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diff --git a/old/63685-0.txt b/old/63685-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 36919f9..0000000 --- a/old/63685-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5349 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 3, March -1841, 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. XVIII, No. 3, March 1841 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - -Release Date: November 8, 2020 [EBook #63685] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, MARCH 1841 *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net -from page images generously made available by the Internet -Archive (https://archive.org) - - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XVIII. March, 1841. No. 3. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - The Lady Isabel - The Confessions of a Miser (continued) - The Alchymist - The Circassian Bride - The Maiden’s Adventure - The Destroyer’s Doom - The Empress - The Reefer of ’76 (continued) - The Major’s Wedding - The Father’s Blessing - A Sketch from Life - Sports and Pastimes - Partridge Shooting - Review of New Books - - Poetry, Music and Fashion - - Callirhöe - Napoleon - Lines - Lake George - The Departed - I Am Your Prisoner - The Invitation - You Never Knew Annette.—Ballad - Fashions for March, 1841 - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: _Eng^d. by J. Sartain_ -_Why don’t he come?_ - -_Engraved for Graham’s Magazine from the Original Picture by Leutze, in - the possession of Charles Toppan, Esq^r._] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XVIII. March, 1841. No. 3. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LADY ISABEL. - - - A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. - - - Chapter I. - - _Why don’t he come?_ - -It was a splendid landscape. Far away before the eye stretched a wide, -undulating country, checkered with lordly mansions, extensive woodlands, -and here and there a quiet little village peeping out from amidst the -verdant hills; while away on the verge of the horizon glittered a -majestic river, which, winding hither and thither among the uplands, -burst at length into view in a flood of glorious light, that lay like a -shield of burnished silver in the distance. - -Nor was the foreground of the scene less beautiful. Art had there been -taxed to rival nature in loveliness. Terraces sinking one beneath -another; a verdant lawn that seemed like velvet; rich, old lordly -balustrades skirting the garden at your feet; and beyond, open glades, -and clumps of forest trees thrown together in apparent confusion, but to -produce which the utmost skill had been tasked, evinced at once the -taste and opulence, of Lord Deraine, the owner of that rich domain. Such -was the scene upon which two beings gazed on a lovely summer afternoon, -in the year 16—. - -One of these was a youth, just verging into manhood, dressed in a dark, -plain suit, with a deep lace collar, and cuffs of the same material. He -had apparently been singing, and accompanying himself on the guitar; for -his instrument was still held idly in his hand, as he sat at the feet of -a lady, into whose face he was looking up with a rapt intensity of gaze, -which told that the soul of the page—for such he seemed—was in every -glance. - -And well might his emotion toward that lovely being be one of unmixed -love; for never did a more beautiful creature gaze upon a summer -landscape. Tall, stately, with dark lustrous eyes, and a port that might -have become a queen, Isabel Mowbray, was a being formed to be loved with -an intensity such as this world rarely witnesses. As she now stood -gazing out upon the landscape, with one hand shading her brow, and the -other thrown back, and resting on the balustrade, thus displaying her -snowy neck and bust, and her matchless figure to the best advantage, she -seemed a being too beautiful for aught but a poet’s imagination. - -“You are silent, this afternoon, cousin,” at last said the youth, -breaking a silence which had lasted for several minutes, “what are you -looking at, Isabel?” - -The maiden made no reply, but still gazed down the park. She was -apparently lost in thought. - -“Shall I sing again for you?” said the boy, in his low, sweet voice, -looking up more devotedly than ever into the maiden’s face, “you used to -like to hear me sing, you know, Isabel.” - -“Oh! Henry is it you?” said the beauty, looking down, and half blushing, -as if detected in something she wished to conceal, “sing by all means, -my pretty page and coz. Sing me that old lay of the troubadour, and here -Wyn,” and she called playfully to a beautiful greyhound reposing at the -feet of the boy, “come here and let me talk to you, while Henry sings.” - -An expression of gratified joy—of joy such as is rarely seen, except in -the countenances of those who love—illumined the whole face of the boy -as the maiden thus spoke—and taking up his guitar, he sang the words of -an olden lay, which has now passed, with many a fair lip that once -warbled it, into oblivion. - -Gazing up into the face of the maiden as he sang, the youth appeared to -have forgotten that aught else existed on earth besides the object of -his adoration,—while the caresses lavished upon his greyhound, but more -than all the occasional smiles which Isabel bestowed upon himself, -filled his whole soul with a delicious emotion, such as is known only to -us when we fancy our first love is returned. But had he not been misled -by his own blind admiration, he might have seen much in her conduct to -dissipate his delusion; for scarcely a minute would elapse, without -Isabel casting an anxious glance, down the avenue of the park, and once -her lips moved unconsciously, and even the page might have heard her -murmur, had he listened, “I wonder where he can be?” But appearing to -awake to her indiscretion, the maiden suddenly ceased gazing, and -turning to Henry, said, - -“A thousand, thousand thanks, sweet coz. You sing, to-night, sweeter -than ever. But there if Wyn—the saucy fellow—has not run off with my -shawl.” - -The eyes of the youth lighted up with pleasure, and the blood mounted -even to his brow, at this encomium,—and exclaiming, - -“Stay—I will win back the truant,” he bounded gaily down the terrace -after the playful hound. - -The maiden followed him with her eyes, and sighed, “Poor Henry.” In -those two words what a volume of hopeless love and years of anguish for -the youth were spoken. - - - Chapter II. - - _The Page: The Lovers._ - -Henry De Lorraine was the only son of a once proud, but now decayed -lineage, and, being left an orphan at an early age, had been reared in -the house of his cousin, Lord Deraine. His life there had been that of -most noble youths of his day, who, either through necessity, or for the -purposes of advancement, were brought up as pages in the establishments -of the wealthier nobility. Lorraine, however, possessed one advantage -over the other pages of his cousin: he had from the first been the -companion of the Lady Isabel, the only child of his patron. Although a -year or two older than himself, the want of either brother or sister, -had induced Isabel to confide in him all her little difficulties; and -they had grown up thus, more on the footing of children of the same -parent, than as a wealthy heiress, and a poor dependant. - -During the last year of their lives, however, a change had silently, and -almost imperceptibly, come over their feelings toward each other. An -absence of nearly a twelvemonth with his patron at a foreign court, had -in part altered the sentiments of Lorraine from those of a devoted -brother to the emotions of love. He left Isabel, when both thought as -children; he returned and found her already a woman. During that -interval new scenes, new thoughts, new emotions had successively -occupied the heart of the page; and though when he came back he was -still a boy in years, he had already began to feel the intenser passions -of the man. Never had he seen such beauty as burst upon him when Isabel -entered the room on his return. It was as if a goddess of olden Greece -had been ushered into his presence, as if the inanimate statue of -Pygmalion had flushed, all at once, into a breathing being. Lorraine had -dreamed of loveliness, but he had never, in his brightest visions, -pictured aught so fair. He had expected Isabel to be improved, although -he had left her the loveliest being of the riding; but he had not -imagined that she would bud forth into a flower of such surpassing, such -transcendent beauty. He was awed; he was filled as if with the presence -of a divinity, to which he bowed irresistibly, but in strange delight. -From that hour the bosom of the warm, high-souled boy, was ruled by a -passion that devoured his very existence. - -But we said Isabel had changed. She too had learned to love, though not -her cousin. As yet she scarcely knew it herself; the secret lay hidden -in the recesses of her own bosom; and though her heart would beat more -wildly, and the blood rush in deeper tints to her cheek, whenever the -steed of her lover, the young Lord De Courtenay, was seen approaching -her father’s gate, yet the Lady Isabel had never asked herself whence -arose her emotion. Perhaps she feared to institute the inquiry. Certain -it is, that like every other delicate female, she almost shrank from -owning, even to herself, that her affections had strayed from their pure -resting-place in her own bosom. - -It was well for Lorraine’s present, though unfortunate for his future, -happiness, that De Courtenay had left the country a few days prior to -the page’s return. By this means he was prevented from learning, what, -otherwise would have checked his growing affection even in its bud, and -suffered to go on in his dreams of love, until the very existence of the -endeared object became almost a part of his being. - -It was some time before Isabel perceived the change which had been -wrought in her cousin’s feelings toward herself, and when she did, the -knowledge served more than aught else, to reveal to her the state of her -own heart. She saw she could not return her cousin’s passion, though she -still loved him with the same sisterly affection as ever, and with this -discovery came that of her own love for De Courtenay. Although her equal -in rank, and even her superior in wealth, there was a romantic gallantry -in her lover which had forbade him to woo her as others of like elevated -station would have done. Though, therefore, her parent would have -sanctioned the alliance at once, he was yet ignorant of the love the -only son of his neighbor, the earl of Wardour, bore to his daughter. And -though the lady Isabel thought of her absent lover daily, there was -something—it might be maiden modesty, which made her shun breathing De -Courtenay’s name. - -Several weeks had now elapsed, and months were beginning to pass away, -since the departure of De Courtenay for Flanders. The time for his -return had nearly arrived, and Isabel had even received a hasty note -from him, breathing a thousand delicate flatteries, such as lovers only -know how to pay and to receive, telling her to expect him at Deraine -Hall, on this very afternoon—yet he came not. Why did he tarry? It was -this knowledge which had made the lady Isabel watch so long from the -terrace, down the avenue of her father’s park. Little did Lorraine -think, as he gazed so devotedly into her face, that her thoughts even -then were wandering upon another. - -Let it not be fancied that the lady Isabel trifled with her cousin’s -feelings. Deeply, daily was she pained at his too evident love. She -longed to tell him the truth, and yet she shrank from it. She could not -inflict such agony upon his heart. She would have given worlds to have -had the power of returning his love, but that had long since passed from -her, and like the pitying executioner, she loathed striking the blow, -which she knew must eventually be struck. And thus the story of those -two beings went on, and while both were full of joy and hope, one, at -least, had before him to drink, a cup, as yet unseen, of the bitterest -agony. Alas! for the disappointments, the worse than utter wo, which a -devoted heart experiences, when it discovers that its first deep love is -in vain. - - - Chapter III. - - _The Letter: The Discovery._ - -“She loves me—she loves me,” exclaimed the page joyfully, as he stood -in a sequestered alley in the garden, a few hours later than when she -first saw him, “yes!” he exclaimed, as if he could not too often repeat -the glad tidings, “she loves me; and, poor, as I am, I may yet win her.” - -As he spoke his whole countenance lighted up; his slender figure -dilated; his chest heaved; and all the lofty spirit of his sires shone -in the boy’s eyes, and spoke in his tones. - -“Yes! she loves me,” he repeated, “she called me ‘sweet coz,’ and -thanked me a ‘thousand times’—these were the very words—and she played -so with Wyn, and said I sang better than ever. Yes! yes! I cannot be -mistaken—she loves me, me only.” - -The page suddenly ceased, for he heard a rustling as of some one walking -slowly up an adjacent path, separated from his own by a narrow belt of -shrubbery. His heart fluttered, and the blood rushed into his cheek. He -wanted nothing to tell him that the intruder was the lady Isabel. - -She was evidently reading something, though in a low voice, as if to -herself. For a minute the page hesitated whether he should join her, but -then he reflected that she could be perusing nothing that she would not -wish him to hear, when something in her glad tones, something in the -words she read, induced him, the next instant, to pause. The lady Isabel -was apparently repeating a letter, but from whom? Did he dream? Could -those terms of endearment be addressed to her? Was it her voice which -lingered upon them in such apparent pleasure? She was now directly -opposite to the page; not more than a few feet distant; and the sense -which hitherto had only reached him in broken fragments, now came in -continuous sentences to his ear. The letter ran thus: - - Dearest Isabel:—I write this in haste, and with a sad heart, - for instead of being on my journey to see your sweet face once - more, I am suddenly ordered back to Flanders with despatches for - the commander in chief. You may judge of your Edward’s feelings, - to have the cup of bliss thus dashed from his lips at the very - moment when he had thought a disappointment impossible. Oh! if I - knew that you still thought of me, love, as you once said with - your own sweet lips that you did, I would depart with a lighter - heart. God only knows when I shall see you. But the king’s - messenger has come for me, and I must go. Farewell, dearest. I - have kissed the paper over and over again. Farewell, again, and - again. - -Here the words of the reader became once more undistinguishable; but had -they continued audible, Lorraine could have heard no more. A fearful -truth was breaking in upon him. His brain was like fire: his heart beat -as if it would snap its bonds asunder. He staggered to a tree, for a -faintness was coming over him. Big drops of agony rolled from his brow, -and he placed his hand to his forehead, like one awaking from delirium. -At length he found words for his woe. - -“No no, it cannot be,” he exclaimed “it was all a dream. Yes! it is too, -too true. But I will not, cannot believe it, unless I hear it from her -own lips,” and starting forward, with sudden energy, the page placed his -hand upon the shrubbery, and pushing it aside with superhuman strength, -he stood the next instant panting before his cousin. - -Astonished at his unexpected appearance, Isabel started back with a -suppressed shriek; but on recognising the intruder, her fear gave way to -confusion. The blood mounted in torrents over brow, neck, and bosom; and -hastily crushing the letter in her hands, and concealing it in her -dress, she paused hesitatingly before her cousin. His quick eye detected -the movement, and rushing forward, he flung himself at the feet of -Isabel. - -“It is then true—true—true,” he exclaimed passionately, “my ears are -not deceived, and you love another. Is it not so Isabel?” The maiden -averted her head, for she saw at once that she had been overheard, and -she could not endure the boy’s agonised look. “Oh! Isabel, dear, dear -Isabel, say it is untrue. Only say I was mistaken, that it was all a -dream, that you still love me as you used to love me.” - -“I do love you still,” murmured Isabel, in broken accents, “as I ever -did, as my dearest, nearest cousin.” - -“Is that all!” said the boy, whose eyes for a moment had lighted up with -wild unchecked joy, but which now shewed the depth of his returning -agony in every look, “is that all?” he continued in a tone of -disappointment. “Oh Isabel,” and the tears gushed into his eyes, “is -there no hope? Speak—only one word, dear Isabel. I have dared to love -you—I might have known better—and now you spurn me. Well—the dream is -over,” and dropping the hands which he had seized, he gazed a minute -wildly into her face, to see if there was one last gleam of hope. But no -response came back to dispel his agony. The lady Isabel was violently -agitated, and though her look was one of pity, it was not, alas! one of -encouragement. She burst into tears, and turned her head partially away. -Striking his brow wildly with his hands, the page rushed from her -presence, and when she murmured his name and looked up, he was gone. - - (To be continued.) - - * * * * * - - - - - CALLIRHÖE. - - - BY H. PERCEVAL. - - - Whence art thou bright Callirhöe, - Calm, Hebé-eyed Callirhöe? - Art thou a daughter of this earth, - That, like myself, had life and birth. - And who will die like me? - Methinks a soul so pure and clear - Must breathe another atmosphere, - Of thought more heavenly and high, - More full of deep serenity, - Than circles round this world of ours; - I dare not think that thou shouldst die, - Unto my soul, like summer showers - To thirsty leaves thou art,—like May - To the slow-budding woodbine bowers. - Oh no! thou canst pass away. - No hand shall strew thy bier with flowers! - Those eyes, as fair as Eve’s, when they, - Untearful yet, were raised to pray, - Fronting the mellow sunset glow - Of summer eve in Paradise, - Those bright founts whence forever flow - Nepenthe-streams of ecstacies. - It cannot be that Death - Shall chill them with his winter breath,— - What hath Death to do with thee, - My seraph-winged Callirhöe? - - Whence art thou? From some other sphere, - On which, throughout the moonless night, - Gazing, we dream of beings bright, - Such as we long for here,— - Or art thou but a joy Elysian, - Of my own inward sight, - A glorious and fleeting vision, - Habited in robes of light, - The image of a blessed thing, - Whom I might love with wondering, - Yet feeling not a shade of doubt, - And who would give her love to me, - To twine my inmost soul about? - No, no, these would not be like thee, - Bright one, with auburn hair disparted - On thy meek forehead maidenly, - No, not like thee, my woman-hearted, - My warm, my true Callirhöe! - - How may I tell the sunniness - Of thy thought-beaming smile? - Or how the soothing spell express, - That bindeth me the while, - Forth from thine eyes and features bright, - Gusheth that flood of golden light? - Like a sun-beam to my soul, - Comes that trusting smile of thine, - Lighting up the clouds of doubt, - Till they shape themselves, and roll - Like a glory all about - The messenger divine.— - For divine that needs must be - That bringeth messages from thee. - Madonna, gleams of smiles like this, - Like a stream of music fell, - In the silence of the night, - On the soul of Raphael. - Musing with a still delight, - How meekly thou did’st bend and kiss - The baby on thy knee, - Who sported with the golden hair - That fell in showers o’er him there, - Looking up contentedly. - Only the greatest souls can speak - As much by smiling as by tears. - Thine strengthens me when I am weak, - And gladdens into hopes my fears. - The path of life seems plain and sure, - Thy purity doth make me pure - And holy, when thou let’st arise - That mystery divine, - That silent music in thine eyes. - Seldom tear visits cheek of thine, - Seldom a tear escapes from thee, - My Hebé, my Callirhöe! - - Sometimes in waking dreams divine, - Wandering, my spirit meets with thine, - And while, made dumb with ecstacy, - I pause in a delighted trance, - Thine, like a squirrel caught at play, - Just gives one startled look askance, - And darteth suddenly away, - Swifter than a phosphor glance - At night upon the lonely sea, - Wayward-souled Callirhöe. - Sometimes, in mockery of care, - Thy playful thought will never rest, - Darting about, now here, now there, - Like sun-beams on a river’s breast, - Shifting with each breath of air, - By its very unrest fair. - As a bright and summer stream, - Seen in childhood’s happy dream, - Singing nightly, singing daily, - Trifling with each blade of grass - That breaks his ripples as they pass, - And going on its errand gaily, - Singing with the self-same leap - Wherewith it merges in the deep. - So shall thy spirit glide along, - Breaking, when troubled, into song, - And leave an echo floating by - When thou art gone forth utterly. - Seeming-cheerful souls there be, - That flutter with a living sound - As dry leaves rustle on the ground; - But they are sorrowful to me, - Because they make me think of thee, - My bird-like, wild Callirhöe! - - Thy mirth is like the flickering ray - Forthshooting from the steadfast light - Of a star, which through the night - Moves glorious on its way, - With a sense of moveless might. - Thine inner soul flows calm forever; - Dark and calm without a sound, - Like that strange and trackless river - That rolls its waters underground. - Early and late at thy soul’s gate - Sits Chastity in maiden wise, - No thought unchallenged, small or great, - Goes thence into thine eyes; - Nought evil can that warder win, - To pass without or enter in. - Before thy pure eyes guilt doth shrink, - Meanness doth blush and hide its head, - Down through the soul their light will sink, - And cannot be extinguished. - Far up on poiséd wing - Thou floatest, far from all debate, - Thine inspirations are too great - To tarry questioning; - No murmurs of our earthly air, - God’s voice alone can reach thee there; - Downlooking on the stream of Fate, - So high thou sweepest in thy flight, - Thou knowest not of pride or hate, - But gazing from thy lark-like height, - Forth o’er the waters of To be, - The first gleam of Truth’s morning light - Round thy broad forehead floweth bright, - My Pallas-like Callirhöe. - - Thy mouth is Wisdom’s gate, wherefrom, - As from the Delphic cave, - Great sayings constantly do come, - Wave melting into wave; - Rich as the shower of Danäe, - Rains down thy golden speech; - My soul sits waiting silently, - When eye or tongue sends thought to me, - To comfort or to teach. - - Calm is thy being as a lake - Nestled within a quiet hill, - When clouds are not, and winds are still, - So peaceful calm, that it doth take - All images upon its breast, - Yet change not in its queenly rest, - Reflecting back the bended skies - Till you half doubt where Heaven lies. - Deep thy nature is, and still, - How dark and deep! and yet so clear - Its inmost depths seem near; - Not moulding all things to its will, - Moulding its will to all, - Ruling them with unfelt thrall. - So gently flows thy life along - It makes e’en discord musical, - So that nought can pass thee by - But turns to wond’rous melody, - Like a full, clear, ringing song. - Sweet the music of its flow, - As of a river in a dream, - A river in a sunny land, - A deep and solemn stream - Moving over silver sand, - Majestical and slow. - - I sometimes think that thou wert given - To be a bright interpreter - Of the pure mysteries of Heaven, - And cannot bear - To think Death’s icy hand should stir - One ringlet of thy hair; - But thou must die like us,— - Yet not like us,—for can it be - That one so bright and glorious - Should sink into the dust as we, - Who could but wonder at thy purity? - Not oft I dwell in thoughts of thine, - My earnest-souled Callirhöe; - And yet thy life is part of mine. - What should I love in place of thee? - Sweet is thy voice, as that of streams - To me, or as a living sound - To one who starts from fev’rous sleep, - Scared by the shapes of ghastly dreams, - And on the darkness stareth round, - Fancying dim terrors in the gloomy deep. - Then if it must be so, - That thou from us shalt go, - Linger yet a little while; - Oh! let me once more feel thy grace, - Oh! let me once more drink thy smile! - I am as nothing if thy face - Is turned from me! - But if it needs must be, - That I must part from thee, - That the silver cord be riven - That holds thee down from Heaven, - Not yet, not yet, Callirhöe, - Unfold thine angel wings to flee, - Oh! no, not yet, Callirhöe! - - Cambridge, Mass., 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER. - - - BY J. ROSS BROWNE. - - - Continued from Page 87. - - - Part II. - -That irrevocable passion which sprung up between Marco Da Vinci and -Valeria, during the hours of mutual communion which they enjoyed while -preparations were in progress for the annual exhibition at the Academy -of Arts, was not destined to wither in its infancy. - -Scarcely had the portrait been finished, when notice was conveyed to the -candidates to send in their productions; and of course my anxiety was -great to ascertain what impression my daughter’s beauty should make in -public. Completely blinded by those deep and damning schemes which have -proved my ruin, I meantime suspected nothing of what was in progress -between the young and ardent lovers. They were bound heart and soul to -each other; but except by those involuntary signs, which none but the -victims of passion can understand, their love was unuttered. Hourly was -this misplaced flame acquiring an increasing degree of vigor, from the -very means taken to suppress it. I saw not, in my blindness, that in -spite of the respectful and irreproachable conduct of Da Vinci toward -the idol of my mercenary dreams, his tender flame, his ill-disguised -sentiments of admiration, his involuntary devotion, were all returned in -the same manner by Valeria. - -In due time the exhibition took place. A week of thrilling excitement -passed away. On the evening the premiums were to be awarded, I sallied -out to await the decisions, persuaded that Valeria’s beauty, and not the -skill of Marco Da Vinci, must make serious impressions in favor of the -portrait. How describe my delight, when the premium was bestowed on the -limner of my daughter’s charms! Her fame, I well knew, would now rapidly -spread, and my fortune was sure! - -In the excitement of the moment, I hurried from the Academy, and sought -to drown my feeling in deep potations. While under the influence of an -unusual quantity of the stimulant, the time flew rapidly past; and it -was late in the night before I recovered myself sufficiently to stagger -home. To account for the sight which there paralyzed my eyes, it is -necessary to touch upon what happened during my inebriation. - -Marco Da Vinci, on learning the decision made in favor of his work, -proceeded with haste to pour out his feelings of gratitude to Valeria, -whom he regarded as the instrument of his success. In the passionate -eloquence of his temperament, he dwelt upon all, save that which was -consuming his vitals, and which he dared not avow. They who pass any -portion of their time in a state of beatitude, can alone say how swiftly -it flies. Valeria and Da Vinci, entranced with their own dreamy visions -of future happiness and of present joy, noted not that the hour of -midnight had approached. At length the “iron tongue” of the town clock -warned them to part; and with a deep sigh Valeria murmured a request -that Da Vinci would visit the house again and frequently. - -“My determination,” said Marco, “can no longer be suppressed.” In a -voice of the deepest agitation he proceeded: “I had hoped, Valeria, that -we might part without a word of regret on either side; but your kindness -and friendship toward me, render it a duty that I should make some -explanations in defence of my refusal of your hospitable invitation. I -must speak, whatever be the penalty. Your beauty and charms of -person—your mental fascination—render it too dangerous for me to -continue my visits! We must part—forever!” - -In a hurried and agitated manner the young painter rushed toward the -door. - -“Stay!” cried Valeria, in whom the struggle between love and duty was -for a moment so violent as to deprive her of her faculties, “Da Vinci, -why must we part thus? Why are we never again to meet? I am sure it is -no harm for us to enjoy the pleasure of each other’s society.” - -This was said in a voice of such warmth and artlessness, that, for a -moment, he was unnerved in his resolution. The danger, however, was too -great; and he resisted the temptation. - -“Valeria,” said Marco Da Vinci, endeavoring to answer calmly, “I am an -outcast—a beggar!” - -“But I do not think less of you for that!” cried Valeria, passionately. - -“Hear me!” cried Da Vinci, in a hurried and choaking voice, “you know me -not! I have dared—I still dare—to love you!” - -Valeria might have suspected, and probably did suspect, that this -declaration was inevitable; but there is a great deal of deceit in the -female heart; and she evinced much astonishment at the words of her -lover. She endeavored to frown—to look serious—to speak of _my_ -authority—but love was the conqueror! - -That resource which woman is ever prone to make use of, was at hand; and -Valeria wept. Her beauty had always been a subject of dangerous interest -to Marco Da Vinci: it was now heightened in his mind by the -consciousness that she loved him. No longer able to control those -feelings, which from the moment of their meeting, had taken possession -of Da Vinci’s heart, the enthusiastic lover sprang forward and clasped -Valeria to his bosom. He pressed her lips to his own, and imprinted on -them the burning kiss of first-love. - -At this critical moment I entered. Unable to believe my senses, I stood -gasping for breath, and transfixed with doubt and astonishment. -Convinced at length that I was not deceived, I sprang forward to wreak -my vengeance on the villain who had so basely abused my confidence. - -“Monster!” cried Da Vinci, confronting me face to face, and darting from -his fine expressive eyes the most deadly hatred, “Monster! you are -known! whatever obligations I may have formerly considered myself under -to you, I now look upon them as entirely cancelled by your hypocrisy -toward myself, and your base conduct toward your daughter. Know, hoary -villain, that no later than to day, I received a letter from Don -Ferdinand Ruzzina, warning me to be on my guard in any of my -transactions with you. Nor was this all! He openly exposed your -villainy, and revealed the unnatural and cruel schemes you have -concerted for the disposal of your daughter’s honor. Behold, wretch, in -_me_ her protector! You have forfeited the title, and by the God that -made me, your baseness shall not triumph!” - -So struck was I at this change in the conduct of Da Vinci, that for -several moments I stood transfixed to the spot. Still stupified with -rage and shame, I staggered back, and flung myself on a bench. Valeria, -with that filial affection, which I had never known her to violate, -sprang toward me in an agony of remorse; and kneeling at my feet, -earnestly avowed her determination to remain forever obedient to my -will; and craved forgiveness for her instrumentality in causing me such -shame and misery. Already goaded to desperation by the taunts of young -Da Vinci, and the reproaches of my own conscience, I was not prepared -for this act of unmerited constancy. In the bitterness of my own -self-detestation, I rushed from the room, striking my temples with my -clenched hands, and uttering imprecations on those who gave me life. I -hastily mounted the ladder, leading to my miserable garret; and darting -through the trap-door, threw myself head-long on the squalid and -tattered pallet. - -Ruzzina had not forgotten me! Awed by the unconquerable virtue of my -daughter, he had no desire to renew visits which he well knew were alike -useless and unwelcome. But I had exacted large sums from him. He was my -dupe! Even in _that_, there was a pleasure. Aye, such a pleasure as a -miser can feel when avarice triumphs over conscience, and vice over -virtue! - -Early on the following morning, I indited a note to Don Ferdinand, -which, in the plenitude of my craft, I looked upon as relieving me from -all claims whatever on his part. It ran thus: - - “If you have any intention of consummating your designs on my - daughter’s virtue—a thing which I regard as a mere - misnomer—you must do so immediately. The advance-money hitherto - received from you, I consider fairly my own; and if you think - proper to neglect the chance I now give you of achieving your - wishes, I am sure it is your own fault. - - “Be so good as to let me have a definite answer, when it suits - your convenience; and believe me, - - Catruccio Faliri.” - -It afforded me much gratification to anticipate the wrath and -indignation Ruzzina should evince on reading this. To gloat over the -dark traits of men’s characters, has ever been my choicest amusement; -and I well knew that he would either make a desperate attempt to -retrieve his imprudence by recovering the money, or desist altogether -and keep silent to avoid the shafts of satire and ridicule. - -I suffered much uneasiness, and had much to fear on account of the -ardent and fiery temperament of Valeria. The passion she had betrayed -for Marco Da Vinci was no childish fancy; but a deep-rooted, irrevocable -love, which nothing could eradicate or assuage. Her pure Italian blood -permitted no medium between passion and indifference. She loved him -once, and was destined to love, or hate him forever after. Of this I -quickly had a most satisfactory proof. - -Enraged one day at the obstinate manner in which she rejected the -advances of every suitor I thought proper to introduce into my house, I -bitterly reproached her for her disobedience; and in the excess of my -anger, struck her a violent blow. Her proud spirit was instantly up. - -“Father,” said she, “you have struck me for the first, and for the last -time. In defiance of your cruel and unnatural machinations for the -disposal of my honor, you shall never reproach me with their success. I -have hitherto mildly resisted your iniquitous designs; and I now boldly -put myself out of your power. This roof shall never more shelter your -daughter!” - -In scarcely any gradation of human depravity is man totally callous to -the qualms of conscience. I have before remarked that I anticipated with -joy the hour of death; but this was merely a fiendish delirium, wrought -by the recollection of past iniquities: a kind of bravo, which, in the -hour of cool contemplation, would be regarded with fear and horror. - -I confess I was much staggered at the justice of Valeria’s reproaches, -and the firmness and dignity of her demeanor. Whatever might have been -the nature of my former conduct toward her, I _did_ feel, at that -moment, a sense of my baseness. Her fine, expressive eyes were eloquent -with determination; and her beautiful figure, as she glided steadily -from my presence, seemed to acquire a queenliness from passion and -indignation. She spoke no more; and I was too relentless to excuse -myself, or break the silence. I had pride—ay, the pride of a demon. I -would not humble it by confessing my cruelty, or soliciting her -forgiveness. Thus originated a disunion, which was soon destined to lead -to the most tragical effects. - -I follow, for a moment, the fortunes of Valeria. - -During her residence in that part of Venice, in which we had latterly -lived, she had, by the merest accident, become acquainted with the -daughter of a neighboring officer, and had cultivated the society of -this young lady, more from a natural fondness for association with the -educated of her sex, than from any particular liking to her new -acquaintance. Signora Almeda—the lady’s name—was not unusually -prepossessing in her person or manners; but she had a vigorous and -masculine mind, and possessed no small share of sound knowledge, both -literary and scientific. She had, from the beginning, regarded my -daughter with peculiar favor. Their acquaintance had latterly become -quite intimate; and on the strength of this intimacy, and the dependance -of her situation, Valeria resolved to claim the hospitality of her -friend, until fortune should place it in her power to earn a livelihood -by her own exertions. Signora Almeda accepted, with pleasure, the -proposition of her accomplished acquaintance. - -For several months a sisterly harmony was observed between the friends. -Though Valeria steadily refused to enter into society, yet it soon -became obvious to her entertainer that she had the ascendency in the -social circle. Of all stings prone to penetrate the female heart, none -is so poisonous or painful as that which wounds vanity. Signora Almeda -was piqued to discover that the suitors, who had before paid her the -utmost devotion, now eagerly transferred their addresses to her guest. -From learning to view her as a rival, she presently looked upon her as -an ungrateful and disagreeable dependant. Every opportunity was now -taken advantage of, both publicly and privately, by Signora Almeda, to -vent her envy toward Valeria. The innocent cause of this disquietude, -meantime wondered at the change. It was true, her entertainer still -continued to treat her with formal hospitality; but all intimacy and -friendship were at an end. This state of things was destined to be -speedily brought to a close. - -Signora Almeda had among other suitors, one who really admired her, and -for whom she had evinced much respect. This gentleman, inspired by the -superiority of Valeria, physically if not mentally, forgot for a moment -his promises and devotions toward Signora Almeda. The blow was not to be -borne. A proud Italian spirit was roused. Revenge was now the sole -subject of her thought. - -Valeria one evening, soon after this, retired to her chamber to enjoy a -few moments of solitude. In searching a small drawer for some article of -habiliment, she accidentally discovered a note, directed to herself and -handsomely sealed. It was inscribed in a bold, masculine hand; and ran -thus:— - - “Bewitching girl!—In accordance with your repeated desire, I - shall to-night gently tap at your chamber-window. O raptures! - how I shall—but why anticipate. - - “_Votre roturiex_ - “Caius Pazzio.” - -Astonished and indignant, Valeria was about to tear this insulting -epistle to atoms, when the door gently opened; and Signora Almeda glided -in. - -“Ah! my charming guest,” she whispered, with forced friendship, “what -now? Mercy, you seem like one who had just caught sight of an -apparition! Dear me! what’s the matter?” - -“Matter!” cried Valeria, fired with shame and indignation, “read!—but -no—the insult must not be known!” - -“Heavens! a letter—Ah, I guess the contents!” She snatched it -playfully, and read with apparent surprise—what she had herself -written! - -The result was such as might be expected. Valeria was peremptorily -forbidden the house. Her character was blasted—her happiness destroyed! - -In this melancholy situation, Marco Da Vinci found her, when after a -long and indefatigable search, he succeeded in tracing her to the -residence of Signora Almeda. With all the ardor and sincerity of his -character, Da Vinci had determined on bringing his fate to a speedy -close, either by wedding the object of his affection, or by bidding her -farewell forever. The critical situation in which he found her, -immediately determined him to adopt the former course, if possible. He -had, since his triumph at the Academy of Arts, attained some eminence; -and his circumstances were now in a favorable condition. - -Valeria had many objections to the course proposed; but on the one hand -poverty—perhaps beggary would be her lot; while on the other the -importunities of Da Vinci were so urgent as to remove most of the -remaining obstacles. After much hesitation she consented to acquiesce in -his wishes. The young and loving couple were immediately united. I now -return to my own narrative. - -Nearly a year had elapsed since I was left alone and desolate; when one -evening I was astonished to see a female, closely muffled, enter my -house. My mind had that day been peculiarly embittered against my -daughter, and she was even now the subject of my thoughts. Great, -indeed, was my astonishment, when the apparent stranger flung herself in -a kneeling posture before me, and casting off her disguise revealed to -my sight the faded lineaments of Valeria! - -“Father!” she cried, “forgive me!—forgive the partner of my misery! We -are ruined by a reverse of fortune—we are beggars! Distress has -deprived us of pride! We seek your pardon!” - -“Curse you!” I shouted, spurning her with my foot, “you demand pardon do -you? Begone! Pardon, eh? Begone!” I thundered; and I pushed her -violently toward the door. She fell. Her head struck a bureau; and the -warm blood spouted from the gash. Had I reflected on the delicacy of her -situation, it is probable I might have felt compassion enough to let her -pass unmolested; but the deed was done. I did not regret it. My -vengeance for the series of disappointments she had caused me was -satiated. - - (To be Continued.) - - Louisville, Kentucky, February, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE ALCHYMIST. - - - BY MRS. LAMBERT. - - - “The machine of human life, though constituted of a thousand - parts, is in all its parts systematically connected; nor is it - easy to insert an additional member, the spuriousness of which - an accurate observation will not readily detect.”—_Godwin._ - -It was midnight. Darkness, deep as the sable of a funeral pall, hung -over the streets of Madrid. The wind blew in strong gusts, and the rain -fell in torrents. The lightning, which, at brief intervals, rent the -clouds, and flashed across the gloom, revealed no living, moving thing. -For an instant only, the livid sheets lit up the streets and squares, -and glared over the Plaza Mayon, so often the scene of savage -bull-fights, of cruel executions, and, in former years, of the horrible -_Auto de fé_. And again, as it seemed, a tenfold blackness enveloped -every object; convents, colleges and hospitals, closed at every -aperture, were shrouded in the general gloom. Man, though the noblest -work of his Creator—glorying in his wisdom and in his might—towering -in the battle-field—great in council—overweening, arrogant, boastful; -in such a night learns to feel his own insignificance. He, who adorned -with all the pageantry of wealth, elevates himself far above the lowly -individual that seeks his daily bread by daily labor—who looks down as -from an immeasurable height upon the poor peasant of the soil—even he, -so rich, so powerful, sheltered within his stately walls, listens to the -war of the elements that rage without—and inwardly congratulating -himself on his rich and comfortable asylum, yet shrinks involuntarily as -the blast shrieks by—and silently acknowledges his own impotence. - -I have said no living thing moved in the street, and every building was -closed against the storm; but in the outskirts of the city, in a narrow -and solitary lane, built up at intervals with a few houses of mean and -wretched appearance—a faint light shone through the gloom. It proceeded -from the casement of a house of antique structure, and dilapidated -appearance. Years must have gone by since that dwelling was the abode of -comfort, for poverty and wretchedness seemed to have long marked it for -their own. The exterior gave faithful promise of what was revealed -within. - -In a large and gothic room, the broken and discolored walls of which -betokened decay, an aged man was bending over a fire of charcoal, and -busily engaged in some metallic preparation. His form was bent by age. -The hair of his head, and the beard, which descended to his breast, were -bleached by time to a silvery whiteness. His forehead was ample, but -furrowed by a thousand wrinkles. His eyes, deep set, small, and still -retaining much quickness and fire, yet at times their expression was -wild, despairing, even fearful. - -A cap of peculiar and ancient form was upon his head, and his person was -enveloped in a robe of russet, confined about the waist by a twisted -girdle. His motions were tremulous and feeble, his countenance wan and -death-like, his frame to the last degree emaciated. - -A bed stood in one corner of the room; a table, and two roughly made -forms, were all the furniture of that miserable apartment; but around -the small furnace, at which the old man had been lately employed, were -gathered crucibles, minerals, chemical preparations, and tools of -mysterious form and curious workmanship, but well understood by the -artist. Once more the adept, for such was the inmate of this lonely -dwelling, scanned with searching eye the contents of a crucible; while -the pale flame which rose suddenly from the sullen fire, cast over his -sunken features a hue still more livid and cadaverous. - -His labors had resulted in disappointment; he sighed heavily, and -dropping his implements, abandoned his self-imposed task. - -“It is over,” he murmured, “my hour is almost come—and should I repine? -No—no. Life!—wretched and misspent!—world! I have sacrificed thee, to -thyself!—wonderful enigma, yet how true!” - -Turning his steps to the table, he took from thence a lamp, and walked -feebly to a remote end of the room. Here, on a humble couch, lay a -sleeping child; it was a boy, slender, pale, and bearing in his young -face the indications of sorrow and of want—yet was he exquisitely -beautiful. He slept still, and heavily. The adept gazed at him long and -deeply. - -“He sleeps. Victim as he is, of his father’s errors, and his -crimes—shunned by his fellows—hunted by the unfeeling—pinched with -cold—and perishing with hunger—yet—he sleeps. Father of Heaven! such -is the meed of innocence! _I_, shall never more know rest,—till the -long sleep of death that knows no awakening!—No awakening—and is it -so?” A blast of wind swept by, rocking the old pile to its foundation, -the thunder rolled heavily above, and the keen blue lightning shone -through every crevice. - -The old man looked fearfully around: a deeper paleness overspread his -face, and cold drops stood on his brow and sallow temples. - -“The angel of death is surely abroad this night—he seeks his victim.” - -Tottering to the bed he sunk down upon it, and closing his eyes, an -almost deadly sickness seized him. He called faintly for Adolf. The lad -had already risen, for the storm had awakened him. He went to the -bedside. The old man could not speak. The child was affrighted and gazed -earnestly upon the face of his parent. The senses of the latter had not -forsaken him, and he motioned with his hand toward the table, on which -stood a small cup. Adolf brought it to his father, and moistened his -lips with the liquid. The old man revived. After a few moments he spoke, -but his voice was tremulous and low. - -“Adolf,” he said, “thy father is about to leave thee—dear object of my -fond affection, thou art all that remains of my beloved Zillia—boy,” he -continued exerting the last remains of strength, “thou must go hence. -The moment thy father ceases to breathe thou must fly.” - -The child looked on his parent with alarm, and sorrow depicted in his -young face. - -“Yes,” he repeated, “thou must quit this place. My enemies are on the -alert. Me they would certainly destroy, and thy youth and -innocence—will hardly save thee from their wrath. Long have they -watched, and sought, and hunted me, from country to country, and from -town to town. I have mingled in the crowd of cities, and hoped to be -confounded with the multitude—to pass -unmarked—unquestioned—unknown—in vain; the ever wakeful eye of -suspicion followed me—danger dogged my footsteps. I sought the shelter -of thick woods—of impenetrable forests, where the wolf howled, and the -raven croaked—but the foot of my persecutor—Man—seldom came. Even -there I was discovered. Imprisonment—famine—torture have been my -portion—and yet I live. I live—but thy gentle spirit, Zillia, could -not bear up under the pressure of so many woes. Adolf, thou wilt shortly -be all that survives of the family of Zampieri.—I repeat, by the -morning dawn _I_ shall be no more, and _thou_ must fly.” - -“No, no,” returned the boy, “urge me not to depart—father, I will -remain and share thy fate.” He threw himself as he spoke upon the bosom -of the old man who pressed him in his feeble arms.—“And oh! father, I -_cannot_ go hence—I am weak—I am ill—father I die of hunger.” - -An expression of keen anguish passed over the face of Zampieri, and he -pushed his child from him. - -“Boy,” he cried, “ask me not for bread—thou knowest I have it not. Have -I not been laboring for thee—for thy wealth—for thy -aggrandizement—ingrate—bread sayest thou—thou shalt have gold, boy, -gold.” - -The intellect of the adept wandered, and he laughed wildly. The large, -soft, lustrous eyes of Adolf swam in tears, and his heart trembled -within his bosom. With weak steps he retreated to the foot of the bed, -and kneeling there, hid his face on his folded arms, and wept. - -After a pause Zampieri again spoke. - -“Life!” he muttered, “how have I wasted thee. Time! Thou art no longer -mine. Would that I could redeem thee—but it is too late. Zillia, my -murdered love! Thou art avenged. I left thy fond and simple affections -for the depths of mysterious research. I madly thought to realise the -dreams of illimitable wealth. Vain and destructive ambition. For thy -sake have I riven asunder every tie.” - -The voice of the old man ceased, and the sobs of the child too were -silenced—perchance in sleep. - -The violence of the tempest had subsided, and all was still; save that -the blast still shrieked at intervals by, making the old casements -rattle as it passed—and the thunder muttered low at a distance. - -The hours rolled on. A faint grey light dawned in the east. The clouds -broken in heavy masses, rolled rapidly onward obscuring and revealing, -as they flew, the few bright stars that appeared far beyond this scene -of petty turmoil, shining on, in their own unchanging, never ending -harmony. - -And now the dawn strengthened, and the stars grew pale. The last blue -flickering flame, that wandered _ignus-fatuus_ like, over the surface of -the dying charcoal, had spent itself; and the wasting lamp looked -ghastly in the beams of rising day. - -A noise was heard at the lonely portal. It was that of forcible -entrance, and came harshly over the deep silence that reigned within. -Footsteps approached, not such as told the drawing near of a friend, the -light, soft step of sympathy with sorrow. No. They heralded force and -violence—bond and imprisonment—racks and torture. - -Three Alguazils of the Inquisition entered the solitary apartment. They -came to conduct Nicoli Zampieri to the holy office on a charge of -performing or seeking to perform preternatural acts by unholy means—by -conjuration and necromancy. Guilty or not guilty, suspicion had fallen -upon him, and he had become amenable to the law. Their anticipated -victim remained quiet. The Alguazils approached the bed on which he lay. -The limbs were stark and stiff—the features immoveable. The Alchymist -was dead. - -Yet the eyes—widely opened, glassy, fixed and staring, gave the -startling idea, that the gloomy and reluctant soul had through them -strained its last agonising gaze on some opening view—some unimaginable -scene in the dread arena of the shadowy world beyond the grave. - -Silently they turned from the bed of death, for the power of the king of -Terrors, thus displayed before them, quelled for a moment their iron -nerves. - -A kneeling figure at the bed’s foot next drew their attention. It was -Adolf. They spoke to him, but he answered not: they shook him, but the -form immobile, gave no sign of warmth or elasticity. One of the men -turned aside the rich curls that clustered above the boy’s fair brow, -and gently raised his head. It was cold and pale. The suffering spirit -of the young and innocent Adolf, had winged its way to a happier world. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE CIRCASSIAN BRIDE. - - - BY ESTHER WETHERALD. - - - “She walks in beauty, like the nights - Of cloudless climes and starry skies.” - _Byron._ - -Nerinda was the daughter of a shepherd, who dwelt in one of the charming -portions of Circassia. If beauty was a blessing, Nerinda was blessed -beyond the ordinary lot of mortals, for the fame of her loveliness had -extended through the neighboring vallies, and at the early age of -fourteen her hand had been sought by many, with an earnestness which -showed her parents what a treasure they possessed in their eldest born. -But no one had been able to obtain her. - -Money is not so plentiful in the vales of Circassia, as in the mart of -Constantinople; and few of the neighboring youths might venture -therefore to aspire to her hand. There appeared, every day, less -probability that the fair girl would be permitted to pass her life -amidst scenes endeared to her by a thousand childish and tender -recollections. Nerinda felt this and her eye became less bright, and her -step less buoyant, than when she trod the flowery turf a few short -months before, a happy careless child, attending those flocks now -abandoned to the care of the younger children. She became pensive and -melancholy. Her rich color faded, and her parents saw with surprise and -concern that the dazzling beauty on which so much depended, would be -tarnished by the very means they were taking to preserve it. What was to -be done? She must resume her old employment, since healthful exercise -was of such consequence to her appearance; she could do so in the -neighboring meadows without danger, accompanied by her sister Leila. Oh! -how happy was Nerinda, when she received this unlooked for indulgence; -with what haste did she braid and arrange her beautiful hair, and fasten -on the veil without which she must not be seen; then joining her sister, -she visited every spot endeared to her by memory, and at length, seating -herself on a mossy bank which separated her father’s possessions from -those of a neighboring shepherd, began to arrange the many flowers she -had culled into beautiful bouquets and chaplets, an occupation befitting -one so young and lovely; but even whilst her hands were thus employed, -it was evident her thoughts were far distant, for she fell into reveries -so deep, that her sister, unable to arouse her from her abstraction, -became weary of attempting it, and returned to her fleecy charge, -leaving Nerinda to muse alone. - -Nerinda believed herself alone, but immediately after the departure of -Leila, a finely formed youth had crossed the stream, and stood at the -distance of a few paces, gazing on her with a passionate tenderness -which betokened the strength of his attachment. Almost afraid to disturb -her meditations, yet anxious to obtain a single word, a single glance, -he remained motionless; waiting, hoping that she might raise her eyes, -and give him permission to advance. She raised them at length, uttered -an exclamation of surprise, and in a moment the youth was at her feet. -“Nerinda!” “Hassan!” were the first words that escaped their lips. - -“Do I indeed see thee? and dost thou still love thy Nerinda?” said the -maiden. - -“Love thee?” replied the youth in an impassioned tone, “thy image is -entwined with every fibre of my heart. They may tear thee from me, they -may destroy me if they will, but while life remains I cannot cease to -love.” - -“Alas!” said Nerinda, “weeks have passed since I saw thee, and I -feared—I—.” She stopped confused, for Hassan had seized her hand, and -was pressing it to his lips with an energy which showed how well he -understood what was passing in her mind. - -“Oh! Nerinda,” said he, “I have entreated, I have implored thy father to -bestow thee on me, but in vain, for all the money I could offer was not -one tenth of the sum he requires; yet do not despair,” he said, as the -color faded from her cheek, “I still may hope if thou remainest -constant.” - -“This very morning,” continued Hassan, “I sought thy father; at first he -was unwilling to listen to me. At length I prevailed on him to hearken, -even if he refused his assent to what I proposed: but he did not refuse. -Pleased with my anxiety to obtain thee, he has promised that if in two -years I can gain the required sum thou shalt be my wife; if I cannot he -will wait no longer, but part with thee to him who will pay the highest -price.” - -The voice of the youth faltered—he was scarcely able to continue, “in -two days I am to take all the money my father can spare, and join the -caravan which proceeds to the south; fear not,” said he, replying to the -alarm expressed in her varying countenance, “there is no danger, the -caravan is large, and if fortunate as a trader, I shall return before -two years have passed to claim my plighted bride. Wilt thou be true? may -I trust thee?” were questions the lover asked, though he felt sure the -answers would be such as he could desire, and when the assurance was -given, he for the first time ventured to impress a kiss on those -beautiful lips. Long did they thus converse, but at length they parted; -Nerinda promising to come to the same spot on the next evening to bid -him farewell. - -They parted, Hassan vainly endeavoring to inspire Nerinda with his own -hopes. She almost sank under the trial, and it was many days before she -had strength to revisit the bank of turf, their accustomed trysting -place. When she did, how changed did all appear; the flowers were still -blooming around; the stream flowed on with its accustomed murmur; the -birds carolled sweetly as of old; where then was the change? Alas! it -was in her own heart: joy and happiness had fled with Hassan, and -melancholy had taken their place. - -Two years and six months had passed since the departure of the youth, -and there seemed little probability of his return; even his venerable -father mourned him as dead, when a company of traders entered the -mountains. One of them was an old acquaintance in the valley. He renewed -his solicitations to the father of Nerinda, that she might be placed -under his charge; offering the highest price, and promising that her -future lot should be as brilliant and delightful as her past had been -obscure. The shepherd was greatly disappointed by the non-appearance of -Hassan, for he would have preferred keeping his daughter near him if he -could have done so with advantage to himself, but being poor as well as -avaricious, and imagining he should be perfectly happy if possessed of -so much wealth as the trader offered, he consented to part with her, who -had ever been his chief delight, and the pride of his heart. - -Language cannot paint the consternation of Nerinda when she learned her -father’s determination. The delay of Hassan she accounted for by -supposing he had not yet acquired the full amount necessary for his -purpose, and hoped that after a while he would return to call her his. -Now all hope was at an end. Hassan might still come, but she would be -far distant, perhaps the wife of another. Her mother and sister too -shared her grief, for they thought it would be impossible to live -without Nerinda; but all entreaties and lamentations were vain, the -shepherd had made the bargain and would abide by it; and she was hurried -to the caravan in a state little short of insensibility. - -And where was Hassan? He had determined in the first place to proceed -with the caravan to Mecca, whither it was bound, and laying out the -money he possessed in merchandise, to trade at the different towns on -their route. Before they arrived at the holy city he had consequently so -greatly increased his store, that he felt no doubt he should be able to -return before the time appointed; but meeting soon afterward with a -heavy loss, he was thrown back when he least expected it, and at the end -of two years had not more than half the amount required. To return -without it was useless, and he set about repairing his loss with a heavy -heart. Six months passed in this endeavor, at the end of which time he -found himself rich enough to return, but it was necessary he should -proceed to Constantinople to settle some business, and join a caravan -which was going toward his native country. His anxiety increased every -day: of what avail would be his wealth, if she, for whose sake it had -been accumulated, was lost forever? - -The day before the one fixed for his departure from Constantinople, a -company of traders arrived, bringing with them Circassian slaves. He -happened to be passing by the slave-market, and impelled by sudden -curiosity, entered the room. He had scarcely done so when he was struck -by the graceful figure of one of the girls, which reminded him of -Nerinda. He felt almost afraid to have her veil removed, then -remembering that it would be impossible for her to recognise him in his -present dress, and determining to suppress his emotions whatever the -result, he made the request, which was instantly complied with. It was -indeed Nerinda, but how changed! She stood before him pale as marble, -with downcast eyes, looking as if no smile would ever again illumine -those pensive features; once only a faint color tinged her cheek as he -advanced toward her, then instantly gave place to more deathly paleness. -The price was soon agreed upon, for the trader was now as anxious to get -rid of his fair slave as he had been desirous to obtain her; having -resigned the hope of making an immense profit in consequence of the -continual dejection and grief she indulged, which had greatly impaired -her health and beauty. Hassan ordered the trader to send her to his -apartments immediately. - -When he entered the room to which she had been conducted, he gently -raised her veil. She looked up, and recognised him instantly; her joy -was as unbounded as his own, but was displayed in a different manner. -She threw herself into his arms and sobbed and wept. She was, however, -at length able to listen tranquilly to the account of his adventures, -and to relate her own. - -The remembrance of his aged parent, doubly endeared by absence, and of -his joyous childhood, were still alive in the breast of Hassan; and -after a few days spent at Constantinople, he proposed to return to his -native valley. - -They set out, the health and beauty of Nerinda improving, in spite of -the fatigues of their journey. The joy with which they were greeted was -unbounded. All had given Hassan up for dead, and Nerinda was regarded as -lost to them forever. Even her father had repented of his avarice, and -would willingly have returned his gold, could he have once more had -Nerinda by his side. Her mother and sisters hung around her with tears -of joy; and the whole valley welcomed her return with glad rejoicings. - -The young couple took up their residence with Hassan’s father; many a -visit did they pay to that bank of turf, the scene of their former -meetings, and never did they look on that spot without feeling their -bosom swell with the emotions of gratitude to that kind Providence who -had disposed all things for their good, and had watched over and -protected them, even when they believed themselves deserted. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE MAIDEN’S ADVENTURE. - - - A TALE OF THE EARLY SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA. - - -“Well Kate,” said her bridesmaid, Lucy Cameron, “the clouds look very -threatening, and you know it is said to be an unlucky omen for one’s -wedding night to be stormy.” - -“Pshaw, Lucy, would you frighten me with some old grandmother’s tale, as -if I were a child? I believe not in omens, and shall forget all unlucky -presages, when the wife of Richard Gaston,” answered the lovely and -smiling bride. - -“You treat it lightly, and I trust it may not be ominous of your -conjugal life,” resumed Lucy; “but my Aunt Kitty says that’s the reason -she never married; because it was raining in torrents the day she was to -have been wedded, and she discarded her lover because it was unlucky.” - -“Ah, Lucy, I do not mean to doubt your good aunt’s word; but there must -have been some more serious cause linked with the one you have -mentioned. My life on it, _I_ do not lose a husband for so slight a -cause. It must be something more than a common occurrence, that shall -now break off the match with Dick and myself. But see, the company are -beginning to arrive,” said Kate, as she looked from the window of her -room, “and I must prepare for the ceremony.” - -The morning of the day of which we have spoken, had opened in unclouded -splendor, and all seemed propitious to the nuptials that were to be -solemnised in the evening. The inmates of the cabin in which the -preceding conversation had been carried on, had arisen cheerfully with -the first notes of the early robin, to prepare for the festival, to -which the whole neighborhood, consisting of all within fifteen or twenty -miles, (for neighborhoods were then large, and habitations scarce) were -indiscriminately invited. - -Kate Lee was the only child of her parents, and had been born and raised -in the humble cottage which her father had assisted to construct with -his own hands. Mr. Lee had moved to his present residence, when few -ventured thus far into the Indian territory; and by his own labors, and -that of his two servants, had erected a double cabin, and cleared about -fifty acres of land, upon a rich piece of high ground, a mile and a half -from the James River. By his urbanity and kindness, he had gained the -confidence of the Indians; and in all their depredations so far, he had -gone unscathed. He was of good birth and education, and the most -hospitable man in the settlement. The property which he held, and the -style in which he lived, together with his superior knowledge, gave him -a standing among the settlers superior to all. Ever ready to assist the -needy, and always just in his opinions and actions, he was looked to for -council, rather than treated as an equal. - -As we said before, Kate was his only child, and had been the solace of -her parents for nineteen years. She had now attained to full-blown -womanhood, and, from her beauty and intelligence, her hand had been -often asked, by the hardy sons of the pioneers. Her heart was untouched, -until young Gaston laid siege to it. To his eloquent appeals she lent a -willing ear, and promised to be his bride. - -As Kate was the loveliest girl in the country, so was Richard Gaston the -most to be envied among the youths. Of fine, manly stature, superior -intellect, and unflagging energy, he was the best match in the -settlement. He cultivated a little farm on the other side of the river, -and when occasion offered, engaged in the practice of law, for which -both education and nature fitted him. He had been in the settlement -about seven years, and from his open and conciliatory manners, his bold -and manly bearing, had become a favorite with all around him. He was -always the first to take up his rifle, and sally against the hostile -Indians, when necessity required it, and from his undoubted courage, was -always chosen leader of the little bands, formed to repel the savage -foe. - -When the toils of the week had passed, Gaston might be seen, with his -rifle on his shoulder, moving toward the river where his canoe was -fastened, and springing lightly into it, dashing through the foaming -waters, and among the rocks, as safely and cheerfully, as if passing -over a smooth and glassy lake; and on the following evening, he might be -seen again, braving the rushing current, with the same careless ease, -but more thoughtful brow; for who ever yet parted from the girl of his -heart, with the same joyful aspect, which he wore when going to meet -her? Let us now return to the wedding day. - -“Have you heard of the Indian that was found murdered on the bank of the -creek this morning?” said a young man, after the company had assembled, -to Mr. Lee. - -“No,” answered Mr. Lee, with surprise, “I had hoped from the long peace -that has reigned, we should have no more such outrages against the poor -Indians. But how is it possible, sir, if they are thus shot down, that -we can expect them to be quiet?” - -“The body,” continued the first speaker, “was found by some of his -tribe; and they immediately threatened vengeance if the murderers were -not given up. But that is impossible; because we do not know them.” - -At this moment, a loud crash of thunder echoed through the woods, so -suddenly as to make all start from their seats. - -“Well, my friends,” said Mr. Lee, as soon as all was again quiet, “we -shall be as likely to suffer from this rashness as the offender, and -must be prepared. I am glad you have brought your guns with you, for -unless they come in too large a body we shall be able to hold out -against them.” - -This was said with that calmness which a frequent recurrence of such -circumstances will produce; and as he rehung his rifle, after preparing -it for immediate use, the bride entered the room, in all the loveliness -of graceful beauty. Few ornaments decked her person, because none could -add to her natural grace and elegance. Her hair of jet black, was simply -parted in front, drawn back, and fastened behind, displaying a forehead -of marble whiteness; a wreath, mingling the wild rose with other forest -flowers, was the only ornament on her head. Her skin was of transparent -whiteness. Her large black eyes, peering through their long lashes, -spoke a playful mischief in every glance. A perfectly Grecian nose; -cherry lips; a beautiful row of pearly teeth; a dimple displaying itself -in each cheek whenever a smile suffused itself over her features, and a -complexion richer than the soft red of the tulip, completed a picture -such as the mind can rarely imagine. Her neck and arms were perfectly -bare, and seemed as if they, with her small fairy feet, and the rest of -her figure, had been made in nature’s most perfect mould. - -The storm, which had before been heard but at a distance, seemed now to -have attained its greatest violence, and to be concentrated over the -house. Peal after peal of thunder, came ringing through the hollows, -each succeeding one apparently louder and more crashing than the former. -Flash upon flash, of the quick and vivid lightning, streamed out, -resting awhile upon the surrounding scenery, and striking terror into -the hearts of the more superstitious guests. The rain, which at first -fell in large drops, that could be distinctly heard, amid the awful -silence, save when the thunders echoed, now came down in torrents; and -the thunder pealed out, louder and louder, quicker and quicker, leaving -scarcely intermission enough, for the voice of Richard Gaston to be -heard by his beautiful bride. He had impatiently awaited the invitation -of Mr. Lee to meet his daughter, but no longer able, amid the war of -elements, to restrain himself, he advanced to, and seated himself by the -side of his beloved Kate, and gently taking her hand in his, inquired if -she was alarmed by the storm? To his enquiry, she only smiled, and shook -her head. - -“I see not then, why we may not proceed with the ceremony; the -storm,”——here a keen and fearful crash, jarred the house to its -foundation, leaving traces of fear on the countenances of all, but the -lovers and the parson; Gaston continued, however, “the storm may last an -hour, and that is longer, my Kate, than I would like to defer the -consummation of my hopes.” - -“I am ready,” answered Kate, blushing, and without raising her eyes. - -They rose from their seats, and advanced to the parson, who immediately -commenced the ceremony. It was impossible to tell, whether pleasure or -fear predominated on the countenances of the guests, as they pressed -forward, to witness the solemn ceremony of uniting two beings for life. -In the intervals of the thunder, a faint smile would play upon their -faces, but, as a rattling volley would strike their ears, their -shrinking forms and bloodless lips, betrayed their terror. The tempest -seemed for a moment to have held its breath, as if to witness the -conclusion of the nuptials; but now as the parson concluded with, -“salute your bride;” a peal of thunder, keener and more startling than -any yet, struck such terror to their souls, that none, not even the -parson, or Gaston himself, both of whom had been shocked, perceived that -the chimney had fallen to the earth; until awakened to a sense of their -situation, by the shrill war-whoop of the Indians, which now mingled in -dreadful unison with the howling storm. - -All thought of the storm vanished at once—defence against the savages -seemed to be the first idea of all, as each man, with determined look, -grasped his rifle, and gathered around the females. - -The Indians, led on by their noted chief Eagle Eye, to avenge the death -of their comrade, found in the morning, would perhaps have awaited the -subsidence of the storm, had not the falling of the chimney displayed to -them, the disorder and confusion within the cabin. Viewing it, as the -most favorable time for an attack, they raised their dreaded war-whoop, -and sprung to the breach. That whoop, however, served but to nerve the -hardy pioneers, and chase from their bosoms the fears, which the wars of -nature alone created. Richard Gaston, from custom, assumed the command; -and with that coolness and self-possession, which indicates undaunted -bravery, proceeded to give such orders as the time would allow. - -“Let the females,” said he, “go above, and lie upon the floor, and we, -my brave boys, will show them what stout hearts and strong arms can do -in defence of beauty. Six of you go in the next room, and see that the -villains enter not, except over your dead bodies; the rest will remain, -and defend this opening.” - -The reader must not suppose that all was still during this brief -address. The Indians, whose numbers amounted to several hundred, had -fired once, and not being able, on account of the rain, to load again, -now attempted to enter over the ruins of the chimney, and through the -windows. The lights had been extinguished at the first yell, and all was -dark, save when the flashes of lightning revealed to the few within, the -fearful odds against them without. Several volleys had meanwhile been -poured into the Indians, and a momentary flash revealed the effects. -Many were lying dead or dying, forming a sort of breastwork at the -breach. Becoming more infuriated, as those who had gone before, fell, -under the constant fire of the whites, the savages, now, in a compact -body, attempted an entrance; and the whites, still cool, as if danger -threatened not, waited until they reached the very breach, and then -every man, with his muzzle almost touching the Indians, discharged his -piece. The savages wavered and then fell back, amid the shouts of the -victorious yeomen. - -The next flash of lightning discovered the Indians retreating to the -woods, and dragging many of their dead with them. Another wild shout -burst from the lips of the victorious whites. When all was again still, -the voice of Mr. Lee was heard in thanksgiving, for their deliverance so -far; and when he had concluded, he proposed a consultation upon the best -means to be pursued, as it was certain the Indians had only retired to -devise some other mode of attack. Some were for deserting their present -situation, and flying to the woods for concealment; others, and the -greater number, proposed remaining where they were, because the Indians -had not certainly gone far, and if discovered, unprotected by the logs, -they must fall an easy prey, to such superior numbers, while by -remaining, they had some advantage, and a small chance to keep them off. - -In the meantime, the females, the firing having ceased, had left their -hiding-place, and now mingled with the warriors. It was soon determined -to hold on to their present situation, and defend it to the last, should -they be again attacked. The better to add to its security, several of -the stoutest commenced raising a barrier at the opening, with the logs -that had been thrown down; while others, barricaded the doors and -windows. This being finished, they began an enquiry into the injury they -had received; and found six of their number were killed. - -The rain meanwhile had ceased, and the distant mutterings of the thunder -could be heard only at intervals. All was silent in the cabin, awaiting -the expected approach of the savages. Kate had approached Gaston when -she first came into the room, and timidly asked if he was hurt. Having -received a satisfactory answer, she had remained silently by his side, -until all was prepared for action. Then, for a moment forgetting the -dangers that surrounded him, Gaston yielded to the impulse of his heart, -and drawing the lovely being, who was now his wedded wife, in all the -ardor of passionate love, to his bosom, imprinted upon her ruby lips, -the kiss of which he had been so suddenly deprived by the onset of the -savages. - -“My own Kate,” said he, “if you find we are to be overcome, you must try -and make your escape through the back door, and thence to the woods. -Here is one of my pistols, take it, and if you are pursued, you know how -to use it; shoot down the first foe who dares to lay a hand on you. Make -for the river, you know where my canoe is; the current is rapid and -dangerous, but, if you can reach the other bank you are safe. Farewell -now, my own sweet love, and if I fall, may heaven shed its protection -over you.” - -Gaston was not a man to melt at every circumstance, but to be thus -separated from his bride, perhaps never to meet again, brought a tear to -his manly cheek. Love, had for a moment, unmanned his firm and noble -heart; but it had passed, and he was again a soldier; thinking only how -best to defend, what he valued more than his life—his wife. - -At this instant the whoop of the Indians again sounded to the assault. -Each man sprang to his post. The whites had been equally divided, and a -party stationed in each room. The rooms were now simultaneously attacked -by the foe; and with clubs and large stones, they endeavored to force -the doors. The silence of death reigned within, while without all was -tumult and confusion. The door at length yielded—one board and then -another gave way, while yell upon yell rose at their success. - -“Hold on boys, until I give the word,” said Gaston, “and then stop your -blows only with your lives.” - -The door and its whole support yielded, and in poured the savages like a -whirlwind. “_Fire now_,” cried Gaston, “and club your guns.” - -Almost as one report, sounded the guns of every one in the house—the -yells and cries of the wounded and infuriated foe, almost appalled the -stoutest hearts; but this was no time to admit fear, if they felt it. -The Indians were making every exertion to enter over the pile of dead -bodies that blocked up the doorway; and the gun of each man within, -clenched by the barrel, was lowered only to add another to the heap. For -twenty minutes the fight had raged with unabated fury, and with -unrelaxed exertions, when the moon, breaking forth in all her splendor, -exhibited the combatants as plain as in the light of mid-day. One -Indian, stouter and bolder than the rest, had gained an entrance, and -fixing his eyes on Gaston, as he saw him encouraging and directing the -others to their work of death, he gave a loud yell, and sprang at him -like the tiger on his prey. The quick eye and arm of Gaston were too -rapid for him; and in an instant he lay dead from a blow of the young -man’s rifle. - -But the strength of the brave little band began at length to fail. Their -numbers had diminished more than half. Before the enemy had, however, -entered, it had been proposed and acceded to, as the only chance, that -the females should attempt an escape from the back door, next the river, -while the men should cover their retreat, as well as their diminished -numbers would admit. Accordingly, the attempt was made, and an exit -gained; the whole force of the Indians being collected at the front -door, to overcome the stubborn resistance of the whites. - -The little phalanx stood firm to its post, until they saw the women had -sufficient start to reach the woods before they could be overtaken; and -then, pressed by such superior numbers, they slowly fell back to the -same door, and the few that survived, made a rush, and drew the door -close after them. They had now given way, and nothing but superior speed -could possibly save them. If overtaken before reaching the woods, they -were inevitably lost—if they could gain them they might escape. The -delay caused by the closing of the door was short, and the enemy were -now scarcely fifteen yards in the rear. Fear moved the one party almost -to the speed of lightning—thirst for revenge gave additional strength -to the other. The Indian, fresher than his chase, gained upon them -rapidly. As they heard the savages close upon them, every nerve was -excited, every muscle strained to the utmost. For a short distance -indeed they maintained the same space between them, but alas! the -strength of the whites failed, and too many of them overtaken, fell -beneath the club of the savages. Gaston, who was equal in activity to -any of his pursuers, had soon gained the lead; and with the speed of an -arrow, had increased the distance between him and the Indians. - -He knew that his wife would make for the river, and in all probability, -would be able to reach it, and it was his object to get there also, if -possible, in time to assist her across the rocky and rapid current, or -at least to see that she was safe beyond pursuit. The river was not far, -and as he bounded down the rough hill sides, he could distinctly hear -the rolling of its waters, over the rocky bed. He took the nearest -course to the landing, and the yells of the Indians, scattered in every -direction through the woods, strained him to the greatest exertions. He -reached the river—his canoe was there—his wife was not—despair -overcame his soul. - -“She must be taken, and I too will die,” he exclaimed, in bitter agony. - -At that moment, a light and bounding step, like that of a startled fawn, -drew his attention to the top of the bank, and his wife, whom he had -given up for lost—his darling Kate, bounded into his embrace. This was -no time for love. He took but one embrace, and hurried her into his -canoe; for the Indians were but a few yards behind. It was but the work -of a moment, to cut loose the line that held his bark; but before he -could spring into it, three stout Indians were close upon him. - -“Shove off, Kate, and trust to fortune to reach the other shore,” cried -Gaston, distractedly, as he turned to engage the Indians, while his -bride escaped. The devoted girl seemed doubtful whether to fly, or stay -and die with her husband. Gaston, seeing her hesitation, again called -frantically to her to escape, before the Indians were upon them. She now -attempted to push her boat off, but she had remained a minute too -long—a brawny and athletic savage seized the boat and sprang into it, -within a few feet of the alarmed maiden. She quickly retreated to the -other end, and faced about, despair painted in every lineament of her -face. The Indian involuntarily stopped to gaze upon the beautiful being -before him. That pause was fatal to him. Kate’s self-possession -instantaneously returned, and as the savage sprang toward her she -levelled her husband’s pistol and fired. The bullet entered the savage’s -brain: he fell over the side of the boat, and disappeared beneath the -bubbling waters; while instantly seizing the oar which had dropped from -her hand on her first alarm, Kate turned the bow of her boat in the -direction of the opposite shore, and began to stem the rapid current. - -During the few seconds that had thus elapsed, the canoe had shot below -the place where her husband struggled with the remaining Indians; and -she was now out of hearing of the combatants. Standing erect in the -boat, her long hair hanging loosely on her uncovered neck, her white -dress moving gently to the soft breeze, and her little bark avoiding the -many rocks jutting their heads above the rushing waters, it gave to a -beholder the idea of some fairy skiff, kept up, and guided by the -superior power of its mistress. Steadily she moved on, until near the -middle of the river, when she heard a splash, followed by a voice, some -distance behind her. At first she thought it another Indian in pursuit, -but soon the chilling thought was dispelled. Her own name, breathed in -accents that had often thrilled her to the soul, was heard, sounding a -thousand times more sweetly than ever on her ear. She quickly turned the -head of her boat, and although she could not propel it against the -stream, she kept it stationary, until Gaston, who had overcome his -pursuers, reached it. His great exertions in the unequal struggle on the -bank, his efforts to reach the boat, and the loss of blood from a deep -cut on his arm, had left him so little of the powers of life, that he -fainted a few moments after he had regained his wife. Kate knew the -peril of permitting the boat to float with the current, and with all -that courage and coolness, which woman possesses in times of danger, she -did not stop to weep over him, but again seizing the oar, directed her -bark to the opposite bank. Guided by the careful hand of love, how could -the fragile skiff be lost, even amid the rushing whirlpools it had to -pass. They safely reached the bank, and Gaston having returned to -consciousness, supported by the arm of his wife, slowly wended his way -to his farm. - -Their anxiety, however, was, for some time, almost intolerable to learn -the fate of their friends whom they had left on the other side of the -river. Whether the Indians had triumphed completely, whether a -successful stand had been made by any of those they pursued, or whether -all had been alike murdered by the relentless savages, were unknown to -Kate and Gaston, and filled their minds with uneasy fears. While, -however, they were thus in doubt as to the fate of their friends, a -hurried footstep was heard approaching, and Mr. Lee, the next moment, -was in his daughter’s arms. With about half of his visitors, he had -escaped, and, in a few days, rallying around them their remaining border -neighbors, they succeeded, finally, in driving the hostile savages from -their vicinity. - -If any one will visit the hospitable mansion of the present proprietor -of the estate, which has descended from our Kate, they may hear her -story with increased interest, from the lips of some of her fair -descendants; and upon taking a view of the place, where she crossed amid -such perils, they will not be surprised to learn that the circumstance -should have given to it the name of the “Maiden’s Adventure.” - - S. - - February, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - NAPOLEON. - - - BY J. E. DOW. - - - “About the twenty-second of January, 1821, Napoleon’s energies - revived. He mounted his horse and galloped for the last time - around Longwood, but nature was overcome by the effort.” - - Chained to a wild and sea-girt rock - Where the volcano’s fires were dead; - He woke to hear the surges mock - The living thunder o’er his head. - - His charger spurned the mountain turf, - For he o’er glaciered Alps had trod,— - He scorned to bear the island serf, - And only stood to Europe’s God. - - And now, the prisoner’s spirit soared, - And fiercely glanced his eagle eye; - He grasped again his crimson sword, - And bade his silken eagle fly. - - High on a cliff, that braved the storm, - And beat the thundering ocean back; - He felt the life-blood coursing warm - As oft in mountain bivouac. - - Around him bowed a bannered world: - And lightnings played beneath his feet; - The storm’s wild ensign o’er him curled, - And ocean drums his grand march beat. - - Above the Alps’ eternal snows - He led his freezing legions on: - And when the morning sun arose— - The land of deathless song was won. - - The desert waste before him rolled, - And haughty Mam’lukes bit the ground; - Old Cairo reared her mosques of gold, - And Nile returned his bugle’s sound. - - The doors of centuries opened wide - Before the master spirit’s blows, - And flapped his eagles’ wings in pride - Above the time-dried Pharoahs. - - Then northward moved his chainless soul, - And Europe’s host in wrath he met, - The Danube heard his drum’s wild roll, - And Wagram dimmed his bayonet. - - On many a field his cannons rung, - The Nations heard his wild hurrah: - And brazen gates were open flung, - To usher in the Conqueror. - - The Cossack yelled his dread advance, - And legions bared their scymetars, - When with the infantry of France - He trampled on the sleeping Czars. - - And Moscow’s sea of fire arose - Upon the dark and stormy sky, - While cohorts, in their stirrups froze, - Or pillowed on the snow to die. - - A merry strain the lancers blew - When morning o’er his legions shone! - But evening closed o’er Waterloo, - And death, dread sentinel, watch’d alone. - - His eagles to the dust were hurled, - And bright Marengo’s star grew dim, - The conqueror of half the world, - Had none to sooth or pity him. - - And he has come to view again - The hills his flashing sword hath won: - To hear the music of the main, - And note the thunder’s evening gun. - - His heart is cold, his eye is dim, - His burning brand shall blaze no more; - The living world is dead to him, - The sea’s wild dash, the tempest’s roar. - - Marengo’s cloak is round him cast, - And Jena’s blade is by his side, - But where is now his trumpet’s blast? - And where the soldiers of his pride? - - They sleep by Nilus’ bull-rushed wave, - They slumber on the Danube’s bed; - The earth is but a common grave - For gallant France’s immortal dead. - - His charger rushes from the height: - The fitful dream of life is o’er, - And oh! that eye that beamed so bright, - Shall never wake to glory more. - - Beneath the mountain’s misty head, - Where streamed the lava’s burning tide. - They made the scourge of Europe’s bed, - And laid his falchion by his side. - - He sleeps alone, as sweetly now - As they who fell by Neva’s shore: - And peasants near him guide the plough, - And craven Europe fears no more. - - He sleeps alone—nor shall he start - Till Time’s last trumpet rings the wave: - For death has still’d the mighty heart - Where fierce ambition made his grave. - - ’Tis sad to view, when day grows dim, - The stone that closed o’er Europe’s fears: - And listen to the waves’ wild hymn, - That swallowed up the exile’s tears. - - The eagle screams his dirge by day, - The tempest answers, and the sea, - And streaming lightnings leap to play - Above the man of Destiny. - - Washington, February, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - LINES. - - - To the Author of the Requiem, “I See Thee Still.” - - BY E. CLEMENTINE STEDMAN. - - - Oft when o’er my young being, shades of grief - Have darkly gathered, and been spent in tears, - Thy “spirit-stirring muse” hath brought relief, - And called back images of other years! - As from the world my soul removed her care, - And sought the healing balm of Poesy to share. - - Perchance ’twas but some scraps that met my eye, - Yet like a charm, it soothed an aching heart— - Bidding it turn from hopes beneath the sky, - To choose above the wise, unfailing part; - And while I read, I blessed aloud thy name, - And prayed that Heaven’s best gifts might mingle with its fame! - - And now, though stranger to thy form and face, - Yet since familiar with thy spirit’s tone; - Pardon this humble pen, which fain would trace - Some thought, to cheer a heart bereaved and lone, - Some sympathetic token, from a soul - Which bleeds to know that thine is bowed ’neath grief’s control. - - The human heart, it hath been aptly said, - Is like that tree, which must a wound receive, - Ere yet the kindly balsam it will shed, - Which to the sufferer’s wound doth healing give; - Such as have seen their fondest hopes laid low, - Can only feel for thee, or thy deep anguish know! - - This bosom bears a kindred stroke to thine. - Yet owneth that the Hand which wounds can heal! - May Gilead’s balm, as it hath brought to mine, - So to thy wound restoring life reveal; - Show thee a Father, in a chastening God, - And bid thee meekly bow, and kiss his gentle rod. - - I knew her not, whose image blendeth yet - With every dream of joy the night doth bring— - Whose blessed features Love will ne’er forget, - Nor of whose worth thy muse e’er cease to sing! - But ’tis enough, that she was all _thy_ choice, - To know that sorrow hath with thee a deep-toned voice. - - And is she not thy “guardian angel” _now_? - Doth she not “live in beauty” _yet_, above, - And oft descend, to watch thy steps below, - And whisper in thy dreams sweet words of love? - A spirit, ’twixt whose spotless charms, and thee, - Hangs but the veil of Time, behind which, soon thou’lt see. - - Till then, look upward to her home of light— - ’Twill chase the shadows from thy lonely hearth, - And think of her, as of a being bright— - _Still_ thy “beloved,” though not now of earth! - Follow the traces of her heavenward feet, - And soon in perfect love, to part no more, ye’ll meet. - - Cedar Brook, Plainfield, N. J., 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DESTROYER’S DOOM. - - - For if we do but watch the hour, - There never yet was human power - Which could evade, if unforgiven, - The patient search, and vigil long, - Of him who treasures up a wrong. - _Mazeppa._ - -The night was waxing late, when the beautiful and witty Mrs. Anson was -promenading at a party where all the _élite_ of the city were assembled, -with an imposing looking man, who seemed to unite—rare -combination—high fashion and dignity of bearing. His face was almost -constantly turned toward the lady, and he seemed careful that his words -should reach no ears but those for which he uttered them. His last -remark, whatever it was, seemed to have offended the lady, for she -stopped suddenly, and gazing full in his face, exhibited as dark a frown -as those bright, beautiful eyes could be made to produce. It was but a -passing cloud, however, for the next moment she said, laughingly, “Upon -my word, Major Derode, you give your tongue strange license.” His peace -was soon made, and drawing the arm of Mrs. Anson within his own, he -asked her if she would dance any more. - -“No,” she replied, “if you’ll tell them to draw up, I’ll go home; the -rooms are close; I am fatigued; besides, in the absence of my husband, I -must keep good hours.” - -“Excuse me,” said the major, “if I am not anxious for his return. I -should not dare to hope for so much of your precious society, were he to -command it.” - -“He has the best right to it,” rejoined the lady, “but he never uses -command with me;—I vow I am an ungrateful wretch, and love him much -less than he deserves to be loved.” - -“That sentiment, my dear Mrs. Anson, is not founded on nature or truth. -Gratitude and love are sensations as different in their natures, as your -disposition and that of your husband; but for what should you be -grateful to him? For having had the vanity to address, and the good -fortune to win the loveliest creature that ever wildered human brain, or -fired human heart? And how does he repay an affection which monarchs -would value more than conquest?—by indifference,—nay, studied -neglect.” - -“You wrong him,” said the wife, but with much less warmth than she would -have defended her husband a fortnight before, “his passion for -literature, it is true, estranges him from me more than many wives would -like, but I have reason to know he loves me well. Alas! why should love -be such a sickly flower, that needs constant culture to keep it from -perishing! Time was, when the hour he passed from my side was fraught -with anxiety,—now, days glide by, and I scarcely think of him!” - -“Think only of him,” returned the major, “whose love for you is as -imperishable as it is ardent. Renounce the man who is unworthy of you, -and—” - -“Render myself unworthy of any man,” continued the lady, “no, I implore -you, urge me to this no more; spare me, dear Henry, I entreat you.” And -I will spare the reader the remainder of a dialogue which evinced -yielding virtue on one side, and seductive sophistry on the other. “The -woman who hesitates is lost,” says the proverb. - -Charles Anson, a young man of high intellectual endowments, and fine -personal appearance, had studied law in his native -city—Philadelphia—and at an early age married the daughter of a -merchant in moderate circumstances. The union was thought to have -resulted from love on both sides, and indeed for four years the youthful -pair enjoyed as much happiness as is allotted to mortals; when, -depending on his professional exertions, no ambition disturbed their -dreams, no envy of rank or grandeur poisoned their present blessings. - -In a luckless hour, a relation, living in England, from whom Anson had -no expectations, died, leaving him a large fortune. This sudden -acquisition of wealth enabled him, much to his satisfaction, to quit a -profession in which he wanted several requisites for great success. He -turned his attention to a science which has since become popular in this -country, and became so devoted to its pursuit, that he spent large sums -of money in prosecuting it. His wife launched at once into a mode of -life which she said her husband’s altered circumstances justified. She -plunged deeply into fashionable dissipation, and although Anson seldom -accompanied her into the gay circles she frequented, he never objected -to her giddy course. His only wish was to see her happy. He was on a -visit to an eastern city, collecting materials for a work on his -favorite science, at the time I introduced his wife to the reader, and -spring advanced before he was ready to bend his steps homeward. He had -travelled, as was usual then, by land from New York, and having taken a -whole day to perform the journey, it was night when the lumbering mail -coach, set Anson down at the door of his house. He had received no -answer to the last two letters he had written to his wife, and he feared -she was ill. If any one of my readers has been long absent from a happy -home, he can understand the trembling eagerness with which the traveller -placed his foot upon his door-stone. He pulled at the bell, and its -clear sound came back upon his ear, as he stood in breathless anxiety -waiting for an answer to the summons. No hasty footstep, however, no -opening of inner doors, no audible bustle within, gave token of -admittance. Almost convulsively, he grasped again at the handle of the -bell, and its startling response pealed through the adjacent dwellings. -Slowly a sash creaked up in an adjoining house, and a petulant female -voice said,— - -“There’s no use of your disturbing the neighborhood by ringing -there,—nobody lives in that house.” - -Anson staggered back from the step, and falteringly enquired,— - -“Has Mrs. Anson removed?” - -“Removed!” croaked the old woman, “aye, she has removed, far enough from -this, I warrant.” - -“Where has she gone?” gasped the husband. - -“I know nothing about her,” was the reply, and the sash fell with a -rattling sound that struck like clods upon a coffin upon the desolate -heart of Anson. He stood upon the pavement with one foot resting on a -trunk, and his eyes turned to the windows of his late dwelling, as if -expecting the form of his wife to appear there. The voice of the -watchman, calling the first hour of the night, aroused him from his -abstraction, and suggested the necessity of present action. He -remembered that he had a duplicate key of the street door, and if not -fastened within, he could at least gain admittance. On applying the -instrument, it was evident that the person who had last left the house, -had egressed through the door, for no bar or bolt betrayed the caution -of an inmate. Anson engaged the watchman to place his effects in the -hall, and procure a light. Having once more secured the main entrance of -the house, he wandered through its tenantless chambers, like a suffering -ghost among scenes of its happier hours. The splendid paraphernalia -which wealth and taste had spread throughout that happy mansion, were -there yet. Not an ornament had been removed, nor had the most fragile -article decayed,—nay, the very exotics in the bow-pots had begun to put -forth their tender blossoms under the genial influence of the season. -But human life was absent. She that had diffused joy, and hope, and a -heaven-like halo round her, was gone. - -Mad with apprehension, Anson rushed to his wife’s bed-chamber, hoping -there to find some clue to her mysterious departure. Her toilet was in -confusion; ornaments lay scattered about; and a diamond ring, his gift -to her on her last birth-day, shone, on the approach of the light, so -like a living thing, that Anson, in the wildness of his brain, thought -that its thousand eyes flashed with intelligence of its departed -mistress. On a small writing desk lay some sheets of pure paper, and in -the open drawer a sealed note caught the eye of Anson. He seized it with -a trembling hand, but paused ere he opened it; a sickness, like that of -death, settled down upon his heart. Unhappy man! What had he to hope or -fear?—he read: - - “Husband:—We meet no more on earth. At the bar of eternal - justice your curse will blast me! I am in the coils of a fiend, - disguised like a god! As the fluttering bird, though conscious - of destruction, obeys the fatal fascination of the serpent’s - eye, so I, beholding in the future nought but despair, yield, a - victim to a passion that has mocked my struggles to subdue it. - You must be happy because you are virtuous, and in mercy forget - the fallen, - - “Josephine.” - -Anson sat long with this letter in his hand, gazing firmly on a portrait -of his wife, that hung over her escritoire. She had sat for that -painting at a time when her health was delicate, and a sacred pledge of -their happy love was expected. Heaven had—mercifully it seemed -now—denied the boon. Memory struck the fountain of tears in the heart -of that bereaved man, and he wept. Oh! it is fearful to see a strong man -weep. Tears are natural in children, and beautiful in women;—in men, -they often seem mysterious gushings from the stern soul—dread -forebodings of evil to come. The deserted husband gazed upon the -painting, until he thought some evil spirit had changed the sweet smile -and mild eye into a scornful sneer. A change came over his spirit—his -features gradually assumed a look of unutterable ferocity; his frame -dilated as with the conception of awful deeds—strange whisperings of -dark purposes whizzed, as from legions of fiends, through his brain, and -he went forth REVENGE! - - * * * * * - -Major Derode, of the British army, was one of the most strikingly -handsome men of the last age, and his address the most insinuating that -a constant intercourse with the best society could confer. Although he -had led a life of much dissipation, his fine constitution had withstood -its ravages, and calling art to the aid of nature, he looked like a man -of thirty, when he was really twelve years older. He had married in -early life, and was the father of a son and daughter. The son had -entered the navy, and had already obtained a lieutenancy,—to the -daughter fell a large share of the singular beauty of her father, -refined into feminine loveliness by the delicate graces of her mother. -Mrs. Derode had been dead some years, and the major’s present visit to -America was connected with some governmental mission to the -commander-in-chief of the British forces in Canada. Viewing the cities -of the United States on his return home, he became acquainted with the -beautiful Mrs. Anson. He became at once her lover. He was a cold-hearted -systematic seducer, and besieged her heart with a perseverance and -address long accustomed to conquer. He imagined that his own callous -heart was touched by her bright eyes, and he delayed his departure for -two months, in order to accomplish her ruin. - -When I introduced him to the reader, in conversation with Mrs. Anson, -the poison of his flattery had already tainted that weak woman’s heart. -I will not follow his serpent-like course—it is sickening to mark the -progress of such arts. We left him in a gay assembly in Walnut -Street—we now find him in London, and, it pains me to write it, Mrs. -Anson was with him. To dispel the gloom that had already overcast her -features, and to feed his own inordinate vanity, Derode introduced his -victim to much society, but her keen eye soon penetrated the equivocal -character of those who visited her in her splendid apartments. With this -discovery came the first deep sense of her utter degradation. - -“I will mix no more with these people,” said she to the major one day, -after an unusually large party left the house. - -“As you please,” said he, “I was in hopes society would amuse you.” - -“Not _such_ society,” she replied with some dignity. The major observed -the slight curl on her lip, and said, with something of a sneer,— - -“Your notions are elevated, my pretty republican; your visiters are -people of fashion, and you know _we_ should not scrutinise character too -severely.” - -This cruel remark pierced deeper than the base speaker intended. The -deluded woman raised her eyes—those eyes, in repose so meek—to the -face of Derode, and he quailed beneath their unnatural light. - -“True,” said she with a choking voice, “true, true!—the meanest wretch -that ever bartered her soul for bread, should spurn my fellowship, and -flee my infecting touch.” Her head fell on her lap, and a series of -hysterical sobs threatened to end her brief career of guilt upon the -spot. - -But it was not so to be. She recovered only to new miseries. Half tired -of his new victim already, Major Derode hired a cottage a few miles from -London, and, taking Mrs. Anson at her word, carried her down there to -reside in lonely misery. His visits, at first frequent, soon became -rare, and many days had now elapsed since she had seen him. She stood by -the open casement watching the moonlight for his expected appearance, -but he came not. A horseman emerged from the deep shadow of the trees, -but seemed to pass on toward the turnpike. Hope sank within her, and she -wished to die. She was now gathering the bitter fruits of her guilt. Her -love for her destroyer was eating up her life—the scorching intensity -of her passion was consuming the heart that gave it birth. - -“Great God!” she exclaimed with frantic impiety, “art thou just? Thou -didst not endow me with strength to resist this destiny. Thou knowest it -was not volition, but FATE! If for thine own unseen ends, thou hast -selected me to work out thy great designs.—oh! for the love of thy meek -son who was reviled on earth, make my innocence clear. I am but thy -stricken agent, oh! God! I am innocent—innocent!” - -The suffering creature was on her knees, and when she had uttered this -wild sophistry, she threw her head downward, until it almost touched the -ground. Her temples throbbed till the bandage that confined her hair -snapped, and the dark covering of her head enveloped her figure like a -pall. - -“Innocent! ha! ha! ha!” shouted a hoarse voice, in a tone of wild -mockery, that rung through the lonely house, and reverberated in the -stillness of the night. - -Starting to her feet, Mrs. Anson gazed around the room with an -indescribable awe, for she thought the sound bore a harsh resemblance to -that of her forsaken husband. No one, however, was visible, and she -began to think it was some creation of her excited fancy, when, turning -her eye to the latticed casement that overlooked the garden, she plainly -saw a man gliding away through the copse. Another moment, and the same -horseman she had before observed, dashed into the shadow at furious -speed, and disappeared. - - * * * * * - -Major Derode was holding high revel in London. There was a report that -two marriages had been projected—those of himself and of his daughter. -His fortune, never large, had been entirely dissipated at the gaming -table, and he was deeply involved in debt. The contemplated alliances -would, however, bring wealth into the family, and causing his -expectations to be known, his creditors were patient. The object of his -personal attentions was the Honorable Mrs. Torrance,—a widow of -brilliant charms and large property. The handsome major had won her -heart and received her troth before his visit to America, and but one -obstacle existed to their immediate union. Rumor, with her hundred -tongues had apprised the dashing widow that the gallant major had -brought over with him an American beauty, who was now residing in the -neighborhood of the metropolis. The major first denied, then confessed -it, but declared she had returned to her native forests. - -“I scarce believe you,” said the widow, “but I will send down to-morrow -to the cottage, which has been pointed out to me as her residence, and -learn the truth.” - -“She must remove, then, before to-morrow,” said Derode to himself as he -drove home. “Fool that I was to bring her here; however, I suppose I can -ship her home again, consigned to her plodding Yankee husband, who will -be rejoiced that his wife has seen the world free of expense.” - -Night had closed in when Derode arrived at the cottage. Mrs. Anson was -ill. She had been in a high fever, as the abigail informed the major, -and delirious. She was calmer now, however, and he approached her couch. - -“How unlucky you are ill at this time,” said he, “for circumstances -render it necessary for you to quit this place immediately.” - -“Let me remain a few days longer,” replied the heart-broken woman, “and -my next remove will be to the peaceful grave.” - -“It is impossible—to-morrow morning, the earlier the better, you _must_ -depart.” - -“And whither must I go?” - -“Why, reflection must have convinced you that it was an imprudent step -to leave your husband; nay, tears are useless now,—the frolic was -pleasant enough while it lasted, but it is time to think of more serious -matters. My advice to you is, that you immediately return home, solicit -your husband’s forgiveness, and no doubt that will be the end of the -affair. For myself, you must know it—and it is best you should learn it -at once—my pecuniary involvements make it imperative on me to marry -immediately—the sale of this furniture will enable you—” - -But his voice fell on a dull ear. Mrs. Anson heard nothing after the -word “marry,” and she lay in a death-like swoon. Finding she did not -revive immediately, Derode consigned her to the care of her maid, and -hastily wrote the following lines:— - - “Madam,—Our unfortunate connexion must be broken off at once. I - can see you no more. I enclose you twenty pounds, a sum - sufficient to bear your expenses to America. My last command is, - that you quit this cottage to-morrow morning. - - “Yours, - “Derode.” - -He gave the note to the girl, for her mistress, and left the house. - -“How do you feel now, madam?” enquired the maid, as Mrs. Anson opened -her heavy eyes, and pressed her hands against her temples, as if -endeavoring to collect her thoughts, “can I do anything for you, madam?” - -“Yes; assist me to rise; bring my bonnet and shawl;—thank you. You have -been very kind to me my good girl; take this ring—it is of some -value—keep it for the sake of her whom no living thing regards.” - -“But, dear madam,” affectionately enquired the girl, “for heaven’s sake, -where are you going? You will not leave the house to-night? you are -ill—weak—a storm threatens,—there—the thunder mutters already, and -the rain is plashing in big drops on the broad leaves of that -strange-looking tree at the window. It is midnight, and will be broad -day before you can reach the nearest part of London. The major said you -might stay till morning,—and, oh! I had forgot, here is a letter he -left for you.” - -The hapless woman took the note mechanically; no ray of hope gave -brightness to her eye—no emotion lighted up her features as she broke -the seal. Misery had chilled her heart’s blood—despair had unstrung the -chords of life. She glanced over the lines, and dropping the letter and -bank note on the floor, supported herself for a moment by a chair. She -rallied her strength, and saying, “farewell, my good Martha,” staggered -forth into the dreary night. - -The sun had long risen, when Martha was startled from the deep sleep -into which the last night’s watching had thrown her, by a loud knocking -at the cottage door. A splendid carriage had driven up the narrow -avenue, and a liveried footman enquired if a young lady, under the -protection of Major Derode, lived there. Martha stated the manner in -which Mrs. Anson had, on the previous night, left the cottage. - -“My mistress, the Hon. Mrs. Torrance,” said the footman, “seems so -anxious to learn the particulars respecting this young woman, that I -wish you would ride up to town with us, and give her whatever -information you can.” - -Martha willingly complied, and the carriage had scarce accomplished -seven miles of the journey, when the girl observed a female toiling -slowly and painfully along the road. She called to the coachman to stop, -for she recognised her mistress in the wanderer. They partly forced the -passive creature into the carriage, and as she expressed no wish to be -driven to any particular place, in less than an hour she was reposing -her wearied limbs on an ottoman in the house of the Hon. Mrs. Torrance. -All the servants who knew of the arrival of the strange lady, were -forbidden by the Hon. Mrs. Torrance to reveal the circumstances, and -Martha was instructed to tell the major she had seen nothing of Mrs. -Anson after her departure from the cottage;—Derode, therefore, had no -doubt that his victim had left the kingdom. Still he observed that the -widow had altered her demeanor toward him. She received him coldly, and -with something like mystery. He urged the hastening of the nuptials. She -baffled him by trifling excuses, for she resolved the moment Mrs. Anson -had recovered from the fever which seized her on the day she entered -that hospitable abode, to confront her with the treacherous man. - - * * * * * - -“So, in three weeks more, my dear Isabel, I must give more form to my -speech, for I shall address in you the bride of Lord Edward Fortescue; -your elevation to the peerage will not change your heart toward us, -Isabel?” said a sprightly girl to the daughter of Major Derode. - -“For shame, to think of such a thing,” answered the affianced, “but, as -poor Juliet says in the play, - - ‘I have no joy in this contract to-night.’ - -I have, my dear Emily, for a day or two past, felt a strange reluctance -to marry his lordship. His title dazzled me at first, but I fear its -novelty will wear off, and then where shall I seek for happiness?” - -“In the spending of his fortune, to be sure,” replied her companion, -“and as his lordship’s way of life is fallen into the sere and yellow -leaf, he surely cannot object to such a proceeding. Besides, if dame -nature does you but common justice, you’ll be in weeds before you are -thirty. But when was it your first objection started against his -lordship?—last Thursday, was it not?—yes, Thursday it was: I remember -it, because it was the morning after you danced with that young wild man -of the woods. Where did they say he came from? New South Wales was -it?—or Slave Lake—or the Ural Mountains? the Carrabee Islands—New -Holland—or New Jersey? Why don’t you answer? You must know; for after -he led you to a seat so gracefully, I observed you took a deep interest -in his conversation during the rest of the night, and I have no doubt he -was giving you lessons in Geography. Well, he is a handsome fellow, -although his eyes have so wild an expression. Now, if he had a plume of -eagle feathers on his head, and a tiger skin thrown over his shoulder, -he would be irresistible. I think it entirely out of taste for these -foreign monsters, when they come among us, to cast off their savage -costume, and don our unpoetic garb.” - -“Peace, Emily, you talk absurdly,” exclaimed the now thoughtful Isabel. -“I scarce attended to what he was saying—I only observed he seemed to -be a man of general information and great conversational powers. He -possesses refinement in an eminent degree, and the earnestness and -evident candor of his politeness contrast favorably with the sickly, -superficial, drawling sentiment that daily and nightly clogs our wearied -ears.” - -“Ah! it is clear you scarce attended to what he said. I met him this -morning at Mrs. Balford’s, and thinking you wished to resume your -researches into ‘The History of the Earth and Animated Nature,’ I asked -him to come here this evening.” - -“Heavens, Emily! you could not be so imprudent!” - -“Where can be the imprudence, Isabel, since you scarce attend to what he -says? Hark! a cab; it is the American,—stay where you are—I’ll bring -him up;” and away flew the giddy girl, leaving her companion in a state -of flurried anxiety, scarce proper for the bride elect of Lord Edward -Fortescue. - -The American prolonged his stay till a late hour, and that night Isabel -Derode imbibed a deep, absorbing passion for the graceful foreigner. -Lord Edward, feeling himself secure of his prize, troubled his betrothed -but little with his company. He confined his attentions to sending her -presents, and escorting her twice a week to the opera. - -The latitude which English society allows females of rank, caused the -persevering assiduities of the American to be but little noticed, and -one week before the intended nuptials of Lord Edward Fortescue and -Isabel Derode, the fashionable circles were thrown into unutterable -excitement by the following announcement in a morning paper:— - - “_Elopement in High Life._—On Wednesday last, the beautiful and - accomplished daughter of a certain gallant major in —— Square, - eloped with a young gentleman of fortune from the United States. - This imprudent step, on the part of the young lady, is the more - to be regretted, as she was under promise of marriage to a - certain noble lord. As her flight was almost immediately - discovered, hopes are entertained of overtaking the fugitives - before they reach Gretna Green.” - -No such parties, however, as those described, had reached that -matrimonial mart. Pursuit was made on almost every avenue leading from -the metropolis, but in vain. The fugitives had an hour’s start, and the -advantage of having _arranged_ their means of flight. The smoking horses -were scarcely checked at the door of each inn, when fresh relays were -springing in the harness, and Anson—for it was he—with his victim, was -enjoying a hasty repast in Calais, at the moment the emissaries of -Derode reached Dover. - -Lord Edward professed himself greatly shocked at the unhappy occurrence, -but derived comfort from the reflection that his betrothed had eloped -before, instead of after marriage; and having politely expressed to -Derode his opinion that all the daughters of Eve were dangerous, if not -useless members of the community, he, with the utmost _sangfroid_ wished -him adieu. - -A month elapsed, and Derode pushed his suit with Mrs. Torrance with more -vigor, from the unlucky circumstance of his daughter having frustrated -his hopes of her high match with Lord Edward. All enquiries concerning -the whereabout of the erring girl were fruitless, and what was singular, -none knew the name or person of her seducer—until one night a hackney -coach drew up at the door of Mrs. Torrance, and a gentleman handed, or -rather lifted a drooping woman out of the carriage, and placed her on -the steps of the house. The parties were Anson and his victim. He merely -said to the servant who answered the knock, “take care of this lady: she -is a friend of your mistress,” and hastily re-entering the vehicle, -drove rapidly off. The benevolent mistress of the mansion received the -forsaken wanderer with the utmost kindness, and overlooking her error, -sought, with true Christian charity, to bind up her crushed spirit. -Thus, by a strange coincidence, this amiable lady had under her roof at -the same moment, two wretched outcasts—victims to man’s unhallowed -passions. - -Mrs. Anson had been growing weaker every day since she entered this -hospitable dwelling, and it was now evident she held her life by a frail -tenure. Derode was a constant visitor, yet he knew not Mrs. Anson was an -inmate of the house; he deemed she had complied with his wishes and -crossed the Atlantic. - -“What motive can you have,” said he to Mrs. Torrance one day, “for -deferring our happiness? You are too generous to allow so untoward an -event as my daughter’s flight to influence your decision. Add not to the -affliction of that blow, by cold procrastination. Speak, madam, have my -misfortunes lost me your affection?” - -“No, major,” replied the lady, “but I fear your faults have lessened it. -Where is the American lady?” - -“At home,” said he earnestly, “at home, with her husband. I, myself, -placed her on board a packet bound to New York.” - -The lady regarded the utterer of this bold falsehood with ineffable -contempt, and stepping into the middle of the room, she threw open a -folding door, and pointed to Mrs. Anson, who was reclining on an -ottoman. - -“Are there devils in league against me?” muttered Derode, “how came that -wretched woman here, madam?—she is a maniac—but I will convey her to -an asylum, whence she shall not escape,” and he was advancing toward -her. - -“Stay,” exclaimed Mrs. Torrance, restraining him, “that lady is under -the protection of my roof, and she leaves it only with her own free -will.” - -“By heavens! madam,” said he, “she quits not my sight till I consign her -to a mad house;” and, forgetting every thing in his wrath, he roughly -removed the lady from before him, as the door abruptly opened, and a -tall, stern looking man stood before him. The intruder was dressed in -strict conformity with the fashion of the day, and, on removing his hat, -he exhibited a forehead of high intelligence, but two or three strong -lines were drawn across it; two deep furrows also descended between his -heavy brows, giving, to his otherwise agreeable features, a fierce, if -not a ferocious expression. His dark eyes, deeply set in his head, -flashed with the fierceness, and yet fascination, of a serpent’s orbs, -ere he makes his deadly spring. The stranger expanded his lofty figure, -and throwing forward his ample chest, he crossed his arms upon it, and -gazed intently on Derode. - -The major turned from his burning gaze, and advancing to the couch where -lay the invalid, said, in a harsh voice, “rise, madam, and follow me,” -at the same time laying his hand on her shoulder. Three strides brought -the stranger to the spot, and seizing Derode, he whirled him against the -opposite wall with the strength of a giant, exclaiming, “let your victim -die in peace!” The expiring woman raised herself with her last collected -strength, and articulating, “_my husband!_” sank back in a swoon. - -The moment Derode became aware of the relation in which the stranger -stood to the fainting woman, he made an attempt to reach the door, but -was intercepted by Anson. - -“Stay,” said the latter, “you stir not hence. Stay, and behold the -consummation of your villainy. See! she breathes again. Let her curse -you and expire!” - -The lamp of life had been long flickering in the poor patient, and was -now giving forth its last brightness. She held out her hands imploringly -to her husband, and said, “forgive me!” but before his lips could utter -the pardon, she fell back in the arms of Mrs. Torrance—a corpse. - -The mysterious awe with which the presence of death fills the human -heart, caused a silence as profound as that which had just fallen on the -departed. Anson bent over the stiffening body and murmured: “Hadst thou -died spotless, my wife, how joyfully would my spirit have journeyed with -thine to the bar of God—and in the realms of peace, where the tempter -comes not—where sin and shame, and sorrow enter not—we should forever -have enjoyed that bliss—our foretaste of which on earth, was so rudely -broken by the destroyer. But enough. The last tears these eyes shall -ever shed, have fallen upon thy bier—and now again to my work of -vengeance!” He arose, and bent on Derode a look of ineffable ferocity. -“Look,” he said, “on the man you have ruined. _You_ beheld _me_ for the -first time, yet my eyes have scarce lost sight of you for months—and -henceforward will I be like your ever-present shadow. The solace of _my_ -life shall be to blight the joy of _yours_—in crowds or in -solitude—amid the gay revel, and through the silent watches of the -night, will I hover around you. I will become the living, embodied -spirit of your remorse; walking with you in darkness and in light, and -when a smile would mantle on your lips, I will dispel it with the sound -of MURDERER!” - -“I’ll rid myself of such companionship,” said Derode,—“I have pistols -here—follow me, sir, and seek a manly satisfaction at once.” - -The loud voices of Anson and her father, had been heard by Isabel, and -the unhappy girl on entering the apartment—to the astonishment and -horror of Derode—threw herself on the bosom of Anson, who, putting her -aside, exclaimed—“that you may want no motive to _hate_ as well as -_fear_ me, know that I am the seducer of your daughter. Thus have I -_begun_ my work of destruction.” Driven to desperation by this taunt, -Derode drew a pistol, aimed it at Anson, and fired. By a movement -equally sudden, Isabel, with a scream, threw herself before her -betrayer, and received the ball in her shoulder. The wretched father -groaned in agony, and fled from the house, while Anson, consigning the -wounded girl to the care of Mrs. Torrance, pursued the culprit. - -The same day on which Anson committed his wife to the earth, Isabel -Derode yielded up her spirit—and a jury declared that she died from a -wound inflicted by the hand of her father. - -Time passed slowly away, and Derode was preparing for his trial. The -legal gentlemen whom he had employed, could perceive some palliating, -but no justifiable points in his case. He vehemently declared he had no -purpose of injuring his daughter—his object being to inflict a just -punishment on her seducer. His counsel, however, sorrowfully assured -him, that if the _intent_ and _attempt_ to kill could be proved, and a -death resulted from such attempt, it mattered little who fell by his -hand. - -The amiable Mrs. Torrance, resolving not to appear as a witness against -him, had retired to the continent, and was now living in much seclusion -at Dresden. But Anson remained; and the relentless heart of that altered -man expanded with savage joy when he reflected that it was _his_ -evidence that would condemn his wronger. Some of the friends of the -unhappy criminal waited on Anson, and besought him, in the most moving -manner, not to appear against the wretched man, alleging that if no -direct evidence were adduced, justice would wink, and the offender -escape. The witness was inflexible. Derode himself sent a respectful -request to see him. Anson entered his cell, and the despairing murderer -begged for life like a very coward. Anson spurned the miserable -suppliant from him:—“Villain! villain!” he said, “ten thousand dastard -lives like yours would but poorly expiate your fiend-like crime, or glut -my insatiate vengeance!”—and casting a look of inextinguishable hate on -the prisoner, he left the cell. - -A few days after his commitment, Derode had written to his son who was -stationed at Bermuda, an account of his misfortunes and imprisonment. -The dutiful boy having obtained leave, had instantly sailed for England, -and was now sitting in his father’s dismal apartment. - -“Cheer up, father,” said the young sailor,—“things will go well yet. No -proof, you say, but that man’s evidence,—and that man the seducer of my -sister?” - -“Even so,” replied the parent—“no prayers can touch him.” - -“I’ll touch him,” said the fiery young man, “but not with prayers. -Farewell father! to-morrow I’ll be here to tell you I have stopped the -mouth of the king’s witness.” - -Anson, promptly answering the challenge of young Derode, was at Chalk -Farm at daylight. When he surveyed the slightly formed, but noble -looking youth who stood before him, prepared for deadly contest, he -remembered his unremitting pistol-practice, his unerring aim, and one -human feeling, one pulsation of pity played around his heart. They were -evanescent. He recalled his deserted home, his violated hearth, his vow -for REVENGE, and at the fatal signal, his youthful antagonist lay on the -frozen earth, with his life-blood bubbling out. - -Could Anson have seen Derode when his son’s death was communicated to -him, he would have deemed the destroyer’s cup of bitterness full. - -Anson was arraigned for this murder, and underwent a trial, which was -mere mockery, for having plied his gold freely—flaws, defective -evidence, and questions of identity, as usual, in cases of dueling, -hoodwinked justice. - - “Plate sin with gold, and the strong lance of justice hurtless - breaks, - Clothe it with rags, a pigmy’s straw will pierce it.” - -Well, the day of trial came. Public excitement was at its highest pitch. -The jailor, accompanied by sheriffs and tipstaves, proceeded to the cell -of the prisoner, to escort him to the tribunal of justice. But lo! the -apartment was tenantless. The criminal had escaped. A brief survey of -his cell revealed the means of his egress. The heavy stones forming the -sides of his grated window, were displaced. Large tools lay scattered -about—files, chisels, and other articles, plainly indicating a bold -confederacy. And such was indeed the case:—for the officers belonging -to the same regiment with Derode had contrived his escape. - -Words cannot depict Anson’s feelings of mingled rage and disappointment -when he learned that his victim had fled. At his own expense, he -instituted a search that pervaded the three kingdoms. He himself flew to -the continent, and offered a thousand guineas for the capture of the -murderer. His efforts were fruitless. The men who liberated Derode did -not withdraw their protection until they had placed him in safety. - -For more than a year Anson wandered about Europe, in hopes to light upon -the fugitive. Weary at length with the vain pursuit, and thinking that -the fire in his heart was consuming his life, he returned home, as he -thought, to die. He remained in Philadelphia a few months, during which -time he conveyed a great part of the remainder of his property to some -of our public charities, and then retired from the haunts of men to live -and die alone. With a strong tinge of romance, he selected a wild, -mountainous country, in the interior of our state, never leaving the -precincts of the hovel where he dwelt, except to purchase a stock of the -homeliest food. - -He had been living thus more than eight years without any thing -occurring to disturb the monotony of his life, when one blustering -night, a cry from a creature in distress reached his ear, as he sat in -his mountain hut, poring over a black-letter folio. Surprised that any -one should invade his dangerous premises, and on such a night, he -ignited a fragment of resinous wood, and sallied forth. As he descended -the path that left his door, and struck into that which wound round a -precipitous ledge, the voice came nearer on the blast. Anson shouted -loudly to the stranger not to approach, until he reached him, as another -step in the dark might be certain destruction. Proceeding hastily -onward, he found the traveller standing on the outermost edge of the -fearful precipice. The torrent was heard boiling and dashing far below, -and the wind swept in eddying blasts round the dizzy cliff. Anson -extended his hand to the wanderer, and the blaze of the torch flashed -brightly in the faces of both men. Anson riveted his eyes on the -features of the stranger, and with a yell of demoniac joy fastened on -his throat. It was the miserable Derode, who, in the last stage of -poverty, was wandering from the far west, to the sea-board, on foot. In -the darkness, he had mistaken the mountain path for a bye-road, which -had been described to him as greatly shortening the distance to the -village. He quailed beneath the iron grasp of Anson, and struggled to -say:—“dreaded man! are you not surfeited with revenge? My ruined -daughter!—my murdered son!” - -“No!” shouted the infuriated recluse, “my ruined—murdered wife! I see -her pale face there—down in the black abyss! she demands the sacrifice! -down!” - -He hurled the trembling seducer over the precipice, and laughed aloud as -the wretch dashed from rock to rock in his descent. A heavy plunge! and -the surging torrent closed over the hapless Derode forever! - - * * * * * - -Anson dwelt on in his gloomy solitude, until his hair became blanched, -and the memory of passion and crime had furrowed deep channels in his -face. In the summer of 1828, we one day followed a trout stream far up -into the mountain, and encountered the old man. Giving him the fruits of -our morning sport, and seating ourselves in his hut, we learned from -himself the leading incidents of this melancholy story. His eye lighted -up with unnatural fire, as he pointed with unsteady finger to the -fearful cliff, and said, “there, sir, ’twas from yon projection, I -dashed my destroyer into the chasm. The law would call it murder, and I -live in daily expectation that the bloodhounds will drag me hence. Well, -let them come when they will; from my youth, life has been to me one -deep, enduring curse.” We saw him at least once in the summer for many -years, and in our last interview with him, we said cheerfully,—“you -look quite hale yet, Mr. Anson.” He regarded us steadily for a moment, -and said, in a voice that reminded us of Shelley’s Ahasuerus, “I cannot -die.” * * - - * * * * * - - - - - THE EMPRESS. - - - “Adieu, my lord— - I never wished to see you sorry; now, - I trust, I shall.” - _Winter’s Tale._ - -It was evening. The mass had been concluded in the royal chapel, and the -Empress Josephine was returning to her apartments through the gallery -that led thereto. As she was proceeding along, she felt a touch upon her -arm, and, upon looking round, discovered the form of a man beside her. -He made his obeisance, and she immediately recognised the Counsellor -Fouché. - -“What would Monsieur Fouché?” she demanded. - -“A few moments private converse with you, if it please your majesty,” he -replied, and, at the same time, pointing to the embrasure of a window -near by. - -Josephine understood the motion, and made a sign that she would follow. -He led the way; and when they arrived, she again demanded what he -wanted. - -“I crave your majesty’s pardon for the liberty I have taken,” said the -minister of police respectfully, yet boldly, “but I wish to make a -communication, which, though it may not be of the most pleasing nature, -yet, demands your majesty’s most serious attention.” - -“And what may it be? speak,” said the empress. - -“You are aware,” began the minister, “that I am much with the emperor, -and have ample opportunity for learning his secret wishes and desires. I -have become acquainted with one recently, which, of late, has much -occupied his mind, and which he would fain gratify but for the love he -bears your majesty. It is this: he wishes for an heir to inherit his -title and power. Every man, you know, feels an inherent pride in -transmitting his name to posterity; and it is but natural that the -emperor should feel such a desire. I would, therefore, suggest to your -majesty the necessity of a sacrifice, which will add to the interest of -France, make his majesty happy, and which would be as equally sublime as -it will be inevitable. Beg him to obtain a divorce.” - -During this disclosure, the empress betrayed excessive emotion. Her mild -eyes were suffused with tears—her lips swelled—her bosom heaved—her -face became deadly pale—and the tremor that took possession of her -frame, told how deeply her feelings were agitated. But it was as the -momentary cloud that obscures the noonday sun; in a moment it was past, -and with a slightly tremulous voice, she asked— - -“And what authority has the duke of Otranto for holding such language?” - -“None,” he replied, “it is only from a conviction of what must most -certainly come to pass, and a desire to turn your attention to what so -nearly concerns your majesty’s glory and happiness, that I have dared to -speak upon the subject. Nevertheless, if I have offended, I beg your -majesty’s forgiveness. Permit me now to depart.” - -He stood silent for a few minutes, as if waiting for her assent. She -waved her hand, and the boldest political intriguer of his time -departed, conscious of having done that which none other in France would -have presumed. - -Josephine turned away with a beating heart. She reached her apartments, -and throwing herself on a sofa, gave vent to her over-burthened soul in -a flood of tears. It was not long before dinner was announced; but she -refused to appear at the table, on a plea of indisposition, and retired -to her chamber. - -It was a short time afterward that the door of the chamber opened, and -the emperor entered. He approached Josephine. Her eyes were red with -weeping, and the tears yet moistened those bright orbs, in defiance of -her efforts to appear calm. He seated himself beside her, and put his -arm around her waist. - -“Josephine,” said he, in an affectionate tone, “what is the cause of -this emotion?” - -“Nothing,” she answered, in a faltering voice, and scarcely audible. - -“Something has occurred to bring forth those tears. Tell me, what is -it?” and he looked tenderly in her face. - -“I cannot,” she said, bitterly, whilst she leaned her head upon his -shoulder, and gave vent to another flood of tears. “No, I cannot speak -those fearful words.” - -“What words, Josephine? speak; what words?” - -She hesitated, and then faltered out, - -“That—that you—you do not love me as you used to.” - -“’Tis false!” he exclaimed. - -“Then why wish to be separated? why wish for a divorce? Oh! Napoleon, is -it my fault that we have no children to bless our union? God has so -willed it,” and her bosom heaved convulsively. - -He started as she pronounced the two first sentences, and compressed his -lips as if to suppress the pang of conviction that shot through his -heart. - -“Josephine,” said the emperor, tenderly, “some one has been poisoning -your mind with idle tales. Who has it been?” - -She then related to him her interview with Fouché, and asked him to -dismiss that minister as a penalty for his audacity in playing with her -feelings. He strenuously denied the communication; but refused to -dismiss him. - -“No,” said he, “circumstances compel me to retain him, though he well -deserves my displeasure. But why give credit to such silly assertions, -Josephine? Have I ever treated you but with affection? Have you -discovered aught in my behaviour to warrant suspicion? No; believe me -you are still dear to me. Banish those foolish fears from your breast -then, and weep no more.” So saying, he imprinted a kiss upon her lips, -and left the chamber to attend to the affairs of state. - -It was touching to hear such expressions of tenderness issue from the -greatest monarch of his time, and to witness that act of devotion—to -see that proud spirit unbent; but it was those tears of anguish, and the -whisperings of that “still small voice” of conscience, that had humbled -him, to whom kings and monarchs humbled themselves, and whose mighty -mind aspired to the conquest of the world. - -The setting sun threw its parting rays over the earth, and pierced the -windows of the imperial palace. The golden flood, softened by the -crimson curtains, fell upon the charming features of the empress -Josephine, as she sat in thoughtful attitude, with her head resting upon -her hand, on a sofa of royal purple, near the centre of her chamber. A -page, in waiting, stood near the door, carelessly humming a light ditty; -his heart as sunny as his own native France. What a contrast with that -which beat within the bosom of the empress! Care weighed heavily upon -her breast. Long before her interview with Fouché she had, from the very -cause hinted at by the minister, dreaded a withdrawal of her husband’s -affections; but since that event her anxieties had doubly increased, and -suspicion would take possession of her mind, amounting, at times, even -to jealousy. Not that she apprehended his proceeding to that extreme at -which the wily minister had hinted; no!—no person on earth could have -persuaded her that he, whose joys and woes she had cheerfully shared, -wished for a separation: but that some Syren would ensnare him with her -charms, and usurp that place in his heart which she only should hold. -All the powers she possessed were exerted by Josephine, in order to -retain his love, and sometimes she fancied she had succeeded; for of -late, in proportion as the sense of injustice he was about to do her, -presented itself to his mind, he became more than usually kind and -tender; but there were moments when a gloomy melancholy would settle -upon her—an indefinable something that seemed to warn of approaching -affliction. - -It was in one of those fits of abstraction, so foreign to her naturally -cheerful nature, that she sat, as we have said, seemingly unconscious of -all around, when the door opened, and Napoleon entered. He seemed -disturbed, and trouble was vividly depicted in his expressive -countenance. He motioned for the page to retire, and seated himself -beside her. - -“Josephine!” he said. - -She started from her reverie, as he pronounced her name—for buried in -thought, she had not observed his entrance—and bent upon him such a -look, full of sweetness and affection, that it disarmed him; he could -not proceed. He arose. He folded his arms upon his breast and paced to -and fro; his brow was contracted,—his lips compressed; and the unquiet -restlessness of his piercing eye, betokened the agitation he could -scarce control. He thus continued for some moments. At length he stopped -before her, as if his resolution was taken, and then again turned away, -continuing to walk up and down the apartment with rapid and hasty -strides. After a short time he stopped again. - -“It must be done,” he muttered, “I will acquaint her with it at once; -delay but makes it still more difficult.” - -He made an effort to suppress his emotion, and seated himself beside -her. But again his voice failed him, and he could only articulate,— - -“Josephine, prepare yourself for sad news.” - -Ever on the alarm, the purport of his words seemed anticipated by her, -though not to their full extent, and she burst into a flood of tears, -scarce knowing why. - -Dinner was now announced, and their majesties proceeded to the table. -Silence prevailed throughout the meal, and the dishes were scarcely -touched. They arose from their seats, and as they did so, the page on -duty presented the emperor with his accustomed cup of coffee. He took -it, but handed it back scarcely touched. He then proceeded to his -chamber; the empress followed. - -They seated themselves when they had entered, and remained for some time -silent. The emperor at length spoke. - -“There is no use in deferring the truth, Josephine,” said he, in a -tremulous voice, “it must sooner or later be made known to you, and -suspense is more cruel than certainty. The interests of France demand -that we separate.” - -“What!” she exclaimed, placing both hands on his shoulders, and gazing -with an eager and inquiring look in his face, “what? separate!” - -“Yes,” he answered, “France demands the sacrifice.” - -Her hands dropped heavily—her bosom heaved—and hot, burning tears, -such only as flow from a surcharged heart, gushed forth in torrents from -her eyes. - -“And I—oh! God!” she exclaimed, “I who have shared your joys and -sorrows—who have been your companion for years—who loved you through -weal and woe—who—but I will not upbraid you, Napoleon. Yet she who -supplants me, Maria Louise, the daughter of the Emperor Francis, can -never love you as I have done,—oh! no!” - -She buried her face in her hands; the emperor remained silent. - -“But,” she continued, starting suddenly, and throwing her arms around -his neck, “you do not mean it. Oh! no! say you do not! speak,—you -cannot mean it. Tell me, quick—say it is not so—that it cannot, must -not be. Speak, Napoleon, and the blessing of God rest upon you!” - -“Alas! it is too true,” he said, his eyes suffused with tears. Oh! how -keen was the pang of conscience that shot through his guilty heart. - -“True!” she exclaimed, “and you confirm it? Then Fouché was right. But I -will never survive it—no! I will never survive it. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” - -She uttered a piercing scream, and reeled backward, for she had risen -from her seat in her excitement. Napoleon caught her in his arms, and -laid her gently upon the carpet. Her agony was too deep for words, and -she could only weep and groan in bitterness of spirit. He stepped to the -door and called de Bausset. They raised her in their arms, and bore her -to her chamber. Her women were immediately summoned, and she was -resigned to their care. Napoleon retired, greatly agitated. De Bausset -followed; tears were also in his eyes; for Josephine, by her goodness, -won all hearts. Napoleon stopped a moment outside to listen to her groan -of anguish. He related what had occurred. - -“The interests of France:” he continued, addressing De Bausset, “and as -my dynasty does violence to my heart, the divorce has become a rigorous -duty. I am more afflicted by what has happened to Josephine, because, -three days ago, she must have learned it from Hortensia. The unhappy -obligation which condemns me to separate myself from her, I deplore with -all my heart, but I thought she possessed more strength of character, -and I was not prepared for these bursts of grief.” - -They hurried away. Conscience, ever-faithful conscience, was already -performing its duty; he felt its just upbraidings. He essayed to stifle -it. It was this that led him to utter such language to De Bausset—to -assert that he thought she possessed strength of character enough to -receive the announcement without those bursts of grief. What virtuous -and affectionate woman could receive with calmness a sentence of -repudiation; and that, too, by the tongue of a beloved husband? Her -heart must have become as stone. - -On the sixteenth of December, 1809, the law, authorising the divorce, -was enacted by the conservative senate. In the following March the -nuptials between Napoleon and Marie Louise, were performed in Vienna; -and on the first day of April, a little more than four months after the -scene above described, they were joined in wedlock in the city of Paris, -by his uncle, Cardinal Fesch. - -Thus was consummated that act which cast a stain upon the character of -“the great Napoleon,” which time cannot efface. A blot, deep and -indelible, that will remain whilst his name lives among men. It was an -act contrary to the laws of God and of humanity. - -One wrong action will often tarnish a whole life. We may admire his -bravery, and courage, his vast conception of mind, his gigantic -intellect, his unparalleled energy, his perseverance, and his -determination of character, but when we turn to this dark page in his -history, admiration vanishes, and contempt and disgust usurp its place. -It was indeed an act unworthy of the man, and one that admits of no -palliation. It was not to France the sacrifice, as he termed it, was -made; it was to ambition. And may we not surmise that the lowering -fortunes which ever after were his, and the dark fate which closed his -days in a lonely island, afar off on the bosom of the ocean, were, in -some measure, acts of divine retribution, which this act of his called -forth. - -Long years after the occurrence of the foregoing events, and when -Napoleon was no more master of Europe,—when Louis XVIII. was seated on -the throne of France, and “Le Grand Monarque,” was a prisoner, confined -for life on the island of St. Helena—the lovely and accomplished -Josephine,—the injured wife,—ended a virtuous life at the villa of -Malmaison, near St. Germain, whither she had retired after the divorce. -Her death was attributed to disease of the body; but it is likely it was -not altogether that, or at least a secret sorrow had so weakened and -enfeebled her mortal frame that the least rude touch of disease -overthrew the structure. Differently died the repudiator and the -repudiated. - - Sketcher. - - Philadelphia, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - LAKE GEORGE. - - - There is a clear and bright blue lake - Embosom’d in the rocky north; - No murmurs e’er its silence break, - As on its waves we sally forth; - The mountain bird floats high aloft, - Above his wild and craggy nest, - And gazes from his towering throne, - Upon the torrent’s sparkling breast; - While far beneath, in light and shade, - The bright green valleys frown and smile, - And in the bed sweet nature made, - The lake sleeps soft and sweet the while. - O’er many a green and lovely wild, - The golden sun-beams gaily smile; - But ’mid them all he doth not break, - As on his race he sallies forth, - On fairer scene, or sweeter lake, - Than that within the rocky north. - M. T. - - Lake George, Feb., 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE REEFER OF ’76. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.” - - - PAUL JONES. - -“Steady, there, steady!” thundered the master of the merchantman, his -voice seeming, however, in the fierce uproar of the gale, to die away -into a whisper. - -I looked ahead. A giant wave, towering as high as the yard arm, its -angry crest hissing above us, and its dark green bosom seeming to open -to engulph our fated bark, was rolling down toward us, shutting out half -the horizon from sight, and striking terror into the stoutest heart. It -was a fearful spectacle. Involuntarily I glanced around the horizon. All -was dark, lowering, and ominous. On every hand the mountain waves were -heaving to the sky, while the roar of the hurricane was awfully sublime. -Now we rose to the heavens: now sunk into a yawning abyss. But I had -little time to gaze upon the fearful scene. Already the angry billow was -rushing down upon our bows, when the master again sang out, as if with -the voice of a giant. - -“_Hold on all!_” and as he spoke, the huge volume of waters came -tumbling in upon us, sweeping our decks like a whirlwind, hissing, -roaring, and foaming along, and making the merchantman quiver in every -timber from bulwark to kelson. Not a moveable thing was left. The long -boat was swept from the decks like chaff before a hurricane. For an -instant the merchantman lay powerless beneath the blow, as if a -thunderbolt had stunned her; but gradually recovering from the shock, -she shook the waters gallantly from her bows, emerged from the deluge, -and rolling her tall masts heavily to starboard, once more breasted the -storm. - -We had been a week at sea without meeting a single sail. During that -time we had enjoyed a succession of favorable breezes, until within the -last few days, when the gale, which now raged, had overtaken us, and -driven us out into the Atlantic, somewhere, as near as we could guess, -between the Bermudas and our port of destination. Within the last few -hours we had been lying-to, under a close-reefed foresail; but every -succeeding wave had seemed to become more dangerous than the last, until -it was now evident that our craft could not much longer endure the -continued surges which breaking over her bows, threatened momentarily to -engulph us. The master stood by my side, holding on to a rope, his -weather-beaten countenance drenched with spray, but his keen, anxious -eye changing continually from the bow of his craft, to the wild scene -around him. - -“She can’t stand it much longer, Mr. Parker,” said the old man, “many a -gale have I weathered in her, but none like this. God help us!” - -“Meet it with the helm—hold on all,” came faintly from the forecastle, -and before the words had whizzed past upon the gale, another mountain -wave was hurled in upon us, and I felt myself, the next instant, borne -away, as in the arms of a giant, upon its bosom. The rope by which I -held had parted. There was a hissing in my ears—a rapid shooting like -an arrow—a desperate effort to stay my progress by catching at a rope, -I missed—and then I felt myself whirled away astern of the merchantman, -my eyes blinded with the spray, my ears ringing with a strange, wild -sound, and a feeling of sudden, utter hopelessness at my heart, such as -they only can know who have experienced a fate as terrible as mine, at -that moment, threatened to be. - -“A man overboard!” came faintly from the fast-receding ship. - -“Ahoy!” I shouted. - -“Hillo—hil—lo—o,” was answered back. - -“Ahoy—a—a—hoy!” - -“Throw over that spar.” - -“Toll the bell that he may know where we are.” - -“Hillo—hi—il—lo!” - -“Who is it?” - -“Bring a lantern here.” - -“Hil—l—o—o—o—o!” - -“Can you see him?” - -“It’s as dark as death.” - -“God have mercy then upon his soul.” - -I could hear every word of the conversation, as the excited tones of the -speakers came borne to leeward upon the gale, but although I shouted -back with desperate strength, I felt that my cries were unheard by my -shipmates to windward. The distance between myself and the merchantman -was meanwhile rapidly increasing, and every moment her dark figure -became more and more shadowy. With that presence of mind which is soon -acquired in a life of peril, I had begun to tread water the instant I -had gone overboard; but I felt that my strength would soon fail me, and -that I must sink, unaided, into the watery abyss. Oh! who can tell my -feelings as I saw the figure of the merchantman gradually becoming more -dim in the distance, and heard the voices of my friends, at first loud -and distinct, dying away into indistinct murmurs. Alone on the ocean! My -breath came quick; my heart beat wildly; I felt the blood rushing in -torrents to my brain. The scene meanwhile grew darker around me. The -faint hope I had entertained that the ship would be put about, gradually -died away; and even while I looked, she suddenly vanished from my -vision. I strained my eyes to catch a sight of her as I rose upon a -billow. Alas! she was not to be seen. Was there then no hope? Young; -full of life; in the heyday of love—oh! God it was too much to endure! -I felt that my last hour had come. Already the waters seemed roaring -through my ears, and strange, fantastic figures to dance before my eyes. -In that hour every event of my life whirled through my memory! I thought -of my childhood; of my mother in her weeds; of her prayers over her only -child; and of the cold wintry day when they laid her in her grave, and -told me that I was an orphan. I thought too of my boyhood; of my college -life; of my early days at sea; of the eventful months which had just -passed; of my hopes of a bright career or a glorious death, thus to be -quenched forever; and of Beatrice, my own Beatrice, whom I was to see no -more. Wild with the agony of that thought, I tossed my arms aloft, and -invoked a dying blessing on her head. At that instant something came -shooting past me, borne on the bosom of a towering wave. It was a -lumbering chest, doubtless one of those thrown overboard from the -merchantman. I grasped it with a desperate effort: I clambered up upon -it; and as I felt its frail planks beneath me, a revulsion came over my -bosom. The fisherman by his fireside, when the tempest howls around his -dwelling, could not have felt more confident of safety than I now did, -with nothing but this simple chest between me and the yawning abyss. -Quick, gushing emotions swept through my bosom; I burst into tears; and -lifting up my voice, there, alone, on the wide ocean, I poured forth my -thanksgivings to God. - -It was with no little difficulty I maintained my position on the chest, -during the long hours which elapsed before the morning dawned. Now borne -to the heavens, now hurried into the abyss below; now drenched with the -surge, now whirled wildly onward, on the bosom of some wave, I passed -the weary moments, in alternate efforts to maintain my hold, and ardent -longings for the morning’s light. The gale, meantime, gradually -diminished. At length the long looked-for dawn appeared, creeping slowly -and ominously over the horizon, and revealing to my eager sight nothing -but the white surges, the agitated deep, and the leaden colored sky on -every hand. My heart sank within me. All through the weary watches of -that seemingly interminable night, I had cheered my drooping hopes with -the certainty of seeing the merchantman in the morning, and now, as I -scanned the frowning horizon; and saw only that stormy waste on every -hand, my heart once more died within me, and I almost despaired. -Suddenly, however, I thought I perceived something flashing on the -weather seaboard like the wing of a water-fowl, and straining my eyes in -that direction, whenever I rose upon a wave, I beheld at length, to my -joy, that the object was a sail. Oh! the overpowering emotions of that -moment. The vessel was evidently one of considerable size, and coming -down right toward me. As she approached I made her out to be a sloop of -war, driving under close-reefed courses before the gale. Her hull of -glossy black; her snowy canvass; and her trim jaunty finish were in -remarkable contrast with the usual slovenly appearance of a mere -merchantman. No jack was at her mast-head; no ensign fluttered at her -gaff. But I cared not to what nation she belonged, in that moment of -hope and fear. To me she was a messenger of mercy. I had watched her -eagerly until she had approached within almost a pistol-shot of me, -trembling momentarily lest she should alter her course. I now shouted -with all my strength. No one, however, seemed to hear me. Onward she -came, swinging with the surges, and driving a cataract of foam along -before her bows. A look-out was idly leaning on the bowsprit. As the -huge fabric surged down toward me another danger arose. I might be run -down. Nerved to supernatural strength by the immanency of the peril, I -raised myself half up upon my chest, and placing my hand to my mouth, -shouted with desperate energy, - -“Ahoy! a—a—hoy!” - -“Hillo!” said the look-out, turning sharply in the direction of my -voice. - -“Ahoy! ship _a—ho—o—y_!” - -“Starboard your helm,” thundered the seaman, discovering me upon my -little raft, “heave a rope here—easy—easy—God bless you, shipmate,” -and with the rapidity with which events are transacted in a dream, I was -hoisted on board, and clasped in the arms of the warm-hearted old -fellow, before he saw, by my uniform, that I was an officer. When he -perceived this, however, he started back, and hastily touching his hat, -said, with humorous perplexity, - -“Beg pardon, sir—didn’t see you belonged aft——” - -“An American officer in this extremity,” said a deep voice at my elbow, -with startling suddenness, and as the speaker advanced, the group of -curious seamen fell away from around me, as if by magic; while I felt, -at once, that I was in the presence of the commanding officer of the -ship. - -“You are among friends,” said the speaker, in a voice slightly tinged -with the Scotch accent, “we bear the flag of the Congress—but walk -aft—you are drenched, exhausted—you need rest—I must delay my -inquiries until you have been provided for—send the doctor to my -cabin—and steward mix us a rummer of hot grog.” - -During these rapid remarks the speaker, taking me by the arm, had -conducted, or rather led me to a neat cabin aft, and closing the door -with his last remarks, he opened a locker, and producing a suit of dry -clothes, bid me array myself in them, and then vanished from the -apartment. - -In a few minutes, however, he re-appeared, followed by the steward, -bearing a huge tumbler of hot brandy, which he made me drink off, -nothing loth, at a draught. - -From the first instant of his appearance, I had felt a strange, but -unaccountable awe in the presence of the commanding officer, and I now -sought to account for it by a rigid, but hasty scrutiny of his person, -as he stood before me. - -He was a short, thick-set, muscular man, apparently about thirty years -of age, drest in a blue, tight-fitting naval frock coat, with an -epaulette upon one shoulder, and a sword hanging by his side. But his -face was the most striking part of him. Such a countenance I never saw. -It had a fire in the eye, a compression about the lips, a distention of -the nostrils, and a sternness in its whole appearance, which betokened a -man, not only of strong passions, but of inflexible decision of -character. That brow, bold, massy, and threatening, might have shaped -the destinies of a nation. I could not withdraw my eyes from it. He -appeared to read my thoughts, for smiling faintly, he courteously signed -to the steward to take my glass, and when the door had closed upon him, -said, - -“But to what brother officer am I indebted for this honor?” - -I mentioned my name, and the schooner in which I had sailed from New -York. - -“The Fire-Fly!” he said, with some surprise, “ah! I have heard of your -gallantry in that brush with the pirates—” and then, half -unconsciously, as if musing, he continued, “and so your name is Parker.” - -“And yours?” I asked, with a nod of assent. - -“Paul Jones!” - -For a moment we stood silently gazing on each other—he seeming to wish -to pierce my very soul with his small, grey eye, and I regarding with a -feeling akin to fascination, the wonderful man whose after career was -even then foreshadowed in my mind. - -“I see you are of the right stuff,” exclaimed this singular being, -breaking the silence, “we shall yet make those haughty English weep in -blood for their tyranny.” - -I know not how it was; but from that moment I felt certain my companion -would make his name a terror to his enemies, and a wonder to the world. - -For some days we continued our course, with but little deviation; and -every day I became more and more interested in the commander of the -man-of-war. Although my situation as his guest brought me into closer -contact with him than any one except his lieutenant, yet, after the -first few hours of our intercourse, he became reserved and silent, -though without any diminution of courtesy. His former career was little -known even in the ward-room. He had been brought up, it was said, by the -earl of Selkirk, but had left his patron’s house at the age of fifteen, -and embarked in a seafaring life. Dark hints were whispered about as to -the causes of his sudden departure, and it was said that the dishonor of -one of his family had driven him forth from the roof of his patron. Upon -these subjects, however, I made no ungenerous enquiries; but learned -that he had subsequently been engaged in the West India trade as master, -and that he had, on the breaking out of the war, come to America, and -offered himself to Congress for a commission in our navy. Some deep, -but, as yet unknown, cause of hatred toward the English, was said to -have prompted him to this act. - -As time passed on, however, I enjoyed many opportunities of studying his -singular character, which, had I not felt my curiosity aroused, might -have passed by unused. Often would I, in our slight conversations, -endeavor to pierce into his bosom, and read there the history of all -those dark emotions which slumbered there. But he seemed generally to -suspect my purpose—at least he appeared always on his guard. He was -ever the same courteous but unfathomable being. - -We had run down as far south as the Bermudas, when, one day the look-out -made five sail; and in an instant every eye was directed toward the -quarter where the strangers appeared, to see if there was any chance of -a prize. - -“How bear they?” asked Paul Jones quickly, to the look-out at the -mast-head. - -“I can’t make out but one, and she seems a large merchantman, on a taut -bowline.” - -“Watch her sharp.” - -“Ay, ay, sir.” - -For some time, every eye was fastened upon the approaching sail, which, -apparently unconscious of an enemy so near, kept blindly approaching us. -At length her royals began to lift, her topsails followed rapidly, and -directly the heads of her courses loomed up on the horizon. Every eye -sparkled with the certainty of a rich prize. - -“She’s a fat Indiaman, by St. George,” said our lieutenant, who had not -yet so far forgot the country of his ancestors, as to swear by any saint -but her patron one. - -“I guess we’d better not be too sure,” said a cautious old -quarter-master from Cape Cod, as he levelled a much worn spy-glass, and -prepared to take a long squint at the stranger. - -“By St. Pathrick,” said an Irish midshipman, in a whisper to one of his -comrades, “but wont she make a beautiful prize—with the rale Jamaica, -my boys, by the hogshead in her, and we nothing to do afther the -capture, but to drink it up, to be shure.” - -“The strange sail is a frigate,” said the look-out at the mast head, -with startling earnestness. - -“Too true, by G—d,” muttered the lieutenant, shutting his glass with a -jerk; and as he spoke, the hull of the stranger loomed up above the -horizon, presenting a row of yawning teeth that boded us little good, -for we knew that our own little navy boasted no vessel with so large an -armament. - -“That fellow is an English frigate,” calmly said Paul Jones, closing his -telescope leisurely, “we shall have to try our heels.” - -Every thing that could draw was soon set, and we went off upon a wind, -hoping to distance our pursuer by superior sailing. But though, for a -while, we deluded ourselves with this hope, it soon became apparent that -the enemy was rapidly gaining upon us, and with a heavy cross sea to -contend against, we found ourselves, in less than four hours, within -musket shot of the frigate, upon her weather bow. During all this time -the Englishman had been firing her chase guns after us, but not one of -them, as yet, had touched us. The game, however, was now apparently -over. Every one gave themselves up as lost, to die, perhaps, the death -of rebels. Resistance would only inflame our captors. How astonished -then, were we all to hear the captain exclaim,— - -“Beat to quarters!” - -The high discipline of the crew brought every man to his post at the -first tap of the drum, though not a countenance but exhibited amazement -at the order. - -“Open the magazine!” said Paul Jones in the same stern, collected tone. - -The order was obeyed, and then all was silent again. It was a moment of -exciting interest. As I looked along the deck at the dark groups -gathered at the guns, and then at the calm, but iron-like countenance of -the daring commander, I felt strange doubts as to whether it might not -be his intention to sink beneath the broadside of the frigate, or, -grappling with the foe, blow himself and the Englishman up. My reverie, -however, was soon cut short by a shot from the frigate whizzing -harmlessly past us, overhead. The eye of the singular being standing -beside me, flashed lightning, as he thundered,— - -“Show him the bunting. Let drive at him, gunner,” and at the same -instant our flag shot up to the gaff, unrolled, and then whipt in the -wind; while a shot from one of our four pounders, cut through and -through the fore-course of the enemy. - -“Keep her away a point or two, quarter-master,” said the captain, again -breaking in upon the ominous silence, now interrupted only by the report -of the cannon, or the fierce dashing of the waves against the sloop’s -bows. - -“Does he mean to have us all strung up at the yard arm?” whispered the -lieutenant to me, as he beheld this perilous bravado, yet felt himself -restrained as much by the awe in which he held his superior, as by his -own rigid notions of discipline, from remonstrating against the -manœuvre. - -Meantime, the frigate was slowly gaining upon us, and had her batteries -been better served, would have soon riddled us to pieces; but the want -of skill in her crew, as well as the violence of the cross sea, -prevented her shot from taking effect. The distance between us, however, -gradually lessened. We saw no hope of escape. Every resort had been -tried, but in vain. Already the frigate was dashing on to us in -dangerous proximity, and we could see the eager countenances of her -officers apparently exulting over their prize. Our crew, meanwhile, -began to murmur. Despair was in many faces: despondency in all. Only our -commander maintained the same inflexible demeanor which had -characterised him throughout the chase. He had kept his eye steadily -fixed upon the frigate for the last ten minutes in silence, only -speaking now and then to order the sloop to be kept away another point -or two. By this means the relative positions of the two vessels had been -changed so as to bring us upon the lee-bow of the enemy. Suddenly his -eye kindled, and turning quickly around to his lieutenant, he said,— - -“Order all hands to be ready to make sail,” and as soon as the men had -sprung to their stations, he shouted— - -“Up with your helm; hard,—harder. Man the clew garnets—board -tacks—topsails, royals—and flying jib,—merrily all, my men.” - -And as sheet after sheet of canvass was distended to the wind, we came -gallantly around, and catching the breeze over our taffrail, went off -dead before the wind, passing, however, within pistol shot of the enemy. - -“Have you any message for Newport?” said Paul Jones, springing into the -mizzen-rigging, and hailing the infuriated English captain, as we shot -past him. - -“Give it to him with the grape—all hands make sail—fire!” came -hoarsely down from the frigate, in harsh and angry tones. - -“Good day, and many thanks for your present,” said our imperturbable -commander, as the discharge swept harmlessly by; and then leaping upon -the deck, he ran his eye aloft. - -“Run aft with that sheet—send out the kites aloft there, more -merrily—we shall drop the rascals now, my gallant fellows,” shouted the -elated captain, as we swept like a sea-gull away from the foe; while the -men, inspired by the boldness and success of the manœuvre, worked with a -redoubled alacrity, which promised soon to place us without reach of the -enemy’s fire. The desperate efforts of the frigate to regain her -advantage, were, meanwhile, of no avail. Taken completely by surprise, -she could neither throw out her light sails sufficiently quick, nor -direct her fiery broadsides with any precision. Not a grape-shot struck -us, although the water to larboard was ploughed up with the iron hail. -We soon found that we outsailed her before the wind, and in less than an -hour we had drawn beyond range of her shot. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DEPARTED. - - - Her parents are weeping, she sheds not a tear, - Loved voices are calling, alas! can she hear?— - The hyacinth blossom is plucked from its stem, - The casket is broken, and scattered the gem. - - Pale Death! the grim archer, hath bended his bow, - The arrow hath vanished, the dove is laid low; - Ah! fair was the victim thus fated to bleed, - And well might the spoiler exult in his deed. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE MAJOR’S WEDDING. - - - A VERITABLE STORY TOLD BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ. - - -“Ah! Mr. Editor, glad to see you in this cramped hole—no air, hot as a -furnace—egad, I’m almost baked; and as for smoking one’s meerschaum, or -drinking claret in a stage coach, you might as well dream of heaven in -the paws of a prairie bear. Ah! you’ve got a cigar, I see—God bless the -man that first invented tobacco. But hark ’e, who was that tall, slim, -low-shouldered gentleman, with the long neck, that sat in the bar-room -corner, in a semi-animated state, and hadn’t spoke for a half an hour -until he growled back your salutation?” - -“Who? Jeremy—that was a poet.” - -“A poet! heaven protect us from such madness. Is he married?” - -“No—he swears he’ll never wed any one but a poetess; and you know -they’re a scarce article in the market.” - -“Egad, I thought he was a bachelor, for who ever heard of a married man -writing poetry? Flummery, sir, flummery—whipt cream and sugar—away -with your poetry! Give me the real solid prose, your regular beefsteak, -with a spice of wit to make it palatable, boy. Now there’s Oliver -Oldfellow, he used to be as poetical as a scissors grinder before he got -married, but after that he came to his senses, and—Lord love you!—he -hasn’t written a line these twenty years.” - -“You’re savage on the poets. But if what you say is true, there ought to -be a law against poets marrying.” - -“And what’s the use of law, to stop what one can’t help? No man—let me -tell you—ever got married in his senses. No, no, my boy, they are -crazy, bewitched, ‘_non compos mentis_.’ Did you ever meet a girl that -didn’t say she’d never get married, and why then should she do it if she -didn’t get possessed? But the poor victims are to be pitied more than -blamed. It’s not their fault. It’s destiny, sir, destiny. When a thief’s -hour comes he’s got to be hung—and when a man’s time is up he’s got to -suffer matrimony. There’s no escape. Let him double like a hare, turn to -the right or left, dive like a duck, or pretend to be dead like a -dormouse, he’ll be sure to be found out at every trick, and made a -Benedict of—even if it’s done by spirits—before he’s aware of it. Let -me tell you a story to prove my position. - -“Major Compton was a hale, hearty old fellow when I knew him in the last -war, though I believe gout and morning drams have long since driven the -nails in his coffin. He had been a gay chap when young—a soldier, a -beau, a bit of a fop, and then—egad, sir—a poet of no little fashion. -He could knock you off a sonnet on a lady’s charms sooner than old Tom -the blacksmith could knock off a horse-shoe. But after a while he fell -in love, and—to cut short my story—was married. Ah! many and many a -time have I heard him tell me how he felt it coming on him as if he was -bewitched; how he struggled against the malady but could not prevail; -and how he shuddered when he found himself writing poetry, because, like -the sight of water in the hydrophobia, he knew then that it was all over -with him. But this happened years before we met. When I knew him he was -a jolly, red-faced widower, and had a horror of all poets, women, and -cold water—the last of which he used to say made men effeminate, in -proof of which he said all savages who used nothing else, like the -Tahitians, were cowards. Betwixt you and I, he must have married a -Tartar. - -“Well—he’d been out one night at a supper, and the bottle had passed -around so frequently that every soul of the company, except the major, -got under the table,—so, after amusing himself by blacking their faces -with burnt cork, and moralising, as a gentleman ought to, over their -deplorable condition, he set out to find his way home to his quarters. -As he emerged into the cool air he felt his head getting light as if it -were going up, balloon-like, with himself for a parachute; but holding -his hat down with both hands, as he remembered to have seen them keep -down an inflated balloon, he managed to get along pretty well, though he -couldn’t keep his head from swinging about with the wind, which made -him, he said, walk as crooked as if he had been drunk, though he was -never soberer in his life. - -“It was a wild, gusty night, and the clouds were drifting like -snow-flakes overhead, when the major sallied out into the street, and -began his journey to his lodgings. The wind roared around the corners, -or whistled down the chimneys of the old houses around, whose tall, -dark, chilly figures rose up against the November sky, until they -seemed, to the major’s vision, fairly to shiver with cold. The stars, -high up, were winking through the drift, except now and then a sturdy -old fellow who stared right into the major’s face. One of these seemed -determined to abash him whether or no. Go where he would it followed -him, so that if he looked up he would be sure to see it staring full -upon him with its dull yellow eye. It made him think, he said, of his -spouse of blessed memory, when she would stick her arms a-kimbo, and -make faces at him. Now the major was a good-humored soul, but there are -some things, even Job couldn’t endure. The major bore it, however, until -he reached a wild common, when taking a seat upon a heap of stones, he -planted his elbows on his knees, buried his chin in his hands, and -looking right at the saucy star, said, - -“‘Hillo! up there—now take a good look, and let’s see who’ll give over -first.’ - -“‘Hillo!’ said a voice close behind him. - -“‘Hillo it is, you old mocking curmudgeon, say that again and I’ll pound -your face into a jelly,’ said the major, turning wrathfully around; but, -though he looked every where, not a bit of a man could he see even as -big as the fabled Tom Thumb. It was, as I have said, a wide, open -common, with not a tree or a house upon it, and if any living thing had -been moving across its surface he would have been sure to have detected -it. What could it have been? He thought of all the stories of goblins he -had ever read, and his hair almost stood on end as he remembered them. -But rallying himself, he began to whistle aloud, and stare again at the -saucy star overhead. The sky, however, had grown darker during the -interruption; and in a few moments the clouds obscured the provoking -star. For a moment he closed his eyes, and feeling sleepy, dozed; but -his head suddenly pitching forward, aroused him, and he once more looked -up. What a sight was there! Dark, frowning masses of vapor swept wildly -across the firmament; while the wind now wailed out in unearthly tones, -and then went shrieking across the common like the laughter of a troop -of malignant fiends. A wood, some distance off, skirting the common, -tossed its gray, leafless branches wantonly in the winds; and anon a -loud, shrill whistle, as of an army of hunters, rung out, down in the -very heart of the forest. The major almost started from his feet, and -rubbed his eyes to rouse himself from his drowsiness. The clouds were -once more drifting swiftly across the sky, now rolling together into -huge, dark masses, and now separating, and then weaving together again -into a thousand fantastic shapes. Just at that instant the provoking -star gleamed once more through the drift, and this time it stared at him -more like his spouse than ever. The major could stand it no longer. -Forgetting the fearful things around him, he shook his clenched fist at -it, and said, - -“‘Hillo! you old, wry-faced vixen, how dare you squint at -me—Ma—a—a—jor—Com—Compt—Compton—how dare you, I say? Do you want -to remind me that I was once fool enough to get married?—I’d like to -see the woman I’d have now: all the powers above or below couldn’t force -me to get married again—no, no, you old crab-apple!—I—I—say—’ - -“They couldn’t—couldn’t they?” quietly said a voice at his elbow. - -“And who the deuce are you?” said the major, turning sharply around. - -“‘Who do you think?’ said one of the oddest looking beings the major -ever beheld—a short, mis-shapen man, with great goggle eyes, a roguish -leer on his face, legs that were doubled up under him like a -pocket-rule, and long, bony fingers, one of which was stuck knowingly -aside his nose, while his eyes alternately were winking at the -astonished major; for the little fellow seemed to be in high glee at the -wonder he occasioned. - -“For some minutes they stood looking at each other without a word—the -major’s eyes growing larger and larger with astonishment; while the odd -little fellow kept winking away, with his finger at his nose, to his own -apparent glee. At length he said, - -“‘Well—what d’ y’e think, old carbuncle?’ - -“Now the major was a valiant man, and had any mortal thing called him by -such a nick name, he would have first run him through and then almost -eaten him alive; but he has told me a hundred times that his heart went -like a forge-hammer to be addressed by a being of another world. So he -only stammered, - -“‘I—I—don’t know—’ - -“‘Speak up, man, speak up—why your voice is as thin and weak as if -you’d been doctored for the quinzy a month.’ - -“‘Lord bless you, sir, I never had it in my life,’ said the major, with -sudden boldness. - -“‘Uh—uh—uh,’ interrupted the little fellow, menacingly, ‘none of -that—none of that. No strange names if you please.’ - -“The major’s heart again went like a fulling mill, and his throat felt -as if he was about to choke; for he had no doubt it was the devil -himself who stood before him. - -“‘I—I—beg pardon—your majesty—I—I.’ - -“‘What! Strange names again,’ sternly interposed the goggle-eyed little -fellow, and then, seeing how he had frightened his companion, he said, -to re-assure him, ‘come, come, Major, this will never do. Let’s proceed -to business.’ - -“The major bowed, for he could not speak. The odd little fellow arose -with the word, and taking the major’s hand, gave a spring from the -ground, and in an instant they were sailing away through the air, over -wood, river, hill, and valley, until they alighted at the door of a -lone, solitary house, at the foot of a mountain. His companion pushed -open the door, without ceremony, and they stood in the presence of a -large company, apparently assembled to witness a marriage, for the -bride, with her bridemaids, was sitting at the head of the room, and the -company, especially the young ladies, were smiling and smirking as they -always do on such occasions. The only thing wanting was a groom, and -when the major took a second look at the bride, he did not wonder that -he delayed his coming to the last moment. She was an old, withered -beldame, sixty years of age, at the least, with a yellow skin, a hook -nose, a sharp protruding chin, and little sunken grey eyes that leered -on the major, as the door opened, with most provoking familiarity. Her -ugliness was more apparent from the extreme beauty of the bridemaids, -who seemed as if they might have been Houris from Paradise. As the major -entered, the bridal company arose simultaneously. The parson stepped -forward and opened his book. Every eye was turned upon the new-comers. - -“‘You are very late, my love,’ said the old hag, turning to the major. - -“‘Late!—my love!’ said he, starting back, and turning with -astonishment, from his conductor, to the bride. - -“‘I have brought you to your wedding, you see,’ said the odd little -fellow composedly, with a tantalising grin, ‘didn’t I hear you say, on -the common, “that you’d like to see the woman you’d marry,” didn’t I?’ -and he grinned again. - -“‘Yes—my duck,’ simpered the hateful bride, leering on the major, ‘and -I’ve been so alarmed lest you might have met with an accident to detain -you. _Why_ were you so long?’ and she placed her hand fondly on the -major’s arm. - -“‘Hands off,’ thundered the major, springing back, and again turning -bewildered from one to another of his tormenters. - -“‘Come, come, now, major,’ said his conductor, with a malicious grin, -‘it’s no use to resist, for _that_,’ said he with emphasis, pointing to -the old hag, ‘is your bride. It is fate; and what is written, is written -you know. I’ve no doubt,’ and here he gave another malicious grin, ‘that -your married life in future will be one of unmitigated felicity. -Come,—don’t you see the parson’s waiting?’ - -“‘Yes, dear,’ said the bride, distorting her withered jaws into what was -meant for a smile, ‘and don’t let us think, by any more hard words,’ and -here she tried to sob, ‘that your fatigues have thrown you into a fever -and delirium.’ - -“Cold drops of sweat were on the major’s brow, as he looked around the -room, and saw every eye bent upon him, some with amazement, some with -contempt, but most with indignation. There was a menacing air on the -brow of his conductor, which made him shake as if he had an ague chill. -The major, moreover, was unarmed. But he made a desperate effort, and -said piteously— - -“‘Marry! I didn’t want to get married—’ - -“‘Not want to get married, when it’s your destiny!’ broke in his -conductor, with a voice of thunder, striding up to the major, whose very -teeth chattered with fright at his peril. - -“‘Why—why—y—I’ve no particular objection—that is to say,’ exclaimed -the major with another desperate effort, ‘if I must get married, I’d -sooner take one of these pretty, blue-eyed bridemaids here.’ - -“‘You would—would you!’ said his conductor with a threatening look, -‘dare but to think of it, and I’ll make you rue it to the last day of -your existence,’ and again he scowled upon the major with a brow blacker -than midnight, and which had a fearful indentation—the major used to -say—as of a gigantic spear head, right in the centre. - -“The major always said that he resisted stoutly for a long time, even -after his tormentor had fairly prostrated him with only a tap of his -finger, and until strange figures, of unearthly shape, uttering terrible -cries of anger, and attended by a strong smell of brimstone, came -rushing into the room, without any apparent way of ingress, and -surrounding him in a body, awaited the signal of his conductor to bear -him off, he knew not whither, and inflict on him unheard of -torments;—but as I knew the major was sometimes given to vaporing in -his cups, I always set the better part of it down for exaggeration. -However, at length he gave in, even according to his own account, and -signified his willingness, though not without some qualms as he looked -at the bride, to have the ceremony performed. - -“‘I knew it, major—a brave man never should struggle against fate,’ -said the little fellow with goggle eyes. - -“‘Needs must, when the—’ - -“‘Sir,’ said the little fellow, turning fiercely around. - -“‘I beg pardon,’ said the major meekly. - -“But to wind up my story—for, egad, I believe you’re asleep—the major -was married, had kissed the bride, and was actually performing the same -duty on the bridemaids, when the little fellow with the goggle-eyes, -perceiving what he was at, seized him angrily by the arm, whisked him up -the chimney, bore him swiftly through the air, and with a roar of -malicious laughter, that might have been heard a mile, exclaiming,— - -“‘There—wait, and your wife will pop in on you when you least expect -it,’—let him drop to the earth, on the very common, and aside of the -very pile of stones, where he had been sitting when he first saw the -little, old fellow. But meantime the night had passed, and it was broad -morning. The birds were singing in the neigboring woods,—the sound of -the village clock striking the hour, boomed clear upon the air,—and a -few cattle, with the monotonous tinkle of their bells, were leisurely -crossing the commons, under the charge of a herd boy. For some minutes -the major could not persuade himself but what it had all been a dream; -but the damp sweat was still upon his brow, and every limb ached with -the fall. So he couldn’t comfort himself with that assurance, but set -himself down, on the contrary, as one of the most luckless men alive. - -“From that hour, sir, the major was a firm believer in destiny, and used -to sigh whenever any one would talk of matrimony. He lived in constant -fear lest his wife should find him out, and at last threw up his -commission, only, I believe, that he might go to Europe, for better -security. Some used to say it was only a drunken dream, out of which he -had been awakened by falling upon the stones, but if the major heard it -he was sure to challenge the slanderer, so that, in course of time, his -story got to be believed by general consent. And now—you old -curmudgeon—who’ll say marriages ain’t fixed by fate?” - -“But, Jeremy, to credit your ghost story requires rather a good deal of -credulity.” - -“Credulity! Ghost story! what, egad, is life without a touch of romance, -and what romance is so glorious as the one which deals in _diablerie_? -Ah! my good fellow if I didn’t know that the major was generally -credible, and therefore in this instance to be believed, I’d endorse his -story just because it proves my assertion. Answer that, if you can!” - - J. S. - - February, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FATHER’S BLESSING. - - - BY MRS. S. A. WHELPLEY. - - -The wind moaned in low and fitful gusts around the mansion, sounding at -times, as if the wailings of departed spirits were borne upon the blast, -when Mary Levingston sat alone in the solitude of her chamber. Her lamp -was hid in a recess at a distance, and casting its pale and feeble beams -across the darkened room, scarcely disclosed her drooping figure, or the -tears upon her cheek. It was not that the fearful tumult without had -affected her imagination, nor the thought that her only brother might be -exposed to all the dangers of the coast. Something that more deeply -touched her happiness awoke her grief. Wild, tumultuous thoughts -agitated her bosom, and mocked the storm that shook her casement, and -roared in all its fury around her. - -The substantial mansion of Mr. Levingston was situated in a delightful -town in New Jersey. Here he had trained up an interesting and lovely -family. Four of his daughters were married; three of them were settled -in the same town with their father; the other resided in the city of New -York. His only son, possessing many virtues, but a wild and roving -disposition had, in opposition to his father’s advice, gone to sea, and -had not been seen by any of his family for four years. Mary Levingston -was the sole remaining daughter at home. She was the sun that lit up her -father’s dwelling. Swift and light as the fawn had been her footstep -till of late; when a cloud had passed over her gentle bosom, and -obscured its brightness. A blast had swept over the flower and it was -changed; but neither the cloud had been seen, nor the blast heard. Then -wherefore this change? - -It was well known to Mr. Levingston’s family, that a strong and bitter -alienation of feeling existed between himself and Mr. James, an early, -and once dear friend, who, at the time of which we speak, resided in New -York. So exasperated had Mr. L. become by a series of ungrateful acts on -the part of this early friend, that on pain of his everlasting -displeasure, he had forbidden his children ever associating with the -family. Unfortunately for Mary, during a visit to the city, she had met -with a son of Mr. James, and it was not until her affections were -unchangeably fixed, that she had discovered his relationship to the most -bitter enemy of her father. Admiring Mary at first sight, and conscious -of the enmity between the families, her lover had sought an introduction -to her under a false name, and it was long before she discovered the -truth. - -When she did so, however, her determination was soon made. Obedience had -been the law of her life, and she resolved at once to sacrifice her own -feelings, in preference to that of her kind father’s wishes. She felt -pained, moreover, that her lover should have deceived her even to win -her affections. She fled from the scene of danger; but she could not fly -from herself. In her own bosom she carried the image she had so fondly -cherished, and which had been the object of her waking and sleeping -dreams. It was after a long struggle, in which she had almost conquered, -that she received a letter—which had caused her present grief—written -by her sister, and informing her that her lover was about to sail for -Europe, and asked for a last interview, if only to beg her forgiveness, -and bid her farewell forever. - -“I will see him,” said Mary, “and convince him there is no hope, and -then I will return and confess all to my beloved father, and throw -myself upon his mercy. He will not cast me off when he finds I did not -err knowingly.” - -She rose from her chair, as she thus spoke, arranged her dress, and -descended to the parlor, with a countenance from which, except to a -suspicious eye, every trace of grief had vanished. - -“You must not leave us so long again, my daughter,” said her venerable -father, as she entered the room. “My home appears almost cheerless, -unless I hear your voice. Sing to us one of your sweet songs.” - -“What shall I sing, dear father? Shall it be your favorite, Grace -Darling?” - -“Not Grace Darling to-night, my love, it is mournful and tells of -shipwreck and death.” - -“Well, I will sing my own favorite,” said Mary, seating herself at the -piano, “it shall be - - ‘My heart’s in the Highlands, - My heart is not here.’” - -The parents looked at each other and smiled, as their beautiful daughter -struck the keys; for they felt that few beings were as lovely as their -own Mary. - -“Dear papa!” said she at length, suddenly stopping, and turning around, -“I want to ask a favor of _you_,—I am sure mamma will grant it. Let me -go to New York next week. There now, I knew you would,—you are always -such a kind and indulgent papa,” and throwing her arms around his neck, -she kissed him tenderly. - -“Well, if mamma gives her consent, I suppose I must give mine. But, dear -Mary, don’t come home this time so down-hearted as you did from the last -visit you paid your sister. There now, since you have got your boon, -play me another song.” - -Mary felt the blood rush to her very brow at this chance remark of her -father; but turning around to her piano, she struck into a march, to -hide her emotion. - -In a few days she set forth to New York, with a heart, vacillating -between duty and love,—determined, however, to permit only one -interview, and then to bid her lover adieu forever. - -“You will have a strong advocate in my wife,” said Mr. M—— to Mr. -James, who sat on the sofa by Mary Levingston the evening of her -arrival. “She is resolved, she says, to return home with her sister -hoping she may be enabled to soften the feelings of Mr. Levingston -toward your father.” - -“I hope she may prove a successful pleader,” said the lover, “and -prepare the way for my casting myself at his feet when I return. Since I -have obtained my sweet Mary’s forgiveness, I feel that I can now with -courage brave the hardships of the deep. The thought that she loves me, -will be the sun that will light my path in a distant clime. The thought -that she is my advocate with her father fills me with the conviction -that the ancient enmity will be buried in oblivion and that all will -soon be well.” - -“You are far more sanguine, as to the result, dear Edward, than I am,” -said Mary: “I have little hope myself of succeeding with my father. I -know his feelings so well on this point, that I tremble lest I have -sinned beyond forgiveness. One thing, here, in the presence of those -that are so dear, I solemnly declare, though my heart may be crushed, -never to unite my destiny to one his judgment disapproves. I should feel -a solitary outcast, even with him I so tenderly love, without a father’s -blessing.” - -“We shall have it, dear Mary, we shall have your father’s blessing,” -exclaimed Edward, pressing her to his bosom, “for God will reward so -filial and dutiful a daughter. I should feel myself to be a wretch were -I to corrupt such purity, or wish you, for my sake, to sacrifice his -peace.” - -We pass over the last two or three hours the lovers passed together. The -clock had told the departure of midnight before they separated. Who -could blame them for lengthening out an interview that was to be their -last for months and perhaps forever? - -“I leave you, dear Mary,” said Edward, at length rising to go, “in -obedience to the commands of my father. If God prospers me I shall soon -again be with you. Cheer up my love, and remember my motto is ‘Brighter -days will come.’” - -When Edward arrived in London, he hastened to fulfil the object of his -voyage and put his business in a train for speedy adjustment. Days -seemed to him weeks, and Mary could not have doubted his love had she -known there was none in that great metropolis who could eclipse her -beauty in the eyes of him she so fondly loved. In about three weeks the -business which took him to London was settled, Mr. James was preparing -to return home, when one night, at a late hour, the cry of “_fire_” -resounded through the long halls of the Hotel in which he lodged. In an -instant all was alarm and confusion. He enquired what part of the -building was on fire, and was told that the eastern wing was all in -flames. He hastened to the scene of danger, which appeared to be -entirely forsaken. Nearly suffocated with smoke, he turned to retrace -his steps, when a wild scream arrested his attention, and the next -instant he beheld a young and beautiful female in her night dress -rushing through the flames. - -“Save, oh! save him, for heaven’s sake,” she exclaimed, “save my sick -husband, he is perishing! who, who will rescue him?” - -“I will,” said Mr. James, “but do not on your peril attempt to follow -me.” - -In an instant he was lost to sight, but directly reappeared, bearing in -a blanket the body of the helpless being he had been the means of -snatching from an untimely death. He hastened to his own room and -deposited his burden on the bed, and was administering restoratives, -when his servant informed him that the firemen had succeeded in pulling -down the eastern wing and were rapidly extinguishing the flames. - -“We have nothing now to fear,” said Mr. James, addressing the young -female, who had partly shrunk behind the curtains to conceal her thinly -clad person—“but you are cold,” said he, as he threw his own cloak -around her, “pardon my neglect.” - -“Oh,” she exclaimed, bursting into tears: “talk not of neglect. You have -been every thing to us. You have saved the life of my beloved husband, -and an age of gratitude is ours.” - -Edward now left the room to seek for rest in another apartment. To sleep -was impossible. The excitement of the past hour had been so great, that -his nervous system was completely unstrung, and he passed the night in -listening for some alarm. After breakfast, he hastened to the room of -the invalid, to enquire for his health. Most joyfully was he greeted by -both husband and wife, who now appeared to have recovered from the alarm -of the past night. In the course of conversation, Mr. James mentioned -that he was on the eve of starting for America. - -“When does the vessel sail?” inquired the lady anxiously. - -“This afternoon, at four o’clock,” replied Mr. J——, “and I should like -before I say adieu, to become acquainted with the name of those I feel -so deep an interest in.” - -“Our name is Levingston,” said the gentleman. “And yours, sir?” - -“James.” - -“Well, this is remarkable. A Levingston and a James to meet under -circumstances that have bound them together by cords that death alone -can sever!” - -Long and interesting was the communion of that morning. All was told. -The gentleman he had rescued was the long absent brother of his own -Mary. The tale of love was revealed, and Edward persuaded to wait one -week longer, that they might return together to their native land. - -“I shall send despatches to my father by the vessel in which you -expected to sail, this afternoon,” said Mr. Levingston, “and if he has -any love for his only son, he must receive us as brothers.” - -We now hasten back to Mary Levingston. After the departure of Edward, -New York had lost its attractions for her. Mr. M—— returned home with -Mary. She indulged strong hopes of influencing her father in favor of -Mr. James, and inducing him to consent to his union with her sister. But -she was destined to be disappointed. Mr. Levingston would not even -listen to her. Ringing the bell, he ordered Mary to be summoned to his -presence. - -When Mary entered the room, her eye fell instantly beneath the steady -gaze of her father. - -“I have sent for you,” said he, “to express my deep displeasure at your -conduct, and my utter abhorrence for the man who could impose upon such -a child as you. Your sister says you love the son of one that has -insulted and abused me. Can it be so, Mary, my child?” said he, bursting -into tears. - -In a moment Mary was on her knees before him. “Forgive me, dear father, -I have sinned ignorantly. Forgive me,” she exclaimed, “for I here -promise to renounce him forever.” - -“If this is your determination,” said Mr. Levingston, “rise and receive -your father’s blessing. May you long enjoy the consolation of knowing -you rendered the last days of your father peaceful and happy.” - -From that hour, Mary Levingston was calm and happy. Innocence and an -approving conscience supported her. - -“Never,” said Mary, to her sister, Mrs. M——, on the morning of her -departure, “mention in your letters the name of Mr. James, who in future -must be as one dead to me. Tell him, when he returns, that my -determination is unalterable, and bid him seek some more congenial -alliance.” - -Weeks rolled round and found the calm quiet of the Levingston’s -unbroken. The rose was still blooming on the cheek of Mary. No change -had taken place in any except Mr. Levingston. It was very evident to all -his friends that he rapidly failed. Every step of the hill he was -descending seemed to fatigue him, and the only cordial that revived his -fainting spirit, was the presence of his youngest child. Was not Mary -Levingston, as she gazed on his pale face and feeble frame, rejoiced at -the sacrifice she had made to secure his peace? Yes, the happiness she -now felt was of a calm, enduring nature. She could lie down and rise up -without listening to the upbraidings of a guilty conscience, without -having to reflect that it was her rebellion which had dimmed the eye and -paralyzed the step of her father. Every night before she retired, she -received his embrace, and heard him say, “God bless you Mary, you have -been a dutiful child.” - -Late one evening, in the latter part of October, a servant entered the -parlor where the family was sitting with a package of letters. He -delivered them to Mr. Levingston, and retired. The hand trembled that -broke the seal. - -“This is from our dear son,” said he, turning to his wife, and holding -up a letter, “and here is one for each of his sisters. Let me see, two -of them are directed to Mary, here they are, take them.” - -He now commenced reading the letter aloud, which told of the prosperity -and marriage of his son, and his intention of leaving England for home -the following week. Then came the description of the fire. The -peril—the rescue; the name of him who had exposed his own life to -snatch a stranger from the flames. At this part of the letter Mr. -Levingston suddenly stopped and left the room. In his study he finished -its perusal. - -“What does this mean?” he exclaimed, rapidly walking the floor, “It -seems as though the hand of God was in this thing. I would that some -other one had saved him. He asks me to receive his deliverer as my son. -Bold request—and yet I will do it. I will receive him as a son, for he -has saved the life of my Walter at the risk of his own. For so generous, -so noble an act, I here bury my enmity forever.” - -Mr. Levingston, with a lighter heart than he had felt for months, -returned to the parlor. Mary met him at the door. - -“This letter, dear papa,” said she, “I return to you. I have not read -it, neither do I desire to. It is written by one I have renounced -forever.” - -“Keep it, Mary,” said Mr. Levingston, “and cherish the memory of the -writer. I have buried my resentment forever toward that family. From -this hour shall we not bless the deliverer of our son?” - -Mary was astonished. She could scarcely persuade herself that all was -not a dream. Still holding the letter toward her father, and gazing -immoveably in his face, she seemed rather a statue than a human being. - -“Do you think I am trifling?” said he, as he pressed her to his bosom. -“No, Mary, I love you too well for that. From this moment you have my -consent to become the wife of him, who, although so tenderly loved, you -felt willing to sacrifice to the peace of your aged father.” - -The intervening days, preceding the arrival of Walter, rapidly glided -away in busy preparation. Suddenly, however, Mr. Levingston was taken -dangerously ill at midnight. His symptoms were so alarming that a -council of physicians was called before morning, when an express was -sent to New York for his children. - -Calm and collected, Mary Levingston might be seen noiselessly moving -about her father’s chamber. No hand but hers could administer his -medicine, or smooth his pillow. The thought of death—the death of her -father—had not once crossed her mind. His life seemed so necessary to -his family, that such an event appeared impossible. - -“Has he come, Mary?” - -“Who, dear father?” she gently asked, stooping and kissing his brow. - -“Walter, my son, has he come?” - -“It is too soon yet to expect him.” - -“Too soon,” said he, faintly, “I fear then I shall never see him. The -hand of death is on me, my child, I feel its chill.” - -“You will kill me, dear father, if you talk so. You will soon be better. -I thought this was to be the happiest week of my life,” said she, -bursting into tears. - -“Mary,” observed Mr. Levingston, “I wish you to be calm and listen to -me. If I should not live to see my son, tell him he was his father’s -idol. Tell him to transmit the name of Levingston, unsullied, to -posterity, and to be the comfort and support of his widowed mother. One -more message and I am done,” said he, wiping the cold sweat from off his -brow. “Hark!” he exclaimed, hearing a noise, “perhaps that is Walter.” -Finding himself disappointed, he proceeded—“request Edward James to -tell his father that I die in peace with all men, and joyfully entrust -the happiness of my daughter to his son. I had hoped to have given away -the treasure with my own hand, but that is all over. Leave me now for a -few moments, I wish to see your mother.” - -That interview over there was a solemn silence for a few moments, when -he exclaimed, “Did you say he had come? Oh my son, receive my blessing.” - -“You were dreaming, dear father,” said Mary, “Walter is not here.” - -“Well, well, it is all right,” he replied. He never spoke more: in a few -hours his spirit took its final flight. - -It was late in the evening when the mournful intelligence of Mr. -Levingston’s illness reached his children in New York. They instantly -set forth to gain, if possible, his dying couch in time to obtain his -blessing. - -“Where is my father?” exclaimed Walter on his arrival at the mansion, -rushing by his mother and sisters who had hastened to the door to meet -them. “Lead me to my father,” said he, catching hold of Mary. - -As she went toward the room, he rushed by her; and entered, closed, and -locked the door. Mary stood without listening to his wild outbursts of -grief. - -In anguish he called upon him once more to speak to him. It was the -lamentation of the prodigal yearning in vain to hear his father’s voice. -It was the pleading of the wanderer who had returned with the hope of -cheering his last days. - -“Mary,” said a gentle, well known voice, “My beloved Mary, we meet with -your father’s blessing resting upon us.” - -In an instant she was in the arms of Edward James, and weeping upon his -bosom. Walter Levingston at this moment entered the apartment. - -“Did my father ask for me, Mary?” said he. - -“Oh yes,” she replied, “often. Almost his last words were, ‘My son -receive my blessing.’ And he told me to request you, Edward, to say to -your father, ‘I die in peace with all men, and willingly entrust the -happiness of my daughter to your son.’” - -“Forever blessed be his memory,” said Edward. “Never shall his -confidence be misplaced, or that daughter have reason to doubt my -trust.” - -The door now opened, and Mrs. Levingston, leaning on the arm of one of -her daughters, entered. “Beloved mother,” said Walter, embracing her, -“from this hour it shall be my first care and study to promote your -comfort. Here by the corpse of my father, I resolve to do all in my -power to fill his place, and render your last days peaceful and happy.” - -Some months from this period, a party was seen to alight from a carriage -early one morning in front of Saint Paul’s Church. The blessings of many -were heard in low murmurs from the crowd that filled the vestibule. “She -was the pride of her father,” said an aged female who stood leaning -against the wall, “and I know she will be a blessing to her husband.” - -Early as was the hour, the Church was crowded with spectators. Many had -risen to get a more perfect view of the fine manly form of him that was -about to bear away the sweet Mary Levingston from her maiden home. The -silence was intense as the impressive marriage ceremony of the Episcopal -Church was read; and fervent were the responses of those who promised -through weal and wo to be faithful to each other. As the party turned to -leave the Church, a hearty “God bless them,” resounded from many. Mrs. -James was greatly affected as she cast a farewell glance on these -familiar faces. Her husband hurried her to the carriage. - -“The blessing of many has rested on you, dear Mary, to-day,” said he, as -they were borne to their new home. - -“Yes,” said she, “and I thought as I stood before the bridal altar, I -heard the voice of my departed father saying, ‘God bless you.’” - - * * * * * - - - - - I AM YOUR PRISONER. - - - BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH, M. D. - - - Lady! I bow before thee - A captive to thy will, - A spell of thine is o’er me, - But joy is with me still. - - I yield me, not to beauty, - Though thou, indeed art fair; - I yield me—not to lightness, - Though thou art light as air. - - I yield me, not to wisdom, - Thou wisest of thy kind, - But, rescue, or no rescue, - To thy purity of mind. - - * * * * * - - - - - A SKETCH FROM LIFE. - - - BY J. TOMLIN. - - -The subject of the present sketch has had in time, the most sincere -friendship of the writer. One act, and one alone, has made them -enemies—irreconcilably, forever. It is to be regretted that it is so, -yet it cannot be otherwise, and the honor of both be preserved. There is -in any and every one, that aspires to greatness, a tameless absurdity, -when suffering a reprehensible action of an associate to pass away like -the morning mist on the flower, without noticing it, or giving the -admonitory reproof, that often corrects and finally subdues the evil. We -are not such isolated creatures on the surface of a world passing away, -as to require a more powerful impulse in the correction of an evil, than -the blessings it gives to our fellow beings. - -Gordon De Severn was my senior by some several years;—but in all of his -actions, there was a freshness and youthfulness, so akin to what I did, -and what I felt myself, that I could not keep away from him. He was a -scholar, but not of the schools, therefore none ever complained of his -dullness. His Aristotelian capacity grasped almost intuitively, what -others could scarcely get by the most diligent researches; and with the -perception of a Byron, he disclosed every beautiful thought that ever -swept along the labyrinth of mind. He was a mighty genius, free, bold, -and daring! He liked to see the bubbles of time vanish, and others -coming in their places, but did not recollect, that soon, very soon, the -vapour that supported his adolescent spirits, would dissolve, and be no -more forever! He was an observer on the world—a spy on the tumultuous -feelings that agitate, and corrupt the heart;—and he boasted that he -was of the world, but a being removed beyond its temptations. - -Six summers ago, Eliza Wharton was young, happy, and full of innocence. -How altered now is this creature, from what she was when I first knew -her. Time often makes worse havoc with the reputation, than with the -body. A little while ago, Eliza Wharton was not more fair than she was -innocent; but now at the heart the canker-worm preys voraciously, as is -evidenced by the deep lines that mark the cheek. Retired beyond the -precincts of the bustle of the multitude; lost to friends that once -loved her,—she lives a solitary creature, ruined in reputation by the -very being she once loved;—penitent in seclusion, she has wept her sins -forgiven, and will win her way to heaven, in spite of a cold—cold -world. - -Being in affluent circumstances, she moved in the first circles of -society in the little town that gave her birth. She was intellectual and -beautiful, which made her an object of envy to the many. Women envy the -beauty they see in every one of their sex, and man, the rich endowment -of mind, that makes his fellow being more distinguished than himself. -How apt are we to despise any noble capacity that we see in others, when -we possess it not ourself—and the good qualities that show themselves -most splendidly in our neighbor, are a bright mark, at which we level in -bitterness, the wrath of our envy. Those that have but the most common -endowments of our nature, are generally the most happy, and almost -always move in a path, that leads to a peaceful destiny. Had Eliza -Wharton been one of the common, ordinary creatures that move in humble -life, in her fall, she would have had the sympathies of the world. But -being of a superior mould both in body and mind,—her fall was -unregretted, unwept. - -In an evil hour there came along a being in the shape of man, like -herself of towering intellect, but unlike her in goodness of heart and -benevolence of feeling. She loved him! She thought that she saw in him -something superior to any thing that she had ever seen before in others. -Nobleness of mien he certainly had—and the ways of the world he was -familiar with, for he had travelled much. He had studied, but not from -books. The volume of nature as it lay spread out before him, in gorgeous -robes of mixed colors, dyed with the richest tints the every avenue to -the soul, and he became a poet in feeling. His was the philosophy of -feeling and not of reason—therefore he erred. Every emotion of the -heart, he mistook for inspiration of the soul—and he fed the keen -appetites of his nature from every stream that rippled his path. What to -him was good, he never considered might be poison to others. His was the -mighty ocean of mind, not cramped by _this_ usage, or _that_ custom—but -free, bold and daring! He visited fountains that could not be reached by -every one, and drank of waters that inspired different sensations from -what were felt by the world in which he lived. - -I do well recollect the time when these two beings first met. It was on -the eighteenth anniversary of Eliza’s birth—and at a _fête_, given by -her father, in honor of the occasion. It was in May, the month of -flowers; and though a moonless night, yet the bright stars looked down -in myriads on the happy earth. Eliza was all joy and animation. Before -her lay the rich fields of pleasure, and she seized on every moment as -one of gladness, and of happiness. She did not know that in her path, -there lay a serpent that would soon destroy her. Gordon De Severn, like -some fiery comet, attracted every eye, and spell-bound the poor maiden -that happened to come within the hearing of his magic words. Exclusively -on that night, did he appropriate Eliza to himself. She listened, -enraptured at every word he spoke, and fell at last a victim, to the -snare he then laid. He played his part so well on that night, that he -fairly captured the fair one’s heart—and for the first time in her -life, she retired, to a sleepless pillow, bedewed with tears. De Severn -admired her, but he was not in love. - -For several months after their first interview, he was almost a daily -visitor at her house. He courted her—and he won her. She believed him, -when he told her, that he would be her friend. She believed him when he -said, that he loved her. She trusted, when he deceived. She fell because -she loved one too much, that proved himself a villain, and not because -she was base. She departed from virtue, not because she was in love with -vice, but to oblige one that she loved much. She fell—and this vile -seducer is now sporting in the sunshine of wealth—and has friends, and -is received into the houses of the honorable, and is caressed, and is -smiled upon; while the poor injured one—Eliza Wharton, is abandoned by -the world, and by her relations, to pine in some sequestered spot, and -die of a broken heart. - -How often does it happen in this world of ours, that the betrayer -receives honor from the hands of the people, and the betrayed is scoffed -at and reviled, for being so credulous as to believe even a tale -of—Love. - - Jackson, Tenn. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE INVITATION. - - - BY E. G. MALLERY. - - - Come, altho’ fair is thy southern clime, - Where the sea-breeze fanneth thy cheek, - And the stars come forth at the vesper chime, - With a beauty no tongue may speak; - Tho’ the moon-beam slumbers upon thy brow - As it slumbered in hours of yore; - And the night bird’s song has the same tone now - In thy life’s bright spring that it bore; - Come, tho’ from streamlet, from hill, and from plain, - Rush a thousand fond memories forth, - And cluster around thy light step to detain— - Oh! come to our home in the North! - - They tell you how bleak is our northern sky - When the storm-spirit spreadeth his wings; - How his shout is heard from the mountain high, - How in glee thro’ the valley it rings: - How his strong hand bows the proud old oak, - And in sport uprooteth the pine; - How he folds the hills in his spotless cloak, - And the groves with his brilliants shine: - How his breath enchaineth the rolling tide, - And bids the chaf’d torrent be still, - Then dashes away in his might and his pride, - And laughs that they heeded his will! - - They tell you our birds at the Autumn’s breath, - When the flow’rs droop over their tomb, - Are off to the land where they meet no death, - And the orange-trees ever more bloom. - Tell them we ask not affection so slight - That at fortune’s first frown it is o’er, - And we’re certain again when our skies become bright - They’ll flutter around us once more, - And tell them there grows on our mountain crest - A plant which no winter can fade— - And, as changeless, the love of a northern breast, - Blooms ever in sunshine and shade! - - Come, and we’ll teach you when Summer is fled, - And the rich robe of Autumn withdrawn, - To welcome old Winter, whose hoary head - Is bow’d ’neath his sparkling crown; - For soon as his whistle is heard from afar - Commanding the winds round his throne, - And echoes in distance the roll of his car, - We encircle the joyous hearth-stone; - And eyes brighter flash, and cheeks deeper glow,— - The voice of the song gushes forth, - And ceaseless and light is each heart’s happy flow— - Oh! come to our home in the North! - - Wyoming, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - YOU NEVER KNEW ANNETTE.—BALLAD. - - - Written by T. Haynes Bayly, Esq.—The Music composed by C. M. Sola. - - Geo. W. Hewitt & Co., No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia. - -[Illustration: musical score] - - You praise each youthful form you see, - And love is still your theme; - And when you win no praise from me, - You say how cold I seem: - You know not what it is to pine - With - -[Illustration: musical score continued] - - ceaseless vain regret; - You never felt a love like mine, - You never knew Annette, - You never felt a love like mine, - You never, never knew Annette. - - For ever changing, still you rove, - As I in boyhood roved; - But when you tell me this is love, - It proves you never loved! - To many idols you have knelt, - And therefore soon forget; - But what I feel you never felt, - You never knew Annette. - - * * * * * - - - - - SPORTS AND PASTIMES. - - -When the shooter has been long accustomed to a dog, he can tell by the -dog’s proceeding, whether game is near or not when pointed, or whether -the birds are running before the dog. If he suspect them to be running, -he must walk up quickly before his dog, for if he stop or appear to look -about him, the birds instantly rise. Whenever it is practicable, unless -the birds be very tame and his dogs young ones, the shooter should place -himself so that the birds may be between him and the dogs. They will -then lie well. The moment a dog points, the first thing to be done is to -cast a glance round to ascertain in which direction the covers and -corn-fields lie; the next is to learn the point of the wind; the shooter -will then use his endeavor to gain the wind of the birds, and to place -himself between them and the covers, or otherwise avail himself of other -local circumstances. - - * * * * * - - - - - PARTRIDGE SHOOTING. - - -[Illustration: partridge] - -We commence our notice of feathered game with the partridge, as shooting -that bird is generally the young sportsman’s first lesson, although in -the order of the season grouse shooting takes precedence. - -The partridge may be termed a home bird, for the shooter who resides in -the country, finds it almost at his door, while it is requisite to -undertake a journey, perchance a very long one, before he arrives at the -grounds frequented by grouse. As it requires neither woods, nor marshes, -nor heaths to afford them shelter, they are found more widely scattered -than the pheasant, the woodcock, or the grouse, and hence the pursuit of -them is one of the chief sources of recreation to the shooter. Though -not so highly prized by the sportsman as the birds last mentioned, the -abundance in which partridges are found, wherever they are preserved, -renders the sport sufficiently attractive. At the commencement of the -season, when they have not been much disturbed by persons breaking dogs, -they are as tame as could be wished by the most inexpert sportsman, and -at that time afford capital diversion to the young shooter, and to those -rheumatic and gouty old gentlemen who—too fond of their ease to brush -the covers or range the mountains—in the lowland valleys, “shoulder -their crutch, and show how fields were won.” Partridges are most -plentiful in those countries where much grain, buckwheat, and white -crops are grown. While the corn is standing, it is very rare that many -shots can be obtained, for the coveys, on being disturbed, wing their -way to the nearest cornfield, where it is forbidden the shooter to -follow them, or to send his dogs in after them. - -The habits of the partridge should be studied by the shooter. In the -early part of the season, partridges will be found, just before sunrise, -running to a brook, a spring, or marsh, to drink; from which place they -almost immediately fly to some field where they can find abundance of -insects, or else to the nearest corn-field or stubble field, where they -will remain, according to the state of the weather, or other -circumstances, until nine or ten o’clock, when they go to bask. The -basking-place is commonly on a sandy bank-side facing the sun, where the -whole covey sits huddled together for several hours. About four or five -o’clock they return to the stubbles to feed, and about six or seven they -go to their jucking-place, a place of rest for the night, which is -mostly an aftermath, or in a rough pasture field, where they remain -huddled together until morning. Such are their habits during the early -part of the season; but their time of feeding and basking varies much -with the length of the days. While the corn is standing, unless the -weather be very fine or very wet, partridges will often remain in it all -day; when fine, they bask on the out-skirts; when wet, they run to some -bare place in a sheltered situation, where they will be found crowded -together as if basking, for they seldom remain long in corn or grass -when it is wet. Birds lie best on a hot day. They are wildest on a damp -or boisterous day. - -The usual way of proceeding in search of partridges in September is to -try the stubbles first. It not unfrequently happens that potatoes or -turnips are grown on a headland in a corn-field; in that case the -headland will be a favorite resort of birds. - -After the middle of October, it is ever uncertain where birds will be -found; the stubbles having been pretty well gleaned, birds do not remain -in them so long as in the early part of the season. When disturbed at -this time, they will sometimes take shelter in woods, where they are -flushed one by one. The best shots that can be obtained at partridges, -in winter, are when the birds are driven into woods. - -When a covey separates, the shooter will generally be able to kill many -birds, but late in the season it is seldom that the covey can be broken. -In November and December the shooter must not expect to have his birds -pointed, but must remain content with firing at long distances. In the -early part of the season, when the shooter _breaks_ a covey, he should -proceed without loss of time in search of the dispersed birds, for the -parent birds begin to call almost immediately on their alighting, the -young ones answer, and in less than half an hour, if not prevented by -the presence of the shooter and his dogs, the whole covey will be -re-assembled, probably in security in some snug corner, where the -shooter least thinks of looking for them. As the season advances, birds -are longer in re-assembling after being dispersed. It is necessary to -beat very closely for dispersed birds, as they do not stir for some time -after alighting, on which account dogs cannot wind them until nearly -upon them, especially as they resort to the roughest places when -dispersed. Birds dispersed afford the primest sport. The pointing is -often beautiful, the bird being generally in a patch of rushes, or tuft -of grass or fern, and close to the dog. When a bird has been running -about some time, dogs easily come upon the scent of it; but when it has -not stirred since alighting, and has perhaps crept into a drain, or run -into a hedge-bottom, or the sedgy side of a ditch, no dog can wind it -until close upon it, and the very best dogs will sometimes flush a -single bird. In the month of October, and afterward, the shooter will -find it difficult to approach within gun-shot of a covey, nor can he -disperse them, except by firing at them when he chances to come close -upon them. Should he then be so fortunate as to disperse a covey, he may -follow them leisurely, for they will then lie several hours in their -lurking-place, which is chosen with much tact, as a patch of rushes, a -gorse bush, a holly bush, the bottom of a double bank fence, or a -coppice of wood. The length of time that will transpire before a -dispersed covey will re-assemble, depends too on the time of the day, -and state of the weather. In hot weather, they will lie still for -several hours. A covey dispersed early in the morning, or late at night, -will soon re-assemble. A covey dispersed between the hours of ten and -two, will be some time in re-assembling. A covey found in the morning in -a stubble-field, and dispersed, will next assemble near the -basking-place. A covey dispersed after two o’clock, will next assemble -in the stubble-field at feeding time. A covey disturbed and dispersed -late in the afternoon, or evening, will next re-assemble near the -jucking-place. A covey being disturbed on or near to their -jucking-place, will seek a fresh one, perhaps about two fields distant; -and if often disturbed at night on their jucking-place, they will seek -another stubble-field to feed in, and change their quarters altogether. -The most certain method of driving partridges from a farm, is to disturb -them night after night at their jucking-place, which is usually in a -meadow, where the aftermath is suffered to grow, or in a field rough -with rushes, fern, thistles, or heather, adjoining to a corn-field. When -a covey is dispersed on a dry hot day, it is necessary to search much -longer, and beat closer, for the dispersed birds, than when the day is -cool and the ground moist. A dog should be only slightly rated for -running up a bird on a hot day. - -The shooter, on entering a field, should make it a general rule, -provided the wind or nature of the ground do not lead him to decide on a -contrary course, to beat that side which is nearest the covers; or, if -there be no neighboring covers, he should beat round the field, leaving -the centre of the field to the last. In hot weather birds frequent bare -places, sunny hill-sides, or sandy banks, at the root of a tree, or -hedge-bottom, where there is plenty of loose loam or sand which they can -scratch up. In cold weather they will be found in sheltered places. In -cold windy weather those fields only which lie under the wind should be -beaten. The warm valleys, the briary cloughs, and glens not over-wooded, -but abounding in fern, underwood, and holly trees, and also those steep -hill-sides which lie under the wind, are then places of resort. Heights -and flats must be avoided, except where there are small enclosures well -protected by double hedges, under the shelter of which birds will -remain. The shooter who beats the south or west side of a hedge, will -generally obtain more shots than he who beats the north or east side. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _“The Tower of London.” A Historical Romance. By W. H. - Ainsworth. Author of Jack Sheppard. 1 vol. Lea & Blanchard: - Philada. 1841._ - -The authorship of this work does a little, and but a little more credit -to Mr. Ainsworth than that of Jack Sheppard. It is in no spirit of -cavilling that we say, that it is rarely our lot to review a work more -utterly destitute of every ingredient requisite to a good romance. - -We would premise, however, in the outset of our remarks, that the -popularity of this work in London is no proof of its merits. Its -success, in fact, reminds us how nearly akin its author, in his -treatment of the public, is to Dr. Sangrado. Blood-letting, and warm -water was the making of the latter—and bombast and clap-trap is the -Alpha and Omega of the former. In the present volume we have it -plentifully administered in descriptions of the Tower of London, and the -plots of the bloody Mary’s reign. It is this local interest which has -given Mr. Ainsworth’s romance such a run in London, just as a family -picture, in which a dozen ugly urchins, and sundry as ugly angels in the -clouds, is the delight of the parents, and the envy of all aunts. - -The Tower of London is, at once, forced and uninteresting. It is such a -novel as sets one involuntarily to nodding. With plenty of incident, -considerable historical truth, and a series of characters, such as an -author can rarely command, it is yet, excepting a chapter here and -there, “flat, stale, and unprofitable.” The incidents want piquancy; the -characters too often are destitute of truth. The misfortunes of Lady -Jane are comparatively dull to any one who remembers Mr. Millar’s late -romance; and Simon Reynard is under another name, the same dark, -remorseless villain as Jonathan Wild. The introduction of the giants -would grate harshly on the reader’s feelings, if the author had not -failed to touch them by his mock-heroics. Were it not for the tragic -interest attached to Lady Jane Grey, and the pride that every Englishman -feels in the oldest surviving palace of his kings, this novel would have -fallen stillborn from the press in London, as completely it has ruined -the author’s reputation in America. - -We once, in reviewing Jack Sheppard, expressed our admiration of the -author’s talents, although we condemned their perversion in the novel -then before us. This duplicate of that worthless romance, and -scandalously demoralising novel, proves either that the author is -incorrigible, or that the public taste is vitiated. We rather think the -former. We almost recant our eulogy on Mr. Ainsworth’s talents. If he -means to earn a name, one whit loftier than that of a mere book-maker, -let him at once betake himself to a better school of romance. Such -libels on humanity; such provocatives to crime; such worthless, inane, -disgraceful romances as Jack Sheppard and its successors, are a blot on -our literature, and a curse to our land. - - * * * * * - - _“Visits to Remarkable Places, Battle-Fields, Cathedrals, - Castles, &c.” By W. Howitt. 2 vols. Carey & Hart, Philada._ - - _“The Rural Life of England.” By W. Howitt. 1 vol. Carey & Hart, - Philada._ - -Next after Professor Wilson comes Howitt. The same genial spirit, the -same soul-breathing poetry, the same intense love for what is beautiful -in nature, and often the same involution of style, and the same -excursive ideas, characterise the editor of Blackwood, and the brother -of the Quaker poet. - -The latter of the productions above, is, as its name imports, a -description of the rural life of England, whether found under the -gipsey’s hedge, in the peasant’s cottage, or amid the wide parks and -lordly castles of the aristocracy. It is a picture of which England may -be proud. The author has omitted nothing which could make his subject -interesting, and in presenting it suitably to his reader he has -surpassed himself, and almost equalled North. The old, but now decaying -customs of “merrie England;” the winter and summer life of peasant and -noble in the country; the sports of every kind, and every class, from -milling to horse-racing; and the forest and landscape scenery of every -portion of Great Britain are described with a graphic pen, and a fervor -of language, which cannot fail to make “The Rural Life of England” -popular every where. - -Among the most interesting chapters of this work are those on the -Gipsies, and that respecting Mayday, and Christmas. The description of -Grouse-Shooting, both in the north of England, and the Highlands is -highly graphic; while the visits to Newstead and Annesley Hall are -narrated with much vivacity. - -It was the popularity of these two last chapters which suggested the -preceding volumes above, entitled “Visits to Remarkable Places.” Nothing -can be simpler than the design of this latter work. With a taste for -antiquarian research, and a soul all-glowing with poetry, the author has -gone forth into the quiet dells, and amid the time-worn cities of -England, and visiting every old castle, or battle-field, known in -history, and peopling them with the heroic actors of the past, he has -produced a work of unrivalled interest. We wish we had room for a -chapter from the second of these two volumes, entitled “A Day-Dream at -Tintangel.” It is one of the most poetical pieces of prose we have ever -met with. The old castle of King Arthur seems once more to lift its -massy battlements, above the thundering surf below, and from its portals -go forth the heroes of the Round Table, with hound and hawk, and many a -fair demoiselle. - -Next, certainly, to a visit to any remarkable place, is a graphic -description of its appearance. This, in every instance, where the author -has attempted it, is presented in the “Visits to Remarkable Places.” -Stratford on the Avon; Anne Hathaway’s cottage; the ancestral home of -the Sidneys; Culloden battlefield; the old regal town of Winchester, -formerly the abode of the Saxon kings, and where their monuments still -remain; Flodden-field; Hampton Court; and in short, most of the -remarkable places in England, are brought vividly before the reader’s -mind. Indeed, many a traveller, who has seen these celebrated places, -might be put to the blush by one who had attentively perused this work, -and who yet had never crossed the Atlantic. - - * * * * * - - _“The Kinsmen, or the Black Riders of the Congaree.” A Romance. - By the author of Guy Rivers, &c. 2 vols.—Lea & Blanchard, - Philada. 1841._ - -A good novel is always welcome; and a good one from an American pen is -doubly so. Since the publication of the Pathfinder, we have seen nothing -equal to the Kinsmen. - -The story is laid at the period of the Revolution, and Clarence Conway, -the hero, is a prominent actor in the partizan war, which then raged in -the Carolinas. Many of the characters are well drawn, and the interest -is kept up throughout. Flora Middleton is an exquisite creation of the -novelist’s pen. She deserves to be placed alongside of James’s finest -female characters. - -We have room for only a short extract. In it, however, the interest is -worked up to a pitch of the most intense excitement. The hero, be it -remembered, having fallen into the hands of the Black Riders, has -irritated their ruffian leader. To the outlaw’s threats he replies: - - “I am Colonel Conway, and, dog of a tory, I defy you. Do your - worst. I know you dare do nothing of the sort you threaten. I - defy and spit upon you.” - - The face of the outlaw blackened:—Clarence rose to his feet. - - “Ha! think you so? We shall see. Shumway, Frink, Gasson!—you - three are enough to saddle this fiery rebel to his last horse. - Noose him, you slow moving scoundrels, to the nearest sapling, - and let him grow wiser in the wind. To your work, - villains—away!” - - The hands of more than one of the ruffians were already on the - shoulders of the partizan. Though shocked at the seeming - certainty of a deed which he had not been willing to believe - they would venture to execute, he yet preserved the fearless - aspect which he had heretofore shown. His lips still uttered the - language of defiance. He made no concessions, he asked for no - delay—he simply denounced against them the vengeance of his - command, and that of his reckless commander, whose fiery energy - of soul and rapidity of execution they well knew. His language - tended still farther to exasperate the person who acted in the - capacity of the outlaw chief. Furiously, as if to second the - subordinates in the awful duty in which they seemed to him to - linger, he grasped the throat of Clarence Conway with his own - hands, and proceeded to drag him forward. There was evidently no - faltering in his fearful purpose. Every thing was serious. He - was too familiar with such deeds to make him at all heedful of - consequences; and the proud bearing of the youth; the - unmitigated scorn in his look and language; the hateful words - which he had used, and the threats which he had denounced; while - they exasperated all around, almost maddened the ruffian in - command, to whom such defiance was new, and with whom the taking - of life was a circumstance equally familiar and unimportant. - - “_Three_ minutes for prayer is all the grace I give him!” he - cried, hoarsely, as he helped the subordinates to drag the - destined victim toward the door. He himself was not suffered - _one_. The speech was scarcely spoken, when he fell prostrate on - his face, stricken in the mouth by a rifle-bullet, which entered - through an aperture in the wall opposite. His blood and brains - bespattered the breast of Clarence Conway, whom his falling body - also bore to the floor of the apartment. A wild shout from - without followed the shot, and rose, strong and piercing, above - all the clamor within. In that shout Clarence could not doubt - that he heard the manly voice of the faithful Jack Bannister, - and the deed spoke for itself. It could have been the deed of a - friend only. - - * * * * * - - _“The Hour and the Man.” A novel. By Harriet Martineau. 2 vols. - Harper & Brothers, New York, 1841._ - -We do not belong to the admirers of Miss Martineau, though barring her -ear-trumpet, and a few foolish notions, she is a very respectable and -inoffensive old lady. Her present work is founded on the career of the -celebrated negro chieftain, whom Napoleon had conveyed to France, and -who there died. The good old spinster has taken up the Orthodox English -account of this transaction, and as Napoleon was always a monster in the -eyes of the Cockneys, Touissant, according to their story and Miss -Martineau’s, was murdered. Nothing can be more ridiculous. Bonaparte -never committed a crime where it could be avoided, and having once -secured Touissant in a state prison in France, what farther had the -first consul to fear from the negro chieftain? - -The story is, in some parts, well told. It has been apparently prepared -with much care. But it fails, totally fails, in its main object; and -though as men, we sympathise with a persecuted man, we cannot, as -critics, overlook the glaring faults of the novel, or, as partizans of -truth, forgive the historical inaccuracies of the narrative. - - * * * * * - - _“The History of England from the Earliest Period to 1839.” By - Thomas Keightley. 5 vols. Harper & Brothers, New York._ - -This is an edition, containing the same matter, with the two large -octavo volumes lately published under the same title. We have it now -presented in this cheap and portable form, as a portion of the -celebrated Family Library. A copious index has been added, which is not -found in the larger edition. The history is a work of merit; but to both -the American editions we object, in the name of all justice. The -alterations made from the London edition are scandalous. It is not, in -its present shape, the author’s production. Good or bad, give us _his_ -work, and not that of an American editor, however talented, or an -American publisher, however discerning. - - * * * * * - - _“Applications of the Science of Mechanics to Practical - Purposes.” By J. Renwick, L.L.D. 1 vol. 18 mo. Harper & - Brothers, New York._ - -The present is a practical age. Literature, science, learning, even the -fine arts are popular, only as they can be rendered useful. Every -department of knowledge is ransacked to advance the interests, and -elevate the character of the age. - -Enfield’s Natural Philosophy, and the present work illustrate this -remark. The former belongs to the past age; to the days of theory; to -the men of profound philosophy: the latter is adapted more to the -present time; to a practical generation; to men of excursive rather than -deep, and available rather than profound science. Not a principle is -stated which is not applied to some mechanical contrivance of the day. -The action of the screw, the wedge, the lever, the spring, are described -as they are adapted to mining, navigation, rail-roads, and the various -species of manufactures. But, on the other hand, the knowledge imparted -is not profound. Sufficient, as it is, however, for all practical -purposes, the student leaves the work with a more thorough understanding -of the principles of his study, than more elaborate, but less skilful -treatises could afford. - - * * * * * - - _“Hope on, Hope Ever.” 1 vol. 16 mo. “Strive and Thrive.” 1 vol. - 16 mo. “Sowing and Reaping.” 1 vol. 16 mo. By Mary Howitt. J. - Munro & Co. Boston._ - -These are three excellent tales from the pen of one of the most -delightful of female writers. A chaste style; a love for the oppressed; -a practical moral in her writings render them at once beautiful, -popular, and useful. - - * * * * * - - _“History of the United States.” By Selma Hale. 2 vols. Harper & - Brothers, New York._ - -A compendious manual. It brings our history down to the end of Madison’s -administration. - - * * * * * - - _“Life of John Wickliffe, D.D.” By Margaret Coxe. Columbus. - Isaac N. Whiting._ - -This is an interesting, though scanty biography of the first of the -Reformers. It does not pretend to give a philosophic account of his -times, but simply to present a chronicle of the principal events of his -life. - - * * * * * - - - - - FASHIONS FOR MARCH, 1841. - - - EVENING DRESS. - -Fig. 1.—Of plaid _Mous de Laine_. The head dress of buff crape, trimmed -with roses. - - - FULL DRESS. - -Fig. 2.—Crimson velvet robe, a low _corsage_, it is trimmed with a row -of _dentille d’or_ in the heart style. Short sleeves, composed of two -_bouffants_, with _manchettes_ of _dentille d’or_, looped by gold and -jewelled ornaments, corresponding with that in the centre of the -_corsage_. The _tablier_ and flounce that encircles the skirt are also -of _dentille d’or_ of the most superb kind. The head-dress is a _toquet_ -of white satin, embroidered in gold, and trimmed with a profusion of -white ostrich feathers. - - - DINNER DRESS. - -Fig. 3.—Of plain white; the apron slightly ornamented. This is the -prevailing style for the month. - -[Illustration: FASHIONS FOR MARCH 1841. FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.] - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic -spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and -typesetting 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. A cover was created for this ebook and is -placed in the public domain. - -page 100, Calm, Heré-eyed Callirhöe?, ==> Calm, Hebé-eyed Callirhöe?, -page 121, reminded us of Shelly’s ==> reminded us of Shelley’s -page 144, The _tabiier_ and flounce ==> The _tablier_ and flounce - -[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 3, March 1841_, George R. -Graham, Editor] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 3, -March 1841, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, MARCH 1841 *** - -***** This file should be named 63685-0.txt or 63685-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/6/8/63685/ - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net -from page images generously made available by the Internet -Archive (https://archive.org) - -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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