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diff --git a/old/60202-0.txt b/old/60202-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 83a9a6a..0000000 --- a/old/60202-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11937 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 6, June 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. 6, June 1852 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - -Release Date: August 30, 2019 [EBook #60202] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JUNE 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. June, 1852. No. 6. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - New York Printing Machine, Press, and Saw Works - Edith Morton - Ferdinand De Candolles - The Ghost-Raiser - Tom Moore—The Poet of Erin - A Life of Vicissitudes (continued) - Two Ways to Manage - The Master’s Mate’s Yarn (concluded) - The First Age (concluded) - Titus Quinctius Flamininus - Nelly Nowlan’s Experience - Review of New Books - Literary Gossip - Graham’s Small-Talk - - Poetry and Music - - A Farewell - Lines, Suggested by Rogers’ Statue of Ruth - What Dost Thou Work For? - April - I Woo Thee, Spring - Song - The Phantom Field - Shakspeare - The Actual - The Pledge - To A Beautiful Girl - The Orphan’s Hymn - Religion - Our Minnie’s Dream - Sonnet—Pleasure - To Adhemar - Hour of Fond Delight - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: J. Hayter, W. H. Mote -ISADORE. -Graham’s Magazine, 1852.] - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: THE BROOME STREET MANUFACTORIES.] - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XL. PHILADELPHIA, JUNE, 1852. No. 6. - - * * * * * - - - - - NEW YORK PRINTING MACHINE, PRESS, AND SAW WORKS. - - - R. HOE & CO. - - -[Illustration: GOLD STREET WAREHOUSES.] - -Had it been possible for any human intellect, at the close of the -eighteenth century, or the commencement of this its nineteenth -successor, so to grasp and comprehend the development of science, its -expansion and diffusion, and, above all, its application to the -every-day wants and conveniences of ordinary human life, as to predict, -only fifty years beforehand, any one of the almost incredible marvels -which have long ceased to move especial wonder, as being now established -facts, witnessed by all eyes, and of occurrence at all hours, the owner -of that intellect would not have been merely laughed at as a crazy, -crack-brained enthusiast, but would have run a very reasonable chance of -being consigned to the cell of a madhouse, as an incorrigible and -incurable monomaniac. - -The writer of these lines, lacking several years yet of the completion -of his tenth lustre, clearly remembers how, within thirty years at -furthest, to assert an opinion of the feasibility of lighting streets by -gas was to be sneered at for a visionary, or regarded with suspicion as -a probable speculator in the _fancy_, even by the best informed, and -most enlightened classes. - -To the youngest of his readers the _dictum_ of the then infallible -Doctor Dionysius Lardner against the possibility of Ocean Steam -Navigation—for, deny it now as he may, he can be clearly convicted of -its utterance—is familiar as a household word. - -And now, what insignificant town, to say nothing of innumerable private -dwellings, innumerable factories and workshops, prison houses, as it -were, and _ergasteria_, would it were otherwise! of plebeian labor, -innumerable theatres, assembly-halls, and banquet-rooms, abodes of -patrician pleasure, are not ablaze through the murkiest midnight, and -light as the broadest day, with the released and radiant spirit, that -lay so long enthralled and unsuspected in the hard heart of the swart -coal mine? - -And now, with what quarter of the world are we not in daily, if not -hourly, communication by the united agencies of those two most -irreconcilable powers, fire and water? - -Hardly one century has elapsed since the American Franklin revealed to -the admiring world the scarcely suspected fact, that the subtle spark -elicited from the electrifying magazine, or from the hairs of a cat, -rubbed contrariwise to their direction, is identical with the sovereign, -all-pervading flash, - - “Which issues from the loaded cloud, - And rives the oak asunder.” - -And now, at this day, we sit quietly engaged in our study, or stand, -even, as it may be, laboriously plying our trade of manual labor, and -send that very lightning-flash, a tamed domestic influence, nay, but a -very slave and pack-horse to our will, to speed our tidings to New -Orleans, or to Newfoundland, and to bring us back the answer, before a -second hour has lagged round the dial. - -Time was, nor very long ago, when to receive news from Europe within -thirty days, was esteemed a feat, if not a miracle, on the part of the -carriers. Now, or ere a second summer shall have passed, the electric -telegraph will be in operation to Cape Race, the south-easternmost point -of Newfoundland, and mail steamers will be cleaving the Atlantic far to -the northward, to and fro, from the green shores of Galway. Then, within -seven days at the utmost, the news of farthest Europe, news from the -Vistula, the Danube, and the Don; news from the Tartar and the Turk, -shall be sped, more swiftly than though they “had taken the wings of the -morning,” to the uttermost parts of America, shall be read almost -simultaneously on the shores of the Atlantic and Pacific, and sent far -aloof among the oceanic isles of the southern hemisphere, even to drowsy -China and remote Taprobane, by the almost unearthly powers of steam and -electricity, and last, not least, the press. - -The word is out—we have said it—the press—a kindred, not -antagonistic, scarcely even rival, power to the two mighty elements we -have named—since it has pressed both into its service; and itself, -purely human in its origin, its influence, and its importance, purely -material in “its age and body, form and pressure,” derives most of its -incalculable puissance from the coöperation and subservience of the two -mightiest, most unearthly, most immaterial, and most spiritual of -essences, existing, or which have existed, in the universe. - -But we are not about to write an essay on the power, the influence, the -utility of the press. These are too generally appreciated and -acknowledged, to render a single paragraph necessary. In the two first -particulars of power and influence, the press is incomparable—not to be -equaled by any instrument or agency of humanity that ever has existed. -The extent of its utility—although still unquestionable—is limited and -diminished, “cribbed, coffined,” and curtailed by the weakness, the -willfulness, and the wickedness of the very many men, unfit and -evil-minded, who have thrust themselves forward, assuming to conduct it, -and through it the public mind, with no ulterior object nobler or higher -than the misapplication of the weight and moral power with which it -invests them, to all sorts of immorality and wrong, to which avarice, -rapacity, ambition, and the insane desire of demagogueism may impel -them. - -This is, however, only to admit that the press is an agency of time and -mortality; and as such liable, of a necessity, to be perverted. Perhaps -it is rather to be wondered, that there are _few_ base, dishonest, -licentious, and self-seeking journals in circulation, than that there -are any; and it is clear, that the general tone of the reading world is -so gradually and greatly improving, that few of those which now exist -receive any considerable support, unless where they have the skill to -introduce their false doctrines under cover of some specious sophistry, -making them to wear the semblance of reforms. Even these, it may be -observed, are daily becoming more and more transparent to the broad and -keen eye of the public; and, in proportion as they are comprehended, -lose their ill-acquired and abused popularity and power. - -In one word, the utility of the press, its beneficial influences, its -charities, its diffusion of knowledge and true light, and its general -maintenance of the right, out-balance, as by ten thousand fold, the -occasional obliquities, injustice, falsehood, and advocacy of devil’s -doings here on earth, which periodically disgrace its columns. - -For these the press is no more to be censured or condemned, than is the -Book of Common Prayer, or the Holy Bible; because—in the middle -ages—men, mad with too much, or too little learning—it matters not -whether—applied their most hallowed texts, read backward, to the -evocation of departed souls from Hades, or of evil spirits from the -abyss of very Hell. - -It is not, however, of the moral influences, but of the mere material -powers of the press, as now existing in its wonderfully improved -condition, with all appliances of marvelous time-saving machinery, that -we would now speak—machinery born itself of machinery, self-developed -from the swart, unplastic ore, with, comparatively speaking, small -expense of human labor, though under the control of the all-contriving -human brain, into engines of strange and mysterious potency. - -It is little to say that the efficiency, and of course the utility, of -the printing-press has been increased a thousand fold, that the facility -and consequent cheapness, of the reproduction of books has been improved -to such an extent that thousands and tens of thousands of volumes are -now printed, published, and put into circulation, where there was one -thirty years ago; and that too at prices, which bring it easily within -the means of all—but the very idlest and poorest—to become familiar -with the best thoughts of the brightest geniuses of all ages—That the -whole system of journalism, and journal publishing, has passed through a -complete revolution, reducing individual prices to a mere nominal -fraction, and referring the question of profits, and remuneration of -labor, to gross sales of tens of thousands of daily copies—the -consequence of which revolution is to place the whole news of the world, -including all discoveries of art or science, all arguments and -disputations of the first statesmen and orators, all lectures of the -most prominent literateurs and philosophers of the day, within the -hand’s reach of every farmer and farm-laborer, every artisan, mechanic, -clerk and shop-boy of the land, from the Aroostook to the Sacramento and -Columbia. - -It is little to say this—yet this is something; for it is the first -step toward making those who do govern the land, fit to govern -it—namely, the people—toward enabling them to judge, unlike the -constituents of best European representative governments, not of men -only, but, mediately, of measures; toward giving them to judge and learn -for themselves, from the actual progress of recorded events, daily -occuring, something of the policy of foreign nations, something of the -interest of their own country; lastly, toward rendering the permanent -establishment of a falsehood, or the long suppression of the truth, an -impossibility. - -And yet all this is to say little, as compared with what may be -said—namely, that the difference between the efficiency of the modern -printing-press and that of Guttenberg, Faustus and Schoffer, is almost -greater than the difference between that and the manuscript system, -which it superseded. - -And all this is to be ascribed to the perfection of mechanics and -machinery, brought by the aid of every branch of science to what we -might well deem perfection, did not every coming day awake to -perfectionate what was last night deemed perfect. - -In all branches of human labor, in all phases of human ingenuity, for -above half a century, this vast increase—both of the application and -the power of machinery—has been in progress; constantly awakening the -fears and jealousies, sometimes inducing the overt opposition and -illegal violence of the working classes, as cheapening their labor, and -about ultimately to subvert their trade and destroy their means of -subsistence. - -Than these fears and jealousies, nothing can be more erroneous, not to -say absurd. For it is no longer a theory, but an established fact, that -consumption of, and demand for, any article grows almost in arithmetical -progression from the reduction of its price, to such a degree, as to -render it available to all classes. - -Two examples, alone, will be sufficient to make this clear:— - -Some twenty years ago, the renewal of the English East India Company’s -charter was refused by Parliament, and the tea-trade of Great Britain -opened to all British bottoms[1]. The price of tea was reduced by above -one-half, and the company exclaimed loudly, as companies ever do, -against the unjust legislation, which must needs ruin them. - -Mark the result, however. The price of tea fell one-half; the -consumption of tea increased—we speak generally—almost ten-fold. The -company never were more prosperous than now. - -Again—within the same period, inland postage in Great Britain was -reduced to a uniform rate of one penny sterling, not without much -opposition and strenuous contest, the opponents insisting that the -department must become a burden on the state, from sheer inability to do -the work of transportation at prices merely nominal. The results are -before the public, and not a boy but knows that they precisely reverse -the prediction. - -The same thing is true of the growth of the cotton trade; of the growth -of agricultural productions: and last, not least, and most of all to the -purpose, of the growth of the so-called _penny_-press of New York, and -the United States in general. We use the term so-called, because though -nominally penny, most, if not all, of the very paying papers of this -class are really two-penny papers. - - - - -[Illustration: GOLD STREET WORKS. CITY, NEW YORK. -GROUND PLAN.] - - - - -While we were considering these matters, to which consideration we were -led by a visit to the extraordinary machine works of Messrs. Hoe & Co., -the inventors and manufacturers of the great fast power-presses, which -have effected the revolution of which we have spoken, we accidentally -stumbled upon the following article from the columns of the New York -Tribune; and it is so entirely germane to the matter, that we have no -hesitation in quoting the former portion of it, without alteration or -comment. - -The latter portion we omit, because we entirely disagree with Mr. Greely -in the deduction which he draws from the admitted facts, as we do with -most of his socialistic and communistic notions. - -It is to the increase of demand, growing out of the increase and -cheapness of production, that he must look for employment and profit, -not to the catching at the empty bubble of ownership, or to the ambition -of governing, with none to serve under him. - - - “LABOR AND MACHINERY. - -A thoughtful laborer—for wages—sends us an account he finds current in -the journals of the rapid progress of Printing by Machinery, as -illustrated by a single cheap daily newspaper. That paper now prints -48,475 sheets—or 101 reams—per day, which it is enabled by rapid -machinery to do from one set of types, whereas, if obliged to use the -Hand-Press of former days, it would be obliged to set up its type -_twenty-nine times_ over for each daily edition, employing 812 -compositors instead of barely 28, and 116 pressmen instead of some ten -or twelve only. Hereupon our correspondent comments as follows:— - - Mr. Greely:—It will be seen by the above, which I quote merely - as a convenient text to illustrate the matter in hand, that in - _one_ establishment a _difference_ is made of nearly or quite - _nine hundred_ men, in consequence of the invention or - improvement of machinery, which has taken place within a less - time than the last 25 years, from the number it would have been - necessary to have employed to prosecute the same amount of - business had no such progress been made. The same is true, I - suppose, to an equal extent, of _The Tribune_ and other journals - of large circulation. The same—i. e., _the alarming - encroachment which machinery is every day making on what has - heretofore been performed by human muscles alone_—is not - peculiar to any one branch of employment. The restless inquiry - and invention of the present is rapidly and surely intruding - _iron_ muscles, which do not become hungry, or experience the - depression of low wages and consequent low fare, into every - department of human industry, crowding out and setting adrift - thousands of the industrious, to seek new and untried means of - subsistence, from which soon again to be driven, by—what many - of them have come to look upon as their greatest, most - persevering and relentless enemy—machinery. - - Whither, I would thoughtfully and anxiously ask, do these facts, - which stare us in the face from every quarter, tend? What is - their mighty significancy? The unprecedented increase of the - most cunningly adapted, durable, and economical machinery—on - the one hand—to perform, in great part, the work heretofore - done by us—the laborers; and—on the other hand—the sure and - certain increase of that most reliable portion of humanity which - we represent, and whose only capital is their muscles, and whose - hope of bread for themselves and children is in the performance, - to a large extent, of that same labor thus snatched from us by - the offspring of invention. What wonder that the honest laborer, - who knows no cunning but the use of the physical force which God - has given him, or the mechanic who plies his trade, should stand - aghast, and feel his heart sink within him, as he is forced from - his legitimate occupation, to another and still another, and at - last finds his employment altogether fitful and uncertain, from - the number of his fellows driven to the same condition as - himself. His labor is truly “a drug in the market,” and stern - necessity is fast putting him, if it has not already, wholly at - the mercy of capital. I could not but sadly ponder, as - one—while watching the nicely adjusted movements of a cheap - engine, which had ejected him and his fellow, in like condition, - from the place whence, for years, they had obtained a livelihood - for themselves and families—significantly observed to me that, - “the best thing that could be done with _that thing_ would be to - break it to pieces, and pitch it out of the window.” They saw - wood about town now, when they can get it to do, as the - _machinery_, which they have in such successful operation in - Chicago and some other cities for that purpose, has not yet been - introduced here. Their daughters, too, who have, till within a - six month back, had work at $2 50 per week, in the factories, - are now out of employ. This, you know, is but one of countless - similar illustrations which take place every day in poor - families. - - H. - -We have thus allowed our friend to state his whole case—though he only -submitted it that we might comment on its substance—and we now solicit -his attention to some thoughts by it suggested. - -Why does our friend go back only to the Hand-Press to exhibit the -disastrous effects of Machinery on the interests of Labor? The -hand-press itself is a labor-saving machine of immense capacity—far -more so in its day than the power-press which is now extensively -superseding it. It threw wholly out of employment and reduced to -absolute destitution thousands upon thousands of skillful, accurate, -admirable penmen, who had given the best years of their lives to acquire -skill in a profession, or pursuit, which the press almost extirpated. To -be at all consistent, “H.” must demand, not the destruction of the -power-press only, but of all printing or copying presses whatever. - -“Ah! but then there could be no newspapers?”—Nay; that does not follow. -Kossuth’s first gazette was not printed, but a carefully prepared -abstract of the sayings and doings of the Hungarian Diet, whereof copies -were made by scribes for general diffusion. There have been many such -instances of unprinted journals. - -“Well; there could be no _such_ journals as we now have.” No, nor could -there be without the power-press. We could not afford such a paper as -_The Tribune_ now is for four times its present price, if we were -obliged to print it on hand-presses; in fact, no such paper could be -supported at all. - -The subsisting truth, then, must be accepted and looked fairly in the -face. The mountain will not come to Mahomet; he must go to the mountain. -The existence and rapid progress of Machinery is a fact which cannot be -set aside; the world will not, cannot go backward: Machinery cannot be -destroyed; it cannot even be held where it is, but must move onward to -further and vaster triumphs. We may deplore this, but cannot prevent -it.” - - * * * * * - -The perusal of this article would have determined us, had we not been -resolved beforehand, to lay before our readers an account of the very -remarkable works to which we have before alluded, by the proprietors of -which the machinery mentioned in the letter of “the thoughtful laborer” -was of course manufactured, as by them it was invented; being no other -than the great eight-cylinder, type-revolving, fast-printing press. -Similar machines, though varying in the number of cylinders, are -employed by the New York Herald and Tribune, the eight-cylinder being -used by the Sun, the Philadelphia Ledger, and other journals in the -United States, as also by the Parisian La Patrie, the quasi organ of the -present Prince President, and, according to present appearances, future -Emperor of the French. - -These works are in truth one of the most remarkable sights, if not the -most worthy of remark, of all that are shown to strangers in New -York—and yet to how few are they shown. The changes to which they have -already given birth are great enough, even now, - - “To overcome us like a summer cloud,” - -but the end of those changes is not yet, nor shall be, while we are. -What they shall be, we may not even conjecture—perhaps the -civilization, the christianizing of the world entire, and the reduction -of all tongues and dialects to one universal English language. - - - - -[Illustration: BROOME STREET MANUFACTORIES. (_Ground Plan._)] - - - - -To waste no more words, however, in mere speculation, but to come to -facts, the history of the origin and progression of these truly -wonderful works, of which more anon, is in itself by no means void of -interest—even of something of romance. - -In the well-known and ill-remembered yellow-fever summer of New York, an -Englishman by birth, a carpenter by trade, landed in the city of the -plague, a stranger, friendless, sick, and but scantily provided with -what has been termed the root of all evil, which one-third of our -people, however, regard as the sole object and aim of exertion and -existence here and hereafter. - -His good fortune, or rather—for we believe not in fortune—his good -providence brought him in contact with that most singular of geniuses, -Grant Thorburn. With him he boarded, with him struggled through the -terrors of the prevailing pest, by him was tenderly nursed, and from his -roof entered into business with Smith, the well-known machinist and -inventor of the hand-press which still bears his name; nor is it yet -superseded by more recent improvements. Their partnership terminated -only with the decease of Mr. Smith; from which time, under the sole -conduct of Mr. Hoe—for the stranger guest of Mr. Thorburn was no other -than the father of the energetic, inventive and enterprising gentlemen, -whose works we are about to describe—the business became permanently -established, and yearly advanced in popularity and reputation, which -constitute profits. - -Still, greatly as he improved upon what had been before, at his death in -1834, the average annual sales of the concern did not exceed 50,000 -dollars; they never now fall short of 400,000; and often amount to half -a million. Such are, and will ever be, the consequences of energy, -industry, probity and sobriety, joined to an earnest and sincere -application of that talent, which each one of us in some sort possesses, -to its true and legitimate increase and improvement—in other words, to -quote a book so much out of fashion—find the more the pity!—in these -piping times of progress, as the old church catechism, a quiet resolve -to “do our duty in that state of life to which it hath pleased God to -call us.” - -Shortly after the death of Mr. Hoe, sen., his sons and successors, -finding the then premises insufficient, moved to the ground now occupied -by their great manufactories, occupying a hollow block four stories in -height, of two hundred feet front on Broome street, by one hundred in -depth on Sheriff and Columbia streets, as also a second lot on the other -side of Broome street, containing their saw works, hardening furnaces, -stables, and other necessary buildings. In these works, a bird’s eye -view of which is pre-fixed to this paper, and the ground plan of which -we here present, the Messrs. Hoe continually employ three hundred men, -some of them persons of great ability as draughtsmen, pattern-makers, -mechanicians, and the like—men literally of every nation, as nearly as -may be, under the sun; among whom are comprised several Armenians, said -to be persons of great intelligence and excellent deportment. - -Besides this, their principal factory, they have another large and well -built establishment, containing ware-rooms, counting-house, blacksmith’s -shop, machine shop, and steam-engine room, in Gold street, nearly -adjoining Fulton. This, though in fact headquarters, we shall pass over -for the time being, premising only—in order to show the perfect method -and system of time and labor-saving with which every thing belonging to -this firm is conducted—that they have at their own expense, and for -their own private use, erected an electric telegraph, carried by the -permission of the proprietors over the roofs of houses, from the -counting-room to the up-town factories, by which the smallest message or -order is conveyed, and answered almost instantaneously. Nor are the -proprietors dissatisfied with the result, having found by experience -that the great original expense was very speedily compensated by the -gain of time, and yet more of precision which it introduced. - -Returning up-town, therefore, we will descend into the vault under the -first yard, in which we shall find the moving puissance of all the vast -machinery of hammers, planes, lathes, drills, grindstones, tools and -devices, almost without name or number, which are constantly laboring -with their iron nerves, noiseless, tireless, indefatigable, through -every story of the great building—in the shape of the boilers and -steam-engine, which, beside furnishing all the motive power, supply -every part of the building, by a very ingenious application, with a -constant stream of evenly tempered, pure, heated air, at the same time -maintaining a thorough ventilation, and all without the slightest danger -of fire. - -The spent steam is brought into a series of coiled pipes within a trunk, -through which a continual stream of pure external air flows without -intermission, and is carried by wooden tubes through every story and -room of the building; as is likewise an ample provision of Croton water, -as well a provision against fire, as for the cleanliness and comfort of -the men. - -Of the engine there is nothing very special to be observed, as it is of -the old construction, and, though perfectly efficient, not now to be -imitated or adopted. It is a horizontal high pressure engine of about -forty horse power, under the head of steam usually employed, though -capable of exerting considerably more force, if called upon. There has -been recently attached to it a singularly ingenious little machine, in -the shape of a hydraulic regulator, of which great expectations are -entertained, and which, in the very short time it has been tested, works -to admiration, one week only having elapsed since its application. To -attempt to describe this, or in fact any other complicated machine, in -an illustrative article such as this pretends only to be, were an -absurdity; for the operations of the simplest engines can be rendered -thoroughly comprehensible, only—if at all—by thorough diagrams with -numerical references, and then comprehensible only to scientific -readers, conversant at least with the principles and working of the -motive power, and the forces to be exerted by it. - -Ascending from the subterranean regions, which are, by the way, so -constructed under an open and little occupied court-yard that even in -case of any untoward accident the least possible damage would ensue, and -certainly no upheaval of whole edifices, as by the explosion of a powder -magazine, would be the consequence, we arrive next in the order of -production at the great foundery, occupying nearly one half of the -ground floor on the Broome street front. - - - - -[Illustration: OLD STEAM-ENGINE, BROOME STREET.] - -Of this, although it furnishes the rude material, the first degree we -mean from the actual raw metal for the whole establishment, the saw -manufactory alone excepted, there is little to be noted worthy of -particular attention by those who are familiar with the operation of -furnaces, founderies and casting on a large scale, as in fact there is -nothing in it unusual or novel, unless it be what struck us as both -novel and unusual, the general absence of noise, confusion, din and -turmoil, not to mention ill sounds, ill savors, and oppressive heat, -which seems to pervade the whole establishment. This, ministering as it -does largely to the comfort and well-being of all concerned, detracts -somewhat, it must be admitted from the picturesque effect of the -scenery, and its adjuncts. Even the neatness and cleanliness of the -orderly and well conducted moving about each his own business -noiselessly, and obeying a sign or the wafture of a hand, diminished the -effect which we almost expect to feel in an iron foundery, a furnace, or -a machine shop. - -We well remember the impression left on our mind years ago by a visit to -some gigantic iron works in Sheffield, an impression which made itself -felt for many a month in strange fantastic dreams and painful -nightmares—such influence, not on the imagination only but on the -nerves, had the dense murky gloom of the dim vaults, suddenly kindled, -as by magic, into a fierce incandescent glare by the lava-like torrents -of molten iron, the volumes of black smoke, the stifling heat of the -oppressed and exhausted atmosphere, and then the roar of unseen waters, -suggestive of those subterranean streams of Hades, Acheron and Cocytus, -the whirr and hurtling of unnumbered wheels, the terrible and deafening -clang of the huge trip-hammers, literally making the solid earth jar and -tremble; and last and most appropriate to the scene, the swarthy, -grim-visaged workmen, fit representatives of Vulcan and his Cyclops, now -glancing into lurid light, now vanishing into darkness, as the fitful -flashes rose and fell. Of a verity there can be no much more appropriate -representation of Pandemonium than an old-fashioned English iron works -on a large scale. - -But there is no room for marveling or romancing after this fashion in -the machine works of Messrs. Hoe & Co., for all the rooms are well -aired, well lighted, and none the less adapted to their purpose for -being suitable to the accommodation of men who neither are slaves, nor -in anywise resemble devils. - - - - -[Illustration: GREAT FOUNDERY.] - -From the foundery we proceed, across the open yard, to the smithy, a -large, lofty, well proportioned apartment, containing two enormous -steam-hammers, the speed and consequent impetus of which can be -modulated by a very easy application of manual force, at the pleasure of -the operator, so that they can be made either to rise and fall as slowly -as the maces of Gog and Magog on the great bell of Saint Dunstan’s, or -to impinge upon whatever is objected to their descent with a velocity -which almost mocks the eye. In this apartment and its adjunct forge -there are no less than eighteen stithies, the bellows of all which are -worked by the ubiquitous power of the engine, with anvils of all manners -and sizes in due proportion, and sturdy operatives plying them with -tranquil and regulated industry, worth five times the amount of human -force exerted unequally and impulsively, by fits and starts. These men, -for the most part, and, in fact, always when not called off by some -casual and unexpected pressure of business in some one department, are -kept constantly employed at that peculiar species of work with which -each is the most familiar, such method and system in the subdivision of -labor being found to insure not only the greatest excellence, but the -greatest celerity of workmanship. - - - - -[Illustration: SMITHY.] - -In this shop all such portions of the engines, presses, large and small, -printing and inking machines, and of the machinery by the agency of -which the above machines themselves are created, as are composed of -wrought metal, are forged, welded, made new from the commencement, or -repaired in case of damage. For it is worthy of remark that, although -many of the labor-saving machines and tools are of English make—not a -few by the celebrated Whitworth, said to be the first tool-maker in the -world—there is not one that cannot, on emergency, be made, mended, or -altered, within the precincts of the establishment; while many of the -most admirable contrivances are patents and inventions peculiar to this -country and this firm. - -Immediately adjoining the smithy, is the engine and machine shop, and on -the same floor the large lathe-room containing four enormous surface -lathes and two turning lathes, for drilling, boring, turning, and -finishing both circular and horizontal surfaces. - -From this point, we shall proceed to the saw works, preferring to take -each separate department of work by itself, from the commencement to the -end, rather than to adhere to the precise order and position of the -several rooms, as situated in the building. - -The first room devoted to this branch of manufacture, which is a very -considerable and important item in the business of Messrs. Hoe & Co., -the annual sales amounting to not less than 140,000 dollars, in circular -saws, mill-saws, pit-saws, and crosscut-saws, for all parts of the -country, is known as the saw shop. - -Herein is performed the business of smithing, teething, and blocking the -great saws; hundreds of thousands of which are at work, driven by water -or by steam-power in every portion of the boundless territories of the -United States, to which the enterprising foot and adventurous axe of the -white settler has found access—clearing with their restless and -indomitable teeth the solid and tenacious fibres of the gnarled -live-oaks in the pestilent swamps of Florida, and the dank “regions far -away, by Pascagoula’s sunny bay,” into the crooked knees of mighty -vessels, that shall set at naught the howling billows of the wild -Atlantic, and the blasts of the mad storm-wind, Euroclydon, riving into -planks and beams and timbers, that shall build up the palaces of -commerce, and the happy homes of our lordly cities, the white and -penetrable flesh of “those captive kings so straight and tall, those -lordly pines, which fell long ago in the deer-haunted forests of Maine, -when deep upon mountain and plain lay the snow.” - -The machinery by which these various processes are accomplished is -exceedingly fine and worthy of notice, and vastly superior to that used -in England; in the dock-yards of which country the circular saws were -first brought into service, if we do not err; especially that for -cutting the teeth, which, worked by steam-power, does its duty with -great rapidity and incomparable precision. - - - - -[Illustration: SAW SHOP.] - -This operation is performed by the vertical descent of a ponderous arm -of iron, terminating in a cutter of the form of the notch to be made in -the yet soft and smooth edge of the circular plate, which is made by the -same power to revolve horizontally upon an axis placed at such distance -from the impinging weight as the depth of the notch to be cut requires, -and traversing at a rate so timed in unison with the descent of the -cutters as to render the series of teeth perfectly continuous and equal; -each blow of the cutter forming the interval between two teeth, and each -full revolution of the plate completing a circular-saw. In the same way -is effected the teething of the straight saws, the motion being a direct -sliding action in a forward line, instead of a rotatory movement. - -In the English saw works, owing to the influence of trade-unions, -operative-unions, and the like, the application of steam-power to this -machinery is prohibited, and the employer is restricted to the use of -hand labor—the cutter being jerked down by man power, and the edge of -the plate to be cut being subjected to the striker by hand, the -formation of the teeth not being regulated by any absolute scale, but -being executed by the calculation or guess-work of the artisan, and, of -course, varying in accuracy, depth and precision of cutting according to -the skillfulness or unskillfulness of the individual operator. - -To the absence of these ingenious combinations, injurious alike to the -true interest of operators and employers, the superiority in many -respects of American to English machinery is in some degree due, and not -less to the over stringency of the patent laws of Great Britain, which -often prevent the application of really leading and most material -improvements, of a radical nature, to principles secured for the benefit -of the inventor. - -We may here observe that the use of circular saws is very greatly on the -increase in this country, more especially in the western portion of it. -In the east, for some inexplicable reason, this admirable instrument is -far less generally used; and the writer of this article, several years -ago, when on a visit to the timber districts of Maine, on expressing his -surprise at the non-adoption of this most excellent and labor-saving -tool, could learn no adequate cause for the prejudice existing against -it, unless it were some crude and absurd ideas concerning its vibration -and consequent irregularity of cutting—objections not founded on facts, -nor confirmed by experience. - -From the saw shop the circular plates, now teethed and in the incipient -stage of what Willis would call _sawdom_, are removed across Broome -Street into the other building, and introduced to the saw hardening -room, where they are converted into highly tempered steel. - - - - -[Illustration: SAW HARDENING ROOM.] - -This process is effected by heating the metal in charcoal furnaces to a -white incandescent glow, and then cooling it by immersion in baths of -oil and other drugs, the combination of which is, we believe, a secret. -This done, the saws are ready for grinding which is effected in a -special apartment of the main building—the flat, straight saws by hand -application to a series of powerful grindstones, driven at a regular -speed by gearings worked from the engine, and the circular saws by a -very curious and effective patent machine, peculiar to this -establishment, and invented by Mr. Hoe himself. - -The old method of grinding circular saws, and that still practiced in -all other works of this nature, is the application of them horizontally -to the great vertically-moving grindstones by the hand; and, when it is -considered that these great steel plates run up to six feet diameter and -eighteen of circumference, and that they consequently entirely conceal -the grindstone from the eyes of the operator who applies them, it will -be evident that the process is mere guess-work, and that no certainty -can be attained in regulating the thickness of the blades—in a word, -that nothing was effected beyond the superficial brightening and -abstersion of the surface. - - - - -[Illustration: GRINDING ROOM.] - -The new machine causes the great circular plate to revolve vertically on -its access, while a “pad” to which is applied some sharp, detergent -mineral-powder, is moved forcibly over its surface with a triple action. - -In the first place, the pad itself is made to revolve with great -velocity against the circular plane, in a direction perpendicular to its -line of motion. In the second place, it is driven forward against it -horizontally with a force increasing or diminishing, in proportion as it -may be desirable to render the saw-blades thicker or thinner in any -particular part of the circumference. It is usual to leave them thicker -at the centre, and to grind them away gradually toward the -circumference. Thirdly and lastly, the pad, while it revolves vertically -in a direction perpendicular to the revolving plane, and is forced -horizontally against it, is also driven laterally to and fro across its -surface; and the result is a degree of equability, or graduation of -thickness, as well as of superficial polish, scarcely otherwise -attainable. This machine is one of the special wonders and ornaments of -the establishment. - -It will not be amiss here to add, that with the improvements of their -manufacture the demand for circular saws is continually on the increase; -and that a single house is in the habit of taking regularly six of these -powerful tools weekly from the Messrs. Hoes’ establishment. - - - - -[Illustration: IRON PLANING, AND CUTTING ENGINE ROOMS.] - -Returning hence to the leading and principal feature of these works, the -manufacture, namely, of all the various instruments and appliances for -the art imprimatorial, we are next ushered into the iron planing and -cutting engine rooms, for the cutting the cogs of engine wheels, and -finishing the surfaces of whatever portions of the machinery must be -brought to a smooth and polished face. This is done by the propulsion of -the pieces of metal so to be planed, in a horizontal and longitudinal -direction against cutting edges, which again move horizontally across -the moving planes, and are pressed downward on them vertically, so as to -bring the planing to the requisite depth. The abraded portions are -thrown off from the surface, of cast iron in a sort of scaly dust, from -wrought iron in long, curled shavings, and the planes can be wrought up -to almost any desirable degree of finish and smoothness. - -The cutting engine for the formation of cogged wheels, bears some -relation to that for the teething of saws, the cutter impinging -downward, with an action in some degree intermediate between that of -sawing and filing, upon the exterior circumference of the circular -wheels, which revolve on their axis under them in a rotation so -regulated to the fall of the striker as to insure absolute equality in -the width of the cogs or projections. - - [_Conclusion in our next_ - ------ - -[1] Ships. - - * * * * * - - - - - A FAREWELL. - - - W. H. HOSMER. - - - Drifting on the darkened waters - Are Earth’s dying sons and daughters, - And, like ships that meet each other, - Brother gives a hail to brother: - Brief the pleasure of that meeting, - And forgotten oft the greeting. - - Could I think that other faces - Would of me blot out all traces. - Though I cannot be thy lover, - Clouds my path would gather over; - From remembrance, then, endeavor - Not to blot me out forever. - - Fare thee well! must now be spoken, - And another tie be broken; - Though the hour hath come to sever, - Lady! I’ll forget thee never, - But thy warmth of soul remember - Till extinct life’s wasting ember. - - * * * * * - - - - - EDITH MORTON. - - - BY MISS S. A. STUART. - - - CHAPTER I. - -Have you ever been, dear reader, in that sweet little village of A——, -in Virginia? Well, if you have not, you certainly have yet to see, the -most pleasant little Eden of this earth; where they have the purest air, -the most beautiful sunsets, and the bluest skies imaginable—Italy not -excepted—so I think. There lived my heroine; and _such_ a heroine, at -the time I have chosen to introduce her to you. - -It was close upon sundown, on a lovely spring day, when a strikingly -handsome, _distingué_ looking young man, alighted from his buggy, at the -residence of Mrs. Morton, in the above mentioned village. Charles -Lennard—the young man spoken of—had been received as a boarder, for a -few months, into Mrs. Morton’s quiet family, as his health was too -delicate to allow him to trust to the precarious and uncertain kindness -shown by the landladies, in general, of thriving village inns. Some -moneyed affair had called him to A., and here he had arrived on this -lovely spring evening; and the skies wore their rosiest blush to greet -his coming. - -“By all that’s pretty! ’tis a little Paradise,” was his muttered notice, -as he passed through the flower-garden, whose clinging vines, creeping -o’er the lattice supports, veiled the little bird-nest of white that -peeped out amid the rich green foliage, varied in color by a thousand -tinted flowers. “I hope Mrs. Morton has given me a room overlooking the -garden; ’twill be delightful to read here whilst these perfumes are -floating around one.” - -The door was wide open, and a quiet, blue-eyed lady sat sewing in the -back part of the wide hall, who raised her soft, kind eyes inquiringly -to his face, as his shadow darkened the doorway. - -“Mrs. Morton, I presume?” said he, as she approached him. “I am Mr. -Lennard, whom you were so kind as to admit—” - -“I am happy to see you, Mr. Lennard,” interrupted she, hospitably -extending her hand to bid him welcome. “Walk into this room, sir. We are -very plain folks here, Mr. Lennard—but you must endeavor to make -yourself at home. Alec”—to a boy who entered—“take this gentleman’s -buggy and horse and put them up.” - -Turning to her guest, she conducted him into her cosy parlor, now filled -with the golden moats of the glimmering sunbeams, that quivered through -the foliage that draped the windows; whilst the atmosphere of the room -itself breathed sweets unnumbered. They chatted of the weather, of his -journey, of the village, etc., till Mrs. Morton, remembering her duty as -hostess, begged her guest to excuse her, whilst she hurried off, “on -hospitable thoughts intent.” Charles threw himself dreamily and -indolently into the old-fashioned arm-chair, which stood invitingly in -the shadow of the window. - -A young, glad voice, a light, bounding step, broke on his reverie; and, -as he glanced toward the door, whence the sound came—_bang!_ almost in -his face, fell a carpet-bag, half filled with books, and then an -exclamation of surprise from a young fairy, who just stopped long enough -to make him doubt whether she was mortal or angel—and then again -bounded off like a young, startled fawn. ’Tis our heroine—Edith -Morton—released from her duties at the village academy, wild with -repressed play and mischief, who has done him this favor! She returned -ere long with her mother, reluctant and blushing, to sanction by her -presence the apology uttered for her. - -“You will excuse Edith, Mr. Lennard, I hope, for her carelessness. She -tells me that the light dazzled her eyes so much, that she was not aware -of your presence; she has been in the habit of throwing her books into -this room—the arm-chair which you now occupy being her morning study. -Edith, speak to Mr. Lennard, and tell him how sorry you are for your -rude greeting.” - -“Do not trouble yourself, Miss Edith. Your apology is all-sufficient, my -dear madam; I, too, must apologize, for having unknowingly taken -possession of her study, which is indeed inviting. You must look upon me -as belonging to the family, and act without restraint; for I assure you, -the thought would be far from pleasant did I think I interfered in the -slightest degree with your settled habits. Miss Edith, you did right to -send me such a reminder at the outset, and I assure you I will be more -careful in future.” - -A gleam of light, like a lurking smile, might be detected in the arch -eyes of Edith, as she received this apology from Lennard. And he -thought, without, however, giving utterance to it, “What a bewitching -little fairy.” Edith Morton, though she had not reached the age of -sixteen, was an exquisite specimen of girlish beauty, as impossible to -resist as to describe. Her charm did not lie in her regular features, -golden ringlets, or beautifully moulded and sylph-like form; though each -and every one of these adjuncts to female loveliness she possessed in a -preëminent degree, but her expression—arch, _spirituelle_! ’Tis useless -to endeavor to convey an idea of the impression she _must_ have made on -you with those divine eyes, lit up in their blue depths, with the -sunlight of her merry heart, or the piquant expression of her rosy -mouth, whose deeply-tinted portals, when wreathed with one of her -infectious, heart-beaming smiles, disclosing white, even, little pearls, -as Jonathan Slick says, shining like a mouthful of “_chewed_ cocoa-nut.” -Shy before strangers, from her secluded life, she was the life of the -circle in which she was known, and loved. Full of mischief, and the -ringleader in every school-girl frolick, her ringing, mellow laugh, -often echoed through the play-ground of the village school, or singing -merrily, as she was borne aloft in the swing, or dancing like a fairy on -the green. Many were the boy-lovers who bowed at her shrine, with their -simple, heartfull offerings; but none felt themselves signally -favored—for, young as she was, she seemed to have erected a standard of -excellence in her own mind, and her ideal hero was alone the loved. - -Charles Lennard soon made himself perfectly at home with Mrs. Morton and -Edith; and his first evening with them passed pleasantly enough to him. -He felt himself much attracted by her exquisite beauty; and, as their -acquaintanceship progressed, when her mother left the room on household -duties, he was much amused by her piquant and original replies to his -questions. He found her, too, not uneducated, and, young as she was, a -reader and lover of many of his own favorite poets. At the close of the -evening, Mrs. Morton requested Edith to sing, and, with a startled look -toward Lennard, she left her seat to get the guitar from its case. - -“Mother, ’tis dreadfully out of tune,” in a tone of entreaty. - -“Well, Edith, that is soon remedied by your _will_. So, my daughter, do -not make any further excuse, but sing to me as usual. Mr. Lennard will -excuse the faults when he sees how willing you are to oblige.” - -Edith bent low over the instrument as she tuned it, and looking up into -her mother’s face, as if her shyness was not yet overcome, waited for -that mother to tell her to commence. - -“Are you ready? well, play then my favorite.” - -And though the young voice was trembling, and not well drilled, yet she -warbled her “wood notes wild” with marvelous sweetness; and she blushed -with pleasure at Lennard’s seeming enjoyment of her simple music; and -her “good-night” to him was as charming as to an acquaintance of longer -date, accompanied as it was by such a sweet smile. - -“What a nice little wife she will make for some one, in days to come,” -thought he, as standing by the window overlooking the garden, he found -himself musing on the singularly graceful and beautiful child whom he -had left. - -Charles Lennard had no idea at that moment of ever loving Edith Morton. -She was too young, too unformed in mind to comprehend him, and to -follow, as a kindred spirit, through the abstruse and almost -transcendental range of thought, in which he often loved to engage. -Delicate in health as in organization, he contented himself for the -present to be a spectator in the world rather than actor, and in his -day-dreams now weaving bright pictures for the future—pictures in which -he was to play a most conspicuous part. We will not say but that a -vision also of dazzling eyes, dancing ringlets, and woman’s light form, -constituted a part of the reveries of the listless and dreamy student. - -The neat breakfast-parlor of Mrs. Morton looked as fresh as herself as -Charles descended, the next morning, to that meal. And there sat Edith -in the old, deeply cushioned chair, book in hand, conning her morning -task most zealously, but ever and anon pushing her little foot out to a -kitten on the floor, as playful as herself, who, with its eyes distended -to a perfect circle, sat watching it most sagely, and then jumping -quickly to catch it, in retreat—so that the young girl would laugh most -merrily, and then again resume her book. Charles watched her from the -hall ere he entered, for on his entrance she drew herself up most -demurely, and cut the kitten’s acquaintance _instanter_. - -“May I assist you with your map-questions, Miss Edith?” - -“No, I thank you. I have finished studying them. Mother always insists -that if I rise early I will learn twice as fast, and also be prepared to -say them when the bell rings.” - -“I know,” said Mrs. Morton, “she will be obliged to stop for play every -now and then. Yes, truly, Edith, you are a sad idler.” - -“Ah, mother! but you should only see me in school. Here there is so much -to take up my attention. I mean I am obliged to kiss you, to tend the -flowers, and—and play with pussy;” and here, forgetting Mr. Lennard, -she caught up her little pet, and began smoothing its soft fur with her -white hand. - -“For shame, Edith; will you always be a child? Come, Mr. Lennard, -breakfast is ready.” - - - CHAPTER II. - -The holydays had come, and Edith was at home for the summer. How -pleasant were her anticipations of her joyous freedom from dull books -and the restraint of school routine for months to come. The next year -she was to become a boarder in a fashionable school in Philadelphia, and -her mother decided that the intervening time should be spent with her -needle, in preparation for that event. Yes; how delightful! so Edith -thought, to sit in that sociable room sewing, where the air was redolent -with perfume, and the sunshine stole so coyly in through the vine-draped -windows, making shimmering and fantastic figures on the highly polished -and waxed floor of that peculiarly summer-room, as the sweet south wind -waved them to and fro. Oh! for her, with her young heart of hope, the -summer air was so delightful when it came through that window, where she -loved to sit gazing dreamily of a lucid, still morning, coming, too, -laden with sweets stolen from the dewy flowers; and then a glance at -those fleecy, shifting clouds in the blue sky—why ’twas better to her -than the fairy scenes of a magic lantern or gorgeous theatric spectacle. - -And there, too, sat Lennard, quite domesticated by this time. -Notwithstanding he thought it would be so very pleasant to study in -_his_ room overlooking the garden, he as regularly walked into the -parlor every morning with his book, until quite a _small library_ began -to collect. Occasionally he would read favorite passages from them to -Edith, as she sat sewing, and, child as she was, looking into her eyes -for sympathy in his enthusiasm. But far oftener would he be wandering -into the garden with her, selecting flowers; sometimes holding the -tangled skein, and that, too, so intently, that often his dark brown -locks were mingled with her golden ones. The peals of merry laughter! -“How much amused they are,” repeated to herself Mrs. Morton; but on -entering and inquiring what caused their merriment, ’twas too little to -frame into an answer. Any thing—nothing—created a laugh or smile with -them, they were so happy—so very happy. Nor was music’s soft strains -neglected to gild the passing hours. There, in the witching, summer -twilight, still, soundless, save the low melody gushing from Edith’s -lips, as she sung to her simple accompaniment on the guitar, and with -the fuller, deeper music of Charles’ voice, they sat wrapt in their -happiness, unconscious—(at least one of them)—of the feelings rife -within their hearts of what heightened their enjoyment. - -Edith _was unconscious_. She was fully aware, it is true, that life was -gaining every day fresh charms. To her eye the blue vault had never -looked “so deeply, darkly, so intensely blue.” The birds had surely -never sung so sweetly, nor the very flowers borne so bright a hue; and -yet, to all appearance, as time wore on, she was not so gleeful nor so -wildly frolicksome as usual. No longer would her voice be detected in -the ringing laugh, but smiles were rippling and dimpling o’er her face, -in her quiet heart happiness. Yes, in her heart of hearts, what a spring -of deep joy was bubbling up almost to overflowing, quietly unknown to -others, but thrillingly alive to herself; so intense at times, that -those sweet eyes would glisten with unshed tears at the very thought -that death might come and bear her off from so bright, so joyous a -world, where life _itself_ was bliss. Her unusual quietness—her fitful -and radiant blushes—the soul-full glances—the _manner_ that was -stealing so softly, yet so perceptibly o’er the young girl, _toning_ -down, as it were, her high spirits, was noticed by her mother; but her -conclusion was simply “that Edith is growing into a woman, and will not -be such a hoyden as I dreaded.” - -_Edith was unconscious!_ But not so the dreamy student. He, though -albeit as much a child in the actual business of life as Edith, was much -better skilled in the heart’s lore. He had seen the flash of joy which -brightened her eye—had watched the cheek kindling at his approach, and -the smile of womanly sweetness, wreathing her exquisite lip at his words -or glance of approval. - -He had become, with Mrs. Morton’s acquiescence—having nothing to occupy -him, he had informed her—Edith’s instructor in French; and he saw how -any thing but wearisome was the daily task; and, in the solitude of his -chamber, stole welcomely into his mind the thought that _he_ had taught -her _practically_ to conjugate through all its inflections the verb -_aimer_. Mrs. Morton very often complained to Edith that she neglected -her sewing for her book, her guitar, her evening rambles—but she was -the widow’s only child, her bright gleam of sunshine; her idleness was -overlooked, and she was allowed to have her own will, and continued to -be the constant companion of Charles Lennard. - -It was a moonlight evening in the latter end of October. Edith, Mrs. -Morton, an elderly lady-visitor, and Charles, rambled about a quarter of -a mile from the village, to a place called the Coolspring, to enjoy one -of the nights which October had stolen from summer, and, delighted with -the beauty of the lonely, sequestered spot, where the moonbeams rested -so brightly and reflectingly on the rustic spring—now bubbling up from -the rich green, velvetty sward—now hiding in the thick grass, and anon -revealing itself by its glitter—that the old ladies seated themselves -on the rude bench for a cozy chat of “auld lang syne,” and “when we were -girls, you remember.” Charles and Edith were standing some distance from -them, watching “the silver tops of moon-touched trees.” Very quietly had -they thus stood drinking in the quiet loveliness of this enchanting -scene, and no sound was heard but the mellowed hum of the village, borne -but echoingly to their ear, and the rustling of the foliage, as it was -kissed by the night-breeze. - -“Edith!” and his voice was low, “is this not beautiful. I swear that I -could be here content forever, were you but with me. But would you, dear -Edith?” - -A quick, eager, flashing gaze, as her eye was for the instant raised to -his own, was her answer. ’Twas the look of some wondering and awakened -child, as the consciousness of her feelings toward Charles stole upon -her beautifully, though strangely; and something of gladness was in the -melody of the child-like, trusting, and low-toned voice with which she -breathed, rather than uttered, “Oh, yes!” - -“Dearest Edith!” was all that Charles said for some moments, as he held -the little trembling hand in his own, then placing it within his arm, he -drew her to the shade of a large tree, under whose foliage lay the -fallen trunk of an oak, upon which they sat. - -“Dearest Edith,” he again said, as she, with downcast eyes, blushing -even in that dim light at his impassioned tones and loving words, -“promise me that you will love me and think fondly of me for the next -two years I am doomed to wander, and then, when I have fulfilled my -guardian’s wishes, that you will be my wife? My own Edith, say?” - -You could almost hear the beating of that young heart, as she thus sat -listening at his side, shrinking and trembling from the arm thrown -around her waist, and turning in timid modesty from the eyes looking so -ardently loving into the glistening depths of her own, striving to hide -her feelings from those fondly searching eyes. And Charles—with the -lightning’s rapidity came into his mind the words of the poet: - - “She loves me much, _because_ she hides it. - Love teaches cunning even to innocence; - And when he gets possession, his _first_ work - Is to dig deep within the heart, and there - Lie hid, and like a miser, in the dark - To feast alone.” - -“_You_ will forget _me_ long ere you come back,” was her answer to his -reiterated appeal. “Why need I, then, to answer?” And there was a tear -almost in the liquid voice, as a vision of what her life would be, -should such prove the truth, arose before her mind’s eye. - -“Forget _you_! Do you judge me from yourself, Edith, when you say that?” - -“Oh, no!” was the impulsive reply of the young maiden, as she hastily -and unthoughtedly now answered him. “Oh, no indeed! But you, Mr. -Lennard, are going to Europe; and you will see there so many, very many -things and persons to make you forget _me_—a _school-girl_—an ignorant -_child_. I was ashamed of myself before you, to think _I_ knew so -little—so very little, and _you_—why you will blush for my ignorance, -and _then_—how could you love me?” - -How sweet were those tones, so full of heart-music that he, luxuriating -in them, hesitated to answer, that he might catch even their echo; but -at length came his reply. - -“How could I love you! Rather ask, how can—how _could_ I help it. You -are to me, Edith, more perfect than any human being I ever dreamed of or -imagined; so lovely, darling, that when you burst on me first, in your -young, pure loveliness, I was almost in doubt if you, indeed, belonged -to our dull earth. _How could I love you!_” - -“What a simple question; yet, how deep in its very simplicity and -artlessness. Yes, Edith, I almost ask myself the same question—how I -could _dare_ to love one so like an angel. I will not suffer myself to -search into my right—lest I say with truth, - - ‘’Twere as well to love some bright particular star - And think to wed it.’ - -But, promise that you will love me—that you will think ever of me; and -that when I return you will be my wife?” - -“You must ask mother, Ch—Mr. Lennard I mean—Indeed, indeed I cannot -answer you for—do not laugh when I tell you—I am almost frightened -when you ask me such a question; though”—and here the young head, with -its clustering, silken ringlets, bent low as she whispered—“though I do -love you now better than any one in the world. But, let us go to mother, -now, Mr. Lennard,” she quickly added, startled as it were, by her own -confession; and, springing lightly from him, as he attempted still to -detain her with his loving words, and almost nestling down by her -mother’s side, like a truant dove returned, and yet, her heart beating -with the fullness of joy at the sweet knowledge she had thus gained—her -eye lit up with the lore conned from the new page of the book in her -life which she had then learnt. And Charles stood by her, even more -eloquent in his silence than when he wooed her beneath the shadowy, old -tree. - - “But they were young; oh! what without our youth - Would love be? What would youth be, without love? - Youth lends it joy and sweetness—vigor—truth, - Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above.” - - - CHAPTER III. - -Events mark time more than years, and this truth, so much known, serves -me to tell the change wrought in Edith. A child in years, the beautiful -fable of Psyche was realized; and the next morning found her soul -awakened, and from her quiet, subdued manner, no longer the child but -the woman—ay, and with a woman’s loving and devoted heart. Mrs. Morton -had been informed—much to her surprise, of his proposal to her -daughter—by Charles, and though prepossessed in his favor, yet she -demurred giving her consent to their engagement on account of Edith’s -extreme youth. Charles told her of his isolated condition—his fortune; -and she at last, won by his earnest entreaties, and the bashful, asking -look from Edith—whom she chanced to see whilst hesitating—consented to -their correspondence and conditional engagement. And, now we must hurry -over the subsequent time which intervened before Lennard’s departure, -nor do I design to inflict the pangs of parting on any save the lovers -themselves. - -January found Edith at her new school, and her days glided on tranquilly -and hopefully. She was assiduous at her studies, music, etc.; -determined, in the depths of her loving yet ambitious little heart, to -render herself worthy of her future husband. - -Charles, carrying letters of introduction to persons of some -consideration, and having good credit at his bankers, soon found himself -admitted into circles of the _élite_ in England, France and Italy. But -every where did he carry about with him his vivid remembrance of Edith -the young and the loving. Unlike most heroes, he met with no stirring -adventures—no “accidents by flood or field”—no titled dames sued for -his love. He traversed England—knew London and its lions—admired its -gems; dwelt long enough in Paris to speak intelligently; sailed down the -Rhine; crossed the Simplon, and spent some time at Florence, Naples, -Venice, and at last settled down in Rome, to drag through the second -winter of his probation in Europe. And most constant had he been all -this time, thinking on Edith by day—dreaming of her by night, and -repeatedly sending his missives of love o’er the broad Atlantic, laden -with sighs sufficient to waft the bark of itself had not _steam_ deigned -to assist him. - -It was in the month of March, when Lennard fell ill at Rome. -Alone—recluse and dreamy still in his habits—he had made but few -acquaintances, and would, I think, have fared but badly had it not been -for the attention of an American family, like himself, sojourning in the -“imperial city.” - -Mr. Ashton, wife and daughter, were unremitting in their kindness to the -invalid, the former watching him with a parent’s care, and the daughter -cheering and amusing him during the listless and languid weeks of his -slow convalescence. Isabel, or rather Bel Ashton, was not beautiful; but -there was that nameless charm around her which often attaches more -powerfully than mere beauty. Partly educated in Europe, she had passed -much of her time in Paris and other cities of the continent, and -possessed by _des habitudes_, and by nature, that - - “Grace of motion and of look—the smooth - And swimming majesty of step and tread; - The symmetry of form, which set - The soul afloat, even like delicious airs - Of flute and harp.” - -Above all, her wit, sparkling and effervescing like champagne, and -almost as intoxicating. How swiftly and agreeably speeded on his days. -Every morning found Charles in the parlor of the _suite_ of rooms -occupied by the Ashtons, and as he gained strength, their escort in -rides and sight-seeing promenades. Yet, though he admired Bel Ashton -much, his betrothed Edith was not forgotten. He now, however, often -caught himself contrasting them together—wondering had she changed from -her _spirituelle_, radiant, girlish beauty, into any thing of more -earthy, coarser mould. With something unpleasant pulling at his -heart-strings, came the recollection that Edith’s mother had a great -resemblance to her daughter, but was too much _embonpoint_ to suit his -ideas of matron comeliness, and then a haunting vision would cross his -fastidious mind of his worshiped Edith becoming like her mother, a -Turkish _beauty_ as to her size. Bel, with her tact, her undulating, -graceful motion, her mannerism, _would_ come in comparison to this -_bug-bear_—we may almost call it—of his imagination; and, though when -he remembered her sweet, joyous temper; her appearance, as when standing -by the moonlit spring, with her graceful, girlish embarrassment—her -rare and dazzling beauty, her pure young love—Bel would yield instant -precedence to Edith; yet was he constantly haunted by these ever -recurring comparisons, until he began—the ingrate!—to feel his -engagement as a binding chain. - -“I am now strong enough,” sighed Charles Lennard, one morning, “to think -of my preparations to return to America. ’Tis now May, and I must reach -Virginia sometime in July, on account of my then having reached my -twenty-first birthday, and am recalled by letters looking business-like, -in every way. When do you think of returning, Mr. Ashton?” - -“I have been debating that question very often of late with my wife, and -we both have arrived at the conclusion that we have already been -absentees too long, and must wend our way ‘westward-ho’ also. What say -you, Mrs. Ashton, and you, _ma Belle_, to being traveling companions -with our friend Lennard?” - -“With all my heart,” said Mrs. Ashton; whilst Bel, who had been seated -at the piano, ran over with taper and jeweled fingers a brilliant -symphony, adding to its melody that of her own rich, mellow voice, in -the words, “There is no home like my own.” - -And thus ’twas decided; and Charles carried his unconscious tempter from -his allegiance along with him. Their intimacy, the effect—where any -agreeability exists at all—of being “alone on the wide, wide sea,” did -much to render him still more dissatisfied with his engagement, and -though he erred not in the _letter_, I fear the _spirit_ suffered in his -vows of fealty to his affianced Edith. Alas! for man’s love. It is -indeed - - “_Of man’s life a thing apart_.” - -Yet, one who thinks should not wish it otherwise, for it would then be -most unnatural. Man has a thousand and one things to call off his -thoughts from his love to passing events, glowing and changing as -rapidly as the evening clouds, tinging his thoughts and feelings, -chameleon-like, with all the tints and varieties of change, and calling -upon him to battle with the rough necessities of life. And all this -prevents him from thinking constantly o’er his dream of love, and -weakens, as a matter of course, the first passionate ardor which he felt -when under the influence of the smiles, bright glances, and loving -words. As Miss Landon most beautifully observes—“_He_ may turn -sometimes to the flowers on the way-side, but the great business of life -is still before him. The heart which a woman could utterly fill were -unworthy to be her shrine. _His_ rule over her is despotic and -unmodified, but _her_ power over him must be shared with a thousand -other influences.” - -Whilst, on the other hand, woman goes steadily on with her domestic, -monotonous duties, till they call for no exertion of thought, becoming -purely mechanical, and the imagination having no healthy exercise, runs -riot in its indulgence of day-dreams. Many and many is the maiden who -sits sewing most industriously with bright smiles wreathing -unconsciously her lips—ask her the subject of her thoughts—her blush -will tell you better than my words. She is now feasting on her -imagination till her love, by constant thought, constant association -with her daily routine of duties and pleasures, becomes part and parcel -of her very existence. - -They have all landed in New York—the home of the Ashtons—and still -Charles Lennard loiters. Day after day finds him among the groups who -crowd Mrs. Ashton’s parlors to welcome their return. At length Bel and -her parents decide to spend the summer at Old Point Comfort, and Charles -immediately finds it necessary for his health to enjoy the sea air and -bathing. And so he must answer Edith’s last letter, received whilst in -Europe, and announce his arrival—excuse himself, also, for not flying -at once to her presence! - - - CHAPTER IV. - -And Edith? All this while of chances and changes how is the time passing -with her? See for yourself reader! Follow me gently into that well-known -parlor of her mother’s dwelling. There she sits, the beautiful one! as -light, as graceful, and still more lovely than when we saw her last; for -we now behold her a thinking, refined, intellectual woman, with all her -youthful, beaming charms, heightened into exquisite and womanly -perfection. She is leaning, rather pensively, on the arm of the chair, -drawn to the opened and perfume draped window, with her soft, dimpled -hand holding in its rose-colored palm the rounded chin; the neat, little -foot patting unconsciously the floor—her eyes bent on the flowers of -her garden, seeing them in all their floating hues, like the mingled -colors of a kaleidoscope, before her musing gaze. Her guitar leans -against her knee, and the other hand is straying across the strings, -awaking its echoes like the notes of an Eolian harp. - -“Mother, I will go with cousin Frank and Sallie to Old Point. They are -so anxious I should do so.” - -“And suppose, Edith, Mr. Lennard arrives in your absence, what shall I -tell him?” said Mrs. Morton, with a smile. - -“Mother, you must forgive my first breach of confidence, for I was too -unhappy, too wounded in my pride and love to speak of what I am going to -tell you,” said Edith, her listless attitude now abandoned for one of -energy, and the usual musical tones were rapid and more harsh—“yes, -mother, my very first. Mr. Lennard will be at Old Point soon after I -reach there. Yesterday I received a letter from him, and such a letter!” -Edith’s voice faltered, but indignantly driving back the tears which -were filling her eyes, she drew from her pocket a letter, and handing it -to her mother, told her to read it. Whilst Mrs. Morton arranged her -glasses, Edith sunk back into the chair with a slight frown and -heightened color, and one could see from the clenched hand how -determined she was to overcome the agitation which was increasing by her -disclosures. - - “_New York, June, 1847._ - - “Dear Edith,—You must pardon my seeming neglect in having left - unanswered so long your last. I have been very ill, and had it - not been for the unexampled kindness of an American family - resident in Rome, should long ere this have slept my last sleep. - And though barely recovered, I feel that my strength needs - recruiting ere I can be considered aught but an invalid, and - will therefore set out for Old Point Comfort the last of this - month. I hope I need not assure you that I feel my exile from - your presence most sensibly, and I anticipate the pleasure of - visiting you in A—— as soon as I am better. I know, my dear - Edith, that this is but a sorry return for your long and - affectionate letter to me; but I never did excel in putting my - thoughts and feelings upon paper, my weakness now, must excuse - even this poor attempt. I know your kind heart will make every - apology for me, and you will look upon this as only the - announcement, from myself, of my return to my native land, and - of course, to you. Believe me, dear Edith, as ever, - - Truly yours, - Charles.” - -Mrs. Morton folded the letter slowly, and gave it back to Edith. - -“He may be as he says, Edith, too unwell and too weak to write as he -wishes.” - -“Unwell!” said Edith indignantly; “were _I dying_ I would not have -written such a letter to _him_. Yes, I will go to Old Point, and show -Mr. Lennard that I can resign him, and still live: I am determined he -shall never triumph in the thought, that I, a foolish girl, would weep, -and pine away, because he has forgotten me,”—here the tears ran freely -from her beautiful eyes; and, with her voice broken by sobs, she -continued—as she knelt before her mother, burying her tear-stained face -in her lap—“and then, dear mother, I will be all your own Edith again: -no parting from you, for I will never, never love any one, or believe in -their love as I have done.” - -Mrs. Morton suffered her to weep, knowing it was the best for that poor, -grieved heart thus to find vent from its bitterness; but she showed her -sympathy in her child’s first grief by her loving words, and by softly -smoothing the ringlets on her hot, throbbing brow, and by many a tender -kiss. And Edith, with her head resting on her mother’s lap, sat on the -floor as of old, when a little child she would listen to stories from -her parent; and Mrs. Morton, very judiciously, sought to impress upon -poor Edith, the instability of all things earthly, and begged her to lay -her griefs, in prayer, at the feet of that kind Father, who is never -tired of inviting the sorrowing and weary to lay their burthens upon -him, exhorting her to pray for strength, and firm faith, so as to say -from her heart—“Though thou slayest me, yet will I trust in _Thee_!” - -Some days were passed in preparation for her trip; and, at the appointed -time, she accompanied her cousin Frank and his wife. The Hygeia Hotel -was crowded with fashionables and invalids from every section of the -Union, and our party found they had arrived in excellent time for the -fancy ball, to take place the ensuing week. Edith was only eighteen; and -though really grieved at Charles’ cold letter, and supposed -faithlessness, yet her indignation and wounded pride made her still bear -up against her sorrow, at the thought of rupturing her engagement with -Lennard—whom she really loved, with all the warmth of first and -trusting love, notwithstanding this rude shock it had received. But she -was hopeful and buoyant in disposition, and consoled herself with the -thought—as she looked into the mirror, and saw there her -loveliness—that she yet would win him back to love her still more -deeply: and pleased was she, very naturally, at the universal admiration -she excited among the gentlemen; looking forward, too, to her _first_ -ball—thinking Charles Lennard would then see her in a dress, on which -she bent all her taste to render it bewitching—that he would feel proud -to be the husband-elect of one to whom so many eyes turned in ecstasy at -her exquisite beauty. All these, and many more thoughts of a like -nature, kept her from becoming a prey to her heart sickness, and she was -really as lively and gay as she intended appearing in his eyes. I hope -no one will deem my heroine heartless, because she was not as unhappy is -she first _expected_ to have been. No, very far was Edith Morton from -that: on the contrary, she possessed warm and ardent feelings, but—as I -said before—she was hopeful and confident—as what really beautiful -woman is not?—in the power of her attractions. - - - CHAPTER V. - -It was four o’clock, and the day of the expected fancy ball. The house, -and its crowd of inmates, were in all the anxieties of preparation, and -pleasing anticipation of the coming _fête_. The Baltimore boats have -just arrived, bringing fresh accessions to the already thronged hotel; -and the numerous waiters, and smartly-dressed chambermaids, might be -seen hurrying here and there, busily preparing for the new comers. The -long piazzas—that were in front and behind the central saloon—were -full of gay groups: some sauntering to and fro, others in all the -careless _abandonnement_ of loose summer garb, were sitting with their -cigars, and arguing about politics—lazily and prosily, as if even that -was too much of an exertion for the warm weather. Groups of lovely women -were promenading through the saloon, in tasteful dinner-dress—some -laughing, flirting, some chess-playing with the officers of the -garrison, in their uniforms. Nor was there wanting quite a number of -sprightly “middies,” with their banded caps set jauntily on their heads, -for Hampton Roads had two or three frigates, awaiting final orders, ere -they put to sea. - -Edith was neither in the saloon nor piazzas; but if you had searched -closely, you might probably catch a glimpse of the rosy tips of her -taper fingers, holding up a _wee_ bit of the curtain, to allow her -bright eyes to scan the arrivals, as they came up immediately in front -of her window, amid the bustling porters, hand-barrows, and saunterers, -from the wharf. Her little heart was beating wildly: and—although -garbed only in her loose, white _peignoir_—never had she looked more -lovely; for the rich flush of expectation was on her cheek, and her -countenance was brightening and changing with every emotion. - -Charles Lennard was expected that very evening! She left the saloon -immediately after dinner, that she might be alone to watch: and here she -has been stationed at the window, for the last half-hour, -listening—with her _heart_—to every step, sounding on the gravel. At -length, _he_ comes—but not alone, as Edith had thought. No; he is one -of a party, who are now approaching slowly up the walk, directly in -front of Edith’s window—her room being one of those delightful ones, -joining the centre saloon. - -Well, as I said, here he comes, bearing several shawls, and walking -slowly along with a graceful girl, in a fashionable traveling-dress, -whose neatly gloved hand is resting on his arm, and whose thick veil -hides features that Edith is scanning most uneasily. We will not say -that a pang, very like the premonitory symptoms of the “green-eyed -monster,” did not dart through her heart, playing sad havoc with her -whilome hopeful feelings. Pale, and rather thinner than when she last -saw him—but oh! how immeasurably superior, to her loving eyes, than all -the men she had hitherto seen bowing homage to her charms. And now we -must leave Edith, with feelings too excited for her evening _siesta_, -and follow Charles and his party, who, of course, are no other than Bel -Ashton, and her parents. - -“A fancy ball! How provoking!” said she, as Charles announced to her -what was in contemplation, as he rejoined her in one of the parlors, -where they were waiting for their rooms to be prepared. “Yes, ’tis too -annoying to have arrived so late, for I cannot possibly now dress in -character, and I have no wish to enter the ball-room, save in costume.” - -“But, my dear Bel,” expostulated Mrs. Ashton; “you have so many -beautiful evening dresses: you must go indeed. After resting, I shall -certainly peep in myself during the evening. And you, of course, will -go, Mr. Lennard?” - -“Yes, madam: I would not, if possible, miss seeing such an assemblage of -my fair country-women, so soon after my return. I hope that my -comparisons may not be deemed at all critical by you ladies, when I -shall make them. But, Miss Bel, let me add my entreaties to those of -your mother, and beg for the honor of becoming your escort for the -evening.” - -“I will not promise you yet,” said she, smiling; “but will let you know -ere ’tis time to go. And, now, Mr. Lennard, hurry them with our rooms, -if you have any compassion for me.” - -Mr. Lennard again left them to execute her commands, and soon returning -gave them the welcome intelligence that they were ready; and having -escorted them to the door, left to betake himself to his, in order to -recruit from the fatigue of three days’ travel. - -He had not the smallest idea of Edith’s being an inmate of the hotel; -or, indeed, of her being any where except in the quiet little village of -A——. I really question if a thought had turned toward her, so absorbed -had he been in his attentions to Miss Ashton, who, by the bye, though -ever graceful and lady-like, was sometimes exacting in her demands. - -Well, he went to sleep, and when he awoke from his refreshing nap, the -room was shrouded in the dimness of twilight, and a tap at his door made -him spring from the bed, and throwing on his coat, gave entrance to a -servant, who brought lights, water, etc., as he had given orders, at -that hour, and also a little perfumed billet, with “Miss Ashton’s -compliments, and would be happy to accept of Mr. Lennard’s escort to the -ball.” - -At nine, he was at Mrs. Ashton’s door, where he was joined by the party, -ready to enter the saloon. - -Have you ever been at Old Point Comfort? If you have, ’tis needless for -me to attempt to describe that spacious saloon, with its corridors on -each side—large enough to contain with ease at least five hundred, -without incommoding each other, by jutting elbows, or pinched feet, or -by making the belle concerned about the appearance of her costume, as -she mingles in the _mêlée_, or what would appear a crowd in any common -sized room. What a _coup d’œil_ struck our party as they entered the -west door from the piazza. No garden ever gleamed more brightly with -clustering flowers than did that gas-lit, lofty saloon, with its -pillars, flowers and mirrors reflecting its extensive range and gay -groups, making it look still larger and better filled. The splendid band -from the garrison was in full play, wafting strains of delicious music -over the illumined and perfumed scene. There were groups of fair forms -and lovely faces, that would task the most skillful artist to depict, -and match in their rich complexions and brilliant robes even Titian’s -exquisite coloring. Fragments of conversations, and jets of -sparkling—now murmuring—laughter would fall from their ruby lips, like -snatches of delicious music. And there, in other groups, could be seen -distinguished statesmen and orators—here the merchant, forgetful for -the nonce of his schemes of profit, as he looked on his superbly -bedecked wife or fascinating daughter; there the author, whose honeyed -eloquence linked his readers’ hearts to his name with chains of gold, -and caused many a pulse to throb as wildly as now beat the hearts of -those young houries who grace this glad scene. Dancing had not as yet -commenced. - -A buzz of general admiration now follows a group who have just entered. -It consisted of four persons, two ladies and their escorts, _en -character à la Cracoviene_. Upon one, in particular, of that well -dressed quartette did the eye rest in amaze at her radiant beauty of -form and feature, and the exquisite grace of her undulating step -reminding one of the dip of a sea-gull—so easy, so light, so gliding in -its motion. Her cavalier was tall, thereby making the form which leaned -on his arm almost _petit_ by comparison. Her short, full skirt of white -silk, with scarlet ribbons—tight-fitting jacket of velvet, of the same -brilliant dye, with its buttons and embroidery of silver—scarlet boots, -_à la polka_, and small velvet cap, with white _marabouts_, completed -the costume, which exactly suited the arch look of the beautiful Edith. -Her luxuriant tresses of light brown were braided in wide plaits, and -tied _en nœuds_, with ribbons to match in color her jacket. - -Charles fairly started, for—unchanged, except that added years but -increased her loveliness, and that her coquettish dress and the dazzling -light made her look still more ethereal and fairy-like—’twas his own -Edith! Yes, the truant heart, which had been straying, like a thought of -the mind, was instantly brought back to its allegiance; and the deep -tone with which he uttered “Edith!” had all the fervor and tenderness of -the moonlight trysting scene. - -A pang, too, very much like jealousy, came to annoy him, at this crisis, -when he saw her dispensing her smiles to the knot of gentlemen who -almost surrounded her party, and seemed soliciting her hand for the -polka quadrilles they were about forming. How inconsistent are those -very same “lords of creation.” - -There was Charles fuming and chafing, internally, because Edith by some -magnetic attraction had not been able to single him out amid that crowd -of five hundred!—and he had for a few brief hours past almost forgotten -her existence. He determined to get clear of Bel as soon as politeness -would allow, and claim from Edith her recognizance. At the same time, -however, thoughts of writing a tiny note, and conveying it to her -privately, crossed the “almost twilight of his brain;” for he was -fearful that the young, untrained girl, who had never mingled in -European courts, and been the admiration of mustached barons and -stripling lords, might be apt to get up a scene. - -He might have spared himself this harrowing thought, did he but know -that Edith had actually seen him on her first entrance, and was -determined on showing him that her happiness was not _entirely_ -dependent on her whilome, careless lover. The chains he had been so -anxious to loose he now hugged, with anxiety and joy, the closer to him, -as he, notwithstanding the brilliant remarks of Bel, (to which I am -fearful he answered at random,) continued absorbed and wrapped in the -contemplation of Edith’s peerless beauty, and her sprightly and -lady-like manner. He now entered, _con amore_, into the truth of -Shakspeare’s lines— - - It so falls out, - That what _we have_ we prize not to the worth, - While we enjoy it; but, being lacked and lost, - Why then we know its value: _then_, we find - The virtue that possession would not show us - While it was ours. - -He watches her—and she, at last, suffers her eye to fall upon him. “Is -it possible! Am _I_ so changed! Or, perhaps, she has so far forgotten me -that, after a lapse of three years, I am not recognized.” These were -some of his _now_ agonized thoughts; and, with murmured apology, he -resigned Bel to her father, and moved toward Edith. Too late! She has -taken her place in the quadrille, and he only reaches her former resting -place in time to hear the murmurs of admiration from the group of -gentlemen left. The graceful, willowy figure of Edith is now moving -through the quadrille with a young officer, whom Lennard at once dubs in -his heart as “_a puppy_,” from the very fact of seeing him look on _his -own_ Edith! with too impassioned an eye to suit his fancy. - -As she takes her place, she allows her eyes to meet those of Charles—an -electric stream seems to shoot through each heart, for the bright blush -of Edith suffuses even her snowy throat. - -When the quadrilles were finished, he, of course, had an opportunity of -advancing and addressing Edith; and that same inconsistency! which I -have before apostrophized—he would rather have the embarrassment of a -_scene_ now, than the smile, and—to his excited imagination—very cool, -collected reception which Edith at this time tenders him. She welcomed -him, ’tis true, but shared with him—_him_ the loved—the betrothed—the -absent—the smiles which _his_ heart so covets with the acquaintance of -a day! Could mortal man bear this? Charles felt that the iron had -entered into his soul and Edith saw it! - -He could not find the opportunity he sought of questioning Edith. He -asked her to dance—to promenade with him. She held up to him her -tablets, with its lengthy list of names, and with her musical laugh -cries, “Mercy, I pray you.” Charles turned off, with a bow he vainly -strives to make as careless as her manner to him, and rejoins the -Ashtons. Bel will not dance. She is somewhat provoked with Charles, whom -she saw addressing Edith with more _empressement_ and _diffidence_ of -manner than he exhibited toward herself, and hence the cloud. - -Their party leave early, and Lennard, restless and disquieted, wanders -forth to the beach seeking company from the moaning and restless waves -for his own troubled thoughts. Strains of melody are borne to him on -that lonely shore from the scene of gay festivity, and he feels angry -with Edith, whom his jealous imagination pictures reveling in the dance, -for thus enjoying herself to his own misery. He sat down on the -breakwater, watching the waves, and in his despairing mood wished for -death, bethinking himself of the heartlessness of all womankind, and of -Edith in particular. The stars were paling in the quiet sky when he -betook himself homeward, worn out and exhausted. He passed the now -deserted ball-room, “whose guests had fled,” and threw himself on his -bed, to toss in dark dreams the few remaining hours that intervened -between then and the time he could reasonably expect to see Edith. - - - CHAPTER VI. - -What a glorious night! How dazzling look the shining sand, the -glistening water, in the moon’s mellow rays which fall now so brightly -upon them, and bathing in its effulgence those two youthful figures who -are pacing to and fro on the ramparts of Fortress Monroe, nearest the -bay. The lady was gazing on the ground, and he—into her lovely face. -’Twas Edith and Lennard! - -Vainly had he sought the interview during the day, but he could only see -her the centre of an admiring circle, for Edith was decidedly the “star -of beauty” and the “belle” amid the many who thronged the crowded -saloons of the Hygeia Hotel. At last she promised to walk with him; and -directly after tea had she gone with Charles to the garrison, and there, -’neath that brightly shining moon, had he told her of his fault—of his -love. - -And Edith? - -She like a _true_ woman forgave him, for she loved _much_. At first, -however, she made him writhe under her assumed inconstancy, until she -saw his agony, and then, when almost in despair of regaining his lost -treasure—her love—came her forgiveness, like the manna to the starving -Israelites. Adding, by way of _coda_ to her musical words, the laughing -exhortation, “To be a good boy, and she would—_try to love him_.” - -A week later finds them _en route_ for A——, Charles Lennard -accompanying them; for he is as eager to ratify his engagement _now_ as -he was before to free himself. He had told Bel Ashton, the day after the -ball, of his engagement, and _she did not break her heart_, but was soon -as gay and as graceful as ever, “winning golden opinions” from all sorts -of people, for Mr. Ashton was very wealthy, and Bel was his only child! - -Mrs. Morton was very much astonished to see Edith return so full of -happiness, and bringing back, as “quiet as a lamb,” the recreant knight. -Nor did she advert to the letter or Edith’s protestation, but once, and -that was when preparing for their marriage, she exclaimed with a smile: -“So, Edith, instead of coming back to love no one but your mother, you -only return to fill my hands full of labor and perplexity, and _my_ -heart full of grief at the thoughts of parting with you, even for a -while.” - - * * * * * - - - - - LINES, - - - SUGGESTED BY ROGERS’ STATUE OF RUTH. - - - BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. - - - From age to age, from clime to clime, - A spirit, bright as her own morn, - She walks the golden fields of Time, - As erst amid the yellow corn. - - A form o’er which the hallowed veil - Of years bequeaths a lovelier light, - As when the mists of morning sail - Round some far isle to make it bright. - - And as some reaper ’mid the grain, - Or binder resting o’er his sheaf, - Beheld her on the orient plain, - A passing vision, bright and brief; - - And while he gazed let fall perchance - The sheaf or sickle from his hand— - Thus even here, as in a trance, - Before her kneeling form I stand. - - But not as then she comes and goes - To live in memory alone; - The perfect soul before me glows - Immortal in the living stone. - - And while upon her face I gaze - And scan her rarely rounded form, - The glory of her native days - Comes floating o’er me soft and warm;— - - Comes floating, till this shadowy place - Brightens to noontide, and receives - The breath of that old harvest space - With all its sunshine and its sheaves! - - It is a form beloved of yore, - And when that passed the name breathed on; - But now the form lives as before - To charm even though the name were gone. - - And though the future years may dim - And mar this lovely type of Truth, - Through every action, feature, limb, - The breathing stone shall whisper Ruth! - - * * * * * - - - - - FERDINAND DE CANDOLLES. - - -Of all the social miseries of France, none are more fruitful in -catastrophes of every kind than the idle uselessness of the well-born, -and the over-education of those who are not so. France being, as one of -her writers observes, the China of Europe, her habits, customs, and -traditions, endure, in fact, through the organized destruction of -succeeding revolutions, and whilst throne after throne lies in the dust, -the prejudices of that fictitious universe called the world, are -standing still, fixed, firm, and uprising in inflexible strength from -roots that plunge deep into the soil. For instance, the old idea that a -_gentilhomme_ or a _Grand Seigneur_ should not know how to spell, -although obsolete as far as grammar and orthography are concerned, lives -on yet in the notion that a gentleman _must not work_. This has hitherto -proved an uneradicable opinion, and the general incapability and -instinctive laziness of the upper classes in France, can, alas! amply -testify to its prevalence throughout the country. It is not that the -aristocracy of France are wanting in talent or intelligence; on the -contrary, they have far more of what may be called native capacity than -the classes beneath them—but they are unpractical, unbusiness-like, -unused to any things in the shape of affairs. They are admirable if -always in the first place, but rebel at the bare thought of helping on -the governing machine in its hidden wheels; and whilst with us every -public office counts gentlemen by the dozen, and noble names are to be -found even in the most unconspicuous, though useful places; in France an -ancient family would think itself degraded if one of its sons were to be -discovered amongst the workers of a bureau. - -The following tale, the circumstances of which are yet uneffaced from -many a memory in Paris, will perhaps serve to exemplify the sad truth of -what I advance, and give a slight notion of the immediate action of -certain false principles upon our neighbors’ mind. The hero of the -ensuing pages, Ferdinand de Candolles, was the last scion of one of the -most ancient houses in France. Ferdinand’s father died whilst the boy -was in early infancy, and the entire charge of her son, whom she -idolized, fell upon Madame de Candolles. At eighteen, Ferdinand was a -tall, handsome youth, prodigiously proud of his name, highly romantic in -his notions, ready to do battle with any given number of individuals in -honor of _Dieu, le Roi, ou sa fame_, making a terrible quantity of bad -verses, but as incapable of explaining to you M. de Villèle’s last -financial measure, or the probable influence of the increasing growth of -beet-root sugar upon the colonial markets, as he would have been of -expounding the doctrines of Confucius in Chinese. - -The Revolution of 1830, fell like a thunder-bolt upon France, and the -Bourbons of the elder branch allowed themselves to be driven from their -post. The elements of revolution had been for the last seven or eight -years fermenting far more in society, in the arts and in literature, -than in the political sphere; and Ferdinand, with all his heart and soul -a devoted royalist, as far as the government was concerned, was naïvely -and unsuspectingly in every thing else, a determined revolutionist, -overthrowing intellectual dynasties, spurning authority, mocking at -control, gloating over Victor Hugo, George Sand, _e tutti quanti_, and -fancying the whole was quite compatible with the political faith he -would sooner have died than resign. Sometimes Madame de Candolles would -think very seriously of what could be the future career of her son, and -the word _Nothing!_ emblazoned in gigantic ideal letters, was the only -answer her imagination ever framed. In 1832, it so happened that the now -prefect named in the department, was an old friend of the widow’s -family—a _bourgeois_, it is true, still a respectable man, whose father -and uncle had, in very difficult times, rendered more than one signal -service to Madame de Candolles’ own parents. M. Durand and his wife drew -Ferdinand and his mother as much about them as they possibly could, and -whenever he found an occasion of insinuating any thing of the kind into -the widow’s ear, the well-intentioned préfet would talk seriously, nay, -almost paternally, of her son’s future, and the little it seemed likely -to offer him. One day, after a conversation in which Madame de Candolles -had more freely than usual admitted the barrenness of the lad’s -prospects, M. Durand contrived to lead her insensibly toward the notion -of some employment whereby a becoming existence might be insured, hinted -that there were positions where political opinions need be no obstacle, -to which the nomination even did not emanate directly from the -government, and ended by proposing to invest Ferdinand with the dignity -of head librarian to the _Bibliothèque de la Ville_, a place yielding -some hundred and fifty pounds a year, and just left vacant by the death -of Madame Durand’s nephew. Madame de Candolles’ surprise was scarcely -surpassed by her indignation, and, though she managed to cover both by a -slight veil of politeness, there was in her refusal a degree of -haughtiness that went well-nigh to disturb the honest préfet’s -equanimity. As to Ferdinand, he did not exactly know, when the offer was -first made clear to him, whether he ought not to take down a certain -sword worn at Marigny by his ancestor, Palamède de Candolles, and punish -M. Durand with positive loss of life for his audacity; but, when what he -called _reason_ returned, he determined simply by the frigid dignity of -his manners in future to make the _bourgeois_ functionary of Louis -Philippe feel the full extent of his mistake, and bring him to a proper -consciousness of the wide difference between their relative positions. -Nor was this all; one day, some six months after, Madame de Candolles -took occasion to pay a visit to the préfecture, and leading M. Durand -aside, to solicit him for the still unfilled post of librarian, in favor -of Ferdinand’s foster-brother, a market-gardener’s son! He was, she -said, an exceedingly clever young man, knew Latin, Greek, and all sorts -of things, had just served his time in a notary’s office, and would be -the very thing for the situation proposed!—(successor to Madame -Durand’s own nephew!) The préfet was sufficiently master of himself to -refuse politely, alleging that he had already made choice of a -librarian; but when Madame Durand heard the story, she vowed undying -hatred to all aristocrats, and whenever she afterward met Madame de -Candolles, tossed her plumed head as though she had been a war-horse. So -ended our hero’s first and only chance of official employment, rejected, -we have seen with what disdain. He had then attained the age of -twenty-three. - -In the course of the following year General de Candolles died, leaving -all he possessed to his nephew. This “all” was not much, still it was -something—some twenty-odd thousand francs, or so—and if the widow had -lived long enough, it might have increased; but, unfortunately, before -Ferdinand had reached the age of twenty-five, his mother also died, -leaving him completely—positively “alone in the world.” With what -Madame de Candolles left (her chief resources had come from a small -annuity) Ferdinand found himself at the head of about two thousand -pounds sterling. With two thousand francs a year, which this would -yield, he might have lived comfortably enough in any part of the -provinces, and indulged in a quiet laugh at the préfet, who wanted to -make a _bibliothécaire_ of him. But, of course, such sensible -arrangements did not enter into his head. He was (the _naïf_ royalist -and aristocrat!) wild with admiration of “Hernani” and _le Roi s’amuse_, -and for the moment thought of little beyond the soul-stirring delights -of seeing Bocage in _Antony_, or Madame Dorval in _Marion Delorme_. To -Paris, of course, tended all his desires, and to Paris he accordingly -went, as soon as the first months of mourning were expired, and he had -put what he termed order into his affairs. - -We will not dive into the details of his existence in the great capital -during the first period of his residence there. Suffice it to say, that -the literary mania soon possessed him entirely, and he dreamt of little -short of European fame. Here, indeed, thought he, was a career into -which he might throw himself with all his energy. Lamartine and De Vigny -were gentlemen like himself, and there was in poetry nothing to sully -his escutcheon. Unfortunately, Ferdinand mistook for talent the means -afforded him by his purse for drawing flatterers about him, and for some -time he bought his most fatal illusions with his positive substance. -Dinners to journalists, and parties of pleasure with all the world, soon -reduced his capital considerably, but what did that matter? when he -should be famous, publishers would besiege him, laying thousands at his -feet for a fortnight’s labor. He was already the acknowledged idol of -certain _salons_, and when the tragedy he had written should be -performed, his name would be glorious throughout the world. By dint of -pecuniary sacrifices, the performance of this play at the Théâtre -Français had been obtained, and what with newspaper scribblers, -_claqueurs_, actresses, and human leeches of every sort who fastened -upon his pocket, the author found himself, half an hour before the -curtain drew up, on the fancied dawn of his glory, literally deprived of -every farthing he possessed, except one solitary five-franc piece in his -waistcoat pouch. Ferdinand smiled gayly on perceiving this, and thought -what a strange thing fortune was, and fame, too, and how, on the morrow, -he should be on the high road to riches! - -Well, to cut the matter short, the tragedy was a dead failure, as it -merited to be, and before the last act was ended, Ferdinand’s golden -dreams were rudely dispelled, and he clutched the _pièce de cent sous_ -in his waistcoat-pocket as though it were to save him from going crazy. -When the curtain dropped he escaped from the theatre unseen, muffled up -in his cloak like some criminal flying from detection. But his fate was -lying in wait for him. As he turned round the corner of the house which -led into the least frequented of the surrounding streets, he perceived -three or four carriages waiting for their occupants, and he stood for an -instant, hesitating whether to go backward or forward. At that moment, a -ray from the _réverbère_ fell upon the face of a lady who, enveloped in -mantle and hood, was waiting for the arrival of her equipage. Ferdinand -had never seen that face before, but he stood riveted to the spot, for -something in his heart whispered, _it is she—the one_! The preceding -carriages received their respective charges, and whirled them off; the -last one drew up, and the door was opened by the footman—the lady -dropped her glove, whilst turning to bid adieu to her companion. -Ferdinand, unconscious that he had sprung to her side, raised it up, and -offered it to its owner. “Thank you, Armand,” said she, “what a wretched -stupid play—was it not?” and then turning round—“A thousand pardons, -monsieur!” she exclaimed, “I mistook you for another person;” and so, -with a bow, she entered her carriage, and the door closed with a bang. - -Ferdinand stood upon the spot where he had seen her stand, until a -_sergent de ville_ touched him on the arm, and told him to move on. -“_What a wretched stupid play!—was it not?_” the sentence rang in his -ear, but brought with it the echo of the tone—that magic sound that had -struck upon the chords of his secret soul, and under whose vibration -they were still striking their response—the honeyed voice, not the hard -words, had wounded him, and he confessed that, though deadly, the poison -was nectar to the taste. - -Day after day, hour after hour, did Ferdinand spend in the vain attempt -to discover his unknown idol, and the less he succeeded in the -enterprise, the more the object of his pursuit became lovely in his -eyes, and was surrounded with ideal charms. It would be useless to enter -into the painful details of Ferdinand’s life during this period. - -The day after the failure of his tragedy, the Marquise de Guesvillers, -an ancient dowager of the Faubourg St. Germain, and his chief -_prôneuse_, sent to beg the discomfited author would come dine with her -_tête-à-tête_. Ferdinand had a reason now for desiring to explore to the -utmost extent the upper regions of society, and he accepted the -invitation. The old lady greeted him with a half-benevolent, -half-mischievous smile—“My dear child,” said she, when the servant had -closed the door, “now that Providence has saved you from becoming an -_homme de lettres_, we must try to make something of you. Heaven be -praised! pen and ink must have lost its charm for you at last;” (a pinch -of snuff,) “it seems your play was as bad as your enemy could wish; -Madame de Rouvion was there, and has just told me so—poor dear Hector -de Candolles,” (another pinch of snuff,) “if he could have guessed that -a great-grandson of his would write a play! But, however, that is over -now, and we have only to rejoice that things were no worse: when the -recollection of your _aventure_ shall have quite subsided, we will find -a wife for you, and settle you in life! Thank Heaven! you are cured of -your taste for pen and ink!” and these last words the good lady repeated -over and over again in the course of the evening, and each time with -remarkable satisfaction. Once or twice Ferdinand was tempted to shake -the monotonous little dowager to pieces, and shout in her ear—“Woman! I -must _live_ by pen and ink, or starve!” but the remembrance of _the -face_ he had seen the night before, froze the words on his tongue, and -he submitted to the torture in silence. - -For months in the _salons_, whither Madame de Guesvillers carried him, -he sought out the object of his dreams, but she never appeared, and -Ferdinand went on leading _la vie de Bohème_, until hope began almost -entirely to fade away. One evening, he had, for the fiftieth time, -accepted an invitation to some _soirée_, where his indefatigable -patroness insisted upon his going; and he was, as usual, looking on -whilst others amused (or fancied they amused) themselves, when the -conversation of two ladies near him attracted his attention—he knew not -why. - -“So Blanche Vouvray is come back at last?” said one. - -“She is coming here to-night,” replied the other. - -As the two talkers moved away, a certain movement might have been -observed toward the middle of the room, and many and loud greetings -welcomed a new comer, who seemed to have been long absent. Mysterious -magnetism of the heart! Ferdinand knew what had happened, and was -prepared, when he turned round, to recognize at last—standing in the -midst of a group, who were pressing eagerly around her—the _one_, so -long, so vainly sought; the vision that had risen over his ruin like a -star over the tempest-torn sea, that had come and vanished in the -momentous night, when it was proved to him that his sole resources, for -a bare existence, must depend, in future, upon hard, ignoble, unavowed -and insufficient toil! - -There she stood—bright, beautiful and glad, beaming on all about her; -dispensing favors in look, gesture and smile, and inflicting wound after -wound on Ferdinand’s heart by the incomparably sweet voice that, do what -he would, seemed to his ear always to repeat—“_What a wretched, stupid -play!—is it not?_” It was the only link between them—the one sole sign -whereby she had acknowledged his existence. - -How long the _soirée_ lasted, was what M. de Candolles never knew; he -simply thought it a time—it might be one protracted moment—during -which there was light; then, the light went out, and darkness spread -over every thing around. He would not ask to be presented to -Mademoiselle de Vouvray; he was content to watch her; and, when she was -gone, he mechanically closed his eyes, locked up his vision within his -inmost self, and then, re-awakening, went forth, to be once more alone -with his idea! - -Time passed on, and Ferdinand’s passion increased with every hour. Three -or four times in the week he found means to feast his eyes upon the -object of his adoration, and the remaining days and nights were spent in -trying to draw poetic inspiration from what threatened to be the source -of something very nearly akin to madness. Ferdinand’s actual talent, -however, was of such a perfectly ordinary stamp, that it profited in no -degree by the strong element love afforded it, and one fine -morning—when he least expected it—a blow so stunning was dealt him -that his whole fabric of existence was well-nigh shivered to the earth. -The proprietor of the paper wherein, for the last year or two, M. de -Candolles had published anonymously the chief productions of his pen, -suddenly told him that he should in future be obliged to refuse his -contributions unless _signed by his own name_! M. de Candolles, he -urged, was known in many _salons_ of the _beau monde_, and probably what -he might write would be read by a good number of people, whereas the -lucubrations of _Jaques Bargel_—Ferdinand’s _pseudonyms_—only occupied -space, and brought neither fame nor money to the journal. M. de -Candolles received the announcement, which went near to show destitution -staring him in the face, with becoming fortitude. He would sooner have -died than allow his name to be dragged forward into publicity; and at -the thought of the elegant, aristocratical, disdainful lady of his -worship discovering that he lived by writing _feuilletons_, he felt the -very ground fail beneath his feet. - -Ferdinand was, after the circumstance we have just related, reduced to a -species of misery even he had as yet not suspected. Unable to pay for -the lodging, small and dirty as it was, that he had hitherto inhabited, -he was now reduced to rent a small attic belonging to the collection of -servants’ rooms in a tolerably good-looking house. The one thought that -absorbed him was fear lest Blanche de Vouvray should discover the -necessities of his life. This, and this alone, combated the wild passion -wherewith she had inspired him. But he reckoned without feminine -instinct and feminine curiosity. Blanche de Vouvray had not been -half-a-dozen times in the same _salon_ with M. de Candolles, before she -felt she was adored, and her next feeling was one of considerable -anxiety to know how she should bring her slave to confess the charm. -Blanche was a person of irreproachable conduct; but still, it was -tiresome to be so evidently worshiped, and yet know nothing at all about -it! - -Poor Ferdinand! The struggle for existence was rapidly wearing him out. -The want of almost every necessary of life, the constant recourse to a -morsel of bread, or a little rice, and a few potatoes, for daily food, -coupled with the perpetual tension of the brain, required to secure even -these, miserable as they were—all this was doing its deadly work, and -M. de Candolles’ health was visibly failing every day. One evening, this -was so plain to all eyes that, at Madame de Guesvillers’ house, many -good-natured persons told Ferdinand he really must take care, or they -should hear of his going off in a galloping consumption. An hour or two -later, some one opened a window behind where he was standing— - -“Do not remain where you are—_pray_!” said a voice beside him. It was -timidly yet earnestly said—the sweet voice was unsteady, and there was -such an expression in the last word, “_Pray!_” Ferdinand turned without -answering: his eyes met Blanche de Vouvray’s—she looked down, but not -before she had involuntarily replied to his passionate and melancholy -glance. - -M. de Candolles soon left the room. His brain was on fire, and he rushed -homeward like one possessed. Part of his prudence was gone. He snatched -up pen and ink, and _wrote_—wrote to _her_! All that Ferdinand had -never yet found, was found now—the hidden spring was reached, and the -tide of eloquence gushed forth, strong, rapid, irresistible. - -Such a letter as few women have ever received was put, the next morning, -into Mademoiselle de Vouvray’s hands. The first effect of it was -electrical—she became confused, and like one in a dream; but, almost as -soon, the feminine instinct awoke, and involuntarily she admitted that -_her end was gained—he had spoken at last_! What lay beyond was -uncertain—might be dangerous, and had best be altogether set aside. She -would avoid M. de Candolles in future. This was not so easy: that very -night she met him in the vestibule of the _Grand Opera_, with little, -old Madame de Guesvillers on his arm. He bowed to, but did not look at -her; was cold, silent and reserved, and really did seem as though he had -one foot in the tomb. He would, perhaps, not live another year—that was -a shocking thought—and Blanche shivered as she rolled over the _Pont -Royal_ in her comfortable carriage. There could be no harm in answering -his letter from a certain point of view she now adopted, and accordingly -she did answer it, and a very virtuous, and consoling, and amiable -composition her answer was. From this moment the possibility of writing -tempted both; and, from time to time, they availed themselves of it, -though it never degenerated into a habit. Ferdinand’s pecuniary -resources growing less and less with every day, he literally _starved_ -himself, in order to cover the extravagance of his _heart-expenses_. For -a bouquet dropped in at her carriage-window, as she drove from the -_Italiens_—for a perfume to put upon his own handkerchief, that she -should inhale, he constantly observed a four-and-twenty hours’ fast, -broken only by a crust of bread and a glass of water. - -There were days, it cannot be denied, when the fair Blanche de Vouvray -admitted to herself that it might have been better for her never to have -seen M. de Candolles. His strange adoration captivated and preoccupied -her by its very strangeness, probably far more than if it had followed -the ordinary method in such cases. - -One day, after saving during three weeks, and Heaven only knows with -what pains, the sum of fifteen francs, Ferdinand therewith secured the -loan of a really handsome horse, from one of the dealers in the Champs -Elysées. When the carriage came in view—than which there was no other -in the world for him—he made his steed execute certain evolutions -gracefully enough, for he was a remarkably good horseman, darted off -upon the road to the _Bois de Boulogne_, crossed once or twice the path -of the _calèche_ he was pursuing, received _one_ look of recognition, -_one_ sign from a small gloved hand, and was over-paid! That evening, -they met in the same _salon_: a lady—who was standing by the piano -whereon Blanche had just been playing a new waltz—asked Ferdinand -whether she had not seen him on horseback in the Champs Elysées. - -“I thought I would try how it might suit me now,” was his reply: “but I -find it will not do; the exercise is too strong, and I am unequal to -it.” Blanche de Vouvray grew pale, and bent down to look over some -music. - -“If riding is too much for his nerves,” observed—later in the evening, -to his neighbor—one of the beardless _lions_ who happened to be -present, “I should imagine such a monstrous quantity of cake must be -equally so!” and jumping forward to Ferdinand’s side— - -“_Halte là, mon vieux!_” he exclaimed, with all the elegance and -atticism of _Mabille_ in his intonation. “Leave a little of that -_Savarin_ for me, will you? _Que diable!_ why, one would swear you -hadn’t eaten since yesterday!” - -Ferdinand turned round suddenly upon the ill-bred youth, and in his -haggard glance there was a flash of positive ferocity: it was but a -flash, but to an observer it would have sufficed to testify the truth of -the horrid words uttered in jest. An instant after, the impression was -chased away, and a laugh was the only visible result of the incident; -but any one who could have decyphered what was engraven on M. de -Candolles’ countenance that night, would have seen that a convulsion so -violent had passed over his whole being; that reason was almost shaken -from its throne. - -The constant recurrence of these violent emotions acted more and more -visibly each day upon Ferdinand’s wasted frame; and, at last, a moment -came when he disappeared altogether from his habitual haunts. Few marked -his absence, except a few women, in whose albums he wrote bad verses, -and for whom he procured autographs from great theatrical celebrities. -Upward of ten days passed, and M. de Candolles had not yet been heard -of. His old friend, Madame de Guesvillers, drove herself to his door, -and the answer at first was—as usual—that he was “_out_.” Two days -later, however, the porter admitted that he was in reality very ill, but -that the doctor had forbidden any one from visiting him, as the -slightest agitation or exertion might produce the worst effects. That -very evening, whilst her circle of _habitués_ was around her, Madame de -Guesvillers received a note from Ferdinand, expressing his gratitude for -her inquiries, but saying that his illness was little or nothing—a -cold—and that he hoped in a few days to be able to resume his place at -her tea-table. Blanche was present, heard the contents of the note, and -if it had been any one’s interest—which it luckily was not—to watch -her, would have betrayed by many little signs, her involuntary joy. But, -on returning home, that joy was turned to dismay. There was a letter, -too, for her—such a letter—it was written from a death-bed, and -contained a last farewell! She dismissed her maid, and sat through the -first hours of the night, with the letter lying before her. Every -feeling of commiseration, of womanly sympathy was touched, and the true -womanly wish to comfort and console aroused. - -When she arose the next morning, it was with the determination to afford -the last sad alleviation in her power to the sufferings she had caused. -She accordingly, after attiring herself as modestly as possible, sallied -forth, and, on foot, reached M. de Candolles’ abode. Here, for a moment, -she paused, and her courage began to fail. - -It was a bright, sunny morning, and it would have seemed that all the -shopkeepers in the street were determined to take their part of air and -light, for Blanche thought they were all congregated upon their -respective thresholds to see her pass. She blushed at every step, and -felt so confused, that more than once she had nearly stumbled. Before -entering the _porte cochere_ she stood an instant still, all the blood -rushed to her heart, and she was ready to faint, _lest she should be too -late_! When she had mastered this first strong emotion she began to -reflect upon the means of gaining the sufferer’s presence. - -Blanche commenced her ascent, but when she reached the topmost stair of -the fifth flight, and saw before her the narrow, winding, dirty steps -that led to the last story, she paused, and began to wonder whither she -was going. How strange that M. de Candolles should live in such a place! -M. de Candolles, who was “one of her set,” and whom she had pictured to -herself surrounded by the same elegancies of life which, to the small -number of individuals she called _every body_ were indispensable!—what -could it mean, and where was she going? - -She mounted the flight of stairs, and found herself in a long, winding -corridor, lighted by skylights placed at stated distances. Doors were on -either hand, and they were numbered. Blanche de Vouvray drew her silk -dress and her cachemire shawl closely around her, to avoid the contact -of the greasy looking wall. She was hesitating whether she would not -return at once, when a low moan, followed by a short, hollow cough, -struck her ear—all the woman’s pitying sympathy was instantaneously -re-awakened, and she advanced, her hand raised in order to knock. - -But, reader, let us in a few words depict to you the scene that is yet -hidden by that closed door. On a miserable bed stretched upon a -_paillasse_ of straw, lies the invalid, upon whose pallid features a ray -of light falls mournfully after having filtered through a ragged piece -of green calico hung up before the dim pane of the roof-window. The -walls are dingy and bare; in one corner only hangs something in the form -of clothing, covered by an old square of ticking. On a broken-backed -straw chair at the bed-head, rests a broken tea-pot, apparently filled -with _tisane_; whilst upon a small table near the door are crowded -together papers and perfume-bottles, inkstands and soiled gloves, a -wash-hand basin and a candlestick, a hair-brush and two or three -books—the heterogeneous symbols of all the wretched inmate’s wants, -vanities and toil! - -The night had been a bad one, and the morning sun brought but small -alleviation to Ferdinand’s sufferings, whilst the malady itself held him -prisoner in its clutches; the want of proper sustenance so weakened his -frame that it could oppose no resistance to disease. The brain, without -as yet precisely wandering, still from time to time created for itself -fair illusions, gentle dreams. _One_ form ever floated before -Ferdinand’s mental vision—far, far off, as in another sphere—and he -would stretch forth his arms toward the image, and longing, cry to it -for a look, a sign of recognition. - -A knock came at his door, uncertain, timid, loud; why did they disturb -him?—Another knock!—He groaned forth the word to enter, and a hand was -laid upon the key. - -“Come in,” he again peevishly repeated. The door opened! - -To describe what passed in the minds of the two thus suddenly face to -face to one another, is impossible. All the squalid, ugly, poverty and -apparent degradation we have tried to depict, flashed like lightning -over Blanche de Vouvray’s comprehension—she stood aghast, but the -involuntary scream that escaped her was drowned in the violence of the -exclamation that burst from M. de Candolles’ lips. With one hand drawing -over him convulsively the blanket which was his only covering, and -waving the other imperiously—“Depart hence, depart,” he shrieked in -bitter agony, and with eyes that started with horror from their sockets. - -The terror was mutual; and she who had come to console fled in dismay, -and he, who would have paid with his heart’s blood a touch of her hand, -drove her from him as ruthlessly as though she had been his deadliest -foe! - -Ferdinand de Candolles did not die then; he went raving mad, was -confined at Charenton for many years, grew to be a harmless maniac, and -died in the year 1848. Blanche de Vouvray is still a reigning beauty in -the _salons_ of Paris, universally respected, and only known by a very -few as the heroine of this sad tale. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE GHOST-RAISER. - - -My Uncle Beagley, who commenced his commercial career very early in the -present century as a bagman, _will_ tell stories. Among them, he tells -his Single Ghost story so often, that I am heartily tired of it. In -self-defense, therefore, I publish the tale in order that when next the -good, kind old gentleman offers to bore us with it, every body may say -they know it. I remember every word of it. - -One fine autumn evening, about forty years ago, I was traveling on -horseback from Shrewsbury to Chester. I felt tolerably tired, and was -beginning to look out for some snug way-side inn, where I might pass the -night, when a sudden and violent thunder-storm came on. My horse, -terrified by the lightning, fairly took the bridle between his teeth, -and started off with me at full gallop through lanes and cross-roads, -until at length I managed to pull him up just near the door of a -neat-looking country inn. - -“Well,” thought I, “there was wit in your madness, old boy, since it -brought us to this comfortable refuge.” And alighting, I gave him in -charge to the stout farmer’s boy who acted as ostler. The inn-kitchen, -which was also the guest-room, was large, clean, neat and comfortable, -very like the pleasant hostelry described by Izaak Walton. There were -several travelers already in the room—probably, like myself, driven -there for shelter—and they were all warming themselves by the blazing -fire while waiting for supper. I joined the party. Presently, being -summoned by the hostess, we all sat down, twelve in number, to a smoking -repast of bacon and eggs, corned beef and carrots, and stewed hare. - -The conversation turned naturally on the mishaps occasioned by the -storm, of which every one seemed to have had his full share. One had -been thrown off his horse; another, driving in a gig, had been upset -into a muddy dyke; all had got a thorough wetting, and agreed -unanimously that it was dreadful weather—a regular witches’ sabbath! - -“Witches and ghosts prefer for their sabbath a fine moonlight night to -such weather as this!” - -These words were uttered in a solemn tone, and with strange emphasis, by -one of the company. He was a tall, dark-looking man, and I had set him -down in my own mind as a traveling merchant or pedler. My next neighbor -was a gay, well-looking, fashionably-dressed young man, who, bursting -into a peal of laughter, said: - -“You must know the manners and customs of ghosts very well, to be able -to tell that they dislike getting wet or muddy.” - -The first speaker giving him a dark, fierce look, said: - -“Young man, speak not so lightly of things above your comprehension.” - -“Do you mean to imply that there are such things as ghosts?” - -“Perhaps there are, if you had courage to look at them.” - -The young man stood up, flushed with anger. But presently resuming his -seat, he said calmly: - -“That taunt should cost you dear if it were not such a foolish one.” - -“A foolish one!” exclaimed the merchant, throwing on the table a heavy -leathern purse. “There are fifty guineas. I am content to lose them, if, -before the hour is ended, I do not succeed in showing you, who are so -obstinately prejudiced, the form of any one of your deceased friends; -and if, after you have recognized him, you allow him to kiss your lips.” - -We all looked at each other, but my young neighbor, still in the same -mocking manner, replied: - -“You will do that, will you?” - -“Yes,” said the other—“I will stake these fifty guineas, on condition -that you will pay a similar sum if you lose.” - -After a short silence, the young man said, gayly: - -“Fifty guineas, my worthy sorcerer, are more than a poor college sizar -ever possessed; but here are five, which, if you are satisfied, I shall -be most willing to wager.” - -The other took up his purse, saying, in a contemptuous tone: - -“Young gentleman, you wish to draw back?” - -“_I_ draw back!” exclaimed the student. “Well! if I had the fifty -guineas, you should see whether I wish to draw back!” - -“Here,” said I, “are four guineas, which I will stake on your wager.” - -No sooner had I made this proposition than the rest of the company, -attracted by the singularity of the affair, came forward to lay down -their money; and in a minute or two the fifty guineas were subscribed. -The merchant appeared so sure of winning, that he placed all the stakes -in the student’s hands, and prepared for his experiment. We selected for -the purpose a small summer-house in the garden, perfectly isolated, and -having no means of exit but a window and a door, which we carefully -fastened, after placing the young man within. We put writing materials -on a small table in the summer-house, and took away the candles. We -remained outside, with the pedler amongst us. In a low, solemn voice he -began to chant the following lines: - - “What riseth slow from the ocean caves - And the stormy surf? - The phantom pale sets his blackened foot - On the fresh green turf.” - -Then raising his voice solemnly, he said: - -“You asked to see your friend, Francis Villiers, who was drowned, three -years ago, off the coast of South America—what do you see?” - -“I see,” replied the student, “a white light arising near the window; -but it has no form; it is like an uncertain cloud.” - -We—the spectators—remained profoundly silent. - -“Are you afraid?” asked the merchant, in a loud voice. - -“I am not,” replied the student, firmly. - -After a moment’s silence, the pedler stamped three times on the ground, -and sang: - - “And the phantom white, whose clay-cold face - Was once so fair, - Dries with his shroud his clinging vest - And his sea-tossed hair.” - -Once more the solemn question: - -“You, who would see revealed the mysteries of the tomb—what do you see -now?” - -The student answered in a calm voice, but like that of a man describing -things as they pass before him: - -“I see the cloud taking the form of a phantom; its head is covered with -a long veil—it stands still!” - -“Are you afraid?” - -“I am not!” - -We looked at each other in horror-stricken silence, while the merchant, -raising his arms above his head, chanted in a sepulchral voice: - - “And the phantom said, as he rose from the wave, - He shall know me in sooth! - I will go to my friend, gay, smiling and fond, - As in our first youth!” - -“What do you see?” said he. - -“I see the phantom advance; he lifts his veil—’tis Francis Villiers! he -approaches the table—he writes!—’tis his signature!” - -“Are you afraid?” - -A fearful moment of silence ensued; then the student replied, but in an -altered voice: - -“I am not.” - -With strange and frantic gestures the merchant then sang: - - “And the phantom said to the mocking seer, - I come from the South; - Put thy hand on my hand—thy heart on my heart— - Thy mouth on my mouth!” - -“What do you see?” - -“He comes—he approaches—he pursues me—he is stretching out his -arms—he will have me! Help! help! Save me!” - -“Are you afraid, _now_?” asked the merchant in a mocking voice. - -A piercing cry, and then a stifled groan, were the only reply to this -terrible question. - -“Help that rash youth!” said the merchant, bitterly. “I have, I think, -won the wager; but it is sufficient for me to have given him a lesson. -Let him keep his money and be wiser for the future.” - -He walked rapidly away. We opened the door of the summer-house and found -the student in convulsions. A paper, signed with the name “Francis -Villiers,” was on the table. As soon as the student’s senses were -restored, he asked vehemently where was the vile sorcerer who had -subjected him to such a horrible ordeal—he would kill him! He sought -him throughout the inn in vain; then, with the speed of a madman, he -dashed off across the fields in pursuit of him—and we never saw either -of them again. - -That, children, is my Ghost Story! - -“And how is it, good uncle, that after _that_, you don’t believe in -ghosts?” said I, the first time I heard it. - -“Because, my boy,” replied my uncle, “neither the student or the -merchant ever returned; and the forty-five guineas, belonging to me and -the other travelers, continued equally invisible. Those two swindlers -carried them off, after having acted a farce, which we, like ninnies, -believed to be real.” - - * * * * * - - - - - WHAT DOST THOU WORK FOR? - - - BY CAROLINE F. ORNE. - - - What dost thou work for, oh, tree of the forest, - Spreading thy branches so wide and so free? - Why hast thou many years wrought in thy season? - What is the end of thy work and of thee? - “Earth, mother earth, I have wrought for and toiled for, - Life still bestows her beneficent breast; - When for her I shall garner up treasures no longer, - Back shall I sink to her bosom to rest.” - - What dost thou work for, sweet flower of the wild-wood, - Spreading thy garlands of beauty and bloom? - Why dost thou toil to bring buds into blossom? - Who shall come hither to seek thy perfume? - “Earth, mother earth, ’tis for her that I labor. - Cheerfully work I by night and by day, - All she hath given, and more, shall I measure - Into her bosom, where yet I shall lay.” - - Man, that art heaping up riches and treasure— - Man, that art seeking for praise and for fame— - Man, that art chasing the phantoms of pleasure— - Whose is your toil? Who your labor can claim? - “Earth, mother earth; ’tis for her we are toiling, - These are her gifts, and to her they return; - All we have gathered must go to her keeping, - When she ourselves shall in darkness inurn.” - - Then who art filling each hour’s golden measure - Full of good deeds, and of kindness and love, - Who bindeth the wounded, and helpeth the weary, - For what is thy toil—who thy work shall approve? - “High heaven will approve, though my labors are humble, - For the soul’s truest welfare I toil, not in vain; - Earth from her bosom such treasures bestows not, - With the soul back to heaven return they again.” - - * * * * * - - - - - APRIL. - - - By April, of the sunny tress, - The mighty spell of death is broke, - As marble, with a food caress, - To life the son of Belus woke. - W. H. C. H. - - - - -[Illustration: TOM MOORE. (_See page 593._)] - - * * * * * - - - - - TOM MOORE.—THE POET OF ERIN. - - - BY BON GAULTIER. - - -The celebrated poet of the Irish Melodies—so long a member of that -glorious company of British bards which, a perfect galaxy of genius, -illuminated the first quarter of the present century—is no more. He saw -them all run their high careers, and pass away—and now he, too, is -gone. For the last couple of years, his brilliant and active mind had -given way—the soul had sunk before its “dark cottage,” and his life was -second childishness and mere oblivion. None of his old cotemporaries -remain, at present, but the last among them—Samuel Rogers, the -banker-poet, now between 80 and 90 years of age—who, seeing that his -poems are not likely to descend to posterity, has, at least, resolved to -go a good part of the way himself. We do not mention Montgomery—he was -never ranked in the peerage of Parnassus, to which Moore belonged. - -It was time for Thomas Moore to depart; he had seen star after star -decay:—many a glorious head stoop to the dust, many a soaring spirit -extinguished—the passionate and wayward Byron, dying in a barrack, -alone, at Missolonghi—an old, worn-out man at thirty-seven; and the -delicate and sensuous Keats, in the morning of his days, exhaled into -the clear blue sky of Rome; and “the pard-like spirit” of Shelley, -passing, ere the noon, through the portals of his familiar haunt, the -sea, to mingle with the elements which he so fearfully, so fearlessly -worshiped in the world; and the Cervantic and fine-hearted Sir -Walter—noblest of Scottish Chiefs; and the consummate lyric poet of -Hope and Poland and, “by Susquehanna’s side, fair Wyoming;” and the -three kings of bardish Cumberland—the weird and metaphysical Coleridge, -as magnificent as Skiddaw—and as _misty_, for the most part—Thalaba, -Southey, the library hermit—and Wordsworth, the consecrated hermit of -the Mere and the Mountain; and, along with these “dead kings of melody,” -the Shepherd of Ettrick, Allan Cunningham, Motherwell, the stormy, -metallurgic soul of Ebenezer Elliott, and the swan-like music of Hemans. -He saw them all pass away into the world of shadows—a more goodly and -powerful troop of poets than any other age of British literature could -boast—and he himself was not unworthy of that splendid and memorable -brotherhood. - -Moore was born in May, 1779, at Aungier street in the city of Dublin, of -Catholic parents. His father was a highly respectable grocer and -spirit-dealer. Young Moore was sent to the school of Mr. Samuel Whyte, a -man who enjoyed a high reputation as pedagogue in the metropolis. He had -a very refined and dignified notion of his own vocation and literature, -and was, withal, a good and kind-hearted man. He greatly encouraged the -habits of public reading and elocution in his school; and the fashion of -private theatricals being then very prevalent in the aristocratic -families of Ireland, he was often called to superintend them at various -houses. He encouraged his scholars to act scenes from plays, and was a -great hand at furnishing prologues and epilogues for stage “_pieces de -circonstance_.” Mr. Whyte was no common man; for it is, in all human -probability, to his peculiar mode of training that English literature is -indebted for two of its most brilliant ornaments. His encouragement of -theatricals and songs, among the boys, gave Richard Brinsley Sheridan a -tendency to the drama, and Moore a turn for lyrical composition and -high-life; for we firmly and potently believe in the truth of the old -hexameter embalmed in the Lindley Murray of our childhood— - - ’Tis Education forms the tender mind; - Just as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclined. - -About a quarter of a century before Moore entered the school, Mr. Whyte -had the teaching of young Sheridan, whom, curiously enough, he -pronounced “an incorrigible dunce,” after a year’s instruction of the -boy! A dunce he was, perhaps, at the methodical “branches,” taught in a -methodic way by Mr. Whyte; but we venture to say quick enough, when the -fit was on him, at the gay work of tinkering or acting plays, or pieces -of plays—thus taking unconsciously the bias which had its results in -the School for Scandal and the Duenna. As for Tommy Moore, he was always -a spry, vivacious, black-eyed little chap, who took at once to the -business of the boards, and recited and performed to the great -satisfaction of his master. The latter, whenever he went to the houses -of the nobility and gentry to get up plays, would usually take with him -his smart show-actor—the precocious little Catholic boy, and give him -parts to sustain in the representations. In this way the plebeian -youngster was introduced—greatly to his pride and satisfaction—into -the highest families of Dublin and its vicinity, where the circumstances -of gayety and splendor, contrasting with the exclusions generally -operating against those of his class and creed, heightened the zest with -which he enjoyed his privileges, and thus early created those feelings -and sentiments of pleasure and brilliancy which influenced his -subsequent career in the world. - -From reciting and acting, the transition to writing verses was a very -natural thing, and Moore showed himself as apt at rhyme as at every -thing else. Indeed, like Pope and Ovid, “he lisped in numbers, for the -numbers came.” He himself gives us from memory, part of a juvenile -effusion on resuming school tasks after the business of the stage was -over: - - Our Pantaloon, who did so aged look, - Must now resume his youth, his tasks, his book, - And Harlequin, who skipped, laughed, danced and died, - Must now stand trembling at his master’s side. - -And he says: “I have thus been led back, step by step, from an early -date to one still earlier, with the view of ascertaining, for those who -may take any interest in literary biography, at what period I first -showed an aptitude for the now common craft of verse-making, and the -result is—so far back in childhood lies the epoch—that I am really -unable to say at what age I first began to act, sing, and rhyme.” At the -age of twelve he wrote a Masque, in which he adapted verses to Haydn’s -“Spirit-Song,” and this was performed by himself, his sister, and some -young friends in his father’s house in Aungier street. There have been -few instances of a healthy precocity of mind beyond that of Thomas -Moore. - -In 1793, at which time the French Revolution was suggesting to the kings -of Europe a little leniency to their people, Moore was permitted by the -repeal of a penal statute, to enter Trinity College Dublin—a Protestant -University. Here, being always anxious to distinguish himself, he gave -in a specimen of English verse at one of the examinations, and was -gratified by the praise of the examiners and a copy of the Voyage of -Anacharsis—a book which must have greatly helped to Orientalize the -genius of Moore. His first step in regular authorship was the -publication of the Translation of Anacreon the Greek poet. His sprightly -facility of weaving verse had been exercised during his stay in College, -on this congenial task; and in 1799, when nineteen years old, he went to -London to keep his terms as a barrister at the Middle Temple, and to -bring out his English Anacreontics. These last he was permitted, through -the interest of some of his aristocratic Irish patrons, to dedicate to -George, the Prince Regent—against whom, nevertheless, at a future -period, Moore discharged some of his sharpest arrows of personal and -political satire. After the publication of the lyrics, this young poet -gradually gave up his idea of becoming a lawyer. Themis and her Courts -were relinquished for _Musa lyræ solers et cantor Apollo_; law was -completely driven out of his head by the gay society into which his -poetical and musical qualities introduced him, and he seems to have -looked more to the patronage of his titled friends and the trade of -authorship than to any settled walk or profession. The Earl of Moira was -his great patron, and the influence of this nobleman raised the young -Irishman to a companionship with the highest and most refined societies -of the land. And certainly, the son of a Dublin grocer—a Catholic, -too—must have possessed, in a very wonderful degree, the -accomplishments and amenities of the head and heart which could thus win -the favor and friendship of a very exclusive and fastidious class. -Moore’s temperament was, in fact, a happy one, and counseled as well by -prudence as his love of pleasure, he exerted himself to the utmost to -conciliate the partiality of the aristocracy and to live at ease among -them. - -About this time, 1801-2, he spent a good deal of his time at Donington -Park, the seat of the Earl of Moira, “under whose princely roof,” as he -says himself—(and great was the charm which these princely roofs ever -had for the poet!) “I used often and long in those days find a -hospitable home.” Here the young Irishman became somewhat intimate with -kings and princes—members of Bourbon and Orleans families of France; -for whom he was in the habit of playing and singing, and with whom he -could bandy courtesies and converse. These were the Count of Provence, -afterward Charles X.; Louis Philippe and his brothers Montpensier and -Beaujolais—“all dismounted cavalry,” as Curran called them, in a -whisper, when he first found himself sitting among them; and with these -the Duke de Lorge, the Baron de Rolle, and many others of the emigrant -_noblesse_. No wonder Moore’s ideas should be so redolent of sparkling -wines, exquisite shapes of beauty, and all the perfume and rose-color of -life. He lived at Donington in the happiest and most luxurious manner; -and the range of a magnificent library was not wanting to complete the -aristocratic charm of his existence at that period. Shut up in it for -whole days he has felt, in the midst of his schemes of authorship, like -Prospero in his enchanted island. How different was the fate of his old -friend, Robert Emmett! At that very time the latter was plotting -desperately against the English government, and preparing that -rebellious uprising in which he perished. - -In 1803, at the early age of 23, Moore began to reap some of the solid -fruits of his connection with the English aristocracy. He got the place -of Registrar of the Court of Admiralty at Bermuda, through the interest -of the Earl of Moira, and went to the island to take possession of his -office. But instead of doing the duties of it, he procured a deputy, and -went rambling and rhyming over the islands and on the continent of -America. He highly enjoyed the natural softness and beauty of the Summer -Islands; but many a song and poetical epistle proved that “his heart was -in Albion—his heart was not there”—that he was sighing for what he -called - - The flourishing Isle of the brave and the free, - -the splendid hospitalities of Donington and the _pays de cocagne_ of the -British aristocracy in general. - -Passing from Bermuda, he came to Norfolk in Virginia, and thence made a -pretty lengthened tour through the States, by Washington, Philadelphia, -Buffalo and the lakes. The young votary of the Anacreontic muses—the -musical pet of the higher English circles—did not like the American -Democracy at all, and has left on record about as unfavorable an opinion -and prophecy concerning the republic as has been written at any time -since. Every thing seemed tough and unrefined; and when he made his bow -to President Thomas Jefferson, he felt a mental shock from the sight of -that simple man, wearing “Connemara stockings and slippers,” at the head -of a nation. To be sure the society of British officers and Federal -Whigs among whom he chose his friends and acquaintances was not -calculated to impress him with any favorable idea of the democratic -party. But, every allowance made, Moore said enough to show that, -Catholic as he was, and come of plebeian forefathers (at least in an -_immediate_ manner; for the name O’Moore is high on the old rolls of -Irish peerage and rebellion) he never had any hearty sympathy with -republicanism and the cause of the people. He was all for the glorious -distinctions of rank and historic _prestige_—the pride, pomp and -circumstance of lordly life; and, in fact, looked on America as a sort -of moral wilderness. He had no hopes of it, indeed. He said society here -was rotten to the core; and he wrote poetical prophecies of its speedy -decay and disappearance from among the nations of the earth! - -And yet there were many things here to conciliate the fastidiousness of -the young traveler. Among the other tokens of an exceptional -civilization, was one which he himself recalls with an evident feeling -of gratified pride. The American master of the packet in which he -crossed Ontario—knowing that the young gentleman was a poet—the author -of “Anacreon Translated,” and “Juvenile Poems and Songs”—refused to -accept any money for his passage—would thus show his sense of what was -due to literature! We believe very few ship-masters in any of the old -countries would have done so courteously magnanimous a thing as that; -and Moore himself probably thought so too. The poet was, in fact, much -better pleased with the natural scenery than the people of the -continent; and scattered through the verses occasioned by his visit will -be found many tributes to the picturesque wildernesses he passed -through. Speaking of Niagara and other grand scenes he says— - - Oh lady, there are miracles which man - Caged in the bounds of Europe’s narrow span - Can scarcely dream of—which his eye must see - To know how wonderful this world can be. - -Moore, as well as hundreds of others, has left us his first impressions -on the sight of Niagara Falls. He says, “When we arrived at length at -the inn, in the neighborhood of the Falls, it was too late to think of -visiting them that evening, and I lay awake almost the whole night with -the sound of the cataract in my ears. The day following I consider a -sort of era in my life: and the first glimpse I got of that wonderful -cataract gave me a feeling which nothing in this world can ever awaken -again. It was through an opening among the trees, as we approached the -spot where a full view of the Falls was to burst upon us, that I caught -this glimpse of the mighty mass of waters folding smoothly over the edge -of the precipice, and so overwhelming was the notion it gave me of the -awful spectacle I was approaching, that during the short interval that -followed, imagination had far outrun the reality; and vast and wonderful -as was the scene that then opened upon me my first feeling was that of -disappointment. . . But in spite of the start thus got by imagination -the triumph of the reality was, in the end, but the greater; for the -gradual glory of the scene that opened upon me soon took possession of -my whole mind, presenting from day to day, some new beauty or wonder, -and like all that is most sublime in nature or art, awakening sad as -well as elevating thoughts. . . I should find it difficult to say on -which occasion I felt most deeply affected, when looking on the Falls of -Niagara, or when standing by moonlight among the ruins of the Coliseum.” - -In 1806 Moore republished his Juvenile Poems, along with the -translations and those poems written at Bermuda and in America. But the -Edinburgh Review came down upon the book with the sharpest force of -sarcasm and severity. The first publication of his licentious -love-songs, it said, might have been excused by the great youth of the -poet, but the republication was atrociously prepense and unpardonable. -The poor lyric butterfly was broken terribly upon the wheel; but not so -much as to disable him (—we mean the _poet_—changing the figure) from -challenging the Auld Reekie editor; and the bard and critic—Francis -Jeffrey—met at Chalk Farm, to settle their differences by the duello. -But the police officers were too quick for them, and arrested both; -whereupon it was reported, amidst much laughter of the press and public, -that there were no balls in the pistols! Moore went to the trouble of -denying that he knew the state of his adversary’s engine or his own. In -this violent business the poet’s feelings were sorely tried. But his -publisher managed to thrive upon the business. The book had, of course, -received a very unexpected advertisement. Moore’s vexations did not -terminate with the foregoing. Over two years afterward, when young Lord -Byron, then in his twentieth year, charged gallantly down upon all the -poets, poetasters and critics of the English Parnassus, he laughed at -the duel, among the other matters, and “Little’s leadless pistol.” Here -was another outrage; and out came our poet once more with a challenge to -the peer. But his lordship had gone off to make material for his Giaours -and Childe Harolds in the East, and the letter remained unread till his -return, near two years after. By this time, his “sensitive and surly” -feelings had gone off, and he wrote to Moore a frank and good-natured -reply. The latter, who had, in the interim, married his wife—Miss -Dyke—and thus given hostages to fortune, felt how much pleasanter it -would be to have the young baron’s friendship than his bullet in the -body, and therefore wrote a very warm _Irish_ letter in return, which -paved the way to their mutual friendship. On this occasion Rogers got -Byron, Moore and Campbell together round his mahogany, and there they -became acquainted with one another, and shook hands all round, for the -first time. - -In 1808 and 1809 Moore published his poems, “Intolerance” and -“Corruption,” satires; one on the English Constitution, and the other on -the English Church. They are fluent, but want vigor, and are read no -longer. In the “Skeptic” he writes like a good Catholic who prefers -ignorant obedience in all matters of Faith to the philosophy of Locke. -But he now prepared to sing a loftier strain. His next publication was -the First and Second Numbers of the Irish Melodies—a work which will -secure to him whatever immortality awaits his name. The melodies became -popular, at once, in England and Ireland alike. The sparkling grace and -flexibility of his verse presented an agreeable contrast to the -generality of songs sung at that period. The mixture of vivacity, -pathos, and epigrammatic point in their composition placed their author -at the head of modern song-writers; and, if the politics of poor Ireland -were doomed to be disastrous, the poetry of her beautiful music now -found itself vindicated and triumphant in the halls and palaces of the -British aristocracy. There was a savor of rebellion in some of these -songs which wonderfully took the fashionable fancy of the English; while -in Ireland the repeated allusions to the ancient glories of the land, -and the graceful sorrow which seemed to weep its many misfortunes, -touched the popular heart, and led the people—(we mean the reading -people)—to look on Moore as the genuine poet of Erin, and to applaud -him accordingly. - -As for the poet himself, it would seem that his sympathy with his native -land was more a matter of sentiment than of practical reality. He could -excite the finest feelings of drawing-room rebellion. But he was not a -Tyrtæus to rouse up that deeper and more daring sentiment which prompts -people to rush into the field. He was the friend and college-mate of -Emmett and other disaffected spirits; and attended the Debating and -Historic Societies in which these ardent and enlightened young men, -mostly Protestants, spoke of the rights of man and the liberty of -Ireland. They were members of United Irish Societies; but Moore never -belonged to the last. The influence of his parents and relations was -exercised against the malcontent spirit of the time; and when the -unhappy rebellion was crushed, the young bard went to seek his fortune -in the very heart of the English aristocracy. There Moore’s patriotism -was subdued and refined; and it ever afterward delighted to exhibit -itself in the language of polemics and lyric poetry. The Irish sentiment -of the Irish Melodies is not strong enough to nourish any sort of -rebellion upon. It is remarkable that, in all Moore’s historic -allusions, he seldom or never speaks of the prowess of the Irish against -the English—the struggles of the Desmonds, O’Neills, O’Moores, and so -forth, against the Henries, Elizabeth, or the Stuarts. He goes back into -the indistinct times of Milesian sway, the palace of Tara, and the stand -of Brian or Malachi against the Danes. He passes over the recent and -authentic, such as would come more home to the present period, and weeps -or flushes, with remarkable prudence, among the legends and the whole -Irish apocrypha. But it would be too much, perhaps, to expect that the -little Catholic boy, whose early impressions were formed in the midst of -the aristocratic societies of Dublin, to which he was admitted on -sufferance, a gratified guest, could ever grow up a democrat or a rebel. - -Indeed it is not difficult to discover from the tone of Moore’s writings -that he had formed a low opinion of Irish nationality—entertained a -poor notion of its past glories of all sorts, and little hope that -Ireland would ever do any thing to right herself. Indeed, if Ireland had -not her beautiful melodies, to suggest the weaving of lyric verse, and -to give it some promise of immortality, we should not probably have had -so much Irish reminiscence from Moore. It is, in fact, by a sort of -poetic licence, that he allows himself, in some of his songs, to sing -with an air of heroism or pathos, of those ancient men and things, in -which he himself, as may be gathered from the pages of his History of -Ireland, and from other places, had a very slender historical faith. -But, after all, the Melodies are beautiful things, and deserve the fame -they have won. They are full of felicities, and the hearts have been -cold indeed that have been able to resist the fascination they exercise, -in congenial moments, whether spoken or sung. The charm of an exquisite -phraseology sparkles everywhere, and the feelings with which we hear -them sung, seem incapable of more apt and musical expression. - -In the intervals of several numbers of the Melodies Moore employed -himself on other things. In 1812, he began to think of his great -romance—his Opus Magnum—Lalla Rookh. Moore gives us the history of -this poem, manufacture, sale and all; but the sale of it (in MS.) went -before the manufacture. It was sold to the Messrs. Longman for 3000 -guineas—not pounds: literary payments in England having been and being -still made, by respectable publishers, in the more aristocratic coin. -Mr. Perry, proprietor of the Morning Chronicle, made the bargain for his -friend, the bard, and we suspect that without his influence and -shrewdness, Moore would not have got that sum. For poets, and people of -refined feelings, are the worst hands at a bargain in the world, as -everybody knows. Perry said the poet of the Melodies should have the -highest price ever given for any poetic work; and that being 3000 -guineas, he held out for it and got it. The Longmans bought their pig in -a poke, as the saying is. They were to take whatever poem Moore was -pleased to write, and also to wait till it was written. This was a very -pleasant sort of trade for the poet, and he went to work with that -inspiration and cheerfulness of spirit which publishers, for their own -sake, should do every thing to encourage in their writers. Moore retired -to Mayfield Cottage, in Derbyshire, a little way from Donington Park and -its library, and began to seclude himself from mankind. Having resolved -that his romance should be Oriental, he crammed himself with every thing -written about the East that he could, in any way, lay hands on—its -manners, customs, history, religion, languages, geography, and so forth. -He then began to write a long story called the “Peri’s Daughter;” but, -after going a little way in it, his Pegasus stuck fast, and the attempt -was put aside. He tried other ideas; but to little purpose. At last, an -_Irish_ idea struck him—that of poor Catholics persecuted and kept down -for their religion. By a happy dexterity he metamorphosed them into -Guebres, and so, setting up the frame-work of the “Fire-Worshipers,” and -clothing his Hibernian sentiments—half romance half religion—in all -the sparkling phraseology of the East, he got on swimmingly. The -monster, “Prophet of the Khorassan,” “Paradise and the Peri,” and the -“Light of the Harem,” followed favorably; and in 1816, after three -years’ incubation, he gave Lalla Rookh to the purchasers of the -manuscript. To Moore’s honor, it must be said, that seeing the monetary -and other embarrassments of that year, he offered to release the -Longmans from their engagement, if they desired it. But they stuck -manfully to their bargain; and it is pleasant to add, made handsomely by -it. - -Moore was now very famous. Lalla and the Melodies gave him a reputation -only second to that of the noble young “Childe Buron” himself. His -“Fire-Worshipers” was quoted with fervor in Ireland; the songs in his -“Light of the Harem” had charmed all the world; a herd of imitators -sprang up like mushrooms, and bulbuls, peris, roses, flashing swords, -and sparkling goblets, were the general order of the day. In the -meantime, Moore went with Mr. Rogers to Paris. There he gathered the -materials of the Fudge Family, which he published on his return. - -In 1819 he traveled again to Paris, in company with Lord John Russell; -and both went thence to Italy. Lord John passed on to Genoa, and Moore -proceeded to visit Lord Byron at Venice, where the noble exile lived in -a very savage condition, drinking gin and water o’nights, and writing -his heart out. There the poets passed some agreeable days together, -riding along the Lido together, and going over the lagoons in a gondola. -It was on this occasion that Byron confided to Moore his “Memoirs,” to -be used as the latter should think fit. Moore afterward sold them to -Murray for 2000 guineas. But when Byron died, his widow and family -interfered, and induced Moore to withdraw and burn the -manuscript—forfeiting the money, of course. Moore has been blamed for -consenting to this sacrifice. But it is very likely he has preserved in -his Life of Byron every thing of interest contained in the papers, and -that very little was lost, except certain scandalous particulars, which -the world would very willingly let die—though the offal-eating -scandal-mongers of the day groaned horribly under the privation at the -time. After leaving Venice, Moore went to Rome. He confesses that, in -the midst of the ruins and splendors of past Roman civilization and art, -he was painfully conscious of his own want of artistic taste and -enthusiasm. He says that a sunset on the Simplon touched him with more -admiration than any thing he had seen in the Italian galleries of art. -This would hardly have been expected from Moore, who has been termed the -poet of artificial things. After his return from this tour, he published -his Rhymes on the Road and the Fables of the Holy Alliance. - -But his return did not extend to England. He knew that country was no -place for him, just then. He had made a blunder in his business of the -Bermuda registrarship, the consequences of which had now reached him. He -had taken no security of the deputy he had appointed to do the duties of -that office. The latter, in the course of time and trade, fell into -temptation—the easy carelessness of Moore led him, perhaps, into -it—and he made way with the proceeds of some American cargoes, and -then, with himself—leaving the unprophetic little bard, in the heyday -of his glory, to be responsible for near six thousand pounds. The -terrible Court of Admiralty now issued a law process against “the -smiling bard of pleasure,” which the latter did not think it wise to -confront in person, and so stopped short at Paris, where—along with his -family, which had joined him—he remained till the close of 1822. His -friends, in the mean time, came forward to the rescue; and if, for a -moment, he wronged his better genius by hard thoughts against the honor -or honesty of his fellows, he was soon brought round to the nobler and -better human creed, by generous offers of gifts, loans, etc. Thus, -sustained in his exile, he passed his time pleasantly enough, at La -Butte Coaslin, near Paris, singing Spanish songs to the guitar in the -evening, in company with Madame V——, a neighbor, and spending the -mornings of the two summers he remained in France, wandering through the -noble park of St. Cloud, spinning and polishing verses and jotting down -new ideas in his memorandum-book. His exile was, certainly, pleasanter -than that of his erotic, erratic brother, Ovid, lamenting his -frost-bitten muses, long ago, on the inhospitable shores of the Black -Sea. Moore had a great many visitors at Coaslin, among them our -Washington Irving, “who still, I trust,” he says, “recollects his -reading to me some parts of his then forthcoming work, ‘Bracebridge -Hall,’ as we sat together on the grass walk that leads to the Rocher, at -La Butte.” To meet his awkward liabilities, Moore had agreed with -Messrs. Murray and Wilkie to write a Life of Sheridan; but finding -himself too distant from documents and authorities, he went on with his -customary business of verse, and projected an epistolary romance, with -Egyptian characters. But this romance was postponed: and it appeared -afterward, done in prose, as the “Epicurean.” He also took up the -allegory of “The Loves of the Angels,” and working away with his usual -octosyllabic facility, he had soon woven it into shape. For this poem he -was allowed one thousand guineas by his publisher. - -On Moore’s return to England, he found that his friends had negotiated -the Americans down to a thousand pounds; and that the uncle of the -faithless deputy had been induced, in a grumbling way, to contribute -_£_300 of that sum. A friend had deposited the balance in the bank to -Moore’s credit, for the canceling of the Bermuda claim; and the poet was -happy to hand him an order on his publisher for that amount. In this -connection, Moore records (without naming the giver, but with a -quotation from Ovid, to the effect that “gifts are agreeable which are -made precious by him who makes them,”) a present of £300, made him at -that time of difficulty—the proceeds of a maiden-work—a -biography—which had been just published. The donor was Lord John -Russel; the firm friend of the poet to the end of his life. - -Mr. Moore now went to live at Sloperton, two miles from Devizes, and not -far from the country seat of the Marquis of Lansdowne. His dwelling was -at first a somewhat rude cottage, in a wooded lane. But, on taking it, -the new occupants made it very comfortable and pleasant, by means of -enlargements and other improvements. In 1824, Moore published his -“Memoirs of Captain Rock,” in which he set forth the misgovernment of -England since the conquest of the island by Strongbow. In this book he -never forgets the manner for the matter: he is full of point and learned -illustration, and festoons his deplorable facts with many felicities of -metaphor and arguments of theology. But no Irishman, how hot-headed -soever, could take the Memoirs as the text-book of rebellion, or feel -his blood excited by them. Mr. Moore’s learning and imagery, in fact, -weakened his theme, as the accompaniment of rich, heavy baggage used to -obstruct the movements of the great historic armies, long ago. The -“Memoirs” are obsolete, though the Irish sufferings seem to be much the -same as usual. - -At Sloperton, Moore wrote, also, his History of Ireland and the -Biographies of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and -Lord Byron—the last the best of the three, a biography ranking with -Boswell’s Life of Johnson, and Lockhart’s Life of Scott. After his -“Captain Rock,” Moore published the “Irish Gentleman in search of a -Religion,” in which he girds at all Protestant doctrine, with his usual -power of theologic reading and pointed argument; and then gave to the -world his “Epicurean;” in which he intertwines his favorite ethics of -religion with the frame of a very dull story. Moore’s mind had a strong -devotional tendency, and seems to revert—with a sense of its own -insufficiency—to the problem of existence beyond the last scene of all -that ends the strange eventful history of life. His doubtings, if he -ever had any, seem to have taken ultimate refuge in Catholic orthodoxy. -He was, in fact, a dutiful son of mother Church: and great was the -uneasiness he exhibited, lest his friend, Lord Byron, should adopt, in -all their force, the atheistical ideas of Percy Bysshe Shelley, with -whom his lordship had become very intimate, in Italy. Moore earnestly -expostulated with Byron on the project of the “Liberal” newspaper, got -up by the restless Childe and supported by Hunt, Shelley, and Hazlitt. -He told his lordship that such a conjunction, with such a radical -purpose, was very far from respectable—not by any means respectable -enough for an English nobleman to engage in. - -The last productions of Moore were those light and satirical verses -which appeared in the Morning Chronicle and other papers, up to 1837. -They are the happiest things of their kind, in the world, and to those -who can admire the gay dexterities of wit, woven into the tapestry work -of rhyme, they possess an interest surviving the subjects of them. In -the interweaving of pointed and witty things with the flow of colloquial -phraseology, Moore has shown himself more skillful than any of his -contemporaries, and no writer of the present day can match him. - -A bright, sensuous, Celtic genius dies with Tom Moore. As a poet, he -will be chiefly remembered for the undying melodies of his native land, -with which his words are beautifully identified. His translations of -Anacreon are clever school-boy exercises—very free versions and -amplifications of the original, and contain many points and prettinesses -which the old Cyclic bard never thought of. The juvenile and erotic -songs which obtained for Moore the name of the modern Catullus, are very -slight things—mere floating gossamers of literature—flashing a little -in the light—“the purple light of love,” and then fading away from the -general appreciation. But these songs were, nevertheless, greatly in -vogue in their day, and the pathos or gayety of them found echoes in the -hearts of ten thousand festive saloons. Never was the youth of any poet -spent in the midst of greater incitements of love, friendship, and song, -than those that solicited Moore on every side during the heyday of his -years, in the high society of England. It was therefore morally -impossible that his verse should be any thing but “brilliant and light,” -full of all the levities and luxuries of sentiment. The real -arduousness, effort, and pain of life find no expression at all in -Moore. The poems respecting America and his West India voyage, exhibit -his want of sympathy with republicanism, and his ceaseless longing after -the grand associations and lordly homes of England. Nevertheless, it -must not be forgotten that he found some congenial persons and things on -this continent. He has recorded the enjoyment of his sojourn in our own -city of “brotherly love,” where, in the society of Mr. Dennie’s family, -he almost forgot he was in a republic. His recollections of Philadelphia -were happy ones. - - LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA. - - Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved, - And bright were its flowery banks to his eye; - But far, very far were the friends that he loved, - And he gazed on the flowery banks with a sigh. - - Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain - Unblest by the smile he had languished to meet; - Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again, - Till the threshold of home had been pressed by his feet. - - But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to their ear, - And they loved what they knew of so humble a name; - And they told him with flattery welcome and dear - That they found in his heart something better than fame. - - The stranger is gone, but he will not forget - When, at home, he shall talk of the toils he has known, - To tell with a sign, what endearments he met - When he strayed by the wave of the Schuylkill alone. - -The “Canadian Boat Song,” composed on the St. Lawrence, is the most -popular of the songs written at the earlier period of life—indeed, at -any period of his life. It is more frequently heard in society than any -thing else he has composed—the finest of the Melodies not excepted. As -regards these last, it has been said they are not Irish. It is, indeed, -true that Moore modified the native airs a good deal—retrenched most of -the wild cadences and free modulations which indigenously belong to -them. This, however, may not be such a very great loss after all, seeing -that, if some of the melodies, with his arrangement, would not be -intimately recognized at wakes and cow-milkings, etc., they were all the -better liked, for the curtailment and polish, in the dining-rooms and -drawing-rooms. Certainly no modern festive song-writer has produced the -effects which usually accompanied the singing of Tom Moore’s lyrics. He -was eminently the poet of the saloons. Burns was the lyrist of Love and -the lowly hearts and homes of the people. But Moore’s songs were sung in -the most splendid halls of English-speaking land, where he himself, of -all guests or sojourners in lordly dwellings, was ever the most welcome -and caressed. And when we consider the low birth, _Irishism_ and -uncompromised Catholicity of the man, we cannot possibly over-estimate -those talents of graceful conviviality, good-humor and brilliant wit -which could secure for him such social honors and triumphs through life. -Well might Byron have called him “the poet of all circles and the idol -of his own.” Moore had an exquisite musical taste, and sung some of his -own melodies in the most delightful manner. His voice was rather low, -and without compass, but it had great softness, and the expression with -which he half-chaunted, half-recited, while accompanying himself at the -piano, in “Go Where Glory Waits Thee,” “Fly Not Yet,” and others, was a -thing to be enjoyed and remembered. On some occasions when he has gone -to the piano, the servants of the house—Devonshire House, we -believe—have been permitted to come and stand at the doors to listen, -along with the delighted crowd of noble listeners. Moore’s performance -was considered one of the best treats of the evening at such gay -reunions; and Mr. N. P. Willis speaks of the little bard’s appearance, -at Lady Blessington’s piano—for a singing-while—as if his singing in -this way were an expected gratification which he was too well-bred or -too good-natured to refuse to his friends. A touching instance of the -effect he could produce on these occasions is given in a fact to which -he himself alludes. The beautiful young daughter of Colonel Bainbridge, -who was married at Ashbourne Church, in Derbyshire, in 1815, died, a few -weeks afterward, of fever. During the delirium that accompanied her -illness she sung several hymns from Moore’s collection of “Sacred Songs” -which she had heard the poet himself sing in the course of the preceding -summer. Alluding to her, he says, in the song “Weep not for Those”— - - Mourn not for her, the young bride of the vale, - Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now, - Ere life’s early lustre had time to grow pale, - And the garland of love was yet fresh on her brow. - -Lalla Rookh is a splendid and elaborate romance. Hazlitt said Moore -should not have written it for three thousand guineas. This was Moore’s -own affair, not Hazlitt’s; and we question if the latter would have -refused such a sum, under such circumstances. Nevertheless, Lalla Rookh -seems below the pretensions of the poet of the Melodies. Its themes and -characters are oriental and the interest they excite is feeble. There is -a forced and exotic air over the whole performance which fails to win -our sympathies; and, in spite of the beauty of the imagery and all the -sparkling artifice of the versification, no one, we believe, was every -cordially disposed to read this romance a second time. The rythmus of -the “Veiled Prophet” is eloquently rhetorical, but loosely constructed, -and it offends our sense of what the heroic couplet is, in the hands of -Dryden, Shelley, Goldsmith and Byron. Moore’s metre, in this grave mode, -is a continuous outrage against the cæsural canons, and reads with a -certain prosaic effect—eloquent enough, to be sure; but prosaic, -nevertheless: “The Fire-Worshipers” has been considered the best portion -of Lalla Rookh. It contains a great deal of impassioned eloquence and -shows great mastery and music of versification; but the impression it -leaves is vague and uncongenial, and the catastrophe is painful, -merely—like that of the “Veiled Prophet”—both with a melodramatic and -impossible air about them. “Paradise and the Peri” has the merit of a -more attractive human interest—though almost overlaid by ornament and -orientalism. We think the “Light of the Harem” the most agreeable of -all. It is perfectly in character—a picture of Eastern luxury from -beginning to end—a feast of roses and a flow of fountains, in which we -look for nothing but sighs and perfumes—and we find them in all -customary Mooreish prodigality. The verse of this little poem is woven -music. The portrait of Nourmahal is a piece of lyric gracefulness which -aptly exemplifies the art of Moore’s sensuous and harmonic genius: - - There’s a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, - Like the long sunny lapse of a summer day’s light, - Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, - Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. - This was not the beauty—oh, nothing like this, - That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss! - But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays - Like the light upon Autumn’s soft shadowy days, - Now here and now there—giving warmth as it flies, - From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes. - When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace, - That charm, of all others, was born with her face! - And when angry—for even in the tranquillest climes, - Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes, - The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken - New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. - If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye - At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, - From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings - From innermost shrines came the light of her feelings. - Then her mirth—O, ’twas sportive as ever took wing - From the heart with a burst like the wild-bird in spring, - Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages, - Yet playful as Peris let loose from their cages; - While her laugh, full of glee, without any control, - But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul, - And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, - In lip, cheek or eyes, for she brightened all over; - Like any fair lake which the breeze is upon - When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun! - -No wonder “the magnificent son of Acbar” should be set excessively -beside himself on account of such a miracle of womanhood. - -Moore shows himself very incapable of sustaining himself in any flights -of imagination to compare at all with the soaring of Shelley or Byron. -The sight of his mind is less keen and ardent than theirs, his thoughts -feebler and his verse less vigorously constructed. But in his own genial -sphere—on the lower sunny slopes of the mountain, he can snatch a -thousand warbling graces beyond the art of these louder instruments. - - His is the lay that lightly floats, - And his are the murmuring, dying notes - That fall as soft as snow on the sea, - And melt in the heart as instantly; - And the passionate strain, that, lightly going - Refines the bosom it trembles through - As the musk-wind, over the waters blowing, - Ruffles the wave but sweetens it too! - -Moore has happily expressed the pathetic morals, gayeties and -tendernesses of sentiment. But we think he has been still more happy in -those humorous, satirical, wit-elaborated performances in which it was -his wont to assail the public men and things of English government and -English society. His metrical onslaughts on the Tory party, the Prince -Regent, the Church Establishment—individually or collectively—have -been among the most genial and applauded things he has written. In the -other walks of poetry he had overpowering rivals—in this he was -unrivaled—“within this circle none durst walk but he.” He was well -aware of the power of satire to influence the gravest argument in the -world, and felt that - - A song may reach him who a sermon flies. - -Much of his sarcasm was launched against the English Church -Establishment. Its existence in Ireland has long been a just cause of -popular complaint, and thousands of pamphlets have been written _pro_ -and _con_ in the matter. The witty little poet took the hackneyed -question, put it into his lyric mill, and having given it a few turns, -brought it out in the following manner—intelligible to all -comprehensions—answering as well the cause of his Catholic countrymen -as the cause of simple truth and justice: - - A DREAM OF HINDOSTAN. - - “The longer one lives the more one learns,” - Said I, as off to sleep I went, - Bemused with thinking of tithe concerns, - And reading a book, by the Bishop of Ferns, - On the Irish Church Establishment. - But lo! in sleep not long I lay - When fancy her usual tricks began, - And I found myself bewitched away - To a goodly city in Hindostan: - A city, where he who dares to dine - On aught but rice, is deemed a sinner: - Where sheep and kine are held divine, - And, accordingly, never drest for dinner. - - But how is this? I wondering cried, - As I walked that city, fair and wide, - And saw, in every marble street, - A row of beautiful butchers’ shops— - “What means, for men who can’t eat meat, - This grand display of loins and chops?” - In vain I asked—’twas plain to see - That nobody dared to answer me. - - So on from street to street I strode: - And you can’t conceive how vastly odd - The butchers looked: a roseate crew, - Inshrined in _stalls_, with naught to do: - While some on a _bench_, half dozing, sat, - And the sacred cows were not more fat. - - Still posed to think what all this scene - Of sinecure trade was _meant_ to mean, - “And pray,” asked I, “by whom is paid - The expense of this strange masquerade?” - “The expense—oh, that’s of course defrayed” - (Said one of these well-fed hecatombers) - “By yonder rascally rice-consumers.” - “What! _they_, who mustn’t eat meat?”—“No matter:” - (And, while he spoke, his cheeks grew fatter,) - “The rogues may munch their _Paddy_ crop, - But the rogues must still support _our_ shop: - And depend upon it, the way to treat - Heretical stomachs that thus dissent, - Is to burden all that wont eat meat - With a costly Meat Establishment.” - - On hearing these words so gravely said, - With a volley of laughter loud I shook: - And my slumber fled, and my dream was sped, - And I found myself lying snug in bed, - With my nose in the Bishop of Ferns’s book. - -In spite of the _prestige_ of Moore’s earlier poetry, the world has -regarded him, and very justly, as a moral man and a good Catholic. In -the domestic relations of life, as well as the social, he seems to have -gone through the world blamelessly. For the last ten years or so of his -life, he was in receipt of _£_300 a year from the British Government, -procured for him by his friends the Marquis of Lansdowne and Lord John -Russell. - -Moore died on the 26th of last February, and was buried, according to -his desire, in the church-yard of Bromham, between Devizes and -Chippenham, where two of his children were buried before him—Anastasia -Mary, who died in 1829 aged sixteen, and John Russell, who died in 1848 -at the age of nineteen. Another son of the poet died in the French -service at Algiers. He had, we believe, four children, all of whom -passed away before himself. Doubly dark, indeed, was the close of a life -begun so hopefully and enjoyed so much in its middle course. - -If the poet had died in Ireland, he would have had a good funeral. As it -was, but a single coach, containing four persons, went to the grave with -the hearse which carried his remains. Byron reached Huckwell, in 1824, -pretty much in the same way; but, we believe, with a somewhat larger -attendance—not much, however. Moore attended his noble friend’s funeral -to the bounds of London, as the slender _cortège_ passed through, but -went no farther. - -Moore was of small stature. “He is a little, very little man,” says Sir -Walter Scott, speaking of him in 1825. Hunt said of him in 1820: “His -forehead is long and full of character, with bumps of wit large and -radiant enough to transport a phrenologist: his eyes are as dark and -fine as you would wish to see under a set of vine-leaves.” The poet’s -face was, in fact, very plain, and only redeemed by the brightness of -his eyes. Irish festivity and enjoyment formed the prevailing expression -of his aspect, in his better days when he was the delight and pride of -every society he appeared in—the gayest, happiest, most appreciated wit -of his time. Poor Tom Moore! He was always called _Tom_ Moore; except in -cotemporary criticisms of his poems or polemics, nobody thought of -calling him _Mr._ Moore. We cannot fancy him a man of seventy-two! There -is an incongruity in the idea which we cannot get over. Old and insane. -Alas for the brightest vaunt of human intellect and glory! But Tom Moore -will be ever freshly remembered with the undying melodies of his native -land. - - * * * * * - - - - - A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES. - - - BY G. P. R. JAMES. - - - [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 494._) - - - LONDON, FIFTY YEARS AGO. - -There was a night coach to London, and I was very anxious to arrive in -the great city; but Father Bonneville was now feeling strongly the -effects of age, and I would not expose him to the fatigue of a long -night journey. We set off therefore on the following morning, and I can -hardly express the effect produced upon my mind by the first sight of -the vehicle which was to convey us. It was the stage-coach in its utmost -perfection, light, small, and compact, beautifully painted, newly -washed, with leather harness, and four bay horses, which seemed, to my -eyes, fitted for the race-course. It was so unlike any thing I had ever -seen in Germany, in France, or in America, so light, so neat, so jaunty, -so rapid, so perfect in all its parts and appointments, that it stood -out at once from every thing else in my mind, as a pure and -unadulterated bit of England—an exponent, as it were, of the habits of -the country and the mind of the people. When we came to get in, indeed, -and take our seats, we found ourselves a little cramped for room. The -back, too, was stiff and rigid, and our legs had but little space to -stretch themselves out, intertwined with those of our fellow passengers. - -“This, too, is a bit of England,” I thought. - -When at length the coachman had mounted the box—when the reins were -gathered up, and the first smack of the whip given, poor Father -Bonneville looked more nervous and uneasy than he had done while I was -driving him down the hill over the frontier of France. On we went, -however, at a pace which seemed to take away his breath, rattling in and -out amongst carts and wagons, and horses and dogs, touching nothing, -though seeming every moment about to be dashed to pieces against some -great lumbering dray, or to kill a score or two of old people and -children. The coach was heavily laden on the top: men’s legs and feet -were hanging down in all quarters, and we seemed to sway from side to -side with a terrible inclination to precipitate ourselves into the -window of some early-risen shopkeeper in Portsmouth. - -At length, much to my satisfaction, we were out of the town; and after -passing over some wide and curious-looking downs, unlike any thing else -I had ever seen in other lands, we entered upon a richer and better -cultivated country, and the real face of England—old England—merry -England, as it has been endearingly called, spread out before me like a -garden. And it is a garden—the garden of the world. I know not why, but -the very heaths and moors—and we passed several of them—seemed to have -an air of comfort and sunny cheerfulness, superior to the cultivated -fields of other lands. From time to time when we stopped to change -horses, though it was done with a marvelous rapidity, which allowed but -little time for questions, I asked an ostler or a waiter the names of -various places we had passed; and I remarked that the English must be -very fond of the devil, as they had made him god-father to every place -for which they could not well find an epithet. I heard of Devil’s dykes, -and Devil’s punch-bowl, and Devil’s jumps, at every step. - -We paused to dine, as it was called, at a small town, beautifully -situated amongst some fine sweeping hills, and on asking the name, found -that it was called Godalming. - -“_Gott Allgemein_,” I said, turning to Father Bonneville, who nodded his -head. But it was an unfortunate speech; for one of our fellow-travelers, -a great, fat, black-looking man, dressed in mourning, who had never -opened his mouth during the day, but who had continued reading a book, -let the coach rattle and roll as it would, now fixed upon me as an -antiquary, and tormented me during the whole of the rest of the journey -with a dissertation upon pottery, and sepulchral urns, and Roman coins, -when I wished to observe the country, and gain information regarding the -new land which I had just entered. He evidently took me for an -Englishman; but my companion he soon found out to be an emigrant, and -compensated in some degree for his tiresomeness, by giving us the names -of several good inns—“Where,” as he added, with a gentle inclination of -his head toward Father Bonneville, “there were waiters who could speak -French.” - -My good old friend was a little mortified, I believe; for he flattered -himself that his English was without accent. - -Night fell while we were yet some distance from London, and still we -rattled on at the same velocity, till our heavy friend in the corner -thought fit to inform us that we were entering London. It did not seem -to be an agreeable entrance at all; for the dark streets, lighted by -very dim globe lamps shining through a fog, into which we seemed to -plunge, had a somewhat forbidding aspect to the eye of a stranger, and -the multitude of figures hurrying along on both sides of the way, now -seen, now lost, as they came under the lamps, or passed the blazing -shop-fronts, looked like phantoms of the dead pursued by some evil -spirit. The noise too was intolerable; for vehicles were running in -every direction, making an awful clatter as we clattered by them, while -through the whole was heard a dull, everlasting grumble, as if the city -suffered under one continual thunder-storm. - -At length, we dashed up to the door of an inn, and every one began to -jump out or down, and to scramble for trunks or portmanteaus, as best he -might. - -I cannot say that our first night’s residence in London was peculiarly -agreeable; for besides being both heated and tired, stiff and cramped, -we had the delight of being half-devoured by bugs till dawn of day. - -Poor Father Bonneville rose late, nearly as much fatigued with his -night’s rest as with his day’s journey. But immediately after breakfast, -we set out to seek for better accommodation. I proposed that we should -go to one of the inns which had been mentioned; but he advised, -strongly, that we should take a small lodging, adding—“London, when I -recollect it, was the greatest place for lodgings in the world.” - -So we still found it; for in many streets as we walked along, we saw -“Furnished lodgings to let,” written on a piece of paper, and stuck up -in the window of almost every other house. Some of these we passed by, -as likely to be too fine and expensive for our purposes. We looked at -others, and were not satisfied. In one, dirt and smoke were too evident -to both eye and nose. At another, the young ladies of the mansion -appeared not such as we wished to dwell amongst. In other places, again, -we were not fortunate enough to give satisfaction ourselves. One stout -lady, to whom Father Bonneville addressed some inquiries, stuck her -large, bare, blue arms akimbo, and said she would not let her lodgings -“to foriners,” adding—in not a very indistinct tone—“They’se all on um -so dirty.” - -The good Father, the cleanest man upon the face of earth, was deeply -mortified at this insinuation, and turned away indignant. I laughed and -followed; and at length we found a little place, which seemed to suit us -well, in a street running from the Haymarket, westward. For a guinea and -a half a week, we were to have two bed-rooms and a sitting-room. The -lady of the house, or her she helot, was to cook for us for five -shillings per week more, and all promised very well, when I had nearly -spoiled the whole bargain by inquiring if there were any bugs. - -“Bugs!” cried the indignant dame. “Bugs! If you think there are any -bugs, you had better not come here, young man.” - -I found afterward that no house in London is ever admitted to have bugs -during the day, however potently they may make their existence known -during the night. She was quieted down at length, however, and seemed -quite pacified, when I paid her down the first week’s rent before hand, -so as to secure her revenue whether there were bugs or not; and when she -saw four or five very respectable looking trunks of American manufacture -brought to the house from the inn, she became exceedingly reverential, -and, to do her all justice, remained so till the end of our stay. - -To finish with bugs, however, at once and for ever, I may as well add -that, two days after our arrival, I found a very unpleasant looking -gentleman, in a brown coat, walking over my dressing-table, and calling -the landlady, I pointed it out to her. - -“Good lauk-a-daisy!” she exclaimed, in a tone of sweet simplicity: “What -can it be? I never saw such a thing in my life. If it’s a bug, sir, you -must have brought it from the inn with your pokemantles. That would be a -sad case to have the house stocked with um.” - -I said, nothing more, lest I should provoke her to bring an action for -damages against me; but I found that, in the course of the morning, she -went over all the rooms with a curious sort of an instrument, like a tin -kettle, from which she emitted jets of scalding steam into all the -cracks and crevices, and I will acknowledge that boiled bugs are not -half so offensive as raw. - -It took us a whole day to get shaken into our new abode, and to eat some -exceedingly fat mutton-chops—about the fourth part of what the lady had -provided for our dinner. What became of the remainder we never -discovered, and I perceived, though Father Bonneville did not, that -either from the sea air which we had lately enjoyed, or from some other -cause, we had become inhumanly carnivorous, consuming at least, ten -times the quantity of beef and mutton in a week than we had ever -consumed in our lives before, together with an enormous quantity of -bread and butter, and tea enough to have poisoned a Mandarin. - -On the following day, with the good Father on my arm, I set out in -search of Madame de Salins, taking care to ask our landlady, in the -first place, the way to Swallow street. - -“If you will just strike away by the market, sir—that is, St. James’ -market—I don’t mean Carnaby, that’s a great way off, and take away up -toward Oxford street, you’ll come right upon the end of Swallow -street—or you can turn in by Major Foubert’s passage.” - -I explained to her that I knew neither of the markets she mentioned, and -had not the slightest acquaintance with her military friend who kept the -passage; and then she laughed, and cried— - -“Good lauk-a-daisy! I forgot. What a head I have to be sure; but there -are so many things always a runnin’ in it.” - -She then entered more into detail, told me the streets I was to take, by -the designation of right hand and left hand, and counted up the turnings -on her fat fingers, with which better information we set out, and -steered pretty accurately. As we went, I could not refrain from talking -to my good old friend about Madame de Salins and Mariette. - -“Dear little thing,” I said: “I wonder if she recollects me.” - -“She is probably no little thing now, Louis,” replied Father Bonneville, -with a smile. “You always speak of her as if she was still a child; but -she must be nearly a woman now.” - -I gave a sigh; for I would fain have had Mariette always a child—the -same little Mariette I had loved so well. I did not think she had any -right to grow older; and the idea of that sweet little creature -metamorphosed into a great, raw school-girl, of between fourteen and -fifteen, was almost as painful to me, as the sight of sweet Anne Page -changed into a great lubberly boy to poor Slender. - -I was destined to a worse disappointment, however. Of all the streets in -London, Swallow street was perhaps the most dim, dingy, and -unprepossessing I had as yet seen, and when we found out number three, -it presented to us a chemist’s shop, of a very poor class, with the -windows so dirty, and spotted with dust and rain, that the blue and red -bottles within were hardly visible. Over the door was the name of the -proprietor “Giraud,” which was promising as a French name, and in we -dived to make inquiries. Monsieur Giraud himself, proved, as we -expected, a French emigrant, but he was the most sullen, -uncommunicative, repulsive Frenchman I ever met with. I suppose exile, -misfortune, and a poor trade had soured him. However, he showed us -nothing but brutality as long as we spoke English, and was not very -civil when we began to talk to him in French. - -He knew nothing of Madame de Salins, he said: there was no such person -in his house. There had been a whole heap of them, he added, when he -bought the place some six months before, and he believed there was a -woman and her daughter amongst them, but he had turned them all out, and -knew nothing more of them. - -The idea of Madame de Salins and my pretty little Mariette being forced -to dwell at all in such a dim and dingy den, and then being turned into -the street by such an old weazle-faced animal as that, roused my -indignation, and I replied sharply, that he seemed to have very little -compassion for his fellows in misfortune. - -“_Sacre bleu!_ Why should I have compassion upon any men?” he asked -bitterly; “they have had no compassion upon me. But I can have -compassion, too. There’s that old rogue of a marquis up stairs. I let -him have the room, dirt cheap, at his prayers and entreaties, although -he would have turned up his nose at me in Paris. You can go and ask him -if he knows any thing of the people you want—There, up that stairs.” - -I mounted fast, and Father Bonneville followed me; the chemist shouting -after me to go up to the third floor. There, in a wretched garret, we -found one of the most miserable objects I ever beheld. Seated by a -little fire, in a room hardly habitable, was an old man of upward of -seventy, shrunk in body and limbs, but with his face bloated and heavy. -He had got on an old, tattered dressing-gown, and a thick, black -night-cap, and one of his legs was swathed in flannel. He held a little -sauce-pan in his hand, over the fire, cooking a _ragout_ for himself, -and an empty plate, with a knife and fork, stood upon the table, on -which also lay a broad ribbon and a star. When we entered, he started -up, and seeing two well-dressed strangers, set down the sauce-pan, -wrapped his gown a little closer round him, and then drawing his two -heels together, made us the bow of a dancing-master. He forgot not his -_politesse_ for a moment, and besought us to be seated, with a -simpering, half-fatuous smile, pointing to one whole and one half-chair, -and then begged to know to what he might attribute the felicity of our -visit—perhaps we were mistaken, he added, as he had not the pleasure of -knowing us. We might be in search of some other person, but his poor -name was Le Marquis d’ Carcassonne. I felt Father Bonneville, who was -behind me, catch my arm suddenly, as if to check me for some reason; but -I was anxious to obtain intelligence of Madame de Salins, and I asked -the old gentleman if he could give us any news of her. He was profoundly -grieved, he said in answer, that it was out or his power. He knew the -family, by repute, well, and had heard of them even in London; but it -was his inexpressible misfortune not to know where they were or what -they were doing. He bowed as he spoke, as if he sought to signify that -our audience was at its close, but before we retired, he added— - -“May I inquire, monsieurs, if it be not indiscreet, whom I have the -honor of seeing? I only ask, that I may tell Madame de Salins that you -have done her the honor of calling upon her, in case I should meet with -her in society.” - -I replied briefly that my name was “Monsieur De Lacy,” but those words -produced in an instant the most extraordinary effect. The bloated face -of the old man, red and carbuncled as it was, turned deadly pale. He -stood for a moment, and I could see him shake. I thought he was going to -faint, but the next instant he walked to the chair, seated himself -slowly, and waved his hand, saying—“Go, go.” At the same moment, Father -Bonneville pulled me by the arm, exclaiming more vehemently than was -usual with him: - -“Come away, Louis, come away!” - -I followed him down the stairs, and out into the street, and then -asked—with a heart beating strangely—what was the meaning of all that -had occurred, and who that old man was. - -“The bitterest enemy of your family,” replied Father Bonneville; “the -murderer of your father. And is this the end of all his pride, ruthless -ambition and blood-thirsty persecution of the innocent! Ask me no -questions, Louis, but avoid that man. The venom may be extinct, but he -is a serpent still.” - - - BANKING MATTERS. - -I walked home from the house in Swallow street exceedingly melancholy. -That there was some dark mystery about my fate, was clear, and it -presented itself in a more painful and tangible shape to my mind now, -than it had ever done before; but, in truth, I must own that this was -neither the sole nor the principal cause of the gloom that now fell upon -me. I had looked forward to the meeting with Madame de Salins and -Mariette, with a sort of childish, delighted expectation, which had -given a relief to darker and more sorrowful thoughts. A thousand sweet -memories of childhood had risen up like flowers to cover the grave of -more mature affection; and now they had withered also. A sensation of -despondency came upon me; an impression: a feeling that I was never to -be happy in affection; and this sort of sombre prepossession seemed to -connect itself somehow with the fate of my family and my race. - -It must not be thought, indeed, that I gave myself up to such dreary -feelings without struggling against them, and even on the way back, I -strove to speak cheerfully, and to answer Father Bonneville’s hopeful -assertion, that we should find Madame de Salins yet, not quite as -confidently, but without any display of the doubts which had possession -of my own mind. At heart, however, I had given up all hope. I had never -been one of those sanguine people, who believed their fortunes to be -written in the chapter of accidents; and what but accident could produce -a meeting between us and those we sought for, now that all clue was -lost. Where, in that vast world of London—where in that thickly-peopled -country, were we ever to hear of two unknown, and probably poor, exiles, -such as Madame de Salins and her daughter. The very crowds that passed -us in the street, hurrying eagerly and rapidly along, each one thinking -of himself with eager face, and hardly noticing the others who passed, -seemed to forbid such expectations. - -“No, no,” I said to myself. “They are lost to us now, probably forever.” - -I would not transact any business that day, although several hours of -daylight still remained, and it would have been much better probably to -have plunged into dry details at once; but there is generally an apathy -about disappointment, at least there was with myself, and obtaining some -books from a library, I sat reading somewhat listlessly during the whole -evening, for many hours after Father Bonneville had retired to rest. -From time to time I laid down the book, indeed, and thought of myself -and of my future, and cross-examined myself in regard to the past. The -book I had been reading was a sentimental one of the day, but not -without considerable power. It treated of Love, amongst other things, -and painted that passion with a fire and vehemence rarely seen in the -works of English writers. I tried to test my love for my poor Louise, by -the sentiments there expressed, and I felt sorry and angry with myself -to find that my own feelings had never come up to the standard before -me. That I had loved her with a deep, sincere, and strong attachment, I -knew.—I was sure; and her gentle sweetness during her last hours, and -her early fate, had only endeared her to me more, and made her memory -precious to me. But yet I felt disappointed, grieved that I had not -experienced that strong, vehement passion which the book before me -depicted. It seemed almost to me as if I wronged her—as if she had been -worthy of better, more earnest love than mine. - -Upon the whole, the reading of that night, and the reflections which -came with it, served not at all to cheer me; and I determined the next -day to do what I had better have done at once—plunge into business, -arrange my affairs, and ascertain precisely what my future means were to -be. My first visit, of course, was to be made to the banker who had -received the remittances from Germany, and I asked Father Bonneville to -go with me. He declined, however, saying that he had some little affairs -to transact himself, and would meet me at dinner in the evening. At this -time, by an easy transition, he and I seemed to have in some degree -changed places. I was anxious about him, careful of him, and hardly -fancied that in that vast strange place he was capable of taking care of -himself. I made him promise, therefore, that he would take a -hackney-coach, and went away, not wishing to seem inquisitive as to his -errand, although I could not help believing that I had personally -something to do with the business he was about to transact. - -At the bankers it was soon perceived by the clerks that I was utterly -ignorant of business; but on giving my name, and stating what I wanted, -I was introduced into a small, dingy room at the back of the building, -where candles were lighted, and were necessary. By their light I -perceived a fine-looking old gentleman, with a square face, and a large -bald head, glossy as a mirror. My name had been announced to him before -I entered, and he rose and shook me warmly by the hand, congratulating -me on my safe arrival in England. - -“We have had a little trouble,” he said, “about this business, for our -friends at Hamburgh have a strange way of remitting money, by mercantile -bills, for all sorts of sums, and at very various dates—none of them -very long, it is true, but it gives our clerks a great deal of pains in -collecting; and if you had arrived a month ago, you would have found -that part of the business not concluded, Count.” - -“I beg your pardon,” I said, with a smile, “I believe I have no right to -the title you give me, although my recollections of France do not go -further back than a period when all titles had been abolished. Citizen -was the ordinary name in those days, and if strangers gave me any title -at all at my age, it was ‘Gamin.’” - -The banker seemed surprised, and for a moment looked a little -suspicious, as if he thought it might be a case of personation. “But you -are the gentleman,” he said, “who married the daughter of -Professor—Professor—” - -“Of Professor Haas,” I said, in a grave tone. - -“Ay, exactly, exactly—Professor Haas,” rejoined the banker. “But you -have, of course, the letter announcing this remittance to our hands?” - -“Oh, yes,” I answered, now seeing in which way his suspicions turned; “I -have both the letter from Hamburgh, and the marriage contract, which I -shall always keep. There is the letter;” and taking out my pocket-book, -I handed it to him. The banker himself could make nothing of the -contents, for it was written it German, of which he did not understand a -word; but he sent for a clerk who did, and in the meanwhile pointed out -something I had never remarked before in the address, which was written -in a good, round, text hand. At the top was written as usual, “à -monsieur,” and underneath appeared, somewhat run together, the words “Le -comte,” which I had read Louis. - -“You see he gives you the ‘Count’ at all events,” said the banker, -rubbing his hands. - -“I did not remark it before,” I answered; “and I shall certainly never -take the title here.” - -“By the way, by the way,” said the banker, “if I recollect right, there -is a letter for you here;” and handing the one I had given him to the -Clerk who had now entered, he said to him, “Be so good as to read that, -and let me know what it says.” - -The clerk read off fluently, and translated with ease the contents of -the notary’s letter, and then said, pointing to me, “This must be the -Count de Lacy, sir.” - -“He wont have the count—he wont have the count,” cried the banker, -laughing. - -“Well, sir, I suppose that is as he pleases,” said the grave clerk; “but -had I not better get the letter that is here for him?” - -It was soon brought, and I found it was from my good friend the notary, -containing two documents of much but very different interest. The one -was an inscription for the tomb of my poor Louise, drawn up by his -fellow executor, in which she was styled Countess de Lacy; and the other -was a letter from London, which had been received by one of the -principal authorities of Hamburgh, informing him that a rumor had -reached persons in England, interested in the welfare of a young -gentleman named Louis Count de Lacy, to the effect that he and his tutor -Father Bonneville, having emigrated from France, and been driven out of -Switzerland, were directing their steps toward the North of Germany, or -to Russia; and requesting the authorities of Hamburgh, if they should -appear in that city, to notify to Father Bonneville that the allowance -previously made would be continued; but that the banking-house at which -it was paid was changed to one which had been mentioned in a previous -letter. - -“This will be good news for Father Bonneville,” I said, handing the -letter to the banker, who could make that out very well. He seemed now -perfectly satisfied, but still inquired where Father Bonneville was to -be found. I replied that he was with me in London, which seemed to -satisfy him still more; and the clerk nodded his head, and said in a -significant tone, “It’s all right, sir.” - -Wonderful it is, how many men who transact a great deal of very -important business, are mere machines, guided by their subordinates. -They are but the hands of the clock, moved by wheels below them. -Probably but for the clerk’s saying, “It’s all right, sir,” I should -have got through very little business that day. - -Now, however, every thing went on smoothly. Accounts were produced; -calculations rapidly made; various particulars, which might as well have -been written in Sanscrit, were explained to me in terms which might as -well have been Arabic; and in the end I found myself possessed of -property which the banker informed me would produce, if rightly -invested, an income of about eight hundred pounds a year. As I had never -been accustomed to calculate in pounds sterling, I found it somewhat -difficult to get the idea thereof disconnected from that of dollars, and -the banker had to explain to me, that eight hundred pounds a year made -so many _marks banco_, before I perceived that I was what might be -considered a very wealthy man—at least in Germany. I knew that the good -professor had possessed the reputation of being so; but I was not before -aware to what extent his accumulations had gone. My good friend the -banker advised me to have the amount invested for the time in public -funds, offered his assistance and advice as to its future employment, -and ended by inviting both myself and Father Bonneville to dine with him -on that day week. - -I accepted for myself, but expressed a fear that my old companion would -not be well enough to go into society, and then took my leave, for it -was by this time late, and the banking-house was at the far end of that -dingy, busy, industrious ant-hill called “the city.” - -When I got home to our little lodging, I found that Father Bonneville -had returned, and was waiting dinner for me; and I could see by his face -in a moment, that whatever had been the object of his expedition in the -morning, he had been disappointed. I gave him a general account of what -had occurred, told him the amount which we might annually count upon, -and in the end gave him the letter which had been sent to the -authorities at Hamburgh, which seemed to afford him some satisfaction, -but not so much as I had anticipated. He made very few comments upon the -letter itself, but pointed to the title of Count which had been given to -me with a melancholy smile, saying, “You have a right to it, Louis, but -if you take my advice, you will not assume it in this country.” - -“I do not intend, my dear friend,” I replied; “but really all these -mysteries are painful to me. The time must come when all these things -should be explained, and I would fain know when that will be.” - -“Yet a little, yet a little, Louis,” replied the good father, with a -deprecating look. “It may be one or two years, but not more, I -think—not more.” - -“But, good father,” I answered, “you ought, at all events, to give me -the means of tracing out my own history, even though I use them not for -the time you mention. Life is uncertain, and were you taken from me, I -have not the slightest clue.” - -“You will find it amongst my papers, whenever death calls me hence,” -replied Father Bonneville. “Every information and proof I collected long -ago; and in all the passages which we have lately undergone—in -exile—in poverty, and in peril, I have preserved them safely. But I -really would not take this name of Count—I would call myself merely Mr. -De Lacy. That is a common name in England; and you may very well pass -for an Englishman—the other title might do harm.” - -I again assured him that I had no intention of assuming any title at -all. But however strong might be my resolution, I found it difficult to -keep. The banker’s clerks knew me by that title; and the banker himself, -when I went to dine with him, used it in introducing me to several -people. I declined it, however, wherever I could do so without -affectation, and made it sufficiently apparent that it was no assumption -of my own. - -The party was large; the house in the west end of the town, most -magnificent; and a great number of persons were present, some of whom I -found were of the _élite_ of London society. It was very much the same -sort of party as all others in great capitals; and most of my readers -must have seen a thousand such. There were several insignificant -puppies, several equally insignificant, but very pretty young women, a -majority, however, of highly respectable, well-informed, gentleman-like, -but not very interesting people, and two or three of higher qualities, -polished, but not worn down in the polishing, with hearts as well as -minds, and not only with information, but with the will and the power to -apply it. It fortunately happened for me that some of these sat near me -at the table. One was a lady of the middle age, who was called Lady -Maria, and whose husband, a Commoner, and an eminent lawyer, sat higher -up the table; and another was a young man, dressed in the very height of -the fashion, and having a somewhat foppish air, which at first -prejudiced me a little against him. I soon found occasion to change my -opinion however; for, though he did not talk much, whatever he did say -was to the point; and allusion having been made to one of those very -common cases in great cities, where a man of high rank had behaved very -ill to a lady somewhat inferior in station, my friend with mustaches, on -the right, burst suddenly forth in a strain of indignant reprobation, -which made some of the other guests smile, and one of the ladies say, -laughingly, “You have been so long away, Charley, following your -uncivilized trade of fighting, that you have forgotten how delicately -such civilized vices require to be treated.” - -“They shall never be treated delicately by me, my dear aunt,” replied -the young gentleman; “and at all events, I haven’t forgotten one thing -in my trade of fighting, that there is such a thing as honor, which must -be remembered as much in our conduct toward a woman, as in our conduct -toward a man.” - -When the ladies had retired, he remained next to me, and we had a good -deal of conversation. I found he was a cavalry officer, who had seen -some service, notwithstanding his youth; and was in London for a few -months on leave of absence, in order to recover completely from a severe -wound in the chest. He once or twice called me Count; but as we grew -better acquainted over the wine, I begged him to drop the title, as it -was not my intention to assume it at all, while in England at least. - -“It is my right, I believe,” I said; “but I quitted France at a very -early period, and have never been so called.” - -“Well, I think you are right,” he replied. “Since England has become the -exile’s home, as we are proud to call it, we have had such a crowd of -Counts and Marquises of different kinds, that we have a difficulty in -distinguishing the genuine from the false. You would, of course, pass -muster, both from your appearance, and from the fact, which our good -friend the banker here has taken care to communicate to tongues that -will spread it, that you are that phœnix amongst Counts and Marquises—a -rich _émigré_. But the title of Count would do you no good amongst our -best people, who will like you quite as well as plain Mr. De Lacy; and -as such, if you will permit me, I will ask for you to-morrow.” - -I expressed the great pleasure I should have to see him, giving him my -address. But I will not dwell longer on this dinner-party, as the few -incidents I have related were the only ones which occurred that had any -effect upon my fate. - - - GLIMPSES OF THE LOST. - -New circumstances justified many new arrangements, upon which I will -only dwell for a moment. The morning after the dinner-party at the -banker’s, Father Bonneville and I had a long conversation in regard to -our future proceedings. The sum I now possessed seemed almost as large -to the good Father’s notions as to my own; for, to say truth, he had not -much more experience in money matters than myself. It was agreed that we -should set up house-keeping together, I insisted that he should have a -little vehicle—one of those neat one horse equipages, in producing -which England excels the whole world—and he hinted that I had better -have a saddle-horse, when one man would do for both. Between twelve and -one o’clock my new friend, Captain Westover, came to see me, and was -taken into our councils. He somewhat clouded our sanguine views of -wealth, by explaining to us the expenses of English living: but still -with all allowances made, we found that we had ample means for any thing -within our ambition, and in the course of the explanations which took -place, I learned that, in addition to what I had myself, Father -Bonneville counted on receiving from some source or another, the sum of -three hundred pounds per annum. After half an hour’s chat, Captain -Westover proposed to drive me out in search of horses and houses, in a -machine of his, then very fashionable in London, called a tilbury, which -had brought him to the door. His servant was turned out, and I took the -vacant place. He advised me strongly, for a time at least, to take a -furnished cottage at some little distance from London. “You can come in -when you like,” he said, “and there you will be more out of harm’s way. -Excuse me, De Lacy,” he continued with a laugh, “but every man entering -a great town like this, must be a little green at first, whatever may be -his experience of other places. It would be better for you to come to a -knowledge of London by degrees, and that can only be done by living a -little way out of it. With all its vices, its knavery, and its -abomination, there is no place like this great capital of ours in the -world for the comfort of having every thing that one can want, or -desire, or dream of, ready for one in an instant. Each man can choose -according to his means or his ambition. From the St. Giles cellar of the -thief or the professional beggar, to the princely palace of the nobleman -or the great merchant, every thing is at hand, and two or three taps of -an enchanter’s wand bring it into presence in a moment. So I will answer -for it, that we shall find what you want in the way of a house, in two -or three hours; but don’t have it too big: otherwise people will be -coming to dine with you and stay all night, a most harmonious and -agreeable way of being eaten out of house and home.” - -Though brisk, active, generous and dashing, Captain Westover was a good -man of business, knew whatever he did know, well, was aware of the right -price of every thing, and I believe in the course of the next two or -three weeks, saved me several hundred pounds, besides putting me -completely in the way of doing the same for myself at an after period. I -will not dwell upon all our perquisitions. Let me come to the result. -Behold me, in the spring of the year, possessed of an exceedingly neat, -detached cottage, close upon Blackheath, with a beautiful garden filled -with shrubs and flowers, furniture excellent and abundant, two horses in -the stable, as pretty a little pony carriage as it was possible to -imagine, and a middle-aged groom, who though an active, honest and -excellent servant, had just been dismissed by a noble lord, because he -had got the asthma, and puffed like a grampus. He did his duty well, -however, and I did not mind his puffing. His name, moreover, was Lucas -Jones, or Jones Lucas—which, I never could make out, and I do not think -he knew well himself. - -All the world was at that time volunteering. - -Napoleon Bonaparte threatened an invasion of England, and fondly fancied -he could swallow up that stubborn little island as easily as he had -gulped down half the kingdoms of the continent; but little did he know -the spirit that he roused in the people of the land by the very threat. -All Great Britain was bristling in arms, and instead of men being -dragged away from their homes by forced conscriptions, people of all -ranks, classes and degrees, of all ages and characters, of all parties -and sects, were rushing in to enroll their names among the defenders of -their country, and submitting day after day, to toilsome drills, and -unaccustomed modes of life, to the loss of time and money and -convenience. But not a lip murmured, not a heart was depressed. - -Blackheath was the great training-ground in the neighborhood of London -for this military race; and every day in my rides, I met with large -bodies of men, in red, and green, and blue, marching and -counter-marching, going through the manual, and expending great -quantities of powder and perspiration. Magistrates, lawyers, clerks, -shopkeepers, and draymen, were all jostling side by side in the charge; -and the first battle in England, would have left upon the ground, the -most motley assemblage of professions that ever was found in one place. - -By pausing often to watch the manœuvres of the volunteers, I accustomed -my horse to stand fire very well, and it was with great delight I heard -from Captain Westover, that in order to try the skill and precision of -the volunteers, a great sham-fight was to be given on Blackheath itself, -in which were to be enacted all the operations that might be supposed -likely to take place, if a French force were to sail up the Thames, and -effect a landing near the little town of Greenwich. I told my gallant -informant, that although I had been in the middle of a great battle, and -had crossed a considerable portion of the field between the two lines, I -had not the most distant idea of what it all meant. - -“No, nor have half the men who were in the battle,” said Captain -Westover. “We do what we are told; we fight; we succeed, or are beaten -off; but all that we know about it is, that there’s a great deal of -smoke, a great deal of dust, and a great number of men tumbling down -round about us, with a very awkward expression of countenance; and two -or three weeks after, when the newspapers come from England, we hear all -about the glorious victory we have obtained from the dispatches of the -general in command. This is generally what a subaltern knows of the -matter; but somehow or another, more comprehensive views are beaten into -our heads after awhile, and I will try, if possible, to give you some -notion of what is going on on Wednesday. But there is some talk of -making me an aid-de-camp for the nonce, which will be a great bore; for -I have a whole troop of lady friends coming down to see, without peril, -a battle without bullets.” - -The day came; and good Father Bonneville, who had a great objection to -noise and bustle of any kind, and whose recollections of the battle of -Zurich were not the most agreeable, retreated for a couple of days to an -inn, at a place called Bromley, while I remained to enjoy the sight. - -I must dwell with some detail upon the events of that morning, as they -were more important to me than those of any engagement I ever was in. - -At an early hour I was out, walking round the scene where the mimic -fight was to take place. All was already in a state of bustle and -preparation. Cannon were planted: troops were taking up their position: -long lines of what were called fencibles, armed with pikes, were -stationed on the river bank, and a number of persons were arriving every -moment from London to witness the gay scene. - -Expecting that the hospitalities of my cottage might be called upon, I -had laid in ample provisions, and soon after my return about nine -o’clock, Westover was there, mounted on a splendid horse, and dressed in -brilliant uniform. He came hurrying in, would not sit down to eat any -breakfast, but stood by the table, and dispatched a roll and a cup of -coffee while my horse was being saddled. - -“We must be quick,” he said. “We must be quick; for I expect the whole -staff on the ground by ten, and I wish to introduce you to some good -people first.” - -We were soon upon horseback, and cantering over the field. My companion -led me to the head of several regiments, and introduced me to their -colonels, who were generally old soldiers retired from the service, who -had sprung into arms again at the first news of danger. One I -particularly remember, a Colonel C——, as the finest looking man I -almost ever beheld. He could not have been much less than seventy, but -he was as upright as a pike-staff, his face blooming like a boy’s, and -his hair loaded with a red sort of powder, called I believe, marechal -powder, common in his youth. He swore a good deal; but in every other -respect, he demeaned himself with an easy, dignified courtesy which I -have never seen surpassed. - -He was surrounded by a great number of very pretty women, who seemed to -adore him, and rather inconvenienced him by their presence; for after -giving one or two gentle hints that they had better betake themselves to -spots appointed for spectators, he exclaimed, with a wave of his sword, -which somewhat frightened them, “Damn it, my dear girls, you had better -get out of the way, or by —— we shall have some of the soldiers’ -bayonets in your eyes, which would be to my loss, your loss, and all the -world’s loss. I’m going to order the charge in five minutes, and though -no gallant gentleman will doubt your powers of resistance, we shall -carry you at the point of the bayonet, I’ll answer for it. Captain -Westover, will you and your friend take my niece Kitty, and these -darlings, up to the mill there, where the carriages have been stationed? -You had better get on your horses, and drive them before you like a -flock of geese.” - -We accomplished the service, however, more easily; and I learned from -Westover that the gallant old colonel had been one of Wolfe’s officers -at the taking of Quebec. - -Not long after, the fight began; and by my companion’s management, I -remained with the staff during the greater part of the day. I need not -pause to describe the roaring of cannon, the firing of musketry, the -charging of lines of troops, the taking and retaking of different -positions; but I must notice one little event, which occurred about the -middle of the day. There had been a sort of lull in the noise and -confusion, when suddenly a carriage and four came dashing over the -ground toward the mill, just as a battery horse-artillery was galloping -like lightning across in a different direction to take up a new -position, while at the same moment a cavalry regiment was dashing up to -support a party on the right. The gayly dressed post-boys tried to pull -in their horses, but men, horses, and ladies in the carriage, were all -equally scared, and before they knew what they were doing, were -enveloped on every side by the troops. The commander-in-chief spoke a -word to Captain Westover; for it was a great object to all that the day -should pass over without serious accident, and one seemed now very -likely to take place. Away went Westover. Away went I after him, and -just arrived in time to turn the horses off the road before the guns -were upon them. - -“Oh, good Heaven, what shall we do?” exclaimed a lady in the carriage, -with her head covered with ostrich feathers. - -“Drive across to that little road, and off the ground as fast as you can -go,” shouted Westover to the post-boys. “You will get these ladies -killed if you do not mind.” - -“But where can we see?” screamed the lady from the window. - -“You cannot see at all, madam,” answered Westover, impatiently. “If you -wanted to see, you should have come earlier—Drive on and clear the -ground, boys.” - -Away the postillions went. The lady drew back her head from the window -with an indignant air, and I saw just opposite to her, in the carriage, -the loveliest face I ever beheld. Delicately and beautifully chiseled, -every feature seemed to me perfect, in the brief glance I had. But that -was not the great charm; for there before me, for that single instant, -were those beautiful, liquid, hazel eyes, with the long fringe of dark -lashes, which I had never seen any thing like since I had last beheld -Mariette. - -My first impulse was to gallop after the carriage as fast as possible; -but the troops swept round, the carriage dashed away, and all I could do -was to ask my companion if he knew who were its denizens. - -“Not I,” he answered, hurriedly—“Some vulgar people they must be—none -but vulgar people get themselves into such situations as that—a -devilish pretty girl in the back of the carriage though, De Lacy—Why, -what’s the matter with you, man?” - -“Why, I think I know her,” I replied, “and have been looking for her and -her mother for a long time.” - -“Well, then, ride away after her,” answered Westover; “the post-boys -will insist upon feeding their horses, depend upon it; and you will find -them either at the Green-Man, or at some of the inns down below. Join me -again at the mill after it’s all over; for I intend you to give me some -dinner; and I must see all my aunts, and cousins, and mothers, who are -congregated there, if it be but for a moment, before they go back to -London. They have thought me rude enough already, I dare say.” - -I followed his advice, and I believe that I would very willingly, at -that moment, have given at least half of all I had in the world to catch -that carriage; but I sought in vain. Not a trace of it was to be found, -and though there were post-boys enough at all the inns, I could not see -one in the same colored jacket as those I was in search of. - -“Could it be Mariette?” I asked myself. The features were very -different; much more beautiful than those of my little companion. The -face was no longer round, but beautifully oval. The hair seemed somewhat -darker, too, but the eyes were Mariette’s; and I asked myself again, -“Could it be Mariette, or had some other person stolen her eyes?” - -Sad, thoughtful, disappointed, I rode slowly back up Blackheath hill, -little caring what I should find going on above. But I had been absent -nearly two hours; the sham-fight was now over; drums and fifes, -trumpets, and all manner of instruments, were playing gay and triumphant -airs, friends and enemies were sitting down on the dry grass, eating the -plentiful viands prepared for them, and post-boys were leading up -strings of horses to draw back the gay parties who had come to witness -the scene, to dinners and festivities afar. - -I directed my course at once toward the mill, from which several -carriages were already driving away; but as I approached, I saw Westover -still there, on horseback, at the side of an open vehicle to which the -horses had just been attached. He was talking to some ladies inside, one -of whom I had seen on the night when he and I first met, and who noticed -me by a gentle inclination of the head. Another was a much handsomer and -somewhat younger woman, but still past her youth. She seemed to be -taking little notice of any thing, and there was a deep, grave -melancholy upon her face, not harmonizing well with the gay and exciting -scene around. I did not go very near; for the drivers had their feet in -the stirrups, ready to mount, two servants in livery were already on the -box, and there was no time for conversation. Westover’s aunt, however, -beckoned me up, saying, “How have you been pleased, count?” and at the -same moment, the other lady fixed her eyes full upon me, and I could see -her turn deadly pale. She said a few words to her companion, however, in -a hurried and eager manner, although I was replying with some -commonplace answer at the moment. - -My acquaintance turned her head, saying, loud enough for me to hear, -“The young Count de Lacy. Shall I introduce you to him, Catherine?” - -There was no reply. The other lady whom she called Catherine, had sunk -back in the carriage, and her eyes were closed. She looked to me very -much as if she had fainted. I saw her face, but Westover did not; for I -was upon his left hand, and his aunt was between him and her companion. - -“Shall I tell them to drive on?” he asked. - -The other nodded her head, and the word was given; but as they dashed -away, I said in a tone of some anxiety, “Do you know, I think that lady -has fainted.” - -“Which, which?” he cried. “Lady Catherine?” - -“Not your aunt,” I said. - -“They are both my aunts,” he answered, turning his horse sharply. “You -ride on to your hut, De Lacy; I’ll join you in a minute, when I see what -has befallen dear Aunt Catherine. She is never well, and rarely goes -out. This has been too much for her.” - -Away he darted, and I, less pleased with the events of the day, I -suppose, than most others there present, took my way slowly over the -least incumbered parts of the heath, toward my cottage on the other -side, threading my way amongst groups of soldiers, and large masses of -gorse. At the pace I went, and by the course I pursued, it took me -nearly half an hour to reach my own gate; but I had already dismounted, -before Westover overtook me, although he came at a quick trot, with an -orderly following him. - -I remarked that he was very grave, but his only comment on what had just -passed, was, “You were right, De Lacy. My aunt had fainted. Poor thing, -she has not strength for such scenes. And now, my friend, I have taken a -great liberty with you by inviting in your name, two foreign gentlemen, -who could get no dinner anywhere else—for Greenwich is as completely -eaten out as an overkept cheese—to come and dine with you. In revenge, -you shall come and dine with me next week, and eat and drink enough for -three if you can.” I told him I was very glad to see his friends, and -the rest of the day passed pleasantly enough, although I must say, I -never saw Westover so dull and thoughtful, notwithstanding all his -efforts to be gay. The two gentlemen, who followed him soon to my house, -I need not notice particularly, as I never saw them afterward, and never -cared about them at all. They were the sort of things that do very well -to fill a seat at a dinner table, or to be shot at in a line of battle, -behaving creditably in both situations, but doing very little else. - - - OLD FEELINGS AND NEW ACQUAINTANCES. - -I did not go to bed till nearly two o’clock in the morning, not that my -guests stayed late—far from it. They all took their departure about ten -o’clock; but the events of the day, trifling as they may seem, had -produced upon my mind an effect difficult to be conceived, or even -accounted for. I felt convinced that it was Mariette I beheld, and I -reasoned upon her state and condition at the time, without guide it is -true, but with more accuracy than might have been expected. I by this -time knew the situation of emigrants in general in Great Britain. They -had been treated with great kindness by the people of the country; -subscriptions had been opened for them, aid had been afforded them; but -most of them had fled from France in a state of destitution, and were -actually in extreme poverty at that moment. Some were eking out the -means of subsistence by teaching, others by mere handicraft employments. -I had no reason to believe that Madame de Salins had carried much away -with her, and on the contrary, I had much reason to believe, from the -wretchedness of the lodging in which she must have dwelt in Swallow -street, that she was at one time, at least, in actual distress. The -beautiful girl I had seen in the carriage was exceedingly simply -dressed, and I asked myself whether my pretty Mariette, as so many had -done, might not have engaged herself as a governess in some family, and -might not, even now, be undergoing all the miseries and scorns of that -most painful situation. - -But this was not all. In regard to Mariette I had been guided in my -conclusions—to some extent at all events—by plain, simple reason. -There were other impressions, however, upon my mind—other matters for -cogitation, with which reason had far less to do, and which gained their -importance, perhaps from the active embellishment of imagination, -perhaps from some of those deeper and more mysterious operations of the -mind, or of the heart, which leave reason far behind in their rapidity, -and surpass imagination by their truth. The face of that lady, whom they -called Lady Catherine, haunted me. The manner in which she had gazed at -me—the eager, keen, almost wild glance which she had given me, the -paleness which had overspread her face so suddenly, and the fainting fit -into which she had fallen immediately my name was mentioned, were not -matters of marvel to me, but of deep thought and consideration. It was -very natural, where such a mystery hung over my birth and early fate, -that I should feel inclined to connect it with every thing strange and -unexplained which I saw. But there was something more than all -this—something that I cannot explain or describe; which seemed to bear -down all thought and argument against it, and which made me feel a -conviction, stronger than any reason could have supplied, that there was -some tie between that lady’s fate and my own. I did not recollect her in -the least—not one feature in her face was familiar to me; but yet the -very moment I beheld her—before she even turned her eyes upon me, the -sight seemed to waken in an instant, dreams of happy early days—sweet -thoughts and feelings, which had slumbered for years unawakened by the -careless storekeeper, Memory. - -It was therefore over these thoughts and feelings that I paused and -reflected, for so many hours. - -I have often remarked in the course of life—in others as well as -myself—a somewhat curious phenomenon: namely, that when some great and -important—shall I call it change? No, not change. There are no changes -in human fate. They are all steps—steps toward a certain goal—That -when some great and important step, then, in human fate, is to be taken, -we feel an impression of the coming fact—we see, as it were, with the -eyes of the spirit, without the interference of the cold, hard, -short-sighted intellect, the awful magnitude of that which is before us; -and we are impelled to mark what at other times would seem the merest -trifles with anxious acuteness—to scan, as it were, the very pebbles in -our path, lest a rolling stone should make us lose our footing, and hurl -us over the precipice which we feel to be near at hand, though the mists -and darkness of our earthly being may hide the actual presence of the -yawning gulf. - -What was to me a lady fainting in a carriage? What was there -extraordinary in a delicate woman giving way after an exciting scene, -and long and unusual fatigue? What was there in all that I had seen, -which could not be explained by a multitude of ordinary -circumstances—which I should not have left, at any other time, to rest -unthought of amongst the common, insignificant events of a day? And yet -I sat and pondered for four long hours, and even after I retired to bed -I could not sleep, but was kept awake with the same anxious thoughts. - -Father Bonneville returned about two o’clock on the following day; but -with a lack of confidence which I rarely showed toward him—for he was -so gentle and so good, who could want confidence in him—I did not -mention at all, the little incident which had occurred at the mill. I -told him, however, all about the supposed sight I had caught of -Mariette, but the good Father only smiled at me. - -“You are always thinking of Mariette, Louis,” he said, “and if you go on -so, I shall really fancy you are in love with her memory.” - -“And so I am,” I answered frankly, “I can imagine a father would so love -a child, as I love Mariette; and I shall always love her so.” - -“My dear boy,” replied Father Bonneville, laying his hand impressively -upon my arm, “that is impossible. You and Mariette are no longer -children; you might love her as a brother when you last saw her; but if -you love her at all, you must love her otherwise now.” - -I fell into thought, and I felt that he was right. He gave me but little -time to ponder, however, asking me who else I had seen, and I mentioned -several names, Colonel C——, the commander-in-chief, a number of young -officers, the two strangers who had dined with me, and lastly, in as -easy a tone as I could assume, Westover’s two aunts. - -Father Bonneville asked their names, and I replied, “Lady Winslow, and a -lady they called Lady Catherine—I suppose Lady Catherine Westover; for -he said, in the course of the evening, that she was his father’s -sister.” - -I looked somewhat keenly at Father Bonneville as I spoke; but my words -did not seem to produce the slightest effect worth noticing. - -“It is droll,” he said. “I do not remember the name of Westover in the -English peerage. It must be some new creation, I suppose.” - -“I should think not,” I replied, “for there is a calm quietness about -them—a want of all arrogance and presumption—an easy, self-possessed -tranquillity, which I have always remarked, in this country, accompanies -ancient rights, and well assured position.” - -“Do you know,” said Father Bonneville, suddenly darting away from the -subject, “that it has once or twice struck me, Louis, that there is a -great deal of likeness between your friend Captain Westover and -yourself?” - -I smiled; for I could not conceive two men more different in -appearance—in complexion—in eyes, in height; for I was much taller, -and dark, while he was fair; but still the good Father’s words lingered -in my mind, and I determined the next time I saw my friend to learn, if -possible, something more of his history. - -It was with great satisfaction then that, on the Friday morning, I -received a note from Westover, asking me to dine with him, either on the -Tuesday or the Wednesday following, and to name which day. - -“Do come, De Lacy, on the one day or the other; for there are some -people, who will come on either day, to whom I much wish to introduce -you. My leave will soon expire, and I may not have another opportunity.” - -I immediately answered his note, fixing the first named day, and then, -as it was a beautiful morning in the spring, I went out to fish in a -river which ran at some miles distant from my cottage, and where I had -hired a right—for the English are as tenacious of the right of stream -and wood as any old feudal lord that ever lived. - -I had been engaged in the sport for about an hour, wandering along -through the beautiful meadows, and had done tolerably well, when I saw a -gentleman, of the middle age, walk slowly across from the other side, -and pause upon a little wooden bridge, observing my proceedings. He was -a tall, handsome man, about fifty, but thin and pale, dressed in a sort -of military blue coat, richly braided, but not very new; and his air was -exceedingly gentlemanly and prepossessing, though his riches were -evidently of Nature’s giving, not the world’s. After watching me a few -minutes, he came up with easy grace, and asked, with a strong foreign -accent, “If I had had good sport.” - -I replied that it had been pretty well, adding a French proverb of no -particular significance. - -“Ha!” he said, “have I the pleasure of speaking to a countryman?” - -I replied in the affirmative; and he soon began to ask all sorts of -questions, in that courteous manner which renders inquisitiveness not -impertinent in a Frenchman. I told him I had quitted France very early, -and recollected but little of my native land; to which he replied, that -was a “_malheur_,” asking the year of my emigration. - -I told him, and he replied, with a smile, that it was the same in which -he had left France; but added, that he had returned there since, and -fought in La Vendee. He then asked me if I knew many of my countrymen. I -replied in the negative, saying with a smile—for the opportunity seemed -too good to be missed—that there were only two, whom I had known so -well in my boyhood as to make me very anxious to hear of them again. - -“May I be permitted to ask their names?” he said, quietly. “I am -acquainted with several, though, indeed, not very many; for my means are -too limited to allow of my mingling much in society.” - -I at once named Madame de Salins and her daughter. - -My new acquaintance paused and mused, as if he were trying to recollect -some circumstance, such as where he had heard of them, and I began to -entertain some hopes of information. - -“Perhaps,” he said, at length, “I may be able to assist in your search -in some degree, although I am not sure. May I ask how old you were when -you quitted France?” and his eye ran over my person, which perhaps -showed signs of age beyond what my years warranted. - -“Between twelve and thirteen,” I replied. - -“Ay! and you have remembered them so long,” he said, in a tone of -interest. “Well, I will do my best to give you news of them. But I know -not where to send it to you, if I should prove fortunate enough to be -able to do so.” - -I immediately gave him my card, which he examined, repeating the name, -and then turned the conversation in another course. I found him -exceedingly agreeable, mild and dignified in his manners, and full of -general information, though probably not a very learned man. He asked me -if I had been to pay my respects, while on the continent, to his majesty -the king—afterward known as Louis the Eighteenth—and expressed himself -sorry when he heard I had not. - -“I think it would have been advisable in many respects,” he added. “This -madness will not last forever in France. Nor can the other powers of -Europe ever consent as a body to the existence of a state of things in -that country antagonistic to all their interests and all their -principles. Napoleon Bonaparte, in making himself emperor, has performed -an act which places France in a false position that she cannot maintain. -As long as he was merely the head of the republican party—the -incarnation of the spirit of revolution—he was certain of support at -home, and under no absolute necessity to protract the war with foreign -powers, one moment after they chose to make peace with the republic. As -emperor, however, he has taken upon himself an obligation to wage -eternal warfare; for by war alone can he maintain himself as emperor. He -may have gained a little with other monarchs by recognizing the -monarchical principle, but he has lost more with the French people. -France was divided into two. He has now divided it into three, and put -two parts against him. The one that he wields, the military part, may be -the most powerful for the present, but its adherence to himself depends -upon two conditions—war and success. Thus his dynasty can never stand; -for no civilized nation can ever be entirely military; and he who -attempts to make it so, will always fall as soon as the military part -cannot command success; and unless the whole nation be military, success -can never be ensured. My belief is that in a few years our old race of -kings will be upon the throne again.” - -He talked with me for more than an hour, while I continued my sport; and -I then returned to my little cottage, very well satisfied with my -interview. - -Father Bonneville seemed very well satisfied too, when I told him my -hopes of discovering the abode of Madame de Salins. He asked me many -questions about the gentleman I had met with, and made me describe him -accurately. When I had done, he said, nodding his head slowly with a -smile, “I think we shall find them now, Louis. I think we shall find -them now, and I am almost as glad of it as you are; although I trust -they have not been suffering so much from poverty as you imagine.” - -A day or two passed on, however, without any intelligence, and the -Tuesday came on which I was to dine with Westover, in London. I dressed -myself with some care; for I knew that my friend was moving in the most -fashionable circles of the capital, and I drove in with the groom in the -little phæton, so as to be at his door at the very moment named. He was -lodging in a very handsome house in Brook street, and I found him -dressed for dinner, but alone. - -“My other friends will not be as punctual as you are, De Lacy,” he said, -shaking me warmly by the hand; “and I dare say you will have to wait -half an hour for your dinner; but in the meantime I can introduce you to -them as they come in.” - -In about ten minutes, two young and dashing men made their appearance, -and I was made acquainted with them in form. Then, five minutes after, -came an old peer, stout, beetle-browed, heavy in look but not in -intellect, and exceedingly loose in his apparel, which seemed to have -been thrown on with a pitchfork, but which did not at all detract from -the indefineable something which marks the gentleman. He had not been -there two minutes when the door again opened, and the Earl of N—— was -announced. - -“Ah! your grandfather,” said the last comer. “That is an honor for a -grandson, Captain Westover.” - -“I consider it as such, I assure you,” said my friend, as he advanced to -meet his relation, and I need not say that my eyes fixed eagerly upon -the father of Lady Catharine. - -He was a tall, thin old man, of very distinguished appearance. I learned -afterward that he must have been a good deal over seventy; but he -certainly did not look more than sixty. He was perfectly straight and -upright, though not stiff in appearance, and was dressed entirely in -black, which was not usual in England at that period. Every article of -his apparel fitted exactly. His shoes, in which he still wore buckles, -were as polished as a looking-glass, and his gloves fitted him as if -they had been made upon his hands. His linen was marvelously fine, and -as white as snow; and his hair probably would have been as white as his -linen, even had it not been filled with powder. His face was very fine, -and his complexion peculiarly delicate; but there was no effeminacy -about him. There sat a world of resolution on his broad, towering brow, -and his teeth, of which he did not seem to have lost one, were always -pressed firm together when he was not speaking. His step was slow and -deliberate, but still there was none of the feebleness of age in it, and -there was a strong composure, if I may so express myself, which never -varied but for one moment. - -Between the two peers there was no need of an introduction; and they -shook hands with each other cordially. One of the other gentlemen, Lord -N—— knew also; and the third was introduced to him. Westover then -turned, and presented me as Monsieur De Lacy. For a single instant, as -he spoke, the earl seemed moved. A slight change came over his face, a -twitch of the muscles about the mouth, evidently involuntary, and -passing away in one moment. He forgot not his courtesy, however, in the -least, did not shake hands with me, but bowed gracefully, and said a few -words about France and England, not at all depreciatory of my own -country, although he expressed a hope that I would not find my enforced -residence in Great Britain altogether without compensation. - -He then turned to speak with his grandson and the other gentlemen. Two -others were added to the party, and shortly after we moved in to dinner. - -By Westover’s arrangement I was seated next to his grandfather; but at -first he did not seem inclined to take much notice of me, and, to say -the truth, I was very busy with my own thoughts, and inclined to be -somewhat silent. After a time, however, a gentleman opposite engaged me -in conversation, and something I said seemed to please or strike the old -earl, for he joined in with a good deal of tact and wit. That -conversation dropped, but the earl continued to talk with me, with his -heart a little opened, perhaps, by good wine and good food, which I have -remarked have a great effect in producing urbanity—especially with -Englishmen. His lordship asked me how I liked the country, whether I had -seen much of it, and where I intended to pass the summer. I answered -briefly that I had seen very little of the land, and that my plans were -all unsettled. - -“It is a pity that Charles must so soon rejoin his regiment,” said the -earl, “otherwise he might have shown you a good deal that is worth -seeing in England, and what is more, you could not be in safer hands. I -need not tell you, Monsieur De Lacy, that, for a young man, and a -stranger in this country, it is highly necessary that he should choose -his acquaintances well.” - -“I am quite aware of the fact, my lord,” I replied, “and I consider -myself highly fortunate in having been early introduced to Captain -Westover. I have few if any acquaintances but those to whom he has -introduced me, and the banker to whom I had letters.” - -“Ha!” replied the earl, thoughtfully, and after meditating for a moment, -as if something puzzled him, he said, “I think I heard you called the -Count De Lacy, in society—have you dropped the title?” - -“I never took it willingly, my lord,” I replied, “although it is mine, I -believe, by right. I was driven out of France very early, and probably -never should have known of my countship; but it so happened that I -formed some connections in the city of Hamburgh, which led to a -considerable bequest from an old friend there, and that caused a -communication, in regard to myself, to take place between Hamburgh and -England.” - -“But how did they know that you were a count, in Hamburgh, if you did -not know it yourself?” asked the earl. - -“By a letter from England,” I answered, perhaps a little dryly. “It -referred to some money matters, of which, to say the truth, I understand -nothing; but it was addressed to some of the authorities at Hamburgh, -and in it I was designated by the title of count. The same title was -repeated in after correspondence, and thus it happened to be given to me -here, much to my annoyance; for I would fain drop the countship -altogether, not having the means to maintain any distinguished -position.” - -“Ha! I see, I see,” said the earl, “you speak English remarkably well, -Mr. De Lacy. You must have learned it very young.” - -“I do not remember the time when I did not speak it,” I replied. - -“That is singular in France,” rejoined the old nobleman. “Did your -father speak English?” - -I could feel a cloud come over my face, and I replied with very painful -feelings, “I never knew my father, my lord, and am not aware of who or -what he was. I have heard that he was murdered—but that is all I know.” - -“I beg pardon—I beg pardon,” said the old earl; “I did not intend to -wound you. There are painful subjects in all families—may I drink wine -with you?” - -During the rest of the evening his tone toward me became a little less -stiff and more kindly. He asked no more questions, however, but -conversed entirely upon indifferent subjects, and seemed well pleased -with my remarks. He retired early, indeed, and I remained for some time -longer, in the hope of being able to draw something more from Westover, -regarding his aunt, Lady Catharine. I had lost the opportunity of the -favorable ten minutes during which I was alone with him before dinner, -and no other presented itself for any private conversation. I could only -venture to express a hope before others, that his aunt, Lady Catharine, -had not suffered seriously from the fatigues of the review. He said she -had not been at all well since; and I remarked that I thought her very -beautiful. - -“She was once the loveliest creature in all England, I am told,” was my -friend’s reply; “but that is past, and she can hardly, I think, be -called beautiful now—except, indeed, as a beautiful ruin.” - -He spoke very gravely—nay, very sadly, and I did not like to press the -subject further. I remained some time longer to see if the other guests -would go, but they showed no intention of doing any thing of the kind, -and as I had a long drive before me, I took my departure, Westover -promising to ride down in a day or two, and take me upon some -expedition. - - - THE LONGED FOR MEETING. - -Habitual reverence is a curious thing—more strong than most other -habits. I was certainly of a somewhat impetuous disposition, eager and -impatient of delay, notwithstanding all the drilling I had had in long -wanderings and many difficulties and distresses; but yet the habitual -reverence which I entertained for good Father Bonneville was not to be -mastered. It was one of those impressions received in youth, which, like -the foot-prints of certain animals that we discover in the rock, had -been pressed down there when the substance was soft, but had been -rendered indelible as it hardened. I returned from London disappointed -in one of my expectations, and I would fain have had a long conversation -with good Father Bonneville, in regard to all the doubts and mysteries -surrounding my own peculiar fate. The promise he had given of knowledge -at a future time did not satisfy me, and I thought that if he would but -touch upon the subject again, I would press him hard for further -explanation. Nay, more, I judged that the very party at Westover’s would -open the way, and resolved that I would not fail to take advantage of -the very first opportunity. - -When the good Father came down to breakfast, however, with his calm, -placid countenance, and his usual quiet taciturnity, although there was -nothing in the least repulsive, none of that impenetrability which -sometimes characterizes the Roman Catholic priest, yet I felt a -repugnance to the idea of urging upon him a subject which he had shown -so much anxiety to avoid, and he certainly gave me no direct -encouragement. He merely asked if I had met a pleasant party at Captain -Westover’s; and when I in return told him of whom that party consisted, -and dwelt somewhat particularly upon the appearance and demeanor of the -Earl of N——, he seemed, I thought, a little surprised, and I could not -help fancying that a shade from some strong, and not pleasant emotion, -passed over his countenance: yet he asked not a question, and made no -observation of any kind. I then suffered the subject to drop, -notwithstanding all my resolutions. - -Some days passed quietly and dully enough. English people are not fond -of making new acquaintances. None of our neighbors had yet called upon -us, and the gentleman whom I had met by the side of the brook, did not -make his appearance. Quiet tranquillity is the most burdensome of all -things to an impatient spirit; and I confess I fretted myself a good -deal during those dull three or four days. It seemed to me as if all the -world had forgotten us; and I felt much more solitary there, with every -comfort around me, than I had done in my long wandering from Switzerland -to Hamburgh, when I might very well have believed myself almost alone -upon the earth. - -It rained, too, incessantly; and I began to feel very English, and to -abuse the climate heartily—though, by the way, it is the best I ever -saw, except, perhaps, in the central parts of France. I could not ride -out. I got tired of reading. I had nobody to write to. I was weary of -myself and the whole world—even Father Bonneville’s calm, sweet -placidity, his tranquil employments, and patience under the load of -dullness, half vexed me. - -It was on the Saturday morning early, however, that a change took place; -the sky became clearer; light clouds, like enormous flakes of snow, -succeeded the dull, gray, pouring banks of rain; blue sky appeared here -and there; and, to complete all, as I looked out of the window, after -breakfast, I saw Westover riding up toward the house, with a servant -behind him, and a little valise behind the servant. - -There was no horse or carriage-way up to the house, which was approached -by a path through a pretty little garden; and as he dismounted at the -gate, I heard my friend desire his groom to bring in the valise, to take -the horses to the inn, and to give Miss Kitty a feed and a half. He then -walked slowly up to the house, nodding to me as he came; and I could not -help remarking that he seemed pale and ill. - -He was in his usual good spirits, however, and shook hands with me and -Father Bonneville heartily, saying, “Did you hear my order, De Lacy; to -bring in my valise? An unlucky thing for you, my friend, that I was at -the taking of your house, and know that you have a spare room; for I -come to beg quarters of you till Monday.” - -I welcomed him gladly, and seating himself somewhat languidly, he said— - -“I have been unwell for the last few days, and they tell me I should -leave that bustling, tiresome town of London; so I have come to see if -you will give me quiet lodging here, just as a trial—not that I think -it will do me any good.” - -“Why—what is the matter, Westover?” I asked. - -“Oh, nothing but that tiresome ball,” he replied, laying his hand upon -his chest. “It has taken another move I suppose, and set me spitting -blood again.” - -“What, has it not been extracted?” I asked. - -He shook his head mournfully, answering— - -“No, no, it is there for life, they say, be life long or short; and it -is the strangest thing in the world, how a trifle like this—having an -ounce of lead in one, without knowing where to find it—will weigh upon -a man’s spirits, how it is ever present to his thoughts—a something he -cannot get rid of—the sword hung by a single hair over his head, during -the whole of the great festival of life.” - -“Well, we will keep you here quietly,” I answered; “which we can do with -the most marvelous perfection.” - -“If you had been here during these last three days,” said Father -Bonneville, with a quiet smile at me; “you would have had quiet enough, -Captain Westover—more quiet than our friend Louis likes, I believe; -for, as you may remark, he has literally worn the carpet by walking from -that table to the window. I always think we may gain good lessons from -the brute creation. God teaches them what is best under all -circumstances; and I copy the cocks and hens, and the great dog, all of -which, I remark, invariably sit quite still, and take every thing -quietly during rainy weather, knowing, that walk as fast as they would, -or as much, they cannot change the wind, or make the clouds withhold a -drop.” - -Westover smiled, but replied— - -“It is not exactly quiet I am seeking, my reverend friend, but to be out -of the air, and the parties, and the smoke of cities, and the -impertinent chattering, which is the smoke of society. No, no—no quiet -for me. If I am soon to ride with my troop, I may as well ride here, and -so I intend to make De Lacy mount his horse, and gallop away with me to -Eltham or Esher, or some of those places memorable in the past, where we -can sit down, and play the part of Volney for an hour, amongst the ruins -of empires. Then to-morrow, I intend to go with you to Mass; for all -Protestant as I am, I cannot help admitting that you sing a great deal -better in your worst chapels than we do in our best.” - -Father Bonneville looked at me with a faint smile, and I informed -Westover that we had both of us, in the course of the last two years, -abandoned the church of Rome. - -“It was not from any motives of interest, Captain Westover,” said Father -Bonneville, “neither from fear nor for favor, but from pure conviction. -The fact is, that in a time of great distress and anxiety, I found so -much consolation in the Bible, that I could not remain attached to a -church which denied it to my fellow men, and, moreover—without being -uncharitable—I thought I could see the reason of its being withheld -from men in general, in its manifest condemnation of the practices of -those who withhold it. Louis came to the same conclusion while we were -far apart; and parting as Roman Catholics we met as Protestants.” - -Westover seemed much more surprised, and even moved by this intelligence -than I could have expected. He shook me warmly by the hand, -congratulating me, and saying— - -“I am glad of it, De Lacy, I am glad of it. That makes a very great -difference—I am sincerely glad of it. We will talk no more of going to -Mass; though I do like to hear a good Mass well sung—so much so, -indeed, that my noble grandfather is every now and then in terror of his -life, for fear I should turn Papist, in which case, as he is the most -ultra Protestant that ever lived, he would, doubtless, cut me off with a -shilling, and be very sorry that he could not deprive me of the fortune -my Uncle Westover left me, lest I should spend it in favor of the -Propaganda—but come, De Lacy, let us take a walk to the inn, mount our -horses, and ride.” - -We were soon upon our way, and as we passed slowly along through the -little village of Lewisham, Westover, who was looking round him, -exclaimed, “Good heaven, what a beautiful face!” - -I turned my head sharply, but could see no one. The road was vacant, -except where a laboring man was wheeling a barrow, and a carrier was -taking a trunk out of a cart. At the side of the road, indeed, was one -of those little picturesque cottages, only to be seen in England, where -fine taste and love for the beautiful, has decorated with a thousand -charms the very lowliest of dwellings. It was only one story in height. -The windows were mere lattices, with diamond-shaped panes of glass, -rattling in leaden frames. The roof was thatched, and the door seemed -hardly tall enough for the entrance of a man, but the thatch was covered -with the rich green house-leek, and the whole front of the house was in -a glow with roses, trained beautifully between the little windows, and -every here and there holding out a long blossom-bearing arm, as if to -invite the passing stranger. - -“She’s gone,” said Westover, “run away at the sight of two men on -horseback, as if it were the first time in life she had seen that sort -of Centaur. But I certainly never did see a more lovely creature.” - -I made him describe her to me; but what description can ever give an -idea of a face? His was incomplete enough, but he said she had the most -lovely eyes in the world, and that was quite sufficient to set my -foolish fancy filling up the outline with the features of Mariette. I -caught myself in the midst of this portrait-painting, a new sort of -castle-building, and could not help smiling at my vain imaginations. - -“What are you laughing at, De Lacy?” asked my companion. - -“At myself, Westover,” I replied. “The truth is, your description is so -like some one I have been long seeking, and would give both my hands to -find, that, for a moment, you set my fancy wild with the idea that she -and your cottage-girl might have been the same.” - -“O, ho,” said Westover, with a laugh; “but if your love affair has been -of long duration, this cannot be the same, for she seemed quite -young—not more than seventeen or eighteen.” - -“That might well be,” I answered; “and yet my love affair, as you call -it, might date from twelve years ago. The person I seek is the companion -of my youth, one who is now an emigrant like myself, and I much fear -that she and her mother both, may be in some distress, while I have the -power of relieving it, and know not where to find them.” - -“Yours must be a strange, curious history,” said Captain Westover. “I -wish, some dull evening, when you have nothing better to do, you would -tell it me, point by point. I am fond of a dreamy talk with a man over -his past times.” - -“I should have thought there were attractions enough in the metropolis,” -I answered, “to occupy all the time of you men of fashion, in other ways -than that.” - -“Attractions,” replied Captain Westover, “which either leave no -remembrance, or a sting. Take my word for it, De Lacy, there are -multitudes of us who would gladly leave wax candles to blaze, and -champagne to sparkle, and bright eyes—with no heart behind them—to -shine, in order to sit beneath a shaded lamp with a man of real action, -who has seen something of different countries, and a different world, -and a different life from ourselves, and listen to tales of the heart’s -realities, while all else around us is but the tinseled pageantry of a -dream. Come, when shall it be, De Lacy?” - -“To-night, if you will,” I answered; “we are certain of being -uninterrupted.” - -“But the old man,” he said. “Young men can never talk with open hearts -before old ones. There is a power in age which controls us even when -there is no real authority.” - -“O, he goes to bed always at nine,” I said; and so we arranged it should -be, and so it was. - -When we returned after our ride, Father Bonneville informed me that -there were some persons in the neighborhood, upon whom he wished me to -call with him on the Monday following; and Westover and I went up to -dress for dinner—a much more important operation than it has since -become, even within my own knowledge. We had the usual English dinner, a -small turbot, some boiled chickens and ham, preceded by soup after the -French fashion, (which I knew Father Bonneville could not do without,) -and followed by the inevitable apple-tart. After his coffee, the good -Father remained for an hour or so, then lighted his candle, and having -apologized, with the grace of an old courtier, for his early habits, -retired to rest. My story was then told much as I am now telling it, -only with more brevity, and I must say that Westover not only listened -with the fortitude of a martyr, but showed a deep interest, if I may -judge by his questions, in many parts of my narrative. Once or twice he -rose, and walked up and down the little room, sitting down when I -paused, and saying, “Go on, De Lacy, I am listening.” - -I could not finish the whole in one night; but on the Sunday evening the -tale was concluded, and on the Monday, in spite of remonstrance, he set -out, saying he was going back to London. Why, I know not, but I watched -him from the window, across the heath, meditating on the state of his -health, and the risk he ran in joining his regiment again, with an -unextracted ball still in his chest. - -Suddenly, to my surprise, I saw him pull in his horse, at the distance -of some five hundred yards from the house, beckon up his servant, and -speak to him for a moment. The master then took the left-hand road, -which led toward Lewisham, and the groom rode upon the way to London. - -It is utterly impossible to describe the sensations which I experienced -at that moment. There was a mixture of anger, and suspicion, and -jealousy, which I can hardly characterize even to my mind at present. -Fancy was as busy as a fiend; and I felt quite sure that he was going -back toward the cottage, in order, if possible, to form some -acquaintance with the beautiful girl he had seen. I persuaded myself in -a moment—although I had unpersuaded myself before—that she must be -Mariette; and I pictured to myself, Westover, with his handsome person -and winning address, making instant love to her, and banishing poor -Louis de Lacy for ever from her heart. - -It took me an hour’s struggle to overcome such feelings, and when I had -done my best I was still dissatisfied. - -Toward twelve o’clock, Father Bonneville proposed that we should go out -for our visit, and for the first time, I asked where that visit was to -be. - -“Why, Louis,” he replied, “you seemed so indifferent when I spoke of it -on Saturday, that I did not tell you the acquaintance you made while -fishing, came to call upon us during your ride with Captain Westover. He -is a gentleman of good family, and we must of course return his visit, -even were it not that I believe he can now inform us where to find -Madame de Salins.” - -“Is Mariette not with her?” I asked eagerly. - -“I believe so,” replied Father Bonneville, with a smile; “but let us go, -I said we should be there before one.” - -I did not delay him, but I must confess, I thought he walked marvelously -slow, and wished from the bottom of my heart, that I had ordered the -pony carriage for our excursion. He took his way straight toward -Lewisham, turned to the left in the village, keeping on the left-hand -side, directly to the cottage with its roses. I do not know what had got -into my heart; but it brought to my remembrance a trick which I had seen -a charlatan play with an egg, which, by some contrivance, he made to -jump out of a pot the moment it was put in. He stopped at the door—at -the very door, and then suddenly said: - -“Why, what is the matter with you, Louis? You are as pale as death.” - -“O, nothing, nothing,” I replied, and knocked hard for admittance. I was -red enough then. A small servant-girl opened the door, and Father -Bonneville asked—“Whether Monsieur Le Comte was at home?” - -My hopes about Mariette began to fail, and diminished to a very small -point when, on entering a little room, containing a good number of -books, I found my acquaintance of the brook-side alone, and without a -vestige of woman’s occupation any where visible. - -He shook hands with us both, welcomed us heartily, and in common -civility I was obliged to repress my curiosity for a time. - -“This is my little study,” he said, after some preliminary conversation, -“where I teach a few young pupils French, in order to eke out the small -means of subsistence I have left. But I thank God for all things, and -only regret that I have not enough to aid those of my countrymen who -have even less than myself.” - -“That is what I fear,” I answered, “that there are many, and amongst -them some I deeply love, who may be suffering great distress, while I -have a superabundance.” - -“There are, indeed, many, Monsieur De Lacy,” he said; but as the words -were upon his lips the door opened, and a voice of music said, “May I -come in?” - -“Certainly, my child,” he replied; but she had taken it for granted, and -was in the room. There were the same eyes, the same look, the same -beautiful face which I had seen in the carriage, but with a figure, how -full of exquisite grace, how perfect in all its symmetry! - -If my heart had not told me, at once, that it was Mariette, the glad -spring forward with which she flew to the arms of Father Bonneville -would have shown me the fact at once. - -What possessed me I cannot tell, but I could not speak a word, and stood -like a fool, the more confounded from feeling that the eyes of a -stranger were upon me—yes, he gazed at me, earnestly, inquiringly. I -must, somehow, have betrayed myself. - -“Do you not know me, Louis?” asked Mariette, holding out her hands to -me. - -“Know you!” I cried, and if the whole world had been present, I could -not have refrained from taking her in my arms and kissing her cheek. - -“Know you!” I repeated, “O, yes, I knew you the very first moment I saw -you in the carriage on Blackheath.” - -“And I did not know you,” said Mariette, artlessly; “but how should I, -Louis? Here, you are a great tall man, six feet high; and yet you’re -still the same—the same eyes, and the same mouth, only your hair is -darker and not so curly.” - -“I rode after you all through Greenwich,” I replied, apropos to nothing; -for my whole head was in a whirl, and she had left her hand in mine, -which did not tend to stay the beating of my heart, “but I could find no -trace of you.” - -“Sit down, sit down, my children,” said the master of the house, “you -are both agitated with your young memories. I will go and call your -mother.” - -“Let me—let me,” said Mariette, and running to the foot of the little -stairs, she exclaimed, “Mamma, mamma, here are Louis and Monsieur De -Bonneville.” - -Madame de Salins ran down lightly and eagerly, and indeed she was very -little altered—looking, perhaps, better than when I had last seen her. -It was clear she was sincerely glad to meet us again; and seated round -the table, a thousand questions were asked, and about half the number -answered. All old feelings and memories revived. We talked of our little -cottage on the Rhine, of our meeting in Paris, and our adventures by the -way. The stranger joined in frankly and familiarly, evidently knowing -all that had befallen us. We formed again, as it were, one family, and -at length, emboldened by this renewal of old associations, I turned -smiling from the gentleman of the house to Madame de Salins, saying, -perhaps abruptly— - -“Who is this? May I not be formally introduced to him?” - -“Do you not know him, Louis?” she exclaimed, with a look of surprise. -“It is my husband—The Count de Salins. How else should I be here?” - -“You forget, mamma, you forget,” said Mariette. “Louis always thought -that he was dead,” and casting herself upon her father’s neck, she shed -a few tears over the memory of the terrible days when first we met. - -I looked surprised and bewildered, as well I might; and looking round at -Madame de Salins, I murmured— - -“You told me he was dead.” - -“I thought so when I told you so, Louis,” she replied, “I saw him fall -before my eyes, wounded in several places, and to all appearance dead. -But a glimmering of hope, springing from what source, I know not, led me -to trust my child to you and hurry back to the court of the château -where he had fallen. The assassins were gone; my husband’s blood was -still reeking from the ground; but his body was not there, and after a -long period of terrible suspense—it was but two hours, but it seemed an -eternity to me—I found that one of our good farmers had carried him -away, and was nursing in his own house a feeble spark of life which he -had found yet remaining. I flew to him; I tended him many weeks in -secret; I saw him recover consciousness and hope. None who beheld him -then, however, would have recognized the gay and handsome De Salins; and -it was agreed that he should be carried some ten or twelve leagues by -night, and thence removed to Paris in a litter as a dropsical patient -going to seek the aid of our good friend Doctor L——. All the peasantry -were in our favor. It was but the people of the cities who were infected -with the epidemic madness of the times. Every one aided—every one was -as secret as death. The very dogs of the farm-houses seemed to -comprehend and enter into our purposes. They barked not when the litter -entered the yard, but moved round us watchfully, as if to defend, rather -than betray us. It was necessary that I should part with him, however; -for my presence would have discovered all; and I hurried back to seek my -child, and meet him in Paris. Monsieur L—— was already prepared for -his coming; but he did more than could have been expected or even hoped. -He took him into his own house, and kept him there in profound secrecy -for some months. During that time I lay concealed under the appearance -of abject poverty. Mariette visited him every day, upon the pretence of -carrying little articles of food to the good Doctor’s house; and neither -by word or look, did she betray the secret—even to you, Louis. Do you -forgive us?” - -I put my hand in my bosom, and drew out the ring which Madame de Salins -had given me, and which still remained suspended round my neck by the -little gold chain. I pressed it to my lips for my only reply; and gently -bending her head with a sweet smile, she proceeded, saying, “I could see -him but seldom—I dared rarely venture; but at length Dr. L—— formed -the scheme for us of making our escape from Paris, crossing the Rhine, -and waiting there for my husband’s coming. He was to follow as speedily -as possible, in the character of an officer of the Republican army, who -had been wounded at the battle of Jemappes. A thousand obstacles -intervened, however, and I remained in terrible anxiety, till at length -a letter informed me that he whom I had well-nigh given up for lost, had -crossed the Rhine in safety, and was then at Dusseldorf waiting my -coming. It was still necessary to maintain the most profound secrecy; -for emigrants were surrounded by spies and traitors, and one indiscreet -word might have brought the head of good Doctor L. to the block. I -joined my husband in safety with Mariette, however, and our good farmers -had gathered together a sum of money sufficient to enable us to cross -the sea to this island, and to live for some time obscurely here. That -sum would have been exhausted long ago, had we not by a fortunate chance -been driven from our small lodging in Swallow street by a brutal man, -whom I believe to be a spy, but who had once received great favors from -our family when a poor apothecary in Paris. He, a sensual, horrible -patron, the Marquis de Carcassonne, had no mercy upon us; but having -purchased the house, turned us out in the street four years ago. We -heard of this little cottage and took it; and a blessing it was; for -Monsieur de Salins has obtained a little class of pupils, by which our -small means have been somewhat saved.” - -“We sought you in that house in Swallow street,” said Father Bonneville, -“Louis was impressed with the idea that you must be in want, and he has -been hunting for you far and wide ever since we came to England.” - -“Real want, we have never known,” said Monsieur de Salins, “though we -have been poor enough—ay, so poor, as to induce me to let my child go -on a long visit to some rich and vulgar people, in order to economize -our little pittance. They thought that Mariette de Salins was reduced so -low as to accept the hand of their coarse son, and think it an honor and -a favor; but they have learned better now.” - -“And did you visit that house in Swallow street?” asked Madame de -Salins, looking at me with an anxious and inquiring glance. “Who did you -see there?” - -I told her all the particulars, Father Bonneville adding a word here and -there, and the account seemed to strike both Monsieur de Salins and his -wife with much surprise. - -“He does not know,” said Madame de Salins, in a low and thoughtful tone, -turning her eyes upon her husband, “he does not know.” - -“And so you found Monsieur de Carcassonne in poverty and distress?” said -Monsieur de Salins, “the one viper, I suppose, has stung the other. God -of heaven, my dear wife, how thankful we should be to Him on high, that -we sit here, and eat the daily bread of his mercy, with consciences -clear of offense, and hearts unloaded by a weight of guilt. Let them -take all from us, but our innocence and our honor, and we shall be rich -compared with these men, even were they wealthy and powerful as in days -of old.” - -“And is it possible, Monsieur de Salins,” I asked, following the line of -thought in which my mind had been principally running, though there were -many other subjects eagerly appealing for attention, “Is it possible -that you, and dear Mariette, and Madame de Salins, have been living here -in comparative poverty, while I have been enjoying wealth and all that -wealth can give? This must be no longer——” - -I saw a slight shade come over his countenance, and I added, “Madame de -Salins has been a mother to me; Mariette has been a sister. I have -sought them eagerly, daily since I have been in England, in order to -perform toward them the duties of a son and a brother. Surely Monsieur -de Salins,” I continued, taking his hand in mine, “you will not suffer -my having the good fortune to find you with them, to deprive me of my -right of adoption?” - -“Dear, noble, generous Louis,” said Mariette, throwing her beautiful arm -round my neck, as if I had been indeed her brother. - -“Why, I taught her to read and write,” I said, drawing her gently toward -her father. “She was my first and dearest pupil—I have all her little -books now, in which she spelt her early lessons.” - -“And the pictures, and the pictures you drew, Louis,” cried Mariette. - -“All, all safe through all my wanderings,” I replied. “Come, Monsieur de -Salins, I have a beautiful little place hard-by—ample means for all of -us. Every thing shall be soon prepared for you, and Madame de Salins, -and dear Mariette. We will share house and fortune and all, and be one -family again, as we were in our sweet cottage by the Rhine.” - -I knew not what it was I urged—all the objections that a father’s eye -might see—all the difficulties in regard to the world, and the world’s -opinion; and I was not aware, till I found that even Father Bonneville -remained silent, and did not second me, that I was asking too much. - -Monsieur de Salins, for his part, smiled at my enthusiasm, while Madame -de Salins wept at it; but he answered kindly and affectionately, putting -quietly aside all points difficult to deal with, and saying jestingly, -“Why, you would not have us quit this little, rosy dwelling where we -have been so happy; but be assured, my dear young friend, that no guest -will be more loved and honored within its walls than the Count De Lacy.” - -I felt from his tone, that it would be in vain to press my request -further that day; but I knew the effect of perseverance, and I had hope -for the future. At all events Mariette and I had met again. I was -resolved that nothing should make me lose sight of her thenceforth, and -like all young hearts, I gave myself up to the present joy with trustful -confidence in the happiness of to-morrow. - -Several hours glided sweetly by, and it was late in the day when Father -Bonneville and I retrod our steps to our own dwelling, each full of -thought. - - [_Conclusion in our next._ - - * * * * * - - - - - I WOO THEE, SPRING. - - - BY WILLIAM ALBERT SUTLIFFE. - - - I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring, - To a kindly-thoughted lay, - And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming, - Through the lee-lang sunny day! - When young loves bud and old loves bloom— - When the warm earth bans all shade of gloom, - And bees hum summerly. - - I woo thine ears to a kindly tale, - And what shall the story be? - I will tell thee dearest bonds are frail, - And that stars and flowers flee. - I will tell thee a tale of woful wings - That rive from the soul its precious things, - And shadow sweet fantasy. - - I will tell thee of some that have fled away - Since last we saw thy face; - And some that are gone from the sheeny day - To the lonesome burial-place. - And of joys, like a string of pearls unstrung— - Like treasured flowers to the fierce wind flung, - That sleep with the buried grace. - - O, I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring, - To a sadly-thoughted lay, - And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming, - Through the lee-lang cloudy day! - For the lone day dies through purple bars— - And a misty grief enwraps the stars, - And our hopes are ashen-gray. - - But the flowers bud and the flowers blow - And the mossy streams are sheen, - And the downy clouds to the Norland go, - While the blue sky laughs between; - And the light without, to the dark within, - Would seem to say—“Will ye up and win - While the paths of life are green?” - - But the outer joy on the soul’s annoy - Looks in and laughs in vain— - For the inner chains of the spirit’s pains - May ne’er be reft in twain; - And the song that erst in joy begun - Sinks into wail ere the setting sun, - A sad and deathful strain. - - So I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring, - To a dreary-thoughted lay, - And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming, - Through the lee-lang weary day! - Through the lee-lang day and the plodding night— - When no golden star’s in the lift alight, - To brighten a weary way. - - * * * * * - - - - - SONG. - - - BY L. L. M. - - - When morn’s soft light is o’er us shed, - When pearl drops bow each taper leaf, - And e’en the lily’s queenly head - Pays homage to the glory brief— - Who ever recks of coming night, - Or grieves that such an hour must be— - Who ever weeps o’er winter’s blight - While summer decks the dewy lea. - - The forest leaf now pale and sere - Once bent to roving breezes’ kiss; - The faded flower on Autumn’s bier - Once seemed too gayly bright for this, - Nor did they droop and whisper all - Of mildew dank, of frost and blight; - But ever rang the wild-wood hall - With joyous song and murmur light. - - And grievest _thou_, dear one, that life - Is but a dream that soon is past? - Fear’st thou the briefly bitter strife, - The shadows on thy pathway cast? - Nay, ’tis not well—though day’s soon gone; - The flowers soon pale that bind thy brow; - Though night and death are stealing on, - Forget not, love, ’tis morning _now_! - - * * * * * - - - - - TWO WAYS TO MANAGE. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “CLOVERNOOK.” - - -It was night, black night all over the world, and denser night within -the dwelling of Margery Starveling. Now and then, the half-moon broke -through the clouds that obscured the face of heaven, and some straggling -and uncertain beams slanting through the narrow south window, gave to -the low, homely apartment a ghostly sort of glow that was gloomier to -see than the dark. Yet the night was one to make timid hearts beat -quick, especially in a dismal old house, where there was no light save -occasional glimpses of the half-moon. But Margery was not afraid—she -was used to darkness and solitude, and needed not the interchange of -humanities for her comfort, else she would have aroused from the sleep -which had fallen upon her, the child, who—with cheek leaned against the -rough stone jam—was alike unconscious of the dark, and the rats gnawing -hungrily at the floor, or loosening the hearth beneath her feet. It may -be that bright dreams came to her, even there, for what shall stay them -from innocence? and the rough jam may have seemed a pillow of down, and -the chill moonlight, as it fell against her, the golden curtaining of a -pleasant couch. - -All was quiet within doors, save the digging and the gnawing I have -mentioned, but in the woods that partly encircled the place, and -darkened close against the western gables, the winds went blindly -moaning up and down, and the dead boughs creaked against each other, -filling the time with music when the ill-boding owls muffled themselves -away. - -It was very still in the house, I said, for though Margery was busy, her -work made no noise, till laying aside the great fleece of wool from her -knees, which her skinny fingers had been picking apart, she spoke aloud, -and on this wise— - -“I will stir with my staff the embers from which the glow is well-nigh -perished, that my child may feel in her sleep its comfortable influence, -for evil dreams may come of unrest, and evil dreams make evil thoughts, -and when they have once taken possession of the heart, how hardly are -they charmed away.” So, having taken the fleece from her knees and laid -it over a wooden stool at her feet, she arose, and fumbling in the -chimney-corner opposite to that where the child slept, produced a great -knotty staff, the lower end of which was blackened and charred. With -this she stirred the gray ashes from the fiery log that lay beneath, and -beating and breaking it into coals, gathered the dry cinders together -that were scattered about, and having spread them over the -freshly-broken coals, a blaze sprung up, slight and blue at first, but -reddening and deepening till the rafters over-head, and the oak slabs -below, the walnut bedstead in the corner, with its antique carving, and -elaborately wrought tester, and the huge chest with its iron padlock, -the wrinkled visage of the old woman, and the pale hair and plump, naked -feet of the child, were all distinctly visible. - -“Charity, my pretty darling,” called the old woman, as she resumed her -seat and the fleece of wool, “Wake, and betake thee to thy wheel for an -hour, and I will tell thee of the plan I have made to keep our house -full of cheer and music all the while, even when thou weariest of the -wheel, and thy tongue prattlest not.” - -The child rubbed her eyes, lifted her head from the stone jam, saying in -a voice sweet and plaintive, as we sometimes hear a bird’s— - -“I have spun my task, grandam—six wisps of flax into as many hanks of -thread, and thou seest my distaff is naked—but I will wind it with -another wisp and spin, at least till thy task is done.” - -Her naked feet pattered across the slab floor, and climbing on a ladder, -she took from a peg in the rafter a fresh wisp, and as she wound the -distaff peered through the south window at the half-moon, or rather at -the yellowish color in the clouds behind which the half-moon was -concealed. - -“It wears near the midnight, good grandam,” she said, shoving her wheel -aside: “I will pick on the fleece, and so thy voice will not be drowned -as thou tellest the plan thou hast mused of.” - -“As thou sayest,” answered Margery, “it wears near the midnight, as is -told by the shrill cry of the cricket, to say nothing of the aching in -my bones, and the dizzy feeling that creeps along my forehead now and -then;” and laying her skinny fingers over the wrinkles on her brow, she -bowed her head forward for a minute, looking more like a witch making -some unholy incantation, than a live human being, and a woman as she -was. Her dress, summer and winter, was composed of cow-hide shoes, -clasped over the ankles with buckles of brass, a gown of dark woolen -stuff, made in a straight, stiff fashion peculiar to herself, and she -wore over her shoulders a small circular cape, that had once been part -of a tiger’s hide. On her head she wore no cap or other covering, and -her gray hair was parted on the crown and combed either way, one half -being cut in a straight line above her forehead, and the other on her -neck. - -She seemed seventy, or thereabout—nevertheless, her hair was neither -thin nor very white. - -“Thou hast wrought too hardly, grandam, mayhap,” said the child. “Fold -up thy hands now, and the portion of the fleece that remaineth be mine -to do;” as she spoke, she wound her arm about the neck of Margery, for -she loved her, albeit she looked so repelling. - -“Nay, child,” answered the dame, “it is not often we have so pleasant a -light, and pity ’twere to lose it. We must improve the advantages we -have, little one, else want will be staring us in the face, and -reproaching us with negligence when it is too late. I cannot work as I -could with forty years less weighing me down, so I must do what I may.” - -“I saw,” said the child, “when I went to Farmer Jocelin’s, for the -measure of meal thou wottest of, three good tallow-candles alight in one -room. The noonday sun were scarce brighter,” she continued in amazement, -both at the wondrous light and the prodigality. “He must have great -estates, grandam, to maintain such indolent and luxurious life. True, -Mistress Jocelin was at work with some knitting, but not heedfully nor -diligently, but more attentive to the reading of a book, which, indeed, -to look upon was very beautiful, for as Farmer Jocelin held it near the -light, the edges of the leaves glittered like gold, and the leathern -cover was bright as the bosom of the bird that sings in the peach-tree, -here, in summer. But Master Lawrence—what, think you, he did by all -that flood of light? Why, nothing for thrift; for he sat on the matting -of the floor, cutting pieces of smooth brown paper into a kite. Yet he -had a sweet smile, and seemed to have a good heart withal,” added -Charity, and her fingers flew more nimbly through the wool, “for as he -served round a salver of apples, at his mother’s bidding, he urged me to -take one so earnestly, yet kindly, that I might scarce refuse, and when -I did—for that I might not rob Farmer Jocelin of his substance, giving -him nothing in turn—he forced one into my lap and ran laughingly aside, -so that I might not return it.” - -“Alas! alas!” said Margery, “have I reared thee thus carefully in vain, -that when thou escapest from my sight, but for a moment, thou yieldest -to sinful temptation, eating the fruit thou hast not earned.” - -“Nay, grandam, thy conclusion is over-hasty. I kept the fruit unbruised -and untasted, though its sweet fragrance made it hard to resist, and -when the maid brought in the measure of meal, I gave it to her hand, and -she restored it to the salver; but when Master Lawrence saw it, he -looked as though he would have cried, even in such beautiful light, and -with so much fair brown paper, to fashion as he would.” - -“I am glad thou hast wit to serve thee upon occasion,” spoke Margery, -her fingers flying nimbly as the child’s; “and if Farmer Jocelin burns -three good tallow-candles at one time, and that at no merry-making or -gala-night, his children will be the likelier to sit in the light of -fagots—and Master Lawrence was wastefully cutting smooth brown paper. I -am glad thou hadst wit to refuse the apple, but thou shouldst have -frowned smartly the while. If I see the young scapegrace this way, as -belike he may come, with further temptations, I will make my tongue as a -chisel, cutting such a lesson of wisdom and reproof upon his heart, as -he hath never heard, mayhap.” - -“But Master Lawrence meant kindly,” said Charity, and casting down her -eyes, she continued, “if we cannot burn tallow-candles, we, at least, -may have the light of dry sticks—shall I not gather more to keep light -as thou tellest the plan thou hast? I would it could make our home -cheery as good candle-light, and a salver of apples, with rinds all -russet and red and yellow.” - -“It were good thou hadst not seen the apples,” spoke the dame, -querulously; “better still thou hadst not seen the boy.” - -“But the plan, grandam—thou forgettest the plan. Is it that the famous -chopper, Patrick Malony, is to come and fell one of the great hickory or -maple trees of which the wood is full; and are we to have a huge log, -and big, smoothly split sticks to fill the great empty fire-place every -night with light and warmth; or meanest thou once more to saddle -Lily-lace, the mare, and ride to the mill with a full bag of wheat; and -am I to go to the market-town once more, in my black kirtle and straw -hat, and bring home in exchange, for my basket of eggs, butcher’s meat -to broil on the coals, and fragrant tea to fill the little china cups, -with tobacco for thy long empty pipe—in faith, grandam, have I not -guessed shrewdly?” - -“My pretty darling, I see thou hast thy head filled with the wildest -extravagance; thou wilt be teasing next for a farthingale of dimity, -ruffles of lace, and blue ribbons for thy hat, or other such like gear. -Thy guesses tally not with prudence, Charity; thou mayest guess again.” - -“Ay, then,” said the girl, sorrowfully, “I was wrong from the saddling -of Lily-face to the full pipe of tobacco;” and casting her eyes about -the cold, empty room, she continued, with greater energy—“I have the -very pith of thy thought. Thou wilt unlock the great chest, and take -thence the dainty linen sheets and the thick wool blankets thy hands -have wrought from fleece and flax, and make the bed—wherein we now -shiver the night through, ridden with nightmares and plagued with ugly -dreams—into beauty and comfort. Surely I have guessed thy plan, for the -moth is more wasting than the wear.” - -“Foolish child, thy extravagance would be the ruin of me, though I gave -thee management of my affairs but for a day. Were the sheets of linen -and blankets of wool to be used as thou sayest, the chest would soon be -empty, and then how should we fare?” - -“As well as now,” thought Charity, but she spoke not, save to say—“that -she should guess no more.” - -“Once more, little one,” and Margery patted the child on the head with -one hand, and taking the great staff in the other, she stirred open the -coals vigorously, and as the light flashed upon the girl’s cheek, tears, -large and bright, were seen to stand there, like drops of dew on a lily. - -But the old woman urged her to renew her guess with such earnestness and -tenderness that, brushing away the tears, she essayed once again; but -the fervor was gone from her tone, and the light from her glance, as she -said— - -“Thou hast planned the mending of the door and window, that the snow may -not drive to great ridges across the floor, and the wind and the rain -beat against us as we sleep.” - -“Not so,” answered Margery. “While the winter blows the larger crevices -may be stopped with straw, and the smaller ones with clay, both of which -may be easily removed when the May Queen is dancing on the hills, and -our house be the pleasanter for free air and streaks of sunshine.” - -“It may all do very well,” said Charity, “but to-night I can see nothing -so pleasant as great log-fires, tallow-candles, and a salver of red -apples; and, mayhap, it would take Master Lawrence to complete the -picture.” - -“Burned not thy cheek to speak it?” continued Margery, peevishly: and -the two wrought at the fleece for a time in silence. - -“Thou knowest Lily-face?” said the ancient dame, at length, “that she -groweth old and stiff of limb; thou canst not remember the time when she -nibbled not in my pastures; I think belike, also, she fadeth in the -sight of her right eye, for when, at the last Christmas time, I rode her -to the mill, my old bones were jeopardized by her stumbling, and often -turning of her head to one side, betrayed her defect of vision. But -though she were sound as the silver coin that lieth in the bottom of the -chest, yonder, I must needs barter her away, for that she eateth more -than she earneth, since I may no more buckle round her the girth. - -“Thou requirest much exercise in thy growing, Charity, to keep supple -thy joints—thou canst sometimes walk to the market-town for our -absolute wants, which are not many, and as for the wheat-grist, thou -shalt have a mortar and beat it into flour; so Lily-face would but -burden us now, and the corn and the oat-sheaves, and the hay that have -been heaped in her manger, may be sold. - -“One beast is enough for a poor body like me, and thou knowest I will -neither barter nor sell Wolf-slayer till the time cometh for the nailing -of the boards to my coffin. And forget not, Charity, that they lie in -the loft, well-seasoned for the using, and for thy life, let them not -buy others in their stead.” - -“Far away be the time, good grandam,” sighed the girl. “But the young -die, too; and should I need them first, wilt thou not keep a light, at -least of fagots, the whiles I am dead in the house?” - -Foolish child! though it were darker than tempest may make it, and I the -while slept never so sound, no harm could come to thy white corse, if -Wolf-slayer lay by thy coffin. - -At the sound of her name, a great black beast, with eyes burning like -coals, and lean and shaggy, crept from the darkest corner of the room, -and laying her head in the lap of Margery, licked her jaws and whined -piteously. “Away with thee, saucy image,” growled the mistress, “thou -hadst the third part of a corn-ear at the sunset, and thinkest thou, -black wench, I will give thee more?” and crouching and whining the -hungry beast slunk back to the corner, and curling herself together, -filled the room presently with her snore. - -“Poor Lily-face!” said the child, speaking as it were to herself, “how -can I let thee go! Morning and evening, since I could toddle, I have put -my arms around thy glossy neck, broken the ears of corn into small bits, -and pressed the golden oat-sheaves through thy manger—and thou hast -neighed and put thy face against mine, for thou lovest me, as I thee. -Poor Lily-face! I cannot let thee go!” - -“What if thou mightst look in the corner here and see the bright, -shining face of a pretty clock instead of the cobwebs and the hanks of -yarn—if thou couldst hear the pleasant tick, and ever and anon the -musical ring of the hours—a clock, bethink thee, bright of color as the -autumn oak-leaves, and tall as thy grandam.” - -“It would be pretty and comforting, surely,” said the child, “for the -ticking and the stroke of the hours would be company in the lonesome -nights, but I would not give Lily-face, that knows me when I speak, and -looks at me and loves me, to have a clock bright as the oaken autumn -leaves, and tall as thou, grandam, in place of the hanks of yarn and the -cobwebs.” - -“Thou knowest not thy own mind,” said Dame Margery; “the clock will -neither eat nor drink, but will tell us the time of day and night; which -Lily-face hath not wit to do. By the light of the last sunset, I have no -mind that she shall longer stamp in that stall of hers. - -“The miller hath a clock,” she continued, “which ticked at his -grandfather’s funeral, and hath kept the time of many funerals, and -marriages, too, since; a pretty piece of mechanism, as I saw with my own -eyes, and taller than I; and the miller wanteth the mare for the -tread-wheel, and to have her his own, will barter the pretty clock.” - -“It must be as thou sayest, but I have little pleasure in the plan,” -said Charity. “Hath not the miller a milch cow that he would barter in -place of the clock?” - -“Thou growest officious,” answered the dame. “Would not the cow eat oats -and corn as well as Lily-face? And have we not hitherto drunken water -and flourished, and must we needs have milk?” - -Charity spoke no more, but sat turning the wheel for pastime—for the -fleece was finished, and the mind of the dame was not to be altered by -childish fancies, as was manifest from her rising and removing the hanks -of yarn to another peg, and brushing with her hand the cobwebs. - -The wind kept moaning along the woods and rattled the broken door and -window—the coals grew fainter and fainter and died, and the gray ashes -blew over the feet of Margery and the child as they sat silently -musing—the one of the pretty clock that it would cost nothing to keep, -the other of poor Lily-face; haply at times there came a thought of the -log-fire and the tallow-candles, and the salver of red apples which -Master Lawrence had served with such a sweet grace. - -The next day came the miller, and wrapt in a great bed-quilt and laid in -the bottom of his cart was the clock. Margery clapt her hands in glee -when she saw it, but Charity sighed as she sat close on the hearth-stone -for the sake of its little warmth, though she felt not the cold now. -Faster and faster spun round the wheel, and lower and lower she bowed -down her head to conceal the tears—but it would not do. When she heard -the neigh of poor Lily-face, and knew that her hands would never feed -her any more, she hurried to the window, and pressing her face against -the pane, she could see her dear pet shrinking consciously from the hand -that tied the strong rope about her neck and led her away. Margery was -busy with dusting the bright face of her pretty clock, and looked not -forth even when the long-drawn howl of Wolf-slayer (who, lifting her -fore paws on the clapboard gate, manifested her sorrow as a dumb brute -may) smote dismally upon her ears. - -The days came and went and Charity spun on the same, but Margery brought -forth no new fleece. Scarcely had she stirred or spoken since the -treasure came—even when the girl heaped on dry sticks and broken -branches till the warmth filled all the house, she did not reprove. - -Then Charity bethought her that the old dame had scarcely tasted food -for days, and looking upon her, she saw that her eyes waxed dim and her -countenance pale, and a great fear came over the child’s heart; and -setting aside her wheel, she ran fast to farmer Jocelin’s, and begged a -cup of honey and a pitcher of sweet milk, telling of the strange -disorder that possessed Dame Margery. - -As she went homeward, Master Lawrence ran from his work in the field and -bore the pitcher of milk, and comforted her with hopes that her grandam -was less ill than she feared. - -Without question Margery partook of the milk and honey; and when -Lawrence brought sticks and logs and heaped the fire, she laid her -withered hand on his head and said, “Thou art a kind boy and good.” She -then took a key from her bosom and told Charity to unlock the chest and -bring forth blankets—as many as would keep her warm. - -“Surely, grandam, thou art distraught,” said Charity, as she hastened to -obey. But the sweet smile of intelligence that met her inquiring glance -belied her fears; and as she wrapt the warm covering about the withered -form, she said, “Nay, child, I am sane at last—but too late.” - -At midnight she ceased to speak or to be conscious. Kind hands presently -removed the thick covering, and spread over her a dainty white sheet; -but she was warm enough; others brought from the loft the boards of -seasoned walnut wood, and the next midnight Charity and Wolf-slayer—the -one at the head and the other at the feet, watched by the old dame’s -coffin. - -The following day came the miller with Lily-face harnessed in his little -cart; he went forward, and a train of neighbors followed—amongst them -Charity, sorrowfulest of all. - -When the summer came, she planted bright blossoming shrubs about the -grave, and never in her life had Margery half so pretty a house as this -narrow one. - -The old house was given up to the rats and the winds, after the removal -of the cheat, and the clock, and the hanks of yarn that hung all along -the rafters. In course of time it fell into a heap; and one day, as -Charity, who dwelt not far away, sat on the heap of stones where the -hearth-stone had been, she saw a fair-faced youth searching up and down -the lanes, over the meadows, and through the hedges hard-by, as though -he missed something; but when he saw the girl, he left searching and -bent his steps toward her, and as he came near she knew him for Master -Lawrence—well grown, but with something of the boyish look and manners -yet. The prettiest of all the lambs of the flock was gone, and though he -had gone over all the pastures, he could not find it. The heart of -Charity was touched, and leaving her sorrowful musing, she joined in the -search. - -Whether the stray lamb was found I know not, but as Charity crossed the -fields to go homeward under the twilight’s reddening wing, her hair was -full of daffodils and daisies, and a flush of wildering happiness was on -her cheek, that had never been there before. - -When the harvest was gathered and the orchard fruits weighing down the -boughs, Charity rode to the market-town on a pretty brown jennet of her -own; and as she went homeward the horns of her saddle were hung with -great bundles; she had bought a white ribbon instead of a blue for the -new straw hat her fingers had been braiding so busily—a muslin gown, -that was white, too; a pair of pretty slippers, and a dozen other things -that I have not time to enumerate—enough, that the next full moon shone -upon Mistress Lawrence Jocelin. - -Not a village maiden that would not have envied her but for her own -happiness, for all joined in the merry-making; a dozen tallow-candles -were burned at once, and more than one salver of red apples was served -round, with loaf-cakes and sweetmeats, and ripe broken nuts. Workmen -were employed to clear away the rubbish that had once been Dame -Margery’s house, and a pretty new cottage soon rose in its place; and -the next summer sweet shrubbery hedged it in, and myrtles and -honeysuckles curtained the windows; bees made honey from the flowers, -sleek cattle fed in the pastures, and in all the neighborhood there was -no home so full of comfort and plenty. - -The hanks of yarn which Charity had spun long ago were taken to the -weaver’s and came back in rolls of damask and bright-flowered carpets; -the linen was taken from the chest, and the wool blankets; and after -being washed white as snow, and dried in the sun, were spread upon beds -soft as down could make. - -When the second winter came round, the cottage was a-glow with -wood-fires and tallow-candles; and in place of the starved Wolf-slayer, -there lay before the hearth, in a cradle of white willows, the plumpest -and fairest baby that ever Lawrence and Charity Jocelin had seen. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE PHANTOM FIELD. - - - BY O. I. VICTOR. - - - The snow lies deep upon the ground, - All icy is the air; - The trees a winding-sheet have found - By the wild wind’s care. - - The beast stands trembling in his shed— - The sheep within his fold: - Without, all life is stiff and dead— - Within, all chill and cold. - - Why is the air so cold to-night? - The owl shrinks in his nest! - Why does the moon gleam out so bright? - The traveler is at rest! - - O, keen the wind and cold the air - Above the Phantom Field! - Yet ghostly forms are stalking there, - Armed with a sword and shield. - - And gathering slow in serried rank, - They turn toward the west: - Five thousand coffins guard each flank— - Five hundred stand abreast. - - In battle rank, with noiseless tread, - They hurry to the height, - Where stand ten thousand other dead, - Uncoffined for the fight. - - O, cold the wind and keen the air - Around the Phantom Height! - Yet spectre men are battling there - In fierce, exultant fight. - - And shields are rent, and swords are bent, - And limbs bestrew the ground, - Yet skeletons, with strength unspent, - Strike where a breast is found. - - And skulls are cleft on right and left - Till shines the morn o’erhead— - Till twice five thousand coffins stand - Alone, flanking the dead. - - O, keen the wind and cold the air - That sweeps above the plain! - Yet must the hollow coffins bear - The skeletons again. - - O’er the silent field they haste, - To gather limb and bone: - Though skulls and limbs are wide displaced, - Each coffin knows its own. - - Soon every limb is gathered in— - Soon every lid is fast— - And falling into rank again - They turn toward the East. - - And marching o’er the frozen plain, - With swift and gliding tread, - They stand beside the graves again - Where sleep the evil dead. - - Two death’s-heads stand above each mound; - A fearful watch they keep! - The coffins sink into the ground, - Another year to sleep. - - But when another year is fled— - When comes St. Stephen’s night, - The death’s-heads shall unloose their dead - To battle on the height. - - And when five hundred years have passed, - The penance shall be done; - The skeletons shall sleep at last, - And moulder, limb and bone. - - * * * * * - - - - - SHAKSPEARE. - - - BY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH. - - - What more extolling from the tongue of Fame - Can Shakspeare need than his suggested name; - Who, in a volume so compactly writ, - Has hived the honey of all human wit. - Praise suits where merit in a corner lies, - But seems uncomely to th’acknowledged wise— - Praise suits where laboring art at times succeeds, - And the shrewd reader pardons as he reads; - But fails—in wonder—where the leaves dispense - Infinite resource of intelligence— - Where the great player, at his game of chess, - Frolicks through all to glorious success; - Thrids, with exulting ken, a boundless maze, - Plays with his kings, and kings it in his plays. - Swan of the Avon—genius of the Thames, - “That so didst take Eliza and [king] James;” - Muse of so vast a flight, so ample pinion, - Whose name is as the name of a dominion! - Though kings be great, give glory to the pen, - A whole-souled poet is the king of men. - King and high-priest one bard, at least, has been - Lo! where we lesser Levites pause and quail. - How grandly goes before, within the vail, - Our great Melchisedek, without compeers, - Without progenitor nor end of years. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE MASTER’S MATE’S YARN. - - - BY H. MILNOR KLAPP. - - - (_Concluded from page 539._) - -“They—the rats, of course—were a strange, heathenish set, and no -respecters of persons, but first chased the cat on shore, and then made -a hurra’s nest of the cabin—polishing their long whiskers with -spermaceti—planning surprise-parties in the pantry—running to’gallant -races over your nose in the sleeping-berths, and gauging every hollow -vessel in the ship, with tails a fathom long, from the oil-casks and the -scuttle-butt down to the pickle-jars and the captain’s barrel of New -England. They were a sleek, long-bodied race, as black as imps of -darkness, and as fearless as if they possessed as many reputed lives as -grimalkin herself. I was weary of watching their capers, and of the -sound of Catherton’s tread, expecting him every moment to call me up; -when turning in my berth, I noticed that the after-cabin door was -standing open. While I was wondering at this, a feeling of awe stole -over me, thinking of the conversation I had overheard among the men the -night before, and that very moment, as I was looking intently at the -spot, a figure in white passed swiftly and silently out of the -store-room into the cabin, closing the door behind it. I would afterward -have given worlds to have been able to pursue it, but could not, for the -power to move a limb was dead for the time being, and I lay still -staring after it, with mouth agape and the cold drops on my forehead, -palsied, as it would seem, by that sort of instinctive abhorrence with -which humanity revolts against a disembodied spirit that has assumed, -for some mysterious end, the form and garniture of its house of clay. It -was a woman’s shape—the head bare, and the long dark hair hanging down -to the waist, and, before the door closed, the light for an instant -flickered on the face, ghastly and white—as the man-of-war’s man had -said—with the mouth closed and the lips drawn tightly in. Its back was -toward my berth, until it turned into the after-cabin, and it seemed to -me that it had something clutched in its hand; but the hollow look of -the sunken eyes froze my very heart’s blood, as they glared back at the -lamp, from behind the bloodless and bony cheek. I was first roused from -my trance by the sound of some one coming down the companion-way, and it -was not until Catherton had thrice called me, laying his hand upon my -shoulder, the third time, that I started at last to my feet, when he -must have noticed my looks, as I still stared past him at the -cabin-door. - -“‘It wants but a few moments of the time, Mr. Miller,’ was all he said, -and if I had died for it, I could not have answered, but huddling on my -clothes in silence, mechanically followed him on deck. All was there as -still as death. The moon had not yet risen, and you heard the sound of -the ebb plashing against the Tartar’s bows, and rippling and gurgling in -the eddies astern, as it swept through the strait. - -“‘The watch are asleep in the galley,’ the captain whispered, as I -prepared to go over the side; ‘you remember the place and the signal—a -plover’s whistle twice repeated?’ - -“Nodding my head, I descended into the canoe; he cast off the warp, and -keeping in the shade of the ship, with my brain in a whirl, I paddled -close to the starboard shore. I had little time to think, for the -current ran strongly round the points, and I seemed blindly impelled by -the hand of fate to stem its force, even while my frame still shook like -a frightened child’s. - -“I had hardly a thought of my purpose; nevertheless, instinctively -plying my paddle, I passed through the passage, and reached the rift of -sand under the castle without being challenged. - -“High above me, concealed from my eyes by the rocky steep, was the -stronghold where, according to report, the sultan kept both his harem -and his treasures. The danger, in some measure, restored my presence of -mind, and the canoe had hardly hung for a moment on the hot, glassy -tide, when I heard the signal, and immediately upon my answering it, an -Arab arose from the sand, and two others appeared coming hastily down a -narrow gully, along which a sort of causeway ran from the stables of the -sultan’s stud to the beach. Seeing more figures than I had been taught -to expect, as another appeared from behind a rock, leading two saddled -horses, I was about to back farther off, when the chief’s voice called -out to me in a low tone to be quick, and forcing the bow of the canoe -upon the sand, not another word was exchanged, until Halil had placed -the slender form of the Circassian, vailed as she was from head to foot, -under the awning. - -“The chief then seized my hand and carried it to his head, pointing with -his right in the direction of the ship. - -“Wishing him ‘God speed,’ I wrung his hand; he pushed off the canoe, and -I paddled round for the ship. Glancing back, I saw him spring into the -saddle, with one attendant, both sitting as motionless as statues while -the canoe kept them in sight. - -“Heavily armed, and mounted on a splendid charger, from what I knew of -his strength and spirit, it struck me forcibly that in his present -enterprise he was more than a match for most men. There was little -chance, however, of the conspiracy succeeding, unless the assassination -of the sultan were the first overt act, as he was greatly beloved by his -people. However, I had previously understood that the Oualé of Muscat, -and all the principal chiefs at Moutrah—the last a considerable town in -the vicinity—were implicated, which showed that the party of the old -Imaum, the sultan’s deceased uncle, was much more extensive than I had -ever deemed. - -“It was not with thoughts like these that I approached the ship, for the -recent horror oppressed me so strongly, that I hardly knew what I was -doing when the captain received Zuma from my arms at the stern-post. -After this I fastened the canoe in its place, and looking, as it were by -the mere force of habit, into the binnacle, found that I had been absent -but twelve minutes. I then went for’ard where the two fellows who held -the anchor-watch were sleeping soundly. As I kicked them up, the old -carpenter came out of the steerage, rubbing his eyes, and muttering -imprecations on the rats. - -“‘They’re a considerable spry set, Mister Miller,’ said he, as I made -some remark to divert his attention, ‘and, cuss me, if I half like the -ways on ’em—rattlin’ past my berth atween decks, as if every beggar on -’em had shoes on his feet, and turnin’ the’r varmentish heads to listen, -with more life in the slack of their tails than there is wit in the -for’ard part of the ship. They comed aboard, sir, in my opinion, at an -island where the ship touched on the Japan coast, and jist tuk full -command of the ship at once, trampoosin’ her from the ground-tier to the -tops, and crawlin’ out of the bunts of the old courses, when sail was -made at daylight, or jumpin’ from the boats, when a rush was made to -lower away. Hows’iver,’ he added, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, -without which he was never seen on deck in these latitudes, ‘I hope, -sir, they’ll stick to the ship, if it’s only for luck’s sake.’ As he -said this he gave me an oblique glance of his cold, fishy eye, and then -looked earnestly at the bowl of his pipe, fussing with a paper of cut -tobacco. - -“In the humor which I was in at the time, the most trifling incident -that occurred in the ship seemed to leave an impression upon my mind -never to be forgotten; however, I was not to be sounded by old Charley -Toppin, cunning as he thought himself; so I answered him at random: ‘I -hope not, carpenter; and as for luck—why—’ - -“‘Hist! sir,’ interrupted he, in a startled voice, pointing aft—‘what -tale does that tell?’ - -“Turning quickly round, I saw them dropping from the poop by the -dozens—one steady plump! plump! plump! till the deck was black with -them, creeping in a living mass on the forecastle, down the cable, as it -seemed, into the water, where we could see them swimming for the island -across a broad patch of starlight, until the last of them disappeared. -Captain Catherton was standing aft, looking at the frigate through his -night-glass. He never stirred, and, as I thought, did not notice them. -The sight seemed to shake old Kennebunk wonderfully. - -“‘Mister Miller,’ said he fearfully, ‘this be a doomed craft.’ - -“‘You’re wrong,’ said I, ‘they’re swimming off to the shore to fill -their stomachs with something green, if they can find it. They’ll be -back presently, and then, if you cover the hatchways, you can call all -hands to a rat-hunt.’ - -“The carpenter looked at me, and then at the poop, significantly enough; -a look of intelligence suddenly crossed his blank, weather-beaten face, -as he moved close to my side, with his hand to his mouth and his eye -still fixed aft: ‘Do you know, sir,’ he whispered, bending his brows and -looking me hard in the face, ‘do you know who are your shipmates in this -here craft?’ - -“At that moment the captain called out in his deep, calm voice, and I -went up on the poop, where, pointing to the frigate, which lay now -within half a pistol shot of us, outside of the passage, he put the -glass in my hands, without saying a word. The first look I took through -the instrument explained his meaning. The frigate’s starboard broadside -was sprung to bear on us, and the long tiers of guns frowning full upon -the ship. They were even lighting their battle-lanterns, and groups of -turbans and pointed caps were visible in every part of the upper deck. - -“I dropped the glass from my eye and looked at my companion. - -“‘I understand it,’ said he composedly, in reply to my look—‘wait a -couple of hours longer, and the scene will change. In the meantime come -below, and let us have a glass of grog.’ - -“He swept the harbor carefully with his glass, dwelling some time on the -landing-place, which is at the mouth of a drain, or sort of canal; the -town itself being hidden from our sight by the lofty castle-crowned -crags to the north and east. The Soliman Shah, after changing her old -berth, had anchored off Fisher’s rock, a small islet lying off the north -point of Muscat Island. - -While Catherton was thus engaged, the thought of what Halil and the rest -of the conspirators could be doing at that moment, together with my -adventures that night, whirled a confused crowd of images before my -mind, in the midst of which black Hadji’s face was preëminent. The -stories which I had heard of his craft and cruelty occurred to me so -strongly that it was a relief when the captain closed his glass with a -snap, and led the way to the cabin. - -“‘Steward,’ said he to the mulatto, who seemed to make it a rule never -to be caught in his hammock when his master was up, ‘set out the -liquor-case, and a bottle of that old Bourbon whisky we got out of the -Frenchman—and then be off to your roost.’ - -The fellow obeyed in his usual deferential way, and placing a lighted -joshstick and a bundle of sheroots on the table withdrew. - -“‘To-morrow,’ said Catherton, ‘we’ll tow out into the bight of the -current, go how things may; and here,’ he added, pouring out a tumbler -of grog, and pushing me the bottle, ‘here’s good-bye, forever and a day, -to the key of the Persian Gulf.’ - -“I pledged him accordingly, and he went on in a very frank, easy way, I -thought, considering the case in which we stood. - -“‘A troublesome coast this to clear, Mr. Miller; the currents hereabouts -are as treacherous as the heart of woman. Why,’ said he, seeming a good -deal at his ease, as he poured out another glass, though I was in the -other case, my eye stealing to the cabin doors in spite of me, ‘I’ve -been drifted in this old ship forty miles in-shore, in a thick fog and a -calm, between sunset and dawn, and no signs of a set on the surface any -more than there is on this deck.’ - -“‘Yes, sir,’ said I, compelling my attention to answer him, ‘in clear -weather they keep you continually taking observations—and in a fog, as -you say, why—’ - -“‘Try that case-bottle of Bourbon whisky,’ interrupted he, ‘you don’t -seem to relish the brandy. Here’s to the sultan! And may he wake up -to-night in Paradise.’ - -“Here he went on in a discursive way to talk of the cholera, saying that -he had had a touch of it himself on the Malabar coast. - -“‘However,’ said he, filling up his glass a third time, ‘hang -care—here’s luck!’ - -“‘The fact is, Mr. Miller,’ he continued, setting down his glass, ‘I’ve -taken a great fancy to you, during the little time we’ve been together. -If it lasts out to the end, depend upon me, I’ll put something handsome -in your way.’ - -“I bowed over my glass without speaking, and he kept on in the same -confidential manner, as if he made up his mind to see how we stood at -once. - -“‘I’ve made one prime voyage for my present owners in these seas, and -this one—mark you—I intend for myself. Now I want a friend whom I can -trust, body and soul, and, if I am not far out of my reckoning, you are -the very man.’ - -“I met his sharp, scrutinizing glance as he said this, and remembering -the carpenter’s words in the galley, I now felt sure that the captain -had some scheme of villainy in his head in which he wished me to become -a partner. There was the more reason to be careful of the grog, since I -could not mistake his manner, and the sharp, sinister look full as deep -as the occasion called for, whatever that might be. However, I thought -it best to affect to do so, and answered accordingly, that I had no -fears of further trouble with the crew when we were once clear of the -coast. - -“His fierce eyes watched mine as a tiger might a stag’s, and with a dark -smile which seemed to say, ‘You’re a deep one, I see.’ He nodded his -head and touched his glass again. Still he seemed to hesitate, and to be -fast losing his self-possession, as if either the liquor he had drank, -or something in the way I received his first hint, had flustered him. I -did not think at the time that he doubted me, either; so I sat still, -smoking my sheroot, and watching the traces of irresolution gleaming -across his sun-seared face, until, making a strong effort to control -himself, he suddenly asked if I was a married man. On my replying in the -negative, he tacked ship again, asking me if I ever read poetry, -alluding particularly to Moore’s Lallah Rookh. - -“‘I don’t care a rope’s end for the Veiled Prophet or Nourmahal,’ he -said, while I wondered again what he was driving at, ‘but I always -admired certain descriptive parts of the Fire-Worshipers, which I always -thought Byron must have touched up for Moore—for instance - - ‘—’Mid damp and gloom and crash of boughs, - And fall of loosened crops that rouse - The leopard from his hungry sleep, - Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey, - And long is heard, from steep to steep, - Chasing them down their thundering way.’ - -“‘Muscat, you know,’ continued he, ‘is the poet’s Oman.’ - -“‘Yes,’ I answered, hardly knowing what to say, ‘and a wretched place -enough it is, in spite of Moore’s fancy.’ - -“‘Why,’ he said, still beating the bush about me, ‘there is some -difference between the sultan’s palace, plain as its outside is, and the -emir’s porphyry walls which the little Irish nightingale sang about—not -so much though, to my mind, as between a merchant dreaming of a full -cargo to-night, and waking to hear of a wrecked ship and no insurance in -the morning—ay, or a captain making two good voyages and finding -himself still in debt—ay, deep as the fathomless sea in debt—to his -owners.’ - -“‘That, I suppose, you would call a species of blank-verse, Captain -Catherton,’ said I. - -“‘Ay,’ he answered, with a fierce, tiger-like gleam of his dark eyes, -‘but the beauty of the thing is, this cargo will balance accounts, and -it’s a long back stretch from ‘Oman’s green water’ to the sandy shores -of Bedford Bay.’ - -“This was starting the devil with a vengeance, so I determined that he -should show his purpose clearly before I gave any reply to the hints he -had thrown out. - -“‘Captain Catherton,’ said I, fixing my eyes firmly upon him, ‘I am no -greenhorn to rush into any man’s schemes blindfolded. If you wish my -services in any thing that is to my taste, you must speak out.’ - -“He emptied his glass again, in a way which showed that he was hardly -sensible of the action, and, ‘Mr. Miller,’ said he, ‘there is that about -you which reminds me of old days, and that, perhaps, is one reason I’ve -taken a fancy to you. It doesn’t matter a rope-yarn whether you join me -or not; my mind is fixed to its course. You shall hear the whole, -however, and judge for yourself before you decide—which is more than I -would care to reveal to any other man that breathes.’ He flung his -sheroot on the deck as he spoke, and mechanically setting his foot upon -it, bared his sinewy arm to the elbow, in the lamp-light. ‘Do you see -those initials?’ he said, in a tone of unnatural calmness. Sure enough -there they were—his wife’s, I had no doubt—E. S. B., dotted in India -ink, and two hearts, worked one within the other, under them. As I -looked in his face for the explanation which was to follow, I saw that -it was fearfully changed; and although his eyes met mine, at first -steadily enough, a strange sort of a spasm contorted the muscles of his -jaw, as if he looked, as it were, through me at some horrible sight, -with his teeth set, and his thin nether lip drawn tightly in. The truth, -or at least an inkling of it, I had had already from the second mate, -and in spite of the terrible doubts in my mind, and the rascally scheme -he had hinted at, I confess I could not help feeling somewhat softened -toward the man. Perhaps he noticed this in my looks, for, with a -shivering sigh, he placed his elbows on the table, and covering his eyes -with his hands, although not a groan or a moan escaped from his lips, I -knew by the tears which forced their way through his fingers, and the -quiver of his strong frame, that some hard struggle was going on. I sat -still in pure wonder at this sudden outbreak of feeling—the initials, -as it were, staring me full in the face, and the man’s damp forehead, -with its mass of dark curls within reach of my hand—until a strange -thought that I had seen him before in some old, familiar place, came -slowly thrilling into mind. Where this might have been I could not, at -the moment, conjecture; but as he removed his hands and I looked -anxiously at his features, I felt almost sure that it had been years -before, in some scene of summer-revelry, with trees and horses in front, -and woman’s soft eyes on the background. Perhaps it was the altered look -of Catherton himself, which brought the last into my mind in the cabin -of the old Tartar, to be associated in some unaccountable way with that -tall, muscular frame, and that dark, gloomy face, frowning as if ashamed -of his emotion, though it might be, the tears had done him good. At any -rate, the idea oppressed me so forcibly that, before he composed himself -to speak again, I glanced nervously round the cabin, taking in every -object as well as I could by the smoky light—from the state-rooms, on -the larboard side, with their musty, sickening smell, to the rack in the -recess between the cabin doors, and thence from the starboard ones up to -the chart-rack and the broad transom, where the two models, one of a -whale-ship, the other of a first-rate, both made of a sperm whale’s -jaw—guns, boats, spars, and even the miniature brail-blocks, all -fashioned out of glistening white bone, were resting on their mimic -ways. Of course I saw nothing there to account for the impression, faint -as it grew again while I gazed, and half deeming it the delusive trace -of some forgotten likeness, or of something which I had read of or -dreamed, I turned my eyes again upon Captain Catherton. - -“‘Mr. Miller,’ said the man, as calmly as if he were sitting at home, it -might be, in his nursery, his wife within reach of a whisper, and -something in the subdued, moist look of his eyes in devilish accordance -with the drowsy quiet of a domestic scene, ‘we are not all as -philosophic as Cato—nor as vile as the man made immortal in infamy by -Horace—_non omnibus dormis_—you remember the satires.’ - -“As I stared again at this, a forlorn ghost of a smile flitted over his -face, and with his next breath the mystery of the thing vanished. I have -often wondered since what it was that kept me fixed to my seat like -stone; perhaps it was the reflection that my own accursed folly had been -the wreck of us three—him, the wretch—myself, and _her_—perhaps it -was the awful suddenness of the shock which stunned me like a heavy -blow; I cannot say; but stifling the groan which rose to my lips as the -horrible truth flashed upon me, while the very air seemed to thicken -before my gaze, and his words to come with terrible distinctness through -the gloom, I sat still on my seat and heard him out. - -“‘I was born,’ he said, ‘at the village of ——, a few miles from -Philadelphia, and abandoned my home, like a fledged petrel, as soon as I -could comprehend the map of the world with its thousand ports and its -endless stretch of sea. It is a strange thing, Mr. Miller, this young -fancy of ours for being blown about by the wild winds, and rocked out of -a life of ease by the cunning waves of the deep. To my mind there was -once nothing so joyous in life as the roar of the gale at its height, -when you slid from the top of a sea to the trough—the dripping dash of -a head sea on the prow—or the rush of cleft waters astern, as you sat -conning the chart.’ Little did that careful old pedagogue dream, as, day -after day he chuckled over my progress in this department of knowledge, -what restless longings disturbed the breast of his pupil, like the -instinct of the unfledged albatross when it hears the sound of the sea -from its nest on some sheltering cliff. - -“‘It was but last night,’ he continued, in a tone of melancholy widely -at variance with the usual sound of his voice, ‘that I dreamed of the -old man—his thin, white hairs brushed back from his brow—his -spectacles set straight on his nose, as he traced out on the revolving -globe the voyages of Columbus and Vasco de Gama, pausing, with his rod -stayed at some particular point, to enlarge on the daring spirit of -each. It was little wonder that I early yearned for the sea; and yet, as -I afterward learned, great was his astonishment, not unmixed with -chagrin akin to remorse, when he found that I had cut and run. However,’ -he said, putting his hand to his forehead, ‘we met again, and the matter -was thoroughly cleared up between us.’ - -“Here he paused in thought, his eyes fixed in a troubled way on my face, -while the changes wrought by time and the sea seemed to disappear from -his own, and I wondered that I ever could have been so blind as not to -have known him at once: a triple sense of condemnation oppressed me; and -the soft eyes and the sweet face came vividly up, until I actually -shuddered to think, as the whole name, Ellen Symington Blount, was as -plain as day; what terrible tale which linked her fate with his might be -still lurking behind. I could well understand, too, his allusion to -Lallah Rookh, which was her favorite poem, and how it was that he had no -recollection of me, having never seen me but once, and that for a moment -by starlight. Old Charley’s riddle was read, though it was hard to tell -how he became master of it, and stifling my feelings as I best could, I -awaited in silence for the captain to resume. - -“His eyes dropped to the floor, where the rats were again creeping about -unheeded: presently they scampered off, and I heard the hasty _pit-pat_ -of naked feet as one of the anchor-watch came aft to the binnacle, when -the ship’s bell struck one. The stroke was instantly followed by a clang -from the Arab frigate, and then by a sort of stir, which loomed up as it -were on the sultry gloom of night, in the midst of which you seemed to -hear the cries of the sentries on shore, calling from tower to tower, -through the pestilential air; and when these died away, with the nearer -echoes of the bells in the harbor, you heard again the sound of the -man’s feet pattering along the deck, as if he, too, had paused to listen -before rejoining his watch-mate, who perhaps, like myself, was spinning -some old yarn. - -“When all was still again, the silence seemed to press on my ears like -the distant splurge of a tide, while the lamp drowsed and the rats crept -to Catherton’s very feet, scuttling off, however, as soon as he stirred, -breaking abruptly out of his reverie. - -“‘I made a trading voyage round the globe, and returning to the village -twenty-six months after I left it, was received like one from the dead. -I was bent upon giving old Blount, the schoolmaster, a surprise—as much -so, it seems to me now, as if I had run away from school for that sole -end. - -“‘Accordingly, I was out of the stage and bang into his garden, where he -sat smoking his pipe, with his back toward the walk, before he had the -least notion of what had turned up. - -“‘Hillo! old ship! What cheer?’ said I, and round he swung to my hail, -dropping his merschaum and staring at me in the summer-twilight, as I -stood rigged out in a full suit of blue, swinging my cynet-hat, until I -could stand it no longer, but just broke out into my old laugh, which -brought his daughter tripping out from the back-porch, when, of course, -the recognition took place. After the old man was over the heat of his -surprise, and I took time to notice that Ellen had grown, in proportion, -quite as much as myself, and how beautiful she was—and that she had -been the first to divine that I had gone to sea—my heart beat quickly -again with a feeling strange as sweet, and somehow I was not so much -shocked as I might have been, when her father, taking off his spectacles -and sobering his face, informed me that my uncle had died a year before. -To be sure, I had never known a parent’s care, and Colonel Catherton, -living as he did, almost alone with his books, was a man rather to be -feared than loved by a child. Besides, I cannot remember ever to have -had strong feelings for a human being before I became aware of my -attachment to Ellen. I rather loved to lie behind some hill which shut -out all but the sky from view, and dream of the sea—or to sit under the -lee of the woods in a gale, with a book of voyages in my hand, intent -upon scenes of battle and wreck, with the last year’s leaves under my -feet, and the wild roar in my ears. - -“‘It was in the whole stock, and, in fact, I have heard that my father -and two of my uncles, at different times, had all been lost at sea. -However, the colonel, who had been a great merchant in his time, had -left some property—not so much though as was supposed from his style of -living—and as I was his only heir, they persuaded me from taking -another cruise until the estate was settled. This, of course, only left -me leisure to fall all the deeper in love—the rock, Mr. Miller, on -which, it seems, the gentlest as well as the roughest of us must split. -Many were the consultations I had with old Blount, and strongly he urged -me to settle at home as a professional man, never dreaming—old proser -as he was—that the thing was too deeply grained in, ever to be coaxed -out, even by Ellen’s eyes. The upshot of it was that I remained at home -for two years longer, until the property was sold, doing nothing but -reading nautical works and growing more and more enamored of Ellen. -There was a soul in that girl’s voice like the sound of the surf as it -breaks upon some enchanted shore, off which it might be, you lay waiting -for day to dawn—a spell in her dark eyes more like the ideal dreams of -old, than the influence of woman over man in these degenerate days. If -ever mortal had fair excuse for anchoring his faith on the sandheads -of—but, excuse me, Mr. Miller, they are all of a piece, as you may have -discovered before this—some one says to be rated only by their -different capacities for mischief. - - ‘Helen laid thousands on the shelf, - Dido only burned herself: - As Helen’s beauty was the rarer, - Her claim to mischief was the fairer— - A rule in courts that firm hath stood - Before and ever since the flood.’’ - -“As he ran on in this wild way, eating his heart, as it were, in sheer -desperation of feeling, something in my look, as I felt my soul -struggling to rise against the mendacious wretch, sent him from his vile -sneers and accursed Hudibrastic lines, back to his narrative. Garbled -and imperfect as that was, I was mad to hear it to the end; for while -bitterly rueing the ruin which my own folly had wrought, I could not -help burning to know by what damnable arts or eloquence she had ever -been persuaded to yield her hand to _him_. - -“His eyes sunk before mine and he moved restlessly on his seat as a -sound, so like to a sigh that it made me start, came apparently from the -door of the closed state-room; it might have been the Circassian—or the -rats in their ramblings—and drinking off a brimmer of grog, he resumed -in a different tone. - -“‘At the end of the time I spoke of, the old man fell sick, and somehow -his friends had dropped off, so that I spent most of my time almost -alone with him. At last he consented that we should be married at his -bedside. He had been growing weaker day by day, and I was the more -anxious for the match, as his house was close to a place of fashionable -resort, and Ellen had, somehow or other, become acquainted with some of -the young blades from the city. There was some talk about her and one of -them, while I was absent on a tour to the great lakes, that had like to -have set me mad on my return. However, the youngster—who was, by all -accounts, to the full as deeply in love and as fiery as myself, besides -being, at least, my equal in fortune and connexions—had got himself -involved in a quarrel with an acquaintance about this same report, -which, in the end, sent one man to his grave and the other out of the -country. As the duel made a great noise in the city, I determined to -marry Ellen privately, and to remove from the village altogether as soon -as her father died. - -“‘Well,’ continued he, in a husky tone, ‘the thing was done, and when we -rose from our knees, after the prayer, the old man was dead. We had no -idea that he was so near his end, and I leave you to imagine, Mr. -Miller, the horror of my bridal-night. - -“‘However, when this was over, and we were alone together in the world, -Ellen seemed to cling the closer to me, and it was not long, as you may -suppose, before we left —— behind. I directed my course to Boston -where I had made arrangements to enter into business with an old -shipmate, a son of one of the firm in whose employ I had sailed on my -first voyage. In the course of a few weeks I found myself comfortably -settled at last, with most of my funds invested in the purchase of a -ship and a brig, engaged in a trade to the Spanish Main. I commanded the -ship myself, and for several years things went well—when by the -villainy of my partner, suddenly as a whirlwind strips a ship, the house -went by the board. After this I commanded vessels on the African and -Brazil coasts, until the last ship was sold to a whaling house at New -Bedford. I had agreed to deliver her into her new owners’ hands, and, as -my wife’s health was rather unsettled at the time, I took her with me -for the sake of the jaunt. It was then that I received offers from the -man who had purchased the ship, which first directed my attention to -this particular service. It was true that I knew nothing of the -business, and had a sailor’s prejudice against it; but the man treated -us with such considerate kindness, and made me offers so tempting to a -broken man, pointing out how easily the difficulties might be obviated -in time, and enlarging on the importance of having good navigators in -the Indian seas, that, in an evil hour, I consented to take charge of my -old ship. - -“‘I removed from the hotel to a house in the upper part of the town, and -after making the necessary arrangements for a protracted absence, and -three weeks from the time I went into the Wisemans’ employ, I found -myself at sea. The first voyage—and it was a short one, not exceeding a -twelvemonth—put me up to the business, and investing all I had cleared -in the ship, after a stay of six weeks on shore, leaving my wife to -mingle in the best society which the place could afford, I put again to -sea. It was on the homeward bound passage, in a full ship, after an -absence of little more than fifteen months, that within a degree or two -of the line I spoke a clean ship, with letters on board from my wife and -the owners. Before I could board her, however, we were separated by a -sudden squall, and night coming on lost sight of her altogether. We did -not see her again, and it was when giving way to some natural vexation -at the accident that I received the first intimation from Mr. Jinney, my -mate, of the secret intimacy which had long existed between Ellen and -the younger Wiseman. The man’s tale was a straight one, corroborated by -several circumstances too trivial for notice at the moment of their -occurrence, yet of sufficient importance, when taken together in -connection with his story, to darken the past and cast an ominous shadow -over the time to come. - -“‘Though I had thought to strike her dead at first sight, with the -stretch of sea between us, yet old ocean, wiser than a thousand -graybeards, played the soother again, even in this great sorrow—the -faster it bore me toward her, as the ship heeled to the trades—the -wilder the gale I encountered off the very shores where she breathed, -the more it seemed to uplift its voice against the tempest of fury which -must have inevitably involved me in the ruin it brought down. It was -well done,’ he exclaimed fiercely, ‘here’s to thee, old theme of the -poets—broad pathway for spirits like mine to sweep! Neither the frailty -of woman nor the malice of man’—here his voice grew too hoarse for -utterance, and drinking off the liquor like water, he dashed the glass -to the deck, walking the cabin with hasty strides, like a tiger chafing -in his cage—while I, with a curse on my lips for what, as God is my -judge, in spite of the man’s emotion, I believed to be a lie, sat -chained to my seat, as by some predestined spell. - -“Although my faith in the innocence of Ellen was as strong as in the -angels of heaven, still he plainly believed all he avouched of her -guilt; and still, as I clung to the one redeeming thought that nothing -on earth could have tempted a spirit like hers astray, still something -would whisper that she might have changed toward _him_, or have been -made the victim of some infernal conspiracy, with woman’s malice, -perhaps, at the bottom of the scheme. Strange stories in the history of -the Cathertons, before they came over from England—which I had heard -years before—flashed across my mind, and I felt sure—I knew, it must -have been the circumstances growing out of my unfortunate duel—which, -no doubt, he had twisted to the furtherance of his own purposes, which -had induced her to marry him when her heart was elsewhere. - -“I had little time to think of this at the moment, as you may suppose; -for the sight I had seen that night, and the story of the second mate’s, -with the frightful thought of what she must have endured to the end, was -enough to craze my brain, until Catherton, breaking out into a laugh -more like a fiend’s than a man’s, and halting directly in front of me, -said—‘You look wild, Mr. Miller—perhaps you, too, have trusted woman. -I tell you,’ he hissed through his teeth, as I arose and leaned against -the mast, as it were, from pure weariness—staring at him in a blank -way, while the blood seemed congealing to ice in my veins, ‘I tell you -she was false—false as the whole sex—false as the hollowest heart of -them all—though the oaths I had sworn, and the plans of revenge we had -laid, kept me still.’ - -“‘No! no!’ reiterated he, laughing again in his horrid way, ‘by that -time I had learned something of endurance; and, as I had no -children—for I was spared that misery—it was not worth my while to -thrust my neck in a halter for the sake of a profligate woman. Ha! ha! I -thought better of it—it was a sweeter and safer revenge to have her -here in the ship, while she knew that I was cruising the seas to beggar -her paramour—for, fool-like, his money went at the gaming-table faster -than it came, and I had persuaded him, in conjunction with the mate, to -invest his all in the purchase of this ship—to see her, amid the -healthful breezes of ocean, dying a death to which the direst of Eastern -tortures are mercy—’ - -“‘Devil!’ I broke out at last, striking him full in the face with one -hand, as I snatched a cutlass from the rack with the other, sending the -iron scabbard, in my fury, straight across the cabin against the door of -a state-room; he reeled a pace or two, laying his hands upon a half-pike -at the mast. ‘Fool!’ I exclaimed, seeing that he still hesitated, ‘come -on—I am S——!’ - -“He shortened the pike and darted at my face on the instant, but -catching the thrust on the edge of my blade, I threw the point up into -the deck-beam; that instant had been his last, for his defenseless head -was within fair sweep of my sword, when from that very state-room, the -door of which had been forced open by the flying scabbard, the same -figure which I had seen before that night, again appeared, gliding now -swiftly and noiselessly between. - -“The cutlass fell with a clank on the deck, and I stood with -outstretched arm, my soul riveted to my gaze, striving in vain to speak, -while Catherton staggered back against the mast, covering his eyes with -his hands. In the rigid and ghastly lineaments of death I saw, as my -heart stood still, the likeness of Ellen; the frozen eyes seemed to hush -my very breath; the thin, clay-like lips moved, and, like sigh from a -coffin-lid, the whispered words met my ears, ‘Not thus—not thus!’ - -“‘What—what art thou?’ I gasped out—when old Charley’s voice sounded -on deck; a sort of scuffle appeared to get up in the companion-way, and -Halil Ben Hamet and his attendant, both sprinkled with blood and covered -with soil-stains from sandal to turban, suddenly appeared on the scene. - -“I stared from the apparition to the chief, and when I looked again, the -place where it had stood was vacant. - -“‘All is lost, my friend,’ said Halil; ‘they are hard on my track, and I -have come hither to die with Zuma.’ - -“At these words the captain recovered himself, and stepping from behind -the mast, waved me on deck. - -“By a sort of instinct I felt compelled to obey him, as it seemed, for a -space longer; and making mechanically for’ard, I roused out the -anchor-watch, who, as usual, were caulking it in the galley, and not a -soul else on deck, though the heat was so great, that I wondered how it -was possible for a living thing to sleep. After this I again went aft to -the binnacle, glancing at the watch to see if the last bell had been -struck, and looking over the side, wondering if the boat in which the -chief had come off, had gone adrift. I then walked to the waist again, -where, hardly knowing what I was doing, I stood looking up into the dark -blue where the stars were burning, until, as I gazed, a feeling of the -utter vanity of earthly hopes came over me, as I thought that these same -stars which had shone so calmly on men’s deeds for thousands of years, -would shine the same on my grave. It seemed to me, then, that not only -the feelings involved in the fate of Ellen, but all the experience of -the past, all the changes of time and clime, faded away into nothingness -before those twinkling, far-away lights; and a something of peace which -I had never known before, swiftly as the thought seemed to travel -through space to the winking planets, slid into my soul on the slant of -the star-beams. Then my ear caught the splurge of the tide—a faint air -from the sea fanned my cheeks—and a low growl of thunder came rumbling -up into the cove. I remember, too, to have noticed lights moving on -shore, while a stir arose on the beach close to the landing, but in the -mood I was in at the time, I paid little attention to this. - -“The Tartar lay moored stem and stern just within the entrance of the -strait, midway between the island and the main, shut out by the rocks on -the larboard hand from the walled town and the castles which kept the -restless Arabs in awe. One or two of the little round towers, said to -have been built at their gloomy and apparently inaccessible altitudes, -by the old Portugese, might be seen looming thrice its real size above -the hot outline of the topmost crags, over which the moon was rising, -casting a strong yet dubious light on Muscat Island, which, with the -bats wheeling continually about it—the patches of sand in its narrow -gulleys, and the rough stones standing out of them, with here and there -a stunted cypress, reminded me strangely enough of a Turkish grave-yard, -and did not greatly tend to remove the impression, now uppermost in my -mind, that something you’d give the world to avoid was soon going to -take place. I looked intently at the Arab frigate, while the moonlight -stole upon her rigging, creeping slowly down the _taut_ sticks and -back-stays to the spar-deck, where twenty red-caps and turbans were -visible over the side, showing that her quarter-watch at least were wide -awake, when, my thoughts wandering again, I fancied some desperate, -wild-eyed wretch—such as I had often seen creeping about the -slave-market and the narrow lanes of the bazaar—stealing, step by step, -to her magazine, blowing the slow match in his fingers, and staring by -its lurid glow at the hammocks which he passed, until I actually caught -myself grasping a shroud, and watching for the upward shoot of her -masts, in the broad red glare and the shock that was to follow. Then I -recalled the image of Ellen as she once was, and the unsated fury burned -again in my breast, fed by my belief in her innocence; then came her -spirit gliding across my bewildered mind, ghastly as I had seen in the -cabin; then the thought of what Catherton could be doing, until I was no -longer capable of thinking at all, but just walked on the forecastle -again, for the mere purpose of diverting my mind from the horrid tangle -it was in. It was some relief to enter into a conversation with one of -the watch—a strong, heavy-headed fellow, as green as a -parade-ground—about his home among the hills of the Hudson, and the old -story of the trouble which sent him to sea, which, no doubt, I listened -to intently at the time, although I never afterward could remember a -syllable, except something about a certain Sukey Fairlamb, who turned -out to be a jilt, and one Jonas Weatherby, who took the wind out of his -(the Tartar-man’s) sails. I also recollect his remarking how much hotter -it had got within the past ten minutes, and looking aloft, I saw the -light scud flying across the stars, though the flutter of air on deck -had already died away. A noisome steam was rising out of the -forecastle-scuttle enough to choke one, while a dog which we had on -board lay on the fore-hatches, panting for breath, without so much as -looking at the bucket of water, which some one had placed within a foot -of his nose. All at once I heard the sound of oars, followed by a hubbub -of voices—and a large boat, filled with men, appeared in sight, pulling -from the landing toward the ship. As I started aft I saw the captain -disappearing down one hatchway, as the carpenter and the cooper came up -another, and as soon as the boat came alongside, I hailed. Receiving no -answer, I hailed again in Arabic, when a voice answered in the same -tongue, ‘Be silent, we are coming on board in the sultan’s name.’ I -ordered the carpenter to make fast the warp which they threw, when the -first person that appeared over the side, I knew at once to be a little -French renegade, the captain of Syed’s guards; the next was the accursed -eunuch himself; and if the one glance which I had of his face by -moonlight had not been enough, the sight of the two Zanzibar mutes who -followed him—the stealthy, cat-like looks of their eyes fore and aft -the deck, and the rush of the soldiers behind, would have convinced me -at once that Halil Ben Hamet’s time was come. - -“‘Have de goodness, Monsieur Capitaine Miller,’ said the renegade, who -knew me well, ‘to make de muster of de sailors on de forecastle, by de -sultan’s orders, sare.’ - -“As it was useless to refuse, I ordered the two men of the anchor-watch -to call the people for’ard, while the cooper and his crony roused out -the boat-steerers in the steerage, the noise having already awakened the -mates, who were sleeping in the house under the poop. The whalemen -seemed bewildered enough, as they tumbled up the scuttle, and gathered -for’ard of the windlass, although I noticed that they collected the -handspikes in a heap—some of old Charley’s party, headed by the wild -man-of-war’s man, showing signs of a determination to clear the decks. -This, within half a pistol shot of the frigate’s batteries would have -been sheer madness; accordingly I spoke to one or two of the men by -name, ordering them to keep quiet, when two sepoys came for’ard, with -drawn sabres in their hands, and ordered me into the cabin. Armed -sentries were posted at all the hatchways, and naked cimiters glanced -round the eunuch and the captain of the guard, seated at the table in -the long cabin, where Catherton stood leaning leisurely against the -bulkhead, cool and collected, with his arms folded across his breast, -the imminence of the danger having apparently restored his presence of -mind. - -“‘This is my mate,’ said he, to the Frenchman, as I entered; ‘you may -examine him, if you see fit.’ - -“Hadji Hamet turned his turbaned head, recognizing me by a doubtful -smile, while the French renegade, bowing to the deck, asked me, in his -broken English, if I had commanded the watch that night. - -“‘No, monsieur,’ I answered, rather sullenly, ‘it is not customary—in -_Christian_ ships, at least—for the chief officer of a ship to head an -anchor-watch.’ - -“‘_Certainement non_, sare,’ he replied, with something of the ineffable -polish of his nation, ‘we know dat—have de goodness, monsieur, to show -me de visitors in de ship—de runavays, if you please, Monsieur Miller.’ - -“I felt the eunuch’s devouring eyes creeping, in their slow, malevolent -way, from the deck up to my face, as I answered. - -“‘That is easy enough, monsieur—provided any such be in the ship. You -cannot suppose us such fools as to receive deserters in a full ship, -with plenty of idlers already on board. If the men are in the Tartar, -they must have been concealed by the people for’ard, and I advise you to -look in the fore-peak.’ - -“He interpreted what I said to the eunuch; Hadji then made some remark -in an under tone, and the renegade, shrugging his shoulders, addressed -me again. - -“‘Monsieur Capitaine Miller,’ said he, decidedly, yet still with as much -suavity as before, ‘you will confer de grand obligation to make de plain -answer, sare, vidout de bagatelle. _C’est bien malapropos à present_,’ -muttered he, taking snuff out of a gold box, and glancing aside at the -two mutes, as they stood near Hadji’s seat, their small, serpent eyes -never off of his face for a moment, and their jetty, tattooed arms -folded across their naked breasts. Before I could devise an answer, -groping in the dark as I was, upon gaping ground, two Arabs pushed into -the throng, leading the mulatto by the collar. The fellow was terribly -frightened, and looked round as if for some one to address, when his -eyes lighting on the captain of the Tartar, he seemed to turn dumb as a -mute at once. However, the fatal moment was not to be staved off longer, -for Hadji, with a look of devilish cunning, drew a small golden whistle -from the folds of his _juma_, and blew it till the cabin rang again; I -started to hear a sort of scratching, struggling noise in the -after-cabin, and the next moment some sort of an animal, between a rat -and squirrel, ran through the crowd, cowering at the eunuch’s sandaled -feet. A smile of triumphant malice played upon Hadji’s face, and the -Frenchman, snatching up his sword, rushed through the group to the -cabin-door. At that instant the thick gloom, which had been setting -bodily down on deck for the last ten minutes, was rent by an awful glare -of lightning, and, as the parted air collapsed, with a crash which made -the ship tremble to her keel, I saw the Arab chief, standing, pistol in -hand, at the door; the renegade reeled back against one of his men, -while the redder flash of the pistol again illumined the cabin, and -bounding like a tiger in its leap, cimiter in hand, Halel sprang over -the table at the eunuch. The lamp was extinguished in the fray, and had -it been the chief’s intention to escape on deck, perhaps he might have -done so in the confusion which followed; for the lightning glared -incessantly through the stern-ports, while the thunder, reverberated by -the rocks, crashed over our heads in one continuous peal, till you’d’ve -thought the hoary granite was piling over you. The first rush of the -swell in the cove broke over the ship, deluging her fore-and-aft, as it -heaped up in the strait in one tremendous surge, which tore the frigate -from her anchor, and dashed her high against the rocks. The lighter -craft fared no better, being swept from their moorings like drift wood; -however, while the horrible work was going on below, the second mate had -let go a second anchor, while the stern-hawser parted like pack-thread, -and showing the head of the foretopmast-staysail, while some of them aft -managed to get the spanker-gaff partly hoisted, and others jammed the -helm hard down, the ship brought up with a surge which shook her in -every timber; and, as you drew another breath in the melee below, where -one man was contending with fifty, you heard the hurricane roaring over -her mast-heads, like the rush of Milton’s legions to the field. - -“I was thrust hither and thither, splashing in the water, nearly -knee-deep on the deck, amid the clash of steel and the shrinking back of -the Arabs, until a blade whizzed past my ear, falling with a dull ring -on the head of some unhappy wretch, whose hot blood spouted in my face. -Half blinded, I stumbled over a prostrate body, clearing my eyes as I -brought up against my own berth, when another flash showed every object -distinctly, and I saw the two mutes throw themselves before the eunuch -upon Halil; then followed a deadly struggle from the mast through the -cabins to the transom, during which Hadji’s shrill voice screamed to the -executioners to use dagger or bowstring—then a heavy fall and a -gasp—woman’s fearful shriek—and again you heard over all, the defying -roar of the tempest. - -“Torches, which had been extinguished by the wind on deck, were now -relighted in the cabin, revealing a sight which was terrible to look -upon. Three dead bodies lay on the deck, or across the table, besides -that of the Arab chief, who had been thrice stabbed, and afterward -strangled. Scarlet caps, cleft turbans, and pieces of rent apparel were -washing about, with the fragments of the swinging lamp; while the table -and the cabin partitions were reeking with gore. - -“The Frenchman was dead as a door-nail when they raised him up, which -was some comfort, though the three blacks had escaped without a scratch, -except one of the mutes, whose hands were gashed with a dagger. The -soldiers now closed the doors between the cabins, having first dropped -the dead-lights, and after the eunuch came out, the bodies were removed -out of sight in the sail-room, all except that of the chief, which was -laid on the table, a dreadful sight, after the fever of the thing was -past, since you could not keep from looking at the blackened face, with -the eyes staring out of it, as if he were ready to start up again—the -frown being still on the brow, though the orbs were glazed, and the arm -hung nervelessly down. - -“I shall never forget the feeling of satisfaction which arose within -me—when some one threw the folds of a turban over the face—as I -thought that every blow he struck had been home; only if he had cloven -the eunuch’s hard head to the jaw, I had been almost happy, in a sort of -religious submission to fate, as if all who loved too well on earth, -must pay the penalty in some shape or other, at last. - -“It appeared that the cabins had been twice searched before I was -brought down, but Catherton had hidden the fugitives under a false -bulkhead, so artfully contrived, that had not Hadji and the guard been -so hard on Ben Hamet’s track after the attempt to assassinate the sultan -had failed, they might have escaped detection. The little animal, which -had revealed their presence, after all, was a pet of Zuma’s, a flying -lemur from one of the Indian archipelago: woman-like, she had brought it -away in her dress, and by the knowledge which black Hadji had of its -habits, it was thus made instrumental in betraying the pair. - -“Neither Catherton nor the steward were to be found below, after the -murderous fracas was over. I had no particular desire to remain myself, -as you may suppose, and no opposition being offered to the movement, -accordingly I went on deck. - -“The wind was now at its height, having blown every thing moveable off -the poop into the seat which was breaking in awful rollers at the bottom -of the cove, the squall having come from the north-west. The ship, with -two anchors down under the lee of Muscat Island, rode safely enough -after the first danger was over; but the Arab frigate was lying -broadside on to the rocks, grinding to pieces, with nothing standing but -her lower masts. She could plainly be seen, not only by the flashes, but -by a strong phosphorescent gleam which pervaded the atmosphere, -reflected, perhaps, from the sea, each gigantic surge sparkling with -living fire, heaped up in the smothering foam of its crests, as it -rolled down on the wreck. I could even see the brine pouring from her -lower deck-ports, as she lifted bodily against the rocks, and fancied I -could hear the despairing cries of her crew, as one by one, her heavy -guns, torn from their tackles, were hurled across the decks. - -“I had little time, however, to dwell on the sight, terrible as it was, -for the carpenter and man-of-war’s man came driving the length of the -deck before the blast, when old Charley shouted in my ear that the -steward was taken with the cramp in the forecastle, and thinking he was -going to die, wished to see me. Accordingly, I struggled for’ard, with a -foreboding that the horrors of the night were not yet over. A knot of -our men were standing in the waist, and I passed the Arabs crouching -under the booby-hatches and the fife-rails, from the fury of the wind, -which howled fore-and-aft the deck. I was about to descend into the -forecastle, when Captain Catherton, with his Indian boat-steerer and -three of the mates, came up on the other side. He waved me aft, -shouting, at the full pitch of his strong voice, to the mates behind -him, who held on to the windlass, and looked from him to me without -moving a finger. However, the boat-steerer lifted a handspike, and his -superior—who was now grown desperate, having received an inkling of my -errand from the Indian—presented a pistol at my head, and pulled the -trigger. It flashed in the pan; and before he could level another I -closed with him, pitching him back into the scuppers, where old Charley -and Frank lashed him to a spar, hands and feet. One word to the mates -about his plan of running away with the ship, and I sprung down in the -forecastle, where the mulatto lay on his back, raving for them to keep -the captain back, while two of the men were rubbing his writhing body -with whale-oil and hartshorn. - -“The second mate and most of the starboard watch were standing around, -looking on helplessly enough, though the moment the steward’s eye caught -mine he ceased to struggle, moaning and mumbling, like a dog, till I got -my ear close to his mouth, when he muttered something about searching -the run under the after-cabin, where the powder was kept. The violence -of the spasms interrupted him, and although there was an urgent meaning -in his wild eye, and he pointed repeatedly aft, in his agony, I was -awfully at a loss what to make of it, until, looking up, I encountered -old Charley’s curious glance, and the ghost flitted, as it were, across -the maze in a moment. The second mate must have seen the same thing -himself, for without a word on either side, our eyes met in one -startling flash of intelligence, and he followed me close, as snatching -up a heaver, I drove along the deck, knocking the Arabs to the right and -left, tumbling down the narrow stairs from the poop in my haste, with -two-thirds of the ship’s company at my back—mates, boat-steerers, -forecastle-men, and all—though the most of them tramped down the -companion-way into the for’ard cabin, where we heard them battering at -the doors and cursing the Arabs; the carpenter and myself ripped up the -table and the scuttle under it. Parker stood by with a torch; I jumped -down, lowering the light, and you may guess gentlemen, what I saw; for -it seems,” said the master’s mate, passing his rough hand to his brow, -“that long years, spent in trying to drown the sight, has hardly given -me nerve to tell. - -“It was Ellen, herself,” continued he, after a pause, “lying, -motionless, on a heap of old bunting; but whether life had gone, or no, -it was impossible for me to answer, as I took her up—staggering under -my burthen, light enough, God knows, as it was. The second mate caught -her from me, and I stumbled, helpless as a child, about the mouth of -that horrid hole, hardly noting its secrets, until the men burst into -the cabin, and I heard old Charley say she was dead. - -“‘Where is Mr. Miller?’ said Frank, with an oath. - -“‘Here,’ I answered, leaping out among them, every vein in my body -running with liquid fire—the one thought of revenge on her murderers -raging in my heart, and upon my tongue. However, the mates—aroused from -their stupor at last—threw themselves upon me, as I glared round for a -weapon. A wild uproar began to rise among the men, crowding upon each -other to catch a look at her face, hanging over the second mate’s -shoulder, with a look of mute appeal, as he told me afterward, on the -wasted features set in death, by the red torch-light. - -“In the midst of this, Hadji summoned his soldiers from deck: I saw his -malignant purpose, and my calmness came back, as I made up my mind that, -at all hazards, he should not approach the corpse. Breaking from those -who held me, I burst through the throng, and pointing to the half-pikes -leveled against his party, ordered him, in Arabic, to clear the cabin of -his scum. He laid his hand on the hilt of his _krungar_, scowling like a -fiend of darkness upon me from a crowd of his men; but the menacing look -of the mass in front of him—all of whom had armed themselves—not to -speak of the tone of my own voice, admonished him, devil as he was, to -think better of it. - -“‘That’s the sort, mates,’ said the carpenter; ‘if they don’t top their -booms at a minute’s warning, we’ll spit the heathens to the beams, and -then hang Jonas to the yard-arm.’ - -“‘Silence, there!’ said I. ‘One minute more,’ looking at the eunuch, and -grasping the weapon which some one had thrust into my hand, ‘and it will -be too late.’ - -“He felt that he was overmatched, and turning slowly round, still -keeping his baleful glance fixed on my face, ordered his followers on -deck, retiring last himself, just as I caught Frank’s pike traveling in -his rear to freshen his way. - -“As soon as the cabins were cleared of the Arabs, I took the second mate -a little aside from the rest. - -“‘Now, Mr. Parker,’ said I, ‘you will take charge of the Tartar. All I -ask is, that you will not give up the female that Hadji Hamet has -confined in that state-room, to the tender mercies of the sultan, if you -can possibly avoid it—and a cast home for myself, if you can get an -offing for this ship, and I am allowed to leave Muscat in her. I will -pay my passage in Persian rupees, or if you prefer it, in Spanish -dollars. One thing more,’ said I, seeing that he was about to interrupt -me, ‘I know something of the country: if you would save yourself a mint -of trouble with the sultan’s divan, you will put Catherton at once in -double-irons, and keep him secure, at least, until you are clear of the -land.’ - -“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I, for one, am content to obey your orders till the -v’yage is up. What say you, my lads, is Captain Catherton fit to be -trusted with the ship, after what has happened?’ - -“‘No, no!’ was the universal answer, mingled with execrations and oaths -of vengeance. - -“‘Who, then, shall take charge?’ asked the second mate. - -“‘Mister Miller,’ they answered, with one voice, ‘for he only can take -the Tartar off this coast.’ - -“‘Well, my lads,’ said I, wonderfully moved, I confess, seeing that I -had something to live for yet, although, a moment before, I had thought -that my hold on life was slackened for ever, ‘if you will have it so, -I’ll do my best. I tell you fairly that the captain confessed to me last -night, in this cabin, that he intended to sell ship and cargo, on the -passage home, in return for some private wrong which, he said, one of -the owners had done him—though,’ said I, solemnly, ‘as surely as God’s -eye beheld this accursed deed, yon pale clay was as innocent as the -angels of heaven of aught like crime toward him.’ - -“‘We know it, captain—we knew it all along!’ they answered, even those -whom I had considered the most hardened, shedding tears, while curses -and vows of vengeance were freely vented around. - -“‘She was too good for the bloody-minded villain,’ said the carpenter; -‘and, so help me, if there is nobody else—’ - -“It was time to stop this, as we had quite enough of blood for that -night, so I checked old Charley in his oath, and called back the Indian -boat-steerer, who, at first, had seemed disposed to side with the -captain, but who was now stealing up the companion-way, in an -empty-handed, errandless way, though I saw the thing in his eye, and the -gleam of a knife in the sleeve of his shirt. - -“‘My lads,’ said I, ‘we will leave him to the law. He shall not escape, -I promise you. Mr. Parker, you will have Captain Catherton put in -double-irons, and placed in the steerage for the present.’ - -“‘Ay, ay, sir,’ he answered, and accordingly the villain was well -secured, with one of the trustiest men in the ship standing sentry over -him. - -“After this, the cabin was cleared of all but a strong guard, armed to -the teeth, and I went on deck, leaving Zuma, who had recovered from her -swoon of terror, kneeling in silence by the body of the chief. I had -resolved to save her as soon as I could see any possible way, though I -knew that her life and my own, perhaps, depended upon our getting under -weigh, as soon as the weather would permit. - -“The fury of the squall was over. One of the mates told me that it had -been raining a perfect deluge a few moments before I came up, and, in -fact, though it was slackening off, the decks were all afloat, and I -could even see by the great flashes of waste lightning which still -illumined the passage, the spherical shape of the rain-drops, as they -fell. I mention this, gentlemen, to show how deeply the most trivial -incident in that terrible night was impressed upon my mind, never to be -forgotten while memory lives with me. - -“The wind soon freshened again, blowing fiercely in gusts over the -rugged top of Muscat Island, but gradually sunk as the atmosphere -cleared; the stars showing themselves, here and there, in patches of -clear sky, before the day dawned. Then, as the sun rose behind the lofty -rocks to the east, the wind failed altogether, and it seemed fast -growing as hot as before, while a vague notion got into my head, looking -at the Arab soldiers on the poop, that the events of the past night, -terrible as they seemed, were now but the ghosts of things that had -been. - -“A sort of calm, too, prevailed in the ship, as the heavy swells began -to subside in the cove. The cook was in his galley, attending to his -usual duties, the blue smoke rising from the funnel, straight as a pine -tree, half-way to the top. The people hung in knots about the -forecastle, apparently waiting for eight bells to summon them to -breakfast, while the mates stood together on the larboard gangway, with -a glass among them, examining the shore and the wreck of the Arab -frigate, now firmly wedged in between two precipitous rocks. - -“The black dog of a eunuch, secure, as it seemed, in the shadow of his -master, walked the poop with as proud a stride as if his foot was -already on our necks—not a muscle of his grim, relentless face moving -beneath his showy turban, flecked, as it was, with blood, while, as I -met his deadly, sinister glance every time he turned, I fancied to -myself—as, indeed, I had done on former occasions—what a hell of -secrets must lie hidden, from all but God’s eye, in the black pit of his -soul. The pagan wretch was said to delight in shedding human blood, and -in every variety of torture, having been cognizant of many acts of -atrocious cruelty in the time of the old Imaum. His only qualities were -a brutish devotion to the sultan, and a species of slow, long-breathed -cunning, of which report said Syed Ben Seeyd had often availed himself -in penetrating the secret designs of his enemies. - -“However, when I thought of Catherton’s villainy, it could not be -denied, that black or white, Christian or heathen, human nature devoid -of a regulating principle, was essentially the same, differing only in -the modifications of climes; and, singular as it may seem to you, -several passages of the New Testament illustrative of the same idea -occurred to me at the time, and I could not help feeling that it was -utterly impossible for me, even if I had been differently brought up, to -deny for a moment—thinking of the wisdom of the parables—that it was -truly God who had spoken on earth with the lips of man: reflecting that -the thirst for vengeance for a supposed wrong had made Catherton even -more wicked than Hadji himself, who would probably, under any -circumstances, have disdained such a dastardly scheme of revenge as the -former had partially broached, thinking to have bribed me to join him, -in the situation I was in at the time, partly by offers of pecuniary -advantage, and partly by his tale, which had so puzzled me at first, -little dreaming that he was the man who had married Ellen. I was almost -confident now that the whole diabolical story of her guilt had been one -of the mate’s own planning—he, I mean, who had gone to his account—and -horrible as the thing seemed, I had no doubt _now_ Parker’s notion was -correct, and that the captain either in fear, remorse, or hate, or from -some curious commingling of the three, had sacrificed the entire boat’s -crew to get rid of his accomplice. How the body of Ellen, dreadfully -emaciated as it was, came to be found in the run after the second mate’s -account of her loss, was yet a mystery to me, unless Catherton, with the -assistance of the steward, had palmed that story on the crew, while he -secretly held her confined in the hold to starve by slow degrees. -However, as I had no wish that the matter should be cleared up in the -sultan’s divan, after my recent promise to the crew, I aroused myself to -make the attempt to get the ship to sea. - -“The cove of Muscat is less than a mile in depth from its entrance at -Fisher’s Rock, but how to get out of it into the current, with no wind, -against the heavy swell, was the puzzle. The two forts were to be -counted as nothing when the ship was once under weigh, as they merely -commanded the passage, and the risk we ran from the one on the western -shore was not to be thought of, if we had a chance, when it fell calm -enough, to tow the ship out into the currant setting from the Persian -Gulf. The land-wind was almost certain not to blow before sunset, and -the Arabs were sure to board the ship from the shore before that time, -although not a single craft or boat of any kind was to be seen afloat, -as I swept the harbor with my glass, and I had not the least doubt but -the Soliman Shah, the corvette which had anchored off Fisher’s Rock the -day before, had been driven from her anchors with the frigate. - -“Another hour passed, as I anxiously watched for the swell to go down, -when we saw them making preparations to get off two _balitas_, lying -aground on a spit of sand nearly in front of the palace. As I turned to -look at some persons who had appeared on the divan, a large and airy -veranda, overlooking the sea, the second mate exclaimed that one of the -Arabs was making signals to the shore with his turban. In the desperate -case we were in, it was neck or nothing; so, as I really began to have -some hopes of getting to sea in the want of crafts to board us, I -instantly ordered two guns to be run in and pointed aft; the carpenter -clapped a bag of musket-balls in the muzzle of each, and while Parker -and the man-of-war’s man stood by with matches lit, I hailed the Arabs -in their language, giving Hadji notice, that at the smallest sign of a -repetition of the act I would sweep the poop. This seemed to appal them. -A few moments after, while part of the people were taking their -breakfast on deck, word was brought me that the steward was easier and -wished to see me again. - -“Directing Parker to keep a bright look-out, I dove down into the -forecastle where the poor wretch was now lying in the cook’s bunk. I -almost started as I looked upon him by the lamp burning at the beam over -his head. His face seemed shrunken to half its usual size; the -cheek-bones stood out, the eyes were pulled in, and the lips blue and -puckered. His hand was clammy, cold as ice, and shriveled like a -bomboat-woman’s who washed for the fleet. Though he felt no pain, there -was a look of anxiety in his dim, sunken eyes, as he turned restlessly -round, which, with his fluttering pulse and exhausted look, told that -his hour was come. In fact, he was sinking fast into the long sleep of -death, worn out, like the elements, by the fierce convulsions which had -racked him. His mind was clear, and he spoke more calmly than might have -been expected, though his head tossed from side to side like a dying -billow. His voice was small and choked, hoarse as it seemed, from the -agony which had wrung the sweat like rain from his pores. Anxious as I -was to hear what the wretch had to communicate, it was with a strong -feeling of repugnance that I approached my ear to his lips, for a film -was vailing his eyes and the death-stupor already clouding his brain. He -roused himself when spoken to, and recognizing me, confessed in a few -broken words which one of the crew took down, that the mate and he after -agreeing with the captain to drown Ellen, had made up their minds to -secrete her in the run, and suffer her to escape from the ship at the -first port they visited. In order to deceive Catherton the steward had -prepared a figure when the boats were off and thrown it into the sea on -the night on which Ellen was supposed to be lost. He said nothing could -have tempted him to murder her, although the captain and the mate had -both sworn to him that she was false. He was certain that Catherton had -lost the mate’s boat intentionally, and added, that fearful of a similar -fate he had not slept in his hammock more than an hour at a time since -the day of the mate’s death. Immediately afterward he sunk into a -lethargy from which it was useless to attempt to rouse him. From what I -had heard, coupled with the sights I had seen, I had no doubt that, -either from the difficulty of conveying her food, or the intention of -the mulatto to starve her, she had sometimes been reduced to the -necessity of seeking food for herself at night in the cabins. As the -after one was generally kept locked, with the keys in the steward’s -charge, she must have lived there part of the time, more than a -fortnight having elapsed since the night she was thought to have gone -overboard from the stern. This,” said the master’s mate, solemnly, “may -account, gentlemen, for the man-of-war’s man’s story of the shriek; but -nothing will ever dissuade me from the belief that it was a moving -corpse which I saw that night in the cabins. That she was locked in the -starboard state-room when I tried the door on the day when the sultan -and his party went through the ship, I have not the least doubt now—so -inscrutably mysterious is the course of fate! However, to resume my -tale—for the watch is nearly out. I went on deck just as a boat from -the shore was reported to be making for the ship on the long, angry -swells which still dashed heavily on the western shore, impressing your -mind with a vague yet overawing intimation of their might, as you heard -them break half-mast high, without a breath of wind, whitening the dark -range of bare rock, and leaving great gouts of foam hanging in the -clefts and ledges far above the sweep of the back-wash. However, it was -easy to see, watching them steadily for a few moments as you listened to -their heavy, monotonous roar, and watched the birds hovering over the -rocks, that in less than an hour more it would be calm enough to tow out -with the tide; so I hailed the boat as soon as it came near enough, -directing the man in her to go to the palace with the message that we -intended to send Hadji and his party on shore as soon as the sea fell. -(As I mentioned before, we had secured all the boats on the cross-beams -over the quarter-deck, so that we lost none of them when the swell -boarded us.) Hadji attempted to speak, advancing to the break of the -deck as the messenger was cautiously turning his boat’s head in-shore, -but the second mate blew his match, while a party of musket-men, whom he -had placed under the high bulwarks, lest one of the soldiers might slip -over the stern and swim on shore, leveled their pieces at his turban. He -walked back to the taffrail sullenly enough, and I now gave orders to -prepare the boats for the attempt to tow the ship out into the current, -which at this season runs at the rate of about four knots an hour, -thinking on the low, sandy point which we had to double. We soon found -that they had collected a fleet of small boats and catamarans in the -drain, evidently for the purpose of coming off to the ship, and strings -of horses had been attached to the bailitas, while we could see the -Bedouin Arabs galloping about near the spot, and the divan crowded with -the sultan’s attendants, no doubt watching every movement in the ship. - -“At ten, we dropped six boats containing thirty-six men, and as soon as -they were in range of the hawsers—the ship being stern off to her -anchors on the first of the ebb—as I expected, a shot from the fort on -the main whistled past her bow just as the axes were lifting to cut the -cables. Down they came in quick, effective strokes, and the men gave a -long pull together as the heavy chains rattled out of the hawse-holes, -and once more the old Tartar was in motion seaward. - -“‘Frank, my man,’ said I to the man-of-war’s man, whom I retained on -board with some of the steadiest of the men, ‘jump aft and hoist a red -rag of some sort at the gaff—their own colors, you know—if it’s only -to puzzle them. Stand by, carpenter, to sweep the poop when I give you -the word.’ When a shot better aimed than the last struck the -mizzen-rail, narrowly missing a shroud, and scattering the splinters -right and left among the Arabs. Down they went on their faces, out of -the way of their friends’ balls, all except Hadji, who stood it without -flinching, while my hands itched, I confess, for a chance to send an -ounce bullet from the barrel in my hand through his heart. - -“‘Hurrah!’ shouted Frank from the midst of them, as up went the cook’s -shirt, tacked to pieces of bamboo to give it spread. I saw them pointing -their glasses at it from the veranda of the palace, and shouted to the -mates to give way strong, for they were launching their rafts and a -whole fleet of boats, filled with soldiers, whose spears and long -match-locks glistened in the sun now rising over the rocks to the -north-east. The castles and the forts began now to fire in earnest, -sending their iron about the cove in every direction, though the ship in -some measure shielded the boats from the few guns which bore upon them. -Many balls hurtled through the air past us, but only four struck her -hull, doing no particular damage. I looked at every flash to see some of -the sticks go, and ten minutes more would have brought the Arabs down on -us with a force which it would have been worse than useless to resist. -In fact, when I saw them training their match-locks on the boats, though -we were then clear of the passage in the eddy of the current, I gave up -the game as lost, thinking of calling the men on board, with the -desperate notion of fighting it out to the last on board, when looking -over the side at the ship’s way, I saw Muscat Tom’s broad flukes and -glistening back, within fifty feet of the sternmost boat. The soldiers -now opened their fire to drive the men from their work—I caught the -second mate’s flushed, hopeless look, as he turned his head from tugging -at his steering-oar, and then the black fiend’s triumphant grin, with a -malicious glance from the whites of his eyes, as much as to say: ‘you’re -in for it for a good long spell, my lads’—when the sight of the whale -in the desperate emergency of the case, seemed to put it into my brain -what to do. - -“‘Mr. Parker,’ I hailed, ‘have you lines and harpoons in the boats?’ - -“‘Ay, ay, sir,’ he answered, while the men looked up at the ship as if -they wondered what next. - -“‘Cast off the larboard hawser, then,’ I shouted, ‘bend irons on to the -starboard one, and strike that whale. Let the other boats come -alongside.’ - -“‘Ay, ay, sir,’ he answered again, just, it seemed, as he would have -done had I ordered him to fasten to the moon, supposing that it had been -shining to seaward. However, the five boats were alongside and hoisted -up in no time, and Parker, as soon as he was up to the dodge, wild as it -seemed, did the thing in true whaleman’s style, bending triple plies of -the line to the hawser, driving both irons socket up in the whale’s -back, as he lay like a log on the sea. For one single instant the -enormous animal remained motionless, while the boat backed off from his -flukes; then I saw his mighty, flexible tail, with its million stripes -of freckled gray, heave up until his whole back was plainly to be seen -to the dorsal fin, when down it came like a dark mass of iron, driving a -cloud of spray in the air, and off he headed to sea, the water being too -shallow for him to sound. The hawser stood the surge, and away the old -ship went to her tug, the second mate giving a chase, while the men -echoed back the yells of the disappointed Arabs amid the crack of -match-locks and the bellowing thunder of the cannon. We soon had -Parker’s boat towing astern, and Tom, if any thing, increased his speed, -stretching the hawser—which, like the rest of her gear, was bran new -that voyage, as _taut_ as a harp-string. Every time he raised the edge -of his flukes for a downward stroke of his tail, the men cheered; in -fact, the fellows danced about the deck like wild men round a war-post, -or negroes under a tamarind-tree; it was no manner of use to try to -restrain them; while the poor devils of Arabs, with the black at their -head, stood looking their last—with Allah’s name on their lips—at -castle, rock and tower. However, the thought of what was lying in the -cabins seemed to strike the crew all at once; and then, as they ceased -capering and pitching their hats at each other, fixing their eyes upon -me as one man’s, the old, desolate feelings came back to my heart all -the heavier for the contrast. - -“Still the whale held right on off the coast, and we had nothing but to -fold our arms and look on, wondering when the tough, pliable irons would -break or draw out—or looking for him to sound, which, you know, would -cause us to cut the tow-line. The axe was ready in the second mate’s -hands, and we were already in the strength of the current, which he took -tail on, increasing his speed, of course, toward some old sleeping haunt -of his, as I thought, possibly in the Gulf of Mageira, under the lee of -some low island or coral reef. The oldest whaleman in the ship could not -wonder enough at the strength of the monster—a hundred feet long, as he -was, and more. He neither yawed nor slackened his pace, but kept -straight on to double the sandy point broad on our larboard bow by this -time. It was a strange thing, to be sure, to feel the ship slipping -along, stern on to the current, with a man standing soberly at the wheel -to steady it, all her sails furled, and the whale’s flukes kicking up a -white dust ahead, like one of Loper’s screw-propellers. Parker told me a -story of a vessel in the Greenland seas being towed by a ‘right whale’ -for an hour and a half, in the teeth of a strong breeze, with the yards -brailed aback; so that, at that rate, there was no estimating the powers -of a full-grown ‘finner,’ a much larger and more powerful fish of the -two; he might tow us entirely clear of the coast, provided the harpoons -did not break off at the ‘withers,’ or ‘draw,’ which last, the mate -said, was the way in which the matter was likely to end. Indeed, the -event proved his knowledge of the habits and resources of this species, -as we doubled the point safely enough, at the distance of two miles, in -sight of a body of horsemen, who pulled up from their useless chase, on -the very edge of the strand. - -“A hundred wild thoughts of things which I had read of or seen, flashed -across my mind, as I caught a view of the interminable blue expanse -before me; now it was Mazeppa on his wild horse swimming the ‘bright, -broad river’—now a Gaucho scouring the pampas—now the naked trapper -running for life from the Blackfeet, over the plains of prickly -pear—or, last of all, the voyages of Sinbad the Sailor, which coming -up, as they did, from the days of my boyhood, when the wreck of the only -woman I ever loved was lying thus strangely in the cabin, with the -eunuch’s black face glooming over it, oppressed me like some monstrous -dream. I was aroused from this by a voice calling out that there was a -large ship right in the whale’s track. Accordingly, after a little we -made her out with our glasses, rolling on the long ground-swell, a -frigate-built ship, which I took, from the whiteness of her canvas, to -be either French or American, though the leanness of her dark hull, with -its single tier of guns, as she rose on the swell when we drove nearer -to her, and the improbability of one of our own cruisers being upon this -coast, made me almost certain she was the first. Accordingly, when we -were within gunshot, up went the old Bourbon colors at the mast, as the -smoke of a gun puffed out of one of her midship ports, and you had a -notion what sort of a stir was on her decks at the moment, at the sight -of a large ship bearing down on her in a stark calm, with more than -twice her drift; then you heard the roll of her drum beating to -quarters, as if they thought ’twas Sathanas himself afloat. To ease -their minds, I ordered the red rag to be hauled down, and the stars and -stripes to be run up at half-mast in their stead. - -“All was still as death, except the surge of the Tartar’s bows to the -strain of the hawser and the creak of her hamper aloft, as the whale -sheered to port, and we passed within half a pistol shot of the -corvette’s broadside—her crew at quarters staring at us in a queer -enough sort of a way, as if catching a sight of the American flag, and -the whale-boats at the cranes, they made sure all was right, strange as -the sight was—until, as if to break the spell, their little mad-eyed -captain jumped on the hammock-netting and hailed. - -“‘_Bon voyage au diable, mes amis!_’ he shouted, waving his cap round -and round, as if he meant to jerk it into the sea, to the glorification -of some Yankee invention or other, the moment we slipped past him—when -Hadji’s turban and the scarlet cape on the poop caught his eye, and he -sung out something which I did not hear, for the whale went down like a -flash, burying the Tartar’s bows to the forecastle, deep as she was, -before Parker, taken by surprise, could cut the hawser, which, after -all, he had no occasion to do, as you knew by the feel of the deck, as -the ship rose, that the whale was free. We hauled the slack of the -hawser, looking for Tom to rise, when one of the harpoons was found -broken off at the head, and the other drawn out. I never saw Muscat Tom -again; and it is likely, as the old hands said, that he never rose from -his dive. My yarn, gentlemen,” continued the master’s mate, “is nearly -spun. The frigate’s boats boarded us, of course, when part of the tale -was rehearsed to her captain. He was bound to Mocha to look after some -atrocities which had been committed upon subjects of France, during a -recent revolt, and at once offered to land the eunuch and his men there, -and to protect the Circassian, and carry her back with him to France. -However, when we entered the cabin, it was found that she was beyond the -reach of mortal arm, whether to shield or destroy. She lay by the side -of her lover, dead by poison, as it seemed, yet still so beautiful in -death as to surprise the Frenchman. In the end he took charge of all the -prisoners, as the crew of the Tartar in a body stoutly refused to do -duty while Catherton remained in the ship. The French captain promised -to hand him over to the American authorities on the first occasion that -offered, and the remainder of the day was spent in clearing up the -cabins and taking depositions in French and English. - -“Just before sunset the bodies were removed to the frigate, that of -Ellen in my boat, while Parker took charge of Zuma’s and the chief’s. At -my request Ellen was buried immediately. Both crews were mustered in the -gangways, and the ensigns hanging at half-mast as the French chaplain -read the service. The last glimmer of day was fading from the west as we -listened to the prayer, and a star shot its beams on the spot where the -corpse went down.” - -Here the master’s mate made a brief pause, during which seven strokes on -the frigate’s ponderous bell proclaimed that the watch was nearly out. -Before the vibrations had ceased on the ear we heard the schooner’s, -like the reverberations of an echo, faintly sounding, far to leeward. -The moon had sunk; the sails flapped heavily in the dying breeze, and -entranced as we were, that distant clang seemed to strike a chord in -each listener’s soul. In a low voice the mate resumed. “A breeze ruffled -the water up as they piped down, and bidding farewell to the Frenchman, -we hastened on board, and made sail on the ship. - -“It was a terrible passage—such as every man in that ship will remember -to his dying day—from the cape latitudes to Pernambuco, where I put in -to recruit. - -“The very next morning after we anchored, an agent of Don Jose Maria -came on board to inquire after Captain Catherton. You may swear that he -departed, with his sallow visage considerably lengthened, when he heard -the news. I learned privately from the American consul, in the course of -his investigations, that Don Jose was a man of great wealth and -influence in the province—your very worthy and hospitable _Senhor de -Engenho_ in the country, and merchant, slave-dealer and broker in any -kind of business, in which a _mil reis_ was to be turned up in the city. -I never saw the old gentleman myself, as he did not do me the honor to -show his powdered head, and the long cue, which the carpenter -particularly instanced, in the ship while I commanded her, although the -second mate was careful that the counter-skipper whom he sent to ask -after his worthy associate, should take on shore with him the exact -value of the cargo on board, so far as we had advices respecting the -market at home. In fact, from some estimates which I found among -Catherton’s papers, I had no doubt that old Charley’s suspicions were -correct, and it had been settled, when the ship touched here on her -outward passage, that Don Jose should become the purchaser of the ship -and cargo. Upon questioning the carpenter in private, I found that years -before he had got hold of a portion of my history, from a shipmate of -his, who had known me in ——, and whom I recollected to have met in the -West Indies, on the very voyage, when he pointed me out at the door of a -cafe to Toppin. Singular as it may appear, too, it was not until we had -run up the S. E. Trades, that Parker showed me the letter which he had -found in his jacket in the Persian Gulf, and which I now discovered was -addressed to myself. The perusal of it had nearly driven me to share her -grave in the waters, victim as it clearly showed her to have been to -Catherton’s arts from the first, and, as I had supposed, murdered at -last by an infernal conspiracy of his mate’s, or rather of his wife’s, -as was discovered when we reached the States. It was shown that some -resemblance existed between Ellen and the woman-fiend; and, from her own -confession in the prison, to which she was consigned for the rest of her -life, that she had been played off on Catherton for his wife, by the -connivance of Jinney. The motive for the victim’s ruin did not appear so -clearly, the woman herself declaring that she knew not why she hated and -had sworn to destroy her. There was not a single creature in the -smallest degree acquainted with the facts, who doubted Ellen’s -innocence; and the tears which was shed over her unhappy fate, and the -execrations poured upon her destroyers, were the best evidences of this. -An undue intimacy between the ship’s owner and the mate’s wife was -proved on the woman’s trial; and out of this, it was supposed, in some -way the accursed plot had its origin. - -“However, for myself; as soon as the news of Catherton’s escape from the -French frigate reached the States by another ship, I started again, with -a vow on my soul to roam the world, until I should hunt him down. Year -in and year out, wherever there was a prospect of meeting him—on the -African and Brazilian coasts—on the Spanish Main—and in the sea-ports -of the East, I sought him with a hatred which gathered intensity from -time. Twice I heard of him in command of a free-cruising craft, and once -in Port Royal he narrowly escaped me. The third time, as sailors say, is -lucky—the saw lied though, in this instance,” said the mate, hoarsely, -“for I found him three days ago, cut in two by a round-shot, on the -quarter-deck of yonder schooner.” - -We started to our feet as he said this, partly from surprise, and partly -because we heard the boat-swain’s mates at the hatchways. - -The second day after that the Constitution was lying at anchor with her -prize in the bay of Naples; and to have seen Harry Miller gazing out of -a port at the world renowned shores which environ it—or turning his -back on a crowd of chattering officials, whom curiosity brought off to -the schooner—or in a shore-boat, with a party on leave of absence, you -never would have supposed, from the look and bearing of the man, that he -had been the relator of that wild yarn. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE ACTUAL. - - - Away! no more shall shadows entertain; - No more shall fancy paint and dreams delude; - No more shall these delusions of the brain - Divert me with their pleasing interlude: - Forever ere ye banished, idle joys; - Welcome stern labor-life—this is no world for toys! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE PLEDGE. - - - BY JOHN NEAL. - - -Sampson was a Nazarite. He drank no wine nor strong drink; and so long -as he kept the pledge and the secret of his strength, was indeed a -giant. Read the scripture narrative. - - “Then went Sampson down. . . . And behold a young lion roared - against him. - - “And the Spirit of the Lord came mightily upon him, and he rent - him as he would have rent a kid; and he had nothing in his - hand.” Judges xiv. 5, 6, etc. - - Brothers! we have pledged ourselves, - Like the mighty man of old, - By a vow that bindeth fast, - By the Future! by the Past! - By their banners now unrolled! - - That the secret of our strength, - Unacknowledged—unrevealed— - Setting us apart from others, - Undefiled, O, Giant Brothers! - Shall forever be concealed: - - Never to be told on earth, - Never breathed aloud in prayer— - Never written—never spoken— - Lest our awful vow, if broken, - Bring us bondage and despair. - - Brothers! let us all remember, - How that Strong Man self betrayed; - He that with a heart of iron; - Where he journeyed, heard the lion - Roar against him—undismayed: - - He, the mightiest of the land, - By the harlotry of Sense, - Blind and fettered, came to be - A jester at a jubilee, - A proverb for his impotence! - - And though his strength came back anew - When he bowed himself in prayer, - Until he had avenged the wrong - That called him up with shout and song - And jeer and scoff—he perished there. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. - - - BY J. R. BARRICK. - - - I do not love thee—yet my heart is filled - With a sweet spirit of the beautiful, - Whene’er I sit alone to muse upon - Thy dark eye beaming in a sea of light, - Thy cheek all flush with summer’s rosy glow, - Thy pure, high brow, so beautiful and calm, - O’er which the light and glory of thy thoughts - Beam like the tints of summer’s genial sky - Above a waveless lake—the low, sweet tones - Thy gentle voice breathes on the evening breeze— - Thy pure, high heart, the paradise of peace, - Where lovely flowers spring up in beauty wild, - And blossom into hope—where angels come - On missioned wings from their far homes in heaven, - To chant their Eden songs. - I love thee not - With the wild, wayward love of earth, and yet - If worship be that deep idolatry - The heathen pays in homage to the sun, - Then I have worshiped thee, for I have bowed - In passions deep and holy hour to thee, - And at thy shrine of beauty offered up - The tribute of affection. - I have mused - On Nature in her morning light, when first - The sun looks out upon a world of peace, - When the glad air was vocal with the songs - Of many warblers in their morning joy, - And thou wast there in all of sight and sound, - Thyself the spirit of the beautiful - In all to eye and ear. And I have gone - At evening ’mid the shadows of the wood - To view the glories of the bursting spring, - And hear the thousand sweet and joyous strains - That thrilled each warbler in his evening praise, - And thou wast there, thy beauty dearer far - Than aught in nature seen, and thy sweet voice, - Than all earth’s melodies. I’ve gazed upon - The sunset sky in its last glowing tint, - And felt the spirit of the twilight hour - Stealing upon the scene with potent spell, - Yet thou wast there, and in those happy hours - Thy spirit, like the rainbow o’er a cloud, - Was spanning o’er my bosom. - Thou hast been - A rainbow set above my wildest storm, - A star within my else all darkened sky, - A lovely flower beside my desert path, - A gentle spirit in my heart of hearts, - To bless me with its presence. - From the waves, - And from the winds, and from the gentle streams, - Thy voice hath caught a spell, whose lightest tone - Is very love and sweetness. From the stars, - And from the sky, and from the sunset hues, - That glow like spirits of the beautiful - Along the western world, thine eyes have caught - A brightness and a glory that outvie - The glowing dreams of fancy. From the heaven - From whence thou sprang all perfect at thy birth, - And from all love, and from all passion sweet, - From thought and sense, and from the wide green earth - And from the sky, and from the glorious stars, - Thy mind and heart have stolen their brightest tints, - Till they are but a mirror of the whole, - The sum end substance of all lovely things, - Thyself the Spirit of the Beautiful! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FIRST AGE. - - - BY H. DIDIMUS. - - - (Concluded from page 546.) - - BOOK FOURTH. - - - SECTION I. - -O, help me to escape that oblivion which is more fearful than death! Who -would fall with the common herd, like rain into the ocean—lost in -eternity! Even as the lightning is born of conflicting vapor; is born to -penetrate, change, and subdue. So, of every age, and of the breath and -roar of the people, is born one to rule, and mould, and make his time. -Go then, and get power. Get it by the sword; since, even in our day, -blood buoys the strong swimmer onward to greatness. Get it by arts of -policy; since men will be ruled, and most honor those who rule them most -sternly. Get it by the pen; a voice which fills all time, reaches every -ear, fashions the intellect of millions, and makes it your own. Who -would not float down through endless ages upon a strain of such music, -the multitudinous echo of a spirit chosen of God? The shade of Tubal -rests upon my hand, and guides it. - -The gentle dew falls in silence, unmarked; the print of its footsteps -disappear before the growing light; yet the earth acknowledges its -presence in the livelier green it puts on to make glad its children. In -the narrow valley lives an honest worker; one who, with years of labor, -has subdued the hardy soil. Even now, the yellow grain bends beneath the -weight of its own wealth, and wakes a joy which ambition never knew. -Think you that his days are unrecorded in the Book of Life? Upon his -broad shoulders rests the State. Ariel’s soul is content. - -Thus, early in time, to these two were given, in divided empire, the -passions which now govern the sons of Adam; and have built up, giving -and receiving mutual aid, all our glory. - - - SECTION II. - -As the adventurer, he who first traversed the Amazon, lost in the wood -which covers, thick, the base of Chimborazo, shutting out day and night, -listened with large wonder, mixed fear and joy, to the war of elements -unchained within its bowels; so Erix and Zella, with all their tribe, -listened to the first voice of that strange instrument which Ariel, -gifted of God, after many days, raised high, midway the mountains and -the sea. He had caught and tamed, to answer to the touch of a skill -creative, the sure interpreter of matter and of mind; and the vast soul -which, in these latter days, is well shadowed forth in that book of -love, called The People. He, in a page resplendent with holy fire, and -with a name here unrecognized, is given to every true believer as the -builder of the Organ, and inventor of that art which raises man close to -the footstool of his Maker; and as the notes—new to mortal ears—rose -deep, heavy, filling the forest wide, overcoming the distant murmur of -the sea, overcoming all voices of all life, rumbling, changed to the -clangor of great strifes run for in the future upon many an unbattled -plain, to close in a hymn so soft, so melting, so full of sweet -acknowledgment of the power by God intrusted to a noble end: even Zella, -who had watched his toils and marked their purpose, fell prostrate; -while Erix and his brethren, trembling, fled; nor turned till the music, -wild with joy and that laughter which leaps from youth, and health, and -a breast vacant of all care, soothed their unknown fears, and drew them -with a golden cord, slow tracing back their steps, again to listen, -again to wonder, and again to admire; till, grown familiar, they -expressed with cries, sad shouts, and gestures violent, their new bliss, -and circling, danced. Then, catching the measure, as Ariel’s marvelous -hand poured forth a song of high gratitude for the gift of chiefest -excellence in all that store of heaven’s bounty by himself enjoyed, they -gave rhythm for rhythm. - - - SECTION III. - -“Now, do we know, O God, that thy love endureth for ever.” - -“Sweet, even unto thee, was the voice of Adam.” - -“Sweet, even unto thee, was the voice of Eve.” - -“Our great mother;” - -“Our good mother;” - -“Fairer than the star of the morning, Eve.” - -“Speak for us, Adam;” - -“Speak for us, Eve;” - -“These are thy voices,” - -“In Paradise rejoicing.” - -“We hear thee, mother,” - -“Glorious,” - -“Amid the flowery paths walking.” - -“O, lift from my soul this evil,” - -“Greater than they may bear!” - -“And it is lifted, mother;” - -“And the breath of flowers thou didst train,” - -“Sweet-scented,” - -“And the warble of birds thou didst instruct,” - -“To praise the growing light,” - -“And the heaving of thy bosom,” - -“Pleading,” - -“Face to face,” - -“Come to us,” - -“Swell over us,” - -“Cover us,” - -“As with a sea of infinite delight,” - -“O, matchless beauty of a matchless skill;” - -“Unborn;” - -“Fallen through love!” - -“We hear thee,” - -“We feel thee,” - -“Breathing,” - -“Breathing upon our ears;” - -“And it is lifted,” - -“Mother;” - -“And we rise,” - -“Upon the wings of this music,” - -“Even unto the throne which endureth for ever.” - - - SECTION IV. - -Thus Ariel played; and from day to day, even as his brother at the forge -found new devices, added knowledge to knowledge in his high art, to be -lost in that flood which washed, whiter than wool, the sins, of the -world. And from day to day there came, from tribes far distant, many to -whom rumor had spoken of this joy late found; and of them, one so -fashioned in love’s mould, that she drew after her, ever as she moved, -the eyes of men. Not Aglaia and her sisters, of the heroic age of poesy -universal, could match her qualities, of an excellence so rare, that the -oldest, who remembered Eve, called her Eve’s daughter. Now, alone, her -sole attendant a young gazelle, hung with garlands woven by her hand, -and tamed to reflect, in the soft lustre of its eyes, eyes more soft and -more lustrous far, she stood aloof, then nearer drew, and halting, drank -in with greedy ear, as one long famished, the liquid melody which -floated, beating, upon the air. She listened till her very breathing -hung upon each note, and grew, or was fined away, in consonance with the -measure; and as the master closed, she bowed before him, low, in -reverence, even to the ground; and rising, asked— - -“Art thou of the sons of God?” - -Then first did Ariel’s eyes rest upon the maid there standing, bright, -as a vision from that land which he in childhood sought, to lose -forever; and fire ran through every vein, and that passion which -enforces unity of person and of will. - -“Fairest of Eve’s daughters, such worship is not mine. To Him who -clothed thee with His beauty, alone belongs reverence, with prayer.” - -“In my father’s house I have seen many like unto thyself, winged.” - -“Whence art thou?” - -“From east of Eden.” - -“And thy father?” - -“Cain.” - -“Who yet lives?” - -“Mighty in that glory which is his as the first-born of all the earth.” - -“How looks he?” - -“Noble, even as thyself, with twice thy stature, majestic; and upon his -front supreme burns a star, inextinguishable, the covenant of mercy for -that act of which I may no further speak.” - -“The blood of Abel!” - -Deep night overcame them suddenly, and swept past, as the rushing of a -strong wind. - -“My father!” - -Then turned the maid and fled; in fleetness outstripping the garlanded -beast which hastened to catch her steps, retreating, lighter than its -own. And as, upon the plains of Arcady, Melanion did strive with -Atalanta in the race, in king Jason’s time, so Ariel, pushed by a power -that knows no let, followed quick upon love’s course, nor stayed, till -he caught the frighted deer, full many a league removed, panting, upon a -bed of violets which lay smiling in the sunlight where the forest opened -charily to the sky. - -“Oh, primest work of earth!” - -Then, in turn, he worshiped, and bowed, even to her feet, which, -trembling, he embraced. - -“Thou didst follow me to my hurt.” - -“I did follow thee for thy love.” - -“On this side of Eden I may no longer stay.” - -“Eden, where is it, if not with thee!” - -“Thus do the angels speak, and then—betray.” - -“Powers of the air; false to heaven, they must be false to thee.” - -“Thy comeliness had said thou wast of them.” - -“Thy comeliness should better have answered thy doubt.” - -“A sweet persuader art thou with thy tongue.” - -“A sweeter persuasion rests upon thy lips.” - -“Hist! I hear the flowers moving.” - -“It is the murmur of the sea, far distant, calling.” - -“What sayest it?” - -“Love.” - -The maid, half-yielding, half-refusing, by doubt and trust in turn -possessed, bent over the fair-eyed beast recumbent at her side, and -stroked its smoking flanks, and played with the garlands now displaced -and torn, and sought with pliant fingers to renew a labor which might -conceal the passion new-born, struggling in her breast. - -“Thou shall forsake thy land and dwell with me; and here, along these -paths, and by the waters whose words thou hearest, and with the light, -and with darkness, we will all the pleasures prove which God to our -first parents gave when, in Paradise, resting, he declared all things -good.” - -“And Cain?” - -“Sweet cousin?” - -“It was my father’s shadow that overcame us, and I fled, fearing his -anger, from the music of thy tongue.” - -“Great is Cain.” - -“Loved is Cain.” - -And thus, alternating, deprecating, amid the violets standing, they sang -in praise of the first-born of the earth. - - - SECTION V. - -“Mighty;” - -“Majestic;” - -“Lord;” - -“Heritor of Adam;” - -“Thou who didst first receive a mother’s kiss, of Eve, a mother;” - -“Hear us.” - -“Greatest, among men, is thy strength;” - -“Greatest, among men, is thy glory,” - -“For thou alone,” - -“Of all the living,” - -“Hast seen God!” - -“Oh, son of earth’s love,” - -“Love’s first fruit,” - -“Hear us,” - -“Bless us,” - -“As thou didst pursue my mother, swift-footed,” - -“As thou didst worship the fair-eyed, beyond Eden,” - -“So am I pursued, my father;” - -“So do I worship, Cain.” - -“Heart to heart;” - -“Soul to soul;” - -“Of one will;” - -“Melting into one being;” - -“Bless us;” - -“Even as God hath blessed thee,” - -“All merciful.” - -“And thou, oh Sun, effulgent;” - -“And ye woods, whose song is ceaseless;” - -“And broad sea, far distant, speaking;” - -“And flowers, incense breathing,” - -“Bear witness.” - -“Now do I receive thee,” - -“Now do I pledge thee,” - -“Life of my life,” - -“To an unending joy.” - - - SECTION VI. - -And Ariel led the maid, quick retracing their late course, blushing, -with eyelids drooping, listening with face averted to the music of his -passion, homeward to his mother; while the garlanded beast, now flying -before their steps, now halting, showed mimic war, and caressed its -mistress, from whose eyes it caught security and love. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE ORPHAN’S HYMN. - - - BY E. ANNA LEWIS. - - - Here’s the tomb of my father—how mournful the thought! - That he went to the grave ere my infantile mind - One smile of parental affection had caught, - Or his lineaments dear in my heart were enshrined! - Yes, my sire! by thy dust I am kneeling in prayer, - Where in days of my childhood so oft I have wept, - Imploring thy spirit to soothe my despair, - And at evening and morning sweet vigils have kept. - - Ere my young mind could grasp them, they told me thy woes; - Of the virtues that bind thee forever to me; - Of the love of thy friends, of the hate of thy foes; - That in features and mind I was like unto thee; - And with dawning of thought is thy memory wove, - The grief and the pining that prey on my breast; - The longing to soar to thy dwelling above, - And repose in thine arms in the Land of the Blest. - - I have never seen parents their children caress, - Or soothe into quiet their heart-breathing - When the storm of misfortune around them did press, - But the tears of affection arose to mine eyes: - I have ne’er met a maid by the side of her sire, - Or beheld in the festal a father who kept - Watch over his daughter, and seemed to admire - His lovely and beautiful charge, but I’ve wept. - - My mother lies by him—blessed saint of the skies! - Remembrance returns thee; how gentle and meek; - I behold thee when youth filled with radiance thine eyes, - And beauty and health were illuming thy cheek; - When thy delicate form was elastic as air, - When thy bosom was white as the Parian’s glow, - When thy beautiful ringlets of long, flowing hair, - In sable threads sprinkled thy forehead of snow. - - How solemn, dear mother! it seems, that the clay, - Relentless and cold, now encumbers the breast, - Where, all helpless, so oft I in infancy lay, - And, soothed by thy lullaby, sobbed me to rest; - That on earth I shall never behold thee again, - Never more feel thy rosy lips pressing my brow, - Or thy fairy hand smoothing my pillow of pain— - Thy affection and love must forever forgo! - - My sister sleeps next—lovely blossom of heaven! - Ah, why wast thou summoned so early away? - Why so soon was the bond of our sisterhood riven, - And I left alone on the cold earth to stay? - Why wast thou not spared to delight and to cheer - My desolate heart ’mid depression and gloom; - With thy love-breathing counsels to gladden my ear— - With thy songs and thy smiles to enliven my home? - - Sleep on, ye beloved! it is better to rest - In the halls of the dead, than to linger in life, - Where the brain and the bosom with pains are oppressed - And the soul is beleaguered by sorrow and strife; - Sleep on! though no blossoms your homes are perfuming, - There are calmness and freedom from discord and care, - The lovely and beautiful daily are coming— - And in my pale vesture I soon shall be there. - - * * * * * - - - - - RELIGION. - - - J. HUNT, JR. - - - Religion, pure and undefiled, - Before the Father’s sight in bliss— - Who will the same in Heaven reward, - Consists in holy deeds, like this: - To heed, when cold Affliction’s shaft - Is at the helpless Orphan hurled— - The Widow visit, _and_ to keep - Himself unspotted from the world. - - * * * * * - - - - - TITUS QUINCTIUS FLAMININUS.[2] - - -Of all the truths at which we arrive through a calm and dispassionate -study of history, none appears to me more certain than this, that, as -regards the career and course of empires, the rise and fall of states, -there neither is, nor has been, any such thing as Fortune; that from the -beginning of time, to the events born of the present day, every minute -particular, every seemingly unimportant incident—or, as men are fond to -call it, accident—in the affairs of nations, is part and parcel of one -grand, universal, all-pervading scheme of divine world-government, -projected before the patriarch kings led forth their flocks to feed on -pastures yet moist with the waters of the deluge, but not to be -fulfilled until time itself shall have an end. - -It can hardly, I think, fail to strike the least observant of readers, -that unless the civilized world had been for a long period chained -together under the stagnant, and in the main, peaceful despotism of the -successors of the twelve Cæsars, it never would have been prepared to -receive that tincture of letters, of humanity, and above all, of -Christian faith, with which it became in the end so thoroughly imbued; -that in every case, without one exception, it brought over to its own -milder cultivation, milder religion, the fiercest and most barbarous of -its heathen conquerors. - -Not a province of the Western Roman empire but was overrun, devastated, -conquered, permanently occupied by hordes of the wildest, crudest, most -violent, most ignorant of mankind—Goths, Vandals, Huns, Vikings, and -Norsemen, Jutes and Danes, tribes whose very names to this day stand as -the types of unlettered force and unsparing outrage. Not a province of -that empire, though of its present population not one hundredth part can -trace an approximate descent from the original Roman colonists, so vast -the influx of the Pagan invaders, but in the lapse of time conquered its -conquerors by the arts of peace, and so became the germ of that -Christian civilization, that Christian Liberty, which—though either, or -both, may be temporarily obscured for the moment—we see, in the main, -steadily and consistently pervading the Europe end America of the -nineteenth century. - -That this state of things could have existed, by any reasonable -probability at this day, in the event of Darius or Xerxes having overrun -and occupied Western Europe, with their oriental hordes—in the event of -Carthage having subdued Rome, and filled Italy, Greece, Gaul, Spain, -Britain, with her bloody fiend-worship, and her base Semitic -trade-spirit—in the event of Mark Antony having won the day at Actium, -and broken up the heritage of Rome, like that of Alexander, among a -dozen jarring dynasties, instead of leaving it to be centralized into an -almost universal empire—in the event of the Saracen having destroyed -the paladins of Charles Martel at Tours—of the Turks having conquered -the Mediterranean at Lepanto, or Continental Europe under the walls of -Vienna—few will be found, I think, so hardy as to assert. - -Strange, therefore, as it may appear at first sight, the first germs of -existing institutions may be said to have been sown on the banks of the -Ilissus, the Eurotas, and the Tiber; and the deity, whom the blind -superstition of the early Romans venerated as the war-god Quirinus -guarding the wave-rocked cradle of Rome’s twin founders, was, in truth, -the Lord of Hosts, watching over the infancy of that peculiar and -appointed people which should make smooth his way before him, and -prepare the nations to receive the faith of civil and religious freedom. - -For all this wonderful accomplishment of wonderful designs, however, we -shall find that the instruments are purely human, although the ends may -be divine—that, although the men are never wanting to do His work, when -done it must be, it is for the most part, if not always, in blindness, -in sin, in wrath, and in the madness of ambition, that they do that -work, imagining themselves, vainly, busied about their own miserable -ends; and for the doing it they are alone accountable. But not so of the -nations, which, having no life hereafter, no individual identity in the -world to come, meet their rewards or punishments here, where their -virtues or their vices have required them, and thrive or perish as they -work toward the completion of His infinite designs. - -Nowhere, perhaps, in the whole course of history, is this supervision of -the Most High, which even religious men are wont unthinkingly to call -Fortune, more clearly visible, than in the events of the Second Punic -War. - -At home the republic, though undaunted and unequaled of all times in -heroism, was weeping tears of blood at every pore, and resisting only -with a persistency savoring almost of despair, abroad it was only by the -exercise of sacrifices and self-denial almost superhuman, that she was -enabled to maintain her foothold in her provinces of Sicily and Spain. - -It seems to us, when we read how Capua, the noblest of her allied -cities, opened her gates and made common cause with the enemy, how -twelve of the thirty colonies of the Latin name refused their -contingents of men and money; how all the north of Italy, then Cisalpine -Gaul, from the Var to the Rubicon, was in tumultuous arms against her; -how all the proud and magnificent cities of La Puglia and Calabria were -leagued with the terrible invader; it seems, I say, as if one superadded -call on her resources must have remained unanswered; one more -war-trumpet blown by a new enemy must have sounded her death-note. - -And there was one moment when it appeared that this contingency was -close at hand. In the year of the city 540, while all the south of Italy -was in arms with Hannibal from Capua down to the Gulf of Taranto, and -all the north was in that tumultuous state of disorganization which with -Celtic populations is ever the herald of coming insurrection, Sardinia -suddenly broke out into armed and open rebellion. Sicily, also, in which -Hiero, the fast and faithful friend of Rome, had lately died at a very -advanced age, rejected the Roman alliance, and a war of extermination -was raging in that beautiful island between the partisans of the two -rival powers, and the forces which each could spare from the home -conflict to aid its faction. - -At this crisis, Philip of Macedon, the descendant of Alexander, and at -that time the most powerful of European princes, entered into an -alliance, offensive and defensive, with Hannibal, and would in the -course of that very summer have crossed the Adriatic and invaded Italy -with some five-and-twenty thousand men, sixteen thousand of whom were -the hitherto unconquered phalanx, provided with that arm, in the -greatest possible perfection, the want of which had robbed Hannibal of -the fruits of all his great pitched battles—I mean an efficient -artillery. - -In this respect the Greeks were unsurpassed; the Greek engineers were -the wonder of the world, as was subsequently shown at the siege of -Syracuse; and how great soever the superiority of the Romans to the -Carthagenians in this arm of service, it was as nothing to the skill of -the Greek artillerists, and the excellence of the Greek machinery. - -What this combination might—I should rather say might not—have -effected, it were difficult to show; more difficult to show how Rome -could have resisted it. For my part, having examined the question in all -its lights, I am of opinion that, had this alliance gone into effect, -and Philip acted with energy and steadiness of purpose equal to his -bravery and ambition, Marcellus never would have taken Syracuse, nor -Scipio conquered Spain; but that from both those countries triumphant -reinforcements would have poured in to Hannibal, over the Alps, across -the Straits of Messina, that an Italian Tama would have sealed the doom -of Rome, and a Punic ploughshare razed the foundations of the capitol. - -But such—it is well for humanity—was not to be the issue of the war. -Philip’s ambassadors, returning with the treaty signed and ratified by -Hannibal, were taken by the Roman squadron off the Calabrian coast, and -sent to the city with their papers. - -A year elapsed before the treaty could be renewed; and, meantime, the -Romans, awakened to a perception of their danger, found means to -enkindle the Ætolians and Illyrian pirates against Philip, and in the -end to organize a Greek confederation against Macedon, which gave its -active and ambitious sovereign plenty of work to do on his own side of -the Adriatic. At a later period he found cause to repent that he had -ever meditated intervention. - -Such strokes of fortune, so historians call them, as that capture of the -ambassadors of Philip, which, perhaps, saved Rome—as that strong gale -which blew on Christmas Eve on Bantry Bay, dispersing Hoche’s armament -to the four winds of heaven—such strokes, I say, of fortune, I hold to -be the visible agencies and instruments of God’s providence, in the -government of nations, to the welfare of the world. - -From Rome that peril was averted. The arms of Macedon abstained, -perforce, from the shores of devastated Italy. The arms of Syracuse, of -Spain, were wrested from the hands which would have wielded them in the -behalf of Carthage. The arms even of the unbridled Numidians were turned -against the masters whom they had served so fatally for Rome. And out of -the furnace of that scathing war, the giant form of the chosen republic -emerged, without one hair singed, one thread of its vestments injured; -and that, like the faithful sons of Israel, by the especial providence -of the Almighty. - -Years passed, and events hurried toward their consummation. Yet still, -though from this date the tide of Hannibal’s affairs began to ebb, and -that of Rome’s to flow with a healthier, prouder current, it was not -until twelve more terrible campaigns had been fought out in vain, that -the star of the great Carthaginian set in blood at Zama, and the name of -Carthage herself, all but one brief spasmodic sound of fury and despair, -went out and was forgotten from among the nations. - -Then rousing herself, like a galled lioness, Rome went forth to avenge -and conquer. - -Hitherto she had fought at home for existence, henceforth she fought -abroad for dominion; and abroad as at home, until her mission was -accomplished and His work done fully to the end, she was invincible, as -the fruit of her labors is eternal. - -The war, which had been undertaken against Philip by the Romans shortly -after his giving them the first offense, had languished from the -beginning on both sides, and peace had been concluded between the -contending parties some three years before the decisive victory of Zama. - -So soon, however, as peace was concluded with Carthage, in the year of -the city 552, B. C. 200, true to the latter part at least of her famous -motto, - - _Parcere devictis et debellare superbos_,[3] - -Rome sought at once a cause of war, whereby to chastise Philip for the -comfort given to her enemies in her worst time of need. Nor sought long -in vain. - -A deputation from the Athenians came seeking succor; the arms of Philip -were too near their borders. - -War was declared, the Consul Sulpicius landed at Dyrrachium with a -regular army, and the campaign commenced by a series of operations in -the valley of the river Erigon, in Dassaretia, the object of Philip -being to prevent that of the consul to secure his junction with his -Dardanian and Ætolian allies. Several sharp skirmishes occurred, in all -of which the Macedonians were worsted with loss, and in one instance -Philip narrowly escaped being taken prisoner; whereupon he retreated -through the mountain-passes, throwing up strong field-works in every -available position, but avoiding a general action. - -His works all proved useless, being either forced or turned without -difficulty by the active and movable legionary tactic of the Romans, -against which it became at once evident that so ponderous and unwieldy a -body as the phalanx could not manœuvre or fight, in broken ground, with -a hope of success. - -In the end Philip retired at his leisure into his hereditary kingdom, -and the consul having stormed and garrisoned the small town of Pelium, -on the Macedonian frontier, fell back to Apollonia on the Illyrian -sea-coast, without accomplishing his object. - -Still his campaign had not been useless, for he had snatched the -prestige of invariable success from the phalanx, had established the -incontestible superiority of the Roman soldiery of all arms to the -Greek, and had defeated the Macedonians on every occasion, when they had -ventured to await battle. - -It is not a little remarkable, and proves clearly the singular -adaptability of the Romans to all martial practices, that whereas, -scarce twenty years before, we find their cavalry the worst in all -respects but personal valor in the known world, and their light troops -unable to compete even with the barbarian allies of Hannibal, we now -observe them superior in both these arms, owing, as it is distinctly -stated by all the writers, to the superior excellence of their -weapons[4] and equipment, even to the far-famed targeteers and -life-guards of Macedonia. - -In the following year, Sulpicius was superseded by the new consul, -Publius Villius Tappulus, who, taking command of Sulpicius’ legions at -Apollonia, advanced up the open valley of the Aöus, now Vioza, with the -intention of forcing the famous passes, variously known as the Aoi -Stenæ, or Fauces Antigoncuses, and now as the defiles of the Viosa, -rather than turning them by way of Dassaretia, as had been done -previously by his predecessor. The judgment was sound, the execution -naught. For, after marching to within five miles of the western -extremity of the defiles, he fortified his camp in the plain, probably -in the valley of the Dryno,[5] above its junction with the Vioza, -reconnoitered the position of Philip, who was very strongly posted in an -intrenched camp at the most difficult point of the pass, _à cheval_ on -the river, and occupying both the mountain sides, and there lay -perfectly inactive until he was himself relieved by Titus Quinctius -Flamininus, his successor in the consular dignity. - -This man, of the early Roman leaders, was in many respects one of the -most remarkable; in one particular, with the single exception of Caius -Julius Cæsar, the great Dictator, he stands alone, in honorable contrast -to his merciless and cruel countrymen—though quick and vehement of -temper, he was a just man, and both merciful and courteous to conquered -enemies. The one blot on his character, to which I shall come hereafter, -must be ascribed to the policy of his country, under direct orders from -which he was unquestionably acting, not to his own wishes or -disposition, to which nothing could be more abhorrent than the duty -imposed upon him. - -Plutarch informs[6] us that, in his time, “it was easy to judge of his -personal appearance,” which, unfortunately, he has not described, “from -his statue in brass at Rome, inscribed with Greek characters, which -still stands opposite to the hippodrome, nigh to the great Apollo from -Carthage.” - -As, however, the whole tenor of Plutarch’s life is laudatory, and for -that gossiping anecdote-monger singularly correct and clear, we may take -it as a fact that the nobility of his person was not unequal to that of -his character; which I consider the finest recorded of any Roman general -or statesman. - -“He is said,” continues the author,[7] I have already quoted, “to have -been of a temperament impulsive and vehement both in his likings and -dislikings, but with this distinction, that he was quick to wrath which -quickly passed away, but prompt to kindness which endured to the end. He -was very ambitious and very fond of glory, ever anxious to be the actor -himself in the best and greatest deeds, and rejoicing in the -acquaintance rather of those who needed benefits themselves, than of -those who could confer them upon others, esteeming those as material for -the promotion of his own virtue, these as rivals of his own glory.” - -I will add that I can find him guilty of no act—almost alone of his -countrymen—of political dishonesty, or of social turpitude. To his -country he was a zealous, ardent, and profitable servant; to his friends -and associates faithful and true; to his enemies just and clement; and -to the provincials, subjected to his dominion, a governor so affable, -beneficent and equitable, that when he left their shores they mourned as -for a countryman, almost a father of the country. - -As a general, he committed no military error; and although his command -was limited to little more than two campaigns, they were campaigns of -the most important—important not merely to his own country, but to the -science of war, in general—since they established, beyond a -peradventure, the superiority of the tactic and armature of the legion -to those of the phalanx; in other words, of the line to the column -tactic. - -I give to him this credit, unhesitatingly; for, although Pyrrhus was at -last beaten by the phalanx in Italy, it was rather by dint of numbers -and aid of circumstances than by military skill; and further, it is -evident that the great bulk of his armies consisted of targeteers, -little different from the legionaries, and of Samnites, Tarentines, and -other Italian soldiery precisely similar to them, in arms and array. - -Again, although Sulpicius had demonstrated the superiority of the -individual Roman, to the individual Greek, heavy footman; he had -not—nor any one else hitherto—defeated a phalanx, unless with a -phalanx. - - When Greeks met Greeks then was the tug of war. - -For the rest, the battles of Paullus Æmilius against Perseus, were but -the battles of Flamininus against the father of Perseus, less ably -fought, though on the same principles at last successful. - -The fact remains, that from the battle of Cynoscephalæ, of which anon, -to the end of ancient history, it was an admitted fact that, unless on a -very narrow and perfectly level field, where both its flanks were -securely covered, the phalanx could not receive battle from the legions -with a chance of success; and that as to delivering battle on wide, open -plains, where rapid manœuvring and counter-marching could be resorted -to, such an idea was preposterous. - -Flamininus was educated to arms from his very boyhood, and that in the -terrible Italian campaigns of Hannibal; through which he served with -such distinction that he had already attained the post of tribune of the -soldiers, equal to the modern rank of lieutenant-colonel, under that -daring and distinguished leader Marcus Marcellus, and was on the field -when he was slain, rashly periling himself in an affair of outposts near -Venusia, in the year of Rome 546, B. C. 208, and in the sixtieth year of -his own age. - -After the death of his great commander, Flamininus was appointed -governor of Tarentum,[8] in the capacity of quæstor, on its recapture by -Fabius Maximus; and there displayed no less ability in the -administration of justice than he had previously evinced skill and -courage in warfare. Seven years afterward—at the early age of thirty -years—he was elected consul; and, although opposed by the veto[9] of -the tribunes Fulvius and Manlius Carius on the ground that he lacked -twelve years of the legitimate age, and that he had never filled the -intermediate grades of ædile and prætor, he was confirmed by the senate, -and received Macedonia as his province, by lot. - -The fact is, that the wars of Hannibal had by this time taught the -Romans that an overstrict adherence to prescriptive formulæ, in times of -national peril, is disastrous; and that to meet the ablest adversaries -the ablest men must be had, whether all the theoretic requisites to -their election had been complied with or not. - -Therefore Scipio, the elder Africanus, was sent to Spain with -proconsular rank and a consular army, before he was of the just age to -fill a prætorship. - -Therefore Flamininus was elected consul at thirty, although the -constitution expressly declared that no one should hold that dignity -until he should have fully attained his forty-second year. - -Such laws may be, perhaps, generally wise; but the breach of them is -always so. Nor does history show any instances, worth remark, of -youthful genius elevated by the popular call to early station, and -subsequently found unworthy, from the days of Alexander, Scipio, and -Flamininus, to those of Pitt and Napoleon. - -Nor do I believe that the appointment of the consuls was really, though -it was ostensibly, left to the chance of a lot, at least in times of -actual war, and national emergency; since we invariably find the best -man sent to the place where he was required, which could not always have -occurred fortuitously. Doubtless those who superintended the balloting -had some method of determining the result, as had the augurs and -haruspices with regard to omens and sacrifices. - -So Flamininus was not only elected consul at thirty, but obtained the -seat of the great war for his province, and was empowered to pick nine -thousand men, horse and foot, out of the Spanish and African veterans, -inured to all that was known of warfare in those days by the campaigns -of Hannibal and Scipio. - -A grand occasion, indeed, and a superb command for an untried commander. - -It appears that on his entering upon his office, Flamininus was detained -some time at Rome, in order to superintend a fast and expiatory -sacrifice on account of certain alleged prodigies of evil import; but it -is certain that he had understood the consequences of the dilatory -operations of his predecessors, and was resolute not to fall into the -like error. He sailed from Brundusium for the island of Corcyra, now -Corfu, which he occupied with eight thousand foot, and eight hundred -horse, much earlier in the season than the preceding consuls had been -wont to take the field: and, instantly passing over to the main, in a -single line-of-battle ship, hurried onward by forced journeys to the -camp, and superseded Villius, in the face of the enemy. - -A few days afterward, his reinforcements coming up, he called a council -of war to determine whether a direct attack, or a flank movement through -Dassaretia, was to be preferred. The council, of course, determined any -thing rather than direct action: but Flamininus, perceiving the -facilities afforded by the geography of that broken, mountainous, -forest-clad region, intersected by deep ravines and impracticable -torrents, to the protracting of the war, resolved to take the bolder and -more prudent course of trying conclusions, at once, with an enemy whose -object it evidently was to act purely on the defensive, and to avoid -delivering battle. - -Yet, determined as he was, the difficulties of the ground were so great, -and so skillfully had Philip availed himself of every defensible point, -or coigne of vantage, that many days elapsed before he could decide on -the mode of assault. - -The river Aöus, now Vioza, an extremely large and powerful river, -augmented at every half-mile by fierce mountain torrents, along the -valley of which is the most direct pass into Macedonia proper, at this -point breaks its way through a chain of exceedingly abrupt and -precipitous, though not very lofty mountains, and forms a gorge of six -miles in length, closely resembling that picturesque defile of the -Delaware, with which many of my readers are doubtless familiar, known as -the Water-Gap. - -Forced into a space, two-thirds less than its ordinary breadth, the Aöus -has here cut its way through the solid rock, between the mounts Asnaus -and Aëropus, now Nemertzika and Trebusin, respectively to the left and -right of the defile, which here runs nearly south-eastward. The -right-hand mountain, Aëropus or Trebusin, is the loftier of the two, -descending in a sheer wall of perpendicular and treeless rock to the -brink of the only road, scarped out of the living limestone like a -cornice above the torrent, which bathes the base of the opposite hill, -leaving no level space between. - -“The mountain on the opposite or left bank of the river,” says Colonel -Leake, whose topography of the Grecian battles founded on minute -personal inspection, is no less valuable than interesting, “is the -northern extremity of the great ridge of Nemertzika, Asnaus, much lower -than that summit, but nearly equal to Trebusin in height. At the top, it -is a bare, perpendicular precipice, but the steep lower slope, unlike -that of its opposite neighbor, is clothed with trees quite to the river. -Through the opening between them is seen a magnificent variety of naked -precipices and hanging woods, inclosing the broad and rapid stream of -the insinuating river.”[10] - -The road,[11] difficult in any event to an army, if defended, is -impracticable. - -In this prodigiously strong pass Philip had taken post, occupying the -narrow road with the phalanx, and having his main body hutted -comfortably among the loose crags of Aëropus, on a conspicuous summit of -which was pitched his own royal pavilion, with the banner of Alexander -waving over it. The slopes of the opposite hill, Asnaus, was held by -Athenagoras his lieutenant, with the light troops, and all the flanking -crags and salient angles of the precipitous hills were mounted with the -tremendous military engines, which, though of common use in the defense -and attack of fortresses, had never been brought into field service -until now. - -Immediately in front of this stern mountain gateway extended a small -plain, midway between the Roman camp and the Macedonian lines, and here, -after a fruitless parley and attempt at accommodation, from which both -parties retired so much exasperated at their mutual pertinacity, that -the river, which divided them, alone prevented their personal conflict, -the light troops met in action from both armies. - -It is scarce to be conceived how, with such obstacles against them, the -Romans could have escaped destruction; but it is almost ever the case in -mountain warfare that the attacking party is successful. - -The gray mists of the early summer morning were still nestling among the -crags, and brooding in the deep glades of the hanging woods, when the -long, shrill blasts of the Roman trumpets announced the impetuous rush -of the light troops; and on they went, headlong and invincible, carrying -all before them, and driving in the Macedonian skirmishers like the foam -of the Adriatic before the fury of the south-east wind. - -There was no dust upsurging from the rocky road to shroud their advance, -no smoke-clouds to veil them from the shot of the enemy’s artillery, -with their bright armor flashing in the sunbeams, as they streamed down -the gaps in the mountain summits, and their blood-red banners and tall -plumes tossing in the light morning air, on they came, dazzling and -unobscured, a fair mark for the deadly missiles, arrows shot off in -volleys, vast javelins which no human arm could launch, and mighty -stones hurled from the catapults, as if from modern ordnance, which tore -their ranks asunder, and leveled whole files to the earth at a blow. - -But their extraordinary discipline and admirable armature enabled them -to endure the storm; and they made their way through all opposition, -until they met the phalanx, bristling with its impenetrable pikes, its -flanks impregnably protected by the rocks here, by the river there, and -its narrow front offering no point assailable. Then they were checked; -but, even then, not beaten back, so stubborn was their Roman hardihood, -so firm their resolution to be slain, not conquered. - -All day long did that deep glen quake and shudder to the dread sounds of -the mortal conflict; the thundering crash of the huge stone-shot, -shivering the trees and shivered on the crags; the hurtling of the -terrible _falaricæ_; the clash and clang of steel blades and brazen -bucklers; the whirlwind of the charging horse; the shouts and shrieks -and death-groans; the thrilling trumpets of the legions; the solemn -pæans of the phalanx. - -Only when the sun set, and the full, round moon came soaring coldly up -above the tree-tops, flooding the bloody stream of the Aöus, and the -corpse-incumbered gorge, with silver radiance, did the weary and -shattered hosts draw off to their respective camps, from a strife so -justly balanced, that none could say which had come off the better, none -judge on which side the more or the better men had fallen. - -That night, Flamininus sat in his tent alone, anxious, uncertain how to -proceed, so terrible had been the loss of life, and so small the -advantage; when a shepherd was introduced, sent by Charops, the prince -of the Ætolians, who should conduct a detachment, by a wild mountain -foot-path, to a height in the enemy’s rear, domineering his whole -position. - -Four thousand chosen veterans of infantry and three hundred horse, under -a tribune of the soldiers, were detailed, instantly, for the service, -which would occupy three days. - -They should march all night long, such were their orders, for the summer -moon was at its full, and the nights light as day and far more pleasant, -as being soft with fragrant dews and the cool mountain air. By day, they -should halt in some deep, bosky dell or forest glade, to rest and -refresh themselves securely. So far as the nature of the ground should -admit, the cavalry would lead the way, then halt on the last level. The -vantage ground once gained, they should kindle a fire on the summit, but -abstain from all active demonstration, till they should perceive the -action in the defile at its height. Such were their orders; and in high -hope they parted, carrying with them as a guide the shepherd, in chains, -as a precaution against treachery, but encouraged by great promises, if -faithful. - -On the two following days, Flamininus skirmished continually with his -light troops against Philip’s outposts, relieving his men by divisions, -more to divert the attention of the enemy from the stratagem which was -in progress, than with any design to harass him; though in both points -of view he succeeded admirably; for the superiority of the Roman -light-infantry soldier to the Greek skirmisher was great indeed, and the -Macedonians lost many and good men. - -On the third[12] morning, secure that all had gone well so far, by the -immovable attitude of the enemy, neither elevated by any unexpected -success, nor shaken by any suspicion of his danger, the consul drew up -his legionary cohorts, in solid column of maniples, along the rocky -road, before the sun had yet risen, and while the mountain mists still -covered the distant peaks with an impenetrable veil. - -His light troops, advanced on both flanks, pressed forward along the -difficult hill-sides, dashing the heavy dew in showers from the dripping -underwood, and threatening the camps of Philip and Athenagoras both at -once, with loud shouts and a storm of missiles. - -Then were renewed the splendor, the obstinacy, and the carnage of the -first encounter. Again the Roman voltigeurs drove in the enemy’s -outposts; and beat back the targeteers, who sallied from their works -eager for the fray, from post to post, till they came within the range -of the artillery, when in their turn they began to suffer heavily. - -But at this instant the sun arose; the mists melted gradually away from -the bare peaks, which now stood forth glittering in the hazy sunshine. -With indescribable anxiety the eyes of Flamininus were riveted upon the -distant crag, indicated as the decisive point. There was a vapor -floating round it dull and indistinct, and browner than the blue mist -wreaths—but was it, could it be, the smoke-signal? - -For a time all was an agony of doubt and suspense. His officers gathered -about the consul; the legionaries, seeing their commanders’ eyes all -turned in one direction, gazed that way also, anxious if ignorant. - -Browner the vapor grew and browner; now it soared upward, black as a -thunder-cloud, darkening the azure skies, a manifest smoke-signal. - -Jove! what a shout arose from the now triumphant cohorts!—what a -thrilling shriek of the shrill trumpets, answered faintly and remotely, -as if from the skies, by another Roman blast, but liker to the scream of -the mountain-vulture than to the clangor of the pealing brass!—what a -clang as of ten thousand stithies, when the Spanish blades smote home -upon the Macedonian targes! - -Yet still the men fell fast on both sides, although the Romans won their -way, in spite of artillery and pike and sling-shot, at the sword’s -point; for the Greeks still fought stubbornly, and plied their dreadful -engines with deliberate aim at point blank range, unconscious that they -were surrounded. - -Then came the Latin cheers, and the clang of arms, out of the clouds, -rolling down the mountain side, on their flank, in their rear; the rush -of charging horse!—In an instant they broke, disbanded, scattered, -deserted their defenses—all was over. - -In the first instance the panic and route of the Macedonians were -absolute; and so utterly disheartened and terror-stricken were the men, -that, had it been possible to pursue them effectually, the whole army -must have laid down its arms or have been cut to pieces. - -The ground,[13] however, was for the most part impracticable to cavalry, -and their heavy armature rendered the legions as inefficient in pursuit -as formidable in close combat. About two thousand only of the -Macedonians fell, more in the battle than in the route; but the whole of -the formidable defenses, on which they had expended so much time and -toil, were carried at a blow, all their superb artillery, their camp, -their baggage, rich with the barbaric pomp of the Macedonian royalty, -all their camp followers and slaves, remained the prizes of the victors. - -Philip, after he had fled five miles from the field, that is to say, so -far as to the eastern extremity of the defile he had fruitlessly -endeavored to defend, at length perceiving that he was unpursued, and -suspecting the reason, halted on a steep knoll covering the entrance of -the pass, and sending out parties along the ridges and through the -ravines with which they were familiar, soon collected all his men about -his standard save those whom he had left on the field of battle, never -to rouse to the trumpet or rally to the banner any more. - -Thence he retreated rapidly down the valley of the Aöus, or Vioza, in a -south-easterly direction to a place called the camps of Pyrrhus, -supposed to be Ostanitza, near the junction of the Voidhomati and -Vioza,[14] where he passed the night; and thence by a prodigious forced -march of nearly fifty miles reached Mount Lingon on the following day, -where he remained some time in doubt whither to turn his steps, and how -to frame his further operations. - -Mount Lingon is the eastern and loftiest extremity of a great chain of -hills; dividing Macedonia proper from Thessaly on the east and Epirus on -the west. It forms a huge, triangular bastion, its northern base -overlooking Macedonia, and its apex facing due southward, which is in -fact the water-shed between the three great rivers, Aöus or Vioza -flowing north-westward into the Adriatic, Penëus or Salamosia flowing -eastward into the gulf of Saloniki, and Arecthus or Arta, which has a -southerly course into the gulf of the same name, famous in after days -for the naval catastrophe of Actium.[15] The flanks of this ridge are -steep, difficult and heavily timbered, but its summits are green with -rich, open downs, and watered by perennial springs and fountains, an -admirable post of observation, and commanding the descent into all the -great plains of Northern Greece. After mature deliberation, Philip -retreated still south-eastward to Tricca, now Trikkala, on the Penëus; -and, though with a sore heart, devastated his own country, wasting the -fields and burning the cities. Such of the population as were capable of -following his marches, with their cattle and movables, he swept along -with him; all else was given up as plunder to his soldiers, so that no -region could suffer aught more cruel from an invader than did Thessaly -at the hands of its legitimate defender. Pheræ shut her gates against -him, and since he could not spare the time to besiege it, for the -Ætolians were coming up with him rapidly, having laid waste all the -country around the Sperchias and Macra and made themselves masters of -many strong towns, he made the best of his way back to the frontiers of -Macedonia. - -In the meantime, the consul, after his victory, followed so hard on the -track of his defeated enemy, that on the fourth or fifth day, after -reorganizing his forces and taking up the pursuit in earnest, he reached -Mount Cercetium some fifty miles in advance of Philip’s deserted station -on Lingon, where he had given rendezvous to Amynander and his -Athamanians, whom he needed as guides for the interior of Thessaly. -Thereafter, he stormed Phaloria, received Piera and Metropolis into -surrender, and laid siege to Atrax, a strong place not far from Larissa, -on the Penëus, about twenty miles above the celebrated pass of Tempe, in -which Philip lay strongly intrenched watching his movements, and not -more than forty from the shores of the Ægean. This small place, however, -garrisoned by Macedonians, offered so stubborn a resistance that -Flamininus was unable to take it, until the season was waxing so far -advanced, that, finding the devastated plains of Thessaly utterly -inadequate to the support of his army, and having no harbors on the -coast of Acamania or Ætolia in his rear, capable of receiving transports -sufficient to supply him, he judged it best to raise the siege, and fall -back to winter-quarters in Phocis, on the shores of the gulf of Corinth, -leaving the whole of Thessaly ruined, and its principal towns either -destroyed by Philip, or occupied by his own garrisons. - -During these proceedings of the consul by land, his brother, Lucius -Quinctius, who commanded the fleet destined to co-operate in the war, -acting in conjunction with Attalus and the Rhodian squadron, had made -himself master of Eretria, Calchis and Carystus, the strongholds and -principal towns of Eubœa, winning enormous booty, and stationed himself -at Cenchreæ, at the head of the gulf of Eghina, whence he was preparing -to lay siege to Corinth, the most opulent and splendid of all the Greek -cities, now held by a strong Macedonian garrison, backed by a powerful -faction within the walls, for Philip. - -Marching down into Phocis without opposition, for except the garrisons -of a few scattered towns there was no force, on this side Macedonia, -adverse to the Romans, Flamininus took Phanotea by assault, admitted -Ambrysus and Hyampolis to surrender, scaled the walls of Anticyra, -entered the gates of Daulis pell-mell with the garrison which had -sallied, and laid regular siege to Elatia, which was too strong to be -taken by a _coup-de-main_. The capture and sacking of this town was the -last military operation of the campaign. - -A political event occurred, however, at the close of it, which was even -of greater influence in the end, than all the victories of the year, the -ratification namely of a treaty of alliance between the powerful Achæan -confederacy and the Roman republic, by the consequences of which, joined -to the events of the past campaign, all northern Greece from the Isthmus -of Corinth to the line formed by the Aöus and Penëus rivers, and the -ridges of Lingon and Cercetium, was united under the eagles of the -republic against Philip. Within that region, however, the two splendid -cities—Corinth, the siege of which by Attalus and Lucius Quinctius had -proved unsuccessful, and Argos—still held out for the king, and it was -evident that another campaign would be needed for the termination of the -war. - -Well satisfied with his success, as he had indeed cause to be, for few -campaigns on record have more fully and masterly accomplished their end, -Flamininus retired into winter-quarters in the island of Corfu, while -Attalus and the proprætor Lucius laid up their fleets in the Piræus, and -passed the season of inactivity within the walls of Athens. - -During the winter, after the election of the new consuls, Caius -Cornelius Cethegus, and Marcus Minutius Rufus, but before it was known -whether the conduct of the war would be continued to Flamininus, or one -of the consuls appointed his successor, a sedition broke out in the town -of Opus, and the inhabitants admitted the Romans. The Macedonian -garrison, however, still held out, and while Flamininus was preparing to -reduce it, a herald arrived from the king, demanding an interview in -order to treat of peace. To this the consul, naturally desirous to -conclude the war himself, acceded, and a singular interview followed. - -A place was appointed on the shore of the gulf of Tituni near Nicæa, and -thither came the Roman general, Amynander king of the Athamanes, -Dionysodorus envoy of Attalus, Agesimbrotus admiral of the Rhodian -fleet, Phæneas prince of the Ætolians, and with them two Achæans, -Aristænus and Xenophon. These overland. But Philip came across from -Demetrias, now Volo, with one ship of war and five single-banked -galleys, and casting anchor as close as might be to the shore, addressed -the confederates from the prow of his ship. - -Flamininus proposed that he should land, in order that they might -converse more at their ease; and, on the king’s refusing, inquired who -it was of the company whom he feared. - -“I fear none but the immortal gods,” was the haughty reply; “but I -distrust many whom I see around thee, and most of all the Ætolians.” - -“That,” replied the Roman, “is a peril common to all who parley with an -enemy, that they can place confidence in no one.” - -“Nay, Titus Quinctius,” answered Philip, “but Philip and Phæneas are not -equal inducements to treason; and it is one thing for the Ætolians to -find another general, and for the Macedonians to find another king such -as I am.” - -To this argument there was no reply but silence.[16] Nor, when they came -to speak of conditions, could any terms be effected among so many -jarring interests; but it was agreed at length that ambassadors should -be sent by all the contracting parties to the Senate. A truce was -proclaimed for two months, Philip withdrawing, as a security for his -good faith, the garrisons from all the towns of Locris and Phocis; while -Flamininus, in order to give color to the proceedings, sent with the -ambassadors Amynander king of the Athamanes, Quinctius Fabius, his -wife’s nephew, Quinctius Fulvius, and Appius Claudius, all members of -his military family. - -After awhile the delegates returned. The Senate had given no decision. -The province and war of Macedonia, when the consuls were about to cast -lots, had been continued to Flamininus as imperator, the tribunes Oppius -and Fulvius having strongly represented the impolicy of removing general -after general, as fast as each got accustomed to the country and was -ready to follow up a first success by a final victory. The argument -prevailed, and the option of peace or war was left to the imperator. The -Senate was not aweary of the strife, and Flamininus was athirst for -glory, not for peace. - -No further parley was granted to Philip; and these terms only dictated -to him, that he must withdraw his forces from the whole of Greece into -his own proper dominions, north of the river Aöus and the Cambunian -mountains. - -This was of course tantamount to a resumption of hostilities; and both -parties, it appears, prepared with equal alacrity and confidence for the -final conflict. - -The first operation of Philip, who, on finding the necessity of drawing -all his resources to a common centre, began to despair of maintaining -Corinth, Argos, and his Achæan cities, was to deliver them over for -safekeeping to Nabis, tyrant of Lacedæmon, on condition that in case of -his being successful against the Romans they should be restored to -himself, otherwise they should belong to Nabis. - -No sooner was that done, however, than the treacherous tyrant, desirous -only to retain his new power, made peace with the Ætolians, furnished -the Romans with Cretan auxiliaries to act against Philip, and even -entered into illusory negotiations for the delivery of Corinth and -Argos, than which nothing was further from his mind, until at least he -should have plundered them of all they contained most valuable, and -this, with his wife’s aid, he lost no time in doing. - -These circumstances, however, were but as mere preludes to the great -strife which was about to be determined in the broken and uneven country -of north-eastern Thessaly, not far from the ground on which Flamininus -had closed his last campaign, to the southward of the Penëus, whither -both parties were already collecting their powers and drawing to a head. - -Almost before the opening of the spring both leaders were on the alert, -and active in preparation; partly by stratagem and the insinuation of a -menace, if not its reality, partly by persuasion, Flamininus had the -address to bring over the Bœotians, as he had already brought over the -Achæans, to the Roman alliance; and thenceforth, every thing in his rear -being secure and friendly, he had nothing to do but to look forward and -bend up all his energies and powers to the destruction of the enemy -before him. - -To this end he was well provided; for when his command was continued to -him, five thousand infantry, three hundred horse, and three thousand -mariners of the Latin allies, were voted him as a reinforcement to his -late victorious army. - -With these admirable troops, then, he broke up from Elatia, his last -conquest, about the vernal equinox, and marching north-westerly by the -great road through Thronium and Scarphea, on the gulf of Tituni, arrived -at Thermopylæ, where by a preconcerted plan he met the Ætolians in -council, and three days afterward, encamping at Xynias in Thessaly, -received their contingent of six hundred foot and four hundred horse, -under Phæneas their chief-magistrate. Moving forward at once with the -celerity and decision which mark all his operations, his force was -augmented by five hundred Cretans of Gortyna, under Cydas, and three -hundred Illyrians of Apollonia, all light infantry skilled with the bow -and sling; and a few days afterward he was joined by Amynander with -twelve hundred Athamanians, completing the muster of the allies. - -Philip meanwhile was laboring under the sore disadvantage which is sure -to afflict, and in the end overthrow, all nations which engage in long -careers of conquest. Incessant wars, since the days of Alexander, had -worn out the manhood of Macedonia. His own wars had consumed the flower -of the adults, and those who remained were the sons of mere youths or of -octogenarians, begotten while the men of Macedonia were fattening -foreign fields with priceless gore. - -As in the last campaigns of Napoleon, Philip’s conscriptions of this -year included all the youth of sixteen years, while they recalled to the -standard all the discharged veterans who had yet power to trail a pike. - -So certainly in all ages will the like causes produce the like effects. - -Of this material, however, he had constructed a complete phalanx of -sixteen thousand men, the flower of his kingdom, and the last bulwark of -his throne. To these were added two thousand native targeteers, two -thousand Thracians and Illyrians, about fifteen hundred mercenaries of -all countries, and two thousand horse. With this power he lay at Dium, -now Malathria, on the gulf of Saloniki awaiting the Romans, by no means -despondent, but rather confident of success. For although the last -campaign had gone against him, as a whole, still the repulse of the -Romans from the walls of Atrax by hard fighting, seemed to -counterbalance the forcing of the gorges of the Aöus, while it was -undeniable that the phalanx had fully maintained its ancient renown, and -was, for all that had yet been proved, invincible in a pitched battle. - -No less secure of victory, flushed with past triumphs, and athirst for -future glory, Quinctius pressed on, resolved on the first occasion to -deliver battle, his forces being, as nearly as possible, equal to those -of the king, though he had a superiority of about four hundred horse. - -On hearing of the Roman advance, Philip broke up from Dium and marched -upon Larissa, intending to deliver battle south of the Penëus, with a -view probably to the subsequent defense of the defiles of Tempo, in case -of disaster; while Flamininus having failed in an attempt to surprise -the Phiotic city of Thebes, marched direct upon Pheræ, previously -ordering his soldiers to cut and carry with them the palisades, of which -at any moment to fortify the casual encampment of the night. - -Both leaders, thus aware of the enemy’s proximity, yet unaware of his -exact position, encamped and fortified their camps, the Roman at about -six, the Macedonian at four miles’ distance from the town of Pheræ. - -On the following day, light parties being sent out on both sides to take -possession of the heights above the town, which would seem to be the -western slopes of Karadagh, formerly Mount Calcodonium—described by -Leake as gentle pasture hills, interspersed with groves of oak, but -swelling, a little northward on the way to Larissa, into steep, broken -hills, topped with bare limestone crags—they came in sight of one -another so unexpectedly, that they were mutually amazed, and neither -charged the other, but both sent back for orders to head-quarters, and -were ultimately drawn off without fighting. On the second day, both -leaders sent out reconnoitering parties of light-armed infantry with -some horse, and these encountered on the hill above the suburbs of Pheræ -to the northward. It so happened that Flamininus had ordered two -squadrons of Ætolian horse on this duty, wishing to avail himself of -their familiarity with the country; and these, overboiling with courage -and emulous of the Roman renown, so soon as they discovered the enemy, -dared the Italians to the test of superior valor, and charged the -Macedonians with such metal and prowess that they cut them up very -severely; after which, having skirmished for a considerable time with no -decisive results, they drew off, as if by mutual consent, to their own -encampments. - -The ground about Pheræ, being much incumbered with orchards, groves and -gardens, and cut up by stone walls and thorn hedges, was very unsuitable -for a general action, and both leaders, perceiving this, moved early the -next morning by different routes, the great ridge of Karadagh -intervening between their lines of march, and intercepting all sound or -sight, upon Scotussa, a town some ten miles distant in a westerly -direction, lying at the base of the hills, and on the verge of the -plain. - -The Romans marched to the southward, Philip to the northward of the -dividing ridge; and, unaware how nearly they were intrenched, both -erected their palisades for the night almost within hearing of their -countersigns and trumpets. - -The third morning, after they had decamped from Pheræ, was exceedingly -thick and foggy; but in spite of this Philip, who had passed the night -on the banks of the Onchestus, persevered in marching upon Scotussa, -where he hoped to find ripe corn in the plain for his troops. The -darkness, however, increased, and ere long one of those tremendous -thunder-storms, for which all the limestone countries of upper Greece -are so famous, or rather infamous, burst over his head, with hail, and -wild whirling wind-gusts, and forked lightnings, and compelled him to -halt at once and intrench himself, at the northern base of the bare, -craggy hills, forming the summits of the Calcodonium, known as the -Cynoscephalæ or dog’s heads, though the resemblance does not go far to -justify the appellation. - -So soon[17] as it cleared a little, though the mist was still so dense -that one could scarce see his own hand, he sent out a detachment to -occupy the heights of Cynoscephalæ. At the same moment Flamininus sent -out his troops of horse and a thousand voltigeurs from Thetidium, where -he lay, to feel for the enemy. - -These latter fell suddenly into the ambushed outpost of the Macedonians, -neither discovering the others till they were at half spear’s length in -the gloom. After a momentary pause of amazement, they fell on fiercely, -and among the slippery crags, in the dense mist and drizzling rain, the -strife reeled blindly to and fro, all striking at once, none parrying, -and friend as often injuring friend, as enemy enemy. On both sides, -rumor reached the camps, and the Romans being hard pressed and giving -way, Flamininus, who was nearest to the scene of action, reinforced his -men with two thousand infantry under two tribunes, and five hundred -Ætolian horse of Archedamus and Eupolemus. - -On the arrival of these, the skirmish was exchanged for close combat; -and the encouragement given to the Romans, by the prompt succor, -doubling their courage, nor that only, but their physical strength, they -charged home so vehemently, that they broke the enemy, and drove them to -the steep crags; the din of battle receding from the lines of -Flamininus, until the cries of his own men, and the shouts of the -victorious legionaries, aroused and alarmed Philip in his camp. - -He, expecting nothing on that day less than an engagement, had sent out -his men to forage in the plain; but as he saw how things were going, and -as the mist was beginning to melt away before the sunbeams, and the -clear blue to show above, he ordered up Heracleides the Gyrtonian, -commander of the Thessalian cavalry, find Leon, the Macedonian master of -the horse, and Athenagoras with all the mercenaries save the Thracians, -and launched them vigorously against the enemy. - -Rallying upon themselves the broken and disordered troops who had -preceded them, these in turn laid on with so heavy a hand, and so -furious an impetus that they bore the Romans back bodily, and drove them -over the brink of the heights in consternation and disorder toward their -own intrenchments; nor would they have failed to do fearful execution on -them, if not utterly to destroy them, but for the devoted gallantry of -the handful of Ætolian horse, who charged them time after time; and, -when repulsed, rallied and charged again; and so gained that invaluable -time, which, as it was in this case, is often victory. - -At this moment, seeing that the defeat of his cavalry and light troops -was not only serious in itself, but was seriously dispiriting the rest -of his army, Flamininus drew out his legions in order of battle, -harangued them briefly in words of fire, which kindled every soldier’s -heart to like passion, and led them straightway into action. - -Almost simultaneously Philip, to whom tidings had been brought that the -enemy were utterly disordered and in flight, and who was compelled by -the urgency of his officers and the eagerness of his men to give battle, -contrary to his own better judgment, which knew the ground to be -unfavorable to the phalanx, led the right wing of it up the northern -ascent of the heights, directing Nicanor, surnamed the elephant, to -bring up the centre and left wing close at his heels. On reaching the -summit, which had been left vacant when the Macedonian light troops -drove back the Romans, he formed line of battle by the left, and thus -gained the ground of vantage. - -But while he was yet in the act of forming his right, the mercenaries -were upon him, crushed in by the advance of the solid cohorts; for -Flamininus had rallied his light troops in the intervals of his -maniples, and was carrying all before him with great slaughter, himself -leading his left wing, the right and centre being a little retired, with -the elephants in front. - -Philip thus labored at once under a double disadvantage, when, believing -himself the assailant of a disordered foe, he found himself assailed—a -perilous thing in warfare—and, secondly, when he was compelled to -encounter an enemy in full array of battle, while above one half of his -own power was in column of march, and as yet unready to deploy. - -Up to this moment, the day had been one of accidents and vicissitudes; -from this moment it was one of the finest generalship and the finest -fighting, and in the end the best fighting carried it. - -Mindful of the rule never to receive a charge but on a charge, so soon -as he saw Flamininus’ eagles face to face with him, Philip rallied the -retreating horse and mercenaries upon his targeteers, with whom he -covered his right flank, and ordered the phalanx to double the depth of -its files and prepare to charge. - -We have all seen, and all know the effect, of two poor lines of modern -infantry bringing their muskets from the shoulder to the charge; the -thrill which the sudden clash and clatter, and the quick flashing -movement sends to the boldest heart—what then must have been the effect -on the spectator, when sixteen serried ranks brought down their huge -sarissæ, twenty-four feet in length, from the port to the level—the -rattle of the massive truncheons sloping simultaneously, like a whole -field of bearded grain before a sudden blast, the clang of the steel -spear heads against the brazen bucklers, and the glimmering flash of -seven points protruded in advance of every shield in the front line. - -Such was the spectacle which met the eyes of the legionaries as they -crowned the heights of Cynoscephalæ, but no thrill did it send to those -stern hearts, but that of ardor and of emulation. Never was such a -war-cry heard as burst that day over the rugged hills, for not only did -the combatants on both sides, as they rushed to hand and hand encounter, -shout with their hearts in their voices, but all who saw it from a -distance swelled the tremendous diapason. - -The clang might have been heard at a mile’s distance, as the pike-points -of the phalanx smote full upon the bosses of the long legionary shields, -and bore back the loose lines by sheer force, orderly still and -unbroken, while the Spanish broadswords of the Romans hewed desperately, -but in vain, into the twilight forest of the impenetrable sarissæ. - -Stubbornly the Romans fought and long; and when at length broken, they -were not beaten; when borne backward foot by foot they still disdained -to fly; but fell where they stood, and died fighting. - -But Flamininus, who had the true eye, the true inspiration of a great -general, ever the keenest and the clearest in the most direful turmoil -of the headiest fight, had marked, like Wellington at Talavera, a gap in -the enemy’s array. - -Leaving his broken right wing to its fate, he rushed, confident at one -glance of victory, to the head of his centre, and charged, with his -elephants in front, by a rapid oblique movement, full upon the left wing -of the phalanx, as it mounted the heights in marching, rather than in -fighting, order. Here, before it could form, almost before it could -level its long pikes, it was pierced in a hundred places at once; and, -in almost less time than is required to describe it, the fierce Spanish -broadswords of the legionaries, fleshed in its vitals, had reduced it to -a weltering mass of inextricable confusion and almost unheard of -carnage. - -The Roman left, cheered by the triumph of their comrades, rallied upon -themselves and returned to the charge; and simultaneously an unordered -movement of a tribune of the soldiers, which should have rendered him -immortal, although his name has not survived, decided the victory, as -completely as did a like inspiration, on the part of the unrewarded -Kellerman, decide that of Marengo. - -This nameless tribune—a shame that he should be nameless—when the -enemy’s left and centre fled, wheeled with a mere handful of men round -the rear of Philip’s right, and, gaining the very summit from which he -had descended, at the moment when the Romans rallied in its face, fell -like a thunderbolt on the unguarded rear of its yet unbroken masses. - -In any event, a rear or flank attack upon the phalanx, so ponderous a -column that it could even when unassailed with difficulty form a new -face, was perilous; here it was fatal. - -The battle was ended as by a thunder-clap. Of the Macedonians eight -thousand fell in the field, five thousand laid down their arms; their -camp was taken, but before the victors entered it, it had been sacked by -the Ætolians; their king, not tarrying to burn his papers at Larissa, -fled without drawing bridle through Tempe into Macedonia. - -Of the Romans seven hundred lay dead in their ranks on the field; so -true is Sallust’s apophthegm, that audacity is as a rampart to the -soldier, and flight more perilous than battle. - -It was not a battle only that was won, but a war that was ended. - -Yet never was a battle won which was so nearly lost, except Marengo; -which it in several points resembles. - -In the first place, like Marengo, it was in fact not one, but two -battles, in which the victors of the first were the vanquished of the -second. - -In the second place, like Marengo, its last and crowning success was due -to an unordered, self-originating, charge of a subordinate officer, with -a mere handful of men on the flank or rear of a victorious column. - -But in this, unlike Marengo, it was the eagle eye, the prompt decision, -and the lightning-like execution of the general in chief, not the shrewd -observation of a second in command, that redeemed the half lost battle, -and changed the pæans of an exulting conqueror into groans of anguish -and despair. - -With Cynoscephalæ, terminates the splendor of Flamininus’ military -career, but not the splendor of his life. - -Philip at once sued for peace, and the general, aware that a war had -broken out between Antiochus, King of Syria, and Rome, and dreading -Philip’s co-operation with him, if driven to despair, at once granted -him terms. - -He withdrew all his garrisons from Greece; delivered all his fleet, with -the exception of ten galleys; paid an indemnification of a thousand -talents, for the expenses of the war; gave up his son Demetrius as a -hostage, for his faithful observance of the conditions; and, to his -credit be it spoken, ever continued true in his allegiance to the -Romans. - -At first, apprehending trouble from Antiochus, the Senate determined to -keep Roman garrisons in the three strongholds of Chalcis, Corinth, and -Demetrius; but so loud were the complaints of the Greeks in general, of -the Æolians in particular, and so consistent did they appear to -Flamininus, that he used the great personal weight and influence he had -gained with the people and the Senate, not to obtain personal honors, -wealth or distinction, but to procure the complete liberation of Greece, -and the withdrawal of every foreign soldier from her confines. - -The proudest hour of his life, save one, was when he sat in his curule -chair at the Isthmian games, a spectator of the show, and heard the -Roman trumpet-blast command attention, and the Roman herald make -proclamation—“The Senate, and the Imperator, Titus Quinctius, having -subdued King Philip and the Macedonians, give to the Corinthians, -Locrians, Phocians, Eubæans, Achæans, Pthiotians, Magnetians, -Thessalians, and Perrhæbians, liberty, immunity from garrisons, immunity -from tribute, and the right of self-government, according to their own -constitutions.” - -At first men heard not, or hearing, believed not, for very joy, that -such happiness could be; and they called upon the herald to repeat his -proclamation. - -Then such a shout arose as rang from sea to sea across the Isthmus. The -like of it was never heard before or afterward in Greece. And what has -often been said hyperbolically, to lend grandeur to descriptions of the -human voice, was then actually seen to happen;[18] for crows winging -their way over the amphitheatre fell into the arena, stunned by the -concussion of the air. - -As one man, the whole theatre stood up. There was no more talk of the -combatants. Every one spoke of Flamininus, every one would touch the -hand of the champion, the liberator of Greece. - -I said the proudest day of his life, save one. For he had one prouder. - -Two years longer he tarried among the Greeks, as commissioner to see the -treaties carried out; and for a short time he fell into odium with the -people he had liberated, for that, when he was warring against Nabis, -the cruel tyrant and usurper of Lacedæmon, and might have dethroned him, -he made peace, and suffered him to retain his blood-bought dominion. -Some were so base as to attribute this to jealousy of Philipœmen. His -own statement, and our knowledge of his character bears out that -statement, asserts that he could not destroy Nabis, without destroying -Sparta, and that in preference to destroying Sparta, he suffered Nabis -to go free. - -But when he left the shores of Hellas, after interceding twenty times, -and mediating successfully between the Greeks and his successors, the -Ætolians much desired to make him some great gift, that should prove -their great love and veneration. But the known integrity of the man -deterred them; for it was notorious that he would receive naught that -savored of a bribe. - -At last they bethought them. There were in Greece twelve hundred Roman -citizens, who had been captives to Hannibal, and by him sold as slaves. -Their sad case had of late been sadly aggravated, as slaves themselves -and bondmen, they all saw their countrymen, many their kinsmen, some -their brethren or their sons, free, conquerors, and hailed as saviors of -the land, to which they were enslaved. - -Titus had grieved for them deeply; but he was too poor to ransom them, -too just to take them by the strong hand from their lawful owners. So -the Ætolians ransomed them at five minæ[19] the head; and, as he was on -the point of setting sail, brought them down to the wharf in a body, and -presented them to him, the gift of liberated Greece. “A gift worthy,” -says Plutarch, “of a great man, and a lover of his country.” - -A gift, say I, which none would have offered but to—what is far greater -than a great—a good man. A gift which proves alike the character of the -givers, and the receiver. An honor, as few gifts are, to both. - -I care not that in Flamininus’ triumph those twelve hundred ransomed -Romans, of their own free will, walked with shaven heads and white caps, -as manumitted slaves, and that the people of Rome had no eyes for the -hostage prince, or the barbaric gold, or the strange Macedonian -armor—had no eyes for Flamininus himself, but only for the twelve -hundred manumitted Romans. - -But I do care that the Ætolians knew, from their knowledge of the man, -that there was one invaluable gift which it would gladden the heart of -the incorruptible of men to receive at their hands, richer than untold -gold, inestimable jewels, the priceless liberty of freeborn Romans. - -It does not belong to the military career of Flamininus, but it does to -the history of his life, that in after days he was sent by the Senate -ambassador to Prusias, king of Bithynia, for the purpose of compelling -the surrender into their hands of the aged, exiled, down fallen -Hannibal; and that, rather than fall into those pitiless hands, which -never refrained the scourge and axe from the noblest foeman, the old man -had recourse to the - - “Cannarum vindex et tanti sanguinis ultor, - Annulus.”[20] - -Nor do I choose to pass it over in silence. Since it is to be remembered -that the highest pride of a Roman was to do his duty; and his duty was -whatever his country ordered. So that, however odious the task imposed, -and we know too much of this man’s character not to be sure that the -embassy to Prusias was odious, a consular of Rome had no choice but to -obey Rome’s bidding. - -There was, moreover, much in the pertinacity with which Hannibal -journeyed from barbarous court to barbarous court, in the hope of -kindling a fire-brand for Rome’s conflagration, even after his own -country was prostrate beyond the chance of resurrection, to palliate if -not justify the rancor of Romans. The inextinguishable hater has no -right to complain if the hatred against himself be inextinguishable. - -The last office held by Flamininus, was the censorship—the highest, -noblest, purest dignity in the gift of the state; and never—at least in -those days—bestowed on any but the noble and the pure. It was the -Corinthian capital to the career of the honored and honorable Roman -magistrate, and such was Titus Quinctius Flamininus. - -After this he passes from our sight, and is heard of no more in history. - -He was a great general, a great statesman; perhaps of the greatest. - -But he was something more than a general, more than a statesman—he was -every inch a man. - ------ - -[2] We have been favored by Mr. Charles Scribner of New York, with the -advanced sheets of Mr. Herbert’s new work, “The Captains of the Roman -Republic,” from which we select the following spirited sketch of Titus -Quinctius Flamininus. We give it as our decided opinion that this work -will prove superior to its predecessor, “The Captains of the Old World.” - -[3] “To spare the conquered and subdue the proud”—the former of which -she never did. - -[4] Livy, xxxi. 34, 35. - -[5] Col. Leake, Travels in Northern Greece, i. 385. - -[6] Plutarch, Vit. Flamini. - -[7] Ibid. - -[8] Livy, xxxiii. 8. - -[9] Ibid. - -[10] Leake. Travels in Northern Greece, vol, 1, p. 385. - -[11] Plutarch. Flamininus 3. - -[12] Plutarch, vit. Flaminini. IV. V. Livy, xxxii. 12. - -[13] Livy, xxxii. 12. - -[14] Leake. Travels in Northern Greece, i. 296. - -[15] Livy, xxxii. 13. - -[16] Livy, xxxii. 32. - -[17] All the details of this action are from Polybius. Reliquiæ Lib. -xviii.; who is here singularly clear and vivid in his description. - -[18] Plutarch, vita Flaminini, x. - -[19] About twenty pounds sterling. - -[20] The Ring, avenger of Cannæ and of so much blood.—_Juvenal. Satire -X._ - -An allusion to the poison, by which he died, and which he was said to -keep concealed in a ring. - - * * * * * - - - - - OUR MINNIE’S DREAM. - - - BY A REVERIST. - - - Her dream is like this book-mark red, - Which has long lain buried - Within a hallowéd tome; - If to unfold the page, soul-bid, - Mark the contrast, all unsaid, - Of the fresh deep ruby—wed - To the fastness dear of home— - And the faded outside hue - Of a token all too true - From its claspéd cell to roam. - - All that the idle world hath kenned - Is like the faded, visible end - Of that lore-lettered mark; - Dim, sadly paled its pristine hues, - In streaming through earth’s chilling dews, - Obedient to imperious muse. - The folded end, still perfect, bright, - In keeping here of household faith, - Awaits Heaven’s kindly angel, Death, - To open it to truer light. - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNET.—PLEASURE. - - - BY WM. ALEXANDER. - - - Hues how fantastic dost thou still assume, - Deluding man, amid life’s sweetest scene, - Spreading o’er all his way gay, gorgeous green, - With fairest flowers, which but a moment bloom— - Like evening cloud which golden Sol hath decked, - All evanescent, fading soon away; - So, Pleasure! grasped, thou hastest to decay, - Bidding each rising hope in bud be checked— - In Eden, erst, truth-like didst thou appear. - Thy right hand holding sweets surpassing fair, - Till, with her sombre train sin entered there, - To drag man thence, an exile full of fear— - Farewell, false Pleasure! and again, farewell— - Thy guests, the Wise hath told us, “are in depths of hell.” - - * * * * * - - - - - NELLY NOWLAN’S EXPERIENCE. - - - BY MRS. S. C. HALL. - - -“I broke off in my last without an ending, which I could not help; I am -not a bit more mistress of my own time than if I was a born lady, and -oh, aunt dear, but I _do_ pity them ladies—you’d never believe how hard -they work—not with their heads or their hands, but in a way twice as -bad. You think it hard enough to put on your things of a Sunday. Oh! if -you knew the dressing and undressing, the shopping, the driving round -and round and round in a place they call a park—where there’s no sign -of a mountain or any thing to raise the spirits—the visiting! not -having a bit of friendly talk with those they like, but wearing the life -and liveries off their servants, posting from house to house, and just -leaving little squares of _pasteboard_ at the doors.” - -“‘Has Lady Jane Vivian never inquired how I am?’ asked my poor mistress. - -“‘Never, Ma’am,’ I said. - -“Well, she had a puzzled look on her face, and there it ended for -awhile. - -“‘Ellen,’ she said again, a few days after, ‘Mrs. Brett tells me, Lady -Jane Vivian called every day, and left cards.’ - -“Well, I was fairly bothered about the cards. - -“‘Sure, Ma’am,’ I said, ‘what would make her leave the cards here, we’re -no gamblers;’ this was when first I was own maid to my mistress—so she -smiled again, and said how it was I did not understand that ladies left -their names printed on pasteboard squares; and that was the same thing -as a visit. Well! I had my own thought of what a cold, unnatural thing -it was to send a square of pasteboard up to a poor sick lady, instead of -comforting her, with a bright smile and kind words, and all sorts of -cheerful discourse. But I supposed it was manners, and every people have -their own; and then she asked for the _cards_. Now, the mistress of the -house we lodged in, scrambled up every bit of them pasteboards with a -title, and stuck them round the looking-glass, in her little, dingy -back-parlor, for a nobility show. So I had to go and ask her to pick out -all the Lady Jane Vivians, which she did, and gave them with a toss of -her head, saying, ‘She did not want such a scrap of an ould maid’s title -for the matter of that, she had lords and dukes! calling on her, before -now.’ It was on the tip of my tongue to say, ‘Calling on your lodgers, -you mean, ma’am,’ but I held my peace. Well! would you believe it? My -own mistress was as proud of them five bits of pasteboard, as I’d be of -five shillings! And she bade me bring her a fine chaney dish with a -small tea-party painted on it, up in the air and down on the earth, -beside a little railway, and little tufty houses one atop of the other, -and bells at the corners—a fine ancient dish it is, like nothing on the -earth or in the sea, which she says shows its imagination; well, she -takes every one of the cards up in her poor, thin, trembling fingers, -and then she rubs them clean and puts them right; the Misters and -Mistresses, and the young Misses all down below, and the Sirs and Lords -and Ladies on the top; mighty neat entirely to look at; and all the -time, the darling! she was railing at the vanity of the lodging-house -woman who wanted to show off the fine names, and never seemed to think -that she was doing the same thing; to be sure, she had a right to them, -and right is right; but the vanity, to my thinking, was all one. I had a -deal more to tell you about _that_ church—but _one who knows_ said, it -was fitter for me to hold my tongue; the reason is this, that it’s -better for us, you understand, to keep on never heeding them, and not to -put them in mind of what they are doing, and they will all walk, as easy -as any thing, back to the fine, true, ould, ancient church of Rome: they -call it _High Church_ now, but if they’re let alone, _one who knows_ -says, they’ll soon be higher, on the highest pinnacle of St. Peter’s! so -all we have to say, aunt dear, is just good luck to every poor traveler -on the _right road_. - -“Do you mind Mary Considine, who you used to call the blue-bell of the -Shannon? She was the beauty of the place, I have heard, when she married -her own first cousin, Ned Considine? don’t you also mind telling me how -cruel hard she was to be pleased; and how, after she had married him, -she said she intended taking a house, but changed her mind, and took -Ned, and was greatly disappointed in taking him, for he was very deaf? - -“Well, who should I chance to find out but this very Mr. and Mrs. -Considine; and indeed it’s little remains of beauty she has now; the -country, or rather the town life, does not agree any how with beauty, -living as they do, at the back of ‘God speed,’ in a small court; though, -as you will see by’n bye, they have lashings[21] of money: they’ve one -son and a daughter. I met the young girl (she was born to them, I may -say, in their old age, a last rose of their summer) at mass, and I think -we knew each other by nature: my mistress gave me leave to run over and -see her, and when she came to me took great delight in her smiling, -innocent face, and the sweet voice I told her she had; and she sang some -of the Irish melodies like an angel, if you can think of an angel -singing any thing but holy psalms. And this young Mary is well brought -up, quite above the common; reading and writing is nothing to her; and -as to other accomplishments she’s wonderful; and can tell every fortune -out of a book, except her own! Now, among the many prides her mother has -gathered, the one that bothers Mary the most, is that she does not like -any body to think she is Irish; she thinks she _turns her tongue_ so -purty on the English, and as my poor mistress says (for she heard her at -it) with a brogue, a rale Cork brogue; not the same as our pretty, -delicate Leinster accent; but (as the mistress says) ‘a brogue strong -enough to carry St. Paul’s to St. Peter’s,’ and so I thought, -_particularly now, when it’s on the road_. My mistress says it’s quite -absurd to look at her courtesey; and when you talk to her of her -country, to hear her cry out—‘Why then, how did you know I was Irish?’ -The Irish divert my poor mistress a great deal. She encourages me to -tell all about my country, and she has been more like a mother than a -lady to Mary Considine. - -“But about poor Mary. She was overjoyed that her father and mother took -so to me, and, indeed, so was I, for the music of home is in Mary’s -sweet voice; and it is the next best thing to being in my own land, to -hear her sing ‘The Exile of Erin;’ and then, while the tears are wet on -my cheek, she tunes up ‘Shielan-a-guira,’ with a heart and a half; her -eyes are so beaming with light, that you wonder where the dark place is -in them, and yet it’s all the time a light in darkness. I can’t -discourse you now her features one by one, but altogether: the poor -Irish never pass her in the street without a blessing, or the English -without a stare—still I saw that Mary was far from happy. I have not -much time to watch or inquire, but I could not sleep for thinking of -her—Mrs. Considine’s mouth was full of the titles of the great quality -she’d see in the Park, and she traveled about with a book she called a -peerage, in her pocket, while poor Mary would show me the bits of -flowers she’d pick out of the grass, or bring my mistress a bunch of -violets from Covent Garden Market. As to her father, he hardly ever -stirs out, except to watch that his son, who has a situation at -Blackwall, does not spend his pence on an omnibus—he makes a fair god -of his money; how the priest gets over it I don’t know, for he’s the -greatest miser I ever heard of—a fair neager[22]—not like his -countrymen. - -“Well, aunt; at last poor little Mary let me into the very heart of her -trouble. She was in love—in love with maybe you think some delicate -dandy chap of an Englishman; for Mary is very little—a fairy of a -thing, (God bless us!) that might pass for a real ‘fairy’ in her own -country—as thin as a willow-wand, as straight as a bullrush, but small, -you understand. I wanted her to tell me who it was, and she used to hide -her face and cry, and then look up, blushing like a rose among the -dew-drops. At last, she said she’d _show_ him to me next evening; she -was going to confession, and he would do the same, and meet her at the -door. So away they went. There were three or four young men at the door, -one with a sky-blue tie and a fine waistcoat. I was so sure _that was -him_, that I never looked at any one else; but she passed on, tossing -her head disdainfully at the blue tie. - -“‘He’s not here,’ she whispered; and the little creature trembled on my -arm. She soon made a clean breast, and I waited, as I had leave to do; -the sky-blue tie waited also, but Mary was too quick for him, she darted -round the corner, while he was admiring his own shadow, thrown by the -full moon on the wall, and I after her. - -“‘Come on,’ she said, almost breathlessly; ‘come on; that’s the man my -father wants me to marry, but _I’ll die first_!’ We walked fast, but she -took, as I thought, the wrong turning—I told her so, but she looked up -in my face, and smiled. It was a narrow court, and at the far end, a -smith’s forge. I heard the bang of the hammer, and saw the light, all in -a glow, and a thousand sparkles like falling stars! Mary got under the -shadow of the houses—she crept on, the hammer going, the fire glowing, -the sparkles falling all the time, and the shadow as of a giant, forging -the red bar, as if the hammer was a wand. Well, she avoided the door, -but drew me on to a slit in the window, still keeping in the -shadow—‘that’s him,’ she whispered. Aunt, dear, the sweetheart that -mite of a little beauty had set her love on, was—just there and then—a -rale giant! He looked strong enough to fling a thunderbolt, and active -enough to make a play-fellow of the lightning. When he stopped, and -threw back his hair, I thought I had never seen so noble a head, but his -face looked pale in the flashing light. Mary never spoke but the one -word, she never sighed, nor signed to him in any way, yet he wiped his -brow, pulled down his sleeves, and came to the window. - -“‘Mary, Mary,’ he whispered, and his voice was as soft as the coo of a -wood-quest.[23] ‘Speak, Mary, I know you are there, it’s no use hiding -from me, I know it as well as if my eyes were looking into yours, and as -if you had told me so.’ - -“‘I am here, Philip,’ she said. ‘My friend was with me, and as you were -not at the Priest’s, I thought you had something to do particular.’ - -“‘Yes, Mary,’ he answered; ‘but _that_ did not keep me. Your father came -here to-night; he gave me clearly to understand, and without civility, -he did not wish me to continue to keep your company; he said, your mind, -as well as his own, turned another way.’ - -“‘And you believed him?’ - -“Her voice was like the murmur of a young bird in its nest. - -“‘I believed my own eyes,’ he answered, folding his great arms over his -chest, his eyes glaring in his dusky face like coals of fire. ‘I went to -the Priest’s door, and saw that clean, done-up youth, with his blue tie -round his throat, and his boyish hands, only fit to finger a yard -measure, scenting the place with his white pocket-handkerchief. O, Mary, -fancy my hands dangling a scented handkerchief!’ and he dashed them -passionately forward. ‘When you did change,’ he added, ‘you might have -chosen a man—not a monkey.’ - -“‘And you misdoubted me,’ she said, standing firm and straight in her -pride. ‘Well, then, Philip, I’ll just say good-bye at once;’ and then -she struggled and struggled to untwist something from her neck, and -flung it right in through the window. The fire, which had been -flickering and flickering, flamed up, and there, lying on the black -floor, shone a little golden locket, and a broken velvet. - -“To my dying day, I shall never forget the look that strong man cast -from the locket to Mary, but I know he could not see _her_ face, it was -in the darkness _to him_, though I saw, plain enough, her quivering lips -and glowing cheeks—he stamped on the locket, and I heard it scrunch -beneath his foot. She flew like a rapid over a rock of the Shannon, and -was away in a minute—I turned to follow her, but the strong grasp of -the smith was on my shoulder. - -“‘Why did she come here at all?’ he said, and his voice was deep and -husky. ‘What brought her? why should she come to torture me? it’s all -along of the old man’s love of money, and her mother’s mad love of fine -names. She told me my name, Philip Roche, was vulgar. O, to think of the -love I bore her, slaving by day and night to make her a home, keeping to -my pledge, and working—and well able to do it—on water.’ - -“Mary, I told him, knew nothing of it, she had no hand in it: I wanted -to tell him how she took me to the door to see _him_, and not finding -him there, drew me to the forge—her innocent heart full of love for -him, and for him alone; the thoughts came fast enough into my head, but -I could not speak them—I was bewildered, the despair written in his -face haunted me—the look he gave, and the iron hand on my shoulder, -stupefied me altogether, and though we walked on fast—fast after her—I -trembled in every limb, and lost all power of speech. - -“Words he certainly spoke betimes, and they hissed off his lips, as -water hisses off a smoothing-iron. We tramped faster and faster, past -the houses, and under the light of the lamps, and through the people, -until we came to the court where they lived—_there_ he stopped in sight -of the door, and such a sight it was to him!—for there, on the very -step, waiting to have it opened, stood Mary Considine, and the blue -neck-tie. I cannot tell you, aunt dear, how it was that I felt so -interested for that strange, strong smith, Philip Roche, whom I had -never, to say rightly, seen. No wonder the people stopped and stared -after him, for he was without a hat, and his long hair _tossicated_ -about his head: I looked up to him, and maybe it was best that I could -not see his features, I only heard him mutter—‘Do you see, do you see? -Has she _no hand in it now_?’ He staggered forward, but I caught him. - -“‘Have patience,’ I said; ‘have patience, it will all come right, she -has no hand in it.’ He threw me off as if I had been a child, and the -last I saw of him was his head above the people that had gathered round -the court. I walked quietly on, and when I entered the house there stood -Mary, white as a sheet, while Mr. and Mrs. Considine were doing all -manner of civilities to the young man, who was acting the gentleman, -smiling and bowing and twisting a seal—set the likes of him up with a -seal—at the end of his watch-chain—a seal which was big enough for the -rapper of a hall-door—and dangling a ring he had on his starved, -crooked, little finger, right in the foolish old man’s eyes. ‘And wont -you sit down, Mr. Henry Highley,’ said one, ‘and wont you stop for -_tay_,’ says the other. And seeing me staring at him, Mrs. Considine -adds— - -“‘A young lady-friend of my daughter’s, who stops mostly with a friend -of her own at the West-end.’ - -“Now, aunt, I didn’t care about her calling me a lady, but I couldn’t -bear being put on a level with my mistress, a rale lady born. - -“And I said, ‘my mistress lives at the West-end, sure enough.’ Mrs. -Considine frowned at me, and Mary left the little room. - -“‘Come back, Mary,’ called her father; ‘bring her back,’ whispered her -mother. - -“It was well I followed her—she had fainted: I laid her on the bed, and -did all I could for her. When she was coming to herself, she put up her -hand—I thought, maybe, to feel for the locket, but that might be my -fancy. It was long before I could make her deaf father understand that -she was too ill to return, but her mother saw it at once, and after we -put her to bed, and she drank a cup of tea, and said she thought to go -to sleep, we left her—I staid a few minutes below, though I saw the old -man wished me gone. And now, aunt, don’t be angry, but I think I could -have found it in my heart to give that _Cub-een_ of a fellow, a glass of -poison: his face was not only vicious, sharp, and thin, and active, like -a rat’s—but he had his eyes every where. I saw him weigh the tea-spoon -on his fore-finger in a balancing sort of fashion, and then look at the -mark to be sure it was silver: he drew the old people on in such a way, -getting more out of Mr. Considine than ever was got out of him before, -as to his property and means—getting him to talk of interest and -bankers, and the like: and the old man cursed the savings banks, and -said money was never so safe as in one’s own house, and that the best of -all banks for him was his leather bag—the more I looked at Mr. Henry -Highley, the more I hated him, and sorry enough was I to know that young -Considine had gone a journey for his employer, and was not to the fore, -when most wanted. - -“I stole up for another look at Mary. She was, or _pur_tended to be, -asleep; but it was put into my heart to kneel down and pray for her. The -words were not many, but the Lord knew their meaning. I dipped my finger -in the holy-water cup, that hung at the head of her bed, and signed the -blessed sign over her forehead, without touching her. She looked so -helpless, and so lonely there—her young innocent face, still wet with -tears, turned up to the heavens—the moonlight was hindered from shining -on her by the fog that hangs about the London streets by day and night; -and maybe so best, for moonlight lays heavy on a throbbing brow, and is -not over lucky, particularly—as you know—when it’s full moon. So I did -not go into the little room again, but hurried home, for I had overstaid -my time by more than an hour. I was near my own street, when who came to -my side but Mr. Henry Highley: and he said, it was dull walking my -lone,[24] and he’d see me home, and I told him I had the sight of my -eyes, and could see myself and him too. And he said I was very witty, -and I said, I was sorry I could not return the compliment. Then he -thought to fish out about my mistress—she must be a rich lady to keep -the likes of me. And I answered riches had nothing to do with that: I -did not want to sell myself, or buy any one, and that I should be -happier to serve for love than for money; but he stuck to the -question—Had she plate and jewels? So, turning sharp on him, I said -that any one would think he was a house-breaker, and I laughed: this was -at the door; and there was a policeman passing, who stopped. Well, aunt, -Mr. Henry Highley, without another word—with your leave or by your -leave—whisked off. - -“‘What do you know of that young man?’ inquired the blue-coat. - -“‘Nothing pleasant,’ I said. - -“‘Where did you meet him?’ - -“‘You are neither judge or jury, to be questioning me,’ I answered; for -it isn’t the nature of an Irish girl to put up with a policeman. - -“‘I mark you,’ he said very stiff—but they are all that—‘and when the -time comes, young woman, I’ll find a way to make you tell,’ and he -walked off. - -“Now, aunt dear, sure I had enough of walking on and off that night! My -mistress was angry; but I did as you told me often enough—instead of -making excuses, and inventions, which come mighty pleasant and natural, -I just told the plain truth—quiet and easy—all except the last, for I -did not wish to make her uneasy, as I was myself, having a cruel bad -opinion of Mr. Henry Highley. - -“It’s mighty _quare_ how, in this wonderful city of business and bother, -how your little, peaceful sayings, darling aunt! and the songs you sung -to the wheel of a winter’s evening, with none but the pusheen-cat, and -myself, and a cricket or two to the fore, come into my head, or one of -Watts’ hymns, in the very bustle of the town: I often dust the room to -‘Aileen Mavourneen,’ and brush my lady’s hair to ‘Eveleen’s bower,’ -played on the chords of my heart. Sometimes, when I draw back the -curtain, and shade the light of the pale night-lamp, with my hand, for -fear it might wake her—the mistress I mean—for I never lay down until -she is asleep: often, when I watch her features, worn with pain, yet so -still, and gentle-looking, and see her pale, pink lips, half open, and -such a sweet smile on them, I think—the sleeping face differs so from -the waking one—that angels must be whispering the joys that will come. -When the last dull sleep is ended, aunt, I am sure I should go mad if I -thought that dear innocent woman, so tortured in this world, yet so meek -in herself, so thoughtful and generous to the poor, so kind in her -judgments, so fond to take the sorrows of all who have sorrow into her -bosom, and turn them to blessings—I should indeed break my heart, if I -believed that, for reading the one book another way, we should never -meet in the world that’s to come. I can’t believe it, so there’s enough -about it. As I looked at her, the song of ‘The Angels’ Whisper,’ came -for a second time into my head that night, and then I _crooned_ over -that ‘Savourneen delish’ you are so fond of; and that brought poor Tom -and his motherless children before me! Aunt, dear—maybe I didn’t use -Tom well! I couldn’t help it: though you often told me I should not cast -out dirty water until I could get clean—not a grate compliment to Tom -either!—yet to be obliged, after a few words, to be a mother all out to -three sharp children; and if _he_ was cold and weary, and didn’t smile -and talk every day the same, to have the creeping chill steal over me -like the shake,[25] that he was thinking of his first wife, and maybe -comparing us in his own mind—that would drive me as wild as the other -thing I tould you of a while ago; and yet, I own to you, I have thought -more of poor Tom since I left home, than ever I did while I was there. - -“The next day, and the next day, and the next passed, and no word from -Mary, and my mistress was ill. Once I ran as far as the turn to the -lane, and looked down at the forge. The fire was burning low, and there -was no sound of the hammer on the anvil. At last, Mrs. Considine herself -called; she was very full of prate: she had the dirty red book, as -usual, half sticking out of her black bag: she said, that indeed Mary -had demeaned herself by taking up with nothing but a smith, a great -friend of her brother’s, and one she would not deny who had done him -more than one good turn, and would be right well to do in the world if -he had a little capital to push him on, which neither her nor her -husband would give to a man of the name of Roche. Roche, indeed! Roches -were as plentiful as black-berries, and as common, where she came from. -Set her Mary before the priest with a Roche? No, no; Mr. Henry Highley -was the man for their money, so nice a gentleman; for every sovereign -her husband laid down as Mary’s fortune, he would lay down another, or -could two! And such _jewelery_ as he had; rings for every finger, and -fine watches, one set with precious stones—which had belonged to his -grandmother—a Talbot itself! There was all about the family printed in -the peerage, and sure it wouldn’t be _there_ if it wasn’t true—but -indeed she couldn’t tell what was come over Mary: she had no pride, no -spirit in her; her husband would weigh the watches in his hand, and look -at the rings all day, and ask what they were worth over and over again, -and take them to bed with him, if he was let, he had such delight in -them. But they might be so much _pinchback_, for any thing Mary cared; -they would have the wedding at once, and when it was over, she’d know -better. Mr. Highley was so fond of her, he wouldn’t hear of delay, not -even until her brother came home! She let on that Mary, when married, -would be too grand company for the likes of me, but that _she_ would not -be proud. I might look in sometimes, she’d be glad to see my mistress -when they got into a new lodging, which Mr. Highley said they must after -the wedding—for _his_ sake, dear, sweet, well-born, well-bred young -gentleman! - -“Like her impudence, it was: _My mistress itself!_ MY MISTRESS! visit -with her: och hone! What would the cards on the fine china dish say to -it, if they could but speak? But, aunt dear, what do you think I did, -when she, and her bag, and her book were cleared out of the house? I -told my mistress every word she had said. Now it was a mercy that she -was quite herself that morning, and sure enough she has a head almost as -clear for business as our dear QUEEN’S! God bless it for ever, for a -right, royal, noble head!—the Queen’s, I mean—She did not ponder long, -but laying her spectacles in her Bible, for a mark, she set it besides -the china dish. - -“‘Ellen,’ she said, ‘have you ever seen the policeman, who spoke to you, -since that night?’ - -“And I said I had: that very morning he was on our beat. - -“‘Bring him to me, Ellen.’ - -“My heart was _leping_—leping up into my mouth. - -“‘Bring him into the house?’ I repeated. - -“‘Yes,’ she said, ‘into the house.’ - -“‘Have I done any thing wrong, ma’am?’ - -“So she smiled. - -“‘Nothing, but very right: do as I tell you.’ - -“That ‘Do as I tell you,’ is the same thing as ‘Hold your tongue.’ So, -aunt dear, if you please, you must just fancy me looking for a real, -living policeman; and for a wonder, I found him when he was wanted. He -soon stood like a _statute_ before my mistress. - -“She told him word for word what I have told you: he noted it all down -in a bit of a book, and was mighty particular over the number of rings -and the Talbot watch; he then looked at me, and my mistress nodded for -me to leave the room. Now, wasn’t that too bad? - -“I never felt more hard set to put up with any thing in my born days; -but I went—and, only my mistress has nerves, wouldn’t I have banged the -door? When the bell rung he was gone: she told me I was to go over in -the evening, and see Mary. When I got there, Mrs. Considine was watching -for the postman, who was coming down the court. She took a letter from -him, which I saw was directed to Mary: she read it hastily, and tossed -it into the fire. ‘My relations,’ she said, with a toss of a different -kind, ‘hearing of the fine match Mary is going to make, write constantly -to get them situations.’ A double story—I was so ashamed for her. Aunt -dear, God bless you for teaching me that there is no such thing as an -‘innocent lie.’ The old miser of a man was in a little inner room they -have, divided by a passage from the one we were in, where they sleep -themselves: the windows open into a lane, dark as dungeon by day or -night. He was fumbling at his leather bag, and came out talking to -himself, muttering such things as these— - -“‘At first he said it should be guinea for guinea; but now, it’s two -guineas for one—two guineas for one! Ah! Nelly Nowlan, a fine match! -The smith had nothing but his four bones, and would have wanted my -hard-earned, little savings, and no guinea for guinea, or one to two:’ -and his eyes, so dim and glassy, rolled within their seamed lids, and he -rubbed his skinny, bloodless hands together, as if joy and gold were all -one. ‘Money makes the man,’ he continued, ‘all England owns that: they -are a wise people, the English, they never ask _what you are_, but _what -you have_. When my pretty daughter sits on her own car, wont every one -bow to her and I? O, if I was back in my own place, instead of poor ould -Ned Considine, wouldn’t I be Mr. Edward, sir, with a ’squire to it! Ah, -ah, I know the world, but the world does not know me!’ - -“‘Has there been no letter?’ I heard the low, trembling voice of Mary -inquire, as she entered the house. - -“‘The girl’s foolish to be asking after letters. One from Ireland, from -our people, wanting places,’ was her mother’s reply. - -“When Mary saw me, she burst into tears, and hung about my neck like a -child. She whispered that she was not long for this world, that Philip -had forgotten her, that she should never be happy more. She would obey -her parents and die—my mistress had warned me to hear all and say -nothing. I comforted poor Mary as well as I could, and was asked to the -wedding the next day—I told my mistress, and again she saw the -policeman. O, aunt, wasn’t it cruel of the mistress not to trust me? I -didn’t care what she had to say, but I did want to be trusted. She said -she did not fear my zeal, only my discretion. Wasn’t it hard? - -“I went to the wedding—there was the Priest, a fine, ould, ancient -Clargy, of the right sort: there was the bridegroom, looking pale and -wicked, with as much finery on him as would set up a jeweler’s shop. -There was the father and mother, all excited; there were a couple of -bridesmaids, new-fangled acquaintances, and two or three strangers, -friends of the bridegroom’s, that Mr. and Mrs. Considine made a great -fuss over, and called by the finest of names: there was a dinner, -half-laid out in an upper room, that no one on the banks of the Shannon -ever saw the like of: little puff things, all ornamented out by a real -confectioner, in a white apron, such a sight of folly and nonsense. I -was quite set on one side, and looked on any thing but kindly by the -whole of them, except the old man, who kept on talking about his money. -They seemed all unnatural to me, as if they only wanted the bride as a -part of the ceremony, while all over the world, if a woman is ever as a -queen, it’s from the morning till the evening of her wedding day, what -she is after that depends upon another. The bridesmaids kept going in -and out, and at last, one had the manners to tell me, the bride wanted -me. I knew that long ago. - -“She was standing like a spirit, all in white, in the middle of her -little room. She seemed turned into stone, stiff and stark as a corpse -in its shroud: her mother was wringing her hands by her side, her face -like scarlet, and if ever she spoke with a brogue she did then. - -“‘Och Mary a lanna machree!—Sure it isn’t disgracing us you’d be, going -back of your word, Mary, my own darlin’ child. Sure, darlin’, I hated -the very ground yer father walked on, even after I had married him a -good while. I was disappointed in him, dear: but when I got over -thinking of love, and all that sort of nonsense, when my heart dried up, -and I was all head, I knew what a fine, savin’ man I had got, who -understood the value, even of a brass farthing: he was _ould_ enough to -be my father—let alone yours; but what does that signify, he helped me -to grow ould before my time: and look at the money he’s able to give -you, and win you, Mary _mavourneen_—what’s come to you, child? sure you -consented all out, and what ails you now?’ - -“I pressed her cold hands within mine: they felt turned into bone, cold -and hard and dry. - -“‘You’re murderin’ your own child, Mrs. Considine,’ I said: ‘you are -killing her as surely as if you put a pistol to her head, or poison to -her lips.’ - -“The wicked old man called to Mary from the bottom of the stairs to go -down, and added a curse on her delay: the bridesmaids—one in -particular, who was as hard as the rest at first, had kept on -saying—God forgive her—that love one side was like a fire, and would -soon catch the other—now looked terrified, and pity-struck. - -“Again the call and the curse were repeated: Mary started, as if from a -dream: she drank off a glass of water from her mother’s hand, who kept -repeating—‘That’s a jewel, there’s a darlin’, _corra machree_ was she,’ -and such like nonsense; to which the poor girl made no reply, but -pressed her hands on her temples, and whispered to me—‘Pray to God for -me!’ She walked straight into the room: the bridegroom met her with -‘Sweet Love,’ and a flourish of his pocket-handkerchief, a smile on his -lips—but such oak-sticks between his eyes. She put him on one side with -her little hand, and advancing to the priest, knelt down reverently -before him: there was a hush in the room, nothing heard but the clink of -the gold in the leather bag the old man was shaking out of pride. - -“O, it would have melted a heart of stone to look at that young -creature! Tears overflowing her face, so that she could not speak, and -her hands wrung together. - -“The bridegroom whispered something to her mother about her being -nervous, but it would soon go off: I could have killed him! He then -handed round the ring for us to look at; aye, while SHE was weeping and -trembling at the priest’s feet. When he held it to me, I struck it down. -Aunt, I could not help it! What a look he gave! It rolled along the -floor; but his attention was drawn to Mary’s words. - -“‘Father,’ she sobbed, to the priest, ‘save me—save me from my own -people; save me, a young, helpless girl; save me from marrying him I -hate. Oh, do not let them put the sin of a false oath upon my young -head—I cannot love him. Father, you know I owned to you in holy -confession, but ten days past, that I loved another—that I love him -still. I will never, never speak to him, or write to him, or ask to set -eyes on him again; I will quit the world, and go into a holy house if -you think me fit for it—but oh, save me, save me from perjuring my -soul—save me,’ she repeated wildly, ‘or I shall go mad!’ To see the -holy priest raise her up; to see him place her in his own chair; to see -him put his hands upon her head, and hear his words of comfort! ‘Trust -in me, my dear child; I will never join a willing to an unwilling hand; -be calm, my child; and you,’ he said, turning to the bridegroom, ‘and -you, have _you_ the feelings of a man, to stand by and see this, and -wish to keep her to her promise?’ - -“‘I never promised him—I never promised him,’ sobbed Mary—‘the most I -ever said, and that was in anger and agony—was—that I would do my -parents’ bidding. Father! Mother!—you cannot be so cruel at the last.’ - -“Mr. Considine edged up to his reverence—‘Talk to her, holy father,’ he -muttered, ‘talk to her: he’s so rich—rings, and watches and _goolden_ -guineas two to one, holy father, think of that? two to one! her mother -married me for my goold, and we’ve been happy—two to one, holy father!’ - -“‘Begone!’ said the priest sternly, in such grand English, ‘and do not -dare to stain this holy sacrament by the money-loving spirit that -crushes your soul to destruction. If this dear child persists in her -refusal, I myself forbid the marriage.’ - -“Oh, aunt dear, the lep I gave, and found myself at his holy feet as if -he was the Pope of Rome! and surely no pope could have looked more like -a guardian angel than he did at that minute. - -“‘I must speak with you in private,’ said the bridegroom to his intended -father-in-law as meek as a lamb, ‘just one word;’ and he laid his hand -so gently on the old man’s arm: ‘this can be arranged.’ They went out of -the room together, Mrs. Considine exclaiming, while clapping her hands -so vulgarly! ‘_Och-e-yah!_ the poor, dear young man! Ah, then! Och Mary, -my _gra_ girl, how could you have the heart to refuse such a match? and -he, after promising you a car—a cab, I mean, of your own. Och Mary, -darlin’, be friends with him, Mary _Machree_! _Och yah!_ poor -broken-hearted crayther that I am!’ - -“She kept on that way for some time, until a fall, which shook the -house, and the dull, hoarse scream of murder startled us into silence. -The priest and myself rushed to the door; but the two groomsmen came -between us, exclaiming, ‘It was in the court.’ I saw the whole thing -then, like a flash of lightning, bright and clear. Again the cry. We -cleared the way somehow; the window of their bed-room was open, and the -poor old man, blinded by the blood which gushed from a wound in his -head, was groveling on the floor. - -“We lifted him up: his fingers kept on grappling the air, while his -cries of ‘Murder!’ and ‘Help!’ were broken by such words as ‘My money! -my bag! my hard-earned money! catch him! two to one indeed! Oh let me -after him!’ - -“It was an awful sight—the roars of the old man for his money, the -shrieks of Mrs. Considine, the still more terrible calmness of Mary, -who, while binding up her father’s head, said ‘This is my doing.’ - -“There was a scuffling at the outward door. ‘Keep a brave heart, Mary -Considine,’ said the priest, ‘he’s not hurt to signify.’ - -“‘A hundred and fifty in the bag, not a farthing less, the murdering -young villain; oh, I can’t live—I wont live.’ - -“‘Shame upon you,’ said the silver voice of the fine old priest. ‘Give -God thanks for your deliverance, first from the man, next from your -money.’ - -“‘They are both here,’ said my policeman, who came upon us unawares; ‘it -would be strange if we were not up to Bill Soames. We caught him on the -bound, but I managed badly this time; I ought to have saved you that tap -on the head, old gentleman; though I must say it serves you right, to -want to give that poor girl to a fellow once tried for bigamy, and a -house-breaker to boot!’ - -“Aunt, I tore a silk handkerchief to ribands, trying to keep my hands -off the blue tie, who stood as if nothing had happened, between two -other policemen. - -“‘It’s but a step to the court, and the magistrate is sitting,’ -continued the superintendent; ‘half an hour will send my old -acquaintance to his quarters.’ Of course there was plenty of people -outside; and in the midst of it all the two groomsmen had cleared the -table of every spoon, and Mr. Considine’s own watch, during the time we -were with the old man. Oh, what a deliverance for poor Mary! - -“My heart flew into my mouth—I was as light as a lark leaving the -corn-field for the sky in the early morning, and from the same cause, -both thankful for the new light! - -“Oh, I was _so_ happy!—‘He’s of a _high family_, ma’am,’ said the -policeman, with a knowing look at Mrs. Considine; ‘all that I heard of, -traveled at the expense of government, while some—you understand me?—’ - -“He made a sign round his throat, not pleasant to look at, while Mrs. -Considine’s grief took a new turn, and she bemoaned the disgrace to her -family, and the loss of the family plate! It was delightful how brisk -the old man grew when he knew that his money was found—he called the -cut a scratch, and said ‘his head would be all the better for a taste of -the ould times,’ and away they went, the whole party—barring[26] his -reverence, and Mary, Mrs. Considine (who declared nothing should force -her to enter a police-court) and myself—were cleared out of the house, -and I had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Henry Highley in the grasp of -two policemen; Mary came wonderful to herself, considerin’, and went to -her room. I peeped through a crack, and saw her on her knees before the -image of the blessed Virgin. Mrs. Considine continued sobbing, and -exclaiming all the time she wandered about the house—I was just going -to see how they were getting on in the court, when the priest called me -back. - -“‘Nelly,’ he says; I made my courtesy—‘Nelly,’ he says again—‘it is a -beautiful dinner.’ - -“‘Indeed, your reverence,’ I answered, ‘it would be _that_ certainly -when the solid things come on the table; there was to be a roast turkey, -and a ham, and such a lovely piece of boiled beef—poor Mrs. Considine -was bemoaning it all to me not a minute ago.’ - -“‘A ham, a roast turkey, and a fine piece of boiled beef,’ repeated his -reverence slowly, ‘besides all the kickshaws—and wine?’ - -“‘The finest of port, (thick round the bottles with age) and champagne, -that the villain of a bridegroom brought,’ I answered. - -“‘Say nothing about who brought it, Nelly, if it’s _there_, and he’s -not,’ said his reverence—he paused awhile, but I knew by the twinkle of -his eyes, he was thinking of something past the common— - -“‘It’s a mighty fine dinner, Nelly!’ - -“‘It is, your reverence.’ - -“‘Nelly, it’s a sin and a shame to have such a dinner as that in the -house, and no wedding.’ - -“‘True, for your reverence.’ - -“‘Nelly, we must have a wedding!’ and he looked me through and through. - -“‘Your reverence,’ I said—hardly knowing how to answer, ‘knows best; -but I don’t see how at this present time; it’s my ignorance, your -reverence.’ He shook his head and smiled. - -“‘I know the secrets of more hearts than one, and instead of going down -to the court, just step away to Philip Roche, and tell him what happened -and how Mary kept true to her old love, and let him dress himself at -once—we’re not tied to canonical hours like our neighbors—and tell him -from me, to come here, and before the evening’s out, Nelly, we’ll have a -wedding, and a dinner, and a dance!’ - -“Oh, how I flew! There was Philip in the thick of cold iron, reading a -paper about emigration. I never saw a man so altered: he was but the -ghost of himself, bent and bowed and broken-hearted, he seemed, and his -voice as changed as himself, he knew me at once, and knew that it was -_her_ wedding day. - -“‘It’s all over by this time, I know,’ he said, with a ghastly smile; -‘and I suppose you have brought me the bride-cake tied with green -riband.’ - -“‘Here was the place,’ he continued, going across a little yard, ‘where -I thought she might live quiet and content; a pretty, bright room for -London, and two others inside it—she could sit in that window at her -sewing, and sing; and, if she raised her head, see me at work at the -forge—she never even answered my letters—for I was too hasty that -evening; but it’s over now. She never can be any thing more to me; yet -this day’s post brought me a letter, telling of an uncle’s death in New -York, who has left a good thousand English pounds, to be divided between -my brother and myself; so I’ll just sell off, and go after it. Old -Considine might have kept his money; it was not _that_ I wanted; but -it’s all over!’ Such a wail as there was in the voice of the strong, -broken down man, like the _sough_ of the winter’s wind, I could keep -silent no longer. I believe he thought me wild—mad; I could hardly -begin my tale for joy—joy throbbing in my heart—joy beating in my -throat, and keeping back my words. I got it out at last, all that passed -in one little hour, on which depended so much happiness or misery; oh, -aunt, he is such a great darlint! Not a bit of exultation over Mr. and -Mrs. Considine; only bitter reproaches to himself for not having -understood Mary better; wondering if she could ever forgive him!—and so -glad her father was not badly hurt. Oh, how my heart warmed to him! And -when, at last, I bid him trust all to his reverence, to see how quickly -he dressed! and maybe _he_ didn’t look like an O’Brian, or an -O’Sullivan, or some of the great, grand O’s—so plenty about Killarney -in the ancient times. I didn’t know my own shadow on the wall, -side-beside his; and yet he was so overcome, that at times he stopped -from downright weakness. - -“The priest opened the door with his own blessed hands: they had -returned from the police-court, and his reverence had both the old -people crying. I don’t think Mr. Considine heard all he said; but, -indeed, his heart was softened; he was ashamed of having been imposed on -by a well-known London thief; and who can say that he was not grateful -for his deliverance? for, next to his money, he loved his child. - -“‘Come in, Philip Roche,’ said the priest; ‘there has been a bit of a -misunderstanding here, which we are sorry for; but it’s well to forget -and forgive. Mrs. Considine says she never believed Mary thought so much -about you, or she would not have put between you: if you can make -friends with the little girl up-stairs, we’ll have the wedding!—and the -dinner!—and now, Nelly Nowlan, I trust to you to bring Mary Considine -down, without telling her why. Leave that to me.’ - -“Oh, then, isn’t that priest a rale minister? The delight he took in his -little innocent plot, and all to make those young people happy! He hid -away Philip in the back-room, and Mary came with me, easy enough, when I -told her her father and mother were crying. - -“‘Now, Mary, my child,’ says the priest, ‘you’ll obey me, wont -you?—that’s right. I must give you a penance, Mary: I saved you from -one husband, my darling—I have found you another!’ - -“The life that had come slowly back to the poor girl seemed leaving her -altogether, but Philip could not bear it—he rushed forward, and caught -her in his arms. - -“I can’t tell you what he said, aunt, or what any one said; but in less -than five minutes the priest had opened his book. - -“‘What will be done for a ring?’ sobbed Mrs. Considine. - -“I had picked up the one I struck from the hand of that wicked man, and -said so. - -“‘Use _his_ ring!’ exclaimed Philip; and he flung it into the fire. - -“‘Oh, the sinful waste!’ screamed old Considine; ‘it was pure gold.’ - -“He would have raked the fire out to find it, but the priest commanded -him to be still. Oh, but he’s a fine man; only terrible in anger. Aunt, -I’ll tell you the truth; if I had a very heavy sin, it’s not to him I’d -go. - -“‘The key of the door will do as well,’ he said; ‘it’s the _sign_ of the -Eternal Union we want, nothing more.’ No one gainsaid him, and in -another five minutes they were bound together in the sight of God and -man. - -“‘And now for her fortune, Mr. Considine,’ said the good priest, so -considerate. - -“The young smith stood straighter than ever on the floor; straight and -firm. With one arm he drew his little bride to his heart, the other he -held out. - -“‘It would all feel to me like a dream,’ he said, ‘but for this.’ He -pressed her more closely to him, bent down and kissed her. - -“‘Keep your money, Mr. Considine; cross or coin of yours, sir, I’ll -never touch. Mary was all I ever cared for, and only this blessed -morning did I learn that it has pleased God to give me what you think so -much of. Mary, your husband has five hundred good pounds of his own: -keep your money, Mr. Considine, I never cared for it; but I must say—’ - -“‘_No more_,’ interrupted the priest. ‘Let us have in some of our good -friends and neighbors; and, Nelly Nowlan, sure it’s a comfort that the -beautiful dinner wont be wasted.’ - -“And so, aunt darling, there’s an end of Mary Considine; for in all the -books I read my mistress, there seems an end of a woman when she -marries—a wife and a mother go for nothing! And maybe, I haven’t -something to tell you about _that_, for sure enough, the women (some of -them) want to change places; now who do you think with, aunt? I am sure -your simple head would never find out. Shall I tell you next time?” - ------ - -[21] Plenty. - -[22] Neager, _i. e._ miser. - -[23] Wood-Pigeon. - -[24] “My lone,” alone. - -[25] “Shake,” ague. - -[26] Except, putting aside. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO ADHEMAR. - - - E. A. L. - - - Thy voice flows o’er my list’ning heart, like sound - From fairy fount, or lute in land of dreams, - And full thy loveliness upon me teems, - With thy bright presence lighting all around, - Until my pulses leap like rills unbound. - I see again thine eyes’ effulgent beams— - I walk with thee along the laughing streams— - Thro’ whispering groves—o’er flower-bespangled ground, - And feel thy glowing touch my heart-strings thrill, - As I upon thy doating arm recline, - Listing thee speak, from out thy spirit’s shrine. - Love-freighted words, whose heavenly music still - Steals softly o’er my weary, thirsting soul, - Exerting o’er it aye a calm and sweet control. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _Course of the History of Modern Philosophy. By M. Victor - Cousin. Translated by O. W. Wight. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 2 - vols. 8vo._ - -The thinking portion of the reading public are under great obligations -to Mr. Wight for his vigorous and accurate version of Cousin’s master -work, and to the Messrs. Appletons for the beautiful dress in which it -fitly appears. It belongs, indeed, to that rare class of works which -illustrate the intellectual history of the age in which they are -produced; and it deserves the attention of all readers who desire to -take the first step in acquiring a taste for metaphysics. It is composed -of two courses of lectures, originally delivered in Paris to large and -enthusiastic audiences, whose admiration of the splendid eloquence of -the lecturer soon compelled them to love the subject likewise; and when -published, their influence was felt in every country into which the -French language and literature penetrates, and caused a revival in -philosophy, which somewhat amazed its hard and dry cultivators from its -peculiarity and its extent. These lectures, indeed, made metaphysical -science popular everywhere. Men and women read Victor Cousin as they -read Scott and Byron. His bold and dazzling generalizations, expressed -in a style of singular clearness, energy and vehemence, stimulated the -most jaded minds; and the dictatorial confidence with which he settled -all the problems of history, philosophy and religion, and the ease with -which his solutions were comprehended, made him the universal favorite. -There was something captivating, too, in the theory by which he -reconciled all the various systems in his eclectic and electric method. -There are four systems, sensualism, idealism, skepticism, and mysticism, -each having its root in consciousness, each containing an element of -truth, and each wrong as an exclusive system. Select from these what is -true, place the four partial truths in their relations, and the result -is the eclectic philosophy. This is a loose, short-hand statement, in -unphilosophic language, of Cousin’s scheme. - -It must be admitted that Cousin’s system did not long hold its ground. -After the first surprise was over, the metaphysicians _par eminence_ -began to attack him with great fury, and gave him some blows from which -he has never recovered; and the public, who had been carried away by his -eloquence, forgot him as soon as another novelty appeared. The result -has been, that of late he has not been estimated according to his real -merits. He most certainly has not done what he pretended to do. He has -not reconciled the philosophers or the philosophies; he has hardly -formed a school; his disciples have expired, recanted, or left the -inclusive for some more satisfactory exclusive system. But he is still a -metaphysician of uncommon power, acuteness, insight, genius; his works -are full of important truths and principles, which stimulate the mind to -independent thought; his information is immense; and he is the most -brilliant, comprehensible and readable of all the historians of -philosophy. He is to metaphysical history what Macaulay is to civil -history; and we do not see why the present work is not as capable of -holding the pleased and breathless attention of the intelligent reader -as the “History of the Revolution of 1688.” There is in both writers the -same confident manner of settling controversies about which centuries of -disputants have wrangled; and, on the first blush, it seems impossible -to resist the statements of either of them, as both drive directly at -the common sense of men; are clear and brilliant, while their opponents -are obscure and dull; and never leave the impression of an undefined -something outside of the limits of their respective systems, to puzzle -and torture their readers with a latent doubt. “I wish,” said Lord -Melbourne, “that I knew any thing as well as Tom Macaulay knows every -thing.” This “I know,” and “I am sure,” this absence of self-distrust, -is as characteristic of Cousin as Macaulay; and the mischief is that -after reading either, we are apt to be as satisfied as they are -themselves, and think we have thoroughly mastered the matter. - -It would be impossible in our limited space to convey an idea of the -contents of these volumes. Beginning with the proposition that -philosophy is a special want and necessary product of the human mind, -and the last development of thought, Cousin proceeds to show that it has -existed in every epoch of humanity, is a real element of universal -history, and contains the explanation of its various parts. He thus -explains Indian Civilization by the Bhagavad-Gita, the age of Pericles -by the philosophy of Socrates, the sixteenth century by the philosophy -of Descartes, the eighteenth century by the philosophy of Condillac and -Helvetius. He then states the psychological method in history, a method -which is neither empirical or speculative, but combines the two, seeking -in history the development of the human reason. After stating the -fundamental ideas of history, which are the fundamental ideas of the -human reason, namely, the Infinite, the finite, and the relation between -the two, he treats the great epochs of history as answering to the -successive development of these ideas. The influence of geography, of -nations, and of great men, in history, is then stated with great -eloquence, force, and subtle complication of truth and paradox. Some -vigorous sketches of the historians of humanity and philosophy, in which -their merits are luminously exhibited and their defects acutely -analyzed, are followed by a view of the philosophy of the 19th century. -The eclectic tendency of European society and philosophy is noted, and -the necessity is shown of a new general history of philosophy to explain -the new movement of thought. Next follows a picture of the eighteenth -century, with the character and method of its philosophy. Its different -systems are not peculiar to that century; and the origin, natural -development, relative utility, and intrinsic merit of Sensualism, -Idealism, Skepticism, and Mysticism, the four classes into which all -ideas fall, are vigorously and clearly stated. The history of these is -then given, in a splendid review of the Hindoo, Greek, Scholastic, and -modern philosophies; and the sensualism of the eighteenth century is -traced to all its sources. A criticism of Locke, running through ten -lectures, and generally considered to be the ablest of Cousin’s -productions, concludes the work. - -It will be seen, even from this bold outline, that all the questions -which have puzzled human reason, and to which it has at different -periods given different answers, are stated and discussed in Cousin’s -work. The splendor and the beauty, the unwearied energy and the rapid -movement of his style, carry the reader on to the end with hardly a -pause of distrust or fatigue; and we hope that a translation, executed -with such a lavish expenditure of intelligence and industry as Mr. -Wight’s, will meet with its due reward in an extensive circulation. -Certainly nothing which can by courtesy be called a library can afford -to be without it. - - * * * * * - - _The Works of Daniel Webster. Boston: Little & Brown, 6 vols. - 8vo._ - -This beautiful edition of the works of one of the greatest statesmen -that the country has produced, contains all the speeches and legal -arguments in the former editions of Mr. Webster’s writings, together -with the numerous orations and addresses he has made since the year -1841, and the masterly state papers which he produced while Secretary of -State in the administration of General Harrison. To these are added the -celebrated letter to Chevalier Hulseman, written while in his present -station. The collection is edited with much care and ability by the Hon. -Edward Everett. The biography of Mr. Webster by the editor, is a clear, -candid, elaborate, and somewhat frigid view of his whole life as a -statesman and lawyer, giving an accurate statement of the various -circumstances under which the great efforts of his mind were produced, -and placing the reader in a position to appreciate their importance. The -tone of the biography is cautiously moderate, indulging in none of the -fervors of eulogy or exaggerations of friendship, and, on the whole, not -coming up to the enthusiastic praise with which Mr. Webster’s powers are -commonly mentioned by those who have had most occasion to dread or decry -their exercise. Mr. Everett seems to have felt too acutely the delicacy -of his position, as the biographer of a living friend; and, shrinking -from the responsibility of pouring out in glowing words his own -admiration of his subject, is content to import all such perilous matter -from the dashing and vivid pages of Mr. March. - -It seems to us, also, that Mr. Everett gives little evidence in his -biography of a sustained and vigorous conception of Mr. Webster’s mind -and character. We do not mean that his epithets are not appropriate, -that his judgments are not accurate, that his generalities are not -abstractly just; but he evinces no power of diffusing the results of -analysis through the veins of narration, of making the reader feel -constantly that he is following the life of a man as peculiar and -individual as he is great. The Websterian quality of the subject never -flashes once out from Mr. Everett’s elegant sentences. Take any page -from the biography and compare it with any paragraph in the speeches, -and the defect we have noticed will be apparent to the most -unapprehensive reader. There is no mental and moral agreement between -them. It would seem to be one duty of the biographer to translate into -intelligible form the vague impression which the works of the subject of -the biography leaves on the most superficial mind; to detect, to fix, to -embody the subtle spirit which, emanating from character, gives unity -and individuality equally to the events of a man’s life and the -productions of a man’s mind. A man of the large dimensions and massive -force of Mr. Webster, whose personality stamps itself so readily upon -the imagination, and groups fit words round its own image by a kind of -magnetism, offers few obstacles to a right psychological treatment; and -we are somewhat astonished that a man of Mr. Everett’s various talents -and accomplishments should have failed in this important part of the -biographer’s duty. - -We trust that this collection of Mr. Webster’s writings will have an -extensive circulation, were it only for the good influence it is -calculated to exert on the literature of the country. To one party in -the United States they are invaluable as containing the best exposition -they possess of their political principles—to all parties they must be -attractive for the many electric passages of purely patriotic eloquence -with which they teem; but to the author they are especially valuable as -models of style. We use the word models not in its usual sense, for we -certainly would not give any one the ridiculous advice to imitate the -diction even of Mr. Webster; but we would advise every one to follow Mr. -Webster’s own method of composition, which is simply the method of -common sense and common honesty. The great literary sin of the day is -pretension; and it is refreshing to read a man who, comprehensive and -powerful as he is, modestly accepts the limitations of his genius, never -borrows a thought or an emotion, and rarely uses a word which he has not -a right to use. If we compare him for a moment with men who gain -popularity by debauching in language, we feel at once the force of that -expression which austerely limits itself within the bounds of character, -and stamps on every sentence the authority of personal experience. - - * * * * * - - _A Journey through Tartary, Thibet and China. By M. Huc. New - York: D. Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 12mo._ - -These quaint and interesting volumes are the record of the travels of a -Catholic Missionary in countries of which the reading world knows little -or nothing. The sketches of scenery, manners, customs, religion, and -character, are very graphic, and the style of composition is so direct -and simple that the words form pictures in the mind without any effort -on the part of the reader. The views of the religion of Thibet are very -clear, and add to our knowledge of its philosophic basis. The mind of M. -Huc almost realizes the ideal of the observing faculty. He sees -distinctly, and gives us exactly what he sees, without modifying it by -his own opinions or sentiments. To read his book, is next to walking or -riding by his side, and seeing the strange objects he describes with our -own eyes. His illustrations of Tartar life are especially graphic and -amusing. Here is a specimen. “When not on horseback, a Tartar is -generally quite idle, and passes a great part of the day crouched in his -tent, drinking tea, and sometimes he lounges about like a Parisian -dandy, though not quite in the same way. When he has a mind to see what -is passing in the world, he mounts his horse, and goes galloping away -into the desert, without heeding in what direction, and whenever he sees -the smoke of a tent rising, he makes a call, and has a gossip.” His -description also of the Jonathan Wilds and Dick Turpins of Tartary is -quite edifying. “The robbers,” he says, “are in general remarkable for -the politeness with which they flavor their address. They do not put a -pistol to your head, and cry roughly, ‘Your money or your life,’ but -they say in the most courteous tone, ‘My eldest brother, I am weary of -walking on foot. Be so good as to lend me your horse!’ or, ‘It is very -cold to-day—be kind enough to lend me your coat!’ If the eldest brother -be charitable enough to comply, he receives thanks; if not the request -is enforced by two or three blows of the cudgel, or, if that is not -sufficient, recourse is had to the sabre.” It is the custom of these -polite gentlemen, however, to rob none the less thoroughly because they -use the amenities of genteel life. The poor traveler who falls into -their hands is not only deprived of horse, camel, money and goods, but -he is stripped of every rag of clothes, and left, with an elegant bow -and smooth farewell, to die of cold and hunger. This is the very method -of genteel society everywhere. - -The shrewd and remorseless avarice of the Chinese is illustrated in -these volumes to perfection. From the emperor to the trader, all prey on -the poor Tartars. Thus M. Huc meets a member of a great commercial house -in Pekin, at Blue Town, and enters into a conversation with him. The -merchant claims the missionary at once as one of his own trade, which, -with Spartan brevity, he describes to consist in eating Tartars. “Eaters -of Tartars!” exclaims good M. Huc, “what is the meaning of that?” to -which the other answers, “Our trade—yours and mine—is to eat the -Mongols—we by traffic, you by prayers.” On the missionary’s assuring -him that he paid for every thing as he went along, and that his mission -was purely disinterested, the merchant almost choked himself with -laughing at the folly of a man who should venture into such a country -for any other purpose than to prey upon its inhabitants; and then -proceeds to describe the mysteries and moralities of the Wall street of -China. We commend his system to our glorious army of shavers and -capitalists. You see, he says, these Tartars “are simple as children -when they come into our towns. They want to have every thing they -see—they seldom have any money, but we come to their help. We give them -goods on credit, and then, of course, they must pay rather high. When -people take away goods without leaving the money, of course, there must -be a little interest of thirty or forty per cent. Then, by degrees, the -interest mounts up, and you come to compound interest; but that’s only -with the Tartars. In China the laws forbid it; but we, who are obliged -to run about the Land of Grass—we may well ask for a little extra -profit. Isn’t that fair? A Tartar debit is never paid—it goes on from -generation to generation; every year goes to get the interest, and it’s -paid in sheep, oxen, camels, horses—all that is a great deal better -than money. We get the beasts at a very low price, and we sell them at a -very good price in the market. Oh! it’s a capital thing—a Tartar debt! -It’s a mine of gold.” This is but one specimen of a Chinese “eater of -Tartars.” - -M. Huc’s volumes are full of equally piquant sketches, and we know of -few tourists who seize with such inevitable tact on incidents and -peculiarities which illustrate the morals and the habits of whole -classes of people. The work is one of the most original and novel yet -published in “Appleton’s Popular Library of the Best Authors”—a -collection of which no lover of readable books should be without. - - * * * * * - - _The Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell, afterward Mistress - Milton. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 18mo._ - -It appears to us that this volume is fully as felicitous as “Lady -Willoughby’s Diary.” Like that it is in the form of a journal, written -in the orthography and style of the seventeenth century. The simplicity -with which the whole is conceived and wrought out is exquisite. The idea -of the book is taken from the well-known incident of Milton’s first -courtship and marriage; and its charm consists in accounting for the -disagreement between the couple on grounds of nature which do not appear -in the bold statement of the fact. It is a delicious volume, full of the -essential spirit of poetry, and pure, tender, simple and refined -throughout. - - * * * * * - - _The Yellowplush Papers. By William M. Thackeray. New York: D. - Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 18mo._ - -This is one of the earliest and best of Thackeray’s delightful works. It -is a sort of autobiography of a London footman, Charles Yellowplush, -comprising very vigorous sketches of his various masters, and written in -a style which inimitably combines shrewdness with vulgarity. The -spelling alone is a work of genius. The portion relating to Mr. Deuceace -has passages of great power and pathos as well as humor, and exhibits -the utter lack of sentiment and principle, the hard demoniacal -selfishness of a true London blood, with extraordinary closeness to the -fact. “Mr. Yellowplush’s Ajew” and “Epistles to the Literati,” are also -riotous with mirth. Bulwer Lytton’s coxcombry is caricatured in these -last very ludicrously. - - * * * * * - - _Putnam’s Semi-Monthly Library for Travelers and the Fireside. - New York: George P. Putnam. 6 vols. 12mo._ - -This is one of the cheapest and best edited literary enterprises ever -started in the United States. It is published in semi-monthly volumes, -each of which is printed in large type on fine white paper, contains -some two hundred and fifty pages, and is placed at the low price of -twenty-five cents a volume. Two volumes are given to prose and poetical -comicalities, carefully selected, humorous cuts and all, from “Hood’s -Own;” three volumes consist of capital selections from Dickens’ -Household Words, entitled “Home and Social Philosophy,” “The World Here -and There,” and “Home Narratives;” and the last is an original -production, written by Mr. Olmstead, and called, very aptly, “Walks and -Talks of an American Farmer in England”—an exceedingly interesting -book, in which the author gives, in a homely but expressive style, his -experiences among the farming population of England. We trust that Mr. -Putnam’s admirable plan will be fully carried out, and that his success -will be as complete as his enterprise is commendable. The price is -hardly one-third of the usual cost of American reprints of equal -elegance of execution. - - * * * * * - - _Lyra and Other Poems. By Alice Carey. New York: Redfield. 1 - vol. 12mo._ - -We wish that we had sufficient space this month to do justice to the -qualities of mind and character impressed on this beautiful volume; but -we shall be compelled to defer an elaborate view of its merits. The -first glance at its pages will reveal to the reader the extreme -sensitiveness of the writer’s mind to all that is beautiful, and tender, -and sublime, and the swift felicity with which she embodies the most -evanescent shades of emotion, and the most subtle meanings of natural -objects. We regret that so large a portion of the poems should be so sad -in their tone, as Alice Carey’s genius is by no means bounded by the -serious side of things, but can sing cheerily as well as mournfully. The -present volume, however, has more “hearse-like airs than carols.” - - * * * * * - - _Isa; A Pilgrimage. By Caroline Chesebro’. New York: Redfield. 1 - vol. 12mo._ - -This powerful story has a peculiar interest from its bearing on the -fashionable ethics of certain novelists, who inculcate libertinism under -the guise of liberality of thought and nobility of sentiment. The -authoress shows the depraving influence of this philosophy on the -noblest natures. Her insight into the workings of passion is remarkably -bright and clear; and the vigorous movement of her narrative fastens the -reader’s interest to the end. The chief fault of the book is its -unrelieved intensity. - - * * * * * - - _Tales and Traditions of Hungary. By Theresa Pulszky. New York: - Redfield. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -To those who are interested in the recent struggles of the brave and -unfortunate Hungarian people for national independence, this volume will -be heartily welcome. It gives us glimpses into the manners of the -people, and exhibits the strong foundations on which the national -character rests. The work has been popular in England, and its -authoress, now a resident in the United States, has republished it with -additions. We hope it will meet with a large share of popular favor. - - * * * * * - - - - - LITERARY GOSSIP. - - - “_The Household of Sir Thomas More._” - - “_The Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell._”[27] - - -Two of the most exquisitely finished and delightful works that have come -before our eyes in years, have lately been reproduced from the English -press by two of our New York publishers, without any hint in regard to -authorship, or indeed to the aim and nature of the books, whether fact -or fiction. Their names stand above, and the personages to whom they -have relation will be recognized as the great and good chancellor of -Henry VIII., barbarously and illegally put to death for his refusal to -take the oath of supremacy, and for his opposition to the unjust divorce -of Katharine and marriage of the king with Anne Boleyn; and as the -unhappy wife of that greatest of poets, but sternest and most -impracticable of husbands, John Milton. No hint, as I have observed, is -given as to authorship, but it is I think impossible that we shall be -mistaken in ascribing both to the same pen; for, although the wielder of -that pen has chosen to maintain an absolute incognito, his mark—though -I am not altogether clear that for _his_ we might not better read -_her_—is not to be confounded with that of any other; nor do we -recognize any other in England or America at all comparable to this. - -In both works we find the same delicate and delicious freshness, like -the perfume from a rich clover-field after a summer shower; the same -truthfulness to nature; the same intimate acquaintance with the spirit -of the times, the character and circumstances of the supposed writers; -the same natural and artless pathos; the same simplicity, and, if I may -so speak of writing evidently fictitious, the same authenticity and -genuineness of style. - -So perfect indeed is the skill and tact of the handling, and so -admirably is the whole character of either work kept up, that it cannot -be doubted, had they been put forth as genuine ancient memoirs, -recovered by any accident you will, their success as forgeries would -have been as complete as that very remarkable—but to me very -dull—book, “The Amber Witch” of the Pastor Meinhold, or the -supposititious letters of Shelley and other notables of the nineteenth -century, which have recently created so much wonder and excitement in -the literary world. - -What is to me, however, even more remarkable than the excellence of -these chaste and unpretending little fictions, is the total absence of -bruit or loud encomium with which they have issued both from the English -and American presses; for in good sooth we have hardly heard them named, -while they are in every respect the cleverest and most highly wrought, -and in their own line the very best fictitious works that we have seen -in years. - -Fiction they undoubtedly are, in some sense; but fiction of some such -nature—far be it from me to write profanely—as the parables of our -ever-blessed Saviour, and in their humbler sphere and lesser degree -improvable to the same good end. There is not one line in either from -which any mental alchemy could extract one grain of evil counsel or -unholy thought; on the contrary, there is not one which prompts not to -good works, and faith, and reliance in the mercy and justice of the Most -High. - -After the Holy Bible itself, we are cognizant of no reading which may be -put more fitly into the innocent hands of a beloved daughter on a Sunday -afternoon, than either of these beautiful and touching little volumes; -and to render the effects more certain, as more salutary, so far is -there from being any effort or straining after religionism, moralizing -or lay-preaching, so apt to frustrate their own ends, that the whole -tenor of each flows so naturally and with so much probability forward, -the thinkings, doings and speakings of the actors springing so -spontaneously from the causes, that we read on enthralled, engrossed, -with a tear often stealing to the eye, hardly able to believe that we -are not perusing the real memoirs of real authors; and think nothing of -the moral until the book is closed and the paramount interest ended. - -It is an evil sign in relation to the influence and tone of the -press-criticism of any countries, when we find the vulgar absurdities -and exaggerations of Cockton, the trivial and overdone flippancies of -Albert Smith, or even the brilliant eccentricities of Thackeray, -over-lauded to the skies, while such gems of nature, verisimilitude and -poesy, as these little volumes, creep forward, almost unushered, timid -and unknown to fame, into the gradual favor of the public. - -In one word, I know not nor conjecture to what dead or living author, -male or female, of either hemisphere they may be attributed; but I do -know there is not one—no! not Sir Walter himself—who would not derive -fresh reputation from their authorship; and in order to substantiate -this my opinion, I proceed to extract somewhat largely from the former -work, which—although I have hitherto spoken of them in general terms, -and in common, as cognate compositions, and I doubt not by the same -pen—is by many degrees the abler and more perfect, as far as the more -agreeable and fascinating volume. - -There is not a syllable in it which might not have been penned in her -_libellus_ by sweet Margaret More, bravest and best of English -daughters—not one, which did not probably, in some shape or other, pass -through her living brain—not one, to make an end of it, which, as we -read, we do not implicitly believe, for the moment, to be of her actual -penning. - -There is, moreover, a fine, free humor, singularly characteristic of the -age and the characters of “The Household of Sir Thomas More,” which is -lacking, and which would perhaps have been out of place, in the “Maiden -and Married Life of Mary Powell;” but which nevertheless beautifully -relieves the soft and tender melancholy of the memoir. - -It is, however, in truthfulness, if I may not absolutely say truth, that -Margaret’s libellus is most clearly superior; for we are constrained, in -justice, to say that the portraiture of John Milton in his domestic -relations, however great his public glory, is most overweening flattery, -and that the happiness ascribed to the latter portion of “the married -life of Mary Powell,” is as pure a fiction as ever emanated from the -fancy of the wildest romancer. - -But to return to our “A Margarettâ More, libellus, quindecim annos nata, -Chelseiæ inceptus;” here we have, in her own words, the incident—not -accident—of its inception. - - “On asking Mr. Gunnel to what use I s^{d} put this fair - _libellus_, he did suggest my making it a kinde of family - register, wherein to note y^{e} more important of our domestic - passages, whether of joy or griefe—my father’s journies and - absences—the visits of learned men, theire notable sayings, - etc. ‘You art smart at the pen, Mistress Margaret,’ he was - pleased to say; ‘and I would humblie advise your journalling in - y^{e} same fearless manner in the which you framed that letter - which soe well pleased the Bishop of Exeter, that he sent you a - Portugal piece. ’Twill be well to write it in English, which - ’tis expedient for you not altogether to negleckt, even for the - more honorable Latin.’ - - “Methinks I am close upon womanhood. . . . . ‘Humblie advise,’ - quotha! to me, that hath so oft humblie sued for his pardon, and - sometimes in vain. - - “’Tis well to make trial of Gonellus his ‘humble’ advice: - albeit, our daylie course is so methodicall, that ’twill afford - scant subject for y^{e} pen—_Vitam continet una dies_.” - -Here, again, we are introduced to the younger members of the household -in their moments of home-merriment and simple occupations, as usual at -that unsophisticated day, before fear or grief fell upon their happy -circle—and what was ever writ more naturally and unaffectedly? - - “This morn, hinting to Bess that she was lacing herselfe too - straightlie, she brisklie replyed, ‘One w^{d} think ’twere as - great meritt to have a thick waiste as to be one of y^{e} earlie - Christians!’ - - “These humourous retorts are ever at her tongue’s end; and, - albeit, as Jacky one day angrilie remarked, when she had beene - teazing him, ‘Bess, thy witt is stupidnesse;’ yet, for one who - talks soe much at random, no one can be more keene when she - chooseth. Father sayd of her, half fondly, half apologeticallie - to Erasmus. ‘Her wit has a fine subtletie that eludes you - almoste before you have time to recognize it for what it really - is.’ To which, Erasmus readilie assented, adding, that it had - y^{e} rare meritt of playing less on persons than things, and - never on bodilie defects. - - “Hum!—I wonder if they ever sayd as much in favour of me. I - knowe, indeede, Erasmus calls me a forward girl! Alas! that may - be taken in two senses.” - - * * * * * - - “Grievous work, overnighte, with y^{e} churning. Nought w^{d} - persuade Gillian but that y^{e} creame was bewitched by Gammer - Gurney, who was dissatisfyde last Friday with her dole, and - hobbled away mumping and cursing. At alle events y^{e} butter - w^{d} not come; but mother was resolute not to have soe much - good creame wasted; soe sent for Bess and me, Daisy and Mercy - Giggs, and insisted on our churning in turn till y^{e} butter - came, if we sate up all nighte for’t. ’Twas a hard saying; and - mighte have hampered her like as Jephtha his rash vow: howbeit, - soe soone as she had left us, we turned it into a frolick, and - sang Chevy Chase from end to end, to beguile time; - ne’erthelesse, the butter w^{d} not come; soe then we grew - sober, and, at y^{e} instance of sweete Mercy, chaunted y^{e} - 119th Psalme; and, by the time we had attayned to ‘Lucerna - pedibus,’ I heard y^{e} buttermilk separating and splashing in - righte earnest. ’Twas neare midnighte, however; and Daisy had - fallen asleep on y^{e} dresser. Gillian will ne’er be convinced - but that our Latin brake the spell.” - -A few pages farther, we are let into the secret of the who, and the -wherefore, of the aforesaid merry damsels, “Daisy and Bess, and Mercy -Giggs, and I,” who are to be our delectable companions through many a -mirthful, many a melancholy page. - - “As we rose from table, I noted Argus pearcht on y^{e} - window-sill, eagerlie watching for his dinner, which he looketh - for as punctualie as if he c^{d} tell the diall; and to please - the good, patient bird, till the scullion broughte him his mess - of garden-stuff, I fetched him some pulse, which he took from - mine hand, taking good heede not to hurt me with his sharpe - beak. While I was feeding him, Erasmus came up, and asked me - concerning Mercy Giggs; and I tolde him how that she was a - friendlesse orphan, to whom deare father afforded protection and - the run of y^{e} house; and tolde him of her gratitude, her - meekness, her patience, her docilitie, her aptitude for alle - goode works and alms-deeds; and how, in her little chamber, she - improved eache spare moment in y^{e} way of studdy and prayer. - He repeated ‘Friendlesse? she cannot be called friendlesse, who - hath More for her protector, and his children for companions;’ - and then woulde heare more of her parent’s sad story. Alsoe, - would heare somewhat of Rupert Allington, and how father gained - his law-suit. Alsoe, of Daisy, whose name he tooke to be y^{e} - true abbreviation for Margaret, but I tolde him how that my - step-sister, and Mercy, and I, being all three of a name, and I - being alwaies called Meg, we had in sport given one the - significative of her characteristic virtue, and the other that - of y^{e} French Marguerite, which may indeed be rendered either - pearl or daisy. And Chaucer, speaking of our English daisy, - saith - - ‘Si douce est la Marguerite.’” - -Next, a little further yet, we have dear Margaret’s thoughts upon -herself and her own attractiveness— - - “A glance at the anteceding pages of this libellus me-sheweth - poor Will Roper at y^{e} season his love-fitt for me was at its - height. He troubleth me with it no longer, nor with his - religious disquietations. Hard study of the law hath filled his - head with other matters, and made him infinitely more rationall, - and by consequents, more agreeable. ’Twas one of those - preferences young people sometimes manifest, themselves know - neither why nor wherefore, and are shamed, afterwards, to be - reminded of. I’m sure I shall ne’er remind him. There was - nothing in me to fix a rational or passionate regard. I have - neither Bess’s witt nor white teeth, nor Daisy’s dark eyes, nor - Mercy’s dimple. A plain-favoured girl, with changefule - spiritts—that’s all.” - -And within but a brief space we find her much in error, as to its -degree, and its effect on William Roper, which she records as thus in -the libellus. - - “Soe my fate is settled. Who knoweth at sunrise what will chance - before sunsett? No; the Greeks and Romans mighte speake of - chance and of fate, but we must not. Ruth’s _hap_ was to light - on y^{e} field of Boaz; but what she thought casual, y^{e} Lord - had contrived. - - “Firste, he gives me y^{e} marmot. Then, the marmot dies. Then, - I, having kept y^{e} creature soe long, and being naturalie - tender, must cry a little over it. Then Will must come in and - find me drying mine eyes. Then he must, most unreasonablie, - suppose that I c^{d} not have loved the poor animal for its own - sake soe much as for his; and thereupon, falle a love-making in - such down righte earneste, that I, being alreadie somewhat - upset, and knowing ’twoulde please father . . . . and hating to - be perverse . . . . and thinking much better of Will since he - hath studied soe hard, and given soe largelie to y^{e} poor, and - left off broaching his heteroclite opinions. . . . I say, I - supposed it must be soe, some time or another, soe ’twas noe use - hanging back for ever and ever, soe now there’s an end, and I - pray God give us a quiet life. - - “Noe one w^{d} suppose me reckoning on a quiet life if they knew - how I’ve cried alle this forenoon, ever since I got quit of - Will, by father’s carrying him off to Westminster. He’ll tell - father, I know, as they goe along in the barge, or else coming - back, which will be soon enow, though I’ve ta’en no heed of the - hour. I wish ’twere cold weather, and that I had a sore throat - or stiff neck, or somewhat that might reasonablie send me a-bed, - and keep me there till to-morrow morning. But I’m quite well, - and ’tis the dog-days, and cook is thumping the rolling-pin on - the dresser, and dinner is being served, and here comes father.” - - * * * * * - -But with this extract the happy days of the household are ended; doubts, -darkness, dangers and the shadows of the valley of death henceforth -begin to close around and above them; and if, as the old Greeks and -Romans deemed, a good man struggling nobly in the toils of necessity -were a spectacle for the eyes of gods, then were the sufferings of Sir -Thomas and his household of the grandest and most glorious. - -Now, he has thwarted the uxorious, cruel tyrant, offended unto death the -ambitious Anne Boleyn, and brought his head into jeopardy by denying the -supremacy of a layman in affairs ecclesiastical. - -And lo! how gently, and with how exquisite a harmony of circumstances, -he breaks to his favorite child his own distinct anticipation of his -coming doom. - - “Ever since father’s speech to us in y^{e} pavillion, we have - been of one heart and one soul; neither have any of us said that - aught of the things we possessed were our own, but we have had - all things in common. And we have eaten our meat with gladness - and singleness of heart. - - “This afternoon, expressing to father my gratefull sense of our - present happiness. . . . . ‘Yes, Meg,’ returns he, ‘I too am - deeply thankful for this breathing space.’ - - “‘Do you look on it as no more, then?’ I sayd. - - “‘As no more, Meg: we shall have a thunder-clap by-and-by. Look - out on the Thames. See how unwontedlie clear it is, and how low - the swallows fly. . . . . . . How distinctlie we see the green - sedges on Battersea bank, and their reflected images in the - water. We can almost discern the features of those poor knaves - digging in the cabbage gardens, and hear ’em talk, so still is - y^{e} air. Have you ne’er before noted these signs?’ - - “‘A storm is brewing,’ I sayd. - - “‘Aye, we shall have a lightening-flash anon. So still, Meg, is - also our atmosphere just now. God is giving us a breathing - space, as he did to the Egyptians before the plague of hail, - that they might gather their live stock within doors. Let us - take for example them that believed and obeyed him; and improve - this holy pause.’ - - “Just at this moment, a few heavy drops fell agaynst the window - pane, and were seen by both. Our eyes met; and I felt a silent - pang. - - “‘Five days before the Passover,’ resumed father, ‘all seemed as - still and quiet as we are now; but Jesus knew his hour was at - hand. E’en while he yet spake familiarly among the people, there - came a sound from heaven, and they that stood by said it - thundered; but _he_ knew it for the voice of his dear Father. - Let us, in like manner, when the clap cometh, recognize in it - the voice of God, and not be afraid with any amazement.’” - -Again she visits him in the tower, by especial favor, after the blow has -descended, and his fate, all but the doom, is fixed, and so, “ye who -have tears prepare to shed them now.” - - “. . . I minded to put y^{e} haircloth and cord under my - farthingale, and one or two of y^{e} smaller books in my pouch, - as alsoe some sweets and suckets such as he was used to love. - Will and Bonvisi were awaiting for me, and deare Bess, putting - forthe her head from her chamber door, cries pitiously, ‘Tell - him, dear Meg, tell him . . . ’twas never soe sad to me to be - sick . . . and that I hope . . . I pray . . . the time may come - . . .’ then falls back swooning into Dancey’s arms, whom I leave - crying heartilie over her, and hasten below to receive the - confused medley of messages sent by every other member of y^{e} - house. For mine owne part, I was in such a tremulous succussion - as to be scarce fitt to stand or goe, but time and the tide will - noe man bide, and, once having taken boat, the cool river air - allayed my fevered spiritts; onlie I coulde not for awhile get - rid of y^{e} impression of poor Dancey crying over Bess in her - deliquium. - - “I think none o’ the three opened our lips before we reached - Lambeth, save in y^{e} Reach, Will cried to y^{e} steersman, - ‘Look you run us not a ground,’ in a sharper voyce than I e’er - heard from him. After passing y^{e} Archbishop’s palace, whereon - I gazed full ruefullie, good Bonvisi beganne to mention some - rhymes he had founde writ with a diamond on one of his - window-panes at Crosby House, and would know were they father’s! - and was’t y^{e} chamber father had used to sleep in? I tolde him - it was, but knew nought of y^{e} distich, though ’twas like enow - to be his. And thence he went on to this and that, how that - father’s cheerfulle, funny humour never forsook him, nor his - brave heart quelled, instancing his fearless passage through the - Traitor’s Gate, asking his neighbours whether _his_ gait was - that of a traditor; and, on being sued by the porter for his - upper garment, giving him his _cap_, which he sayd was - uppermost. And other such quips and passages, which I scarce - noted nor smiled at, soe sorry was I of cheer. - - “At length we stayed rowing: Will lifted me out, kissed me, - heartened me up, and, indeede, I was in better heart then, - having been quietlie in prayer a good while. After some few - forms, we were led through sundrie turns and passages, and, or - ever I was aware, I found myselfe quit of my companions, and in - father’s arms. - - “We both cried a little at first; I wonder I wept noe more, but - strength was given me in that hour. As soone as I coulde, I - lookt him in the face, and he lookt at me, and I was beginning - to note his hollow cheeks, when he sayd, ‘Why, Meg, you are - getting freckled:’ soe that made us both laugh. He sayd, ‘You - should get some freckle-water of the lady that sent me here; - depend on it, she hath washes and tinctures in plenty; and after - all, Meg, she’ll come to the same end at last, and be as the - lady all bone and skin, whoso ghastlie legends used to scare - thee soe when thou wert a child. Don’t tell that story to thy - children; ’twill hamper ’em with unsavory images of death. Tell - them of heavenlie hosts awaiting to carry off good men’s souls - in fire-bright chariots, with horses of the sun, to a land where - they shall never more be surbated and weary, but walk on cool, - springy turf and among myrtle trees, and eat fruits that shall - heal while they delight them, and drink the coldest of cold - water, fresh from y^{e} river of life, and have space to stretch - themselves, and bathe, and leap, and run, and whichever way they - look, meet Christ’s eyes smiling on them. Lord, Meg, who would - live that could die? One mighte as lief be an angel shut up in a - nutshell as bide here. Fancy how gladsome the sweet spirit would - be to have the shell cracked! no matter by whom; the king, or - king’s mistress. . . Let her dainty foot but set him free, he’d - say, ‘For this release, much thanks. . . . And how goes the - court, Meg?’ - - “‘In faith, father, never better. . . . There is nothing else - there, I hear, but dancing and disporting.’ - - “‘Never better, child, sayst thou? Alas, Meg, it pitieth me to - consider what misery, poor soul, she will shortlie come to. - These dances of hers will prove such dances that she will spurn - our heads off like footballs; but ’twill not be long ere her - head will dance the like dance. Mark you, Meg, a man that - restraineth not his passions, hath always something cruel in his - nature, and if there be a woman toward, she is sure to suffer - heaviest for it, first or last. . . . Seek Scripture precedent - for’t . . . you’ll find it as I say. Stony as death, cruel as - the grave. Those Pharisees that there, to a man, convicted of - sin, yet haled a sinning woman before the Lord, and woulde fain - have seen the dogs lick up her blood. When they lick up mine, - deare Meg, let not your heart be troubled, even though they - shoulde hale thee to London Bridge to see my head stuck on a - pole. Think, most dear’st, I shall then have more reason to weep - for thee than thou for me. But there’s noe weeping in heaven, - and bear in mind, Meg, distinctlie, that if they send me - thither, ’twill be for obeying the law of God rather than of - men. And after alle, we live not in the bloody, barbarous old - times of crucifyings and flayings, and immerseings in cauldrons - of boiling oil. One stroke, and the affair’s done. A clumsy - chirurgeon would be longer extracting a tooth. We have oft - agreed that the little birds struck down by the kite and hawk - suffer less than if they were reserved to a naturall death. - There is one sensible difference, indeed, between us. In our - cases, preparation is a-wanting.’ - - “Hereon, I minded me to slip off y^{e} haircloth and rope, and - give the same to him, along with the books and suckets, all - which he hid away privatelie, making merry at the last. - - “‘’Twoulde tell well before the council,’ quoth he, ‘that on - searching the prison-cell of Sir Thomas More, there was founde, - flagitiouslie and mysteriouslie laid up . . . a piece of - barley-sugar!’ - - “Then we talked over sundry home matters; and anon, having now - both of us attayned unto an equable and chastened serenite of - mind, which needed not any false shows of mirth to hide y^{e} - naturall complexion of, he sayth, ‘I believe, Meg, they that - have put me here ween they have done me a high displeasure; but - I assure thee on my faith, mine own good daughter, that if it - had not beene for my wife, and you, my dear good children, I - would faine have been closed up, long ere this, in as straight a - room, and straighter too.’” - -While he is yet in prison, and his sentence yet unpassed, although -certain, Margaret—for she has now been for some time the wife of good -William Roper—loses her baby; for when do sorrows ever fall singly—can -any thing than this be more beautiful, more true? - - “Midnight. - - “The wild wind is abroad, and, methinketh, _nothing else_. Sure, - how it rages through our empty courts! In such a season, men, - beasts, and fowls cower beneath y^{e} shelter of their rocking - walls, yet almost fear to trust them. Lord, I know that thou - canst give the tempest double force, but do not, I beseech thee! - Oh! have mercy on the frail dwelling and the ship at sea. - - “Dear little Bill hath ta’en a feverish attack. I watch beside - him while his nurse sleeps. Earlie in the night his mind - wandered, and he told me of a pretty ring-streaked poney noe - bigger than a bee that had golden housings and barley-sugar - eyes; then dozed, but ever and anon kept starting up, crying - ‘Mammy, dear!’ and softlie murmured, ‘Oh,’ when he saw I was by. - At length I gave him my fore-finger to hold, which kept him ware - of my presence without speaking, but presentlie he stares hard - toward y^{e} foot of the bed, and says fearfullie, ‘Mother, why - hangs yon hatchet in the air, with its sharp edge turned towards - us!’ I rise, move the lamp, and say, ‘Do you see it now?’ He - sayth, ‘No? not now,’ and closes his eyes. After a good space, - during the which I hoped he slept, he says in quite an altered - tone, most like unto soft, sweet music, ‘There’s a pretty little - cherub there now, alle head and noe body, with two little wings - aneath his chin; but, for alle he’s soe pretty, he is just like - dear Gaffer, and seems to know me . . . . . and he’ll have a - body agayn, too, I believe, by-and-by . . . . . . . Mother, - mother, tell Hobbinol there’s such a gentle lamb in heaven!’ And - soe, slept. - - * * * * * - - “He’s gone, my pretty . . . . . ! slipt through my fingers like - a bird! upfled to his own native skies, and yet whenas I think - on him, I can not choose but weepe . . . . . Such a guileless - little lamb! . . . My Billy-bird! his mother’s owne heart. They - are alle wondrous kind to me . . . . - - “How strange that a little child shoulde be permitted to suffer - soe much payn, when of such is the kingdom of heaven! But ’tis - onlie transient, whereas a mother makes it permanent, by - thinking it over and over agayn. One lesson it taughte us - betimes, that a natural death is not, necessarilie the most - easie. We must alle die. . . . . . As poor Patteson was used to - say, ‘The greatest king that ever was made, must bed at last - with shovel and spade.’ . . . . . and I’d sooner have my Billy’s - baby deathbed than King Harry’s, or Nan Boleyn’s either, however - manie years they may yet carry matters with a high hand. Oh, you - ministers of evill, whoever you be, visible or invisible, you - shall not build a wall between my God and me . . . . . . I’ve - something within me, grows stronger and stronger, as times grow - more and more evill; some woulde call it resolution, but - methinketh ’tis faith.” - -And then comes the terrible catastrophe, the glorious devotion, the -patient martyrdom, the heroic womanhood. Throughout the whole of this -exquisite little volume, the interest, the tone, the vigor, the pathos, -the poetry, the sublimity, is ever on the ascendant; and in this -splendid passage it reaches its climax. Almost as we read, we see what -passeth; altogether we feel it to our own heart’s core; scarcely can we -refrain to accept it as fact not fiction. What writer of any day has -effected much more than this? - - “And then came ye frightfulle sentence. - - “Yes, yes, my soul, I know; there were saints of old sawn - asunder. Men of whom the world was not worthy. - - “. . . . . . Then he spake unto ’em his mind, how that after - lifelong studdy, he could never find that a layman mighte be - head of the church. And bade his judges and accusers farewell; - hoping that like as St. Paul was present and consenting unto St. - Stephen’s death and yet both were now holy saints in heaven, soe - he and they might speedilie meet there, joint heirs of - e’erlasting salvation. - - “Meantime poor Bess and Cecilie, spent with grief and long - waiting, were for once carried home by Heron, or ever father - returned to his prison. Was’t less feeling, or more strength of - body, enabled me to bide at the Tower wharf with Dancey? God - knoweth. They brought him back by water; my poor sisters must - have passed him. . . . The first thing I saw was the ax, _turned - with its edge toward him_—my first note of his sentence. I - forct my way through the crowd . . . . . some one laid a cold - hand on my arm; ’twas poor Patteson, soe changed I scarce knew - him, with a rosary of gooseberries he kept running through his - fingers. He sayth, ‘Bide your time, Mistress Meg; when he comes - past, I’ll make a passage for ye’ . . . . . ‘Oh, brother, - brother! what ailed thee to refuse the oath? _I’ve_ taken it!’ - In another moment. ‘Now, mistress, now!’ and flinging his arms - right and left, made a breach through which I darted, fearlesse - of bills and halberds, and did fling mine arms about father’s - neck. He cries, ‘My Meg!’ and hugs me to him as though our very - souls shoulde grow together. He sayth, ‘Bless thee, bless thee! - Enough, enough, my child; what mean ye, to weep and break mine - heart? Remember, though I die innocent, ’tis not without the - will of God, who could send ’s angels to rescue me if ’twere - best; therefore possess your soul in patience. Kiss them all for - me, thus and thus’ . . . . . . soe gave me back into Dancey’s - arms, the guards about him alle weeping; but I coulde not thus - lose sight of him forever; soe, after a minute’s pause did make - a second rush, brake away from Dancey, clave to father agayn, - and agayn they had pitie on me, and made pause while I hung upon - his neck. This time there were large drops standing on his dear - brow; and the big tears were swelling into his eyes. He - whispered, ‘Meg, for Christ’s sake don’t unman me; thou’lt not - deny my last request?’ I sayd, ‘Oh! no;’ and at once loosened - mine arms. ‘God’s blessing be with you,’ he sayth with a last - kiss. I could not help crying, ‘My father! my father!’ ‘The - chariot of Israel, and the horsemen thereof!’ he vehementlie - whispers, pointing upward with soe passionate a regard, that I - look up, almost expecting a beatific vision; and when I turn - about agayn, he’s gone, and I have no more sense, nor life till - I find myself agayn in mine own chamber, my sisters chafing my - hands. - - * * * * * - - “Alle’s over now . . . . . they’ve done theire worst, and yet I - live. There were women coulde stand aneath y^{e} cross. The - Maccabees’ mother—. . . . . yes, my soul, yes; I know—naught - but unpardoned sin . . . . . The chariot of Israel. - - * * * * * - - “Dr. Clement hath beene with us. Sayth he went up as blythe as a - bridegroom to be clothed upon with mortality. - - “Rupert stoode it alle out. Perfect love casteth out feare. Soe - did his. - - * * * * * - - . . . . . . . “My most precious treasure is this deare billet, - writ with a coal; the last thing he sett his hand to, wherein he - sayth, ‘I never liked your manner toward me better than when you - kissed me last.’ - - “They have let us bury his poor mangled trunk; but, as sure as - there’s a sun in heaven, I’ll have his head!—before another sun - hath risen, too. If wise men wont speed me, I’ll e’en content me - with a fool. - - “I doe think men, for ye most part, be cowards in theire hearts - . . . . moral cowards. Here and there, we find one like father, - and like Socrates, and like . . . . . . this and that one, I - mind not theire names just now; but in y^{e} main, me thinketh - they lack the moral courage of woman. Maybe, I’m unjust to ’em - just now, being crost. - - * * * * * - - . . . . . . “I lay down, but my heart was waking. Soon after the - first cock crew, I hearde a pebble cast agaynst my lattice, knew - ye signall, rose, dressed, stole softlie down and let myself - out. I knew the touch of y^{e} poor fool’s fingers; his teeth - were chattering, ’twixt cold and fear, yet he laught aneath his - breath as he caught my arm and dragged me after him, whispering, - ‘Fool and fayr lady will cheat ’em yet.’ At the stairs lay a - wherry with a couple of boatmen, and one of ’em stepping up to - me, cries, ‘Alas for ruth, Mistress Meg, what is’t ye do? Art - mad to go on this errand?’ I sayed, ‘I shall be mad if I go not, - and succeed too—put me in, and push off.’ - - “We went down the river quietlie enow—at length reach London - Bridge stairs. Patteson, starting up, says, ‘Bide ye all as ye - are,’ and springs aland and runneth up to the bridge. Anon - returns, and sayth, ‘Now, mistress, alle’s readie . . . . . - readier than ye wist . . . . . come up quickly, for the coast’s - clear.’ Hobson (for ’twas he) helps me forth, saying, ‘God speed - ye, mistress . . . . . Gin I dared, I woulde goe with ye.’ - . . . . Thought I, there be others in that case. - - Nor lookt I up, till aneath the bridge-gate, when casting upward - a fearsome look, I beheld y^{e} dark outline of the ghastly yet - precious relic; and, falling into a tremor, did wring my hands - and exclaim, ‘Alas, alas, that head hath lain full manie a time - in my lap, woulde God, woulde God it lay there now!’ When, o’ - suddain, I saw the pole tremble and sway toward me; and - stretching forth my apron, I did in an extasy of gladness, pity, - and horror, catch its burthen as it fell. Patteson, shuddering, - yet grinning, cries under his breath, ‘Managed I not well, - mistress? Let’s speed away with our theft, for fools and their - treasures are soon parted; but I think not they’ll follow hard - after us, neither, for there are well-wishers to us on the - bridge. I’ll put ye into the boat, and then say, God speed ye, - lady, with your burthen.’ - -If I have quoted very largely, it is from the assurance that the best -criticism of the author is to let him be heard for himself; and that his -own words must needs be far more interesting, as more touching, than any -criticism, how eloquent or analytical soever; much more, than a mere -string of laudatory comments—for in this instance criticism is limited -to pure laudation—intended to illustrate, and link together in -something of connection, the choicest passages of this choice volume. - -With the last page of the book this article shall close, and the writer -rests right confident that he has proved his position and won his case, -by the evidence; that the Libellus, a Margarettâ More, is the book of -the season, and one that must endure for all seasons, so long as the -English tongue, and the fame of one of its brightest ornaments, -endureth. - -At another time, Mary Powell may furnish us with a theme for more varied -disquisition, if more limited quotation. - - “Flow on, bright shining Thames. A good brave man hath walked - aforetime on your margent, himself as bright, and useful, and - delightsome as be you, sweet river. And like you, he never - murmured; like you, he upbore the weary, and gave drink to the - thirsty, and reflected heaven in his face. I’ll not swell your - full current with any more fruitless tears. There’s a river - whose streams make glad the city of our God. He now rests beside - it. Good Christian folks, as they hereafter pass this spot, - upborne on thy gentle tide, will, maybe, point this way, and - say—‘There dwelt Sir Thomas More;’ but whether they doe or not, - _vox populi_ is a very inconsiderable matter, for the majority - are evil, and ‘_the people_ sayd, Let him be crucified!’ Who - would live on theire breath? They hailed St. Paul as Jupiter, - and then stoned him and cast him out of the city, supposing him - to be dead. Theire favourite of to-day may, for what they care, - goe hang himself to-morrow in his surcingle. Thus it must be - while the world lasts; and the very racks and scrues wherewith - they aim to overcome the nobler spiritt, onlie test and reveal - its power of exaltation above the heaviest gloom of - circumstance. - - _“Interfecistis, interfecistis hominem omnium Anglorum - optimum._” - ------ - -[27] Published respectively by Charles Scribner and Appleton Bros. New -York: 1852. - - * * * * * - - - - - GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK. - - -Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges. - - -Our New Suit.—It is not our purpose to show off—to take airs, to be -proud, to refuse to speak to anybody, simply because our new suit has -come home, and we are giving it its first holyday airing—but our new -type, our new coat which covers it, and the very superior quality of our -whole rig is rather stared at, we know—or we should not mention the -fact. Excessive modesty has been our weakness—it is the besetting -frailty of most Magazine publishers, as is fully evinced in their -prospectuses. Humility is tenderly nursed and taken out riding, until it -has a consumptive look, and is pronounced “too good for this world.” Yet -it is the fashion. Nobody—least of all Godey—or Sartain or -Harper—presumes to say a word in self-praise—then why should Graham -set himself up and play Captain Grand, even if he is a little stouter -and haler, and has a greater extent of territory over which he can gaze -like Selkirk, - - “Monarch of all he surveys;” - -and like Alexander, sigh for “more worlds to conquer.” Why should _he_ -be proud? That question rather startles us; but the answer is at -hand—because he has the greatest Magazine in the world—and the -prettiest girls, and the _most of ’em—to read it_! It is estimated that -60,000 beautiful women are in love with _Graham_—the Magazine, of -course—and Graham is as proud as Lucifer about it; and Graham prides -himself, too, that his subscribers _read_ his book, and are not -satisfied with the picture books, which in younger days had so many -charms for innocent eyes; when the whale in the spelling-book spouted -hugely, even to the top of the page, and the camel had a hump that was a -wonder—when stale love-stories and most sickly verse, with fragments -disjointed of the veriest cold meats of literature were a marvel—when -homilies upon graces, made up of whalebones—the last agony of fashion -which it is agony to look at—were food for dreams. - -We hold you by the button, reader, merely to mention the various -excellencies which crown the feast; that our _new type_ and finer paper, -are worthy of special mention. Whether anybody ever had such type—or -paper—or ever will have, is not the question; for in these days of -special self-sacrifice, it will not do to be too modest, but—Our book -is Grand for June. - - * * * * * - -The Fast Press.—No allusion is made in the title of this article to the -extremely fast press which prints Graham—nor to the press which is fast -upon the International Magazine—nor ironically to the slow teams which -drive some of our cotemporaries with their small editions dismally -along; nor yet to the American Press—which is rather progressive—but -to _Hoe’s_ immortal invention—the which, in compliment to the Press of -the Union, we illustrate in our present and next issues in our usual -happy manner. The entire establishment of Col. Hoe is to be set forth in -pictured beauty before the readers of Graham in the June and July -numbers. - -We have paid the artists $400 for the drawings and engravings, and -merely mention the fact that those who suppose _first rate wood -engravings_ are cheap, may take breath and reform their calculations. No -indifferent old block, is ever put off upon our readers as a choice and -rare engraving—nor do we submit to any imposition from engravers. Our -work _must_ be of the first order—or it is not ours. Some that we have -rejected, we see elsewhere, and the publishers appear to be proud of -their bargains—and cry, excelsior! - - * * * * * - -“Graham for May, with twelve engravings and 112 pages of reading, is -already on our table—the gem of the season. Long live Graham. Why don’t -such a clever fellow get married? That’s what we want to know—and so do -the ladies. Then, friend Graham, you would not be troubled so much with -your _batch_ of ‘love letters.’”—_Gazette, Hallowell, Me._ - -The fact is, we have been thinking of it, for—the last thirteen -years—but every month we have to get up a very beautiful woman for the -Magazine, and we are always head over ears in love with a new feature. -Some of these times we shall settle down quietly and be “a love of a -husband”—see if we don’t! - - * * * * * - -“We think that Godey will have to acknowledge himself beaten this month -by Graham; but we wish to ask Graham two questions, and hope he will -answer truthfully. The first is, if he is a married man: the second, who -engraved the ‘Jolly Good Fellows?’”—_Southern Argus, Houston, Miss._ - -Godey says his “Book” is a “_peculiar_ Magazine in all -respects—containing matter that does not appear in other magazines, and -all other matters that do.” So you see, friend Argus, that he dodges the -question, which is what we never did. Devereux engraved the “Jolly Good -Fellows.” As to being married—that is another question! - - * * * * * - -Our friend Duval, of “The Phœnix,” Camden, Ala., throws up his cap and -hurras for Graham, and says we are “ahead of all cotemporaries, and -understand our business.” It is very evident from the following from the -Phœnix, that the _merchants_ of that place do _not_. “Persons at a -distance, looking over the columns of our Camden papers might very -reasonably come to the conclusion that we have no merchants or business -men in Camden. Well, that is pretty near the truth—we have none who -_fully_ understand their _business_, or they would more frequently make -use of the columns of their village papers, to inform the country people -that they _want_ their patronage. Our merchants seem to think that all -their customers are in town, and _see_ the arrival of their new goods, -never thinking, perhaps, that their country customers wait to hear the -news.” - -How any man, who has a desire to do business, can overlook the manifest -advantage of letting people _know_ he has goods to sell, is a -marvel—and that large wholesale dealers in our Atlantic cities should -overlook the advantage of advertising in the distant papers of business -towns, is to be set down as a piece of stupidity only equaled by the -tortoise, which shuts its shell that it may not be seen. _Wherever your -customers are likely to come from—there should be your advertising -cards._ - - * * * * * - - - - - HOUR OF FOND DELIGHT. - - -[Illustration: Hour of Fond Delight.] - - COMPOSED BY ALEXANDER LEE. - - Presented by LEE & WALKER, 188 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. - -[Illustration: musical score] - -[Illustration: musical score] - - What an hour is this, - Joy and love o’erflowing, - Ev’ry sense of bliss, - O’er our feelings throwing; - Thy sweet image, love, - Round my heart is twining, - Brightly from above, - The silver moon is shining: - - Moonlight! Moonlight! - Hour of ev’ry fond delight! - Moonlight! Moonlight!— - Hour of ev’ry fond delight! - - SECOND VERSE. - - All is silent now, - Philomel thou hearest, - From yon cypress bough, - Sounds to lovers dearest; - Daylight be for those - Who for wealth aspiring, - Give me sweet repose, - While the moon is shining. - - Moonlight! &c. - - * * * * * - -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. - -In the first article _NEW YORK PRINTING MACHINE, PRESS, AND SAW WORKS._, -the footnote was added to clarify the meaning of a sentence which may be -confusing to some modern day readers. - -page 592, believed to the real.” ==> believed to be real.” -page 600, The butcher’s looked: a ==> The butchers looked: a -page 609, in livery where already ==> in livery were already -page 656, in them, and yet its all ==> in them, and yet it’s all -page 659, queen, its from the ==> queen, it’s from the -page 665, By Caroline Chesboro’. ==> By Caroline Chesebro’. - -[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 6, June 1852] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 6, -June 1852, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JUNE 1852 *** - -***** This file should be named 60202-0.txt or 60202-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/2/0/60202/ - -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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