . . - The Prophet said, “Here shalt thou rest this night - While the sun sleeps in hollow Erebus; - And as the hours pass on in silent flight - All known philosophy will we discuss. - But thou, O wizard Etheuòlymus, - To Himmalaya’s broken pinnacle - Fly with this young esquire, that he may see - All kingdoms on the continent that be.” - - Then, with the wizard in a flying mist, - I rose along the sides of that steep cone: - ’Twas like an iron trunk of girdle vast; - The moon’s full globe upon all cities shone; - _Tyre_, by the waters; glimmering Ascalon; - The City of the Magians, girt with fire; - And in the East we saw those mountain ranges - Which separate the Nile from sacred Ganges. - - Alas! all earthly things have been revised - Even Learning’s careful patron and Protector, - The Inquisition, is disorganized. - The world is round, and has a Radius Vector; - There’s not a ghost on duty, nor a spectre; - Sinbad is dead, and almost any loafer - Can go, in steamers, round Cape Horn to Ophir. - - Then, on the blackness of the Night’s deep chasm, - The anchored earth lay, floating, like a floor:— - Beneath, the shadow and the veiled phantasm - Their local habitation had of yore; - But each veiled shadow, and each dreadful phasm - Rose with the night, above the western shore— - When, through the void, all flame and ruddy gold - The Day-god’s cavalcade, descending, rolled. - - Without the continent, old Ocean’s torrent - Extended to the earth’s remotest verge: - Both jovial Tritons, and the Powers abhorrent, - Were seized of provinces upon the surge; - And from Arcturus to the Southern gorge - Black tempests bearing old Eolus’ warrant - Patrolled the seas in search of ships or steamers - Breaking the closes of the ocean emirs. - - Through the dense night, archangels of strong wing, - From heaven roving, saw the earth’s vast plane— - The kingdoms of the Pole, all glimmering— - The twisted rivers, and the enfolding main— - The shining gulfs which dent the Indian chain, - And smiled to see the hollow planets swing - Above that dim abyss within whose core - Were hooked the world’s deep sunken anchors four. - - Large breakers tumbling on the Arabian shoals, - With wooded regions by the Caucasian gaps— - The town of Ebony, the land of Gholes, - (Which are omitted in the modern maps)— - All these I saw; and hills with misty caps, - Where dwell the Glactophagi—blameless souls: - The wizard spoke—I was with awe oppressed: - _The words like ghosts rose from his sounding chest_— - - “These mountains I have watched a thousand years; - And I _have writ one thousand solemn books:_ - _Who reads them shall be wise!_ Hell’s fiercest Peers - Have oft essayed to burst these bolted rocks; - And, under Baal-Phaxi’s deepest blocks, - Mines they have digged, and loaded, and exploded. - Yea, Mogophur, the Lord of Babylon, - Came with his captains and a countless rabble on— - - “Of spearmen, chariots, and Tartarian riders, - _Whose faces were the likeness of a flame_, - And elephants crept through the pass like spiders, - And the whole College of Magicians came, - Who caused sharp earthquakes and much whizzing flame - By means of diagrams, and long dividers, - And thus exclaimed each iron-harnessed savage, - ‘The unseen land of Elpholen we’ll ravage.’ - - “I did but ope one solemn book, and say: - ‘O, ye Hydraulic Goblins of the mountains, - At once your tunnels, pumps, and flooms let play; - And loose old Himmalah’s rock-bound fountains.’ - Then rivers of cold foam and spouting spray, - And cataracts which broke the cliffs away, - Burst from the mountains’ inner reservoirs. - ’Twas very good to see those watery Druids - Destroy that haughty host, with roaring fluids!” - . . . . . . - _But now, those noisy trumpeters, the Hours,_ - _Blew the reveillé through the camps of morn:_ - _Now storm-girt Taurus raised his icy horn,_ - _Like blazing silver_, o’er the mists and showers; - And sunlight struck the unclouded mountain towers, - Which ranged the circuit of that snowy wall: - We then rode down a chasm from the gates, - And entered Elpholen’s enchanted states. - - To a wild amphitheatre we rode, - Begirt with precipices. From an astounding - Cavern in the mountain-side, there flowed - A river deep and broad; but the surrounding - Dark hollows echoed not a single sounding; - For silently it moved—_we only heard_ - _At times the plunging of some dull cascade_ - _Far up the tunnel, like a cannonade._ - - Full many other rivers cross those lands, - Some, from the eternal snows come pouring; - Some, roll around the chasms, in foaming bends; - Some, through the hills, a ragged highway boring, - Rush to the valleys, with an angry roaring, - And hurry onward to the ocean sands; - But many a cataract and runlet trickles - Down from the glaciers, making huge icicles. - - _We moved along by wooded peaks and crags,_ - _Carvéd with images and hieroglyphs,_ - _Ruffling their scales and quills like golden flags,_ - _And, pawing their odd cubs, the hippogriffs_ - _Rolled in their nests, upon the shady cliffs;_ - _And in the glens, both bears and royal stags,_ - _With lazy lions, goats, and yawning leopards_ - _Like cattle lay, and children were their shepherds._ - - Along through ancient forests, vast, and slumbrous, - Roes, of the mountain, grazed beside the springs, - And often rose some bird of plumage cumbrous - Unto the branches, folding his wide wings. - There, too, were tombs of certain wizard-kings— - Antediluvians of visage sombrous— - _And holy men, before their moss-grown crypts,_ - _Studied in awful Syriac manuscripts._ - - Beyond, there dwelleth an immortal folk, - About a stream, which to a lake enlarges: - Pine hills curve greenly round, and groves of oak, - Sometimes they rested on the river marges, - Sometimes they plowed the lake in hollow barges, - And sometimes, on the altars made _sweet_ smoke, - Some painted pictures in their pleasant tents, - And many played on all stringed instruments. - - But some rode up unto the gorgeous clouds - _Around the necks of monstrous eagles clinging._ - The people which do there have their abodes - Welcoméd them with flags, and wild bell-ringing; - With musical cannon from th’ embrasures flinging - Puffs of white vapor, bombs, and rattling grape:— - The Goblin-populace of Cloud-land we - Could well behold:—Ah, they a brisk folk be! - - And caravans continually crossed the plains. - Camels and elephants innumerable— - With carriages, and pigmy oxen trains, - And scampering knights, in armor of black shell, - Lords, bearded patriarchs, and gay rabble, - And baggage-wagons full of chattering dames, - And mounted archers, shooting slender arrows, - Wound slowly round the curving river narrows. - - But some came down the rivers on broad rafts; - _With shells, and bells, and crooked bugles, waking_ - _Numberless echoes on the rocks_. The shafts - Of the forests stood, like champions unquaking, - Though many clamors, the old silence breaking, - Startled the musing Hermits. Now arose - The stars, and moon, and all the hosts of night: - We stood above a plain upon a height. - - Three noble rivers, in the moonlight shining, - Sparkled from three defiles in East, and West, - And North—in silence to a blue gulf winding, - Which, by the distant mountains, lay at rest; - And there a city with a massive crest - Of turrets, overlooked that rock-bound sheet. - The rivers round it, in broad girdles pressed; - Bridges there were, and groves, and gardens meet; - And in the bay lay moored an idle fleet. - - Unto that city did all people flow: - In the deep plain we saw their circular camps, - Like islands of an archipelago; - And as we looked, _a belt of fiery lamps_ - _Was wound around the crowning citadel;_ - Whereat each watching pilgrim said: “Full well - I know, that now within yon distant dell - The Lord of blessed Elpholen doth dwell. - - “To him we will present our offering - Of fruits, and herds, and many precious ores, - Which rivers from the mountain-summits bring:— - Upon the gulf’s cool strand, and shady shores - Our ancient games we will perform long hours: - Then we will go again to our dear tribes, - And to our cattle in the pleasant meadows, - And dappled deer browsing in mountain shadows.” - - That night we camped upon the sandy margent - Of an unknown sea; and when, behind sharp peaks, - The moon retired in her skiff of argent, - Then certain meteors filled the sky with streaks, - And diving, from the zenith-ridge divergent, - Through the purple heavens fell in flakes, - Which, as they struck the water, lost their light, - And grew a portion of its night. - - Meanwhile we saw a corps of sentry ghosts, - Standing erect the farthest Eastern shore on, - And many thousand stars, above those coasts, - _Flashed like the Arabic of a fiery Koran;_ - Then those great captains of the heavenly hosts, - Orion, Sirius, and Aldebóran, - On the dark field of Heaven took their stations; - And calmly wheeled the close-ranked constellations. - - No outposts of the Morn marked the approach - Of the Hœlios’ chariot; no gleams, or tinges - Upon the tent of Darkness dared encroach; - But sudden brilliance pierced its dusky fringes; - Wide swung the Morning’s gates upon their hinges; - Those burning horses, and that flaming coach - Sprang out upon the ocean, through the gateway: - Night struck her tattered tent, and vanished straightway. - - * * * * * - - - - - A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES. - - - BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. - - - [Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by - George Payne Rainsford James, in the Clerk’s Office of the - District Court of the United States for the District of - Massachusetts.] - - (_Continued from page 147._) - - - A YOUNG DREAM. - -Memory is certainly a very strange gift, or quality of the mind—or -whatever else it may be rightly termed; for I am no philosopher, and but -little acquainted with the technology of metaphysics. It seems often a -capricious faculty, selecting its own objects, and amusing itself with -them to the rejection of others. But I am not quite sure that this -imputation upon memory is justified. I must admit that with myself, as I -suppose is the case with others, when I try to recall the past, the lady -often proves restive with me, and without any apparent cause, recalls -all the particulars of certain scenes, and omits other passages of life -close by them. Nor is this to be attributed always to the particular -interest of the scenes she recalls; for some of them are quite -unimportant, light, and even ludicrous, while things affecting one’s -whole destiny, if not utterly forgotten, are brought back but -indistinctly. I suspect, however, that the fact is, memory is like a -sentinel who will not let any one enter the treasury she guards without -the countersign, even though it be the master of the treasure himself. - -The objects and events that we remember best are, in fact, those for -which we have learned the countersign by heart, and the moment that any -accidental circumstance furnishes us with the pass-word, apparently -forgotten, the door is thrown open, and we behold them again, somewhat -dusty perhaps, but plain and distinct. Acts never die. They at least are -immortal; and I do not think they ever die to memory either. They sleep -within, and it only requires to have the key to waken them. The time -will come when all shall be awakened: when every door of the heart shall -be thrown open, and when the spirits of man’s deeds and thoughts will -stand revealed to his own eyes at least—perhaps to be his bright -companions in everlasting joy—perhaps his tormentors in the hell which -he has dug for himself. - -Often, often, as I look back in life, I see a cloud hanging over a -particular spot in the prospect, which for days, sometimes for years, -will hide all beyond. Then suddenly the lightest trifle—a casual -word—a peculiar odor—the carol of a bird—the notes of some old -melody, will, as with a charm, dispel that cloud—sometimes dissolving -it in rain-drops—sometimes absorbing it in sunshine—and all that it -concealed will burst upon the sight in horror or in loveliness. Even -while I have been writing these few pages many things have thus been -brought back to remembrance by the connection of one event with another, -which seemed to have altogether passed away from memory when first I sat -down to write. Now what is the next thing I remember; for the rest of -our journey, after we left Juliers, has passed away from me? - -I find myself on looking back, in a small, neat house, with a garden, -and a little fountain in the garden, upon a sandy soil, and with a -forest of long needle-leaved fir-trees stretching out to the westward. -To the east there is a city of no very great extent, but still a -capital, with a range of high hills running in a wavy line behind, and -here and there an old ruined castle upon the lower points. - -Before the city lies a wide plain, rich and smiling, full of corn-fields -and vineyards, with here and there a curious-looking spire or a couple -of dome-topped towers marking the place of a village or small town, and -beyond the plain, glistening in a long, long wavy line of silver, glides -a broad river—the mighty Rhine. - -Oh! what sweet sunny lapses come cheering and softening the rapid course -of life’s troubled stream. There are several of those green spots of -memory, as the poet calls it—these oases in the midst of the desert, -even within my own remembrance. But on few, if any of them can my heart -rest with as much pleasure as on the months we passed in that little -cottage. There were no events—there was no excitement—for me and -Mariette, at least. I remember wandering with her about that sunny -garden, playing with her in the cool, airy pleasure-house which stood in -one corner, helping her to gather flowers to deck her mother’s table, -wandering with her through the forest beneath the green shade, with the -dry, brown filaments of the fir crackling under our young feet. Here and -there we would come to a place where oaks and beeches mingled with the -pine and a thick growth of underwood narrowed our path; but as -compensation, we were there sure to find a rich treasure of -wild-flowers, more beautiful in our eyes than all the garden bestowed. -Very often, too, in the clear May evenings we would sit under the little -shabby porch of the house—Mariette upon my knee, with her arms clasped -round my neck—and as the sky grew gray, and the stars began to peer and -glimmer up above, would listen to the notes of the nightingale as he -prolonged his song after all the forest choir had fallen into silence; -and when some of those peculiar notes were coming which we love the best -to hear, and Mariette knew that the delicious cadence was nigh at hand, -she would raise her beautiful liquid eyes to my face, and whisper “hark” -and gaze at me still as if to share my enjoyment, and to make me share -hers. - -Oh! how that child twined herself round my boy’s heart. Dear, dear, dear -Mariette. In all that I have seen in life, and strange and varied has -that life been, I have never seen any thing that I loved as much as you. -The first freshness of my thoughts—the first—the tenderest—the purest -of my affections, were all yours! - -But I took other tasks in hand. Good Father Bonneville resumed his -lessons to me; but they were not very burdensome, and I began to teach -Mariette. How this came about I must explain. Madame de Salins, who had -borne up so well in times of danger and active exertion, became languid, -inactive, sorrowful in the time of repose. She was evidently exceedingly -anxious about something—often in tears—and often returned from the -neighboring city where she went almost every day to seek for letters, -with a look of gloom and disappointment. She began to teach Mariette -something herself, however; for from various circumstances the dear -child’s instruction had been neglected. It was always a task to her, -however, and her mind seemed wandering away to other things, till at -length good Father Bonneville suggested that I would teach Mariette, and -Mariette was delighted, and I rejoiced; and Madame de Salins, too, was -very well satisfied at heart, I believe. Every thing was speedily -arranged, but Mariette and I set to work formally and in good order. The -books, and the slate, and the pen and ink were produced at a fixed hour, -and if it were fine weather, we sat in the little shabby porch—if it -were raining, in the little room that looked upon it. Dear, stupid -little thing! What a world of trouble she gave me. She did not half know -her letters when I began to teach her, and was continually mistaking the -P’s and B’s, and Q’s and D’s. R and S, too, were sad stumbling-blocks, -and the putting letters together into syllables, together with pricking -the page with a pin occupied a long time. Then she was so volatile too. -When I was pouring forth my young philosophy upon her, and laboring hard -to teach her the sounds produced by different combinations of letters, -she would start up and dart out into the garden in chase of a butterfly, -or tempted by a flower. Then, when she came back and was scolded, how -she would coax and wheedle her soft young tutor, and kiss his cheek and -pat his hair, and one way or another contrive to get the words “good -Mariette” written at the end of every lesson to show her mother. I have -got the book still, all full of pin holes, and strange figures scribbled -on it with a pen; but not one lesson in it has not “good Mariette” -written at the end, though Heaven knows she was often naughty enough to -merit another comment. But I was a true lover even then, and perhaps -loved the dear child’s faults. - -Moreover, at the end of that book of little reading lessons there is a -page which I have kissed a thousand times since. It represents—and not -very badly—Mariette as she appeared then with a little spaniel dog -looking up in her face. Oh! how well I recollect when it was drawn. I -could always handle my pencil well, though I don’t know when I learnt to -draw; but as we were coming near the end of the book, I promised -Mariette if she would be a very good girl indeed, and get through the -remaining lessons in a week, that I would draw her picture at the end -with an imaginary dog which she was always to have at some indefinite -period in the future; for she was exceedingly fond of dogs, and I -believe the highest ambition of her heart at that moment was to have a -spaniel of her own. Before Saturday night fell, the lessons were all -done, and I was immediately reminded of my promise. We sat in the porch, -with the western sky just growing purple, and I made her get up and -stand at a little distance, and sketched her lightly with a pen and ink, -and then at her feet, I drew from memory the best dog I could -manufacture, with its ears falling back, and its face turned up toward -her. How delighted she was when she saw it, and how she clapped her -little hands! It was all charming, but the spaniel above all, and I -doubt not she was convinced that she should soon have a dog exactly like -that. She ran with it, first to Father Bonneville, who was in the next -room, and then to her mother, who was very sad that evening; but she -kissed her child, and looked at the drawing, and dropped some tears upon -it—the traces are there still. - -Then Mariette came back to me, and thanked and embraced me, and declared -that I was the dearest, best boy that ever lived, and that when she was -old enough, she would draw me at the end of one of my books, with a -great big dog as big as a horse. - -This is all very trifling perhaps, and not much worthy of record, but in -those trifling times, and those trifling things lie the brightest and -the sweetest memories of my life. It was all so pure, so artless, so -innocent. We were there in that little garden, as in a Paradise, and the -atmosphere of all our thoughts was the air of Eden. - -Such things never last very long. I reached my thirteenth birth-day -there, and it was kept with kindly cheerfulness by Father Bonneville and -Madame de Salins. Mariette I remember wove me a wreath of flowers, and -put it on my head after dinner; but that was her last happy day for a -long while. The next day Madame de Salins walked to the city as usual, -and Father Bonneville went with her. They were long in returning; but -when they did come back there was a sparkling light in the eyes of -Madame de Salins which I little fancied augured so much wo to me. - -“Come, Louis, come,” said Father Bonneville. “Madame de Salins has heard -good news at length. She must set out this very evening for England. The -carriage and horses will be here in an hour, and we must all help her to -get ready.” - -“And Mariette?” I asked, with an indescribable feeling of alarm. “Does -she stay here?” - -“No, my son, no,” replied Father Bonneville, almost impatiently. “She -goes with her mother of course.” - -Grown people forget the feelings of childhood, especially old people, -and appreciate too little either the pangs or joys of youth. Blessed is -the man who bestows a happy childhood upon any one. We cannot shelter -mature life from its pangs and sorrows, but we can insure, if we like, -that the brightest portion of the allotted space—the portion where the -heart is pure, and the thoughts unsullied—shall be exempt in those we -love from the pangs, and cares, and sorrows which, so insignificant in -our eyes, are full of bitter significance to a child. - -Father Bonneville did not know how terribly his intelligence depressed -my heart. He rejoiced in Madame de Salins’ brightening prospects, -although they deprived him of society that cheered and comforted. I was -more selfish; I thought only that I was again to lose Mariette, and I -grieved from my very heart. I would not disgrace the first manhood of my -teens by bursting into tears, though the inclination to do so was very -strong, and I assisted in the preparations as much as I could. But oh -how I wished that some accident might happen to the horses before they -reached our door, or that the carriage might break down—that any thing -might happen which would give me one—but one day more. It was not to -be, however: the ugly brutes, and the little less ugly driver, appeared -not more than half an hour behind their time, the baggage was put up, -and Madame de Salins proceeded to the door of the house. She embraced -Father Bonneville tenderly, and then me, and taking a little gold chain -which she had in her hand, and spreading it out with her fingers, she -placed it round my neck, and I saw a small ring hanging to it, which I -found afterward contained her own hair and Mariette’s. - -“Keep it, Louis, keep it always,” she said. “I do not know when we shall -meet again; but I pray God to bless you, dear boy, and repay you for all -you have done for me and mine.” - -It was at that moment that the idea of a long separation seemed to -strike Mariette for the first time. She burst into the most terrible fit -of tears I ever saw, and when I took her in my arms she clung round my -neck so tight that it was hardly possible to remove her. Madame de -Salins wept too, but went slowly into the carriage, and Father -Bonneville unclasping the dear child’s arms carried her away to her -mother’s knee. I could bear no more, and running away to my own little -room, gave way to all I felt; only lifting up my head to take one more -look, when I heard the harsh grating of the carriage-wheels as they -rolled away. - - - A SUMMARY. - -I have often thought that it must be a curious, and by no means -unimportant, or useless process, which the Roman Catholic is frequently -called upon to go through, when preparing his mind for confession. - -The above sentence may startle any one who reads these pages, and he may -exclaim— - -“The Roman Catholic!” Is not the writer—born in a Roman Catholic -country, educated by a Roman Catholic priest, and with the force of his -beautiful example to support all his precepts—is he not himself a Roman -Catholic, or does he mean to say that he has never himself been to -confession? - -Never mind. That shall all be explained hereafter. - -The process I allude to is that of making, as it were, a summary of all -the acts and events, which have occurred within a certain period of the -past, trying them by the test of reason and of conscience, and -endeavoring to clear away all the mists of passion, prejudice, and error -which crowd round man and obscure his sight in the moment of exertion or -pursuit. Such is not exactly the task I propose to myself just now. All -I propose to myself is to give a very brief and sketch-like view of the -facts which occupied the next two or three years of my life. It will be -faint enough. Rather a collection of reminiscences than of any thing -else—often detached from each other, and never, I fear, very sharply -defined. The truth is, events at that period were so hurried that they -seemed to jostle each other in the memory, and often when I wish to -render my own thoughts clear upon the particular events of the period, I -am obliged to have recourse to the written or printed records of the -events, where they lie chronicled in the regular order of occurrence. - -I know that after Mariette’s departure, I was very sad and very -melancholy for several weeks. Father Bonneville with all his kindness -and tenderness, and with much greater consideration for the faults and -weaknesses of others than for his own, did not seem to comprehend my -sensations at all at first, and could not imagine—till he had turned it -in his own mind a great many times, and painted a picture of it, as it -were in imagination, that the society of a little girl of six years old -could have become so nearly a necessity to a boy of thirteen. He became -convinced, however, in the end that I was, what he called “pining after -Mariette.” He strove then to amuse me in various ways—occupied my mind -with fresh studies—procured for me many English books, and directed my -attention to the study of German, which he himself spoke well, and which -I mastered with the ready facility of youth. We all know how children -imbibe a language, rather than learn it, and I had not at that time lost -the blessed faculty of acquisition. - -All this had its effect, while I was busying my mind with other -things—for I pursued every object with earnestness, nay with -eagerness—I thought little of my loneliness, but often when my lessons -were done, and I was tired of reading, and indisposed to walk, I would -sit in our little garden, and looking round upon the various objects -about me, would recall the pretty figure of my dear little lost Mariette -dancing in and out amongst the trees and shrubs, and almost fancy I -heard her sweet voice, and the prattle which used so to delight me, -strangely mingled as it was, of the innocent frankness of her nature, -and a certain portion of shy reserve, which had been forced into her -mind by the various painful scenes she had gone through. - -One evening as I was thus seated and looking out upon the road, which -ran between our small house and the forest, I saw an old woman coming -down from the high road which led to the town with a slow and weary -pace. I should not have taken much notice of her, perhaps, had not her -dress been very different from that of the peasantry in the -neighborhood. It was a dress which awakened old recollections—that of -the Canton in which I had been brought up, if not born. There was the -white cap, with the long ears flapping down almost to the shoulders, and -the top running up and curling over into a sort of helmet shape—Heaven -only knows how it was constructed; but it was a very complicated piece -of architecture. Then again there was the neat little jacket of dull -colored gingham, and beneath it the short petticoat of bright red cloth, -with the blue stockings, and the red embroidered clocks, and the -high-heeled shoes with the silver buckles in them. She carried a good -sized bundle in her hand, and held her head upright, though she was -evidently tired. But as she came nearer, I saw a round, dry, apple-like -face, with two sparkling black eyes and a nose of extensive proportions. -I was upon my feet in one moment, and the next, good old Jeanette was in -my arms. - -I need not say how rejoiced I was to see her, or how rejoiced was also -Father Bonneville, nor need I tell all her simple history since we had -left her in France; nor how we wondered at her achieving so long a -journey in perfect safety. Her account, however, showed how simple the -whole process had been, though I do not mean to say that Jeanette put -her statement altogether in the most simple terms. She was not without -her own little share of vanity, innocent and primeval as it was. She did -not, indeed, strive to enhance the value of her services and affection -toward us, but she seemed to consider that she was magnified in abstract -importance by dangers undergone and privations suffered. She told us how -far she had walked on foot, where she had got a Diligence, where -somebody had given her a ride in a cart, where she had got no supper, -where she had got a good one, where she had been cheated of fifteen sous -at least, and where the landlord and landlady were good honest people, -and had treated her well for a reasonable remuneration. Her great -difficulties had begun in Germany; the language of which land she -understood not at all, but by dint of patient perseverance, and asking -questions in French of every person she met—whether they understood -that language or not—she had made her way at length to the spot which -good Father Bonneville’s last letter had indicated as his place of -residence, not having gone, by the nicest calculation, more than eight -hundred and seventy-four miles out of her way. She looked upon it as a -feat of great importance, and was reasonably proud of it; but she -thought fit to assign her motives for coming at all—although those -motives were not altogether very coherent, nor did the premises -invariably agree with the deductions. Indeed, Father Bonneville was a -little shocked at some of the proceedings of his good housekeeper; for -he had a great objection to using dirty arms against those who even used -dirty arms against him. It seemed that after Jeanette had notified his -absence to the municipality, his books, papers, and furniture had been -seized for the rapacious maw of the public good. An auction had been -held on the premises, and every thing had been sold; but Jeanette boldly -produced a claim upon the effects of the absconding priest for a great -arrear of wages, which she roundly asserted had never been paid. She -brought forward the agreement between Father Bonneville and herself, in -which the amount to be paid monthly was clearly stated, and as the -commune could show no receipts it was obliged to pass the good -housekeeper’s account, and pay her the money out of the funds raised by -the sale. Some laughed, indeed, and said that the good woman had learnt -the first grand art of taking care of herself, while others defended her -on the ground that it was rather laudable than otherwise to pillage an -aristocrat. They cited even the cases of Moses and Pharaoh, where the -plunder of the Egyptians was not only lauded, but commanded. An old -touch of religious fanaticism reigned in that part of the country, and -men, even the most atheistical in profession and in action, which is -still more, could quote Scripture for their purpose when it served their -purpose. - -We are told that the devil does the same—and I think it very likely. - -The sum thus received from Jeanette—swelled by every item she could -think of, was by no means inconsiderable; but she had not cheated a -fraudulent and oppressive civic government for her own peculiar benefit. -The sum which had been left her by Father Bonneville, and the wages -which had been paid her, sufficed to maintain her for several months in -Angoumois—in her frugal mode of living—and to carry her across the -whole of France, leaving her with some dozen or two of livres at the -time she reached us in Germany. The money which she had obtained from -the commune, all carefully deposited in a canvas bag, she produced and -placed in the hands of Father Bonneville, who, to say sooth, did not -well know what to do in the peculiar circumstances of the case. Jeanette -justified her acts and deeds toward the commune upon the same principle -on which some members of the commune had justified her supposed acts -toward Father Bonneville. She did not know much about spoiling the -Egyptians indeed; but her mind was not sufficiently refined to see the -harm of cheating cheats, or spoiling plunderers of part of their -plunder. - -I believe the good Father talked to her seriously on the subject when I -was not present; but what became of the money I do not know. All I can -tell, is, that the good Father never seemed to be actually in want of -money, and that all those romantic distresses which hinge upon the -absence of a crown-piece, were spared us even in our exile. - -Time passed. Jeanette was fully established in her old post in the -household, with the addition of another German maid-servant. The one -whom she found with us was strongly imbued with despotic ideas; and was, -for good reasons, unwilling to submit either to the orders of a foreign -superior in her peculiar department, or to the inspection of accounts -and prices which she soon found was to be established. Another German -girl, consequently, was sought for and found, who being younger in age, -unhardened by experience, and of a diffident nature, willingly undertook -to receive a dollar and a half a month, and do the harder work of the -house under the orders of Jeanette, of which she did not understand one -word. - -Our peaceful state of existence, however, was not destined to be of very -long duration. The successes of the allies, then combating the -republicans of France, both on the northern and eastern frontier, -insured us, for some time, tranquillity and safety. We heard of the -defeat of the French army at Neerwinden, and the fall of Valenciennes -and Condé, mixed with vague rumors of the defection of Dumouriez, and -the flight of some of the most celebrated generals in the French army. -These latter events gave great joy and satisfaction to Father -Bonneville; for his hopeful mind looked forward to the re-establishment -of law and order in his native country, and to the utter abasement of -the anarchical party in France before the skill of Dumouriez, and the -bayonets of the Austrians joined with those of all the well disposed and -moderate of the land itself. - -Many others shared in the same delusions; but the manifestoes of the -Austrians, soon checked all enthusiasm, even on the part of the -emigrants. No pretence was made of coming to support the loyal and -orderly in the re-establishment of a monarchy, and a war of aggression -and dismemberment was gladly commenced against France from the moment -that Dumouriez’s more generous—and I must say, more prudent schemes, -were rendered abortive by circumstances. - -Doubtless, this first raised some indignation in the bosom of Father -Bonneville, who was of too true and really loyal a nature to see -unmoved, his native land partitioned by the sword, upon any pretence or -coloring whatever. I do not know why, but these matters did not appear -to me in the same light. I thought the people of France had committed a -great crime, and deserved to be punished, as if they were but one -simple, individual man. I thought that all who were genuine loyalists or -supporters of an orderly and constitutional system were guilty of a -crime little less great than that of the anarchists, in their dastardly -holding back when great questions involving the whole fate of France, -hung upon the simple exertion of a well ordered body of the bourgeoisie; -and I saw not why they should not be punished for their culpable -negligence which was more disastrous in effect than all the virulence of -the terrorists—I saw not why those who committed tremendous crimes -under the name of justice should not be brought under the sword of -justice, and I looked forward, I confess, to a period of retribution -with no little joy and satisfaction. It mattered not to me, in my -ignorance of great affairs whether this was effected by the Austrians, -the Prussians, or any other nation on the face of the earth, but France -deserved punishment, and I hoped she might be punished. - -The expectations of retribution were destined to be long unfulfilled. -The manifestoes of the Allies acted with singular power and -significance, producing combinations not at all expected. The royalists, -the constitutionalists, who still remained in France, prepared to resist -operations, the avowed object of which was the dismemberment of France -itself, and not the restoration of a purified monarchy. They were -willing to support even their mortal enemies within the land, in -resisting the newly declared enemies of the whole land, who were -advancing along two frontiers. The republicans were roused to the most -powerful and successful exertions in order to repel a slow and cautious, -but victorious enemy from their frontiers, and even the émigrés, who -were scattered all along the banks of the Rhine, protested loudly -against a scheme, which not only menaced the integrity of France as it -then existed, but threatened to deprive the monarchy of some of its -fairest provinces, if the legitimate line of their sovereigns should -ever be restored. - -No contrivance could have been devised so well calculated to reunite the -greatest possible number of Frenchmen in opposition to a -counter-revolution, and to render all others indifferent to the progress -of the allied arms, as the proclamation of the Prince of Coburg. Some -few, indeed, thought with me, but mine were doubtless boyish thoughts: -for I have ever remarked that it is experience, and the hard lessons of -the world, which bring moderation. - -Father Bonneville seldom talked upon these subjects with me; for he had -rightly no great opinion of my judgment in matters of which I could have -had but a very vague knowledge, and he little knew how often and how -deeply I thought upon such questions. - -The siege and capture of Mayence, however: the inactivity of Custine, -and the retreat of the whole of the French armies within the frontier -line, seemed to insure to us perfect security, for a long time to come, -in our calm and pleasant retreat upon the banks of the Rhine: when -suddenly burst forth that wild and vengeful spirit of reaction which -armed all France, almost as one man, against attacks from without, and -soon retrieved all she had lost under a weak government and -inexperienced commander. - -Toward the end of the year, our situation became somewhat perilous. -After a long period of successes, the fruits of which were all lost by -indecision or procrastination, the allied armies found themselves the -assailed rather than the assailers, the conquered rather than the -conquerors; and the fierce spirit of the Frank, the most war-loving, if -not the most warlike, of all the nations of the earth was soon ready to -carry the flaming sword into all the neighboring lands. - -I have given this little sketch merely to connect the events together, -without at all wishing to imply that I knew or comprehended all the -facts at the time, or recollect them now, except with the aid of books. -My own memories are very slight and merely personal. I remember -lingering on for some months in that small house by the Rhine. I -recollect the warm, bright summer sinking down into heavy autumn, and -the year withering in the old age of winter. I recollect numerous -reports and rumors, and gossip’s tales, and—falser than all—newspaper -narratives, and printed dispatches, reaching us in our solitude, some of -them exciting my wonder, and some of them my alarm, and then I recollect -various passages of no great importance in a somewhat long journey, till -I find myself in a quaint old town upon the border of Switzerland, near -which the Rhine breaks over high rocks and forms the cascade of -Schaffhausen. - -This place is only notable in my memory for the beauty of the -water-fall, which I have since seen surpassed in grandeur, but not in -picturesque effect, and by one little incident which there brightened -many an hour. One day, when we were there, a letter was delivered to -Father Bonneville, in my presence, which he found to contain a small -note addressed to me. It was the first letter I had ever received in my -life, although I was now between fourteen and fifteen years of age, and -the sensations which I experienced when it was placed in my hands, and I -saw my own name on the back, were very strange. Imagination went -whirling here and there, seeking to divine whence it could come. The -mystery of my own strange, isolated existence—which was frequently -present to my thoughts, was the first thing that fancy snatched at; but -I did not remain long in uncertainty. The seal was soon broken, and I -found a few lines in a round, childlike hand, very well written, and -very well expressed, with the name of “Mariette de Salins” at the -bottom. - -She told me that she wrote to show me, her dear instructor, how much -progress she had made in her studies; and to tell me that although she -had now a great number of companions, she loved me as well as ever, and -better than them all. She bade me not forget her though she did not -doubt that I had grown a great, tall man, and she was still but a little -girl. - -I cannot express how much pleasure this gave me; for I had been -oppressed by the thought that in new scenes and new circumstances, all -memory of her young companion would soon be obliterated in the mind of -my little Mariette. That such had not yet been the case was in itself a -pleasure; but I calculated sagaciously that the very fact of having to -write to me, and to recall our youthful intercourse would renew all her -recollections of the time we had passed together, and give memory, as it -were, a new point to start from. - -Our stay in Schaffhausen only continued a few months; for the progress -of events in France, and the revolutionary spirit which began to effect -other countries, left it hardly possible for emigrants to find any -secure spot in Europe, except indeed in England, and thither Father -Bonneville did not seem inclined to go. At Schaffhausen, however, I -pursued my studies very eagerly, and had the opportunity of acquiring -some knowledge of those manly exercises which I had never yet had any -opportunity of practicing. There was a very good riding-school in the -town, to which Father Bonneville sent me every day; and a French exile, -celebrated for his knowledge of the sword exercise, had set up a fencing -school, in which I soon became a favorite pupil. I was now a tall, -powerful lad, and what between the continual exercise of the -riding-school, and the Salle d’Armes, all the powers of a frame, -naturally robust, were speedily developed. Previous to this time, I had -stooped a little from the habit of bending over books and drawings; but -my chest now became expanded, my step firm, and I acquired a sort of -military air, of which, I need hardly say, I was very proud. - -Thus passed four months and a few days; but rumors of the intention of -the French to march an army up the Rhine, induced Father Bonneville to -move our quarters, and about a fortnight before my fifteenth birth-day, -we traveled up to Constance, and then across what they call the _Boden -See_—or lake of Constance, to the Vorarlberg. - - - CHANGING SCENES AND THOUGHTS. - -We passed some time in Switzerland, wandering from place to place, and -never remaining for above a few months in any. Though not very rich, we -were never in want of money; but it seemed to me that Father Bonneville -protracted his stay occasionally in different towns, waiting the arrival -of letters, and I concluded—having now acquired some knowledge of the -general affairs of life—that these letters contained remittances. -Whence they came, or by whom they were sent, I did not know; for Father -Bonneville transacted all his money affairs himself, but at the age of -sixteen he began to make me a regular allowance, too much for what is -usually called pocket-money, and enough to have maintained me in a -humble mode of life, even if he had not paid the whole expenses of -housekeeping. With this money, at first, I committed, as I suppose all -boys do, a great number of follies and extravagancies. I bought myself a -Swiss rifle, and became a practiced shot, not only in the -target-grounds, but upon the mountains, and Father Bonneville, seeming -now to judge that the education of my mind was nearly completed, -encouraged me to pursue that education of the body in which the good old -man was unable himself to be my instructor. The Swiss hunters, however, -were good enough teachers, and I acquired powers of endurance very -serviceable to me in after life. About this period, however, although I -was full of active energy, and fond of every robust exercise, a new and -softening spirit seemed to come into my heart. Vague dreams of love took -possession of me, and pretty faces and bright eyes produced strange -sensations in my young bosom. I became somewhat sentimental, bought -Rosseau’s _nouvelle Heloise_, and poured over its burning, enthusiastic -pages with infinite delight. The beautiful scenery, which before had -only attracted my attention by the effect of the forms and coloring upon -the eye of one naturally fond of the arts, now seemed invested with new -splendor, and the very air of the mountains fell with a sort of dreamy -light, streaming from my own imaginations. I peopled the glens and dells -with fair forms. I walked over the mountain-tops with beautiful -creations of fancy. My daily thoughts became a sort of romance, and many -a strange scene was enacted before the eyes of imagination in which I -myself always took some part, as the lover, the deliverer, or the hero. - -Was my little Mariette forgotten all this time? Oh no! Although I could -not give her features or her look to the pretty girls of the Canton with -whom from time to time I dallied, yet I pleased myself by fancying that -there was some trait of Mariette in each of them, and I do not recollect -fancy ever having presented me with a heroine for my dreams in whose -fair face the beautiful, liquid eyes of Mariette did not shine out upon -me with looks of love. - -I do not believe that amongst all the many books which have been written -to corrupt the heart of man—and they are ten times in number, I fear, -those which have been written to improve it—there is one to be found so -dangerous to youth as the works of Rousseau. The vivid richness of his -imagination, the strong enthusiasms of the man, and the indefinite -insinuation of pernicious doctrines can be only safely encountered by -reason in its full vigor, aided by experience. I happily escaped the -contamination, but it was by no powers of my own. Father Bonneville -found Rousseau lying on my table, and when I returned from one of my -long rambles he sat down to discuss with me both the character of the -man, and the tendency of his writings. He showed no heat, no vehement -disapprobation of the subject of my study; but he calmly and quietly, -and with a clearness and force of mind I have seldom seen equaled, -examined the doctrines, dissected the arguments, tore away the -glittering veils with which vice, and selfishness, and vanity are -concealed, and left with too strong a feeling of disgust for the -unprincipled author, for my admiration of his style and powers of -imagination ever to seduce me again. I felt ashamed of what I had done, -and when the good Father closed the book which he had been commenting -upon, I rose, exclaiming, “I will never read any more of his works -again.” - -“Not so, Louis,” replied the good Father. “Do not read his works at -present. Pause till you are thirty. Your reason may be active, and I -believe it is; but the mind, like the body, only acquires its full vigor -after a long period of regular exercise and training. You will soon have -to mingle largely with the world, to share in its struggles, to taste -its sorrows, and to encounter its disappointments. You will see much of -man and his actions. Mark them well. Trace them back to their causes. -Follow them out to their consequences. It is a study never begun too -soon, and about five or six-and-twenty, men who wish to found virtue -upon reason, apply the lessons they have thus learned to their own -hearts. If you do this, wisely and systematically, neither the works of -Rousseau, nor of any other man will do you any harm. But here is another -thing I wish to say to you, Louis. The income that is allowed you is -intended to give you some means of practically learning to regulate your -expenditure—to teach you, in fact, the value of money. This is a branch -of study as well as every thing else, and each young man has to master -it. At first, when he possesses money, his natural desire is to spend it -upon something that he fancies will give him pleasure; it matters not -what; and when he has wasted numerous small sums upon trifles which -afford him no real satisfaction, he finds that there is some object far -more desirable, which he has not left himself the means of obtaining. -Then comes regret, and it is very salutary; for when the experiment has -been frequently repeated, reason arrives at a conclusion, applicable, -not only to the mere expenditure of money, but to the use of all man’s -possessions, including the faculties both of mind and body. The -conclusion I mean, is, that small enjoyments often kill great ones.” - -That evening’s conversation I shall never forget. It afforded me much -matter for thought at the time, and I have recurred to it frequently -since. - -Another little picture stands forth about this time, clear and distinct -upon the canvas of memory, and I strongly suspect that the fact I am -about to mention had a great influence on my after life. - -We were then at Zurich, and I had been out on one summer evening for a -long ramble through the hills. When I re-entered the town, it was dark, -and going into the house of which we rented a part, I found a stranger -sitting with Father Bonneville. He was a very remarkable man, and you -could not even look at him for a moment without being struck by his -appearance. His dress was exceedingly plain, consisting of a large, -black, horseman’s coat, with a small cape to it, and a pair of high -riding-boots; and round his neck he had a white cravat of very many -folds, tied in a large bow in front. He was tall and well-proportioned, -and of the middle age; but his head was the finest I think I ever -beheld, and his face a perfect model of manly beauty. I shall never -forget his eye—that eye so soon after to be closed in death. There was -a calm intensity in it—a bright, searching, peculiar lustre which -seemed to shed a light upon whatever it turned to; and when, as I -entered the room, it fixed tranquilly on me, and seemed to read my face -as if it were a book, the color mounted into my cheek I know not why. He -remained for nearly an hour after my arrival, conversing with my good -old friend and myself in a strain of sweet but powerful eloquence, such -as I have never heard equaled. During a part of the time the subject was -religion, and his opinions, though very strong and decided, were -expressed with gentleness and forbearance; for he and Father Bonneville -differed very considerably. The stranger, indeed, seemed to have the -best of the argument, and I think Father Bonneville felt it too; for he -became as warm as his gentle nature would permit. In the end, however, -the stranger rose, and laid his hand kindly in that of the good priest. -“Read, my good friend,” he said. “Read. Such a mind as yours should not -shut out one ray of light which God himself has given to guide us on our -way. We both appeal to the same book as the foundation of our faith, and -no man can study it too much. From the benefit I myself have received -from every word that it contains, I should feel, even were there not a -thousand other motives for such a conclusion, that there is something -wrong in that system of religion which can shut the great store-house of -light and truth against the people for whose benefit it was provided.” - -The moment he was gone I exclaimed eagerly, “Who is that?” - -“One of the best and greatest men in the world,” replied Father -Bonneville, “That is Lavater.” - -I would fain have asked more questions, but good Father Bonneville was -evidently not in a mood for further conversation that night. The visit -of Lavater had pleased him—had interested him; but things had been said -while it lasted which had afforded him matter for deep thought—nay, I -am not sure but I might say, painful thought. I could tell quite well by -his aspect when there was any vehement struggle going on in the good -man’s mind, and from all I saw I thought that such was the case now. - -A few days after, he went to call upon Lavater, who was living in the -same town, but he did not take me with him. Lavater came again and again -to see him, and they had long conversations together, at some of which I -was present, at others not; and still there seemed to be a struggle in -Father Bonneville’s mind. He was very grave and silent, though as kind -and as gentle as ever—fell often into deep reveries, and sometimes did -not hear when I spoke to him. At length, one day, when I returned -somewhat earlier than usual from my afternoon rambles, I found him bent -over a table reading attentively, and coming in front of him, I -perceived not only that the tears were in his eyes, but that some of -them had dropped upon the page. He did not at all attempt to conceal his -emotion, but wiped his eyes and spectacles deliberately, and then laying -his hand flat upon the page, he looked into my face, saying, “Louis, you -must read this book; let men say what they will, it was written for -man’s instruction—for his happiness—for his salvation. It contains all -that is necessary for him; and beyond this, there is nothing.” - -I looked over his shoulder and found that it was the Bible. “I thought I -had read it long ago,” added Father Bonneville, “but I now find that I -have never read it half enough.” - -“I will read it very willingly, Father,” I replied, “but Father Mezieres -to whom you sent me preparatory to my first communion, told me, that if -not an actual sin, it was great presumption in a layman to read any part -of it but the New Testament.” - -“Mind not that, my son,” replied Father Bonneville. “It is hard to -struggle with old prejudices; to root out from our minds ideas planted -in our youth, which have grown with our growth and strengthened with our -strength. But in this book there is life, there is light, and God forbid -that any man should be prevented from drinking the waters of life -freely.” - -A faint smile came upon his face as he spoke, and after a moment’s -pause, he continued, saying, “Do you know, Louis, I am going to become a -boy again, and recommence my studies from a new point. Some months hence -I will talk with you further, and every day in the mean time I will have -my lesson.” - -He had his lesson, as he said, each day; for he would sit for hours -poring over either the pages of the Bible or some book of theology; but -from that day I am quite sure that Father Bonneville was, at heart, a -Protestant. - -There is only one other incident worthy of notice which I remember in -connection with the events of which I have just spoken. That was our -separation from good Jeanette, who had hitherto been the companion of -all our travels. For more than a month after our arrival in Zurich I -remarked that she looked anxious and uneasy. She said nothing on the -subject of her own feelings, however, to me, but was less communicative -and more thoughtful than usual, would be in the same room with me for a -long time without speaking one word to him who was I knew the darling of -her heart, and was more than once spoken to without appearing to hear. - -At length one day when I entered Father Bonneville’s room I found her -standing before him; and heard her say as I came in, “I must go and see -my lady. I am sure she is ill and wants help. I must go and see her. I -have done nothing but dream of her every night.” - -“Well, Jeanette, well,” replied he, “you must have your way; but you -know not what you undertake. At all events you had better stay till some -favorable opportunity can be found for sending you in safety.” - -Jeanette only shook her head, however, repeating in a low voice, “I must -go and see my lady.” - -She remained with us two days after this interview, and I recollect -quite well her coming into my room one night just as I was going to bed, -and looking at me very earnestly, while I, with sportsman-like care, was -cleaning my rifle ere I lay down. - -“Ah, Monsieur Louis,” she said in a somewhat sad tone, “you are growing -a man quite fast, and I dare say, you will soon be a soldier; but do not -get into any of their bad ways here; and never, never forget your -religion. They turn older and wiser heads than yours or mine; but do not -let them turn yours.” - -“No fear, I hope, Jeanette,” I answered; “but what do you want, my dear -old dame?” - -“Nothing, nothing, but only to see what you are doing,” she replied. “I -see your light burning often late of nights, and I thought you might be -reading bad books that craze many strong brains. Better clean a gun by -far, Louis—only never forget your religion.” - -I smiled at her anxious care of one no longer a boy, little thinking -that I was so soon to lose one so closely connected with every memory of -my youth, but when I rose the next morning somewhat later than usual, -Jeanette was gone; and all I could learn from Father Bonneville was that -she had set out upon a long and difficult journey, the thought of which -gave him much uneasiness. - - - THE PLEASURES OF BATTLE.[4] - - • • • • • • • - -I was coming down the hill, and about five miles distant from the town, -but my eyes had been rendered more keen by my hunter’s sports, and I was -quite sure that it was so. The glittering of arms, both upon the heights -above the city, and in the valley on the other side of the river, was -perfectly distinct. Yet so still and silent was every thing, that I -could hardly believe two hostile armies were there in presence of each -other. Not a sound broke the stillness of the mountain air. No trumpet, -no drum was heard at that moment; and my companion, Karl, would not -believe that what I said was true. Soon after, we dipped into one of -those profound wooded ravines which score the side of the mountains, and -the scene was lost to our sight; but as we crossed over one of the -shoulders of the hill again, and were forced to rise a little, in order -to descend still farther, the loud boom of a cannon came echoing through -the gorges, like a short and distant clap of thunder. The moment after, -the full roar of a whole park of artillery was heard, shaking the hills -around; and when we topped the height, we could see a dense cloud of -bluish smoke rolling along to well-defined lines below. - -Karl paused abruptly, saying, “We are well here, Louis. Better stay till -it is over. We can help neither party, and shall only get our heads -broke.” - -Such reasoning was good enough for him—an orphan and tieless as he -was—a mere child of the mountain; but I thought of good Father -Bonneville, and told him, at once, that I should go on, and why. He -would then fain have gone with me; but I would not suffer him; and -leaving the chamois with him, I hurried as rapidly down as I could, -taking many a bold leap, and many a desperate plunge, while the sound of -cannon and musketry kept ringing in my ears, till I reached a spot where -it was absolutely necessary to pause, and consider what was to be done -next. I had come unexpectedly, not exactly into the midst of the battle -that was going on, but to a point near that at which on the right of the -French line, a strong body of infantry were pushing forward with fixed -bayonets against an earthwork cresting the plateau, well defended by -cannon. The guns were thundering upon the advancing column at the -distance of about three hundred yards upon my left, and the Austrian -infantry were already within a hundred paces of the steep ascent, along -the face of which my path led toward the town. I was myself upon a -pinnacle of the hill, a little above either party, and my only chance of -making my way forward, was by taking a leap of some ten feet down, to a -spot where a _sapin_ started from the bold rock, and thence by a small -circuit, getting into the rear of the Austrian infantry. It was a rash -attempt; for if I missed my footing on the roots of the tree, I was sure -to be dashed to pieces; and I was somewhat incumbered by my rifle. I -took the risk, however, and succeeded; and then hurried forward as fast -as I could go. But now a new danger was before me—to say nothing of the -murderous fire from the French battery—for by the time I had reached -the point from which I could best pass into the suburb, the Austrian -infantry had been repulsed for the moment, and were retreating in great -confusion. I know not how to describe my feelings at that moment—afraid -I certainly was not; but I felt my head turn with the wild bustle and -indistinct activity of the scene. A number of men passed me, running in -utter disarray. An officer galloped after them, shouting and commanding, -for some time, in vain. At length, however, he succeeded in rallying -them, just as I was passing along. The moment they were once more -formed, he turned his eyes to the front, where another regiment, or part -of a regiment, had been already rallied, and seeing me at some forty -yards distance, he spurred on and asked me, in German, whether there was -a way up the steep to the left of the line. Luckily, I spoke the -language fluently, and replied that there was, pointing out to him the -path by which I usually descended. Without paying any further attention -to me, he hurried back to the head of his corps, and I ran on as fast as -possible to get out of the way of the next charge. There was a little -bridge which I had to pass, where not more than four or five men could -go abreast, and over it a small body of Austrians were forcing their -way, at the point of the bayonet, against a somewhat superior party of -the French troops, who, in fact, were willing enough to retreat, seeing -that a considerable impression had been made upon their right, and that -they were likely to be cut off. At the same time, however, they would -not be driven back without resistance, and several men fell. I followed -impulsively the rear of the Austrians, where I observed one or two of -the Swiss hunters appareled very much like myself, who were using their -rifles, with deadly effect, amongst the officers of the Republican army; -nor was it to be wondered at, after all that had happened. I could not, -however, bring myself to give any assistance, and kept my gun under my -arm, with the belt twisted round my wrist. - -As soon as the bridge was forced, the Austrians debouched upon the -ground beyond with greater rapidity and precision than the French seemed -to expect; and while their right retreated in tolerable order toward the -heights, their left scattered in confusion, and sought refuge in the -suburbs of the town. I took the same direction, and the first little -street I entered was so crowded with fugitives, comprising a number of -the townspeople, who, looking forth to see the battle, had been taken by -surprise on the sudden rush of the French soldiers in that direction, -that it was impossible to pass; and although I saw a sort of tumult -going on before me, and heard a gun or two fire, I turned away down the -first narrow street, only eager to be with my good preceptor, who lived -in a little street beyond the third turning. - -When I entered that street, the sun, a good deal declined, poured -straight down it, and I could see two or three groups of not more than -two or three persons in each, with the dress of the Republican French -soldier conspicuous here and there. I ran on eagerly, and passed three -persons all apparently struggling together. One was a woman, another a -French soldier, and the third, who had his back toward me, so that I -could not see his face, was endeavoring to protect the woman from -violence, and seemed to me, in figure, very like Lavater. I should have -certainly stopped to aid him; but there was another scene going on a -little in advance, which left me no time to think of any thing else; but -the moment I had passed, I heard a shot behind me, and then a deep -groan. - -I gave it no thought; for within a stone’s throw I beheld an old man -whose face and figure I knew well, brutally assaulted by one of the -soldiers, and falling on his knees, under a blow from the butt-end of a -musket. The next instant, the soldier—if such a brute deserved the -name—drew back the weapon, and ere I could have reached the spot, the -bayonet would have been through Father Bonneville’s body. I sent a -messenger of swifter pace to stop the deed. In an instant the rifle was -at my shoulder, and before I well knew that I touched the trigger, the -Frenchman sprang more than a foot from the ground, and fell dead with -the ball through his head. - -I paused not to think—to ask myself what I had done—to consider what -it is to take a human life, or to fight against one’s countrymen. I only -thought of good, kind, gentle Father Bonneville, and springing forward, -I raised him from the ground. He was bleeding from the blow on the -forehead, but did not seem much hurt, and only bewildered and confused. - -“Quick, into the house, good Father,” I cried. “Shut the lower windows -and lock the door.” - -“Oh, my son, my son!” he exclaimed, looking at me wildly, “do not mingle -in this strife!” - -“Lavater is behind,” I said; “I must hasten to help him. Go in, and I -will join you in an instant.” - -“Did you do that?” he inquired, looking at the dead soldier, and then at -the rifle in my hand. - -“I did,” I answered, in a firmer tone than might have been expected, -“and he deserved his fate. But go in, dear Father. I will return in a -moment.” - -I led him toward the door as I spoke, and saw him enter the house; and -then ran up the street to the spot where I had seen the struggle I have -mentioned. Two dead bodies were lying on the pavement. One was that of a -young woman of the lower class, fallen partly on her side, with a -bayonet-wound in the chest. The other was that of a man dressed in -black, who had fallen forward on his face. I turned him over, and beheld -the features of Lavater; I took his hand, and the touch showed me that -death was there. - -I had knelt while doing this, when a sudden sound made me attempt to -rise—but I could not do so; for, while still upon my knee, I was struck -by the feet of two or three men, cast back upon the ground, and trampled -under foot by a number of Austrians in full flight. Every thing became -dark and confused. I saw the long gaiters, and caught a glance of arms -and accoutrements, and felt heavy feet set upon my chest, and on my -head—and then all was night. - -Although the weather was hot, and summer at its height, in that high -mountain region the night was almost invariably cool. Probably that -circumstance saved my life; for I must have remained, I know, several -hours on the pavement untended, and perhaps unnoticed by any one. When I -recovered my senses, it was nearly midnight, and then I found several -good souls around me. One woman was bathing my head and chest with cold -water, while a man supported my shoulders upon his knee. The first -objects I saw, however, were three or four persons moving the body of -the woman, near whom I had fallen, to a small hand-bier. The body of -Lavater was already gone. - -“Look, look, he opens his eyes!” cried the woman who was tending me so -kindly. “Poor lad! we shall get him round! Where will you be taken to, -young man?” - -I named faintly the house where we lodged, and then another woman, who -was standing by, exclaimed, “Heaven! it is young Lassi! Better take him -to the hospital.” - -I tried in vain to inquire after Father Bonneville; for a faint, -death-like sensation came over me, and I was obliged to let them do what -they pleased with me. A blanket was soon procured, and placed in it, as -in a hammock, I was carried up into the higher part of the town to the -hospital, and there laid upon a bed, in a ward where some hundreds of -wounded men were already congregated. A surgeon, with his hands bloody, -an apron on, and a saw under his arm, soon came to me, and asked where I -was wounded. I endeavored to answer, but could not make myself -intelligible; and putting down the saw, he ordered me to be stripped, -and examined me all over. Two of my ribs, it seemed had been broken, and -my head terribly beaten about. Indeed, I was one general bruise. But my -limbs were all sound, and in four or five days, although I suffered a -great deal of pain, and the scenes which were going on around me were -not calculated to revive the spirits of any one, I was sufficiently -recovered to make inquiries for Father Bonneville, whenever I saw a new -face, and to send a message for him to the house where we lodged, giving -him notice that I was to be found at the hospital. - -Father Bonneville himself did not appear, but our landlord came in his -stead—a good, plain, honest man, of a kindly disposition. He told me, -much to my consternation, that my good friend, as he called him, had -been carried off as a prisoner by the Austrians, after they got -possession of the town; that he was suspected of being one of the French -Revolutionary Agents, and that most likely he would have been hanged at -once, without the testimony of himself, our landlord, who had come -forward to prove that he was a quiet, inoffensive man, who meddled not -with politics in any shape, and would have gladly got out of the town, -after the French occupation, had it been possible. This saved his life -for the time; but the only favor that could be obtained was that the -case should be reserved for further investigation. At the time he was -carried away, Father Bonneville was perfectly ignorant of my fate, the -landlord said, and feared that I had been killed. The good man, however, -promised that he would make every inquiry for my friend, and urged me, -in the meantime, to have myself carried to his house as soon as -possible. For more than a fortnight, during which time I was unable to -quit the hospital, he came every day to see me, but brought no -intelligence of Father Bonneville. At length he had me removed to his -own house, and there he, and his good old wife, attended upon me with -great kindness till I was quite well. - -As soon as I could move about, the landlord told me that Monsieur -Charlier, as he called him, had left with him a hundred louis d’ors for -me, in case of my return. “And lucky he did so,” added the old -gentleman, “for the Austrians ransacked every thing in both your rooms, -upon the pretence of searching for papers, and left not a bit of silver -worth a batz that they could lay their hands upon.” - -Days passed—weeks, and yet no tidings could be obtained of good Father -Bonneville; and thus was I left, ere I had reached the age of nineteen, -to make a way for myself in life, with a small store of clothing, a few -books, a ride, and one hundred louis. - - [_To be continued._ - ------ - -[4] Part of the manuscript, extending from page 56 to 61 is here -wanting. As far us I can judge, the deficiency refers to a period of -about 5 or 6 months, and I think the pages must have been destroyed by -the writer - - * * * * * - - - - - A CHARM. - - - BY A. J. REQUIER. - - - I know not why a touch can thrill - The soul, till it doth seem - A single drop would overfill - Her pleasurable dream. - - I know not, yet such moments are - Of measureless delight, - When fancy flashes, as a star - That falleth through the night! - - A weary night, a solemn night, - Is Life, so stern and slow, - And gentle forms like thine, the light - Which guides us as we go. - - Then, say not, maiden—never say - Thy heart in like the snow, - Thine eyes have far too fond a ray, - That we should deem it so. - - I, too, have sought, with studied art. - To stay the tides that speak, - But still, the struggle at my heart - Was written on my cheek. - - And now, my tuneless measure talks - One of the lonely lays - Which haunt my spirit when it walks - The melancholy ways. - - I sing, and singing dwell on thee— - The Pilgrim of a Star! - Who, straining, deems he yet can see - Some solace, though afar. - - Oh! in such times my harp will break - Forth in a fleeting tone, - But, ere its echo dies, I wake, - To find—I am alone! - - * * * * * - - - - - LIFE’S VOYAGE. - - - BY TH. GREGG. - - - A gallant bark is wildly tossing - Upon the briny wave, - Freighted deep with human treasure— - With earnest hearts and brave. - For many a day that bark is rolling - Over the trackless sea; - For many a day those hearts are beating— - Are beating to be free! - - At length the shore is dimly looming - On the horizon’s verge, - When that frail vessel boldly plunges - Unto the boiling surge. - A moment—and the ship is stranded!— - A number gain the shore— - Whilst others ’neath the boiling billows - Sink down for evermore! - - ’Tis thus Life’s waves are ever bearing - Our fragile bark along— - Whether freighted with Sin and Sorrow - Or joyous Mirth and Song: - And thus the surges are ever beating - Against the wreck-strewn strand - That stays the tide of Life’s rough Ocean - And bounds the Spirit-Land! - - * * * * * - - - - - MILTON.[5] - - - BY B. H. BREWSTER. - - -We have had lying on our table, for some years, this beautiful edition -of Milton’s Select Prose Works, and we have often, while reading it, -resolved to set about that which we have at last attempted. But we have -been deterred not more by the importance of the subject, than by the -recollection of the great spirits who have already earned rich harvests -of applause in this field. The article by Mr. Macaulay, published in the -Edinburgh Review, would seem to forbid further comment, where the critic -has left his reader in doubt which most to admire, the splendor of his -criticism, or the lofty grandeur of his original. Then, too, Mr. St. -John, the editor of these neat and elegant volumes, has given a -preliminary discourse, which displays a keen and warm admiration for -these writings, expressed, in a fervid strain of noble eloquence, which -inspires that gentle apprehension for the “bright countenance of truth,” -so soothing “in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.” - -In a fine London edition of the Prose Works of John Milton, published in -the year 1838, there is a well written review by the editor, Mr. Robert -Fletcher, in which he laments that some effort had not before been made -to “popularize, in a _multum in parvo_ shape, the prose works of our -great poet.” We have here an edition that completes his desires; an -edition in which great judgment has been exercised in selecting, from -various tracts, those portions likely to prove most agreeable to the -public. While they give a proper conception of the opinions of Milton, -they also contain some of the purest specimens of his style. Indeed, we -think that some one of our own publishing houses would find it to their -interest to bring out an edition of this work. The nice taste and the -correct discrimination displayed in this selection would command for it -a ready sale. It would be of great use to many, who know nothing of -these writings, and of service to some, who, while they know of them, -yet neglect and turn away from these rich well-springs of truth. - -Like all great messengers, Milton was, while living, persecuted, and -since his death has been the object of malignant hatred, by those whose -place of abiding is fast by the “seat of the scorner.” He whose “words -are oracles for mankind, whose love embraces all countries, and whose -voice sounds through all ages,” has been slighted, misrepresented, -abused, and reviled by those whose greatest glory should have been, that -they were the countrymen of Milton—not Milton the poet—but Milton the -statesman. He who wielded a pen that made Europe quake, and perpetuated -political truths based upon eternal justice—truths that were to warm -and kindle up mankind forever after in the pursuit of right against -might. - -Before we approach these fountains of living light, let us turn and see -how it was that he, who had been educated in seclusion, and mingled with -the scholars, the gentle and well-bred in his youth, did desert all, and -peril his life in the wild tumult and hot strife of religious and -political dissension, only that he might bear witness to the light that -was in him. - -John Milton was the son of John Milton, a scrivener of good repute, in -the city of London. He was born in the year 1608, and was carefully -educated under the supervision of his father, who was a man of refined -taste. He was destined for the Church, and gave great promise of -eminence; for he was an assiduous and diligent youth, and was noted for -his complete learning and elegant scholarship, at the University of -Cambridge, where he obtained his degrees. But he declined to take -orders, and refused to subscribe to the articles of faith, considering -that so doing was subscribing, slave. - -In thus early displaying his independence of opinion in his religious -belief, he did but follow the example set him by his father, while he -obeyed the honest impulse of his nature; for his father had been -disinherited by his grandfather for deserting the Roman Catholic faith. - -Shortly after he left the University he retired into the country with -his father, who had then relinquished business with a handsome estate; -and while there he continued his studies, selecting no particular -profession, but devoting himself to the cultivation of all. - -It was in these years of sweet scholastic solitude, that he produced his -Mask of Comus, than which there is not a nobler poem in any language. -This brought him great fame among the polite and refined of the day, and -was widely circulated for a while in manuscript; so that when he started -on his travels soon after this, (which was in 1638,) he carried with him -letters commanding, in his behalf, attention from the most eminent men -of the Continent. - -He went first to France, and while in Paris was introduced by Lord -Scudamore, the English ambassador, to Hugo Grotius, with whom he had a -very interesting interview. From Paris he went into Italy, and coming to -Florence, in that city he mingled freely with the refined and learned, -and, by the elegant displays of his own accomplishments and learning, -won the admiration and regard of all. The scholars and wits of that -place vied with one another in entertaining him, and celebrated his many -merits in their compositions. - -With many of those brilliant spirits of that favored land he formed an -intimacy, which was continued for years after his return home, as we -find by his familiar letters. From Florence he traveled to Rome, and was -there again treated with marked kindness and attention by Lucas -Holstensius, the librarian of the Vatican, the Cardinal Barberino, and -other persons of distinction in that famous city. From Rome he proceeded -to Naples, and there made the friendship of the Marquis of Villa, a man -of “singular merit and virtue,” and who was afterward celebrated by -Milton in a poem, as he had been by Tasso, in his Jerusalem Delivered, -and his Dialogue on Friendship. Happy and fortunate lot! thus to be the -object of regard, and to have his merits recorded, and his virtues -enshrined, for the admiration of posterity, in the works of these great -poetic minds! - -He had intended, after having thus visited the finest parts of Italy, to -go over into Sicily, and thence to Greece; but the news from England of -the difficulties between the Parliament and the King changed his mind, -and he determined to return home, to mingle with his countrymen in their -toil for freedom, thinking it unworthy of him to be loitering away his -time in luxurious ease, while his native land was distracted, and his -fellow men at home were battling in fierce strife for liberty. - -He returned to Rome, notwithstanding the desire of his friends that he -should remain away; for by the freedom of his speech when there he had -aroused the vindictive feelings of many of his hearers. And to this he -was no doubt provoked by having himself seen the dreadful persecution -undergone in the prison of the Inquisition, by one of the finest -scientific minds the world ever knew—by Galileo—whom he visited when -imprisoned for asserting the motion of the earth, and opposing the old -notions of the Dominicans and Franciscans. - -From Rome he went to Florence; and after being there a while he went to -Venice, and from that port he shipped his books and music for England. -He then took his route by Verona and Milan, and along the lake of Leman -to Geneva; and thence he returned through France the same way he came, -and arrived safe in England after an absence of one year and three -months, “having seen more, learned more, and conversed with more famous -men, and made more real improvement than most others in double the -time.” - -On his return home, he again devoted himself to the solitude of his -study, and to the teaching of several youths (among whom were his -nephews) who were intrusted to his care; and in his own house he formed -quite an academic institute, where his scholars, like the disciples of -the philosophers of old, gathered around him, and by assiduity added to -their stores of knowledge, while with his advice and counsel they were -purifying and elevating their feelings. - -In the year 1641, the nation was in great ferment with the religious -disputes of the day, which were intimately connected with the chief -political questions then agitated. This roused Milton, who was alive to -the close association of the two subjects; and for the furtherance of -his political designs, the support of liberty, he issued a powerful -tract upon Prelatical Episcopacy. This served to work out a good end, -and strengthen the cause of the liberalists. For this, as for other -reasons of a like nature, he was prompted to write several other -polemical tracts, during that year, and then he dropped the subject -forever. - -In 1643 he married, being then thirty-five years old. After a month his -wife, by his permission, went to visit her relations; and when sent for -by him—for reasons which are as yet unexplained—she refused to return, -and dismissed his messenger with contempt. - -He was deeply wounded by this treatment, and maintained toward her a -dignified and resolute indifference. Mortified, and full of sorrow, he -found relief in the contemplation of his very source of wo; and after -reflection upon it, he projected and published his work upon Divorce, -which is to this day one of the most famous works on the subject ever -printed. - -Affairs had now assumed a new aspect, and the Presbyterian party had, -after a great struggle with Royalty, gained the ascendency, and then -ruled supreme in the councils of the nation. - -The King and his abettors were fighting in the field for that authority, -they had before vainly endeavored to establish with the arm of civil -power. The Presbyterians were now in their day of prosperity; they had -been oppressed but were now triumphant. Adversity had not been of use to -them. They did not learn charity, or humanity, from her lessons, but now -exercised authority with a lordly air, and wielded the sword of State -with presumptuous arrogance. Among other acts of great inconsistency and -oppression, they established a supervision of the press under the -control of an authorized licenser, and at the same time endeavored to -suppress the freedom of speech. This base desertion of the principles -for which they had contended, this mean exercise of authority in that, -in which they had suffered the most, and against which they had clamored -the loudest, excited Milton to the writing of the Areopagitica. This -pamphlet was written by him upon this shameful abuse. He had before -acted in concert with them, as the movement party of the day; but when -they abandoned and treasonably betrayed the rights of Man, they left him -where he had always been, standing on the rock of truth fast by his -principles. - -There is not a nobler vindication of the freedom of speech, and the -liberty of the press, to be found any where, than in this pamphlet. - -This book was published in 1644, and in this year he was reconciled to -his wife, who sought him out, and unexpectedly to him fell at his feet, -and with tears besought his love and forgiveness. In this, as in other -instances, have we a strong evidence of the mildness and gentleness of -his feelings; for although his resentment had been aroused by her wicked -abandonment of him, yet when she returned home, repentant and in sorrow, -he joyfully received her, and forgave all. Nay more, when defeat and -route had fallen upon the royal standard, he generously took home her -father, and his whole family—who were attached to the cause of the -monarchy—protected them during the heat of his party triumph, and -finally interested himself to secure their estates from confiscation, -although they had in their days of prosperity prompted his wife to her -disobedience and desertion of her republican husband; thus showing a -high-heartedness which was above malice, and in keeping with and but a -practical domestic application of the pure, upright faith professed by -him, which was stern and unyielding in the pursuits of right, but humane -and gentle in the use of power and advantage. - -He was now an eminent man, and his bold pen had won for him a public -fame and name. About this time he was well-nigh being swept into the mid -current of popular politics, and it was contemplated making him the -adjutant general, under Sir William Waller; but this design was -abandoned upon the remodeling of the army, and he was left at his -studies. - -The king was imprisoned and tried, and then it was that the true faith -and intentions of many were made clear. The Presbyterian party, who had -professed democratic republicanism, while their hopes of office were -high—like many in our own days, who, when they have attained their -hopes, or been rejected by the people for better men, desert their -cause, abandon their principles, while they hold on to their name, and -fight under their old banners, that they may more surely but more basely -injure truth—being now in the minority and out of power, became noisy -in their lamentations over the king’s fate, and endeavored by every -means to prevent his execution, using all arguments, and stopping at -nothing to undo what they themselves had brought about. For when they -found that there was an unflinching determination of the democracy to -punish this man for his enormities and wicked misgovernment. - -“They who”—to use Milton’s language—“had been fiercest against their -prince, under the notion of a tyrant, and no mean incendiaries of the -war against him, when God out of his providence and high disposal hath -delivered him into the hands of their brethren, on a sudden and in a new -garb of allegiance, which their doings have long since concealed, they -plead for him, pity him, extol him, and protest against those who talk -of bringing him to the trial of justice, which is the sword of God, -superior to all mortal things, in whose hand soever, by apparent signs, -his testified will is to put it.” - -Upon the happening of this event, Milton published his “Tenure of -Kings,” from which is quoted the above passage, so applicable in its -spirit to our own times, so true of all political trucksters, who shout -loudly for the democracy, while they have hopes of using and abusing it, -but who basely betray its confidence and abandon it, whenever they are -required to put in practice their own professions. This book was -published 1649, and served very much to tranquilize and calm the public -mind upon that which had passed. - -After the establishment of the Commonwealth, he was called to the post -of Latin Secretary, by the Council of State, which station he held till -the Restoration. This was an office of great importance, inasmuch as all -the public correspondence with foreign States devolved upon him. While -holding this high and honorable public station, one so congenial with -his feelings, and one for which he was so well fitted, he produced many -state papers of great merit, and which contributed to advance the fame -of the republic abroad. - -Upon the execution of Charles Stuart, there was published a book which -was styled “Eikōn Basilikē,” and which was pretended to have been -written by the king, and left by him as a legacy and parting word to the -world. It had a most unprecedented sale, owing to the curiosity excited -by its appearance. As it was a work which was then likely to excite -public sympathy, when public sympathy would be thrown away upon a bad -and unworthy object, while at the same time it would abuse and mislead -the public mind, the Parliament called upon Milton to write an answer to -it, and to furnish an antidote for this lying poison, which it is well -believed was never written by the king, but was manufactured and -industriously circulated by the enemies of the people, and the friends -of arbitrary power, with a hope that by its means they could unsettle -the public mind, weaken the republic, and reëstablish the tyranny. - -Milton accordingly wrote his Eikonoklastes; and truly was he an -image-breaker; for with merciless force he entered the temple, and with -his own right arm shattered the idol that they had bid all mankind bow -down before. - -Charles the Second, who was then residing upon the Continent, hired -Salmasius, a man of great learning, and the successor of the celebrated -Scaliger, as honorary professor at Leyden, to write a work in defense of -his father and of the monarchy. For this work Charles paid Salmasius one -hundred jacobuses. In the execution of this book, Salmasius filled it -pretty plentifully with insolent abuse of all the public men of the -Commonwealth, and those prominent in the Revolution; both from a natural -inclination, and according to directions. In this he was quite expert; -for though he was a fine scholar and very famed for his learning, yet as -it has been said of him—“This prince of scholars seemed to have erected -his throne upon a heap of stones, that he might have them at hand to -throw at every one’s head who passed by.” - -Immediately upon the appearance of this book, the Council of State -unanimously selected Milton to answer it; and he, in obedience to this -call, prepared and published his Defense of the People of England, a -work of great worth and power, and which was written at intervals, -during the moments snatched from his official duties, when he was -weakened and infirm. This book was read everywhere. Europe rang with it, -and wonder at its force filled all minds. - -By some it has been said that the Council presented him with £1000 as a -reward, which was no mean sum in those days of specie circulation. But -empty thanks were all that he received. Neither this nor any other of -his writings ever obtained one cent for him from the public purse, as he -asserts in his Second Defense. While Milton was thus receiving -attentions from all quarters, it was much otherwise with his arrogant -opponent; for he suffered not only by the severity of Milton’s reply, -but was slighted and treated ill by Christiana, Queen of Sweden, who had -invited him to her court, among other learned men. Upon the reading of -Milton’s “Defense,” she was so delighted therewith, that her opinion of -Salmasius changed, and she became indifferent to him, which he -perceiving, left her court, and retired to Spa, in Germany, where he -shortly after died of chagrin. - -Milton had been for many years suffering from a weakness in his eyes, -arising out of his severe application to his studies. Year after year -his sight became more and more dim, until his physicians warned him that -unless he ceased his continual toil, he would become totally blind. This -for a while he heeded; but the urgent call made upon him in the -production of this answer to Salmasius, led him again to -over-application, and he became wholly blind. Notwithstanding his -blindness, he still continued the discharge of his official duties, and -employed his leisure moments in the production of various other -political tracts, in answer to the many abusive works issued by the -royalists. - -On the death of Oliver Cromwell, and the taking place of the -difficulties that followed, he wrote a “Letter to a Statesman,” -[supposed to be General Monk,] in which he gave a brief delineation of a -“free Commonwealth, easy to be put in practice, and without delay.” -Finding affairs were growing worse and worse, the people more and more -unsettled, and that a king was likely to be reëstablished, and the -Commonwealth subverted, he wrote and published his “Ready and Easy Way -to Establish a Free Commonwealth, and the Excellence thereof, Compared -with the Inconveniences and Dangers of admitting Kingship in this -Nation.” This short paper was published in 1659-60, and even after this -he published his “Notes on a late Sermon entitled the Fear of God and -the King, preached at Mercer’s Chapel, on March 25th, 1660, by Dr. -Matthew Griffith,” the very year, and within a month of the Restoration; -so that his voice was the last to bear witness against the overthrow of -liberty and the restoration of tyranny. - -Upon the return of Charles, he fled, and lay concealed, during which -time his books, the Eikonoklastes and “Defense of the People of -England,” were burned by the common hangman! An indictment was found -against him, and a warrant for his arrest placed in the hands of the -sergeant-at-arms. The act of indemnity was passed, and he received the -benefit of it, and came forth from his concealment, but was arrested, -and shortly after, by order of the House of Commons, discharged, upon -his paying the fees to the sergeant-at-arms, who had endeavored to exact -them from him, which he resisted, and appealed to the House. And thus, -although a prisoner, he still displayed a determination and resolution -to oppose that oppression in his own person, against which he had so -stoutly battled for the whole people. - -He now retired from public life forever; and when an offer was afterward -made to him by the king, to return to his old post of secretary, he -refused it, although pressed by his wife to accept it, and to her -entreaties answered thus: “Thou art in the right; you and other women -would ride in your coach; for me, my aim is to live and die an honest -man.” - -This offer has been denied by Doctor Johnson, in his life of Milton, and -that, too, without sufficient foundation, for the contradiction is made -without proof; and when Dr. Newton, in his admirable account of Milton, -published in his splendid edition of the Poetical Works of Milton, -confirms it, and asserts that these very words were from Milton’s wife -only twenty years before the publication of his edition. The Doctor has -in this, as in other instances, displayed a malicious desire to detract -from his merits; his envy no doubt being excited by this unbending -integrity of one, whose political opinions were serious enough in the -Doctor’s eyes to affect even his merits as a poet. For this, as for -other offenses, has he received again and again that censure which he so -richly deserved; but from no one with more force than from Mr. St. John, -in his able Preliminary Discourse to these volumes. We quote a passage. - -“Another sore point with Johnson was, that Milton should be said to have -rejected, after the Restoration, the place of Latin Secretary to Charles -the Second. Few men heartily believe in the existence of virtue above -their own reach. He knew what he would have done under similar -circumstances; he knew that had he lived during the period of the -Commonwealth, a similar offer from the Regicides would have met with no -‘sturdy refusal’ from him; he knew it was in his eyes no sin to accept -of a pension from one whom he considered an usurper; how, then, could he -believe, what must have humiliated him in his own esteem, that the old -blind republican, bending beneath the weight of years and indigence, -still cherished heroic virtues in his soul, and spurned the offer of a -tyrant! Oh, but he had filled the same office under Oliver Cromwell! - -“Milton regarded ‘Old Noll’ as a greater and better ‘Sylla,’ to whom, in -the motto to his work against the restoration of kingship, he compares -him, and evidently hoped to the last, what was always, perhaps, intended -by the Protector, and understood between them, that as soon as the -troubles of the times should be properly appeased, he would establish -the Republic. In this Milton consented to serve with him, not to serve -him; for Cromwell always professed to be the servant of the people. And -after all, there was some difference between Cromwell and Charles the -Second. With the former the author of Paradise Lost had something in -common; they were both great men, they were both enemies to that remnant -of feudal barbarism, which, supported by prejudice and ignorance, had -for ages exerted so fatal an influence over the destinies of their -country. Minds of such an order—in some things, though not in all, -resembling—might naturally enough coöperate; for they could respect -each other. But with what sense of decorum, or reverence for his own -character, remembering the glorious cause for which he had struggled, -could Milton have reconciled his conscience to taking office under the -returned Stuart, to mingle daily with the crowd of atheists who -blasphemed the Almighty, and with swinish vices debased his Image in the -polluted chambers of Whitehall. The poet regarded them with contemptuous -abhorrence; and, if I am not exceedingly mistaken, described them under -the names of devils, in the court of their patron and inspirer below. -Besides, even had they possessed the few virtues compatible with -servitude, it would have been a matter of constant chagrin, of taunt and -reviling on one side, and silent hatred on the other, to have brought -together republican and slave in the same bureau, and to have compelled -a democratic pen to mould correct phrases for a despicable master. So -far, however, was the biographer from comprehending the character of the -man whose life he undertook to write, that he seems to have thought it -an imputation on him, and a circumstance for which it is necessary to -pity his lot, that the dissolute nobles of the age seldom resorted to -his humble dwelling! The sentiment is worthy of Salmasius. But was there -then living a man who would not have been honored by passing under the -shadow of that roof? by listening to the accents of those inspired lips? -by being greeted and remembered by him whose slightest commendation was -immortality? Elijah, or Elisha, or Moses, or David, or Paul of Tarsus, -would have sat down with Milton and found in him a kindred spirit. But -the slave of Lady Castlemain, or the traitor Monk, or Rochester, or the -husband of Miss Hyde, or that Lord Chesterfield, who saw what Hamilton -describes, and dared not with his sword revenge the insult, might -forsooth have thought it a piece of condescension to be seen in the -Delphic Cavern in England, whence proceeded those sacred verses which in -literature have raised her above all other nations, to the level of -Greece herself!” - -Upon his release from arrest he retired to the obscurity and solitude of -his own dwelling, where he passed his time in the composition of his -Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes. During this time -he also produced a History of Britain, with several other prose works. -In 1674 he expired, worn out with illness and a life of toil; he died -without a groan, and so gentle and placid was his departure, that they -who were round him did not perceive it. - -Although all of his political writings were called forth by the events -that were passing before him, and were for that reason local in their -immediate application, yet they are so catholic and elemental in their -spirit, that we can hardly believe that they were written in an age when -feudal tenures were not abolished, and before any people had as yet -secured their own freedom. - -His Areopagitica was his first political work; and although it was -written for a special purpose, and with a view to a then existing evil, -it is still a pamphlet that might very well be published at this day, as -the declaration of our opinions upon this subject of the liberty of the -press. - -The very motto of the book, taken from Euripides, and translated by -himself, indicates the whole spirit and intent of it. - - “This is true liberty when freeborn men, - Having to advise the public, may speak free, - Which he who can, and will, deserves high praise, - Who neither can, or will, may hold his peace; - What can be juster in a state than this?” - -After discussing the real merits of the question then before him, he -departs altogether from that topic; and as he always did, generously -claimed the same right for mankind, that he had sought for Englishmen. -And then it is he utters this fine sentence, which shows a noble -enthusiasm in his cause, and a firm belief in its justice. “Give me the -liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience -above _all liberties_!” - -After this work he wrote his “Tenure of Kings.” The design of this -pamphlet has been already explained. We may judge of its liberal -character by these few passages. At first he alludes to the treasonable -desertion of principles by those, who were then turbulent for the king’s -release, and who had mainly helped to provoke and carry on the war. -Afterward he declares this general principle; “No man, who knows aught, -can be so stupid as to deny that all men naturally _were born free_, -being the image and resemblance of God himself.” And after this -proclamation of that essential truth, he proceeds to analyze the history -of society, and shows by reason, scriptural authority, general history, -and the universal opinions of mankind, that all government proceeds from -the people, is created by them for their comfort and good, and is -subject to their control, whether it be patriarchal, despotic, or -aristocratic; and that no king or potentate holds by any other authority -than the consent of the people; which being withdrawn his rule ceases, -and for his crimes his life may be forfeited—declaring that this must -be so, “unless the people must be thought created all for him singly, -which were a kind of treason against the dignity of mankind to affirm.” - -And after all this he shows his charity for his fellow men, wherever -they may be, by saying, “Who knows not that there is a mutual bond of -amity and brotherhood between man and man all over the world; neither is -it the English sea that can sever us from that duty and relation.” It is -this sentiment, and such like this, that demands of us our admiration -and regard for this purest of men. - -In the same manner does he fight the same fight in his Eikonoklastes, -and “Defense of the English People,” fearlessly breaking new ground in -behalf of the “Rights of Man,” as if he considered it to be his greatest -glory to be the champion of his race, while he was defending his -countrymen. - -In the Eikonoklastes, after refuting the many lies uttered by the king’s -lip-workers, he says, “It is my determination that through me the truth -shall be spoken, and not smothered, but sent abroad in her native -confidence of her single self, to earn how she can her entertainment in -the world, and to find out her own readers.” Hearken then again to his -words, which now, near two hundred years after they were published, come -like a solemn and prophetic voice from out the writings of the old, -blind republican. - -“Men are born and created with a better title to their freedom, than any -king hath to his crown. And liberty of person and right of -self-preservation is much nearer, and more natural, and more worth to -all men than the property of their goods and wealth.” - -This is _our_ truth, the corner-stone of our faith. Here we stand, and -alone of nations have made this our practice, and thereby given a -healthful example to all men. These things he believed, and, for the -first time for ages, did he announce to the world those truths which -were to unsettle tyranny and open the way to universal freedom. - -When the king was about to return, he published “The Mode of -Establishing a Free Commonwealth.” This was the last blast blown to -rouse the people from their lethargy. With a prophetic energy did he -predict the ills that would fall upon the nation, should the king again -be established. How sadly have his words been realized in the gilded -misery that now surrounds his country, where starving millions toil like -beasts of the field to fatten a licentious and debased aristocracy! - -In this book he told the people that “no government was nearer the -precepts of Christ than a free Commonwealth, wherein they who are the -greatest are perpetual servants to the public, and yet are not elevated -above their brethren, live soberly in their families, walk the streets -as other men, may be spoken to freely, familiarly, friendly, without -adoration.” After extolling the excellent beauty of freedom, and -exhorting them to stand by their rights, he thus concludes, with these -passages so full of grand and pathetic eloquence. - -“I have no more to say at present; few words will save us, well -considered; few and easy things, now seasonably done. But if the people -be so affected as to prostitute religion and liberty to the vain and -groundless apprehension, that nothing but Kingship can restore trade, -not remembering the frequent plagues and pestilences that then wasted -this city, such as through God’s mercy we never have felt since; and -that trade flourishes nowhere more than in the free Commonwealths of -Italy, Germany, and the Low Countries, before their eyes at this day; -yet if trade be grown so craving and importunate, through the _profuse -living of tradesmen_, that nothing can support it but the luxurious -expenses of a nation upon trifles or superfluities, so as if the people -generally should betake themselves to frugality, it might prove a -dangerous matter, lest tradesmen should mutiny for want of trading; and -that therefore we must forego, and set to sale religion, liberty, honor, -safety, all concernments, divine or human, to keep up trading. What I -have spoken is the language of that which is not called amiss, “The Good -Old Cause;” it seem strange to any, it will not seem more strange, I -hope, than convincing to back-sliders. Thus much I should perhaps have -said, though I was sure I should have spoken only to trees and stones, -and had none to cry to, but with the prophet, ‘O Earth, Earth, Earth!’ -to tell the very soil itself what her perverse inhabitants are deaf to; -nay, though what I have spoke should happen, [which Thou suffer not, who -didst create mankind free! nor Thou next who didst redeem us from being -the servants of men!] to be the last words of our expiring liberty.” - -The political works of this great man have been diligently suppressed, -and his political fame traduced; while they, who could not deny him -merit, have been busy before the world in lauding him as a poet, -thinking thus to lead men off from a knowledge of that wherein consisted -his true greatness. We question much whether the dullest mind could read -these books now, without being roused and filled with enthusiasm for -this apostle of liberty, and for his cause. - -In them he nobly vindicates the people and their rights. “The Good Old -Cause,” as he calls it, warms him up, and he writes with an exulting -energy that would make your blood gush with delight. His opinions were -not the distempered thoughts of a factionist. He never allowed his -feelings to be warped by a selfish regard for party advancement. He knew -no party, but generously devoted his whole soul to the cause of his -country, and in defense of the rights of mankind. In his old age his -greatest glory was, that he had always written and spoken openly in -defense of liberty and against slavery. - -The truths which he wrote in his matured years, as applying to the -condition of his unfortunate country, were but repetitions of the faith -of his youth, as he had powerfully expressed it in his Comus. - - “Impostor, do not charge most innocent Nature, - As if she would her children should be riotous - With her abundance; she, good cateress, - Means her provision only to the good, - That live according to her sober laws, - And holy dictates of spare temperance: - If every just man, that now pines with want, - Had but a moderate and beseeming share - Of that which lewdly pampered luxury - Now heaps upon some few with vast excess, - Nature’s full blessings would be well dispens’d, - In unsuperfluous even proportion, - And she no whit encumbered with her store: - And then the giver would be better thanked, - His praise due paid; for swinish gluttony - Ne’er looks to heaven amidst his gorgeous feast - But with besotted, base ingratitude, - Crams and blasphemes his feeder.” - -Even now, while we conclude these few pages our pen falters, and we feel -disposed to abandon the task. His magnificence overpowers us. How can we -point out the excellence of that which commands the admiration of all -men, and is beyond the loftiest praise of the most eloquent? Again and -again have we turned over the leaves of this work, with the intention of -selecting passages worthy of comment and regard, and so thickly have -they flowed in upon us, that page after page has been exhausted, and we -had not finished. How idle, then, to select from these masterpieces of -eloquence and storehouses of truth! How vain to dwell upon his merits, -when every line of his splendid composition tells of his measureless -learning and infinite purity of thought. His style, at once grand and -simple, is happily suited to convey conviction to the mind, and inspire -the soul with fervid energy. - -While his works are filled with noble conceptions, clothed in language -of corresponding state and grandeur, we nowhere find any attempt at fine -rhetoric for mere empty display. The whole subject sweeps on with solemn -magnificence, but with no idle pomp. From the depths of his soul did he -speak, and his words were as fire, scorching to his enemies, and -life-giving and cheering to those who love “truth and wisdom, not -respecting numbers and big names.” - -The most inspiring view that can be taken of the soul of these writings -is, that they are, even at this day, far in advance of the social -condition that exists in this land of liberal and enlightened principles -of government. The precepts by which he would wish us to be guided, are -the pure and humane doctrines of the Savior of man. He did not fight -only for the liberties of _Englishmen_, contending for _English_ rights, -citing the charters of _English_ liberty—no, not he—all mankind were -alike to him, and for _man_ alone he spake. No such Hebrew spirit -animated his noble soul. - -He proclaimed the rights of man, as man, and asserted his rights, -natural and social, without ever launching out into Utopian speculations -and visionary conceptions, the practical utility of which no one can -affirm, and the application of which would have worked out ills -innumerable, rooting up and overthrowing ten thousand times ten thousand -social rights, that had grown up with the state itself. He asserted -abstractions; but with an intimate knowledge of men and their affairs, -he steadily avoided violating those relative rights, to suddenly -encroach on which would have been even as great a despotism as the -rugged foot of feudal barbarity, with which his country had been -oppressed. - -From the generous and life-giving precepts of the Gospel did he draw his -faith. He there learned charity for the misdoings of men, as well as -belief in their power to resist evil and attain truth. He there learned -love for mankind, as he imbibed a stern, unyielding hate for tyranny and -hypocrisy. - -No timid navigator, skirting along the shores and headlands, but a bold, -adventurous spirit, he pushed forth upon a wild, tempestuous sea of -troubles, with murky night of ignorance and superstition surrounding -him. The “Telemachus” of Fénelon, might have been the “first dim promise -of a great deliverance, the undeveloped germ of the charter of the -code,” for the whole French people. But in these writings of Milton, we -have a _full_ and manly assertion of those rights and duties which all -men owe one to the other, and all to society, and which are far, far -beyond the simple truths conveyed in that beautiful and easy fiction. - -Well might the French monarch have “the Defense” burned by the common -hangman! Well might he for whom “a million peasants starved to build -Versailles,” look down with horror and fear upon that work, for in it -were truths which have roused up men to assert their rights. It was the -vindication of a noble people, who had trampled under their feet the -yoke that oppressed them, and had brought to punishment the tyrant who -reigned over them. These works and the events that produced them have an -interest to us. Englishmen may slight them, but we look on them with -exultation—they are associated with our own history—they are connected -with our own family legends—and as they record the mighty struggle of -the mighty with the powers and principalities of this earth, they should -be reverenced and held sacred by us; they should be our household -companions, as they were of those men whose blood now warms the hearts -of an empire of freemen, who boast their lineage from a prouder source -than kings—the Puritans of New England. The men of that Revolution have -never been fully understood. He who would wish to know the justice of -their cause, let him read Milton, and let him read the real documents of -the times. They have been abused and misrepresented by most historians. -Mr. Bancroft, in his History of his Country, has comprehended these -martyrs in the cause of democratic rights, and dared to tell the truth -concerning them. They and theirs were the settlers of this country. From -them came the mighty forest of sturdy oaks, which in years after were to -breast the storm of royal oppression and wrath, in this their refuge; -and from which tempest we—WE THE PEOPLE, came out gloriously -triumphant! - -Think not ill of them. Tread lightly upon their memories as you would -upon their ashes. They who perished upon the scaffold—they who found a -home here—they who died upon the field in England, or worn out with -anxiety and public care, sank to rest forever in their homes—they who, -like Cromwell, fought in the field and ruled in the council—and they -who, like Milton, have proclaimed from the study that “_man is free_,” -have earned names that time will brighten, and have stood by truths that -will secure the affections of a world hereafter. - ------ - -[5] Select Prose Works of Milton, with a Preliminary Discourse and -Notes. By J. A. St. John. London: J. Hatchard & Son. 2 vols. - - * * * * * - - - - - “BLESS THE HOMESTEAD LAW.” - - - BY L. VIRGINIA SMITH. - - - It was a summer morning. Soft the flame - Of the early sunlight up the zenith came, - Deep tinging with a golden-crimson hue - The clouds that floated o’er the welkin blue, - Or veiled the distant mountain. Far, and near, - From farm to farm the call of chanticleer - Rang like a clarion, shrilly sweet and long, - The robin red-breast trilled his matin song, - Hid in the high old maple, while around - From far, deep-waving grain-fields gayly sound - The carols of the bob-o-link. The bee - Was out among the blossoms, in his glee - To rouse them from their dreamings. Gracefully - The west-wind waved the weeping willow-tree - That drooped above the rivulet, or crept - Amid the branches of the elm that swept - A low-browed homestead. Ruby columbine, - Sweet honey-suckle, and the Indian vine, - Had veiled the rustic portico, and wild - Swayed o’er the casement, and the sunlight smiled - Through the low entrance. ’Twas a winsome place, - And like the sunny calm of some sweet face, - You would have thought in gazing on its rest, - That earth’s frail children _sometimes_ can be blest. - And yet misfortune found it;—see the group - Now gathered at the threshold, o’er them droop - Long, swaying branches, and the loving leaves - Lay their light fingers o’er the heart that grieves, - As if to soothe its sorrows. Agony - Lights up the darkness of the husband’s eye, - He stands apart, his bearing calm and proud, - And yet his heart is burning ’neath a cloud - Of dread and misery. The young wife leans - By the old elm-tree, ’mid the passing scenes - Her heart is busy, for beside her stands - A lovely child, with snowy, dimpled hands - Clasping her mother’s, while within the shade - Her baby brother on the greensward played. - The little maiden mused, a choking swell - Filled her young bosom, and the large tears fell - All silently, then her slow-lifting eyes - (Their blue depths troubled with a strange surprise) - Sought out her mother’s;—tossing back her hair, - Her clear voice melted on the morning air;— - - “We leave the homestead!—Say, dear mother, why? - Do not the birds and blossoms love us here? - Has any other home a clearer sky, - With brighter stars upon it? Mother, dear, - Shall we not sigh _there_ for this old elm shade, - Where you and I and brother oft have played? - - “We leave the homestead!—Oh! my father, tell, - Why turn we from the fields, and wood-paths dim, - Through which we wended as the Sabbath bell - Called us to worship, with its solemn hymn? - Shall we not sigh to pray where friends have prayed, - Or weep our loved ones in the church-yard laid?” - - The haughty bosom of the strong man shook - With an internal tempest, and he took - Her tiny hand within his own; his pride - Was bending, and he earnestly replied: - - “Why do we leave it?—’tis a tale too long, - And strange to fall upon _thy_ heart, my child; - ’Twould tell of dark misfortunes, pain, and wrong, - And wo, that seemed at times to drive me wild, - To make me doubt the path my fathers trod, - And that the poor man had indeed a God! - - “But thou, my Ada, true and gentle bride, - Dost thou remember when thy violet eye - Looked first upon ‘Glenoran?’ All untried, - It seemed to thee a Paradise; ah! why - Am I myself its serpent and its bane, - To leave on all its bloom a deadly stain? - - “Oh! could I only bear this all alone, - The grinding poverty—the lurking sneer— - All the poor debtor’s wretchedness—no moan - My soul would utter audibly, but here - My heart of hearts is crushed, my life of life, - _They_ suffer also, child, and babe, and wife. - - “We leave the homestead;—wanderers we go, - From friends, from kindred, and our native land— - My God! if _I_ have merited such wo, - Have _these_ deserved it at thy mercy’s hand? - Oh! let thy justice all my actions scan, - Yet leave one hope—to die an honest man.” - - He drooped his head upon his bosom, bowed - With misery, and instantly the proud - Young wife was at his side; soft o’er his brow - Swept her white fingers, and her voice was low: - - “Thy soul is dark, beloved, it fears for us— - Ah! only trust in God, as I in thee, - Lift up thy stately brow; to see thee thus - Is worse than all life’s agony to me. - Thou couldst have died for us, beloved, but we, - E’en when all hope is lost, will live for thee. - - “They cannot separate our souls from thine, - They cannot part us wheresoe’er we roam, - Or place aught else within the sacred shrine, - Where dwell thy wife and children. Loved one, come, - Give me mine only _home_ within thy heart— - _I’ll bear it with me_—let us hence depart.” - - It is the summer twilight. Dark the shades - Are falling through the forest everglades, - The winds are hushed, the lonely whip-poor-will - Sings his wild lullaby upon the hill, - A sighing murmur from the mountain-pines - Steals up valley, and the love-star shines, - All brightly in “Glenoran.” - Since the morn - Glad tidings visited those bosoms torn - With unavailing sorrow, now the “right” - To have a home was granted, and delight - Was blended into orisons. That line - Whose fiat echoes back a law divine, - Was made a statute, and sweet Ada saw - Her loved ones singing, “_Bless the Homestead Law!_” - - * * * * * - - - - - THE MISER AND HIS DAUGHTER. - - - BY H. DIDIMUS. - - -This man came to Louisiana many years since, a silver-smith by trade, -poor, and largely in debt. He was born in New York, and in that city -worked industriously at the business to which he had been apprenticed, -until a competency rewarded his labors, and wealth, which he had before -little thought of, was brought near enough to his door to be both seen -and desired. The hammer, the soldering-iron, and the file were now -thrown aside, as instruments of a slow getting; and the head was taxed -with schemes for the acquisition of sudden and great gains. At the close -of two years he was a bankrupt. But he was not a man of half-measures; -true courage he had enough of; and honesty has never been denied him; -so, he called his creditors together, laid before them a statement of -his affairs, surrendered all that he had, gave his notes for eighty -thousand dollars, and departed, with nerves unshaken, and a will -indomitable, in search of a new land and a new fortune. - -When the ambition of wealth drew him from his work-shop, he carefully -laid aside the tools of his trade in a stout oaken box, to be kept as -mementoes of former labor; they were now all that remained to him, the -only gift which he had asked, and would receive of creditors who were -disposed to be generous. With them, at thirty-five years of age, he bid -the North good-bye, went on shipboard, entered before the mast, in -payment of a passage to New Orleans, and on his arrival there, at once -hired himself into the service of a silver-smith, who has since ranked -with the wealthiest of its citizens, and who has since met with ruin -more disastrous than that which brought the best of his journeymen to -his door. - -John Cornelius, when you first scented the Mississippi marshes, and -stepped from ship to shore with a debt of eighty thousand dollars upon -your back, John Gravier had not wholly parted with that domain, which -now forms the noblest portion of the second municipality. To one with a -soul in his body, bent on money-getting, the track clear, the goal in -view, to be won with effort, eighty thousand dollars of debt is like -weight to the race-horse—it is not best to run too light at the start. -Your eye saw what John Gravier did not. You read the page written by the -hand of God, legibly enough—the Mississippi with all its tributaries, -rolling through lands of an unequalled fertility, and of every variety -of clime, and you had faith. God’s promises are certain. With the return -of spring comes the flower, and with the breath of autumn comes the -fruit; with the twinkling star comes rest, and with the rise of day -comes light and labor; every mountain, every hill and valley, every -plain and running-stream, river and ocean, speak of God’s promises, and -accomplish them. Read, and understand; this it is, which separates the -man gifted from the common herd, who are born to toil for the benefit of -the few. - -John Cornelius read God’s promises in the Mississippi, and went heartily -to work. With him, there was no folding of the hands, no waiting on -Providence; for he knew that the fable of Hercules and the wagoner was -as instructive under a Christian, as under a pagan dispensation; so he -girded up his loins, made sharp his sickle, and entered upon the harvest -which was already ripe for the reaper. Economy is the handmaid of -wealth, and penuriousness is economy’s own daughter. John Cornelius took -them both to his bosom, and for ten long years he lived upon one meal a -day, and that a cold one. The larger portion of his monthly wages he -hoarded up, and when the accumulations had become sufficient, -remembering the promises of the Mississippi, he bought a lot of ground -within the precincts of John Gravier’s plantation; hoarded again, put a -small wooden tenement upon the lot, rented, and was a landlord. Thus he -went on, working, hoarding, with economy and penuriousness his whole -household, penuriousness holding the upper hand; adding lot to lot, -tenement to tenement, and lease to lease, until at the close of ten -years, he found that God’s promises written upon the Mississippi, were -fulfilled and fulfilling; and he again laid aside the tools of his trade -in a stout, oaken box, there to rest, as they do rest to this hour. He -was rich; he had kept even pace with New Orleans, in its progress toward -greatness; but, with his wealth had grown up a habit, the habit of -penuriousness, which wealth only strengthened, as a child strengthens -its parent. Habit moulds the soul, and fashions it to its will; habit -makes the writer; habit makes the poet; of habit, are born the soldier, -the statesman, and the scholar; habit created the arts, and all science; -habit gives faith and religion, and fastens every vice upon us; and -habit made John Cornelius a miser. - - - SECTION II. - -It was many years subsequent to the period at which Mr. Cornelius found -it for his interest to retire a second time from the work-shop, and to -devote himself exclusively to the management of his increasing -rent-roll, and frequent investments in real property, and when, with the -eighty thousand dollars of debt lifted from his shoulders, he stood -erect, mighty in wealth, that he one day entered my office, and tendered -me a counselor’s fee. - -Mr. Cornelius and myself were strangers to each other. I had occupied -chambers in one of his houses for the past five years, but his collector -arranged with me the terms of my lease, and received the quarterly rent; -and as my landlord was faithful to his own interests, and as I was -equally faithful to mine, no incident had transpired, growing out of our -relations, to bring us together. - -“I have for some time been a tenant of yours, Mr. Cornelius,” said I, -handing the gentleman a chair; “and I suppose that I may attribute this -visit to a worthy desire on your part to become acquainted with one who, -thus far, has exhibited no sign of an intention to quit.” - -“I am too old a man to wish for new acquaintances, Mr. Didimus; and had -you referred my call to a knowledge of your reputation for attention to -business, and a want of your professional services, you would have come -much nearer the truth.” - -I thanked him, both for the compliment and his confidence; and requested -a statement of his case. - -“Time is money,” said Mr. Cornelius; “and a few words shall not long -detain either of us. In October last, a Mr. Andrews died; my debtor to -the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars. The debt is secured by -mortgage upon his house; but his widow comes in for twice the sum, in -virtue of her paraphernal rights, and as her claim is older than mine, -it will sweep away all, unless I can show that the marriage was void in -law.” - -“In what respect, Mr. Cornelius?” - -“Andrews had a wife living at the time of his second marriage.” - -“Had the second wife any knowledge of the fact before her cohabitation -with the deceased, or at any period thereafter, prior to the springing -of her claim, with the simultaneous mortgage which the law gives to -married women and minors as their best security?” - -“Perhaps not.” - -“How much does the second wife claim?” - -“Fifty thousand dollars.” - -“What is the value of the succession?” - -“The house may be worth twenty; and the house is all.” - -“If you succeed, the widow is a beggar?” - -“Yes.” - -“Both law and justice are against you, Mr. Cornelius.” - -“I am not here to learn what justice is, justice in the abstract, Mr. -Didimus; I might travel far and not find it. Positive justice, the -positive rules of the legislator, the justice of the law is that with -which we have to do. There is no natural right to property. Property is -a creature of the law. With one, it is just that the eldest born should -take all; and with another, it is just that the succession should be -equally divided between sons and daughters. Here, the youngest claims -the largest portion; and there, the female is preferred to the male. -Positive rules, the wisdom of many wise men, of many generations, do, -with every people, both make and unmake the right and the wrong. The law -is justice, and I ask what the law awards me. If the law gives to the -wife a tacit mortgage to secure her paraphernal rights, the law also -gives to me a judgment mortgage to recover my rights of contract. She -must show a valid marriage; I must show registration. We stand upon the -same platform; and if I prevail, it is because the law is with me. No -injustice is done, Mr. Didimus. The widow cannot have what is not here; -thank God, no injustice is done.” And the rich man, as he closed his -defense, stretched out his hands clutchingly toward me, as if to take -possession of the large sum of money which seemed passing beyond his -grasp. - -“Supposing all that you have advanced to be true, Mr. Cornelius; yet, as -the widow in the case under consideration, married and cohabited with -her late husband in entire ignorance of the fraud which had been -practiced upon her, the law, both in letter and spirit protects her; and -I must respectfully decline any further action in the matter.” - -Mr. Cornelius bid me good morning. - - - SECTION III. - -Some few weeks subsequent to the interview just related, a lady habited -in deep mourning called upon me, and put a large bundle of papers into -my hands. It was the widow; and the papers were a statement of her -husband’s succession, much of his correspondence, evidences of her -claim, and the usual copies, which had been served upon her, of a -process which Mr. Cornelius had instituted under the advice of counsel -more pliant, or wiser than myself. - -“I know something of this already,” said I, after having hastily glanced -over the contents of the package. - -“Indeed, then I am unfortunate, for you are retained upon the other -side,” said the lady. - -“I might have been so, but declined; and, believing as I do that you are -in the right, you will permit me to hope that you are not unfortunate.” - -“The past is dark enough,” said she, “the future is with God alone.” - -“Mr. Andrews had a wife living at the time of your marriage with him.” - -“The evidence of that fact is in your possession.” - -“You received from your mother’s succession fifty thousand dollars, -which your late husband squandered.” - -“He was imprudent.” - -“Of your husband’s first marriage you were ignorant, until after his -decease?” - -“That knowledge came to me a double sorrow, quick following his death; -to me more terrible than death. Now, alone in the world, with none of my -blood known to me, I come to you as my defender. The law is a stern -master; sometimes blind. If I lose, I lose all, a beggar, with a name -suspected, I can do little else than lie down and die!” and she covered -her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud. - -“Mr. Cornelius is honest,” said I. - -“Mr. Cornelius knows not my heart.” - -“He is rich.” - -“I would take nothing from his wealth. True, he is a man of large -property, but my folly has, in part, brought this sorrow upon me; let -the law judge between us, I will be content.” - -“Now, madam, you show the right spirit, and my best endeavors shall be -exerted in your behalf,” said I, as the lady rose, and gave me her hand -at parting. “Wait, trust in your counsel; and if you lose, still wait, -still hope; _for every thing is rewarded and avenged in time_.” - -My fair client’s heart was too full to speak of gratitude; and I handed -her to the door, and took leave of her in silence. - - - SECTION IV. - -I returned to the papers and studied them, far into the night. There was -the evidence of the fifty thousand dollars received; and there, too, was -the evidence of the prior marriage—the first wife living at the time of -the taking of the second. It was a sad tale, the story of that first -wife; a tale of neglect, of desertion, of want and wo; a tale told in -letters written from a far distant land, and blotted with many tears. I -steeled my heart against it. How else could we of “The Profession” live? -As the surgeon, compassionless, cuts with steady nerve through flesh, -and bone, and marrow, and saves the life which pity would have lost; so -we soon learn to close the heart to sorrow; to hear nothing, to see -nothing but the interest of the client; to hope for nothing but his -success—God protect us! Ever dealing with the passions and the vices of -men; their unholy race after mammon; strifes by the way-side; plots and -counter-plots; faith broken; trusts betrayed; snares for the unwary; the -innocent duped; the unfortunate trampled upon; the hoary sinner -honored—God protect us! Great wonder is it, that we do not loathe the -very name of man! Poor woman! If she who assumed your name and state, -and defiled the marriage bed, which with you alone was pure, was guilty, -although ignorant, of a careless haste, the punishment has come, equal -to the fault; and you, too, are avenged—even in time. - -I often saw my client, during the period of one year, which elapsed -between my retainer and the trial of the suit which she had engaged me -to defend. She was young—she could not have been more than -twenty—without children, and her beauty grew upon me every day. With a -fine figure—not too light, but rather a little heavy, with the -_embonpoint_ of the widow—with features, which were the handsomer for -being irregular, and eyes which spoke the sex with all its glory and its -weakness. She interested something more than professional pride, or -manly compassion in her favor. Her intellect, too, was brilliant and -cultivated; and her manners most refined: certainly it would have been -pardonable in a bachelor to have made her cause wholly his own. But -there was a mystery woven into the history of her life, which she either -could not, or was not pleased to remove. In one only, of the many papers -and few family letters which she from time to time put into my hands, -did I find any allusion made to her father. She never herself -voluntarily spoke of him; and whenever I questioned her upon the -subject, she was evidently much troubled by my inquiries, and professed -to be utterly ignorant of that side of her house. She had known her -mother only under her maiden name, and had lived with her, in one of our -northern cities in great seclusion, until she met with Mr. Andrews, -married him, and removed to New Orleans. Shortly after her marriage her -mother had died, bequeathing her fifty thousand dollars, the result of -economy and business habits. What folly, what shame, what crime had -given her birth, or had removed as beneath a cloud her father from her -sight, she knew not; but her mother had often told her that she was born -in honest wedlock, and that some day she should claim her own. She knew -not the place of her birth, nor her mother’s relatives, and stood as one -without relationship in the world. How her heart yearned to find in -other veins the blood which flowed in her own! At such times, when my -questions had stirred the fountain of her tears, and the grief of -desolation ran over, she would wring her hands in a passion of sorrow, -and call upon heaven to give her knowledge—to give her father to her -arms. - -“Pardon,” she would murmur, “these exhibitions of my weakness; it is -terrible not to know the father that begat you; terrible to hear want, -even to destitution, knocking at your door.” - - - SECTION V. - -The day fixed for the trial came. I felt prepared, strong at all points -save one, that of my client’s parentage. There was a suspicion about it -which would not tell well with the jury. As to the law which governed -the case, provided no knowledge of the first marriage were brought home -to my client prior to the springing of her mortgage, I was sure of it; -and I believe that no one of my brethren at the “Bar” would now dispute -the correctness of my opinion. But the fact of knowledge, a jury might -infer from very slight evidence, and my client’s seeming bastardy and -strange ignorance of her father, and of her mother even, beyond the -certainty that she once lived and cared well for her young days, were -better fitted to excite suspicion and clothe her in the garb of an -adventurer, than to secure pity or be urged as arguments of innocence. -This was the assailable point. I had thought much upon it, and had -concluded that it was to be best defended by an open avowal, and a bold -appeal to the more generous sympathies of our nature. Thus armed, I -entered the court-room. - -The court was upon the bench, and the opposite party, with his counsel, -was there, ready, expecting the battle, and confident of a success which -was to take from the widow all that she possessed. Mr. Cornelius was -there. Tall and meagre in his person, with cheeks hollowed and hair -whitened, by age and long continued labor and great self-denial, ending -in extreme penuriousness, his eyes alone retained a show of the vigor of -youth. Gray, cold and piercing, they rolled quickly and incessantly from -side to side, as if every where and at all times in search of the yellow -metal upon which his soul fed, and grew smaller and smaller, even to a -pin’s point. His brow was thickly furrowed with the lines of gain; but -it was a noble one, and showed a strong intellect bound in chains of its -own forging—enslaved to Mammon. Yes, John Cornelius cannot say, on that -last day when rich and poor shall stand, equal at the feet and -shoulders, before their common God, that he labored according to his -light. Success in life, success in any department of the business of -life, a success extended over a quarter of a century of years, -presupposes intellect, and a great deal of it. A fortune may be won by -the turn of a card, and a fortune may be lost as well; but that fortune -which is gathered slowly and surely, the result of foresight, of a deep -knowledge of the ways of commerce, its growth, fluctuations and changes, -of its adaptation to the wants of men and the humors of the times; the -result of a providence which sees the coming storm and provides for it, -which sees the prosperous breeze and catches it—such a fortune is the -result of a strong intellect, equally with any greatness whatever. John -Cornelius cannot say that he labored according to his light! - -There he sat, and as he clutched, with his long, thin, bony fingers, at -the papers which lay spread out upon the table before him, as if they -were the stout line which was to draw unto him the gold he coveted, I -thought of the story of the Rich Man and the Lamb, told in the olden -writ. - -My client was also beside me. Still habited in black—she might well -mourn the wrong she had suffered, if not the man she had loved—the veil -lifted from her face, a little pale with hope and sorrow, and a womanly -modesty possessing in quick turn all her features. - -She won the favor of the court; and the jury, as each was sworn and took -his seat within the box, whispered compassion. - - - SECTION VI. - -My adversaries saw, clearly enough, the ground upon which I stood, and -the able junior counsel, in opening the case, with great art alluded to -it, and fully shadowed forth the position in the defense which was to be -most strenuously attacked. “The plaintiff’s mortgage was undoubted; I -had myself acknowledged it in the answer on file in the record; neither -was the amount alleged by the defendant to have been received by her -late husband from the succession of her mother to be disputed, the -evidence was conclusive; but the marriage was illegal; that would hardly -be questioned. Was the defendant in good faith at the time of its -celebration? Was she in good faith when her late husband took possession -of her mother’s succession? Was she in such good faith as would secure -to her the rights of a legal marriage? These were the questions to be -answered, and he believed that the evidence which he was about to bring -home to the knowledge of the jury, would answer them most emphatically -in the negative. He then spoke of Andrews’ long residence in New -Orleans; of his many acquaintances there; of his well-known marriage -with the daughter of a French Jew; of his desertion of his wife; of her -return, with her aged father, to France; of the second marriage, hastily -made up; of the plaintiff’s sudden appearance in that city, claiming a -position due alone to honesty, while Andrews spoke of her to his -associates as his concubine; of the hints which she had received of the -imposition she was striving to practice upon others, or which had been -in reality practiced upon herself; and of the deaf ear which she ever -turned to such warnings; of her feigned incredulity; and of the mystery -which hung over and covered, with impenetrable darkness, the history of -her birth. He closed with an appeal to the judgment of the -jury—cautioned them against the blinding influence of the -passions—spoke of the dangerous eloquence of a woman in weeds—besought -them to keep their reason unclouded, and not suffer sympathy to work a -wrong—and asked for justice, sheer justice, the justice of the law, -that right might be vindicated without respect of persons.” - -The evidence went far to sustain the labored and wily exposition of the -advocate. The first marriage; the desertion; Andrews’ long residence in -New Orleans; his numerous acquaintances, putting inquiry within the easy -reach of every one; his visit to the North; his early return accompanied -by the defendant, who claimed the privileges and honors of a wife; his -disclaimer of her right to such privileges and honors, repeatedly made -to his associates; the many hints which the defendant had received from -the well disposed and compassionate, as to her true position, early in -her marriage; her confused replies, and faint and soon relinquished -inquiries; her unwillingness to speak of her family, and studied silence -whenever the subject was alluded to; the suspicion which rested upon her -mother’s name, and the existence of the first wife, living even at that -time, in retirement and sorrow in one of the small towns in the north of -France, all was proved by testimony which seemed fair enough. - -John Cornelius’ eyes glared gloatingly upon the gold already present to -their sight, and he turned his hands one within the other, in the joy of -the certainty of success. - - - SECTION VII. - -I opened the defense. I saw a new countenance upon the twelve faces -before me. There was now no pity, but distrust and a hardening of the -heart, and opinion more than half made up. I walked warily, began afar -off; called them honest—and so indeed they were—acknowledged the first -marriage, acknowledged the first wife living, in sorrow and in want; -acknowledged the plaintiff’s mortgage; claimed nothing from sympathy for -the poor, nothing from sympathy for the wronged widow, nothing from -sympathy for the orphan; alluded to the thick shadows in which time and -circumstances, and a probable wrong, had enveloped the mother’s early -life, and with which they had nothing to do; spoke of that mother’s -purity of conduct during a period of many years, of her industry, of her -accumulation of wealth, of her care for an only child, her daughter and -my client; of the daughter’s peculiar position in society; of her young -ignorance of the world; of her wide separation from Andrews’ place of -residence; of her indiscreet confidence when wooed, pardonable in one -whose own life was to her a mystery; of the hints which she had received -subsequent to her marriage, and of the suspicions which had been -aroused, suspicions well answered and well put to rest by suggestions of -the malice of her husband’s enemies, and by trust in the man she loved, -in the man into whose arms she had surrendered all—a trust most -honorable in a woman. But where was the first wife? Why had she remained -silent? Wronged, deserted, driven out, she must have been ready to give -credence to any report in disparagement of her husband. Under such -circumstances, hints and inuendoes in which the defendant could put no -faith, could not satisfy her that she had been deceived. This was the -position which we occupied; this was our defense. The evidence which I -was about to introduce said all that I said, and into its keeping I -willingly surrendered the property and the good name of the widow and -orphan, whose cause is holy in the sight of God and of men. _Cum -deceptis jura subveniunt._ - -It was now for me to introduce the evidence on the part of the defense, -and I did so in the order which reason at once suggests as the most -natural and direct. First, of the marriage, which was not denied; then -of the wife’s inheritance, which Andrews had received, and of which the -proof was too full to be questioned; and then, as part of the _res -gestæ_, letters written by Andrews at different periods, and in times of -temporary absence, breathing confidence and love, and twice alluding to -the suspicions which the idle gossip of his enemies had planted in the -breast of his wife, and branding them as the offspring of an unfounded -malice. - -As I passed the papers to the clerk, I turned and looked upon Mr. -Cornelius. His hands rested, clenched, upon his knees, but his eyes -still reached for the gold which was fast receding in the distance. My -client had, from the first, put off all womanly fear, and listened to -the argument and watched the testimony with a clear brow, pale from -resolution. Once, when the junior counsel in his opening speech, hinted -at concubinage—a crime too frequent, too much bred into the customs of -the city not to gain an easy credence—the blood mounted, suffused her -temples, bathed her whole face in the ruddy light of a golden sunset, -and then flowed back not to return again. Now, she was cool enough. - -I next read letters from the mother, dated both before and after the -daughter’s marriage. They were written with great elegance and -simplicity, and all started from the same point, and all came back to it -again—a mother’s care and unceasing anxiety for her daughter’s physical -health, for her mental improvement, for her moral purity. The court was -touched; a manly sorrow sat, veiled, upon the hard features of the jury; -the miser shook, like an aspen-leaf, through every limb. I paused—and -then took up another, the last, written but a few days prior to the -mother’s death, the last words of that mother to her child, in life. Its -manner, the solemn cadence of the periods, the matter, fell slowly and -heavily upon the ear, like the thick breathings of one with whom the -world has little more to do. The shadow rested upon the hand as it -wrote. It was crowded with the griefs of many years. It spoke darkly of -wrongs received; of a stern resolve; of labors endured, and endured -joyously for the offspring of a love struck-down, and changed to very -hate, even in the first hour of its young life; of one whose name her -daughter’s lips had never syllabled; of one living, prosperous in the -world, the daughter’s father and her husband. Wait, yet a little while, -and she should know the blood which had begotten her, and claim her -own—a rich inheritance equal with the noblest in the land. Alas! that -waiting was to be too long! Death had sealed the mother’s lips, and -there sat the daughter, hunted, hunted like a hare by the hounds of the -law. - -My client covered her face with the folds of her robe. - -“How does the mother sign herself?” asked the judge. - -“Ann Chapman, may it please your honor.” - -“Ann Chapman!” exclaimed John Cornelius springing to his feet. “Ann -Chapman! Give me the letter.” - -I put it into his hands. His eyes glanced at the date, and then rested, -fixed, upon the signature. The pallor of the dead crept slowly over him; -his arms gave up their strength and fell to his side, the paper dropped -upon the floor. “Here, take it, take it,” he said, in a hollow whisper, -looking straight out upon vacuity; “it is nothing, nothing, nothing.” -Then turning to his counsel, he bid them enter a discontinue, and walked -hurriedly out of court. - -“This is a strange ending!” said the judge. - -“My client is mad!” said the opposite senior counsel. - -“Our client is mad!” echoed his junior, bundling up his papers with a -piece of red tape. - -“Mad or sane, gentlemen, it is a fit conclusion to what should never -have been begun,” said I, taking the young widow under my arm and -leading her away, much wondering at the abrupt termination of the suit. - -“Do you think Mr. Cornelius has really gone mad?” she asked, looking up -into my face with a tear upon her eyelids. It was one of sorrow, not -joy; God bless her, she had forgotten her good fortune in sympathy for -her oppressor. - -“If to have a conscience is to be so,” I answered; and took leave of her -at the door of her residence—at the door of the house we had battled -for—so happy, that she tried and could not say, “I thank you.” - - - SECTION VIII. - -I returned to my office in a very good humor with all the world. Upon my -table I found a note from Mr. Cornelius, requesting me to call upon him -at an early hour in the evening. “A compromise—no compromises, Mr. -Cornelius. If you will, begin again; but the widow shall keep all, to -the last farthing.” And I dispatched a reply, saying I would be with him -precisely at eight. - -John Cornelius lived in the upper part of the city, in a very large and -costly house, which had been built by a parvenu of sudden wealth. It -covered, with the surrounding grounds, two-thirds of a square, and had -been purchased by Mr. Cornelius at the sale of the parvenu’s succession, -rather on account of the land, than for any profitable use which he -could make of the noble structure to which the land was appurtenant. The -increasing commerce of the city had so surrounded it with warehouses and -presses for cotton, as to render it impossible to find a tenant at even -a three per cent. rent, so he moved into it himself, and, with one -slave, lived there upon fifty cents a day. The spacious and unfurnished -halls, dark, gloomy, venerable with dust, returned a hollow echo to my -tread, as I entered at the appointed hour. I found the miser sitting at -a small table, covered with papers, in the centre of a large room; the -table and two chairs, that which he occupied and one reserved for -myself, were all of furniture that it contained. He looked very pale, -did not rise to receive me, but in silence waived his hand as an -invitation to be seated. I obeyed, and waited for a declaration of the -motives which had induced him to request my presence. But during the -lapse of ten minutes he did not speak, so I drew his note from my pocket -and pushing it toward him across the table, observed that my time was -worth one dollar the minute. - -“Your client is my daughter,” said Mr. Cornelius. - -“Your daughter! Then you are mad, sure enough!” - -Mr. Cornelius gathered up the papers which lay upon the table before him -and put them into my hands. They were, first, a certificate of his -marriage with Ann Chapman, in the city of New York, on the ninth day of -October, eighteen hundred and —; second, articles of separation entered -into, and signed in duplicate, by both parties, just one year -thereafter—being done at New York on the ninth day of October, one -thousand eight hundred and —; and last, several letters received by Mr. -Cornelius from his wife’s relatives at wide intervals, and at periods -long subsequent to their stipulated divorce. The articles contained an -acknowledgment on the part of Mrs. Cornelius of her having received -twenty thousand dollars from her husband in full satisfaction of all -claims upon him for support, and of her right of dower in his estate; -the letters were written in answer to inquiries made by himself as to -his wife’s existence and condition in life, and all, without exception, -expressed an utter inability to give him any information upon the -subject. - -“In eighteen hundred and —,” said Mr. Cornelius, “I visited the North, -and there met with and hastily married Ann Chapman, then a young woman -of humble parentage—not otherwise than my own—with much beauty, a -moderate education, and a spirit which was equal to any fortune. My -business called me to England, and upon my return I saw, or fancied that -I saw, some change in her feelings toward me. She was honest, as honest -as the light in which God robes himself; but the great disparity of our -ages made me jealous of her affection; and as she was of a strong -temper, not easily controlled, while I was in some degree unreasonable -and exacting, we soon quarreled, made each other miserable, and, by -mutual consent, separated. When I took leave of her, she put her hand in -mine, and with a calmness which was terrible, called down every -suffering upon her head if, with her assent, I should see her face -again. She would go and hide her sorrow among strangers, and even the -fruit of our short-lived love, which she then carried in her bosom, -should not know me until grief and many years had ripened me for the -grave. I returned to New Orleans; I returned to my labor and my money -getting—and she, alas! she kept her purpose too well! Through many a -long month, and through many a long year, have I repented of that folly, -to find only at this hour the blood which is my own. I have heaped up -gold and houses and lands—sir, my wife and daughter would have made me -a better man.” - -And he drew down his long silver locks over his face and covered it with -his hands. - -“Are you satisfied as to the identity; have you no doubts, Mr. -Cornelius?” - -He took a richly chased miniature from his bosom and bid me look at it. - -“It is the mother as she was at twenty; it is the daughter of to-day.” - -I started with surprise; it could not have been more like, had the young -widow sat for it. - -“The evidence is conclusive, Mr. Cornelius; and I will now take a fee -upon the other side. Let us go at once to her house, and claim not only -that, but its fair occupant also.” - -“No, no, we must meet here. These walls know me; I am at home; and I -must receive my daughter in my own house,” said Mr. Cornelius. “You are -her best friend—hereafter you shall be mine; do you then call upon her, -break this matter gently to her, and in the morning you will find me -here, waiting your coming.” - -“I will not tell her that I have found her father,” said I, “for that -would be subjecting her nerves to two trials; and it might be that you -would be compelled to go to her in the end, with a physician at your -back. It is better that she should be made to expect one good fortune, -and find another; so, I will tell her that you relented, discontinued -your suit from sheer pity, and wish to make her a present equal in value -to the amount which was involved in the dispute between you, as a small -compensation for the trouble you have given her.” - -“As you please,” said Mr. Cornelius, smiling, no doubt at the -improbability of the story. - -“Never fear, a woman’s faith is large enough to believe any thing,” said -I, not wishing to be misunderstood; and the miser now rose, and -accompanied me to the door. - - - SECTION IX. - -In the morning, the young widow and myself walked slowly along toward -her father’s residence; I, more than half ashamed of the deception I had -put upon her; and she, wondering at the fortune which had poured a -golden shower into her lap, and framing thanks to be heaped upon the -good man, who had threatened poverty only to bestow riches. - -At the door she hesitated, and said that I must speak for her. - -“Never mind,” said I, “nature will put fit words into your mouth, and -some things are best expressed by silence.” - -We entered—the widow hanging upon my arm; her whole weight was upon -it—not very large, indeed—for she was ready to sink down, oppressed -with a load of gratitude. John Cornelius sat where I had found him the -preceding evening, at the little, table covered with papers, in the -centre of the room, and with one vacant chair. Well, thought I, we shall -not want a third. He rose with much coldness in his manner, bowed -formally, took his daughter’s hand, and assisted her to the vacant seat; -he then gave me that which he had himself occupied. - -“Madam,” said he, after a short pause, and in a voice which seemed -stoutly braced with resolution, and yet just ready to break down, “I -have requested your presence here, in order that you might read these -papers, for they somewhat concern you;” and taking up the certificate of -marriage, and the articles of separation, he held them out toward her. -She received them, with a word of thanks, thinking no doubt, that they -were titles to the property which I had induced her to believe was to be -bestowed upon her. As she read the articles, her color left her, and a -cold sweat started from her brow and rolled down her face, and wet her -garments. The certificate she carried twice to her eyes, and twice -failed to read, but glared upon it like one who sees a vision in his -sleep: the third time she read it aloud, screaming as if to make certain -with her voice, what her eyes doubted. - -“And this,” shouted Cornelius, drawing the picture from his bosom and -holding it up, her other self, before her. - -“My God—my father!” she exclaimed, rising slowly, and pulling at her -fingers; then swayed to and fro, uncertain of her step; leaped into the -old man’s arms, fastened about his neck, and slept insensible, upon his -bosom. - -John Cornelius sank with his burden upon the floor, and wept, and sobbed -like a child. - -A broad, plain, gold ring rolled bounding to my feet. I picked it up. -Within the circle were engraved two letters, “J. C.” It was the bridal -ring, a gift from her mother, as Ægeus gave his sword to Æthra, that the -father might recognize his child, when in the fulfillment of time they -should meet. - - - SECTION X. - -Merry days these—happy days these—let us laugh and grow fat, for -to-morrow we die. The miser’s daughter had a hundred suitors, and well -she might; for she was young, and beautiful, and pure. And was she not -heir-apparent of millions? Good Lord! Good Lord! how they did amble, and -trot, and show their paces, and protest, and pray, and besiege—all to -no purpose! And those jurymen, too, who were baulked of their verdict, -did they not open their eyes widely when the story was told them, and -say that they knew it would be so? And the judge, did he not crack his -joke with the junior counsel, and bemoan the young man’s stars which had -so betrayed his interest, and wagged his tongue with some venom in it, -upon the losing side? And the counsel, senior and junior—did they not -assume a show of wisdom, and say that from the beginning they had no -confidence in the cause? A blind business was it with us all, when we -undertook to mete out justice to father and daughter, with a seven-fold -cloud before our eyes; and a blind business the law ever is. - - Quid faciant leges, ubi sola pecunia regnat, - Aut ubi paupertus vincere nulla potent? - Ipri, qui cynica traducunt tempora cœna, - Nonnum quum nummis vendere verba solent. - Ergo judicium nihil est, nisi publica muces, - Atque equis, in caussa qui redet, emtor probat. - -So sang Petronius, and so sing I. - - - SECTION XI. - -The fair widow moved into her father’s house, and carried joy with her, -and smiles, and a new life. The dusty halls and silent chambers were -soon made glad, and gave no echo back to the busy feet which beat their -floors in measured tread to the sound of lutes. Men wondered at the -miser’s transformation, and the jolly sun, driving up the clear, blue, -vaulted roof of the earth, looked in upon curtains, and mirrors, and -rich carpets, and all the bought luxury of great wealth, and danced upon -the draped walls, and laughed, and wondered too. But the change was of -the surface. The miser loved his daughter with his whole soul; he loved -gold with more than his whole soul—gold, his first love—and the -daughter held a divided and an inferior empire in his affections. The -miser loved his daughter as he best might, with his heart of shining -metal, and he would have loved her had she been less than what she was; -less beautiful, less worthy, less full of the love which flowed from her -like a sea, and covered him, and he drank of it, a joy he had never -known. He loved her, as the heir to his vast estates, as himself -renewed, to bear his labor onward, to accumulate through still another -span of life; and he showed her to the world, and took pride in this new -glory, as a new title to his possessions, which was to carry them with -himself, even beyond the grave. - -I was often with them; I became almost an inmate of the house, -subsequent to the events which I have just related—the father’s legal -adviser, the daughter’s best friend. Mr. Cornelius did not weary of the -empty bustle and noise of fashion with which his daughter’s youth and -brilliant position at once surrounded her; he seemed pleased with it, -and often spoke of it as the proud homage which intellect, and nice -honor, and high titles, and all the virtues, and all the prejudices of -men, pay to wealth—and so, indeed, it was. With the daughter, these -enjoyments soon palled. She had learned of sorrow from her birth, and -had happily received from her mother a head too strong for turning; -when, therefore, novelty wore away, and satiety began to usurp its -place, she gradually withdrew from the press of company, and gave to her -father those hours which others had before possessed. Although change -had come over every thing else, Mr. Cornelius forbid its entrance into -the one room reserved for himself; the room in which he had received his -daughter, with the little table and the two chairs standing in the -centre, and its naked walls and bare door, which were to him as old -acquaintances, and where, alone, he now felt fully at home. There they -would often sit together in the deep hours of the night, and while she -played with his white locks, and watched the beatings of his heart, to -find it tuned to a music widely different from her own, and listened to -his never-ending promises, and never-ending hopes of a wealth which was -to make his only one, his jewel, a match which princes might envy, she -became painfully conscious of her father’s worldliness and debasing -servitude to the hard earth. She saw that he lay prone, chained, bound -down with clamps of iron, of silver, and of gold, and never raised his -eyes to the upper light, or questioned of the day when he should be -called to give an account of his stewardship. Then she would weep, and -kiss her father, and talk of her mother who had passed away, and of -another life, and hope that they might all meet in that better world; -and the miser would stroke down her glossy hair with his trembling -hands, and press her forehead to his lips, and call her a foolish girl, -who troubled herself about matters with which she had nothing to do; and -bade her go and dream of the glory to which he had raised her, and count -her suitors, and be brave. - -“More, more,” was the miser’s unceasing cry; “all, all—I want all,” was -the prayer which he put up, not to the Giver of all Good, but to his own -will, which habit had enslaved, until use made servitude a happiness. -And he worked on, ever gaining, ever adding, abstemious, pinching, -self-denying, liberal only to his daughter, whom he could never see too -richly clad, too sumptuously served—a costly toy to be stared at and -admired. “She is my diamond,” he would say, “which I have chosen to -plant in a rich setting.” - - - SECTION XII. - -But the daughter grew, day by day, more thoughtful, denied herself more -frequently to her followers, and was more and more often to be found -sitting with her father, alone, at the little table, winning him from -his labor. Mr. Cornelius was too much engrossed with the world, with -money-getting, to observe the beginning and progress of the change in -his daughter’s manner, amusements, and way of life; and he soon learned -to work on, with his child at his side, half unconscious of her -presence, and yet alive to the pleasurable feeling that there was -something near him which he much loved. I was not so blind. As month -after month rolled away, I saw the shadow of a great melancholy creep -slowly over her face, and deepen, and deepen, until it had imparted that -exquisite softness to her beauty which is the surest symptom of decay. -We see it in the flower; time gives it to all the works of man; and -genius shows it, as the flame trembles, flickers, leaps upward, and goes -out. The heart was sick; the spirit grew toward heaven. I had occasion, -one evening, to be with Mr. Cornelius until a late hour, conversing -about some matters in the courts which he had entrusted to my care; we -had talked much, and the last watch was drawing to a close, when the -door quietly opened, and his daughter entered, holding in one hand a -light stool, and in the other a book. “The gentleman will excuse us for -a moment,” she said, addressing her father; then turning to me, she -received me with her usual cordiality. “I have adopted a practice, of -late, of reading a chapter to my father before retiring,” she continued; -“and you can remain, if you please, and join us in our -devotions—surely, such worship can harm no one.” And sitting down at -her father’s knees, she laid the holy volume in his lap, opened it, and -read; while he bent over her until his silver locks mingled with the -jetty tresses of her hair, and listened to her teaching—it was time, -old, worn-out time, called to eternity by a sweet messenger from God. -“There, that will do, my child; put up the book,” said Mr. Cornelius, as -his daughter’s voice, losing its firmness, grew uncertain, and tears -fell pattering upon the story she repeated: “certainly, certainly, it is -not for me, in my old age, to learn of one so young.” It was a simple -tale, a touching parable, told by Christ; so appropriate as to require -from me no further designation. “Why, what spirit has come over you of -late—always weeping!” said the old man, kissing the moisture from her -eyelids. “What do you want? All that I have is yours. Now go—and see -that you show a merry face in the morning.” The daughter rose, and bid -us good-night. - -“Do you not think Anne has lost a little of her color—grown slightly -pale, Mr. Didimus?” - -I made known the fears which I had long entertained, and to which each -day added a confirmation. - -“My daughter’s sick! sick at heart! Nonsense! What has she to be sick -about? Are not my coffers open to her hand? What power of this earth is -greater than her gold? Sick!—And yet, now I do remember, that for the -past month, or more, no music has come into me, as it was wont, from her -crowded rooms; no sounds of merriment, of joy, of the frivolity of -fools, grating upon the ear of night; no cringing, no bowing low with -doffed hat, and giving of God’s health, as I pass in and out at my own -door. Look to it: you are my daughter’s best friend; question her; -inquire out the secret sorrow which preys upon her mind—surely, money -is a medicine for all the ills of life. She requires a change of place; -these stuffed marts about us breed foul air; let her travel. Or, -perhaps, she has again listened to the idle whispers of love, and -conceals from me her weakness. Tell her, that although I would have her -live with me during the short remainder of my life, yet she shall marry -where she may choose; to give me a long line of heirs, rich, rich, -through two centuries. Sick! why I was never sick!” And the miser bent -over the little table, and returned to his calculations. - - - SECTION XIII. - -The miser’s history went on as before—still gaining, still adding; -while the daughter’s bloom passed slowly away. Her limbs lost their -roundness, her face grew sharp and hollow, and grief sat ever upon it, -until her friends had almost forgotten its former mirth and beauty, and -were half persuaded that it had been always so. No questioning of mine -would entice her to an explanation. “It is a matter with which you can -have nothing to do. There is no remedy in your hands. Let me alone; I -wrestle daily with my God.” What could I say? I was silent; for it was -indeed a matter with which I had nothing to do. Preach to the drunkard -over his cups; to the gambler, when he wins; to the man whose garments -are like unto his who came from Edom, red with the blood of men, and -gain a soul for Heaven; but the miser, with one foot on Mammon, the -other on the grave, never yet turned from his first love, or forgot the -gods which his own hands have fashioned. John Cornelius became used to -his daughter’s declining health, and soon ceased to speak of it. Indeed, -engrossed in his labors of accumulation, he began to think she was well -enough, as well as she ever had been, and that the change, if change -there was, was in his own eyes, which had, perhaps, grown somewhat dim -with age. Poor Anne! she nightly sat at her father’s knees, and nightly -read to him, and he nightly praised her beauty, and called her a foolish -girl, and kissed away her tears, and babbled of gold, till her heart -withered within her, and she withdrew to dream of her mother, and a -great joy, and to gather a new courage to begin again her ceaseless -task, ever hoping, ever disappointed. Thus ran a year away. - - - SECTION XIV. - -One bright morning in November, here the sweetest month of all the -twelve, Mr. Cornelius called at my office, and informed me that his -daughter had been sick, confined to her bed for the past two days, and -had expressed a wish to see me. He said her indisposition was but -slight, attributed it to some frivolous cause, and expressed a hope that -it would soon pass off. I looked up into his face; he was honest; still -blind to his daughter’s decay; death stood palpably before him, robed in -the freshness of youth. Death! How should he see death? Gold was ever in -his thoughts; gold filled his vision; his taste, his scent were gold; -and gold ran clinking into his ears: death had walked his house a year -unrecognized. - -I laid aside my papers, and accompanied Mr. Cornelius home. He passed -into his own room, with the little table and the two chairs; I ascended -to his daughter’s chamber. What a mockery was there of all that this -world loves so much, strives after, and wins, with loss of body and of -soul! Upon a bed, canopied with rich stuffs of woven silk and gold, with -curtains of satin, rose-colored, and tugged with tassels of silver, -spread with the finest linen, and covered with flowers, worked upon a -ground of velvet, lay Anne, the miser’s daughter, pale and emaciated, -and with her eyes, to whatever point they might turn, resting upon some -new evidence of her father’s wealth and worldliness, upon some new -evidence of the cause of all her sorrow. Her physician stood at her -bed-side; as I entered he raised his finger to his lips, and came to me. -“She is passing away,” he whispered. I approached the bed slowly, and on -tiptoe. Anne felt my presence in the air, and turning her face toward -me, held out her hand. I took it in mine. “I have called you,” said she, -in a voice scarcely audible, “to take leave of you. You have been my -good friend since the day that we first met in your office; I a poor -woman, striving for that which I have long since found to be of little -worth; when I am gone, transfer your friendship to my father. Tell him -where I may be found, and bid him there seek for me. Oh, God! how long -have I wrestled with thee, in bitter prayer, for this favor; thou wilt -not, in the end, deny it to me. Farewell! We shall meet again! I go to -my mother. Now bring my father to me, and let us be alone together.” - -The physician pressed her hand in silence, turned to the wall, and went -out. I followed, and we both hastened to call Mr. Cornelius. We found -him counting over a bag of silver, which he had just received from a -tenant. - -“How is my daughter? Better—well?” he asked, still continuing to count, -and to test the genuineness of the metal by ringing it upon the table. - -“Sir—your daughter is dying.” - -“Dying!” and the coin rolled merrily upon the floor. “Dying—doctor? -Tut, tut. You jest.” - -“Mr. Cornelius, your daughter wishes to speak with you, to give you her -last words in life.” - -“_Charlatan_—quack—driveler—you lie!” cried the miser with livid -lips, starting to his feet, and shaking his clenched hands in the -physician’s face. “Die!—my daughter shall not die—she cannot die—the -children of the rich never die—what would you have? Gold!—here is a -bill for fifty thousand—save my daughter—ay, I will make it a hundred -thousand—but save my daughter—poor, poor, poor Anne!” and his head -fell, and rested upon his breast. The old man stood before us -motionless, transfixed with grief. - -“Mr. Cornelius.” - -“Oh, I am sick with much sorrow! Lend me your arm? Did you not say -something of twenty per cent?” - -I led him away to his daughter’s chamber. As we entered, her face was -turned toward us. - -“Who said that my daughter was dead?” asked Mr. Cornelius. - -Anne feebly smiled. - -“We shall all spring upward from the ground, winged; and with a power -which will bear us swiftly to the throne, which endureth forever and -forever.” - -I hastened to bear her father to her bed-side. The last breath had -parted from her lips, and as he questioned her, and she returned no -answer; as he called to her, and she called not back again, he fell upon -her, and his moan filled the room. - -“Gone! oh my daughter; my jewel of great price—the heir to all my -riches—my second life! Is the breath of man unbought! Can no one bribe -death? Is there joy in the cold grave? O, come to me, my child, and -sleep in my bosom, and fare sumptuously every day.” And he drew much -gold from his pockets, and heaped it upon the bed beside her, and -wondered that she should die. - -And the world wondered, also, that she should die. And idle curiosity -poured in to look upon her dust; and was shocked, and shrugged its -shoulders, and exclaimed—“what a pity! In the morning of life—and so -rich!” And again the world forgot her year of mourning, and her gradual -decay, and carried its thoughts back to the hours when that small, -pinched face was radiant with health, and a new-found happiness; and -laughter rang from those thin lips, and merriment sparkled in the closed -eye, and whispered and coined suggestions, and said that “after all she -was not the miser’s daughter, and had died suddenly with the coming of -that certainty.” - -Fools and Idiots! Is not the grave open to all? And did she not well to -love her father’s soul better than his wealth? And did she not well to -labor for it, unceasingly; and then, the crowning of that labor, to lie -down and die? - - - SECTION XV. - -The daughter of the rich man was carried to her grave upon the shoulders -of the rich, followed by a crowd of worshipers; and as the body was -borne into the Chapel of the Departed, and the procession flowed in, and -filled the aisles, the choristers chanted the _Requiem_ for the dead. - - Dies iræ, dies illa - Solvet secium in favilla, - Teste David cum Sybilla. - -“My daughter, oh! my daughter; why wouldst thou die?” - - Quantus tremor est futurus, - Quando Judex est venturus, - Cuncta stricte discussurus. - -“Return, oh! return, return again to me.” - - Tuba mirum spargens sonum - Per sepulchra regionum, - Coget omnes ante thronum! - -“and thou shalt make me what thou willest.” - - Mors stupebit, et natura, - Cum resurget creatura, - Judicanti responsura. - -“The shining gold is thine, and houses, and lands, and all the glory of -life.” - - Liber scriptus proferetur, - In quo totum continetur, - Unde mundus judicetur. - -“My daughter, oh! my daughter, return again to me.” - - Judex ergo cum sedebit - Quidquid latet apparebit, - Nil inultum remanebit. - -“Thy suitors call thee; the music, the dance, the revelry of joy.” - - Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? - Quem patronum rogaturus, - Cum vix justus sit securus? - -“No voice, no word, no whisper for my ear.” - - Rex tremendæ majestatis, - Qui salvandos salvas gratis, - Salva me, fons pietatis. - -“Cold, cold, cold in death!” - - Recordare, Jesu pie, - Quod sum causa tuæ viæ, - Ne me perdas illa die. - -“Strike up—louder—louder yet.” - - Quærens me sedisti lassus, - Redemisti crucem passus, - Tantus labor non sit cassus. - -“She loved the noise of trumpets, of sounds harmonious, the bustle of -the earth.” - - Juste Judex ultionis, - Donum fac remissionis, - Ante diem rationis. - -“Louder, louder—no voice, no word, no whisper for my ear.” - - Ingemisco tamquam reus, - Culpa rubet vultus meus: - Supplicanti parce, Deus. - -“Gone, gone—thus runs the world away!” - - Qui Mariam absolvisti, - Et latronem exaudisti, - Mihi quoque spem dedisti. - -“Poor, poor, poor Anne!” - - Precos meæ non sunt dignæ, - Sed tu, bonu, fac benigne, - Ne perenni cremer igne. - -“In the grave is sleep and rest.” - - Inter oves locum præsta, - Et ab hœdis me sequestra, - Statuens in parte dextra. - -“Cold sleep, cold rest.” - - Confutatis maledictis, - Flammis acribus addictis, - Voca me cum benedictis. - -“Pass on, sweet spirit, to thy waking; if waking there may be.” - - Oro supplex, et acclinis; - Cor contritum quasi cinis, - Gere curam mei finis. - -“Our father, which art in heaven.” - - Lacrymosa dies illa - Qua resurget ex favilla. - -“Hallowed be thy name.” - - Judicandus homo reus. - Huic ergo parce Deus. - - “Amen.” - -We buried Anne, and upon the tablet which marks the place where she is -laid I caused to be cut her last words—“We shall spring upward from the -ground, winged, and with a power which will bear us swiftly to the -throne which endureth forever and forever.” - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DESERTED. - - - BY MISS MATTIE GRIFFITH. - - - Why didst thou leave me thus? Had memory - No chain to bind thee to me, lone and wrecked - In spirit as I am? Was there no spell - Of power in my deep, yearning love to stir - The sleeping fountain of thy soul, and keep - My image trembling there? Is there no charm - In strong and high devotion such as mine - To win thee to my side once more? Must I - Be cast forever off for brighter forms - And gayer smiles? Alas! I love thee still. - Love will not, cannot perish in my heart— - ’Twill linger there forever. Even now - In our own dear, sweet sunset time, the hour - Of passion’s unforgotten tryst, I hush - The raging tumult of my soul, and still - The fierce strife in my lonely breast where pride - Is fiercely struggling for control. Each hue - Of purple, gold and crimson that flits o’er - The western sky recalls some by-gone joy, - That we have shared together, and my soul - Is love’s and memory’s. - As here I sit - In loneliness, the thought comes o’er my heart - How side by side in moonlight eves, while soft - The rose-winged hours were flitting by, we stood - Beside that clear and gently-murmuring fount - O’erhung with wild and blooming vines, and felt - The spirit of a holy love bedew - Our hearts’ own budding blossoms. There I drank - The wild, o’ermastering tide of eloquence - That flowed from thy o’erwrought and burning soul. - There thou didst twine a wreath of sweetest flowers - To shine amid my dark brown locks, and now - Beside me lies a bud, the little bud - Thou gav’st me in the glad, bright summer-time, - Telling me ’twas the emblem of a hope - That soon would burst to glorious life within - Our spirit’s garden. The poor fragile bud - Is now all pale and withered, and the hope - Is faded in my lonely breast, and cast - Forever forth from thine. - They tell me, too, - My brow and cheek are very pale—Alas! - There is no more a spirit-fire within - To light it with the olden glow. Life’s dreams - And visions all have died within my soul, - And I am sad and lone and desolate; - And yet at times, when I behold thee near, - A something like the dear old feeling stirs - Within my breast, and wakens from the tomb - Of withered memories one pale, pale rose, - To bloom a moment there, and cast around - Its sweet and gentle fragrance, but anon - It vanishes away, as if it were - A mockery, the spectre of a flower; - I quell my struggling sighs and wear a smile; - But, ah! that smile, more eloquent than sighs - Tells of a broken heart. - ’Tis said that thou - Dost ever shine the gayest ’mid the gay, - That loudest rings thy laugh in festive halls, - That in the dance, with lips all wreathed in smiles, - Thou whisperest love’s delicious flatteries; - And if my name is spoken, a light sneer - Is all thy comment. Yet, proud man, I know - Beneath thy hollow mask of recklessness - Thy conscious heart still beats as true to me - As in the happy eves long past. Ah! once, - In night’s still hour, when I went forth to weep - Beneath our favorite tree, whose giant arms - Seemed stretched out to protect the lonely girl, - I marked a figure stealing thence away, - And my poor heart beat quick; for oh! I saw, - Despite the closely-muffled cloak, ’twas thou - Then, then I knew that thou in secrecy - Had’st sought that spot, like me, to muse and weep - O’er blighted memories. Thou art, like me, - In heart a mourner. In thy solitude, - When mortal eyes behold thee not, wild sighs - Convulse thy bosom, and thy hot tears fall - Like burning rain. Oh! ’twas thy hand that dealt - The blow to both our hearts. I well could bear - My own fierce sufferings, but thus to feel - That thou, in all thy manhood’s glorious strength - Dost bear a deep and voiceless agony, - Lies on my spirit with the dull, cold weight - Of death. I see thee in my tortured dreams, - And even with a smile upon thy lip, - But a keen arrow quivering deep within - Thy throbbing, bleeding heart. Go, thou may’st wed - Another; but beside the altar dark - My mournful form will stand, and when thou see’st - The wreath of orange blossoms on her brow, - Oh! it will seem a fiery scorpion coiled - Wildly around thine own. - I’m dying now; - Life’s sands are failing fast, the silver cord - Is loosed and broken, and the golden bowl - Is shattered at the fount. My sun has set, - And dismal clouds hang o’er me; but afar - I see the glorious realm of Paradise, - And by its cooling fountains, and beneath - Its holy shades of palm, my soul will wash - Away its earthly stains, and learn to dream - Of heavenly joys. Farewell! despite thy cold - Desertion, I will leave my angel home, - Each gentle eve, at our own hour of tryst, - To hold my vigils o’er thy pilgrimage, - And with my spirit’s-pinion I will fan - Thy aching brow, and by a holy spell, - That I may learn in Heaven, will charm away - All evil thoughts and passions from thy breast, - And calm the raging tumult of thy soul. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LOST DEED. - - - A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM. - - - BY E. D. ELIOT. - - - (_Concluded from page 195._) - -Mr. Fayerweather and Madam were seated at breakfast before a blazing -fire, one very cold morning in January. John had already finished, and -had gone to Mr. Wendell’s office, in which he was studying his -profession. Vi’let following Scipio, who had entered with some warm -toast, came up to the table and said— - -“It’s a terrible cold morning, Misser Fayerweather—I ’spect Primus -han’t got no wood—he’d only jist three sticks yesterday; he’s sick with -the rheumatis, too—mayn’t Scip carry him over some?” - -This meant not wholly for the benefit of Primus, but also as a wholesome -discipline of Scip himself, whose health Vi’let thought in danger for -want of exercise. Scip glouted at her but did not dare speak. - -“Yes, carry him over a good load Scipio, the moment you have swallowed -your breakfast. Such a morning as this without wood.” - -Madam added—“And you shall carry him some stores to make him -comfortable. That makes me think of poor Cluff—I am afraid he is out of -every thing by this time—he must have suffered last night. I ought to -have seen to him before—poor creature! how could I have neglected him -so? I might have known it was coming on cold, from its being so warm -yesterday.” - -Mr. Fayerweather endeavored to persuade her that Cluff could scarcely -have consumed the provisions she sent him on Christmas, but she -continued to reproach herself until he told her that he was obliged to -go out in the sleigh as soon as breakfast was over, and that he would go -down himself and see that the old man was comfortable and was well taken -care of. - -The worthy gentleman finished his meal and the sleigh was ordered out, -but the hard cough of the old horse as the cutting air struck him on -being led out of his warm stable, reached his kind master’s ear and -found its way to his heart. - -“Poor old Moses!” he said, “it would be hard to take you out such a day -as this, it might be your death—I’ll walk. I shall be all the better -for it.” So saying, he lost no time in hurrying on his roquelaure, and -set out on a brisk pace, to avoid the expostulations of his wife, who -had gone to look out some flannels to send Primus. As he passed by Mr. -Wendell’s, his niece having seen him from the window, was at the door to -accost him. - -“Why, uncle! where are you going this bitter morning? Do come in.” - -“Don’t stop me now, child, I’m in haste; perhaps I’ll drop in as I come -back,” he said; then as he shook his finger at little Will, who was -hanging on his mother’s apron, he gave them both a look so brimful of -kindness and affection and something beyond both, as went to her very -heart. That look Amy never forgot. - -The cold was intense, but Mr. Fayerweather proceeded on his way. The air -felt like solid ice to his face, where it was not entirely muffled with -the roquelaure, the cape of which was soon thickly frosted with his -breath. Some shivering, blue-nosed school-boys made their manners as -they passed. “Run quick, my boys,” he said, “or old Jack Frost will have -fast hold of you. See that you keep a warm school-room to-day.” A pipkin -of water was thrown after them from a shop door—it was that of Nanny -Boynton’s new residence—it froze as it fell, and rattled like pebbles -on the snowy crust. When he reached the market-place (it was not a -market-day,) one solitary load of wood was on the stand. As Mr. -Fayerweather came up, the patient beasts which drew it, turned up their -broad faces and looked wistfully at him beneath the wreaths of snow -formed by their breath as it issued from their nostrils. The owner was -thrashing himself very energetically with his arms, to induce a -sensation of warmth. Mr. Fayerweather bought the wood and told the man -to carry it up to his house and tell madam he sent him, this being -tantamount with telling him to go and make himself comfortable by a good -fire, with a good luncheon for himself and his cattle. Mr. Fayerweather -then proceeded on his way. Dr. Holly’s thermometer stood at 18 below 0. - -The table was laid for dinner when he returned home. His wife met him -with as severe reproaches as she knew how to frame, for walking out on -such a day. - -“Don’t scold, my dear,” he replied, good-humoredly, “you are growing a -perfect shrew, I declare. If you take to scolding, I shall certainly -take to drinking. I am going to take some brandy now.” Then he went to -the buffet, and taking from a liquor chest which stood in the lower part -of it, a case-bottle of brandy, that had reposed there undisturbed, time -out of mind, and unstopping it, he continued: - -“I found Cluff very comfortable, in no want of any thing. I went to two -or three other places, but hadn’t time to call and see Judith as I -intended—but let us have dinner, for my walk has made me so hungry I -could eat a trooper, horse and all.” - -Madam went into the kitchen herself to hasten in dinner. She remained a -moment, to see Vi’let dish up the turkey, and was, with her own hands, -adding more spice to the gravy, when the sound of some heavy body -falling, hurried her back to the parlor, followed by all four servants. -She found her husband extended on the floor. She flew to assist him, -supposing he had been tripped up accidentally by the carpet, but he was -without sense or motion. “Quick, run for the doctor, Scip, he’s faint;” -and madam took the sal volatile from her pocket to apply to his -nostrils. Vi’let looked at him and felt his pulse, then clasping her -hands, exclaimed— - -“God Almighty, mistress!” She suddenly checked herself, and told Flora -and Peter to run for Mrs. Wendell and Madam Brinley. - -Dr. Holly on his arrival found madam in strong convulsions, requiring -both her sister and niece to hold her, while Mr. Wendell and John, -assisted by Vi’let, were endeavoring to revive Mr. Fayerweather, who was -still on the floor. On examining him attentively, the Doctor shook his -head hopelessly, but made an immediate attempt to take blood from the -arm. It was in vain—Mr. Fayerweather was dead. His death, Dr. Holly -gave it as his opinion, was accelerated by exposure to the cold and the -long walk, the disease being a hardening of vessels about the heart; -adding that if he could have taken the brandy (which stood on the table -in a tumbler, apparently untasted,) it might have saved him. The grief -of the family and friends of the excellent man may be imagined, but -cannot be dwelt upon here. - -The funeral was the longest that ever had been known in Salem, for never -was any inhabitant of it more beloved and respected. As soon as madam -was sufficiently composed, after the funeral, the ebony cabinet was -searched and a will was found, dated the day before George’s departure. -It gave the widow the homestead, which had become very valuable, -together with the whole of the property she had brought; after several -bequests, a large one to Mr. and Mrs. Wendell jointly, the remainder of -the property was divided between the two sons. Mr. Wendell was named as -executor. The estate was perfectly clear and unincumbered and little -time was requisite to settle it. - -A few weeks subsequent to the funeral of Mr. Fayerweather, the -inhabitants of Salem were called together by an alarm of fire; an -occurrence so very unusual as well as alarming, that it caused a great -stir and commotion in the quiet and orderly town. The fire broke out in -the office of the Register of Deeds, but was soon put out, doing, as was -at first supposed, but little damage. Upon examination, however, it was -discovered that several books of valuable records were destroyed, and -others much injured. Mr. Wendell having ascertained that the one -containing the copy of the Boynton quit-claim of the Fayerweather -property was among the burnt, as well as that of a date many years -prior, thought best to lose no time in having these important documents -newly registered. Accordingly he looked into the cabinet, which had been -put into his possession, for the originals. - -Upon a thorough search with John Fayerweather, no trace of these papers -was to be found in the cabinet; nor, to the astonishment and -consternation of both, in any desk, trunk, drawer or closet in the -premises of the deceased. The only conjecture madam or John could form -in regard to the disappearance of these papers was, that either through -accident or mistake, they had been left in their original place of -deposit, and were now in the elder son’s possession in the little trunk. -In the first vessel which sailed for London, therefore, intelligence was -dispatched to Mr. Haliburton of the melancholy death of his old friend, -and of the missing papers, that he might find means to convey notice to -George, sooner than could be done from Salem. - -The destruction of the records came to the knowledge of Jemmy Boynton as -soon as to that of Mr. Wendell, and the delay of the latter to have the -deeds recorded anew, did not escape her notice. Jemmy was ever on the -alert to seize upon every circumstance which might possibly involve the -risk or loss of property to others, in the well-grounded hope, which he -rarely failed to realize, of in some way or other turning it to his own -benefit. Accordingly the old fox was not slow to suspect some -substantial reason for such delay or apparent neglect on the part of so -careful a man of business as Mr. Wendell was well-known to be, and he -did not stop till he had found out the true cause. To arrive at -certainty, he thought it would be best to make a visit of condolence to -the widow, judging from her well-known simplicity, she would give him -all the information he desired. And he was not mistaken. - -He took care to make his visit at a time when he felt pretty sure Madam -Fayerweather would be alone. It was on a fine morning in June that Jemmy -sallied forth. He had dressed himself in the best his wardrobe afforded; -a suit of fine claret-colored broadcloth, which had been left in pawn to -him years before by a needy French prisoner on his parole, and which had -never been redeemed; a white satin waistcoat, grown somewhat yellow with -age, and white silk hose with gold clocks, fitting tight to his spindle -legs; all belonging to the same pledge. Possibly the finery of the -jaunty Frenchman might have inspired him with some undefined notions of -gallantry; for Jemmy was going to make a call upon a rich widow just six -months in weeds. But if any airy visions fluttered about his heart and -occasioned the smirk upon his withered physiognomy as he bent his way to -her house, they were speedily put to flight on entering the parlor of -madam, who manifested such unqualified discomfiture on seeing him, that -the compliment which he had been framing during his walk, perished -before its birth, and he felt called upon to account for his visit by -the phrase of condolence he had previously conned over with much care. - -“Madam, I come to condole with you on your bereavement—’twas a -sorrowful bereavement.” - -The tears came into the eyes of the widowed lady, but she felt so much -relieved at finding Jemmy was not come to demand possession of the -estate, as she at first had supposed, but was only making a friendly -call in kindness, that it was not in her nature to take it otherwise -than kindly. Her countenance resumed its usual benevolent expression, -though much saddened of late, as she thanked him and inquired after -“Miss Nancy’s health.” - -“Thank ye kindly, madam, Nanny’s but poorly with the rheumatis; she -sends her humble sarvice to you, and hope I see you well.” Then Jemmy -proceeded in his most insinuating manner, to ask if there was nothing -that he or Nanny could do to “sarve” her, and really appeared so -friendly, that madam was taken by surprise, and out the secret came; for -she thought it would be a fine opportunity to ask him for a new -quit-claim of the whole property, which, from the great good-will he -manifested, she could not doubt he would readily give. - -His object so fully attained, Jemmy, in his elation became airy, and at -length quite softened to the tender. Placing his brown forepaws upon his -knees, he looked down upon his golden clocks, which he thought had -helped him to win the day, and evading madam’s request, he turned the -subject to her husband’s death. - -“Your worthy spouse, madam, died of an arterplax, (apoplexy?) I take -it—a-a-hm—well.” The compliment was now revived. “A fat sorrow is -better than a lean one—he’s left you well to do in the world, and sich -a parsonable woman as you will find enough ready to supply his place.” - -The smirk which had been frightened away on his entrance, again returned -to adorn his lanthern jaws, giving Madam Fayerweather, in indignant -amazement, some reason to imagine he contemplated offering himself as a -candidate for the place he alluded to, with small doubts of being a -favored one. She rose, and all the Borland blood mounted to her face. -The bell-rope was jerked with a violence wholly unnecessary, for Scipio -made his appearance before the bell could sound in the kitchen; he and -Vi’let having, on Jemmy’s first entrance, stationed themselves in the -passage between the parlor and kitchen, and had heard through the -keyhole all which had passed. The guest, however, thought good to make a -precipitate retreat without waiting for the ceremony of being shown the -door. As he passed by the side-gate, Vi’let stood ready to salute him -with a ladleful of some liquid, taken from a kettle on the kitchen -hearth, which all the plates and dishes, as they had come from the -table, had passed through to restore them to their native purity, -leaving behind them their impurities floating on the top; and as the -rich compound splashed over the skirts of his coat and his silken hose, -with gold clocks, she cried after him: - -“You want to take Misser Fayerweather’s place, do ye! ye old -skinflint—well, see how you like a sup of Vi’let’s broth.” - -Stung with his unceremonious dismission; his legs smarting with the -scalding liquor, Vi’let’s insult was more than he could bear. Turning -round in a rage, he called out, doubling up his fist and shaking it at -her— - -“Tell your proud jade of a mistress she wont hold her head so high long, -on other people’s ground! And as for you! ye nigger”—he made use of an -epithet which would not appear polite here—“I’ll have you up to the -whipping-post!” - -Vi’let answered him with a scornful laugh, as she slammed the gate after -him. Poor madam was overwhelmed with mortification and chagrin at her -own folly, of which she was fully sensible as soon as she had committed -herself. - -As Jemmy proceeded home, his keen sense of indignity wore off in the -exulting thought of vengeance in full prospect. He and his precious -sister, however, had one great drawback to their satisfaction; the -necessity of opening their purse-strings sufficiently wide to draw -therefrom a fee large enough to induce any man of the law to undertake -the case against Mr. Wendell, who was regarded throughout the province -as the head of the profession. But a lawyer was at length found at the -distance of twenty miles, who was willing to engage in the cause for a -moderate share of the profits, if successful, and to lose his fee if -not; and the trial was prepared to come on at the annual November court. - -It occasioned a great sensation at the bar, from the amount of property -involved, and the respective characters of the plaintiffs and defendant; -the latter being Mr. Wendell, as executor to the deceased. He determined -to plead the cause himself, assisted by a friend as junior counsel. At -the first trial, little difficulty was found in having it postponed a -year, to give time to hear from Captain Fayerweather; much to the -disappointment of the plaintiffs. - -The most intense anxiety was now felt by the Fayerweather family, and -all connected with it, to hear from George; but as it was known he was -to embark from Europe on a voyage of discovery in the South sea, small -hopes were entertained of receiving letters from him for many months. - -To return to a more pleasing subject—Judith was the darling of all. As -her character became more matured with her person, both increased in -loveliness, and both received a new charm from the cultivation of her -intellect, which proved of no common order. George’s presents to her -were chiefly of books; for though his active life prevented him from -being a great reader himself, the whole atmosphere in which he had been -born and educated, the circle of which he was the pride when at home, -being intelligent, he was anxious that deficiency in this point should -not be found in Judith. No deficiency of any kind, however, was -discovered in her by his family. John regarded her with an affection -scarcely less than George’s; and though the idea of supplanting his -brother, or of Judith’s ever being more to him than a sister, never -crossed his mind, he formed no other attachment. - -Captain Stimpson, now grown somewhat stiff in his limbs, gave up his -lookout in the cupola to Judith, and was at some expense to have it -fitted up for her with cushions and curtains, and a spy-glass for her -particular use. Her sleeping apartment opened directly at the foot of -the stairs which led to it; and here with her books and her Eolian harp, -she passed all the time which she felt to be exclusively her own. Her -prospect was that of the harbor, opening into the ocean, under every -aspect a noble one—with Baker’s island, and its light-house in the -distance, on one side, and several hamlets at different distances on the -other; the town, with its then few streets and scattered dwellings, and -the level country beyond. The view offered little of the beautiful, the -romantic or the picturesque; but all that was wanting its fair -beholder’s imagination could supply; and it may be questioned whether a -view of the bay of Naples even, with all its magnificence of scenery, -could give rise to conceptions of more beauty in some minds, than were -formed in Judith’s by the ordinary one of Salem harbor. - -Time went on, and it was now near the end of the summer preceding the -November, when the cause was to come on at the Ipswich court. Letters -had twice been received from Captain Fayerweather, but of a date prior -to his leaving Europe, and arrivals were looked for every day, which -were expected to bring answers to the information that had been -dispatched to him of all which had occurred to his family since his -departure. One fine evening, Judith, having finished all her domestic -tasks for the day, below stairs, ascended to her observatory, thinking -she should not be missed; her father having set out on his daily visit -to the rope-walk—_en amateur_, for the captain had retired from -business—her grandfather was quietly reposing in his chair, and her -mother holding sweet communion with her dearly beloved Nanny -Dennis—Mrs. Brayton. - -On reaching her airy retreat, the fair maiden took the spy-glass, and -adjusting its tube, strained her vision over the ocean, hoping to espy -the mast of some vessel coming into port. In vain—the curve of the wide -horizon was unbroken even by a speck. A gentle sigh escaped her as she -spoke; “Not yet; well, it must come before long.” She then took her -book, and was soon luxuriating in the fairy-land of poetry. From time to -time her eyes wandered from the page, to cast themselves over the -expanse of waters before her, glowing beneath the sky of twilight, and -scarcely dimpled by a breath of wind, as the tide still advanced to fill -the broad basin, and broke in low ripples on its now brimming edge. - -Darkness at length came on, and being no longer able to distinguish its -characters, she laid aside her book, and turned her eyes and thoughts to -the scene without. Insensibly almost to herself, her ideas arranged -themselves in measure, and she repeated in a low whisper: - - “The winds have folded their tired wings - And sunk in their caves to rest; - The Evening falls, for Day is gone - Far down in the purple West.” - -She stopped, feeling almost like a culprit detected in some flagrant -misdemeanor; but as new images rose in her mind unbidden, and seemed to -plead for a permanent existence, she continued, - - “And yonder the star of Evening gems - The brow of the pale young Moon - That journeys on in sadness and tears, - To finish her course so soon.” - -Gathering courage, she proceeded: - - “She’s gone—and deep the falling shades - Close over the quiet plain; - While shore and hamlet, and grove and field, - Resign them to Night’s calm reign.” - -Thinking whether she should ever dare confess her enormity to George, -she went on: - - “The ocean’s dark breast is dimly seen - By the stars as they glimmer near, - Where the waves dash low—while a far-off roar - From the distant beach[6] I hear. - - A spark from yon low isle in the East, - Now twinkles across the bay! - And now it steadily flames, to guide - The mariner on his way. - - Oh, dear to me is thy distant beam! - Lone dweller of the night waves.”— - -“Judy! Judy!” roared her father’s voice, “come down directly!—here’s -letters from Captain Fayerweather.” - -She sprang, and was down stairs, almost before the last syllable had -left her father’s lips. He stood with the packet in his hand, which he -told her came by the way of Beverly. On carrying it to the light, it was -discovered to be directed to John Fayerweather. Judith felt something a -little like disappointment, though she had no reason to expect it would -be directed to herself. “But how was she to get her own letter -to-night—if there was one for her.” This, if not on her lips, was in -her thought. - -Her father took the packet from her hand; “Here, I’ll take it up in town -myself; I should like to be the one to give it to them, and you shall -have your own letter to-night.” Without waiting for an answer, off he -set, and his sturdy stump—stump—stump, was heard the whole length of -the street, until he turned the corner. Judith almost quarreled with the -feeling of delicacy which had forbade her accompanying him. - -The town clock struck ten as Captain Stimpson reached Paved street, and -with a louder and quicker stump—stump—stump, he hastened on. Just -before he reached the Fayerweather mansion, he met Mr. and Mrs. Wendell -coming from thence, and on learning his errand, they turned back with -him. The eagerness with which John seized the packet, and the beating of -the heart which all felt as they gathered round him while he opened it, -may be readily imagined. It contained but two letters, his own and one -to Judith. He handed the latter to her father, who immediately departed -with it. - -The first opening of John’s letter proved a bitter disappointment to -all, for the date was only a week subsequent to that of the packet, -which had been last received. In that one George had not written to his -brother, and to supply the omission, he appeared to have seized upon -another opportunity which occurred directly after, by a different route. -This letter was a very long one, and bore marks of the strong affection -which subsisted between the two brothers. One passage in it, however, -had a strong negative bearing upon the lost papers. It ran thus: “My -father’s little trunk, which I took with me, to hold the letters I -expected to receive from home, is still _empty_; not one have I received -since I left Salem.” This, Mr. Wendell said, was _prima facie_ evidence -that the deeds were not in their original place of deposite. - -The next morning another thorough search was made, which proved as -fruitless as the preceding ones, leaving Mr. Wendell and John in a state -of perplexity scarcely to be imagined; the former, however, resisting -all internal misgivings as to the final issue of the cause, and -maintaining his conviction that the papers would be found in time to be -produced on the trial. Captain Fayerweather was not expected home until -the next spring. Throughout the whole affair his mother had discovered a -strength of mind scarcely expected from her, and assisted in all the -researches with great energy. A spirit had been roused in her by -Boynton’s insult, as she felt it, which proved a radical cure for all -disorders on her nerves; she never had a fit of hysterics after. - -The autumn advanced, but brought no new arrivals. November came, the -court sat at Ipswich, and the cause of Boynton versus Wendell was third -on the list. The anxiety of all concerned may be imagined. It would -scarcely be supposed that at this time an object could exist of -sufficient interest to divert, for a moment, the thoughts of Madam and -John from the issue of this trial, which might, and the probability was -now strong that it would, drive them from the home of their happiest -days, with the loss of an estate, half of which had been twice paid for. -Such an object was, however, found in old Jaco. He had been declining -for some time, and all the care of the family had been directed to -keeping him alive until his master’s return. As the weather grew colder, -Vi’let had been prevailed upon to allow him to stay in the kitchen; and -much softened in her nature by her master’s decease, she made a bed for -him behind the settle, and gave him warm milk several times a day with -her own hand, without once debating the question of his having a soul, -and the sinfulness of making him comfortable, if he had not, as she -might have done years agone. - -One afternoon, some days before the cause was to be tried, John received -a hurried note from Mr. Wendell, who was at Ipswich on business; the -note was dated the day before, and expressed some fears, which he had -never allowed to appear before, as to the issue of the trial. “His -hopes,” the note said, “still predominated, but he thought it would be -best for John not to allow his mother to be buoyed up by them, but to -endeavor to prepare her for the worst.” The student, with a heavy heart, -left the office and went home to seek his mother. He felt relieved on -finding she had lain down after dinner, and had at length fallen asleep, -after having passed several wakeful nights. He would not awaken her, but -went out to see old Jaco. - -The poor brute lay panting, and was now evidently drawing near his end. -At John’s approach he turned his head toward him, feebly wagged his -tail, and gave a low whine. After a while he rose on his feet, and -staggered to the door, which John opening, the dog made out to reach the -middle of the yard, when he fell and lay gasping. His master bent over -him, and gently patting him, spoke soothingly; at which Jaco opened his -eyes and made a feeble attempt to lick the kind hand which caressed him. -At this instant a light breeze swept by; and as John felt it wave the -hair on his brow and flutter for a moment on his cheek with the feeling -of the balmy spring, it was singularly associated with recollections of -his brother, whose image it brought to his side with all the vividness -of reality. As, like a light breath, it passed to Jaco, the dying animal -started suddenly and rose on his haunches, snuffed eagerly in the air -three times—stopped—then gave one long-protracted howl, when he fell, -quietly stretched himself out to his full length—and poor Jaco lay -stiffening in death. John watched him for a minute or two, when a low -sob might have been heard from him as he turned away, and took his -course through the garden and fields to the water side. - -Judith, on this afternoon, felt a weight on her spirits, wholly unknown -to her before. She could not entirely conceal her depression from her -parents, and they were not surprised at it, in the present juncture of -affairs in the Fayerweather family. She, however, could not have given -this as the cause of her depression, had it been inquired of her, for -this day her mind had been less occupied with the trial, and its -probable issue, than it had been for a week previous, and she felt -unable to account for the sadness which oppressed her. Her father, at -length, went out to see if he could not pick up some news, and Judith, -after in vain attempting to rally herself, went up to her little cupola. - -She looked from her window, but the aspect of all without seemed in -accordance with her feelings. The sky of one leaden hue, looked as if no -sun had ever enlivened it, and the sea beneath of a darker shade, heaved -and tossed as if sullenly brooding over some storm in recollection. The -wind whistled through the bare branches of the trees before the house, -and drove a few withered leaves to and fro on the terrace, then found -its way within doors, and moaned through the passages. Some groups of -boys, as they went from house to house, to gather a few pence for their -bonfire (it was the fifth of November), at another time, might have -seemed to add some little liveliness to the scene; but to Judith, their -voices as they reached her ear from below, had a melancholy tone, as -they chanted their rhymes, and the tinkling of their little bells -sounded doleful. - -She placed her harp in the window; for a minute or two the strings were -silent, and she repeated her accustomed little invocation— - - “Ye winds that were cradled beyond the broad sea, - Come stoop from your flight with your errand to me; - And softly the strings of my harp as ye blow, - Shall whisper your tidings of weal or of wo.” - -The wind appeared to answer her summons but fitfully at first, the -strings jarring without music, as it swept over them. The blast -increasing in strength, the tones became for a while loud, harsh, and -discordant; then, as it blew more steadily, they gradually blended into -harmony, and at length, sent to her ear a strain of such deep -melancholy, as struck despair into her heart. Suddenly there was a -crash, succeeded by the _tolling of a distant bell_. So profound was the -illusion of the spell-bound hearer, that she did not perceive the -snapping of a string, which, by the striking of its loose fragment over -the others, produced the sounds so full of wo, to her saddened spirit. -They ceased, and the harp was silent. - -Again its tones were heard, faintly, and as from afar; but gradually -drawing nearer, as a gentle gale passed over the chords to the dejected -girl. It fluttered round her, soft as the breath of a summer evening, -kissed her fair brow and delicate cheek, and waved each golden curl -which hung round her white throat, while a solemn strain arose, and -softening by degrees to a melody of more than earthly beauty, as it -seized upon her entranced senses, dispelled every cloud from her -spirits, and poured into her soul peace and joy. Then as the breeze -which bore it appeared to depart, and wing its way back over the ocean, -the tones seemed to syllable the word, farewell, repeated each time with -more sweetness, until the sounds were lost in distance. When Judith -descended, her parents were rejoiced to see the dark shade dispelled -from her brow. - -Mr. Wendell sat up late on the preceding night, preparing a defense in a -case, in which all the vigor of a powerful intellect was called forth, -aided by profound legal learning. He retired to rest, weary, but not -dispirited, confident that a few hours repose would fully restore him. -But after sleeping heavily until late the next morning, he awoke, not -refreshed with slumber, as was his wont, but feeling a languor wholly -unknown to him before. He, however, would not succumb to the feeling, -but rose, determined to conquer it; took a walk, and used violent -exercise, which was of benefit, for when he returned he ate his -breakfast with a good appetite, and then sat down to examine his notes. -The seat of his indisposition was now apparent, for on his first attempt -to read, he felt a pressure on his brain, and a confusion of ideas, -which rendered his mind wholly incapable of following any train of -argument, and scarcely able to take in the sense of what he had written. -The only course now remaining to him, he adopted, which was to leave -this case in the hands of the junior counsel, to have it, if possible, -continued over to the Spring term; after doing which, he mounted his -horse and proceeded homeward, leaving word that he would return in time -for the Fayerweather case. For the first time in his life he felt gloomy -and depressed. The exercise of riding was grateful to him, and he felt -refreshed. After riding an hour or two, his spirits rose to their -accustomed buoyancy, though his ideas still remained confused, when he -attempted to pursue a train of thought. - -He arrived in Salem about three o’clock in the afternoon—the same -afternoon the poor dog Jaco died. At he was proceeding through the main -street, or reaching the one which turned down to the wharves, his horse -suddenly snorted and became restive. He patted and soothed his old -servant, and then looked round to discover the occasion of so unwonted a -freak, when he saw a powerfully built man in the garb of a seaman, who -appeared to be advancing toward him. He stopped his horse with great -difficulty, and the stranger came within a few yards of him. What was -his surprise and joy on seeing George Fayerweather? - -His exclamation was stopped short by the horse giving a plunge, which, -if Mr. Wendell had not sat well in his saddle would have thrown him. -Captain Fayerweather’s countenance discovered marks of alarm and -distress as he drew nearer, and while he spoke to Mr. Wendell, the horse -snorted and again plunged fearfully, and at length reared, and stood -nearly upright; but his master sat firm as if glued to the saddle, while -he listened to George’s hurried account of where the deed was. As -Captain Fayerweather finished, he turned away quickly, and the animal -again put his fore-feet to the ground. As Captain Fayerweather turned -the corner, Mr. Wendell called after him, and then finding all endeavors -to make the horse follow him, vain, he dismounted and gave the bridle -into the hands of a man whom he knew, and who at this juncture came up. -He then turned the corner too, but George was gone. His communication, -however, in spite of the restiveness of the horse, had reached the ears -of Mr. Wendell, and now absorbed all his faculties, as he hastened home -with a rapid pace. - -On this afternoon, Mrs. Wendell sat at work in her parlor, her mind full -of the event of the trial, and revolving over many plans for her aunt, -on its now probable issue. She was thinking over her Aunt Brinley’s -proposal, that the three families should make but one, and should occupy -her house, which was sufficiently large; when some one opened the front -door, and came immediately into the room. It was her husband, looking -excessively pale, and his whole appearance betokening hurry and -agitation. Scarcely heeding her, he went to a large closet in the room, -where he kept books and papers, and where her uncle’s ebony cabinet was -placed. - -To her questions of surprise and alarm she could only obtain in reply— - -“I cannot answer you now, my love, wait.” - -He went to the cabinet, and proceeded to take out the three small -drawers of the centre, which he placed on the floor, and then narrowly -examined the vacancy they left. Unable to restrain her curiosity, she -looked over his shoulder. As he knelt, he just made out to discover a -small projection at the back, to which he applied two of his fingers, -and the whole partition slipped down, and discovered a narrow cavity in -the very centre of the cabinet. Two papers appeared, tied together with -red tape; one of which was discolored as if with age. He clapped his -hands with a joy strangely contrasted with his pallid countenance, and -both exclaimed at once—she with a scream—“Here they are! the deeds! -the deeds! found at last!” - -Mr. Wendell then mentioned to his wife his meeting with George, who he -supposed had just landed; and might have gone to see Judith before he -went home. Mrs. Wendell expressed her joy at her cousin’s return, and -then again remarked her husband’s paleness, and anxiously inquired the -cause; but he made light of it. - -“O, I am well enough,” he said, “but I sat up late last night—and -perhaps,” he said, with a faint smile, “it was the fright my horse gave -me, while George was speaking. He nearly threw me, and prevented my -saying a word until George was gone—but I must return immediately to -Ipswich; these papers must be produced in court to-morrow. I little -thought when I came away, of returning in such triumph; but, good-bye, -my love; I cannot stop a moment;” and off he hurried. - -Mrs. Wendell immediately flew into her aunt’s, whom with John she found -in utter ignorance of George’s return. When informed of it, and of the -discovery of the lost papers, her joy almost overcame her. In her -impatience to see him, she thought Judith was almost unkind to detain -him so long. - -“She might come with him,” she said, and John started up, and set off to -bring them both. On his way, he met Captain Stimpson, who, he found, had -neither seen nor heard any thing of his brother, though just returned -from home. He, however, was laden with tidings of high import, and was -coming up in town to tell his news. - -A vessel had that afternoon put in at Beverly with government -dispatches; and staying only long enough to send them on shore, had set -sail for Quebec. The dispatches were of so much importance, that an -express was immediately sent off with them to Boston, and it was -supposed they were the forerunners of peace. The vessel was expected to -return to Salem in a month. This was the rumor which Captain Stimpson -brought, for it was but a rumor, of which every one down in town was -full; but of which, no one appeared to know either the origin or -grounds. The name of the vessel, or of its master, could not be -ascertained. The worthy relator accompanied John home, and the four -there assembled, concluded with one voice, and almost one feeling of -deep disappointment, that the Captain of the vessel must have been -George, and that being under orders to proceed to Quebec, with the least -possible delay, he would not trust himself to come home, or to see -Judith, for fear of being detained too long. His not explaining himself -to Mr. Wendell was accounted for, Mrs. Wendell said, by the restiveness -of the horse, which probably did not allow him to say more than was -barely sufficient for the finding of the papers. - -The next day, the cause at Ipswich was decided at once, by Mr. Wendell’s -producing the deeds. And heavy were the costs which fell upon the -plaintiffs; their counsel retaining no recollection—there being no -witnesses to it—of the agreement to lose his fees, should he fail to -gain the cause; he expressing at the same time a high-minded indignation -at having been taken in to engage in a case, in which so much knavery -was concerned. - -“Poor Jaco! I ’clare it makes me sithe to think on him.” And Vi’let -sighed audibly, when Peter removed his mat from the kitchen. Poor Jaco’s -remains were respectably interred in the garden, under his absent -master’s favorite tree, with a stone to mark the spot, setting forth his -useful life and many virtues. - -Pleasantly passed the month in Paved street, in anticipation of George’s -return: the smiles returning to his mother’s countenance, which had -seldom visited it since his father’s death. And pleasantly glided by the -hours to Judith; but how—in her eyrie, watching the waves which were -soon to bear her lover to her, and invoking the winds to speed his -course? Not she—she taxed herself with selfishness, in having already -spent so much time, engrossed by her own feelings, and not in -administering to the happiness of others; and she resolutely determined -not to go up into the cupola, take the spy-glass into her hand, nor even -to consult the golden fish, which surmounted the highest peak of Captain -Brayton’s house as a weathercock—which latter she could do by only -looking out of the east-room window—until she had made up for lost -time, and finished several pieces of work she had on hand. - -Mr. Solomon Tarbox, seeing there was no hope for him with Judith, had -paid his addresses to Miss Ruthy Philpot, the daughter of a -ship-chandler in the neighborhood, and their nuptials were near at hand. -Judith had set up a patch-work quilt in the summer, as a bridal present. - -“And it was high time it was completed,” she said. So every afternoon, -after her household cares for the day were over, she sat herself at her -patch-work in the sitting-room, and with her lively chatter shed the -sunshine of her own happy spirits over her parents and grandfather. At -the end of three weeks the quilt was completed. - -“And a beauty it was,” Ruthy said, when Judith surprised her with it, -and taking it from the arms of the boy who brought it, unfolded it -before her admiring eyes. “And the pattern of the quilting, too, in -shells—so much genteeler than herring-bone—it was the handsomest -present she had had yet; but her thanks should be paid when Judith -should be in the same case; which would be before long, no doubt.” - -As Judith returned home, how beautiful every thing appeared to her. The -first snow had fallen the night before, and spread over the ground its -pure white mantle, the hue of her own bright spirit; and blithe as a -young snow-bird she flitted along, so lightly, that one had almost -wondered to see the print of her fairy foot. As she looked up into the -clear blue sky, how could she help the dazzling of her eye by the golden -fish, when it was directly before her, and the sun shone full upon it; -and how was it possible for her not to see that it’s head pointed due -east? At the sight, who can tell what sudden thought sent a brighter -flush to her cheeks, already glowing with spirits and exercise, and -quickened her footsteps homeward? On reaching the house, before -disarraying herself of her scarlet cloak, she bounded up to her cupola, -and took the spy-glass into her hand. - -The glass was adjusted to her eye, and slowly turned to every point of -the eastern horizon; but the line marking the meeting of the bright blue -heaven and the dark blue sea remained whole and unbroken. But no!—is -not that a speck? It is—and it increases and nears! Her start sent the -glass from her hand; when again adjusted, she could plainly perceive -three masts rising from the waves; and now the swelling sails emerge, -and now the dark hull. - -“Judy! do you see that sail?” called Captain Stimpson from below, in the -voice of a speaking-trumpet. - -“I do, sir,” answered Judith from aloft. And now the whole ship was -visible, gracefully moving over the waters, and proudly and beautifully -she bore herself. The father and daughter watched her progress from the -first speck they could discern in the bay, until she cast anchor in the -harbor, Mrs. Stimpson having indulgently delayed tea for them, to which -they now sat down; it being so dark they could see no longer. After tea, -Judith sat down to her work, and endeavored to be tranquil. “It was -wholly uncertain,” she said to her father, “whether this were Captain -Fayerweather’s vessel or not;” and she really tried to persuade both him -and herself, that she thought in all probability it was not. Her ears, -however, would perversely listen to every noise from without, which her -imagination mischievously converted into the voices of the busy crew -from the vessel, plainly distinguishing a well-known one among them, -though far out in the harbor. Captain Stimpson was sure it was the -vessel, and that they should see George that evening; and so thought -Mrs. Stimpson. Their daughter very undutifully said, “It was not at all -probable, even if he had come—and she felt almost sure he had not—that -he would be willing to leave his mother so soon, even if she would let -him.” - -The evening wore on, and the little group were undisturbed. Judith could -not repress a gentle sigh at thinking how rightly she had judged. Her -father at length started up, and said, “He’d make certain whether the -chap had come or not;” and accordingly put on his galoches, and was -going for his cloak—(his daughter usually brought it for him, but she -did not do it just then)—when footsteps were heard on the terrace. -Judith disappeared from the room. There was a loud knock at the door, -and Captain Stimpson went to it. On his opening it, Mrs. Stimpson heard -his hearty and vociferous, “How are you, my lad?” and hastened to give -her welcome with voice, hand, and tears, to the tall, stout man whom her -husband ushered in. Her joyful greeting was received in silence, and -with no answering marks of recognition. - -“This cannot be Captain Fayerweather,” she said, turning to her husband. - -“Captain Fayerweather? No, madam, my name is Brown,” said the stranger, -gravely. He seated himself, as invited, and there was a pause which -neither Captain nor Mrs. Stimpson felt able immediately to break. At -length the stranger said, “I am mate of the Dolphin, Captain Richard -Seaward, master; and he desired me to tell you, he would himself have -brought the intelligence I am to give you, but he is sick, and was -obliged to take to his bed as soon as he came ashore.” Mr. Brown stopped -and cleared his voice. - -He resumed. “You took me for Captain Fayerweather; what I have to say is -concerning him. Captain Fayerweather took passage from London in the -Dolphin; and he told Captain Seaward that he had just arrived from the -Cape of Good Hope, where he had found letters from home, which rendered -it necessary that he should return with all possible dispatch; and that -finding a vessel at the Cape ready to sail for London, he had left his -own, which had a consort, to the charge of the second officer and an -experienced crew, to proceed into the Pacific, and had taken passage in -the one to London, hoping there to find some opportunity of going to -America. We set sail from London on the third of November—” - -Captain Stimpson interrupted him. “On the third of November, did you -say—and with Captain Fayerweather on board? That can’t be true, sir—he -was here on the fifth.” - -The stranger answered gravely, “Sir, the business Captain Seaward sent -me upon, is any thing but trifling. The Dolphin certainly sailed from -London the third of November, and with Captain Fayerweather on board; -all the crew will testify to this. But did I understand you rightly to -say, he was here on the fifth? How—at what time? Who saw him—did you? -There must have been some mistake.” - -Captain Stimpson, much surprised, replied, “I did not see him myself, -but his cousin, Squire Wendell, did. He met him in the street between -three and four in the afternoon. There could have been no mistake, for -he told the squire something of great importance to his family, that -nobody but himself could have known. The vessel we supposed he came in, -put in at Beverly; she staid only long enough to deliver some dispatches -for government, and sailed directly for Quebec, intending to return here -in a month. We supposed fully that your vessel was the one, and we were -expecting Captain Fayerweather when you came.” - -While the captain spoke, Mr. Brown showed marks of astonishment and -agitation. He was silent a few moments, though his lips moved, and he -appeared to be making some calculations. At length he spoke, in a voice -apparently from the depths of his chest, slowly and distinctly, but -turning pale as he proceeded. “On the fifth of November, two days sail -from London, about eight o’clock in the evening, which, allowing for -difference of longitude, corresponds to between three and four here, in -a raging storm, Captain Fayerweather fell from the mast-head into the -sea, and was lost!” - -Judith’s shriek was heard from the inner-room, but before her parents -could reach it, she had fallen senseless on the floor. Her father took -her in his arms, while her mother bathed her temples. On reviving, she -held up her clasped hands imploringly to her mother, and asked if she -had heard aright, and if her ears had not deceived her. Poor Mrs. -Stimpson was incapable of answering her, excepting by tears; and her -father could only clasp her more closely. “Oh! he’s gone then;—let me -go, too;” and she struggled to free herself. “But where! where shall I -go?—what shall I do? Why did you bring me to?—it would have been -better for me to have died. I do not wish to live! Why did you not let -me die? I will die!—I will not live!” - -Her father now blubbered outright. “And would you leave your poor old -sir, and your ma’am, that have their lives bound up in you, and that -would die, too, without you? Have you no love left for them?” - -“I do love you both,” she cried; “but now—oh, George! I wish I was in -the depths of the sea with you.” - -“Hush! sinful child,” sternly said her grandfather, who had left his -chair and now stood before her, his trembling, withered hand held up in -reproof; “receive this dispensation of the Lord as a massy; he has taken -from you your idol, that was a robbing him of your heart; turn to him on -your bended knees, and implore His pardon for your sin.” - -As she heard him, she appeared by a strong effort only, to suppress a -scream. “Oh! spare me now, grandfather,” she cried; and she threw -herself on the floor, where she lay with her arm over her face, whilst -sobs convulsed her whole frame. - -“You are too hard upon her, grandsir,” cried her mother, with some -asperity, and smarting for her child; “you forget she is young flesh and -blood; but you are such a saint, and you live so much for another world, -that you make no allowance for a poor young creature’s feelings in this, -when her heart is almost torn out of her body.” - -“Child,” said the old man, trembling, “you ere cutting on me with a -sharp knife! I, a saint! oh, you don’t know nothing of the wickedness of -this old heart; that it was my own sinfulness I was a rebuking, when I -was so harsh with this dear child; for I confess it—and it is with -shame and confusion—that I have thought more of her being among the -grand of the airth, of her riding in her chariot, dressed in vain attire -of silks and satins, and adorned with pairls and jewels of fine goold, -than of the welfare of her immortal soul. And I verily believe,” he -continued, the tears which had long been strangers on his usually placid -face, now running down his furrowed cheek, and his whole countenance -working with distress, “I verily believe for my sin, this has fallen -upon us all; and oh! that this old white head had it all to bear.” - -Mrs. Stimpson was entirely subdued by this humble confession of her -father-in-law, whom she had always regarded as so near perfection, and -so much above all human weakness, that her affection for him had been -chilled by a feeling partaking of awe. “Oh, grandsir!” she said, “how -cruel I’ve been to you; but I never knew how tender-hearted you were -before.” - -“No, child, you have always been good to me,” returned the old man; “and -better than I desarve; but let us pray that this affliction may be -sanctified to us all, and wean us from the perishing things of this -airth—myself above all, who can’t have much longer to stay; and this -dear child, that she may feel it as a goolden thread a drawing on her -easy like to heaven.” He then knelt down, his son and daughter-in-law by -his side, and offered up an humble and fervent prayer over Judith, who -was lying before them. - -Meanwhile the paroxysms of her grief appeared to abate by degrees, and -during her grandfather’s prayer her lips moved as if accompanying him; -her sobs became less frequent, and at length were heard no longer; her -slow and regular breathing showing that she had fallen into a profound -sleep. Her father brought a pillow and tenderly placed it beneath her -head. She slept heavily for more than an hour, when, it being long after -midnight, her parents, fearing she would take cold, removed her into -their own bed—this room being their sleeping apartment in the winter -season. As she moaned on being disturbed, her mother soothed and -caressed her; and then placing herself by the side of her child, she -folded her in her arms, and lulled her to sleep, as if again an infant, -while her father placed himself in the easy-chair, and watched until -sleep overpowered him. - -The next morning, as the anxious parents were bending over their -darling, she opened her eyes, and a beautiful smile spread itself over -her features. “Oh! I have seen him to-night,” she said, “and he was -among the blessed; he told me to live for your sake and his mother’s, -and he would watch over me until we met in heaven.” When thoroughly -awakened from her dream, she looked fondly on her father and mother, and -clasping the hands of both, said, “Oh! how wicked and ungrateful I was -to you last night! Can you forgive me? and henceforth I will only live -to please you, and will have no wish but yours.” - -“You, dear child, you never did any thing but please us; you never had -any other wish but ours,” both answered with streaming eyes. - -Judith then arose and dressed herself; her trembling limbs and pale -countenance sufficiently betraying the shock her frame had received. She -went out of the room and busied herself even more than was her wont in -domestic details, and throughout the day endeavored by redoubled -attention and affection to her grandfather, to make amends to him for -her impatience the night before. - -The fine weather of the preceding day had been succeeded in the night by -a driving snow-storm, which had increased to such violence by morning, -as to prevent any communication with the Fayerweather family during the -day. Toward evening the wind shifted to the south, bringing a rain which -lasted till the next day, melting the great quantity of snow which had -fallen, and rendering the streets impassable. Judith’s sense of duty, -aided by active and unremitting occupation, had so far enabled her to -struggle against any further indulgence of her grief. Her parents were -surprised at the composure she maintained, while she sat down this -afternoon, as was frequently her wont, on a low stool by her -grandfather’s side. She had a large basket by her, filled with new cloth -of different kinds, which her mother and she had cut out, and had -already begun to make into various articles, in preparation for her own -housekeeping. She selected a damask table-cloth from the basket, and -turning the hem, began to sew. After taking a few stitches, her wonted -smile flitted over her countenance and raised her drooping eyelids; her -dimples began to play, and her voice broke forth, like the first robin -of the spring, in a lively little Scotch song. - -The sound of her own voice in singing restored her to her -recollection—she threw down her work and exclaimed with a scream, “What -am I doing?” then laid her head sobbing on her grandfather’s knee. “Oh, -grandfather! I cannot help it,” she cried. - -“Don’t try to help it, dear,” said her mother, her own eyes streaming; -“you have put force enough upon yourself.” - -The old man placed his withered hands fondly upon her head, and said— - -“Yes, weep, my child, for you may; but not without hope; He that wept at -the tomb of Lazarus sees you, and in his own good time will turn your -weeping into joy.” - -The unusual sound of wheels was at this moment heard, and the -Fayerweather chariot drove up to the terrace. Dr. Holly and Mrs. Wendell -alighted, but Judith feeling herself unable to meet them, retreated from -the room before they were ushered in. Mrs. Wendell was so much overcome, -that for a few moments she was unable to speak, and it fell to Dr. Holly -to tell their errand. He made very particular inquiries in regard to -Judith’s health, and how she had sustained the shock of the late -afflictive intelligence, and then proceeded to mention that Madam -Fayerweather was in a very alarming state, having neither changed her -position, eaten or slept, since the evening before the last, and that he -had accompanied Mrs. Wendell to see if Miss Judith could feel herself -equal to returning with them, in the hope that the sight of her might -have a favorable effect on madam, in whom if a change could not speedily -be induced, he felt himself called upon to say, the worst might be -apprehended. - -Mrs. Stimpson immediately replied—“She would answer for her daughter, -that she would feel it a solace to her own feelings to see Madam -Fayerweather, even if she could not be instrumental in restoring her.” - -Mrs. Wendell then said—“The sight of Judith would, if any thing could.” - -Mrs. Stimpson left the room, and in a few minutes returned with her -daughter. At sight of Mrs. Wendell, who fondly kissed her, Judith’s -tears burst forth, but she made no hesitation in accompanying her home. -As the chariot drove through the street the contrast of her present -feelings with those with which she had passed it two days before, struck -her forcibly, but she resolutely turned her thoughts from herself to the -stricken one whom she was going to see. When they arrived at the house, -John came out and assisted them to alight; he pressed Judith’s hand but -could not speak. Dr. Holly was desirous to try his experiment without -delay; they therefore proceeded immediately to the apartment of his -patient. - -On seeing Madam Fayerweather Judith’s strength suddenly failed her and -she came near falling; but recollecting how much might depend on her -retaining in some degree her self-possession, she made a strong effort -over herself, and went forward to the easy-chair, where sat the bereaved -mother. The latter was, in truth, not an object to be looked upon -without emotion, even by a stranger. - -So rigid and motionless was her countenance, that it appeared as if -changed into stone; her eyes were fixed; and her hair which, before this -last blow, had retained all its gloss and beauty, was turned to an ashen -hue, giving a strange and unearthly appearance to her pallid features. - -“Sister,” said Madam Brinley, who sat by her, “here’s your dear child, -Judith—will you not look at her and speak to her?” - -Judith, from a sudden impulse, threw herself on her knees before the -bereaved mother, clasped both her hands in her own and bathed them with -her tears, but endeavored in vain to speak. Sobs were heard from all -present. Madam raised her head, and as she did so, her eyes falling upon -Judith, immediately showed a sense of her presence; their fixed and -glassy look was changed to one of intelligence, the muscles around her -mouth then moved, and she appeared as if endeavoring to articulate. At -length she spoke, but in a voice hollow and strange—“We’ve had sad -tidings, my child!” - -Her whole countenance now appeared working; the frozen fountain of her -grief was at length softened, and burst forth in a torrent of tears and -sobs and groans. - -In the state of exhaustion succeeding this outbreak, she was prevailed -upon to take some food which Judith brought her; after which she fell -asleep and was carried to her bed, from which she did not rise for -several weeks. She had suffered a severe paralytic shock, which affected -her limbs and speech for many months, though she finally recovered. -Judith, in the meanwhile, divided her time between this, her second -mother, and her own family. - - * * * * * - -What were the sensations of Mr. Wendell on hearing the appalling -tidings, that at the moment in which his senses had figured to him -George Fayerweather face to face, and whose voice he still felt burnt as -it were into his brain—at that very moment, thousands of miles distant, -the spirit of his young friend was in the act of departing in a death so -fearful! Had such an incident been related to Mr. Wendell, from a source -however authentic, he would either have totally disbelieved it, or have -considered it an instance of singular coincidence of an illusion, -occasioned by bodily indisposition, occurring at the same moment with -the death of another at a great distance. But the feeling which even now -raised the hair on his head, which curdled his blood and blanched his -cheek anew at the bare recollection of that meeting, as it recalled -sensations which his mind was too intent upon its important subject to -heed at the time, gave the lie to his reason whenever he attempted so to -argue. - -Mr. Wendell, however, never spoke upon the subject himself, and by the -family it was avoided altogether; each one feeling it of too awful and -sacred a nature to admit, not only of discussion, but even of allusion -to it in conversation. But as might be supposed, so remarkable an -occurrence occasioned no little sensation throughout the town and its -neighborhood. It was noted down, with its date, in many a private -memorandum as the extraordinary event of the year in which it happened, -with remarks upon it, either devout or philosophical, or both, according -to the different characters of the minds which severally dictated them. - -When all danger for the life of Madam Fayerweather was over, and Judith -ceased to have in her an immediate object of care and anxiety, her own -health, no longer sustained by extraordinary stimulus to exertion, at -length gave tokens of the injury it had itself received. She fell into a -state of languor and debility, which threatened to end in consumption, -had not her strength of mind, aided by a deep sense of religion, enabled -her to exert all her energies to struggle against the foe and finally to -subdue it—her own melancholy. Her religious duties, those which she -owed to her parents and those to society, she had always faithfully -discharged, and now finding them insufficient to engross her mind and -prevent it from preying upon itself, she had recourse to the cultivation -of her taste and the higher powers of her fine intellect. In this she -was assisted by John, already an elegant scholar, and she became a -highly accomplished woman, as well as the most beautiful in the -province. - -Time passed on, and in its course saw Mr. Wendell presiding on the bench -as chief-justice, his place as head of the bar filled by John -Fayerweather. - -It is not surprising that years of devotion from the latter, combined -with all the affection of his mother for her departed son, now resting -on Judith, should at length have prevailed upon her to be united to them -by stronger ties; after having refused many offers, and among the first, -one from Mr. Lindsey, who had returned to America as soon as the -intelligence of George’s death reached him. - -In Judith’s becoming the wife of John, there was no infidelity in either -to the memory of his brother; it was cherished by both during life, and -by each in the heart of the other. - ------ - -[6] Nahant beach, the roar of which is distinctly heard in Salem on a -still evening. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BABES OF EXILE. - - - BY EFFIE FITZGERALD. - - - “To roam o’er heaving waters bright, - By heaven’s own moonbeam’s made - To find our own a path of light, - Where all beside is shade.” - - - Fond babes of exile we here claim thine eye, - To cheer thy sadness in this exile drear; - We raise the veil of memory with a sigh, - And seek our welcome in a silent tear. - - We fain would come with sunlight on our wings, - For our sweet embassy is one of love; - We hurl no stone from out our baby-slings, - Save that commission come, too, from above. - - Souls sunk in ice-holes, or in gilded shine, - May call us wild, fantastic, if they will; - We know our birth-place was another clime— - We come a different mission to fulfill. - - We dare the smoke-wreath on the crater’s verge; - We look, undaunted, on the lava-flame; - From the tornado’s whirl we safe emerge; - To thee we come, in gentle childhood’s name! - - Enough of tempest—earthquake—has been thine; - Enough of grief has dimmed thy sky-ward eye; - We come to pour the fragrant oil and wine; - We come to bless, and be blest, ere we die. - - Die? No! We take from thee an angel-wing; - We fly—we mount—away from earth we soar; - Keep thy gaze upward from the mountain-spring, - Wrapt in white mist-robes we move on before. - - Or if despair thy strong-heart will assail, - Beneath the oaks, in the old wind-flower grove, - We light to kiss thy shadow, lone and pale. - And bid thee turn thy drooping eye above. - - This our pure mission—babes of memory! - Give us thy blessing ere these lives depart; - These shadowy forms, all consecrate to thee— - That faintly breathe the incense of the heart. - - We heed no danger in a path like this: - A Faith that with the Good was ne’er at war; - We know Earth’s sorrows pilot Heaven’s bliss— - Keep, then, thy gaze upon the cloud and star. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: Illman & Sons -BEAUTY’S RETREAT. -Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.] - - * * * * * - - - - - BEAUTY’S RETREAT. - - - A LEGEND OF GRANADA. - - [WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.] - - - BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. - - -It was the evening of a sultry summer’s day, while the sun was yet -hanging suspended, as it were, in a wreath of lustrous, gauzy vapor -scarce a hand’s-breadth above the horizon. The skies were perfectly -cloudless; and, but for that rich, golden haze which floated in the west -about the sloping day-star, there was not a speck of mist to be seen -over the whole expanse of the firmament, which, glowing, as it was, with -the warm light of that soft southern region, resembled more a vault of -exquisitely shadowed gems than the unfathomable depths of ether. All to -the westward, the horizon was deluged with a flood of golden glory, too -soft to be called intense, yet so vivid that the eye could scarcely -brook it; melting as it streamed upward toward the zenith, by -imperceptible degrees, into the radiance of the living sapphire; and -thence deepening, through the azure tints of the Lapis Lazuli, into the -darkest cærulean blue to the eastward, against which rose distinct, -glittering with the last reflected sunbeams, the distant summits of the -Cordoran mountains. Above these, soaring slowly upward, and momently -gathering fresh brilliancy as the sun faded in the west, the full, round -moon had already risen, with the evening-star at her side, a diamond -spark beside an orient pearl. - -Nor was the earth below less gracious than the heaven above it; for the -scene, over which that cloudless sun was setting so serenely, was no -other than the lovely vegas of Granada, watered with its sparkling -rivulets, tributaries to the broad and fair Xenil; waving with its -almost tropical luxuriance of foliage, odorous with the sweets of ten -thousand gardens—verily the paradise of earth surrounding, as with a -girdle of immortal beauty, the loveliest of earthly cities, crowned by -the wonder of wonders, the glorious Alhambra. So much has been already -written in many tongues, both in prose and verse, of the glories of this -inimitable spot—still inimitable, even under the indolent and careless -culture of the Spaniard, yet how unlike to what it was under its Moorish -masters—above all so eloquently has it been described by the graceful -pen of Irving, that all the details of its scenery, nay! of its -architecture and internal decorations, are, it may be presumed, as -familiar to the mind of the reader, as many places which he has actually -seen with his own eyes. To dwell longer, therefore, on the features of -that sweet, mountain-girdled plain on which the sunbeams lingered, as -though they loved it, would be superfluous at least, if not impertinent. -Not so, to depict one who gazed across that plain under that lovely -sunset, soft herself as the genial clime, serenely bright as the calm -eventide—the Lady Ayesha, a princess of the unmixed race, a visitor -from the distant walls of Mequiñez to the kindred royalty, which in the -person of the unfortunate but as yet unconquered Boabdil, still sat -sublime on the fairy towers of the Alhambra. - -She sat alone in a small octagonal apartment in the very summit of one -of the loftiest of the palace turrets, overlooking and commanding a view -so extensive, that the eye swam dazzled or ere it reached the hills, -which bounded it on every side. Walled, vaulted, floored with pure -snow-white marble, all wrought and pierced with that exquisite arabesque -tracery, which made the cold, hard stone resemble the finest and most -delicate lace-work; lighted on each of its eight sides by a tall window, -headed by the peculiar horse-shoe arch of Moorish architecture, and -surrounded a little lower down the turret by a balcony, filled as a -hanging garden with every loved and lovely plant and flower, no happier -retreat could be devised for Southern beauty; none half so beautiful, -half so luxurious, is dreamed of in her most voluptuous musings by the -most famed fair one of our utilitarian days and country. - -Notwithstanding the extreme height of the tower, which rose full a -hundred feet above the inferior buildings of the royal residence, it yet -possessed its fountain, fed from a reservoir in the roof, itself -supplied by the aid of machinery from the sources of those silver -rivulets of the Xenil and Darro, which might be seen glittering in the -level plain almost a thousand feet below; and the constant merry plash -of its sparkling waters, as they leaped and fell in a shower of diamonds -into their alabaster basin, together with the waving of the broad, -fan-like palm-leaves in light coming air around the open casements, and -the rich clusters of clematis, passion-flower and jessamine which hung -their blossoms around every traceried column, rendered it difficult to -conceive that so great a distance intervened between that bower of -beauty and the solid earth, with all the choicest charms of which it was -environed and invested. - -Half-seated, half-reclining on a broad, low step of marble, which ran -all around the apartment, covered with rich cushions and foot-cloths of -brocade, such as would now be cheaply purchased at its weight in gold, -with her shoulders supported by the low parapet of the window -immediately behind her, gazed the Lady Ayesha over the glimmering -landscape, all as she untwined with the rosy, henna-tinted tips of her -small, slender fingers the thick plaits of her luxuriant raven hair. For -in truth, and for once, the epithet _raven_ was not misapplied to those -soft, silky, glistening masses, which were not of the cold and hueless -black, but of that nameless and indescribable hue which is never seen -but in the hair of women of Moorish or Irish blood—and in the latter -probably as originated of the former—black indeed, but black warmed and -glowing with a rich metallic purplish lustre, unlike any thing on earth -but the changeful hues that dance on the dark plumage of several of the -feathered tribes. But though her long, languid eyes of that perfect -almond form, so much prized by the beauty-loving Moors, fringed with -lashes so long and dark as to require no aid of that Arabian dye to set -off the liquid lustre which they curtained, were riveted with a serene -and steady fixedness on a remote spot in the plain, it was by no means -evident that they took note of that on which they lingered; nor did she -even appear conscious of her occupation, as wave after wave of her soft -tresses fell disentwined into her lap. For there was too much of -tranquillity, approaching even to abstraction, in the fixedness of her -eye, in the statue-like immobility of her perfectly regular features, -and in the whole pose of her figure, to accord with any thoughts so -frivolous as those of the mere decoration of the person, how beautiful -soever it might be. - -As one gazed on her—had there been any there to gaze—it was impossible -not to perceive that, within that fair form and under those impassive -features, there was—what with Oriental women is not at all times the -case—a sentient and intellectual soul, and that soul at this time -engrossed in some deep and powerful strain of meditative thought. - -And oh! how beautiful she was. The perfect oval of her regular face, the -straight, Grecian outline of her chisseled features, the dark clearness -of her pure, transparent complexion, through which, though ordinarily -colorless, every transient motion of the blood mantled in crimson, the -slender, yet exquisitely rounded figure, the soft curves of her plump -and shapely arms, were all as nearly perfect as mortality can approach -to perfection. - -The dress, moreover, which she wore—as far removed as possible, by the -way, from the ungraceful and hideous monstrosity which a set of crazy -notoriety-mongers have been striving to introduce among us as the -costume of Oriental ladies—set off her foreign-looking charms by its -own foreign eccentricity, no less than by the barbaric splendor of its -materials. - -A low, flat Fezzan cap of rich crimson velvet, superbly embroidered in -gold and pearls, was set lightly, a little on one side, upon her -luxuriant black tresses, and from it depended a long tassel, exquisitely -wrought of grains of native gold and seed-pearls, down to her left -shoulder, contrasting in strong relief the glossy darkness of the hair, -by the brilliancy of its white and gold. Immense pendants of pearl hung -from the roseate tips of each small ear, and a string of the same -inestimable gems, not one of them inferior in size to a large currant, -formed four distinct necklaces upon her chest, beside a fifth and longer -coil, which hung down almost to her waist. A _jellick_, as it was -called, or, as we should term it now, a chemisette of the finest Indian -muslin, wrought as its name indicates at Mosul on the Tigris, -embroidered with threads of gold, alone covered her glowing bosom; but -above it she wore an open, sleeveless Dymar of gorgeous green brocade, -with hanging filigree buttons of gold; and shrouding all her lower -limbs, to the very tips of the small, slippered feet, as she lay -half-crouched on her divan, an under robe or tunic of blush-colored -Persian silk with broad, perpendicular stripes of dead gold, the sleeves -of which, close to the elbow, fell thence downward, open like those of -the modern gown worn by bachelors of arts. No appearance of trowsers, no -marked cutting line, nothing tight or definite or rigid, nothing harsh, -stiff or masculine was to be discovered on the nearest scrutiny. A -superb Cashmere shawl was wound about her waist at the junction of the -under robe and chemisette, and its loose ends blended admirably with the -floating draperies and harmonized with the wavy ease which was the -principal characteristic of the dress, the attitude, the pose, the -woman. - -To complete the picture, a Moorish Bernoose, or mantle of scarlet -woolen, almost as fine as gauze, with borders of golden lace, lay heaped -behind her; and nestled in its folds, a filigree jewel-case with boxes -and bottles of perfumes and cosmetics, and half-open drawers of -glittering gems and ornaments befitting her high rank; while on the -parapet, beside her head, stood a huge vase of superb porcelain filled -with the dark, glossy leaves and snow-white blossoms of the gold-eyed -lotus, the perfume of which would have been too strong for endurance but -for the free circulation of the balmy air on every side, and the cool -freshness of the dashing water, which mingled with its overpowering -fragrance and dissipated its intensity. - -Such was the Leila Ayesha, the daughter of the Sultan of Mequiñez, the -great Muley Abderahman, the best and bravest of his race; who in this, -almost the last extremity of his kinsman, Boabdil of Granada, had sent -an embassy with compliments and splendid gifts, accompanying and -conveying his fair child, the best loved of all his children, on her -visit to the heroic mother of the last Moorish king of Granada. - -By many, however, of those who might be supposed the best informed on -state affairs, both of those at Mequiñez and those at Granada, it was -whispered that, under the cover of a mere complimentary embassy and -friendly visit something of deep policy, and that of the highest import -to both sovereigns, was intended. Indeed it was the general opinion that -the object of the Sultan of Morocco in thus sending his fair -daughter—in whom it was well-known that wise and enlightened prince -placed far more confidence than is usually extended to the sex among the -Moors—was to bring about, should it be pleasing to the beautiful -Ayesha, a union between the two royal houses, in which case he would -himself come to the aid of Granada with such a force of Moslem, backed -by such hordes of the wild Berbers as Ali Ibn Tarih himself never led to -conquest—such, in a word, as should soon compel the proud and -encroaching Ferdinand to look to the safety of his own throne and the -integrity of his own dominions, rather than to the invading of the -dominions of his neighbors. - -Be this as it may, it was all a new world to the Leila Ayesha, for the -Moors of Spain during their many centuries of occupation, aggrandisement -and decline, had adopted many ideas, many customs from their Christian -neighbors, at one time their foes, at another in long intervals of -truce, their neighbors and almost their friends. - -Nor had the Spaniards failed in the same degree to profit by the -vicinity of the intellectual, polished and industrious Moors, until the -bigotry of these and the fanaticism of those had given way to more -rational and intelligent principles, and the two nations met, whether in -war or peace, on a common ground of mutual self-respect and decorum. - -Thus the Moors had not only laid aside long since their fanatical -war-cry of “The Koran or the Sword!” but had adopted many of the usages -of chivalry, no longer holding the Christians as dogs, and slaughtering -them without quarter given or taken, but setting them at honorable -ransom, and even treating them while prisoners on parole as guests on -terms of equality, entertaining them at their boards, and holding sacred -to them all the rights of hospitality. - -In no respect, however, had a wider change occurred in the habits of the -nation than in the treatment of their women, who, although not certainly -admitted to the full liberty of Christian ladies, were by no means -immured, as in their native land, in the precincts of the Harem, “to -blush unseen, and waste their sweetness on the desert air,” but were -permitted, still under the guardianship of duennas, and with their -trains of Indian eunuchs, and further protected by their veils from the -contamination of unholy glances, to be present at festivals, at -tournaments, nay! even at banquets, when none but the members of the -family or guests of high consideration were expected to be present. - -It is not, by the way, a little singular that almost in exact proportion -as the Moors enlarged the liberty of their women, by the example of the -Spaniards, did the Spaniards contract that of their own bright-eyed -ladies, by the example of the Moors; and for many years the rigor of the -Spanish duenna was scarcely inferior to that of the Raid of a Moorish -harem, or the ladies under charge of the one much more obvious to the -gaze of the profane, than the beautiful slaves of the latter. - -Did not, therefore, the beautiful Leila Ayesha rejoice and exult in the -comparative freedom which she enjoyed among the liberal Moors of Spain, -which as fitted to enjoy as the favorite child of a wise father, -enlightened far beyond the prejudices of his nation or his time? In his -own younger days he had been a traveler, had visited Venice and even -Madrid, in both of which cities he had been a sojourner in the character -of ambassador, and had thus, like the wily Ulysses, “seen the cities of -many nations and learned their understandings.” Their languages he spoke -fluently: he even read their works, and, although a sincere and faithful -Mussulman, he had learned to prize many of the customs, to appreciate -the principles, and in some instances to adopt in his heart at least the -practices of the Christians. - -Too wise openly to offend the prejudices of his people—and nothing -would have done so, more decidedly or more dangerously than any -infringement of the sanctity of the harem—he had not dared, absolute as -he was, to grant to his daughter that full liberty founded upon the -fullness of trust which he had learned to admire in Venice. Still he had -done all that he could do without offending prejudices or awakening -angry opposition. He had made Ayesha, from her earliest years, the -companion of his leisure hours; he had educated her in all that he -himself knew, he had consulted her as a friend, he had confided in her -as a human soul, not treated her as the mere pet and plaything of an -hour. - -And now as she grew up from an engaging child to a fair marriageable -maiden, accomplished, intellectual, thoughtful, not an irresponsible -being, but a responsible human creature, with the beauty, the impulsive -nature, the passionate heart of the Moorish girl, but with the reason, -the intellect, the soul of the Spanish lady—Muley Abderrahman, who was -waxing into years, began to doubt whether he had done wisely in training -up the child of Mequiñez, the offspring of the desert, to the arts, the -accomplishments, the hopes, and the aspirations of the free Venetian -_dama_—began to look around him anxiously to see where he might bestow -the hand of her whom he had learned to cherish and esteem even above his -people or his power. He saw none, on that side of the Mediterranean, -with whom she could be other than a slave—the first and mistress of the -slaves, indeed, but still one of them—a beautiful toy to be prized for -beauty, while that beauty should yet endure; if faded, to be cast aside -into the sad solitude of neglect for a newer plaything, perhaps to be -imprisoned—as a discrowned and discontented queen, and therefore -dangerous—in some distant and dim seraglio on the verge of the great -burning desert. - -And was this a fate for the bright, the beloved, the beautiful, the sage -Ayesha? - -Thence was born the idea of the embassy to Boabdil. He knew the kings of -Granada civilized and cultivated far before those of Tetuan or Tafilet, -or even Mequiñez or Mecca—he knew that they had adopted, in many -respects, the usages of the Christian cavaliers, and not least among -these, their chivalrous courtesy and graceful respect for the fair -sex—he knew them powerful and wealthy, and possessed of a land the -fairest on the face of the earth, the glorious kingdom of Granada. At -this time, although the war had commenced between Ferdinand and the -Moorish princes, which was to terminate at no very distant day in the -total overthrow of the Saracenic empire in Spain, it as yet lagged -indecisively along, with no preponderance of this or the other force; -nor could there be any doubt that a declaration on the part of the -Sultan of Mequiñez, backed by the reinforcement of a Moorish and Berber, -and an active naval warfare along the coasts of Spain, would not only -secure Granada from any risk of dismemberment, but even wrest a -permanent acknowledgment and durable peace from the Christian kings of -the Spanish provinces. - -Boabdil was at this time formally unwedded, although, like every other -prince or magnate of his people, he had his wives, his concubines, his -slaves innumerable. He was notoriously a leaner to the soft side of the -heart, a fervent admirer of beauty, and was, moreover, a kind-hearted, -gracious and accomplished prince. That he would be captivated by the -charms of the incomparable Ayesha, even apart from the advantages which -her union would bring to himself and to his people, could not be -doubted; and should such an union be accomplished Muley Abderrahman felt -well assured that he should have obtained for the darling of his heart -all that he desired, freedom of life, a suitable partner, and security -for her enjoyment of all her cherished tastes and respected privileges. - -Still Muley Abderrahman, wiser than any Moslem father of that age, wiser -than most Christian parents of any age, was not inclined to set down his -own idea of what should be her good, with his absolute yea! as being her -very good. He had, strange thing for a Moor! an idea that a woman has a -soul—strange and unorthodox thing for a father! an idea that his -daughter had a heart; and that it might not be such a bad thing after -all for her ultimate happiness that her heart should be in some degree -consulted. - -She went, therefore, fancy free and untrammeled even by the knowledge of -her father’s wishes, on a visit to her kinsfolk of Granada, entirely -unsuspicious that any secret of state policy was connected with the -visit to that land of romance and glory, of beauty and adventure, which -was to her one long holyday. Of all her train, indeed, there was but one -who was privy to the Sultan’s secret wishes old Hadj Abdallah Ibn Ali, -the eldest of the sovereign’s councillors, like some, himself a -traveler, and like himself, imbued with notions far more liberal than -those of his time or country. To him it was entrusted, therefore, while -seemingly inattentive to all that was passing, to observe strictly every -shadow which might indicate whence the wind was about to blow—to take -especial note of Boabdil’s conduct and wishes, and, above all, to omit -no opportunity of discovering how the fair Ayesha might stand affected -toward her royal cousin. - -Gaily and happily had passed the days, the weeks, the months—it was -still truce with the Spaniard, and days and nights were consumed in -tilts, in tournaments, in hawking-parties on the beautiful green meadows -of the Vega, beside the bright and brimful streams, adjuncts so -necessary to that royal pastime, that it was known of old as the -“Mystery of Rivers”—hunting-parties in the wild gorges of the Alpuxawa -mountains, banquets at high noon, and festivals beneath the glimmering -twilight, beneath the full-orbed moon, that life was, indeed, one long -and joyous holyday. Boabdil was, in truth, of a man a right fair and -goodly specimen—tall, finely formed, eminently handsome, graceful and -affable in manners, kindly in heart and disposition, not untinctured -with arts and letters, nor deficient in any essential which should -become a gentle cavalier—as a monarch, when surrounded by his court, -and seated in his place of state in the Hall of Lyons, of a truth he was -a right royal king—as a warrior, in the tilt-yard his skill, his -horsemanship, his management of all weapons, were the admiration of all -beholders. In the field his gallantry and valor were incontestable. -What, then, was wanting that Boabdil was not a perfect man, a real -cavalier, a very king? Purpose, energy, will—will that must have its -way, and cannot be denied, much less defeated. - -A prince of a quiet realm, in tranquil times he had lived honored and -happy, he had been gathered to his fathers among the tears of his -people, he had lived in the memory of men as a good man, an admirable -king, the father of his people. - -Fallen upon evil times, thrust into an eminence for which he not only -was, but felt himself to be unfit, unequally matched against such an -enemy as Ferdinand, the one weak point outweighed all the fine qualities -and noble virtues; and he lived, alas! to be that most miserable, most -abject of all human things, a dethroned, exiled, despised king! - -And did Ayesha, from beneath the screen of girlish levity, while -seemingly steeped to the lips in the rapturous enjoyment of the liberty, -the life of the present moment, did Ayesha see and foresee all this? At -least, when Hadj Abdallah Ibn Ali wrote to his friend and patron the -Sultan, and that but shortly after their arrival, that Boabdil was so -evidently and obviously enamored of his mother’s lovely guest, that he -would not only too eagerly court the alliance, backed as it was by -advantages so kingly, but that he verily believed he would woo her to -his throne, were she the merest peasant’s child. He wrote nothing of -Ayesha! - -Again he wrote that he could not doubt she had perceived her royal -cousin’s love, and that her manner toward him was so frank, so free, so -unrestrainedly joyous and confiding, that he was well assured that all -went well, and that she returned the affection of Boabdil, and rejoiced -in his love. - -But Muley Abderrahman, shook his head and knit his brow, as he read the -letter, and muttered through his thick moustache, “Ay! he is a good -man—a good man is the Hadj Abdallah, and a wise one, but he knows -nothing of a woman’s heart—how should he?” - -When he sent the next dispatches to his old friend and counsellor, there -was a brief private note attached. “Is the Leila Ayesha,” he asked, -“never grave, never abstracted, never shy, and almost sad—does she -never flee from the gayety of the festival, the tumult of the chase, -into privacy and solitude—does she never fail to hear when addressed, -to see when encountered—does she never weep nor sigh when alone—in a -word, is she in nowise changed from what she was at Mequiñez?” - -And the reply came, “Never. Wherefore should she? Is she not the apple -of all eyes, the idol of all hearts? Her laugh is as the music of the -soul, her eye-glance the sunbeam that enkindles every heart. She is the -star of the Alhambra, the loadstone of the king’s soul. Wherefore should -she weep or sigh? I have questioned her handmaids—never! Yes—the Leila -Ayesha is changed. In Mequiñez, she was as a sunbeam thrown on still -waters. Here in Granada, she is the sunbeam thrown on the dancing -fountain, reflecting happy light on all around her. In Mequiñez, she was -as a sweet song-bird, feeding her soul on her own harmonies in silence. -Here in Granada she is as the sweet song-bird, enrapturing all within -her sphere by the blithe outpourings of her joyous melodies. Yes—the -Leila Ayesha is changed. My Lord Boabdil loves the Leila Ayesha; the -Leila Ayesha knows it, and is glad.” - -Then Muley Abderrahman shook his head, and pondered for a while, and -muttered— - -“She loves him not—She loves him not. The Hadj Abdallah is good and -wise with the wisdom of men—but of the hearts of women, he knows -nothing—how should he? for he never saw a woman.” - -And the old king, far distant, saw more of what was passing in the fair -girl’s heart than the wise councillor who was present—but he judged it -best to tarry and abide the event—and he tarried, but not long. - -Had he been present on that sultry summer’s evening, and looked upon his -lovely child as she sat gazing out in such serenity of deep abstraction -over the sunny Vega—over the fragrant orange groves and glowing -vineyards, toward the glistening hill-tops of the Spaniards—his -question would have answered itself, and at the first glance he would -have seen that she loved. - -The child had discovered that it had a heart—the creature had divined -that it had an immortal soul—the child had become a woman—a very -woman. - - With all a woman’s smiles and tears, - And fearful hopes and hopeful fears, - And doubts and prayers for future years. - -Leila Ayesha loved—but whom? At least not Boabdil! Happily, not -Boabdil. - -Even as she gazed, the orb of the gorgeous sun sank behind the distant -hills, and at once—clear, shrill, and most melodious—up went the voice -of the Muezzins, from every minaret throughout the gorgeous city, “To -prayer, to prayer. There is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet. -Faithful, to prayer, to prayer!” - -And instant at the cry every sound ceased through the royal -residence—every sound through the splendid city—every sound through -the wide Vega. Every turbaned head was bowed in prayer, and a sabbath -stillness seemed to consecrate the bridal of the earth and sky. - -Ayesha rose from her divan, and while her lips murmured the words of -devotion, and her fingers ran rapidly over the beads of her Comboloic or -Moorish rosary, a strange, faltering flush ran over her fair brow. Her -orisons ended, she caught some of the spray of the fountain in the palm -of one of her fairy hands, and scattered it thrice over her long, dark -tresses, on which it glistened in the soft moonbeams; for the moon now -alone occupied the heavens, on the fragrant hills of the black hyacinth. - -Again she resumed her attitude on the divan, but not her occupation; for -the mood of her mind was altered, and for a while she hummed the burthen -of an old, melancholy Moorish ballad—an old Moorish love-song, the -words of which corresponded in no small degree to our own, “Oh! willow, -willow”—since the proverb still holds good of burned Morocco or bright -Spain, as of green, merry England— - - “For aught that I did ever hear— - Did ever read in tale or history, - The course of true love never did run true.” - -Ere long from the city gates far distant was heard the din of martial -music—first, the deep clang of the kettle-drums and atabals alone, and -the clear flourish of the silver trumpets which announced the presence -of the king, and these only at intervals above or between the trampling -of hoofs, the clash of armor, and the cheering of an excited multitude. -Anon nearer and nearer came the sounds, with the clash of cymbals and -the soft symphonies of lutes, and the clear, high notes of flutes and -clarionets among the clangor of the trumpets, and the brazen rattling of -the drums. - -Nearer and nearer yet—and it is now at the Alhambra gates. - -She started to her feet, and leaned far out of the embrasure commanding -all the city, but her eye marked one object only, the royal train filing -into the palace gates, from the royal sports on the Vega ended—and in -that train, on but one person. - -It was no turbaned head or caftaned form on which that ardent eye was -fixed, now kindled into all a Moresca’s ecstacy of passion; it was on a -tall Spanish crest and lofty plume. And, as if by a secret instinct, as -her gaze was bent downward to the horse-shoe arch of the Alhambra gate, -his glance soared upward to the airy turret’s top, and readily detected -what would have escaped a less observant watcher, the dark eyes of his -fair Ayesha gleaming through the palm-leaves and passion-flowers; their -passionate fire half quenched by the tears of tenderness and hope. - -His Ayesha—his—the Conde of Alarcos, proudest grandee of Spain—the -favorite child of the Spaniard’s deadliest foe, the Sultan of Morocco. - -The Hadj Abdallah Ibn Ali’s next dispatch contained much important -tidings concerning a twenty years’ truce to be concluded between the -King Boabdil, of Granada, and the King Ferdinand, of Spain—and much -graver gossip of the noble Conde of Alarcos, Ferdinand’s ambassador; of -his high feats of arms, and gentle feats of courtesy—of how all the -court admired him, and how the Lady Ayesha shunned him, and how she was -less frequent at the falconry, less frequent at the chase, less frequent -at the festival, less frequent at the royal banquets—and how her -hand-maidens reported that their mistress sighed all the time and often -wept, and sat long hours gazing upon nothing, and played no more upon -her lute, nor sung the songs of Islam—and how she was—he feared—ill -at ease, and pining for her native land. - -And when Muley Abderrahman read the letter he shook his head, and -muttered— - -“Ay, she loves now, but it is the wrong one—a Nazarene, a dog,” and he -tore his beard and wept. That night a royal courier rode hard from -Mequiñez to Saleè, and the next day a fleet galley scoured the way -across the narrow seas to the fair shores of Granada. - -The embassy should return at once to Mequiñez. Now hour of delay—too -late. - -The embassy had returned the preceding day, but it was the Spanish -embassy: and it had returned, not to Mequiñez, but to Cordova. And ere -his master’s mandate had stricken terror to the soul of the Hadj -Abdallah, the Spanish bells were chiming for the wedding of a Moorish -maiden, now a Christian bride; and the Leila Ayesha, of Mequiñez, was -the wife of the noble Conde De Alarcos: nor have I ever heard that she -rued either of the changes. - -Again Muley Abderrahman tore his beard, and this time from the very -roots. But his wonted philosophy still consoled him, and after a little -while he muttered— - -“Allah, assist me, that I thought myself so wise—yet know not the heart -of a woman! How should I?” - - * * * * * - - - - - WRITE THOU UPON LIFE’S PAGE. - - - BY GRENVILLE GREY. - - - Leave thou some light behind thee, - Some mark upon thine age; - Let not a false fate bind thee— - Write thou upon life’s page, - - Some word of earnest meaning, - Some thought, or else some deed, - On which thy brother leaning, - Unto better may succeed. - - For none may tell what beauty, - What endless good there lies, - In some little nameless duty, - Whose remembrance never dies. - - Leave thou some light behind thee, - Some token of thy way; - Let not a false ease bind thee— - Thou art not wholly clay. - - There is something noble in thee, - Let it speak and not be mute; - There is something that should win thee - From a kindred with the brute. - - Thou art not, oh! my brother, - Wholly impotent for good; - Thou may’st win or warn another - From the wrongs thou hast withstood. - - Leave thou some trace behind thee— - In life’s warfare, go, engage; - Let no more a false fate bind thee— - Write thou upon life’s page. - - * * * * * - - - - - LINES ON A VASE OF FLOWERS, - - - (FOUND UPON MY DESK.) - - - BY ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS. - - - I came upon these simple flowers - As something I revere; - They grew in Love’s enchanted bowers— - And love hath placed them here. - - I kiss their cheeks of virgin bloom, - I press their dewy lips, - While my wrapt soul of their perfume, - Inebriated sips. - - I look into their violet eyes, - And feel my heart grow calm, - And fancy I’m in Paradise, - Inhaling Eden’s balm. - - There in ecstatic dreams I rove - Among celestial bowers, - Weaving a garland for my Love, - Of beatific flowers. - - * * * * * - - - - - DEATH.[7] - - -BY SAMUEL HENRY DICKSON, M. D.; PROFESSOR IN THE MEDICAL COLLEGE OF SOUTH - CAROLINA. - - -As the word Life is employed in a double sense to denote the actions or -phenomena by which it is developed, and the cause of these phenomena, so -the old English word Death is used familiarly to express two or more -meanings. The first of these is the transition from the living to the -lifeless or inanimate state—the act, that is, of dying; the second, the -condition of an organized body which has ceased to live, while -organization yet remains, and symmetry still displays itself, and the -admirable structure of its parts is not yet destroyed by decomposition, -or resolved into the original and primary elements from which it was -moulded, - - “Before Decay’s effacing fingers - Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.” - -We occasionally speak of “dead matter” in the sense of inorganic; but -this is merely a rhetorical or metaphorical phrase. That which has never -lived cannot properly be said to be dead. - -In the following essay, I shall use the word chiefly in the first of the -senses above indicated. It will often be convenient to employ it in the -second also; but in doing so, I will be careful so to designate its -bearing as to avoid any confusion. The context will always prevent any -misunderstanding on this point. - -Death may be considered physiologically, pathologically, and -psychologically. We are obliged to regard it and speak of it as the -uniform correlative, and indeed the necessary consequence, or final -result of life; the act of dying as the rounding off, or termination of -the act of living. But it ought to be remarked that this conclusion is -derived, not from any understanding or comprehension of the relevancy of -the asserted connection, nor from any _à priori_ reasoning applicable to -the inquiry, but merely _à posteriori_ as the result of universal -experience. All that has lived has died; and, therefore, all that lives -must die. - -The solid rock on which we tread, and with which we rear our palaces and -temples, what is it often when microscopically examined, but a congeries -of the fossil remains of innumerable animal tribes! The soil from which, -by tillage, we derive our vegetable food, is scarcely any thing more -than a mere mixture of the decayed and decaying fragments of former -organic being; the shells and exuviæ, the skeletons and fibres and -exsiccated juices of extinct life. - -The earth itself, in its whole habitable surface, is little else than -the mighty sepulchre of the past; and - - “All that tread - The globe are but a handful to the tribes - That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings - Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, - Or lose thyself in the continuous woods - Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound - Save his own dashings—yet, the dead are there; - And millions in these solitudes, since first - The flight of years begun, have laid them down - In their last sleep: the dead reign there alone.” - -Four millions of Egyptians cultivate the valley of the great river on -whose banks, amidst the fertilizing dust of myriads of their -progenitors, there are calculated still to exist, in a state of -preservation, not less than from four hundred to five hundred millions -of mummies. The “City of the Tombs” is far more populous than the -neighboring streets even of crowded Constantinople; and the cemeteries -of London and the catacombs of Paris are filled to overflowing. The -trees which gave shade to our predecessors of a few generations back lie -prostrate; and the dog and horse, the playmate and the servant of our -childhood, are but dust. Death surrounds and sustains us. We derive our -nourishment from the destruction of living organisms, and from this -source alone. - -And who is there among us that has reached the middle term of existence, -that may not, in the touching phrase of Carlyle, “measure the various -stages of his life-journey by the white tombs of his beloved ones, -rising in the distance like pale, mournfully receding milestones?” - -“When Wilkie was in the Escurial,” says Southey, “looking at Titian’s -famous picture of the Last Supper in the refectory there, an old -Jeronymite monk said to him, ‘I have sat daily in sight of that picture -for now nearly threescore years; during that time my companions have -dropped off one after another—all who were my seniors, all who were my -cotemporaries, and many or most of those who were younger than myself; -more than one generation has passed away, and there the figures in the -picture have remained unchanged. I look at them, till I sometimes think -that _they_ are the realities, and we but shadows.’” - -I have stated that there is no reason known to us why Death should -always “round the sum of life.” Up to a certain point of their duration, -varying in each separate set of instances, and in the comparison of -extremes varying prodigiously, the vegetable and animal organisms not -only sustain themselves, but expand and develop themselves, grow and -increase, enjoying a better and better life, advancing and progressive. -Wherefore is it that at this period all progress is completely arrested; -that thenceforward they waste, deteriorate and fail? Why should they -thus decline and decay with unerring uniformity upon their attaining -their highest perfection, their most intense activity? This ultimate law -is equally mysterious and inexorable. It is true the Sacred Writings -tell us of Enoch, “whom God took and he was not;” and of Elijah, who was -transported through the upper air in a chariot of fire; and of -Melchisedek, the most extraordinary personage whose name is recorded, -“without father, without mother, without descent: having neither -beginning of days, nor end of life.” We read the history without -conceiving the faintest hope from these exceptions to the universal -rule. Yet our fancy has always exulted in visionary evasions of it, by -forging for ourselves creations of immortal maturity, youth and beauty, -residing in Elysian fields of unfading spring, amidst the fruition of -perpetual vigor. We would drink, in imagination, of the sparkling -fountain of rejuvenescence; nay, boldly dare the terror of Medea’s -caldron. We echo, in every despairing heart, the ejaculation of the -expiring Wolcott, “Bring back my youth!” - -Reflection, however, cannot fail to reconcile us to our ruthless -destiny. There is another law of our being, not less unrelenting, whose -yoke is even harsher and more intolerable, from whose pressure Death -alone can relieve us, and in comparison with which the absolute -certainty of dying becomes a glorious blessing. Of whatever else we may -remain ignorant, each of us, for himself, comes to feel, realize and -know unequivocally that all his capacities, both of action and -enjoyment, are transient and tend to pass away; and when our thirst is -satiated, we turn disgusted from the bitter lees of the once fragrant -and sparkling cup. I am aware of Parnell’s offered analogy— - - “The tree of deepest root is found - Unwilling most to leave the ground;” - -and of Rush’s notion, who imputes to the aged such an augmenting love of -life that he is at a loss to account for it, and suggests, quaintly -enough, that it may depend upon custom, the great moulder of our desires -and propensities; and that the infirm and decrepit “love to live on -because they have acquired a habit of living.” His assumption is wrong -in point of fact. He loses sight of the important principle that Old Age -is a relative term, and that one man may be more superannuated, farther -advanced in natural decay at sixty, than another at one hundred years. -Parr might well rejoice at being alive, and exult in the prospect of -continuing to live, at one hundred and thirty, being capable, as is -affirmed, even of the enjoyment of sexual life at that age; but he who -has had his “three sufficient warnings,” who is deaf, lame and blind; -who, like the monk of the Escurial, has lost all his cotemporaries, and -is condemned to hopeless solitude, and oppressed with the consciousness -of dependence and imbecility, must look on Death not as a curse, but a -refuge. Of one hundred and thirty-three suicides occurring in Geneva -from 1825 to 1834, more than half were above fifty years of age; -thirty-four, from fifty to sixty; nineteen, from sixty to seventy; nine, -from seventy to eighty; three, from eighty to ninety; in all sixty-five. -The mean term of life in that city being about thirty-five to forty, -this bears an immense proportion to the actual population above fifty, -and exhibits forcibly an opposite condition of feeling to that alleged -by Rush, a weariness of living, a desire to die, rather than an anxiety, -or even willingness to live. - -I once knew an old man of about one hundred and four who retained many -of his faculties. He could read ordinary print without glasses, walked -firmly, rode well, and could even leap with some agility. When I last -parted with him, I wished him twenty years more; upon which he grasped -my hand closely, and declared he would not let me go until I had -retracted or reversed the prayer. - -Strolling with my venerable and esteemed colleague, Prof. Stephen -Elliott, one afternoon, through a field on the banks of the river -Ashley, we came upon a negro basking in the sun, the most -ancient-looking personage I have ever seen. Our attempts, with his aid, -to calculate his age, were of course conjectural; but we were satisfied -that he was far above one hundred. Bald, toothless, nearly blind, bent -almost horizontally, and scarcely capable of locomotion, he was -absolutely alone in the world, living by permission upon a place, from -which the generation to which his master and fellow-servants belonged -had long since disappeared. He expressed many an earnest wish for death, -and declared, emphatically, that he “was afraid God Almighty had -forgotten him.” - -We cannot wonder, then, that the ancients should believe, “Whom the gods -love, die young,” and are ready to say with Southey, himself, -subsequently, like poor Swift, a melancholy example of the truth of his -poetical exclamation, - - “They who reach - Gray hairs die piecemeal.” - -Sacred history informs us that, in the infancy of the world, the -physiological tendency to death was far less urgently and early -developed than it is now. When the change took place is not stated; if -it occurred gradually, the downward progress has been long since -arrested. All records make the journey of life from the time of Job and -the early patriarchs, much the same as the pilgrim of to-day is destined -to travel. Threescore and ten was, when Cheops built his pyramid, as it -is now, a long life. Legends, antique and modern, do indeed tell us of -tribes that, like Riley’s Arabs and the serfs of Middle Russia, and the -Ashantees and other Africans, live two or three centuries, but these are -travelers’ stories, unconfirmed. The various statistical tables that -have been in modern times made up from materials more or less authentic, -and the several inquiries into the general subject of longevity, seem to -lead to the gratifying conclusion that there is rather an increase of -the average or mean duration of civilized life. In 1806, Duvillard fixed -the average duration of life in France at twenty-eight years; in 1846, -Bousquet estimates it at thirty-three. Mallet calculated that the -average life of the Genevese had extended ten years in three -generations. In Farr’s fifth report (for 1844), the “probable duration,” -the “expectation of life” in England, is placed above forty; a great -improvement within half a century. It is curious, if it be true, that -the extreme term seems to lessen as the average thus increases. Mallet -is led to this opinion from the fact, among others, that in Geneva, -coincident with the generally favorable change above mentioned, there -has not been a single centenarian within twenty-seven years; such -instances of longevity having been formerly no rarer there than -elsewhere. - -Birds and fishes are said to be the longest lived of animals. For the -longevity of the latter, ascertained in fish-ponds, Bacon gives the -whimsical reason that, in the moist element which surrounds them, they -are protected from exsiccation of the vital juices, and thus preserved. -This idea corresponds very well with the stories told of the -uncalculated ages of some of the inhabitants of the bayous of Louisiana, -and of the happy ignorance of that region, where a traveler once found a -withered and antique corpse—so goes the tale—sitting propped in an -arm-chair among his posterity, who could not comprehend why he _slept_ -so long and so soundly. - -But the Hollanders and Burmese do not live especially long; and the -Arab, always lean and wiry, leads a protracted life amidst his arid -sands. Nor can we thus account for the lengthened age of the crow, the -raven, and the eagle, which are affirmed to hold out for two or three -centuries. - -There is the same difference among shrubs and trees, of which some are -annual, some of still more brief existence, and some almost eternal. The -venerable oak bids defiance to the storms of a thousand winters; and the -Indian baobab is set down as a contemporary at least of the Tower of -Babel, having probably braved, like the more transient, though -long-enduring olive, the very waters of the great deluge. - -It will be delightful to know—will Science ever discover for us?—what -constitutes the difference thus impressed upon the long and short-lived -races of the organized creation. Why must the fragrant shrub or gorgeous -flower-plant die immediately after performing its function of continuing -the species, and the pretty ephemeron languish into non-existence just -as it flutters through its genial hour of love, and grace, and -enjoyment; while the banyan, and the chestnut, the tortoise, the -vulture, and the carp, formed of the same primary material elements, and -subsisting upon the very same resources of nutrition and supply, outlast -them so indefinitely? - -Death from old age, from natural decay—usually spoken of as death -without disease—is most improperly termed by writers an euthanasia. -Alas! how far otherwise is the truth! Old age itself is, with the rarest -exceptions, exceptions which I have never had the good fortune to meet -with anywhere—old age itself is a protracted and terrible disease. - -During its whole progress, Death is making gradual encroachments upon -the domain of life. Function after function undergoes impairment, and is -less and less perfectly carried on, while organ after organ suffers -atrophy and other changes, unfitting it for the performance of offices -to which it was originally designed. I will not go over the gloomy -detail of the observed modifications occurring in every part of the -frame, now a noble ruin, majestic even in decay. The lungs admit and -vivify less blood; the heart often diminishes in size and always acts -more slowly, and the arteries frequently ossify; nutrition is impeded -and assimilation deteriorated; senile marasmus follows, “and the seventh -age falls into the lean and slippered pantaloon;” and, last and worst of -all, the brain and indeed the whole nervous tissue shrink in size and -weight, undergoing at the same time more or less change of structure and -composition. As the skull cannot contract on its contents, the shrinking -of the brain occasions a great increase of the fluid within the -subarachnoid space. Communication with the outer world, now about to be -cut off entirely, becomes limited and less intimate. The eyes grow dim; -the ear loses its aptitude for harmony, and soon ceases to appreciate -sound; odors yield no fragrance; flavors affect not the indifferent -palate; and even the touch appreciates only harsh and coarse -impressions. The locomotive power is lost; the capillaries refuse to -circulate the dark, thick blood; the extremities retain no longer their -vital warmth; the breathing slow and oppressed, more and more difficult, -at last terminates forever with a deep expiration. This tedious process -is rarely accomplished in the manner indicated without interruption; it -is usually, nay, as far as my experience has gone, always brought to an -abrupt close by the supervention of some positive malady. In our -climate, this is, in the larger proportion, an affection of the -respiratory apparatus, bronchitis, or pulmonitis. It will, of course, -vary with the original or constitutional predisposition of the -individual, and somewhat in relation to locality and season. Many aged -persons die of apoplexy and its kindred cerebral maladies, not a few of -diarrhœa; a winter epidemic of influenza is apt to be fatal to them in -large numbers everywhere. - -When we regard death pathologically, that is, as the result of violence -and destructive disease, it is evident that the phenomena presented will -vary relatively to the contingencies effective in producing it. It is -obviously out of place here to recount them, forming as they do a vast -collection of instructive facts, the basis indeed of an almost separate -science, Morbid Anatomy. - -There are many of the phenomena of death, however, that are common to -all forms and modes of death, or are rarely wanting; these are highly -interesting objects of study in themselves, and assume a still greater -importance when we consider them in the light of signs or tokens of the -extinction of life. It seems strange that it has been found difficult to -agree upon any such signs short of molecular change or putrefactive -decomposition, that shall be pronounced absolutely certain, and -calculated entirely to relieve us from the horrible chance of premature -interment of a body yet living. The flaccidity of the cornea is dwelt on -by some; others trust rather to the _rigor mortis_, the rigid stiffness -of the limbs and trunk supervening upon the cold relaxation which -attends generally the last moments. This rigidity is not understood or -explained satisfactorily. It is possible that, as Matteucci has proved, -the changes in all the tissues, chiefly chemical or chemico-vital, are -the source from whence is generated the “nervous force” during life; so, -after death, the similar changes, now purely chemical, may, for a brief -period, continue to generate the same or a similar force, which is -destined to expend itself simply upon the muscular fibres in disposing -them to contract. There is a vague analogy here with the effect of -galvanism upon bodies recently dead, which derives some little force -from the fact that the bodies least disposed to respond to the stimulus -of galvanism are those which form the exceptions to the almost universal -exhibition of rigidity—those, namely, which have been killed by -lightning, and by blows on the pit of the stomach. Some poisons, too, -leave the corpse quite flaccid and flexible. - -The researches of Dr. Bennett Dowler, of New Orleans, have presented us -with results profoundly impressive, startling, and instructive. He has, -with almost unequalled zeal, availed himself of opportunities of -performing autopsy at a period following death of unprecedented -promptness, that is, within a few minutes after the last struggle, and -employed them with an intelligent curiosity and to admirable purpose. - -I have said that, in physiological death, the natural decay of advancing -age, there is a gradual encroachment of death upon life; so here, in -premature death from violent diseases, the contrasted analogy is offered -of life maintaining its ground far amidst the destructive changes of -death. Thus, in cholera asphyxia, the body, for an indefinite period -after all other signs of life have ceased, is agitated by horrid spasms, -and violently contorted. We learn from Dr. Dowler that it is not only in -these frightful manifestations, and in the cold stiffness of the -familiar _rigor mortis_, that we are to trace this tenacious muscular -contraction as the last vital sign, but that in all, or almost all cases -we shall find it lingering, not in the heart, anciently considered in -its right ventricle the _ultimum moriens_, nor in any other internal -fibres, but in the muscles of the limbs, the biceps most obstinately. -This muscle will contract, even after the arm with the scapula has been -torn from the trunk, upon receiving a sharp blow, so as to raise the -forearm from the table, to a right angle with the upper arm. - -We also learn from him the curious fact that the generation of animal -heat, which physiologists have chosen to point out as a function most -purely vital, does not cease upon the supervention of obvious or -apparent death. There is, he tells us, a steady development for some -time of what he terms “post-mortem caloricity,” by which the heat is -carried not only above the natural or normal standard, but to a height -rarely equalled in the most sthenic or inflammatory forms of disease. He -has seen it reach 113° of Fahr., higher than Hunter ever met with it, in -his experiments made for the purpose of exciting it; higher than it has -been noted even in scarlatina, 112°, I think, being the ultimate limit -observed in that disease of pungent external heat; and far beyond the -natural heat of the central parts of the healthy body, which is 97° or -98°. Nor is it near the centre, or at the trunk, that the post-mortem -warmth is greatest, but, for some unknown reason, at the inner part of -the thigh, about the lower margin of its upper third. I scarcely know -any fact in nature more incomprehensible or inexplicable than this. We -were surprised when it was first told us that, in the Asiatic -pestilence, the body of the livid victim was often colder before than -after death; but this, I think, is easily understood. The profluvia of -cholera, and its profound capillary stagnation, concur in carrying off -all the heat generated, and in preventing or impeding the development of -animal heat. No vital actions, no changes necessary to the production of -caloric, can proceed without the minute circulation which has been -checked by the asphyxiated condition of the subject, while the fluids -leave the body through every outlet, and evaporation chills the whole -exposed and relaxed surface. Yet the lingering influence of a scarcely -perceptible vitality prevents the purely chemical changes of -putrefactive decomposition, which commence instantly upon the extinction -of this feeble resistance, and caloric is evolved by the processes of -ordinary delay. - -In the admirable liturgy of the churches of England and of Rome, there -is a fervent prayer for protection against “battle, murder, and sudden -death.” From death uncontemplated, unarranged, unprepared for, may -Heaven in mercy deliver us! But if ever ready, as we should be for the -inevitable event, the most kindly mode of infliction must surely be that -which is most prompt and brief. To die unconsciously, as in sleep, or by -apoplexy, or lightning, or overwhelming violence, as in the catastrophe -of the Princeton, this is the true Euthanasia. “Cæsar,” says Suetonius, -“finem vitæ commodissimum, repentinum inopinatumque pretulerat.” -Montaigne, who quotes this, renders it, “La moins préméditée et la plus -courte.” “Mortes repentinæ,” reasons Pliny, “hoc est summa vitæ -felicitas.” “Emori nolo,” exclaims Cicero, “sed me esse mortuum nihil -estimo.” - -Sufferers by various modes of execution were often, in the good old -times of our merciless ancestors, denied as long as possible the -privilege of dying, and the Indians of our continent utter a fiendish -howl of disappointment when a victim thus prematurely escapes from their -ingenious malignity. The _coup de grace_ was a boon unspeakably desired -by the poor wretch broken on the wheel, or stretched upon the accursed -cross, and forced to linger on with mangled and bleeding limbs, amidst -all the cruel torments of thirst and fever, through hours and even days -that must have seemed interminable. - -The progress of civilization, and a more enlightened humanity have put -an end to all these atrocities, and substituted the gallows, the -garrote, and the guillotine, which inflict deaths so sudden that many -have questioned whether they necessarily imply any consciousness of -physical suffering. These are, however, by no means the most -instantaneous modes of putting an end to life and its manifestations. In -the hanged, as in the drowned, and otherwise suffocated, there is a -period of uncertainty, during which the subject is, as we know, -recoverable; we dare not pronounce him insensible. He who has seen an ox -“pithed” in the slaughter-house, or a game-cock in all the flush and -excitement of battle “gaffed” in the occiput or back of the neck, will -contrast the immediate stiffness and relaxation of the flaccid body with -the prolonged and convulsive struggles of the decapitated bird, with a -sort of curious anxiety to know how long and in what degree sensibility -may linger in the head and in the trunk when severed by the sharp axe. -The history of the guillotine offers many incidents calculated to throw -a doubt on the subject, and the inquiries of Seguret and Sue seem to -prove the existence of post-mortem passion and emotion. - -Among the promptest modes of extinguishing life is the electric fluid. A -flash of lightning will destroy the coagulability of the blood, as well -as the contractility of the muscular fibre; the dead body remaining -flexible. A blow on the epigastrium kills instantly with the same -results. Soldiers fall sometimes in battle without a wound; the impulse -of a cannon-ball passing near the pit of the stomach is here supposed to -be the cause of death. The effect in these two last instances is -ascribed by some to “a shock given to the semilunar ganglion, and the -communication of the impression to the heart;” but this is insufficient -to account either for the quickness of the occurrence, or the peculiar -changes impressed upon the solids and fluids. Others are of opinion that -the whole set of respiratory nerves is paralyzed through the violent -shock given to the phrenic, “thus shutting up,” as one writer expresses -it, “the fountain of all the sympathetic actions of the system.” This -hypothesis is liable also to the objections urged above; and we must -acknowledge the suddenness and character of the results described to be -as yet unexplained, and in the present state of our knowledge -inexplicable. - -On the field of battle, it has been observed that the countenances of -those killed by gun-shot wounds are usually placid, while those who -perish by the sword, bayonet, pike, or lance, offer visages distorted by -pain, or by emotions of anger or impatience. Poisons differ much among -themselves as to the amount and kind of suffering they occasion. We know -of none which are absolutely free from the risk of inflicting severe -distress. Prussic acid gives perhaps the briefest death which we have -occasion to observe. I have seen it, as Taylor states, kill an animal, -when applied to the tongue or the eye, almost before the hand which -offered it could be removed. Yet in the case of Tawell, tried for the -murder of Sarah Hart, by this means, there was abundant testimony that -many, on taking it, had time to utter a loud and peculiar scream of -anguish: and in a successful attempt at suicide made by a physician of -New York city, we have a history of appalling suffering and violent -convulsion. So I have seen in suicide with opium, which generally gives -an easy and soporose death resembling that of apoplexy, one or two -instances in which there were very great and long-protracted pain and -sickness. - -Medical writers have agreed, very generally, that “the death-struggle,” -“the agony of death,” as it has long been termed is not what it appears, -a stage of suffering. I am not satisfied—I say it reluctantly—I am not -satisfied with these consolatory views, so ingeniously and plausibly -advocated by Wilson Philip, and Symonds, Hufeland and Hoffman. I would -they were true! But all the symptoms look like tokens or expressions of -distress; we may hope that they are not always such in reality: but how -can this be proved? Those who, having seemed to die, recovered afterward -and declared that they had undergone no pain, do not convince me of the -fact any more than the somnambulist, who upon awaking, assures me that -he has not dreamed at all, after a whole night of action, and connected -thought and effected purpose. His memory retains no traces of the -questionable past; like that of the epileptic, who forgets the whole -train of events, and is astonished after a horrible fit to find his -tongue bitten, and his face and limbs bruised and swollen. - -Nay, some have proceeded to the paradoxical extreme of suggesting that -certain modes of death are attended with pleasurable sensations, as for -instance, hanging; and a late reviewer, who regards this sombre topic -with a most cheerful eye, gives us instances which he considers in -point. I have seen many men hung, forty at least, a strangely large -number. In all, there were evidences of suffering, as far as could be -judged by external appearances. It once happened that a certain set were -slowly executed, owing to a maladroit arrangement of the scaffold upon -which they stood, which gave way only at one end. The struggles of such -as were half supported were dreadful, and those of them who could speak -earnestly begged that their agonies should be put an end to. - -In former, nay, even in recent times, we are told that pirates and -robbers have resorted to half-hanging, to extort confession as to hidden -treasure. Is it possible that they can have so much mistaken the means -they employ as thus to use pleasurable appliances for the purposes of -torture? - -The mistake of most reasoners on the subject, Winslow and Hufeland more -especially, consists in this, that they fix their attention exclusively -upon the final moments of dissolution. But the act of dying may be in -disease, as we know it to be in many modes of violence, impalement, for -example, or crucifixion, very variously protracted and progressive. -“Insensibly as we enter life,” says Hufeland, “equally insensibly do we -leave it. Man can have no sensation of dying.” Here the insensibility of -_death completed_, that is, of _the dead body_, is strangely predicated -of the moribund while still living. This transitive condition, to use -the graphic language of the Southern writer whom we have already more -than once quoted, is “a terra incognita, where vitality, extinguished in -some tissues, smouldering in others, and disappearing gradually from -all, resembles the region of a volcano, whose eruptions subsiding, leave -the surface covered with cinders and ashes, concealing the rents and -lesions which have on all sides scarred and disfigured the face of -nature.” - -Besides this, we have no right to assume, as Hufeland has here done, the -insensibility of the child at birth. It is subject to disease before -birth; as soon as it draws a breath, it utters loud cries and sobs. To -pronounce all its actions “mechanical, instinctive, necessary, -automatic,” in fact, is a very easy solution of the question; but I -think neither rational nor conclusive. If you prick it or burn it, you -regard its cries as proving sensibility to pain; but on the application -of air to its delicate and hitherto protected skin, and the distension -of its hitherto quiet lung, the same cry, you say, is mechanical and -inexpressive. So Leibnitz explained, to his own satisfaction, the -struggles and moans of the lower animals as automatic, being embarrassed -with metaphysical and moral difficulties on the score of their -intelligence and liability to suffering. But no one now espouses his -theory, and we must accept, whether we can explain them or not, the -facts that the lower animals are liable to pain during their entire -existence, and that the heritage of their master is, from and during -birth to the last moment of languishing vitality, a sad legacy of wo and -suffering. - -Unhappily we may appeal, in this discussion, directly to the evidence of -our senses, to universal experience and observation. Who can doubt the -tortures inflicted in tetanus? to alleviate which, indeed, I have more -than once been solicited for poison. Does not every one know the -grievous inflictions of cancer, lasting through months and years, and -continuing, as I have myself seen, within a short hour of the absolute -extinction of life, in spite of every effort to relieve it? The most -painful of deaths apparently is that which closes the frightful tragedy -of hydrophobia, and patients, to hurry it, often ask most urgently for -any means of prompt destruction. But these more intense and acute pangs -are not the only form of intolerable agony. Unquenchable thirst, a -dreadfully progressive suffocation, confusion of the senses and of -thought—these are inflictions that nature shudderingly recoils from, -and these, or their manifestations, are scarcely ever wanting on the -death-bed. - -If any one should ask why I thus endeavor to prove what it is revolting -to us all to believe or admit, I answer—first, that truth is always -desirable to be known both for its own sake and because it is ever -pregnant with ultimate benefit and utility. More than one moribund has -expressed to me his surprise and horror—shall I say disappointment too? -at finding the dark valley of the shadow of death so rough and gloomy -and full of terrors. Is it not better that we should be as thoroughly -and adequately prepared for the stern reality as may be, and that we -should summon up all the patience and fortitude requisite to bear us -through? When the last moment is actually at hand, we can safely assure -our friends that they will soon reach a state of rest and -unconsciousness, and that meanwhile, as they die more and more, they -will less and less feel the pain of dying. Secondly, by appreciating -properly the nature and amount of the pangs of death, we shall be led to -a due estimate of the demand for their relief or palliation, and of the -obligation incumbent on us to institute every proper effort for that -purpose with zeal and assiduity. He who believes with Hufeland, that the -moribund is insensible, is likely to do little to solace or comfort him. - -There are doubtless instances of death entirely easy. “I wish,” said -Doctor Black, “I could hold a pen; I would write how pleasant a thing it -is to die.” Dr. George Fordyce desired his youngest daughter to read to -him. When she had been reading some time, he called to her—“Stop; go -out of the room; I am going to die.” She left him, and an attendant, -entering immediately, found him dead. “Is it possible I am dying?” -exclaimed a lady patient of mine; “I feel as if going into a sweet -sleep.” “I am drowsy, had I better indulge myself?” asked Capt. G. On my -giving him an affirmative answer, he turned, and sank into a slumber -from which he awoke no more. It is indeed pleasant to know that examples -occur of this unconscious and painless dissolution; but I fear they are -comparatively rare exceptions to a natural rule; and I regard it as the -duty of the medical profession to add to the number by the judicious -employment of every means in our power. - -And this leads me to a brief consideration of the question so often -pressed upon us in one shape or another by the friends of our patients, -and sometimes by our patients themselves: If the tendency of any -medicinal or palliative agent be to shorten life, while it assuages -pain, has the physician a right to resort to it? Even in the latter -stages of some inflammatory affections, loss of blood, especially if -carried to fainting, will arrest the sharp pangs, but the patient will -probably die somewhat sooner: shall we bleed him? Large doses of opium -will tranquilize him, or render him insensible; but he will probably -sink somewhat earlier into the stupor of death. Shall we administer it, -or shall we let him linger on in pain, merely that he may linger? -Chloroform, ether, and other anæsthetics in full dose inspired render us -insensible to all forms of anguish, and make death as easy, to use the -phrase of Hufeland, as being born! Shall we allow our agonized moribund -to inhale them? Used in less amount, a degree of relief and palliation -is procured, but at the risk of exhausting or prostrating more promptly -the failing energies of the system. Shall we avail ourselves of their -anæsthetic influences, or are they forbidden us, either absolutely or -partially? - -These are by some moralists considered very delicate questions in -ethics. Desgenettes has been highly applauded for the reply he made to -Bonaparte’s suggestion, that it would be better for the miserable sick -left by the French army at Jaffa to be drugged with opium: “It is my -business to save life, not to destroy it.” But, in approving the -physician, we must not harshly condemn the commanding officer. When we -reflect on the condition of the men whom the fortune of war compelled -him to abandon, and the certainty of a horrible death to each victim -from wasting disease or Turkish cruelty, a rational philanthropist might -well desire to smooth their passage to the grave. - -During the employment of torture for the purposes of tyranny in Church -and State, a physician or surgeon was at hand, whose whole duty it was -to suspend the process whenever it became probable that nature would -yield under its pressure, and the victim would escape through the -opening, glad gates of death. It was then esteemed an act of mercy to -give, or permit to be given by the executioner, a fatal blow, hence -called emphatically and justly the _coup de grace_. In the terrible -history of the invasion of Russia by Napoleon, we shudder to read that, -after their expulsion from Moscow, the French soldiers, in repassing the -fields of battles fought days and even weeks previously, found many of -their comrades, there wounded and left, still dragging out a wretched -and hopeless existence, amidst the corpses of those more fortunately -slain outright, and perishing miserably and slowly of cold and hunger, -and festering and gangrenous wounds. One need not surely offer a single -argument to prove, all must feel and admit that the kindest office of -humanity, under the circumstances, would have been to put an end to this -indescribable mass of protracted wretchedness by the promptest means -that could be used to extinguish so horrible a life. - -A common case presents itself from time to time to every practitioner, -in which all hope is avowedly extinct, and yet, in consonance with -uniform custom, stimulants are assiduously prescribed to prolong -existence in the midst of convulsive and delirious throes, not to be -looked on without dismay. In some such contingencies, where the ultimate -result was palpably certain, I have seen them at last abandoned as -useless and worse, in order that nature, irritated and excited, lashed -into factitious and transitory energy, might sink into repose; and have -felt a melancholy satisfaction in witnessing the tranquillity, so soft -and gentle, that soon ensued; the stormy agitation subsiding into a calm -and peaceful decay. - -Responsibility of the kind I am contemplating, often indeed more obvious -and definite, presses upon the obstetrician, and is met unreservedly. In -embryulcia, one life is sacrificed in the hope and with the reasonable -prospect of saving another more valued: this is done too sometimes where -there is an alternative presented, the Cæsarian section, which destroys -neither of absolute necessity, but subjects the better life to very -great risk. - -Patients themselves frequently prefer the prompter and more lenient -motives of death which our science refuses to inflict. In summing up the -motives of suicide in one hundred and thirty-one cases, whose causes are -supposed to be known, Prevost tells us that thirty-four, more than -one-fourth of the whole number, committed self-murder to rid themselves -of the oppressive burden of physical disease. Winslow gives us an -analysis of thirteen hundred and thirty-three suicides from Pinel, -Esquirol, Burrows, and others. Of these, there were but two hundred and -fifty that did not present obvious appearances of bodily ailment; and -although it is not stated how many of them sought death voluntarily as a -refuge from physical suffering, it would be unreasonable to doubt that -this was the purpose with a very large proportion. I am far from -advocating the propriety of yielding to this desire or gratifying the -propensity; nay, I would, on the other hand, earnestly endeavor to -remove or repress it, as is now the admitted rule. - -I hold fully, with Pascal, that, according to the principles of -Christianity, which in this entirely oppose the false notions of -paganism, a man “does not possess power over his own life.” I -acknowledge and maintain that the obligation to perform unceasingly, and -to the last and utmost of our ability, all the duties which appertain to -our condition, renders absolutely incompatible the right supposed by -some to belong to every one to dispose of himself at his own will. But I -would present the question for the serious consideration of the -profession, whether there does not, now and then, though very rarely, -occur an exceptional case, in which they might, upon full and frank -consultation, be justified before God and man in relieving, by the -efficient use of anæsthetics, at whatever risk, the ineffable and -incurable anguish of a fellow-creature laboring under disease of organic -destructiveness, or inevitably mortal; such, for example, as we are -doomed to witness in hydrophobia, and even more clearly in some -instances of cancerous and fungoid degeneration, and in the sphacelation -of organs necessary to life, or parts so connected as to be -indispensable, yet not allowing either of removal or restoration? - -I have left myself scarcely time for a few remarks upon death, -psychologically considered. How is the mind affected by the anticipation -and actual approach of death? The answer will obviously depend upon and -be influenced by a great diversity of contingencies, moral and physical. -The love of life is an instinct implanted in us for wise purposes; so is -the fear of pain. Apart from this, I do not believe, as many teach, that -there is any instinctive fear of death. Education, which instills into -us, when young, the fear of spectres; religious doctrines, which awake -in us the terror of “something after death;” conscience, which, when -instructed, “makes cowards of us all;” associations of a revolting -character— - - “The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave— - The deep, damp vault, the darkness, and the worm;” - -these startle and appal us. - - “Man makes a death that nature never made, - Then on the point of his own fancy falls. - And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.” - -We sympathize duly with every instinct of nature; we all feel the love -of life, and accord readily in the warmest expression of it; but we -recoil from every strong exhibition of the fear of death as unreasonable -and dastardly. - -When Claudio reminds his noble sister that “death is a fearful thing,” -she replies well—“and shamed life a hateful!” But when he rejoins— - - “The weariest and most loathed worldly life - That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment - Can lay on nature, is a paradise - To what we fear of death;” - -we anticipate her in bidding him “Perish! for a faithless coward, and a -beast.” - -In the same contemptible and shrinking spirit, Mæcenas, in a passage -from Seneca— - - “Vita, dum superest bene est - Hunc mihi vel acuta - Si sedeam cruce, sustine.” - -Among hypochondriacs, we often meet with the seemingly paradoxical -combination of an intense dread of death unassociated with any -perceptible attachment to life; a morbid and most pitiable condition, -which urges some to repeated, but ineffectual attempts at suicide. I -know not a state of mind more utterly wretched. - -Both these sentiments, whether instinctive or educational, are, we -should observe, very strikingly influenced by circumstances. -Occasionally, they seem to be obliterated, or nearly so; not only in -individuals, but in large masses, nay, in whole communities; as during -great social convulsions; through the reign of a devastating pestilence; -under the shock of repeated disorders of the elements; as in -earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, storms, and inundations; in protracted -sieges, and in shipwrecks. The Reign of Terror produced this state of -feeling in France, and thousands went to the scaffold indifferently, or -with a jest. Boccacio and others have pictured the same state of -undejected despair, if such a phrase be permitted, in which men succumb -to fate, and say, with a sort of cheerful hardihood, “Let us eat and -drink, for to-morrow we die,” losing thus all dread even of the plague. -Pliny the younger, in his flight from Mycena, under the fatal shower of -ashes from Vesuvius, heard, amidst the darkness, the prayers of wretches -“who desired to die, that they might be released from the expectation of -death.” And Byron, in his magnificent description of the shipwreck, in -Don Juan, tells us— - - “Some leaped overboard with dreadful yell, - As eager to anticipate the grave.” - -Shakspeare’s Constance, in her grief, draws well the character of death, -as— - - “Misery’s love, - The hate and terror of prosperity.” - -A woman who has lost her honor; a soldier convicted of poltroonery; a -patriot who sees his country enslaved; a miser robbed; a speculator -bankrupt; a poet unappreciated, or harshly criticized, as in poor -Keats’s case— - - “Strange that the soul, that very fiery particle, - Should let itself be snuffed out by an article”— - -all these seem to loathe life, or, at any rate, lose much of their -fondness for it. It is curious to remark, too, how little, as in the -last-mentioned instance, will suffice to extinguish, abruptly or -gradually, this usually tenacious instinct. A man in York cut his -throat, because, as he left in writing, “he was tired of buttoning and -unbuttoning.” The occurrence of a loathsome but very curable disease in -a patient of mine, just when he was about to be married, induced him to -plunge among the breakers off Sullivan’s Island, on one of the coldest -days of our coldest winter. A Pole in New York wrote some verses just -before the act of self-destruction, implying that he was so weary of -uncertainty as to the truth of the various theories of the present and -future life, that he “had set out on a journey to the other world to -find out what he ought to believe in this.” - -We are always interested in observing the conduct of brave men, who -exhibit a strongly-marked love of life, with little or no fear of death. -Danton, Camille Desmoulins, and Herault Sechelles, who commenced their -revolutionary career as reckless as they seemed ferocious, having -attained elevation, acquired wealth, and married beautiful women, became -merciful and prudent. Hunted in their turn by the bloodhounds of the -time, they made the most earnest endeavors to escape, but displayed a -noble courage in meeting their fate when inevitable. - -It is a trite but true remark, that men will boldly face one mode of -death, and shrink timidly from another. A soldier, whom discipline will -lead without flinching “up to the imminent deadly breach,” will cower -before a sea-storm. Women, even in the act of suicide, dreading -explosion and blood, prefer poison and drowning. Men very often choose -firearms and cutting instruments, which habit has made familiar. - -If the nervous or sensorial system escape lesion during the ravages of -disease, the conduct of the last hour will be apt to be consistent with -the previous character of the individual. Hobbes spoke gravely of death -as “a leap in the dark.” Hume talked lightly of Charon and his -ferry-boat. Voltaire made verses with his usual levity— - - “Adieu, mes amis! adieu, la compagnie! - Dans deux heures d’ici, mon âme aneantie - Sera ce que je fus deux heures avant ma vie.” - -Keats murmured, poetically, “I feel the flowers growing on my grave.” -Dr. Armstrong died prescribing for a patient; Lord Tenterden, uttering -the words “Gentlemen of the Jury, you will find;” General Lord Hill, -exclaiming “Horrid war!” Dr. Adams, of the Edinburgh High School, “It -grows dark; the boys may dismiss!” The last words of La Place were, “Ce -que nous connaissons est peu de chose; ce que nous ignorons, est -immense!” - -The history of suicide, of death in battle, and of executions, is full -of such instances of consistent conduct and character. Madame Roland -desired to have pen and paper accorded to her, at the “Place de la -Guillotine,” that she might, as she phrased it, “set down the thoughts -that were rising in her mind.” Sir Thomas More jested pleasantly as he -mounted the scaffold. Thistlewood, the conspirator, a thoughtful man, -remarked to one of his fellow-sufferers that, “in five minutes more, -they would be in possession of the great secret.” When Madame de -Joulanges and her sisters were executed, they chanted together the Veni -Creator on their way from the prison to the fatal spot. Head after head -fell under the axe, but the celestial strain was prolonged until the -very last voice was hushed in the sudden silence of death. - -The delirium of the moribund exhibits itself in diversified and often -contrasted manifestations. Symonds looks upon it as closely analogous to -the condition of the mind in dreaming. A popular and ancient error -deserves mention, only to be corrected; that the mind, at the near -approach of dissolution, becomes unusually clear, vigorous, and active. - - “The soul’s dark cottage, battered and decayed, - Lets in new light through chinks which Time has made.” - -Excitement of the uncontrolled imagination, as in dreams, and other -modes of delirium, is frequently mistaken for general mental energy; -some suggested association arouses trains of thought that have made deep -traces in the memory; scenes familiar in early childhood are vividly -described, and incidents long past recalled with striking minuteness. -All physicians know the difference familiarly presented in diseases, -some of which specifically occasion despondency and dejection of -spirits, while others render indifferent or even give rise to -exhilaration. The former constitute a class unhappily numerous. Cholera, -which at a distance excites terrors almost insane, is usually attended -with a careless stolidity, when it has laid its icy hand upon its -victim. The cheerful hopefulness of the consumptive patient is -proverbial; and in many instances of yellow fever, we find the moribund -patient confident of recovery. These are the exceptions, however; and we -cannot too often repeat that the religious prejudice which argues -unfavorably of the previous conduct and present character from the -closing scene of an agitating and painful illness, or from the last -words, uttered amidst bodily anguish and intellectual confusion, is -cruel and unreasonable, and ought to be loudly denounced. We can well -enough understand why an English Elizabeth, Virgin Queen, as history -labels her, could not lie still for a moment, agitated as she must have -been by a storm of remorseful recollections, nor restrain her shrieks of -horror long enough even to listen to a prayer. But how often does it -happen that “the wicked has no bands in his death;” and the awful -example of deep despair in the Stainless One, who cried out in his agony -that he was forsaken of God, should serve to deter us from the daily -repeated and shocking rashness of the decisions against which I am now -appealing. - -Some minds have seemed firm enough, it is true, to maintain triumphantly -this last terrible struggle, and resist in a measure at least the -depressing influence of disease. Such instances cannot, however, be -numerous; and we should be prepared rather to sympathize with and make -all due allowance for human weakness. I have seen such moments of -yielding as it was deeply painful to witness, at the bedside of many of -the best of men, whose whole lives had been a course of consistent -goodness and piety, when warned of impending death, and called on to -make those preparations which custom has unfortunately led us to look -upon as gloomy landmarks at the entrance of the dark valley. - -One of these, from youth to age a most esteemed and valued member of one -of our most fervent religious bodies, with sobs and tears, and loud -wailing, threw the pen and paper from him, exclaiming, over and over -again, “I will not—I cannot—I must not die.” Like the eccentric -Salvini, of whom Spence tells us that he died, crying out in a great -passion, “Je ne veux pas mourir, absolument;” and Lannes, the bravest of -Bonaparte’s marshals, when mortally wounded, struggled angrily and -fearfully, shouting with his last breath, “Save me, Napoleon!” - -But I recoil from farther discussion of a topic so full of awe and -solemn interest, and conclude this prosaic “Thanatopsis” with the -Miltonian strain of Bryant, who terminates his noble poem, thus styled, -in language worthy of the best age and brightest laurel of our tongue:— - - “So live, that, when thy summons comes to join - The innumerable caravan, that moves - To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take - His chamber in the silent halls of death, - Thou go not like the quarry slave at night, - Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed - By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, - Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch - About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.” - ------ - -[7] From Essays on Life, Sleep, Pain, etc., just published by Blanchard -& Lea, Philadelphia. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO A FRIEND IN THE SPIRIT LAND. - - - BY L——, OF EASTFORD HERMITAGE. - - - Time passes wearily with me - Since thou hast joined the spirit throng; - I miss thy laugh that rang with glee— - The music of thy voice and song; - And though each day I meet bright eyes, - That look with tenderness on mine, - And cheeks that with the coral vies, - And tones that seem almost divine, - Still they can wake no gentle chord - To vibrate deeply in the heart; - For each bright glance and gentle word, - Must fail to charm while we’re apart. - Then speed thee, Time, upon thy way. - Swift on thy fleeting pinions soar; - And hasten on that blissful day, - When we shall meet to part no more. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE PHILADELPHIA ART-UNION. - - -While other Art-Unions throughout the country are falling into -disrepute, that of Philadelphia seems to be rising in favor. - -This cannot be owing to the absence of discouragements. Like all similar -institutions, it suffered severely from the pressure of the money-market -during the last six months of the year 1851. It found, in common with -others, that money was not forthcoming for the promotion of art, when it -commanded from one to two per cent. a month on ’change—that men could -not, or would not buy pictures, when they were obliged to strain every -nerve to save themselves from bankruptcy. - -Besides the serious loss of revenue arising from this source, the -Philadelphia Art-Union lost by fire its two most valuable steel plates, -just at the moment when it was about to reap from them a golden harvest. -These splendid plates, “Mercy’s Dream,” and “Christiana and her Family,” -which had cost the society several thousand dollars, and which were -unquestionably among the most attractive prints ever issued in this -country, were entirely destroyed in the conflagration of Hart’s -buildings in this city. - -It is not, therefore, mere good luck, nor the absence of discouraging -circumstances, that has given the Philadelphia Art-Union its present -condition of success. This success is based on the principles of its -organization, which differ materially from those of other kindred -associations. - -In the first place, though located nominally in Philadelphia, and having -its Board of Managers here, it is really an Art-Union for every place -where it finds subscribers. Its prize-holders may select their prizes -from any gallery in the United States, or may order a picture from any -artist of their own selection. This puts it entirely out of the power of -the Board of Managers, even if they had the inclination, to exercise -favoritism toward any particular clique of artists, or to practice any -kind of fraud or trickery either in the purchase or the valuation of -pictures. - -Secondly, and for the very reason just assigned, the Philadelphia -Art-Union enjoys in a high degree the confidence of the artists -themselves. They know by experience that its free gallery is the means -of selling a large number of pictures, besides those which are ordered -in consequence of the annual distributions. They know also that in order -to sell their pictures, or to obtain orders for painting, they have not -to cater to the fancies or caprices of a small clique of managers, but -to appeal to the public at large, depending solely upon the general -principles of their art. In other Art-Unions, the managers themselves -select and buy the pictures that are to be distributed as prizes. Hence -they are almost invariably regarded with jealousy by every artist who -does not receive from them an order—that is, by at least nine-tenths of -the whole body. The artist sees, however, that the Philadelphia -Art-Union does not admit of any favoritism of this kind. Its very plan -renders the thing impossible. If any particular artist finds that among -the prize-holders, no order or purchase has come to his studio, he may -see in it evidence perhaps that he has not pleased the public taste, but -no evidence of partiality in the Board of Managers. So far as their -operations are concerned, they give to all competitors “a fair field and -no favor”—and this is all that the artist asks. - -That this view of the subject is the true one, and that the artists -themselves so view it, has been conclusively shown by their action on -the occasion of the losses of the institution by the late fire. The -artists of Philadelphia, on hearing of this disaster, called a meeting, -of their own accord, and passed a series of resolutions, approving in -the most unqualified manner both the plan and the management of the -institution, and agreeing severally to paint a picture of the value of -at least fifty dollars, and to present the same to the Art-Union. -Several other gentlemen, amateurs and patrons of art, stimulated by this -generosity, joined them in the enterprise, and already about fifty -valuable prizes have been thus guarantied. - -It is obvious that they have entered upon this matter in a generous -spirit, with that animation and hearty good-will which spring naturally -from the circumstances. Every one at all conversant with art or artists, -knows how much the excellence of a picture, its very life and soul—all, -in fact, that distinguishes it as a work of art, or raises it above a -mere piece of mechanism—depends upon the feeling of the artist while -creating it. The noble enthusiasm with which the artists have entered -upon the present arrangement, is the best guaranty that the Art-Union -will have from each painter one of the happiest efforts of his -genius—something done under the direct influence of inspiration. -Indeed, we happen to know that several of our most eminent artists -intend to lay themselves out on this occasion—resolved to show what -artists are, and what they can do, for an institution which commands -their confidence. - -Mr. Rothermel has signified his intention to paint a picture worth $500; -Mr. Paul Weber a landscape worth $500; Mr. A. Woodside a picture worth -$500; Mr. Scheussele a Scriptural subject worth $250; Mr. Sully a -picture worth $100; Mr. Joshua Shaw a landscape worth $75; and several -others have promised pictures at prices varying from $50 (the minimum) -to $75, $100, $150, etc. The names of the other artists and amateurs who -have offered original pictures of this description, are Rembrandt Peale, -James Hamilton, Isaac L. Williams, Wm. A. K. Martin, Wm. F. Jones, Wm. -E. Winner, Leo. Elliot, F. de Bourg Richards, George C. White, John -Wiser, J. K. Trego, George W. Holmes, Geo. W. Conarroe, John Sartain, -Alex. Lawrie, Jr., Samuel Sartain, G. R. Bonfield, S. B. Waugh, W. T. -Richards, Aaron Stein, R. A Clarke, W. Sanford Mason, J. R. Lambdin, G. -C. Lambdin, J. Wilson, May Stevenson, I. W. Moore, T. H. Glessing, W. H. -Wilcox, Thomas A. Andrews, George F. Meeser, James S. Earle, Edward F. -Dennison, George W. Dewey, James L. Claghorn. Others will, no doubt, be -added to the list. - -About fifty splendid original works of art, ranging in value from $50 to -$500 each, have thus been placed absolutely at the disposal of the Board -of Managers, and have been by them specifically pledged to the -subscribers at the next distribution. - -Besides this, Mr. Rothermel has just finished for the Art-Union a great -historical painting of Patrick Henry making his celebrated revolutionary -speech before the Virginia House of Burgesses. This picture is -undoubtedly Mr. Rothermel’s master-piece. He has thrown into it all the -fire of his genius, all the ardor of his patriotism, all the -accumulations of his knowledge and skill as one of the practiced and -leading historical painters of the day. - -The historical scene which Mr. Rothermel has commemorated in this -painting is the passage of Patrick Henry’s resolutions on the Stamp Act -in the House of Burgesses, in the year 1765. The passage of these -resolutions was the first bold note of defiance that was uttered on this -side of the Atlantic. The manner in which they were carried through the -House is thus described by his biographer: - -“It was, indeed, the measure which raised him [Mr. Henry] to the zenith -of his glory. He had never before had a subject which entirely matched -his genius, and was capable of drawing out all the powers of his mind. -It was remarked of him, throughout his life, that his talents never -failed to rise with the occasion, and in proportion with the resistance -which he had to encounter. The nicety of the vote, on the last -resolution, proves that this was not a time to hold in reserve any part -of his forces. It was, indeed, an Alpine passage, under circumstances -even more unpropitious than those of Hannibal; for he had not only to -fight, hand to hand, the powerful party who were already in possession -of the heights, but at the same instant to cheer and animate the timid -band of followers, that were trembling, and fainting, and drawing back -below him. It was an occasion that called upon him to put forth all his -strength; and he did put it forth, in such a manner as man never did -before. The cords of argument with which his adversaries frequently -flattered themselves that they had bound him fast, became packthreads in -his hands. He burst them with as much ease as the unshorn Samson did the -bands of the Philistines. He seized the pillars of the temple, shook -them terribly, and seemed to threaten his opponents with ruin. It was an -incessant storm of lightning and thunder, which struck them aghast. The -faint-hearted gathered courage from his countenance, and cowards became -heroes while they gazed upon his exploits. It was in the midst of this -magnificent debate, while he was descanting on the tyranny of the -obnoxious act, that he exclaimed in a voice of thunder, and with the -look of a god, ‘Cæsar had his Brutus—Charles the First his -Cromwell—and George the Third—’ ‘Treason!’ cried the Speaker. -‘Treason! treason!’ echoed from every part of the house. It was one of -those trying moments which is decisive of character. Henry faltered not -for an instant; but rising to a loftier attitude, and fixing on the -Speaker an eye of the most determined fire, he finished his sentence -with the firmest emphasis—‘_may profit by their example_. If _this_ be -treason—make the most of it!’” - -The exact moment of time which Mr. Rothermel has seized for his -painting, is when the last words which we have quoted, (“_If this be -treason—make the most of it!_”) are dying away upon the ear. The -impassioned orator stands erect and self-possessed, his open hand aloft, -as though a thunder-bolt had just passed from his fingers, and his eye -were quietly awaiting the issue, in the conscious strength of a Jupiter -Tonans. - -Foremost in the foregoing is Richard Henry Lee. Lee sees, by a sort of -prophetic intuition, the full import of this inspired oratory. His very -face, under the magic of Mr. Rothermel’s genius, is a long perspective -of war, desolation, heroic deeds, and the thick-coming glories of -ultimate civic and religious liberty. - -Peyton Randolph, also in the foreground, is a most striking figure. So -is Pendleton, so is Wythe, so is Speaker Robinson. Indeed, every inch of -canvas tells its story. The spectator, who knew nothing of the scene or -of its actors, would instantly and involuntarily become conscious that -he was present at some great world-renowned action. - -But in dwelling upon this fascinating topic, we have been unconsciously -carried away from our main point. This great painting, which was -executed by Mr. Rothermel for the Art-Union, at the price of one -thousand dollars, but which, by its extraordinary excellence, has -already acquired a market value far beyond that sum, _is to be drawn for -among the other prizes at the next annual distribution_. - -Every subscriber, moreover, secures for himself a copy of the engraving -of this great picture, which the Managers have contracted for in a style -of surpassing beauty. The picture itself, and the engraving of it, will -form an era in the history of American art, as the subject itself did in -the history of American Independence. - -Besides this, all the money obtained from the subscribers, after paying -for the engraving and other incidental expenses, is to be distributed, -as heretofore, in money-prizes for the purchase of other works of art, -at the option of the prize-holders. - -Of the general beneficial influence of Art-Unions, at least of those -conducted on the plan of that in Philadelphia, we have not the shadow of -a doubt. We are happy, however, to quote a couple of passages quite in -point. The first is from the _North British Review_. - -“We believe that by a judicious distribution of engravings more may be -done for the culture of the public taste than by any other means -whatsoever. One thoroughly good engraving, fairly established and -domiciled in a house, will do more for the inmates in this respect, than -a hundred visits to a hundred galleries of pictures. It is a teacher of -form, a lecturer on the beautiful, a continually present artistic -influence. Nor do we see any reason why the same system should not be -extended to casts, which might be taken either after the antique, or -some thoroughly good modern sculptor, such as Thorwarldsen. If such a -system were carried out, matters might soon be brought to a state in -which there should scarcely be any family which did not possess within -its own walls the means of forming a taste, and that a genuine and a -high one, both in painting and sculpture.” - -The second passage is still more to the point. It is from our -contemporary, the _Saturday Courier_. - -“This Institution, [The Philadelphia Art-Union,] by its Free Gallery, -and by its being a centre of action for artists and amateurs, is -continually operating in a silent but most perceptible manner upon -public taste. Every visit to the Free Gallery, every picture sold from -its walls, every picture which it is the means of calling into -existence, every print which it sends abroad into the community, is so -much done toward the promotion of a popular taste for what is refined -and elegant, and a consequent _dis_taste for what is coarse, illiberal, -and depraved. Every man in the community has on interest—not merely a -moral, but a pecuniary interest—in the promotion of a popular taste for -the Fine Arts. It is a part of the moral education of society, which, -like all other good popular education, adds at once to the value and the -safety of every man’s property.” - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _Lectures on the History of France. By the Right Honorable Sir - James Stephen, K. C. B., LL. D.; Professor of Modern History in - the University of Cambridge. New York: Harper & Brother. 1 vol. - 8vo._ - -Sir James Stephen is the writer of a number of essays in the Edinburgh -Review, which, at the time they appeared, were mistaken by some readers -as the productions of Macaulay. There were no real grounds for such a -supposition, as Stephen’s mind has hardly a single quality in common -with Macaulay’s, and the resemblance of his style to that of the -historian of the Revolution is of a very superficial kind. Stephen, like -Macaulay, is a writer of clear, clean, short, compact sentences, and -deals largely in historical allusions, parallels and generalizations, -but his diction has none of Macaulay’s rapid movement, and his knowledge -betrays little of Macaulay’s “joyous memory.” Stephen’s mind is large -and rich in acquired information, but it is deficient in passion, and -its ordinary movement is languid, without any of Macaulay’s intellectual -fierceness, eagerness and swift sweep of illustration and -generalization, and without any of Macaulay’s bitterness, partizanship -and scorn of amiable emotions. Stephen, indeed, if he be a mimic, mimics -Mackintosh rather than Macaulay, and in charity, in intellectual -conscientiousness, in courtesy to opponents, in all the benignities and -amenities of scholarship, and also in a certain faint hold upon large -acquisitions, he sometimes resembles without at all equaling him. The -reader is continually impressed with his honesty and benevolence, with -his continual clearness and occasional reach of view, and with his -graceful mastery of the resources of expression; but to continuous vigor -and vividness of conception and language he has no claim. - -The present volume, a large octavo of some seven hundred pages, is -evidently the work of much thought, research and time, though the author -regrets that he was compelled to prepare his lectures without adequate -preparation. They were delivered at the University of Cambridge, Stephen -occupying in that institution the professorship of history. He -succeeded, we believe, William Smythe, a dry, hard and pedantic, though -well read professor, whose lectures on history and on the French -Revolution are the most uninteresting of useful books. Stephen is almost -his equal in historical knowledge, and his superior in the graces of -style and in the power of making his knowledge attractive. His work, -indeed, though it can hardly give him the reputation of a great -historian, is altogether the best view of French history in the English -language, and is an invaluable guide to all who wish to gain a thorough -acquaintance with France in her historical development. It gives the -causes of the decline and fall of the various dynasties of her -government, the character of her feudal system, the steps by which her -government became an absolute monarchy, and the differences between the -absolute monarchy of Henry IV. and Louis XIV. The lectures on the -anti-feudal influence of the municipalities, of the Eastern Crusades, of -the Albigensian Crusades—the masterly view of the position occupied by -the Parliaments, the Privileged Orders and the States General, in -relation to the Monarchy of France—and the expositions of the sources -and management of the revenues of the nation, are all eminently lucid -and valuable, and without any of the ostentatious brilliancy and -paradoxical generalization which are apt to characterize the French -historical school, are really modest contributions to the philosophy of -history. - -Sir James Stephen, in the course of his narration and dissertations, -furnishes us with some elaborate delineations of character. That of -Cardinal Richelieu is especially good. After saying of him that he was -not so much minister as dictator, not so much the agent as the -depositary of the royal power, he adds that, “a king in all things but -the name, he reigned with that exemption from hereditary and domestic -influences which has so often imparted to the Papal monarchs a kind of -preterhuman energy, and has so often taught the world to deprecate the -celibacy of the throne.” His character, as a despotic innovator, is also -finely sketched. “Richelieu was the heir of the designs of Henry IV. and -ancestor to those of Louis XIV. But they courted, and were sustained by, -the applause and the attachment of their subjects. He passed his life in -one unintermitted struggle with each, in turn, of the powerful bodies -over which he ruled. By a long series of well-directed blows, he crushed -forever the political and military strength of the Huguenots. By his -strong hand the sovereign courts were confined to their judicial duties, -and their claims to participate in the government of the state were -scattered to the winds. Trampling under foot all rules of judicial -procedure and the clearest principles of justice, he brought to the -scaffold one after another of the proudest nobles of France, by -sentences dictated by himself to extraordinary judges of his own -selection; thus teaching the doctrine of social equality by lessons too -impressive to be misinterpreted or forgotten by any later generation. -Both the privileges, in exchange for which the greater fiefs had -exchanged their independence, and the franchises, the conquest of which -the cities, in earlier times, had successfully contended, were alike -swept away by this remorseless innovator. He exiled the mother, -oppressed the wife, degraded the brother, banished the confessor, and -put to death the kinsmen and favorites of the king, and compelled the -king himself to be the instrument of these domestic severities. Though -surrounded by enemies and by rivals, his power ended only with his life. -Though beset by assassins, he died in the ordinary course of nature. -Though he had waded to dominion through slaughter, cruelty and wrong, he -passed to his great account amid the applause of the people and the -benedictions of the church; and, as far as any human eye could see, in -hope, in tranquillity and in peace. What, then, is the reason why so -tumultuous a career reached at length so serene a close? The reason is, -that amid all his conflicts Richelieu wisely and successfully maintained -three powerful alliances. He cultivated the attachment of men of -letters, the favor of the commons, and the sympathy of all French -idolaters of the national glory.” - -In some admirable lectures on the Power of the Pen in France, Stephen -gives fine portraits of Rabelais, Montaigne, Calvin and Pascal. One -remark about Calvin struck us as especially felicitous. Speaking of him -as writing his great work in Geneva, he says—“The beautiful lake of -that city, and the mountains which encircle it, lay before his eyes as -he wrote; but they are said to have suggested to his fancy no images, -and to have drawn from his pen not so much as one transient allusion. -With his mental vision ever directed to that melancholy view of the -state and prospects of our race which he had discovered in the Book of -Life, it would, indeed, have been incongruous to have turned aside to -depict any of those glorious aspects of the creative benignity which -were spread around him in the Book of Nature.” - -The most valuable chapters in the volume are perhaps those which relate -to the character and government of Louis XIV. The absolute monarchy -established by him is thoroughly analyzed. Among many curious -illustrations of that tyranny and perfidy which this great master of -king-craft systematized into a science, Stephen translates from his -“Memoires Historiques” a series of maxims, addressed to the Dauphin, for -his guidance whenever he should be called upon to wear the crown of -France. Louis’s celebrated aphorism, “I am the state,” is in these -precious morsels of absolutism expanded into a rule of conduct. We quote -a few of them, as, to republican ears, they may have the effect of -witticisms: - -“It is the will of Heaven, who has given kings to man, that they should -be revered as his vice-regents, he having reserved to himself alone the -right to scrutinize their conduct.” - -“It is the will of God that every subject should yield to his sovereign -on implicit obedience.” - -“The worst calamity which can befall any one of our rank is to be -reduced to that subjection, in which the monarch is obliged to receive -the law from his people.” - -“It is the essential vice of the English monarchy that the king can make -no extraordinary levies of men or money without the consent of the -Parliament, nor convene the Parliament without impairing his own -authority.” - -“All property within our realm belongs to us in virtue of the same -title. The funds actually deposited in our treasury, the funds in the -hands of the revenue officers, _and the funds which we allow our people -to employ in their various occupations_, are all _equally_ subject to -our control.” - -“Be assured that kings are absolute lords, who may fitly and freely -dispose of all property in the possession either of churchmen or of -laymen, though they are bound always to employ it as faithful stewards.” - -“Since the lives of his subjects belong to the prince, he is obliged to -be solicitous for the preservation of them.” - -“The first basis of all other reforms was the rendering my own will -properly absolute.” - -Some of his remarks on treaties, from the same volume, convey a fair -impression of the king’s good faith to his allies. All mankind knows -that he was in conduct a measureless liar and trickster, and that no -treaty could hold him; but it is not perhaps generally known that he -generalized perfidy into a principle, and had no conception that in so -doing he was violating any moral or religious duty. He thus solemnly -instructs the dauphin— - -“In dispensing with the exact observance of treaties, we do not violate -them; for the language of such instruments is not to be understood -literally. We must employ in our treaties a conventional phraseology, -just as we use complimentary expressions in society. They are -indispensable in our intercourse with one another, but they always mean -much less than they say. The more unusual, circumspect and reiterated -were the clauses by which the Spaniards excluded me from assisting -Portugal, the more evident it is that the Spaniards did not believe that -I should really withhold such assistance.” - - * * * * * - - _The Podesta’s Daughter, and other Miscellaneous Poems. By - George H. Boker. Author of “Calaynos,” “Anne Boleyn,” “The - Betrothal,” etc. Philadelphia: A. Hart._ - -Mr. Boker is ever a welcome visitant among the regions of literature. -The present volume is understood to be composed of those lighter efforts -of his muse which have engaged his attention at intervals between the -composition of his larger works, “Calaynos,” “Anne Boleyn” and “The -Betrothal.” Some of these minor poems have already seen the light, under -the auspices of our leading magazines; but by far the greater part of -the book is fresh, and all of it bears evidence of that genuine -inspiration, and that high finish, without which the author never -appears before the reading public. - -“The Podesta’s Daughter” is an Italian tale or legend, thrown into that -dramatic form for which Mr. Boker has shown such a remarkable gift. The -story is very briefly this. A lowly maiden is loved and wooed by one far -above her in life, a son of the neighboring duke. The father and brother -of the maid, believing the high-born youth to be merely selfish and -insidious in his offers of love and marriage, seek to rescue her from -what appears to them a fatal snare, and persuade her to reject his -addresses and even pretend to be affianced to another, a country hind in -her own walk in life. The young and uncalculating noble, stung to the -quick by her apparent preference of a rival so utterly unworthy of him -and of her, suddenly abandoned his home and castle, and engaged during -all the prime and meridian of his days in distant foreign wars. In the -evening of life he returns, alone and almost a stranger, to the scenes -of his youth. On approaching his castle, he falls in with an old man, -the “Podesta,” by whom he is not recognized. In the dialogue between -them, the Podesta, being questioned by the apparent stranger, tells the -story of himself and family, and especially of his “daughter,” by whose -untimely grave they are standing. She died of a broken heart, after the -abrupt departure of the young duke, years ago. It is the old story. True -love, not left to its native instincts, but thwarted and driven devious -by the manœuvres of the suspicious. Though Italian in manners, and -dramatic in form, it is a true story of the heart. It is told with -infinite skill, and must win for its author a bright addition to the -chaplet which already surrounds his brow. - -The first scene in the “Podesta’s Daughter,” is a good instance of the -quiet ease with which Mr. Boker makes an actor bring out the points of a -story, so that the reader is at once posted up to the very moment of -action. - - SCENE—_Before and within the gate of an Italian Churchyard. - Enter (as if from the wars,)_ Duke Odo, Vincenzo, _and a train - of men-at-arms_. - - _Duke Odo (dismounting.)_ - Hark you, Vincenzo; here will I dismount. - Lead on Falcone to the castle. See - He lack no provender or barley-straw - To ease his battered sides. Poor war-worn horse! - When last we galloped past this church-yard gate, - He was a colt, gamesome and hot of blood, - Bearing against the bit until my arm - Ached with his humors. Mark the old jade now— - He knows we talk about him—a mere boy - Might ride him bare-back. Give my people note - Of my approach, and tell them, for yourself, - I will not look too strictly at my house: - An absent lord trains careless servitors. - I wish no bonfires lighted on the hills, - No peaceful cannon roused to mimic wrath; - Say, I have seen cities burn, and shouting ranks - Of solid steel-clad footmen melt away - Before a hundred pieces. Say I come for rest, - Not jollity; and all I seek - Is a calm welcome in their lighted eyes, - And quiet murmurs that appear to come - More from the heart than lips. - -The manner in which the intimacy began between the young count and the -Podesta’s daughter, Giulia, is described in a passage remarkable equally -for its simplicity and its beauty. It is a good specimen also of the -author’s power of nicely discriminating character. - - Count Odo—mark the contrast—so we called, - Through ancient courtesy, the old duke’s son— - Came from the Roman breed of Italy. - A hundred Cæsars poured their royal blood - Through his full veins. He was both flint and fire; - Haughty and headlong, shy, imperious, - Tender, disdainful, tearful, full of frowns— - Cold as the ice on Ætna’s wintry brow, - And hotter than its flame. All these by turns. - A mystery to his tutors and to me— - Yet some have said his father fathomed him— - A mystery to my daughter, but a charm - Deeper than magic. Him my daughter loved. - . . . . . . - My functions drew me to the castle oft, - Thither sometimes my daughter went with me; - And I have noticed how young Odo’s eyes - Would light her up the stairway, lead her on - From room to room, through hall and corridor, - Showing her wonders, which were stale to him, - With a new strangeness: for familiar things, - Beneath her eyes, grew glorified to him, - And woke a strain of boyish eloquence, - Dressed with high thoughts and fluent images, - That sometimes made him wonder at himself, - Who had been blind so long to every charm - Which her admiring fancy gave his home. - Oft I have caught them standing rapt before - Some barbarous portrait, grim with early art— - A Gorgon, to a nicely balanced eye, - That scarcely hinted at humanity; - Yet they would crown it with the port of Jove, - Make every wrinkle a heroic scar, - And light that garbage of forgotten times - With such a legendary halo, as would add - Another lustre to the Golden Book. - At first the children pleased me; many a laugh, - That reddened them, I owed their young romance. - But the time sped, and Giulia ripened too, - Yet would not deem herself the less a child: - And when I clad me for the castle, she - Would deck herself in the most childish gear, - And lay her hand in mine, and tranquilly - Look for the kindness in my eyes. She called - Odo her playfellow—“The little boy who showed - The pictures and the blazoned hooks, - The glittering armor and the oaken screen, - Grotesque with wry-faced purgatorial shapes - Twisted through all its leaves and knotted vines; - And the grand, solemn window, rich with forms - Of showy saints in holyday array - Of green, gold, red, orange and violet, - With the pale Christ who towered above them all - Dropping a ruby splendor from his side.” - She told how “Odo—silly child! would try - To catch the window’s glare upon her neck, - Or her round arms,” and how “the flatterer vowed - The gleam upon her temple seemed to pale - Beside the native color of her cheek.” - Prattle like this enticed me to her wish, - Though cooler reason shook his threatening hand, - And counseled flat denial. - - -But by far the finest poem in this collection is the “Ivory Carver.” In -the prologue to this poem, - - Three Spirits, more than angels, met - By an Arabian well-side, set - Far in the wilderness, a place - Hallowed by legendary grace. - -By this retired fountain the spirits enter into a discussion concerning -the condition and prospects of their protégé man. Two of them are -evidently croakers. To them the world seems, as to any moral progress, -stationary, if not actually retrograding. They are almost indignant that -the Lord does not consign the planet with its inhabitants at once to -perdition. But the third spirit, a superior intelligence, - - One, chief among the spirits three, - Grander than either, more sedate, - Wore yet a look of hope elate, - With higher knowledge, larger trust - In the long future; _and the rust_ - _Of week-day toil with earthly things_ - _Stained and yet glorified his wings_. - -This superior angel maintains that man, though not capable of -instantaneous acts or intuitive perceptions, equal to those of the -higher orders of beings, is yet not the mere hopeless castaway the two -other spirits would make him. Give him but time, and with pain and toil -he will work out results worthy even of an angel’s regard. An angel, by -direct intuition, may see at once in a shapeless lump of matter all the -forms of beauty of which it is capable. Yet man, in process of time, -slowly but surely, can bring forth those same wonderful forms. The -illustration of this point in the celestial argument leads to the main -story. - - I, in thought, - Have seen the capability - Which lies within yon ivory: - This rough, black husk, charred by long age, - Unmarked by man since, in his rage, - A warring mammoth shed it: Lo! - Whiter than heaven-sifted snow - Enclosed within its ugly mask - Lies a world’s wonder: and the task - Of slow development shall be - Man’s labor and man’s glory. See! - His foot-tip touched it; the rude bone - Glowed through translucent, widely shone - A morning lustre on the palm - Which arched above it. - -The angel then summons an attendant, and bids him bear this shapeless -tusk to some mortal capable of bringing from it by slow pain and toil -the glorious beauty which had shone forth instantaneously at the angelic -touch. - - Spirit, bear - This ivory to the soul that dare - Work out, through joy, and care, and pain, - The thought which lies within the grain, - Hid like a dim and clouded sun. - -The prologue, which thus introduces us to the studio of the “Ivory -Carver,” may be deemed by some far-fetched and metaphysical. To us it -seems a most beautiful preparation for what follows. It attunes the mind -to a just appreciation of that self-sacrificing devotion with which the -artist, year by year, in silence, in want, toils away to work out of the -solid ivory the divine thought which haunts him. The moral of the -prologue, as we understand it, is to connect the inspirations of genius -with their true source. It prepares us to look at the toiling “ivory -carver,” not as he appeared to his family and neighbors, a madman or a -fool, but as he might have appeared to some celestial visitant, who knew -the secrets of his heaven-touched soul. - - Silently sat the artist alone, - Carving a Christ from the ivory bone. - Little by little, with toil and pain, - He won his way through the sightless grain, - That held and yet hid the thing he sought, - Till the work stood up, a growing thought. - And all around him, unseen yet felt, - A mystic presence forever dwelt, - A formless spirit of subtle flame, - The light of whose being went and came - As the artist paused from work, or bent - His whole heart to it with firm intent. - . . . . . . - Husband, why sit you ever alone, - Carving your Christ from the ivory bone? - O, carve, I pray you, some fairy ships, - Or rings for the weaning infant’s lips, - Or toys for yon princely boy who stands - Knee-deep in the bloom of his father’s lands. - And waits for his idle thoughts to come; - Or carve the sword hilt, or merry drum, - Or the flaring edge of a curious can, - Fit for the lips of a bearded man: - With vines and grapes in a cunning wreath, - Where the peering satyrs wink beneath, - And catch around quaintly knotted stems - At flying nymphs by their garment hems. - . . . . . . - O carve you something of solid worth— - Leave heaven to heaven, come, earth to earth. - Carve that thy hearth-stone may glimmer bright, - And thy children laugh in dancing light. - - Steadily answered the carver’s lips, - As he brushed from his brow the ivory chips; - While the presence grew with the rising sound, - Spurning in grandeur the hollow ground, - As if the breath on the carver’s tongue - Were fumes from some precious censer swung, - That lifted the spirit’s winged soul - To the heights where crystal planets roll - Their choral anthems, and heaven’s wide arch - Is thrilled with the music of their march; - And the faithless shades flew backward, dim - From the wondrous light that lived in him— - Thus spake the carver—his words were few, - Simple and meek, but he felt them true— - “I labor by day, I labor by night, - The Master ordered, the work is right: - Pray that He strengthen my feeble good; - For much must be conquered, much withstood.” - The artist labored, the labor sped, - _But a corpse lay in his bridal bed_. - - -But we must have done with quotations. Indeed, our limits warn us that -we must abruptly close the volume. We have read every poem in it with -the most lively pleasure. It has been in the belief that we could not -otherwise minister so well to the gratification of our readers that we -have quoted so freely and said so little. We will only add in -conclusion, that every fresh production of Mr. Boker’s that we see -furnishes additional evidence of his true calling as a poet. Should he -never write another line, he has already, in the brief space of three -years, done enough to make his name classical. - - * * * * * - - _Margaret: A Tale of the Real and the Ideal, Blight and Bloom. - By the author of “Philo,” etc. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 2 - vols. 12mo._ - -This is a revised edition of a book which attracted, at the time it -originally appeared, a great deal of attention from an intelligent but -limited class of readers. We trust that it will have a more extended -circulation now that it is in the hands of an enterprising publishing -house, and is issued in a readable shape. It is the first and best of -Mr. Judd’s works, and though it exhibits the ingrained defects of the -author’s genius, it has freshness, originality and raciness enough to -more than compensate for its occasional provoking defiance of taste and -obedience to whim. The sketches of character are bold, true, powerful -and life-like; the descriptions of New England scenery eminently vivid -and clear; and an exquisite sense of moral beauty is accompanied by a -sense no less genial and subtle for the humorous in life, character and -manners. It is perhaps as thoroughly American as any romance in our -literature. - - * * * * * - - _Nicaragua; Its People, Scenery, Monuments, and the proposed - Interoceanic Canal. With Numerous Original Maps and - Illustrations. By E. G. Squier, late Chargé D’Affaires of the - United States to the Republics of Central America. New York: D. - Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 8vo._ - -This is perhaps the most valuable book of travels which any American has -contributed to literature since Stephens relinquished his pen; and, if -we may believe Mr. Squier, his subject-matter is of the greatest -importance to every patriot. According to him, the future eminence of -our country depends on the policy which the United States now adopts in -regard to the affairs of Central America; and his visions of the -material prosperity which will result from the bold, firm and -intelligent action of our government in the matter, are gorgeous as Sir -Epicure Mammon’s. And it must be admitted that he sustains his positions -by facts and arguments which every American should be familiar with, and -which cannot be obtained any where in a more compact form than in Mr. -Squier’s own work, which contains a complete geographical and -topographical account of Nicaragua, and of the other States of Central -America, with observations on their climate, agriculture and mineral -productions and general resources; a narrative of his own residence in -Nicaragua, giving the results of his personal explorations of its -aboriginal monuments, and his observations on its scenery and people; -notes on the aborigines of the country, with such full information -regarding “their geographical distributions and relations, languages, -institutions, customs and religion, as shall serve to define their -ethnical position in respect to the other semi-civilized aboriginal -nations of this continent;” an outline of the political history of -Central America since it threw off the dominion of Spain, and above all, -a very elaborate view of the geography and topography of Nicaragua, as -connected with the proposed interoceanic canal. Mr. Squier writes on all -these subjects from personal knowledge and investigation, and with the -freshness and power of a man who has got all his information at first -hand. The work is profusely illustrated with appropriate engravings from -drawings made on the spot, and is also well supplied with accurate maps. -Bating some redundancies of style proceeding from a mania for fine -writing, these volumes are, from their intrinsic and permanent value, -worthy of more general attention than almost any work of the season. - - * * * * * - - _Wesley and Methodism. By Isaac Taylor. New York: Harper & - Brothers. 1 vol. 12 mo._ - -The author of this valuable and thoughtful volume is extensively known -both in England and the United States as a philosophic writer on the -great themes and great exponents of Christian faith. As in a former -volume he considered Jesuitism in Loyola, its founder, so in this he -views Methodism in Wesley. His penetrative and meditative mind, equally -acute and sympathetic, readily discovers the connection between opinions -and character, principles and persons; and by viewing sects and systems -psychologically and historically in the characters and lives of their -founders, he gives the interest of biography to the discussion of the -most metaphysical questions of theology. His present work is eminently -original and suggestive, evincing on every page the movement of a deep -and earnest nature, and an intellect at once critical and -interpretative. His own religious nature is too profound to allow his -indulgence in any of those phrases of sarcasm, contempt, or pity, which -it used to be fashionable to speak of Methodism and Methodists; but -though he considers the religious movement which he analyses and -represents as a genuine development of the principal elements of -Christianity, and as second only to the Reformation in importance among -the providential modes of vitalizing and diffusing the faith, he is -still calm, reasonable and austerely just in his judgments. His -criticism of the prominent Methodists is an example. He sees clearly -that they were not great men mentally. “Let it be confessed,” he says, -“that this company does not include one mind of that amplitude and -grandeur, the contemplation of which, as a natural object—a sample of -humanity—excites a pleasurable awe, and swells the bosom with a vague -ambition, or with a noble emulation. Not one of the founders of -Methodism can claim to stand on any such high level; nor was one of them -gifted with the philosophic faculty—the abstractive and analytic power. -More than one was a shrewd and exact logician, but none a master of the -higher reason. Not one was erudite in more than an ordinary degree; not -one was an accomplished scholar; yet while several were fairly learned, -few were illiterate, and none showed themselves to be imbued with the -fanaticism of ignorance.” In his sketches of Charles Wesley, Whitfield, -Fletcher, Coke, and Lady Huntingdon, we have the truth given of those -remarkable persons, unmixed with the exaggeration either of admiration -or contempt. The volume as a whole, is the most comprehensive and -accurate work on Methodism which we have ever seen. - - * * * * * - - _Young Americans Abroad; or Vacation in Europe. Travels in - England, France, Holland, Belgium, Prussia, and Switzerland. - With Illustrations. Boston: Gould & Lincoln. 1 vol. 16mo._ - -This volume is a truly original book of travels, not so much because it -describes new scenes, but because it describes them from a different -point of view. It consists of letters written by three boys, whose -respective ages are twelve, fourteen and sixteen, traveling in Europe -under the care of their instructor, the Rev. Dr. Choules. Quick to see -and eager to enjoy, fresh in mind and heart, these boys seem to write -because they have much to say, and because their heads are so full of -enchanting objects that a discharge of ink is absolutely necessary to -preserve them from mental apoplexy. And we must admit that they have -made a book which in interest, raciness and in the power of -communicating their own delight to the reader, fairly excels many a -volume of more pretension. The presiding spirit of the whole -correspondence is, of course, the kindly and accomplished editor, a -person who combines in an extraordinary degree, the joyous and elastic -soul of youth with the large knowledge and experience of manhood. His -own letters in the volume are very characteristic epistles, and add much -to its value. - - * * * * * - - _Adrian; or the Clouds of the Mind. By G. P. R. James and - Mansell B. Field. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12 mo._ - -The authors of this American romance have produced a literary -curiosity—a volume, every page of which is the product of two minds, -without any apparent jarring of style or sentiment. In the conduct of -the story, it is true, a little uncertainty is visible, but that appears -to arise as much from the nature of the plot as from the presence of two -hands in moving it forward. It is well written, has some capital -descriptions of scenery and some very exciting incidents, and, in idea -and sentiment, is a combination of English and American modes of thought -and feeling. The scene in the Medical College is the most powerful in -the volume. - - * * * * * - - _Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Thomas Chalmers, D. D., LL. - D. By his Son-in-Law, the Rev. William Hanna, LL. D. New York: - Harper & Brothers. Vol. 3._ - -The present volume does not, as was contemplated, bring this interesting -biography to a close. The Doctor is left at the end of it, full of -energy and combativeness, instead of reposing in his coffin. The volume -is full of attractive matter, being devoted to that portion of Chalmers’ -life, between 1824 and 1835, when some of his most important works were -written, and when his communications with men eminent in politics and -letters were most frequent. Brougham, Peel, Melbourne, Mackintosh, -Irving, Coleridge, and many other celebrities, appear in these pages. -Among the letters in the volume, we should select those to his daughter -as the most pleasing. - - * * * * * - - _Home and Social Philosophy. From Household Words. Edited by - Charles Dickens, First Series. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. - 16mo._ - -The indefatigable publisher whose name is on this title-page, commences -with this delightful collection of essays, a new “Semi-Monthly Library, -for Travelers and the Fireside.” The present volume contains some two -hundred And fifty well printed pages, and is placed at the low price of -twenty-five cents. It is to be followed by a series of works, combining -entertainment with usefulness, and intended in the end, to form one of -the cheapest and most elegant “libraries” that an intelligent reading -public could desire. - - * * * * * - - _Essays on Life, Sleep, Pain, etc. By Samuel Henry Dickson, M. - D., Philadelphia: Blanchard & Lea. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -These essays, a specimen of which we furnish our readers in the present -number, are the production of a mind singularly acute and tenacious, and -are marked as the productions of a scholar and a profound thinker. - - * * * * * - - _United States Monthly Law Magazine and Examiner. New York: John - Livingston, 157 Broadway._ - -We have received this creditable periodical, and examined it with great -interest. We are happy to say that it is still conducted with ability -and learning. The editor deserves high praise for his industry and -liberality. He provides the profession with well selected cases from the -English law journals and reports, as well as from our own -adjudicatories. We are well pleased to see the manly independence with -which he adopts and advocates the reform of law and equity so urgently -called for in this country and England. The periodical prospers—and it -merits prosperity. - - * * * * * - -The Historical Society.—We have received a copy of the address -delivered before the Historical Society of this State, at Chester, in -November last, and have barely room to say that it is marked by the fine -finish and lucid reasoning which distinguish all the efforts of Mr. -Armstrong, whether as a writer or speaker. We shall refer to it again. - - * * * * * - - - - - GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK. - - -Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges. - - -Eminent Young Men.—We purpose, occasionally, to give to our readers, in -our own off-hand way, sketches of such of the young men of our -acquaintance as have risen to position and distinction by the force of -their own indomitable purpose and efforts. These papers will be plain, -unpretending, and without any effort at literary display—but if such -examples as have passed under our own observation, fairly _put_, shall -awaken even one young man among our readers from inglorious sloth, to -energetic endeavors to accomplish something for himself and his -generation, we shall think our time has been most profitably spent. - -America has but one recognizable stamp of nobility. No line of descent -in the blood of kings, can ennoble here. The stagnant pool which has -lost its vitality for ages in the veins of a scurvy nobility, reflects -no honor—enriches no name. That which makes Manhood Great—is -_Energy_—_Will_—nobly directed—that quality which Kossuth proclaims -to be the conqueror of impossibilities. It is this quality, largely -possessed by the Anglo-Saxon, and the free field open for its exercise -in America, that have made her what she is— - - “The day-star among the nations.” - -It is the noble hopes and manly aspirations in the breast of her -sons—the far-reaching, the attainable grasp of future fortune, the -birth-right of the humblest—the unconquerable purpose to do, to -achieve, to conquer, that exalt us to “giants in these days.” We have -the highest manifestation of manhood, in a fair field, with _all_ the -favor that God grants to mortals to carve out their own destinies. He -who sinks here, goes down with supineness, slothfulness, idleness, and -their attendant vices clinging to his neck with more than mill-stone -weight. With high health and a perfect use of his faculties, no man -_here_ has a right to be ignoble. “The longer I live,” says Goethe, “the -more certain I am that the great difference between men, the great and -significant, is energy—invincible determination—an honest purpose once -fixed and then, victory. That quality will do anything that can by done -in the world; and no talents, no circumstances, no opportunity will make -a man without it.” - - * * * * * - -Benjamin H. Brewster, Esq., an eminent young lawyer of Philadelphia, the -author of the very excellent paper on Milton, in this number, will be -the subject of our first sketch, in the next issue; and we shall take -the privilege of an intimate acquaintanceship, and a friendship endured -by a thousand ties, to use a free pencil _upon him_, and if Mr. Brewster -does not like it, he has his action for such damages as the liberal jury -who read “Graham” may think he deserves. - - * * * * * - -Cost of Glory.—We have received from a Naval Officer a tart assault -upon Upham’s figures in relation to the expenses of the Army and Navy of -the United States, which we shall publish and reply to. He makes the -cost “_about_ twenty-five per cent. of the whole revenue.” We shall see! -The article is by some very _young_ Middy, who thinks that “navy blue” -means getting tipsy on shore, and that _figures_ are symbolical _only_ -of important gentlemen, buttoned up to the throat, who walk the -Quarter-Deck of Uncle Sam’s 74’s. - - * * * * * - -Reader—“Graham” makes his best bow to you in this number, and stands, -cap in hand, waiting a friendly return to his salutation. He has -prepared himself with some care for this call, and if you do not like -his rig, don’t turn up your nose disdainfully, but suggest any proper -alteration in his costume, and when he comes again you may like him -better. The critics! Well! who cares for the critics? Not Graham! He is -a critic himself, and can carve you a poet to a nicety—slicing off his -wings with one sweep of his steel. But Graham is tender to poets—for -they are a good-hearted race, albeit a little irritable—apt to be dealt -unjustly with, too, considering that each one is imbued with more than a -Shaksperian genius, and people wont believe it. It is enough to make -anybody mad—and a mad poet is of all enraged animals the most -vehemently disposed to slaughter somebody. So, having disposed in brief -of critics and poets, and of lawyers and briefs in the body of the work, -we feel heavenly-minded toward the rest of creation—and in this mood we -turn to “_the gentlemen of the press_.” - -If our exchanges believe _all_ that is told them by some of the Magazine -publishers, they will soon begin to fancy that “the moon _is_ a green -cheese,” and will wake up some fine night finding themselves cutting -slices for an imaginary breakfast. - -One chap has the audacity to set himself up as the _sole_ patron of -American arts and letters, and has spent _unheard_ of amounts on artists -and writers. We fear to inquire into this business _too_ closely, lest -it should turn out like the charity of the lady who was “collecting for -a poor woman.” It _was_ charity—for it “began at home,” and _ended -there_! - -Now “Graham” you may rely upon—there is a certain don’t care for -anybody air about _him_ that you can understand. If any fellow wishes to -blow up his Magazine, Graham asks him—nay, commands him to “blaze -away”—if he don’t like the painted fashions, which cost $945, lo! -Graham goes to the enormous expense of $2 and gives him his “own -peculiar” in wood—Bloomer and all, fresh from the newspapers, and not -credited to Paris either—if the small-talk don’t suit—Graham suggests -something else, and invites him to read some of the other Magazines, -where the editor “talks big,” and swells in imaginary dignity until a -turkey is rather cast into the shade by overblown dignity—if he don’t -like the stories he may read the essays—if neither, the poetry is -before him—and if literature has no charms for him, he may admire Art -in the engravings: “if none of these things move him,” let him admire -Nature by looking at himself in a mirror, and imagine his ears -wonderfully grown, and his voice a lion’s. Graham is as easily pleased -as a young girl at her first ball, and thinks the world is moving round -to the timing of music—and though he is as poor as Job’s—ah! that -reminds us of _the turkeys_ we sent to editors. - - * * * * * - -The Turkey Ovation.—Never, we suppose, since the day the Romans overran -the world, has there been such terrible bloodshed and sanguinary goings -on, as was consequent upon Graham’s royal edict about Turkey. The -crimson dye was streaming about all the editorial sanctums on Christmas -Eve. Graham had issued orders to bring up the culprits for execution, -and at about ten o’clock, at _a given_ signal, twelve hundred of the -inhabitants of Turkeydom were marched out, and had their throats cut -without mercy. The bloody-minded issuer of this sanguinary decree still -lives and glories in the deed; and strange to say—his men back him up -with fixed bayonets. If these things are allowed to proceed, people will -not be able to sleep quietly in their beds, but a terror will go forth -over the land, and neighbors will have to keep watch and ward over each -other—turkeys will be, _nowhere_—editors will grow fat, on the fat of -the land, and will soon have the hardihood to ask their subscribers to -pay for the papers they read, with the same promptitude with which they -expect them delivered. - -This sort of thing will go on. A revolution in newspaper presses will be -the consequence, and quiet, sedate people, who read over the paper, and -complain of the type—of the quality of the paper—of the long -editorials—of the short editorials—of the light reading—of the heavy -reading—of the political matter—of the want of political news and -facts—of the poetry—of the advertisements—of the mails—of the -carrier—of the publisher, the editor, and the “devil”—will be shocked -at having a _bill_ to pay. Turkey must be paid for, as well as -slaughtered. There is no community of goods in Turkey. Every landholder -expects the pay for corn that feeds and fattens turkey—and subscribers -must expect to—“PAY UP.” Graham will get the blame—but the revolution -_will_ go on! People who grumble—and, some of them—swear! about their -papers, must _pay for the luxury_. No man has a right to _be -stupid_—nor can expect editors to eat turkeys and publish newspapers on -air. - -“Mr. ——, do _you_ know that your subscription is _overdue_ to The -——?” - -“No?” - -“We thought so. Well, take Graham’s advice, and take $2, ‘pay up,’ and -take a receipt at once. You have no idea how it will clear your -conscience, and your eye-sight, too, as to the _merits_ of the paper.” - - * * * * * - -Snow-Balling in the South.—Our Southern friends seem to have been taken -by surprise by Jack Frost, and to have had some difficulty in -acknowledging his acquaintance. At New Orleans we see, that Sambo was -out early in the morning, and came rushing back to his master -exclaiming—“_Oh, Monsieur! regardez donc! la cour est pleine de sucre -blanc!_” “Oh, sir, look: the yard is full of _white sugar_!” “The oldest -inhabitants,” says the Delta, “stared with amazement. It snowed all -night, and in the morning the earth was entirely invisible; a white -carpet, to the depth of eight inches, covered its entire surface. Our -population were all agog, and snow-balls flew as thick and as fast as -bullets at Buena Vista. The hats of peaceable citizens were knocked into -corners; eyes and mouths were filled with conglomerated masses of snow, -and ears were stopped.” In Florida, according to the News, “There was no -record nor tradition of such an event in the history of East Florida. -Some of the oldest inhabitants recollect, on one or two occasions, -having seen a slight sprinkle of snow, but not enough to whiten the -ground, and it passed off like a dream. But on this occasion we had an -opportunity of enjoying the delightful amusement of “snow-balling;” and -ladies, as fair as the snow itself, joined heartily in an amusement, the -opportunity for which presents itself only once in a century.” Mrs. -Neal, in her very sprightly and delightful letters from Charleston, S. -C., gives an animated picture of the scene in Palmettodom: “Even in -Philadelphia, where snow is by no means an every day affair, you cannot -credit the excitement it gave rise to. The children, many of whom had -never seen ‘the white rain,’ clapped their hands as the roofs and the -ground were covered with the pure mantle—and when evening came, and the -strange visitor seemed to like its Southern quarters, and resolved to -settle for the night, men and boys went forth to the novel enjoyment of -snow-balling, and some even attempted a sleigh-ride. Grave, grown up men -were startled into an involuntary participation of the sport, and I was -told, and it is _too good a story not to be true_, that one gentleman -was seen indulging in the unusual pastime accompanied by a negro -carrying his ‘spare balls’—all ready moulded in a box! Snow-balling -under circumstances of ‘elegant leisure.’ - -“The next morning’s sun seemed to have little effect upon it, the cold -still continuing intense; and about the middle of the day a party, a -regular duel it seemed, ascended to the top of the Charleston hotel and -the Hague street stores, pelting each other with great vigor, the plazza -upon which we stood affording a fine view of the sport. The children -were for the first time indulged with snow-building, and many a youthful -Powers made his first effort at sculpture on the frozen countenance of a -‘snow-man.’ It was more curious still that they considered it in the -light of a confection, and ate it with salt, as they would a hard boiled -egg, esteeming it much nicer than any candy. ‘It was fun to them—but -death to the servants’—to borrow from the fable of the boys and the -frogs. The poor negroes, wilted and shriveled up into ‘dumb -waiters’—burning over the fire, with a deprecating glance at the snow -covered ground that was really piteous, but every consideration was paid -to them, and as little out-door work as possible assigned.” - -We cannot refrain from adding the following delicious little bit of -character-painting, from the same pen, though not _germaine_ to the -theme: “If there is one thing that distinguishes the Southern negro -above all others, it is _deliberation_. We had a fair example of this -the morning of our arrival. There was not a soul on the wharf to take -the rope of the steamer which some thoughtful person had thrown on shore -without looking to see what was to be done with it. There were the -passengers with eager, expectant faces, grouped upon the deck, baggage -already looked over, and piled up for the carriages—every thing ready -to land, and we just so far from the shore that a plank could not be -thrown across. Presently a negro appeared on the next wharf, walking -toward us with the utmost calmness. In vain were the calls of the -Northern gentlemen in tartan shawls, or the impatient gestures of one of -the officers of the boat. A New York wharf lounger would have had the -rope secured in the time this venerable Ned took to put one foot before -the other. And when he finally arrived amid the cheers of the -passengers, who by this time thought it as well to laugh as fret, one of -them called out as he bent over to the rope thrown once more—‘Uncle—I -say—hadn’t you better _wipe_ it first?’—a finale which could not have -been more deliberate than his previous movements.” - - * * * * * - -Small.—There _is_ something smaller in the world than Graham’s -small-talk, and that is, a soul in a pill-box. We know several that are -just in that way imprisoned—and they belong to fellows who are afraid -to notice a rival publication, for _fear_ people will believe them. - - * * * * * - -Cable, the editor of the Ohio Picayune, is a man to hold on. Here is -what he says— - -“We would not do without this Magazine for treble its price; and as we -consider ourself as having some taste in this matter, we warmly -recommend Graham to the lovers of chaste and classical literature.” - -Our friend of the Picayune will be glad to know that there are 30,000 -people of his mind, who cling to Graham always. Then, there is a -“floating population” of 20,000 more, who don’t know their own minds, -but shift about to all points of the compass and come back again to -Graham, grumbling at others, when the fault is their own for having left -Graham at all. These wanderers are coming in, in flocks, for ’52, but we -don’t _count_ on them, any more than upon a roost of wild pigeons—they -will go to Godey—to Harper, to somebody in a year or two, and then come -back again mad at every body. These folks are _nobodies_. - - * * * * * - -The very beautiful poem, “Bless the Homestead Law,” from the pen of our -correspondent, L. Virginia Smith, adds another laurel to the wreath -which clusters already around the young brow of that child of genius. -_Memphis_ may well be proud of her, as the _Inquirer_ of that city _is_. -The editor says of this poem, which was written for him— - -“We have the satisfaction of presenting to-day one of the most eloquent -appeals in behalf of the _Homestead Exemption Law_, which it has been -our fortune to meet with. It is from the pen of the gifted one our city -is proud to call its own poetess. We commend this appeal to the _hearts_ -of the members of the Legislature, upon whose votes hangs the fate of -this most just and beneficent measure.” - - * * * * * - -A Leap Year Love Letter.—We have received a very delightful leap year -love letter from a _very_ beautiful young lady living in Maine—we wont -tell in what post-town—but we know she is beautiful from the very -elegant epistle she writes, and that she is a lady of discernment from -the very handsome things she says of “Graham”—and that she is _smart_ -from the very way she edges in her proposal to be our second in case we -are married already. - -We are happy to say that we are a Benedict, and as Kossuth has prudently -introduced no Turkish notions into his addresses to the ladies, we have -great doubts about indulging in any dreams as to “pluralities.” But -still, we may safely say, as we do “by permission,” that the young lady -who sends “Graham” the largest club for 1852, shall receive the favor of -our most distinguished consideration. - -“Graham” may now be considered in the market for “proposals,” and if all -the handsome things the press say of him are read and pondered over—as -they ought to be—he will receive a perfect shower of adoration in the -agreeable form of attached and worshiping subscribers. “Graham” holds -the King of _clubs_ and Knave of _hearts_, now—so every young lady -knows the lead. - - * * * * * - -Advertising.—Business is business and must be _pressed_ home. Now we -have a business secret for your ear, reader! one which we charge you -nothing for; but which comes charged with weighty and important meaning. -_Do you ever advertise?_ No! Why there is nothing like advertising to -make a fortune! Nearly all the men about here, who never advertised, -have _taken in_ their signs, shut up shop, been taken in themselves and -have gone to California—the dupes of the very advertising in the -newspapers, which they scorned while fortune was all around them. You -must take hold of this lever that moves the business world. Advertise in -_your local papers_—if your business is local—let your neighbors know -that you have something to _sell_—that you wish to _buy_ something—or, -that you are ready to _trade_. Wake up! and wake up your neighbors! We -should never be able to publish Graham with 112 pages per month, if we -did not let the world _know_ that we are wide awake, and ready to supply -any quantity of numbers for 1852, _having stereotyped the book -purposely_. Now, drowsy head! do _you_ suppose that if you are a -storekeeper you would not sell more goods by advertising? Or if a -mechanic, that it will do you any harm to be known far and near as an -active, enterprising business man ready for customers? Or, if a farmer, -with a lot of _extra_ corn or potatoes to sell, that you could not -_make_ a market? Do you suppose, that you can put your hands into your -pockets and whistle a fortune into them, too? If you do, advertise -_that_, and be immortal. - - * * * * * - -Our Stories.—We have adopted the plan of giving our readers one long -story complete, in each number—say from twelve to twenty pages. In the -January number we gave “The Rich Man’s Whims,” which was universally -praised by the press and by the readers of this Magazine. “Anna Temple,” -which appeared in the February number, we think, was a better story, and -so say many critics competent to judge. “The Democrat,” at Ballston, N. -Y., says, in noticing the last number—“Graham now contains, and will -continue to contain, during this year, more reading matter monthly than -any similar work published in the country. The story, “Anna Temple,” in -the February number, is one of the finest tales we have ever read, and -is alone worth more than the year’s subscription to the Magazine.” And -this is but one, of scores of such notices. - -In the present number our readers will find a _gem_ called “The Miser -and His Daughter,” written by a gentleman of New Orleans—the author of -the story of “The Little Family,” which appeared in the November number -of “Graham”—a tale which was more widely read and praised than any -article in the last volume. We have received the first part of an -article by this writer, which we shall give in future numbers, and we do -not hesitate to say, for the benefit of those who worship British -ability _only_, that no article _equal_ to it has appeared in Blackwood -or Frazer for years. It is called “The First Age.” - - * * * * * - -Caution.—“My goodness,” says a cautious and gouty old gentleman, who is -one of Graham’s friends, “aint you afraid to talk at your subscribers -and exchanges the way you do?” _No!_ not a bit of it—Graham will tell -“the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” to every body -who reads his editorial chit-chat. If people don’t like it, they need -not read it. In 112 pages there is room and verge enough to dodge around -sharp corners and escape the dilemma of reading the few pages in which -Graham, kicking off his boots, goes at people with his slippers on. -Every body, in 1852, will get _more_ than a full return for what is paid -for the book, without counting “The Small-Talk”—and if any editor don’t -like it, let him let it alone. “The whole boundless continent is _not_ -ours,” but the small-talk _is_—and being monarch sole and absolute in -these dominions, we shall submit to no impertinence, but _will_ have our -own will and way—and the way is straight and plain. We do not expect to -get a decent notice from the Saturday Evening Post, for all this—and we -don’t care if we don’t—nor if we do. - - * * * * * - -Graham on Dreams.—Did you ever dream you were rich? Is it not -delightful!—while it lasts. A prize in the lottery—dreaming of numbers -innumerable, is one of the tricks of Morpheus—and of people wide awake, -too, sometimes. Then the visions of defunct grand-uncles, beyond the -seas, who hearing of our great worth and deservings, die on purpose to -make us happy, and bequeath vast estates and lots of three per cents. in -the _funds_. It is glorious! And then, too, ponderous mails coming to -you, in which each subscriber, who is in debt, sends you the money—and -dozens—dozens?—hats full, of letters inclosing the long delayed $3, -come like blessings in troops—the notes all new, too, and 6’s instead -of 3’s sent by the overjoyed subscriber—not in a mistake either—for he -_says_ “the work is worth double the money, and being an honest man, I -intend to pay the fair value.” Ah! this is grand! We like to do business -with people who know something. - -“_John_, John!—Call Mr. Graham, and tell him the printer wants -copy—_and paper too_!” Pshaw! - -Look here! We hate to be deceived. Somebody make our “dream come true.” - - * * * * * - -Fine Ink.—We take pleasure in calling the attention of printers to the -very superior quality of the ink used in the printing of our wood-cut -forms. It is from the establishment of Messrs. Romig, Lay & Co., 51 -South Fourth street, Philadelphia. They are prepared to furnish -different qualities at various prices to the trade. Letters addressed to -them will be promptly attended to. - -The Dollar Newspaper, which is edited by a Sailor, who has been to -Egypt—you see—and a long Lane—who has denied the proverb, and done us -a good “turn,” has sent us a spanking club by Hudley, its ever attentive -and active clerk. The Dollar is a great paper—worth any day more than -its silver namesake—which _goes_ now at about 102½—but where it goes -_to_, puzzles the bankers. The Newspaper has the advantage in this, for -nobody knows where it _don’t_ go. In all of the 17,000 post-towns in -which Graham is loved and cherished, we find our young and vigorous -brother. Graham and the lively Dollar, are the pride of good printers -and pretty girls. Intellect, and Beauty, and Dollars and Graham’s!—what -a consummation! - -The truth is, Graham’s modesty is sorely tried just now, when a shout is -going up from every town and hamlet of the country on his behalf; and -were it not that the subscriptions usually keep pace with the praise, he -would not be able to exist at all. - - * * * * * - -Saucy and True.—We shall exchange next year with no fellow who notices -“Graham” in the same line with another work and says, he “_don’t know -which is the best_.” If a man has not courage enough to say that Graham -is the worst, or the best, or the equal of any other magazine, as the -_fact_ may be, we don’t want his company. So boys, if you like the -conditions, observe them. We _ask_ no man to publish our prospectus—but -we do ask that “Graham” shall not be bundled in with any body who -happens to be traveling the same road at the same time—as there are a -good many shabby looking fellows about whose room is better than their -company—at any rate their room shan’t be ours—that’s plump. - - * * * * * - -_The Saturday Courier_ has been—or is, at this writing—publishing a -most powerful story called _Marcus Warland_, from the pen of its old and -valued correspondent, Caroline Lee Hentz. The stories purchased and -selected by Mr. McMakin evince a fine taste and just discrimination, and -we often wonder where he lays his hands upon them. The secret is partly -disclosed by an announcement in his paper that “Mrs. Hentz refused the -sum of $400 offered her by a New York bookseller,” for the story of -Marcus Warland. The new volume of the Courier commences in March; and -looking over the storehouse of good things McMakin has, for his readers, -we say they are to be envied for ’52. - - * * * * * - -Winchester (Tenn.) Independent of the 16th January, comes to us with its -head all topsy turvy, as if the editor had been on a batter. _Wigg’s_ is -the publisher, and of course has a right to ship his scalp -occasionally—but we don’t believe that the name of his town is spelt as -follows: - -[Illustration: image of the word “Winchester” with the “inc” group of -letters flipped backwards and upside down] - -though an _independent_ fellow, in this free country, may take a spell -in that way, if he likes. - - * * * * * - -The Essex Freeman is a good paper, but has in its advertising columns -some “shocking bad” wood-cuts. The editor says “American wood-engravings -are apt to be bad,” but admits an exception in favor of Devereux’s fine -pictures in our February number. Porter and Streeter are funny dogs, but -can’t _take_ a joke. Wonder what _ails_ Porter! - - * * * * * - -The Central New Yorker, came to us with a new year’s address with the -“pictur” of the _editor_ at the head. He is a _rising_ man—but he had -better let the girls alone. The following appears in the _address_: - - THE BLOOMER COSTUME. - - Bloomer Costumes rule the day, - Ladies wear the new apparel, - Corsets now are thrown away, - Hour-glass changes to a barrel. - - Ladies now may street yarn spin, - As they have to take less stitches, - Now they put their fair forms in - Sack coats and big Turkey breeches. - -We hope Mr. Editor Rising has no allusion, in this, to Graham’s -Christmas Turkeys—that would be a breach of decorum. - - * * * * * - -The Knickerbocker.—Our _old_ friend Clark, the very prince of genial -natures and royal good fellows, disdains to talk any longer, solely, to -the dull and heavy folks of “Upper Tendom;” so, showing no quarters, he -comes down to “a quarter,” and pitches his tent in the field of the -many—throwing his banner to the gale, without getting upon one himself. -If Clark does not print and _sell_ 50,000 copies “the fools are _not_ -all dead,” but maintain a very decided majority among the “peoples.” If -any body wishes “Old Knick” and young Graham together, they can -accomplish their benevolent desire by sending us $5. “The Old Gentleman” -and the Young ’un are celebrities of “this enlightened nineteenth -century,” and cannot be _had_ for less. - - * * * * * - -“The Old Colony Memorial,” published at Plymouth, Mass., says Graham for -February, was “the best looking number of this popular monthly we have -ever seen. Of the literary contents we can speak highly.” Its editor, -who does not like fun of any kind, has the following satisfactory - -Conundrum.—Why is Church-membership like Charity? Guess once all round. -Answer next week. - - * * * * * - -Our friend of “the olden time,” Samuel C. Atkinson, is making a capital -paper of The Burlington N. J. Gazette, and shows that years do not -impair his energy, nor extinguish his genial appreciation of all things -beautiful and true. - - * * * * * - -Exploded Proverb.—“Figures cannot lie,” says the proverb. Graham -says—it depends upon _who makes ’em_. - - * * * * * - -Plain Preaching.—We have upon our books a list of names, the owners of -which are ALL well to do, and the most of whom go to church every Sunday -and say their prayers—as Christians ought to do—and yet these same men -will pass our office day after day, and never think of stopping to pay -up, and if called upon, think it a hard case; haint got the change -handy; aint used to being dunned.—_Plaindealer, Roslyn, N. Y._ - -Why, Mr. Plaindealer, the sooner you get rid of these chaps the -better—they _intend_ to cheat you anyhow—even if it be but out of the -interest of your money, and your peace of mind—which last is worth more -than dollars. - -If publishers would only form a “Mutual Protection Society,” and -_placard_ all such fellows as a warning, we should _all_ do better. We -have about fifty that we intend to _cut_—giving them the Kentucky -benediction. A fellow, who will neither notice your letter nor your -bill, is a rogue in grain—rely upon it. It is a good rule to go by. - -[Illustration: TIPSY MYNHEER.] - - “Moon, ’tis a very queer figure you cut; - One eye is staring while t’other is shut. - Tipsy, I see; and you’re greatly to blame; - Old as you are ’tis a terrible shame.” - - * * * * * - -Southern Literary Papers.—Godman writes us that his new Southern -Literary Journal, “The Family Friend,” is “going off like hot cakes.” We -are heartily glad of this for two reasons; First, because we like Godman -for his energy of character and his splendid genius, which blazes out in -every line he writes, pure as a vestal lamp amid the surrounding -debasement of the minds of many writers of romance. Secondly, because -the South _ought_ to maintain one or _more_ first rate literary papers, -and the North should help her do it with cordial good-will. She has been -liberal, to us of the North, in her support, for years of _our_ literary -magazines and gazettes—let us _now_ return the compliment with -earnestness and kindliness. - -Some of Godman’s best articles have enriched and will continue to enrich -_our_ pages, and as he has started manfully, in competition with -Northern periodicals, Graham says—to his friends—_Stand by your -banner,_ _boys!_—let there be a brotherhood in letters at least, and -let us leave the quarreling to ambitious politicians. So, Godman! Graham -wishes you “God speed,” and 100,000 subscribers! Any fellow who cannot -respond to the sentiment—whether he lives north or south of the -Potomac—had better button his soul in his vest pocket carefully, or he -will not be able to find it, when it is called for. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: An Experienced Shot.—You’re a pretty dog!—now aint -you? See what you’ve gun-un done?] - - * * * * * - -Mr. Thos. Bristow, the Writing-Master, has finished and intends to -present a very fine _fac simile_ letter of Washington’s Farewell Address -to the United States Government. The whole design and execution is such -as to reflect the highest credit upon Mr. Bristow as a teacher of “the -Chirographic art.” - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: Fashions.—“_Three full-length Figures._”] - -Determined not to be outdone in generosity, and to meet the views of the -critics fully, we _present_ “the latest styles” as reported by Mrs. -Bloomer “expressly” for her own paper—and give you Dodworth’s “dancing -style” as we find them reported in “The Clerk’s Journal.” - -Our Paris Fashions cost us $945 per month, for designing, engraving, -printing and coloring the edition of Graham’s Magazine, and many sage -and sapient critics said they liked “the wood-cut style.” Well, now you -have got them—how do you like them? They cost the almost unmentionable -sum of $2, but are as good as the biggest. It may be as well to mention, -by way of _description_, that the Bloomer is going to church—as soon as -she can get off from this dancing-party. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: a vine covered cottage with song title and composer in -fancy script] - - - - “Oh Share My Cottage.” - - - COMPOSED BY R. C. SHRIVAL. - - -Published by permission of F. D. BENTEEN & Co., No. 181 Baltimore Street, - Baltimore. - - -[Illustration: Musical Score] - - Oh, share my cottage, gentle maid, - It only waits for thee, - To - -[Illustration: Musical Score] - - give a sweetness to its shade, - And happiness, happiness to me, - Here from the splendid gay parade, - Of noise and folly free, - No sorrows can my peace invade, - If only blest with thee. - Then share my cottage, gentle maid, - It only waits for thee, - To give a sweetness to its shade, - And happiness, happiness to me. - - SECOND VERSE. - - The hawthorn with the woodbine ’twin’d - Presents their sweets to thee, - And every balmy breath of wind - Is filled with harmony: - A truly fond and faithful heart - Is all I offer thee, - And must I from your face depart, - A prey to misery. - Then share my cottage, gentle maid, - It only waits for thee, - To add fresh sweetness to its shade, - And happiness to me. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: a man beside a tree trunk of large girth beneath a night -sky with stars and full moon. Song title, poet and composer names in -fancy script] - - - - - “STARS OF THE SUMMER NIGHT.” - - - WORDS BY LONGFELLOW, - MUSIC BY H. KLEBER. - - Published by permission of LEE & WALKER, 188 Chestnut Street, - Philadelphia, - _Publishers and Importers of Music and Musical Instruments_. - -[Illustration: Musical Score] - - Stars of the summer night, - Far, far in your azure - -[Illustration: Musical Score] - - deeps; - Hide, hide your golden light, - She sleeps, my lady sleeps. - - Moon of the summer night, - Far, down yon western steeps, - Sink, sink in silver light, - She sleeps, my lady sleeps, my lady sleeps. - - SECOND VERSE. - - Wind of the summer night, - Where yonder woodbine creeps, - Fold, fold thy pinions light, - She sleeps, my lady sleeps. - - Dreams of the summer night, - Tell her, her lover keeps watch, - While in slumbers bright - She sleeps, my lady sleeps. - - * * * * * - -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. Brief descriptions of illustrations without -caption have been provided in the plain text version of this ebook. - -page 232, hearts the poets tale ==> hearts the poet’s tale -page 239, there were the mole ==> there where the mole -page 250, If your are willing to ==> If you are willing to -page 273, Valenciennes and Condè ==> Valenciennes and Condé -page 273, defection of Dumuoriez ==> defection of Dumouriez -page 273, skill of Dumuoriez ==> skill of Dumouriez -page 273, Dumuoriez’s more generous ==> Dumouriez’s more generous -page 282, wrote his Eikonoklases ==> wrote his Eikonoklastes -page 282, books, the Eikonoklases ==> books, the Eikonoklastes -page 285, his Eikonoklases, and ==> his Eikonoklastes, and -page 286, “Telemachus” of Fenelon ==> “Telemachus” of Fénelon -page 311, Arabian die to set ==> Arabian dye to set -page 312, the invading the ==> the invading of the -page 312, on that side the ==> on that side of the -page 317, the lines were beauty ==> the lines where beauty -page 332, The crimson die was ==> The crimson dye was - - -[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 3, March 1852] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 3, -March 1852, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, MARCH 1852 *** - -***** This file should be named 60141-0.txt or 60141-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/1/4/60141/ - -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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